Dooher parked the car, opened his door, and got out. Farrell sat a minute in his seat, then did the same. They heard the foghorns moaning deeply, the wind here on the headland raking the trees.
'What are we doing here?' Farrell asked.
'You'll see. This is it. What I wanted to show you. Come on, walk with me. Out on the bridge.'
Farrell took a few steps, then stopped. 'I'm not going with you, Mark. You can tell me here.'
Dooher wasn't giving up. 'I'm not going to throw you off, Wes. Is that what you're thinking?'
'I'm thinking that I'm done. I'm going home.'
Dooher's face clouded. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean I thought you needed me. I'd give you a chance. But you don't want a chance. You want me out of the way.'
Dooher stepped close, hurt. 'Wes, this is me, Mark Dooher. We've been friends since we've been kids. It's paranoid to think-'
'That's right. It may be.'
'And you think I would…?' Dooher couldn't even say it – it was too absurd.
'Over everyone's advice, Mark, I wanted to help you. Be your lawyer and maybe even your friend one last time. Now I've got to tell you. It's going to be over soon and you're going to need a lawyer and it's not going to be me.' He hesitated, then came out with it. 'Glitsky knows where you hid the stuff.'
Dooher's face cracked slightly. He moved toward Farrell.
It was a flat and desolate stretch of bare earth – thirty yards deep by eighty in length – really not much more than a widening of the western shoulder of Lake Merced Boulevard though hidden from the road itself by a stand of wind-bent dwarf cypress.
The Lexus inched forward over the area to where it dropped off steeply. Dooher pulled the car up near to the edge.
Here an eastern finger of the lake extended nearly to the fence that bordered it. Inaccessible from shore, it was rarely fished. It was also deep, the underwater topography continuing the steep slant that dropped off from the turnout. In the fog, the lake itself was only intermittently visible.
Dooher put the car into park, but didn't turn off the engine. Under his driving gloves, his hands hurt, but they were not bleeding. He got out and walked to the edge, looking out over the water, then around behind him. It was as it always was. No sign of anyone.
At the edge of the lot, the incline fell off at a good angle for perhaps forty feet of sedge grass dotted with scrub brush. Dooher picked his way down, hands in his pockets, crabwalking. When his head got below the level of the lot, the minimal road noise from Sunset dissipated, and he suddenly heard the lap of the lakewater.
This was where he'd ditched the evidence.
Within twenty minutes, Dooher was in his garage, placing the running shoes into the bottom of the grocery bag, then the gloves, carefully folding the old Sam Spade overcoat so that it fit. He put the bag on to the passenger seat of the Lexus and drove the halfmile to Ocean Avenue, where he left it in the side doorway of the St Vincent de Paul thrift shop.
Back in his kitchen, he realized he'd worked up an appetite, so he poured himself a glass of milk and grabbed a handful of frozen chocolate chip cookies, then went to the phone to call Irene Carrera, see if she'd heard yet from her daughter.
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
Three generations of Glitskys were at the movies watching James and the Giant Peach when the beeper on Abe's belt began vibrating. He reached over his youngest son and nudged his father's arm, holding up the little black box. 'Back in five,' he said. Nat, caught up in the animation, barely nodded.
In the lobby, he faced the disorientation he'd always experienced when he saw movies in the daytime, even on such dark days as this one. But his eyes adjusted and he checked the readout, walked to the pay phone and punched up the numbers.
'Lieutenant, this is Sam Duncan. Wes Farrell's friend.'
'Sure. Is Wes there?'
'No. That's why I'm calling. I don't know what else to do. Mark Dooher called Wes earlier today and asked him to meet with him.' Glitsky was aware of the muscle that began working in his jaw. 'He convinced Wes he was going to turn himself in.'
'I know.'
'What?'
'I knew that. He paged me and I called him back at some bar. He told me all about it. He's not back yet?'
'You let him go? How could you let him go? Mark Dooher's a murderer, and now-'
'He's probably still at Dooher's. He was meeting him there, right? Have you tried calling there?'
'I just did. There's nobody home, no answer. Wes said he'd be home in two hours. Then he called to say he was going to be later. It's been almost four hours now. That's why I called you. Something's happened. He would have called me again. He knew I was worried. He would have called.'
Glitsky was silent for a long moment.
'Lieutenant?'
'I'm here. I'm thinking. Have you tried his office?'
An exasperated sigh. 'I've tried everywhere, Lieutenant. Dooher called him and he went and-'
Glitsky chewed the side of his mouth another second or two, then made his decision. This time he was moving out before he was certain there had been a crime – if it was before. If it wasn't already too late.
Irene Carrera debated with herself over the right thing to do. The birth of a child was the strongest bonding experience a couple could have together. She was torn.
Distraught, Mark had called her again. Please, as soon as Irene heard anything, he'd implored her, would she call and let him know? He was desperate. He needed her.
And though Christina might not realize it herself, he told Irene, her daughter needed him, too.
It had ripped Irene up having to lie to Mark, not even to tell him that she'd heard from Christina. But what else could she do?
Irene wrestled with it, couldn't get it worked out. She wished Bill were here; they would come to the right decision together. She knew he'd be calling her when he got to San Francisco, but first he had to take the afternoon shuttle from Santa Barbara to LAX, then wait for his evening flight. He wouldn't get there until very late tonight.
Meanwhile, Irene knew that if Christina succeeded in excluding her husband from this moment of birth, there was a far greater chance that they would never be able to patch up whatever had come between them.
On the other hand, if Mark were there, with her – if they went through it together, husband and wife, it might be the very last chance for Christina's happiness. Even though it would be against her daughter's express wishes.
In the pink moment, Irene paced the ridge of her property overlooking the valley, agonizing over the greater good.
Glitsky left Orel with his grandfather at the movies and ran a block and a half to where he'd parked his city-issue car. He made it to Dooher's house by seven o'clock. He should have heard from Paul Thieu long ago. He tried to page him, but there was no response.
What was going on? Where had everything gone wrong? Glitsky didn't much care about probable cause anymore with Mark Dooher. He was going to take the man downtown on some pretext, get him off the streets before he struck again.
The house on Ravenwood Street was dark. Dooher wasn't there.
But Glitsky got out of his car, wanting to make sure. Crossing the front patio, getting to the porch, ringing the bell, waiting.
Empty.
There was no way he could explain away his actions to anyone if he were discovered. He would be reprimanded, perhaps fired.