Finally out of steam, Farrell did a kind of double take, reached over and went to push the button for the elevator, then stopped himself. "That's all right. Fuck it. I'll walk down to my car." And turning on his heel, he opened the door to the stairway. Glitsky pushed open the door to his home at ten forty-five P.M. He had last called Treya from the hospital when he'd gotten the call three hours earlier from the mayor's office that he was expected immediately or sooner at City Hall, no excuses. At that time, he thought and told Treya he'd probably be home in about an hour. But then had come Farrell's outburst in the elevator lobby and another half hour of discussion with Amanda Jenkins after that. And now the original hour had turned to nearly three.
The house was dark.
He'd walked nearly four blocks from the nearest place he'd found to park. Now, closing the door behind him, he shrugged out of his soaking jacket and hung it on the hook on the wall. He stood still a moment, listening to the rain, then moved up to the front of his house, where the bay window through his plantation shutters overlooked the block. The streetlights reflected off the shining streets.
"What are you looking at?"
His wife's voice startled him. He had assumed that she was sleeping, but there she sat on the living room couch.
"Just the rain," he said. He stayed at the window. Then, the thought just occurring to him, "Where are the men who were watching you?"
"I sent them home after you told me you'd arrested Ro."
"Their orders were to stay."
"I told them they could go. In fact, I ordered them to go."
Glitsky sighed.
"Did your cell phone break?" she asked.
He looked over at her. "Don't bust my chops, woman."
"I'm just saying…"
"All right. Noted. But don't. Please. I'm sorry. If I would have thought of it, I would have. But there was no opportunity."
She patted the couch next to her. "Come sit down."
He came over and lowered himself, as though his body ached, onto the couch.
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"No. But don't get up." He took her hand. "You're all right?"
"We're all fine. It was just scary."
"He's in jail now."
"I know."
"The Curtlees want my badge. I think the mayor does, too."
"Well, he'll learn."
"And then there's your boss."
Beside him, he felt her go a little tense. "Wes? What about him?"
"He wouldn't have arrested Ro yet. He didn't think it was a real threat."
"He wasn't here."
"No. I know that. But he thinks I should have called him first, before I went to pick Ro up. And maybe I should have. Anyway, apparently I've put him in a squeeze."
"Poor Wes."
"He's really unhappy. Furious, even."
"Because you arrested Ro? It was a real threat, Abe. No doubt about it. I wasn't making anything up."
"Nobody thinks you were."
"Except maybe Wes."
"No. He just didn't think… he thinks I should have cleared it with him, or a judge. And I probably should have. I probably should have assigned somebody else to set up this arrest."
"I thought your whole team was overbooked."
"It is. But still…"
"You can't win."
"No. That's not true. You can win a few." He squeezed her hand. "I just don't want to get in the way of you and Wes."
"You won't."
"He was really upset. Like I've never seen him."
"It's the job," she said. "He's just getting into it and doesn't want to mess it up."
"More than that," Glitsky said, "he doesn't want somebody else to mess it up for him. And I might have just done that."
"You did what you felt you had to do, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"It wasn't illegal or wrong, was it?"
"No. It was legal and right, in fact."
"Well, there you go. How could it hurt you?"
"I don't know." Glitsky shook his head. "And I'm not sure I want to find out."
10
On the following Monday morning, Michael Durbin was driving downtown, having visions.
For reasons he did not fully comprehend, every time Durbin had gotten into his car and started driving lately-since he'd become aware of Ro Curtlee's release into the population-he'd found himself vicariously experiencing the drive that Tony Soprano took at the beginning of every episode of The Sopranos, complete with the soundtrack about getting yourself a gun. You got yourself a gun.
It was weird, he thought, but also incredibly realistic, as though he actually was making that drive through New Jersey, smoking a cigar, noting the passing neighborhoods of San Francisco through the side windows and the windshield as he headed out from his parking garage on Union, up through Pacific Heights (where the Curtlees lived), then over the hill into the semi-ghetto of the Western Addition, and finally out on Geary to the Avenues. The vision became especially acute when he turned the last corner before getting to his home. He felt himself inhabiting the guise of the Mafia boss, the determined look on his face, opening his car door and getting out, clearly with an eye to doing someone grave damage.
And once he was in that unbidden, I'm-driving-now mind-set, a host of fantasies seemed to come along for the ride. Killing Ro Curtlee, of course, was the first and originally strongest of them. He could, in fact, go out and get himself a gun. Although they'd never had one in the house, he could remedy that in a few days. And he did have a shotgun, packed back somewhere in his garage. With either his new pistol or his shotgun, he could then drive up to the Curtlees after nighttime had fallen, wait for Ro to show his face, and simply blow him away.
Would anybody put it together that it had been him? A straight, white, middle-class small-business owner with no criminal record? He didn't see how. He could actually do it and end all of his worries on that score.
But the fantasy wasn't just confined to Ro Curtlee. As often as not, no sooner had he dispatched Ro in his make-believe scenario than the fantasy rotated on some axis and turned his attention to Janice. He found this disconcerting not only because in his conscious mind and stupid heart he loved his wife, but because she had been his rock and support during those difficult years after Ro's trial. She had held the family together, earned the lion's share of the home's income, counseled and stood by Michael as he worked through his transition from promising young portrait artist eking by with a succession of day jobs to established and successful small business owner. She had essentially guided him through the shoals of ego-bound, angst-ridden, artistic immaturity to the terra firma of real, honest work and grown-up responsibility.
Part of him, rather suddenly, hated her for that.
He didn't understand why the catalyst for these negative feelings had been Ro's release from prison, but that's what had started it. Michael had always tried to make himself believe-and he'd sold himself on the idea pretty well-that the suffering he'd endured because of the stand he'd made to the other jurors had been worth it because at least they'd removed the vermin that was Ro Curtlee from society. And all at once, that had changed. Now he clearly saw his idealistic righteousness back then as an empty, meaningless gesture that had accomplished no permanent good.
So why had he given up on his art? And how was that in any way the fault or influence of Janice?
Well, there was a reason.
Even back then, Janice could have been making enough money from her practice to keep them afloat. If she'd gone full-time. But she'd wanted, and they'd decided, that they didn't want day care for their children; they would split their time at home as parents.
This was why the loss of Michael's day jobs because of the Curtlees' meddling had posed such an unnecessary financial hardship. But the plain fact-and it had always been a giant elephant in their living room-was that they could have made it. Michael could have gone on painting, working his art, taking the occasional portrait commission, and gone the gallery route, growing his body of work. By now-he was certain that he had been good enough-the painting would have paid off. It might not have made him rich and famous, but he would at least have a name and a reputation. And he would be doing what he loved, what he had always felt he'd been born to do.