Guilt

'Wes…'

Tm sorry. I'm just a whining sack, aren't I? But I have to tell you, sometimes the weight of what appears to be random bad luck just gets a little hard to take. It's not like I want something terrible to happen to you, but don't you sometimes wonder when it never does? Does this mean something about me? Jesus!'

'Hey, come on.' Dooher got out of his chair, walked over to his bud, put his arms around him. 'Come on. I love you, Wes, you know that. You need help here, I'll send over some of my associates. You need it at home, some money, whatever, you got it. You want, I'll put a couple of gashes into my own face, bleed a little.'

Farrell looked up, shook his head in disgust. 'I'm a waste, aren't I?' Dooher pinched his good cheek. 'But cute. Come on, let me buy you some lunch.'

It wasn't fancy, but the Chinese food was spicy hot and excellent. There were only six tables in the place, and Farrell took the opportunity to point out that he came here twice a week and never got an empty table.

But Mark Dooher walked in the door, and there was one with his name on it, and no, they didn't mind if the dog came in, too. The owner had a dog looked just like Bart. This led Farrell to wonder aloud if there was any part of Dooher's experience untouched by good fortune.

'For the record, I've got some pretty estranged, screwed-up kids, and you don't.'

'I never see my kids,' Farrell said.

'But when you do, they don't hate you, do they?'

'No. At least I don't think so.'

'Mine hate me. My failed artist namesake son hates me. My lesbian daughter hates me. My skiboard bum son hates me.'

'They don't…'

'Trust me, they do. You know it, too. Now I don't know whether that's luck or not, but it's not good. I must have had something to do with it.'

'Okay, that's serious. Your life isn't perfect. I apologize.'

A macho shrug, Dooher's mini-lesson in handling the pain the way a man should. 'It's life,' he said. 'It hits us all. Which is actually, since we're on the subject, why I wanted to see you this morning. More bad luck for me. But this is business.'

'What business?'

'I want to put you on retainer for a while as my personal attorney.'

Farrell stopped with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. 'I'm listening.'

'Victor Trang.'

'Okay, what about him?'

'I think the police think I might have killed him.'

'Get out…! You! Are you kidding me?'

'I don't think so.'

'Why do they think that?'

'I don't know. I'm not even a hundred percent sure they do, but this cop Glitsky called me the other-'

'Glitsky?'

'Yeah, that's his name. You know him?'

'He was the cop handling my last case, Levon Copes. Screwed it up completely.'

'Well, that's a relief. He might be screwing up this one, too.'

'He thinks you killed Victor Trang? Why?'

'Take it easy, Wes. I'm not sure. But he's called me back a couple of times, zeroing in, asking questions – where was I, did I talk to Trang, that kind of thing.'

'And you answered him?'

Dooher shrugged. 'Sure. I've got nothing to hide. Why wouldn't I talk to him?'

'That doesn't matter. The first rule is never talk to a cop about a crime in your time-zone without your lawyer sitting there.'

'But I didn't-'

'Doesn't matter. What did he ask? What did you tell him?'

'Does this mean you're on retainer?'

Farrell nodded. 'Yeah. Of course. What do you think?'

It was quarter past noon on Friday afternoon. Glitsky was walking the hallway on the 4th floor, heading back to Homicide. He'd spent the morning interviewing witnesses who lived in apartments on either side of his seventy-year-old victim, who'd owned a handgun for protection – the man whose last thought had been that his gun was going to help him if a burglar ever broke in.

Nope.

The last couple of days had been well over the line into surreal. At home, the earthquake damage had been serious but, miraculously, all cosmetic. They'd straightened up the armoire and rehung the clothes. In the boys' room, Jake had been crying out because it was dark and he'd been tipped out of his bed. Isaac and O.J. had remained so quiet because they'd slept through it all. (As he had, he reminded himself. If Flo hadn't yelled out for him…)

Then, all day yesterday, his wife wouldn't stay still. She had been up and around, throwing away the broken dishes, shards of pottery and glass, straightening, vacuuming, rearranging, even washing the windows. Nesting, nesting.

The day of the quake he'd stayed home. (A good day for it, as it turned out. There was not one homicide reported in San Francisco.) Today, day two, he couldn't stand seeing Flo working so hard, singing to herself, reborn. So much energy and sense of purpose – it was going to come crashing down. He couldn't let himself get his hopes up.

This was pure adrenaline – hers.

He wanted no part of it, and she didn't want him moping around, bring her down. They'd almost had a fight about it – would have, if he hadn't left.

So he'd gone to his morning interviews. Now, back at the Hall, his plan was to call around, line up some more witnesses on his other cases, call the phone company and check on the progress of Mark Dooher's records.

There was a package on his desk and he ripped it open. The phone records on Dooher weren't supposed to be delivered for at least another day, maybe two or three, but now here he was holding them in his hands.

Wonders did never cease.

Dooher's home was easy. He'd made no phone calls at all on the Monday that Trang had been killed. His office was a little more interesting. He'd called Trang twice – 1:40 and 4:50 – precisely the times noted in the dead man's computer.

Which meant that if Trang had been making up a story to impress his mother and girlfriend, major elements of it were close to the truth. His pulse quickening – the thrill of the chase indeed – Glitsky turned to the last little packet of sheets. There, as promised by Trang, was the third call, from Dooher's cellphone, at 7:25.

And even though Glitsky thought the official policy on miscreants in San Francisco was, 'Three strikes and you're misunderstood,' this time he was getting willing to call Dooher out. He sat back in his chair, feet up on his desk, wondering what, if anything, it meant.

Trang's computer notes might have been cryptic, but they also told a consistent story – Mark Dooher was working on the settlement, not acting as an adviser on a personal injury case as he'd claimed. Glitsky could imagine no reason why Trang would lie to himself in his electronic notebook.

And here was another tantalizing entry -MD from F. 's. The 7:25 call that Glitsky had interpreted to mean that Dooher had called from Flaherty's office. But, in fact, he'd made it from his car. What did that mean? Was it possible that F wasn't Flaherty?

Another thought – did Trang even have any personal injury cases in his files? This, Glitsky thought, was a job for the ever-eager Paul Thieu. And the note? MD message. There might be something the lab could salvage from the tape that had been in Trang's answering machine, even if it had been recorded over. He leaned forward, pulled his yellow pad toward him, and started writing.

He longed to catch Dooher in his lie. In any lie. There had to be one. In a kind of trance, he was lost in his notes. Then staring into the space in front of him, he picked up the telephone and punched some numbers.

'Law Offices.'

'Hello. This is Sergeant Glitsky, San Francisco Homicide. I'd like to talk to Mr Dooher's secretary, please. And I'm sorry, I don't remember her name.'

'Janey.'

'That's it. Thanks.'

'Mr Dooher's office.'