It was a mistake. She knew what Wes was going to say. And once he did, once it got to that stage, there wouldn't be any more excuses. She was having a baby any day now. This was not the time.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't go. She would just call Wes and cancel and say she'd been having a bad day yesterday. That's what it had been.
Sitting on one of the stools by the marble counter in the kitchen, she got the number from the phone book and wrote it on the pad by the phone. She punched up the prefix, then stopped and hung up, watching the fog outside. The baby kicked inside her.
A tear coursed down her cheek.
Wes had rented a converted shopfront on Irving Street at 10th Avenue. Compared to his old office in North Beach, this one was a high-tech marvel in blond woods and glass block, skylights and decorative plants. He had a full-time, computer literate secretary/paralegal named Ramon. He'd even broken down and decided an answering machine would be appropriate.
Wes was behind his desk, pretending to be taking notes from the Evidence Code. Christina sat in the teak and leather chair, reading Diane Price's diary. Other than obviously exhausted, Wes thought she looked – big surprise – terrific. She wore jeans, a pair of well-worn hiking boots, a black, heavy sweater with a cowl neck.
He decided that Sam had been right about Dooher not beating her, though perhaps, Wes thought – non-Nineties insensitive jerk that he was – in some ways it might have been better if he had. He knew Christina was strong, intelligent and aware enough not to accept anything overt of that nature. If Dooher hit her, she'd be gone.
But Dooher wasn't overt. That was his thing.
He could tell when she finished the first half of the diary – where Diane was going out with Dooher the next night and she 'couldn't wait'. He imagined his own face had taken on the same confused expression.
She looked up at him. 'It just ends.'
'Keep reading,' he said.
When she got to the next entry – the only other one – she sat still for a long time. Then she flipped the final pages, closing her hands over them finally, staring at the floor or somewhere just above it. She was finished.
He spoke carefully, quietly. 'I don't think she wrote that as a publicity stunt for the trial. I think that's genuine.'
Christina's head was bobbing, as though she were conferring with herself. 'Something happened,' she agreed.
He didn't push. 'Anyway, I thought you should see it.'
'Why didn't you show me this during the trial?'
A good question. He wasn't proud of himself and it showed on his face. 'My first reaction was that if you read this, you wouldn't be as effective if you had to cross her. So it was need to know. Then, after Flaherty bailed on us, I knew we weren't going to do character, so Jenkins would never get a chance to call her. It became moot.'
'But not for me, Wes. It must have been obvious I was getting involved with Mark. If I'd seen this…'
'You wouldn't have believed it,' he said. 'You would have called it a forgery or a fake of some kind. Think about it.'
Silence.
'You remember that Mike Ross never caved under my pretty intense attack? You know why? Because he knew what he'd seen. He was facing Mark's tee and saw a lot of air where Mark should have been if he'd been there, which he wasn't.'
She took a breath, blew it out hard.
'You want to meet this woman, Diane – talk to her? I know her pretty well by now. There's nothing flaky about her. Mark raped her.'
The tears started again, without sound or movement of any kind. He figured it was as opportune a time as any. 'I've got to tell you something else, Christina.'
Her gaze came up to him, expressionless.
'On the day of Sheila's funeral, after everyone else had gone home, Mark and my ex-wife had sex on the floor in the living room of your house. So much for the grieving husband.'
She took it calmly, as she had the rest, nodding. In shock.
Wes's intercom beeped softly. He picked up his telephone. 'I said no interr- who?' He sighed. 'Okay, send him back.'
Farrell stood by the door, holding it open.
Glitsky appeared in the hallway. 'Sorry I didn't call, but I went in early and down to Records, found the file and had an appointment out here anyway. You said you needed it sooner, so I thought it would save time to run it by.'
Farrell took the file, gesturing him inside. 'I believe you know Christina.'
She had tried without great success to fix her eyes. Glitsky, trained investigator that he was, saw the blotched mascara, the redness. 'Am I interrupting?'
Shaking her head no, Christina looked up at him. 'I don't know what to do,' she said. 'What's that file? Is that about Mark?'
'It's about Victor Trang.' Farrell had the file in his hand and was moving back to his desk. 'But if the Lieutenant's got five minutes, he can probably do the short version.'
It took more like a half-hour. Glitsky had pulled over the other wingchair from across the room and sat kitty-corner to Christina while Wes perched himself on the end of his desk. When he'd finished, Abe spread his hands. 'So unless you want to believe that Trang was laying this elaborate scam on his mother and girlfriend, creating bogus records in his own file that matched the exact times of real calls he got from Dooher, all the while knowing for a fact that he had turned down Flaherty's six hundred thousand dollar offer in the hopes of getting more…' He trailed off. The conclusion was inescapable.
'You're saying Mark killed him, too?' The eyes had dried by now, had taken on a glassy look that Glitsky had seen in survivors of hostage situations. In a sense, maybe that's what she'd been through, was going through still.
He nodded. 'That's what I believe, yes. There is one other thing – you ought to know. It wasn't brought out at trial.'
'Okay.'
'There were very distinctive stripes in blood on both Victor Trang and Sheila Dooher. You can compare the crime-scene shots. The killer of both of them wiped the blade on their clothes. And remember Chas Brown?'
She nodded. 'Thomasino wouldn't let him testify?'
'Yeah, him. His story – the guy in Vietnam, Andre Nguyen? The first interview we did with him, he volunteered that your husband told him he'd wiped his bayonet blade off on Nguyen's pajamas. It's the same M.O. You can believe me or don't, but it's as true as anything gets.'
Wes went on with the double-team. 'One last thing, Christina, and I'm glad Abe's around to hear it. I've gone back over this case now nine ways from Sunday, and it was all by the book. All the reasons Mark gave us why Glitsky was somehow out to get him – we were just primed to believe them. We got sold a bill of goods.'
Christina wasn't much in the mood for a lecture on how the justice system worked or didn't. On how she and Wes had been less than ept. She pulled down her sweater and got herself to her feet. 'I want to thank both of you for your time,' she said.
It was a dismissal. She was picking up her purse, grabbing her jacket from the peg next to the door.
'If you decide to leave him,' Wes said, 'go someplace he won't think to look. And let us know, would you?'
She nodded, although she didn't really seem to be in agreement. She was inside herself. Throwing them both a last ambiguous expression, she went out the door.
Farrell was back on the corner of the desk. 'So what's she going to do?'
Glitsky shrugged. 'I believe her exact words were that she didn't know. If she's got brains, she'll get out.'
'I don't think brains is the problem. This was something I had a pretty hard time with myself, and she's pregnant with his baby. Thinking about it doesn't seem to help.'
'Well, I hope it helps a little. I would hate to get another call about one of Dooher's wives.' If Glitsky knew anything, he knew about murderers – the first killing was the hardest and if you got away with it, the second was easier. And if you got away with that…