Guilt

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…

But the topic rattled Wes and he stuck with it. 'Why would he do that – kill Christina?'

'I don't know,' Glitsky said. 'Maybe he won't.'

'But you think he might?'

Standing, Glitsky thought it was time for him to go. He didn't like dealing in hypothetical. His job did not begin until something had actually happened. Until then, speculation wasn't much more than a parlor game. But he didn't want to alienate Farrell – he might need him, after all. For the time being at least, they were on the same side, and Glitsky had the germ of an idea. 'Yeah, I think he might.'

'But why?'

'Why did he kill Nguyen, or Trang, or his wife? He didn't have to do any of those people, did he? So what's that leave? I'll tell you – he likes it. He likes tormenting you with it, he likes rubbing my face in it, he likes living with the fact that he's done it. Most of all, though, you want my take? He likes the moment.'

Farrell's shoulders were slumped, his hands clasped in his lap, and he nodded, agreeing. 'The funny thing is, I've seen him that way. You'd think I'd have figured it out.'

'Seen him what way?'

'I mean hurting people – his kids, Sheila, waiters, anybody. Those moments when he was in the middle of hurting somebody, you could tell there was some level at which he liked it. But afterwards he'd be so sorry, go back to the charming act.' He shook his head, disgusted with himself. 'Really, all you had to do to stay Mark's friend was never to get in his way. Don't cross him. Let him have whatever he wanted. Which between the two of us wasn't a problem. We wanted different things.'