Damage

"What about DNA?" Glitsky asked. "I mean, if the burning wasn't really so bad."

"Well," Becker said, "it's all relative. You can see for yourself that not so bad doesn't mean not bad. And it's also pretty clear where the fire got started, same as with Nunez. So all in all, I'd say DNA's not a good bet, although of course we're going to try." Becker glanced again over at the body. "So the similarities. That's why I called you directly, of course."

"I appreciate it." Glitsky sucked carefully through his teeth, turned away so the body was out of his line of vision. "Although I can't say it makes much sense."

"What has to make sense?"

"I mean, if this was Ro Curtlee. First, the sheer balls of it. After last week."

"He's telling you to go fuck yourself."

Glitsky's mouth twitched at the profanity. "So he just picks some random woman?"

Becker shrugged. "Maybe he knew her."

"Yeah, but everybody else he's done has been a domestic. How'd he meet somebody out here? A normal civilian, I'm guessing, right? Any word about whether this was the cleaning lady or somebody like that?"

"I don't think so, Abe. The husband and some other family are down there." He pointed out to the street. "They're all wrecked, and they all think it's the wife. She's the only female who would have been in the house. The daughter's still at school. He called and checked."

Glitsky looked up through the gaping hole in the roof above them. "Dear God," he said. "How old is she? The daughter?"

Another shrug. "I don't know. School age."

"You're right," Glitsky said. "What difference does it make?" He took a last look at the body, closed his eyes against the horror of it, and shook his head. "So who is she?"

"If it's the wife, her name's Janice Durbin. Her husband's…"

Glitsky put his hand on Becker's arm and gripped it. "Michael."

"Yeah. How'd you…?"

Nodding, verifying to himself the sudden and unmistakable clarity, Glitsky pulled in a last, quick breath. "He was the jury foreman at Ro's trial." "I don't know why I agonize about taking days off," Glitsky said. "Nobody else even seems to notice when I do."

"Maybe," Amanda Jenkins said, "that's because you're actually physically here in the building talking about a case, so to someone who isn't paying close attention it seems like you're on the job somehow. And just for the record, can you explain to me how it would be different if you weren't taking a day off?"

"Not too, I guess. You put it that way."

"Well, there you go." She pushed her chair back from her desk, leaned back, and put her feet up on its surface, displaying a good 80 percent of her extraordinary legs in the process. "You want to get the door? Certain people see us talking, they're liable to think we're colluding to obstruct justice, like we did last time."

Glitsky turned and closed it.

Jenkins crossed her arms, gave him a flat look. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here talking to you. You might have an idea."

"Not any that I'm proud of. Well, that's not true. I've got one."

"Hit me."

"Before anything else, I'd rule out arresting Ro again."

Glitsky allowed himself a small, grim smile. "That was my thought, too. Which, of course, leaves him free to go around killing other people whenever the mood strikes him. But hey, that's not my decision."

"Don't be bitter."

"No. Why would I be bitter?"

"Good. For a minute there, I thought I detected a trace."

"Nope. Bitter-free, that's me." A wooden chair sat along the wall next to the cabinets, and Glitsky pulled it around and straddled it backward. "But in actual fact, I've pretty much decided that I'm going to pretend Ro isn't any part of this Durbin murder, lower my own profile."

"That's probably smart. You show up around Ro again, it's a circus before it even starts."

"That doesn't mean I'm not going to be all over it."

"No. I didn't think it did. So what's the plan?"

"The plan is I don't make the connection to Ro. Not in public, anyway."

"And what's that get you?"

"Time, if nothing else. Maybe the Curtlees back off. Meanwhile, I go out and talk to people like any homicide inspector would. Develop a theory of the case, maybe even a list of suspects. I don't get near Ro until something, some solid evidence, leads back to him, which is what we're going to need anyway if the good Mr. Farrell is ever going to charge him with anything again in our lifetimes."

"Except you've already got that up front. Something leading back to Ro."

"What's that?"

"The shoe, the MO, the jury foreman's wife. Take your pick. The guy all but drew you a picture."

"Well, that's the other thing."

"What?"

"Arnie Becker's theory is that this is Ro flipping me off. Actually, flipping both of us off, you and me."

"I'm flattered."

Glitsky shrugged. "So how's he going to feel if he's gone to all the trouble of killing somebody else and leaving all these clues to rub what he can get away with in our faces, and I don't put it together? Instead, I go barking up another tree and don't give him the satisfaction."

It took her a moment, but then she nodded. "He's going to want to tell us what he did. And dare us to try and prove it."

"Need is more like it. It's going to flush him. Or, it might. At least it's a shot." Glitsky was thinking that Treya was right about her boss. Without her organizational presence and staff sergeant demeanor, he'd be lost as an administrator. So much so, apparently, that in her absence this afternoon he'd simply closed up shop and disappeared. The lights in the outer office-Treya's domain-were dark when Glitsky showed up, no visitors waited for their appointments with the DA himself, and the door to Farrell's office was closed. Crossing the room and putting an ear to the door, he heard no sound. Not expecting to get an answer, nevertheless, he rapped sharply on the door three times.

Nothing.

And then, just as he was turning to go, the sound of footsteps came from within. Glitsky stopped and was all but at attention, facing the door when Farrell opened it. The district attorney was in his shirtsleeves and the lights in his own office were turned off, the blinds pulled against the bright sunshine outside. Glitsky thought he might have just interrupted a nap. "If this isn't a good time…," he began.

"No. It's fine. I was just meditating for a minute. You ever do that, Abe?"

"Not so much. I don't get much free time."

"Twenty minutes a day, that's all it takes. Everybody ought to be able to find twenty minutes."

"I keep looking for them," Glitsky said. "I think the kids must steal 'em."

"Oh, that's right. Your kids are still at home, aren't they?"

"Only for another eighteen or twenty years. But who's counting?"

"You're right. I don't think I would, either, under those conditions. Probably wouldn't meditate, either." Suddenly Farrell seemed to remember not just where he was, but who he was. His face went slack for a moment, then reanimated itself. "But here you are. What can I do for you? You want to come in and sit down for a minute? Is everything all right with Treya? How's she feeling?"

"Better," Glitsky said.

"She'll be back in on Monday, I hope."

"That's the plan."

"Good. Good. Well, come on in." Farrell hesitated, then moved back a step. When Glitsky had gotten past the door, Farrell closed it behind them. He turned on the room's overhead lights, then walked over to one of his couches and sat on it, motioning for Glitsky to do the same. But Glitsky remained standing.