Guilt

wanted to turn in. So I thought I'd go to the range. Anyway, I finished

my beer and went upstairs…

Q: Did you touch your wife?

A: No. I turned on the lights and it was obvious she was dead. I

suppose I froze a minute or two. I don't remember. Then I guess I

called nine one one.

Q: And then what?

A: Then I sat on the stairs and waited. No, I checked the other upstairs

rooms, too.

Q: You didn't try to resuscitate her, anything like that?

A: (Farrell) Sergeant, he's answered that. She was obviously dead.

Q: Did you touch the body at all?

A: (Dooher) There was blood all over the place! There wasn't any

doubt – you can tell when somebody's dead. I didn 't know what to do,

to tell you the truth. I don't even know exactly what I did. I was afraid.

I suddenly thought the guy might still be in the house. I don't know. I

just don't know.

Q: I'm sorry, Mr Dooher, but I need a specific answer to the question.

Did you at any time up to right now touch Mrs Dooher's body?

A: No.

Q: All right, let's go back. Earlier in the day, before…

A: (Farrell) What's that got to do with anything, Sergeant?

A: (Dooher) It's okay, Wes. My attorney here wants to make sure I

don't say anything to incriminate myself. But I can't incriminate myself

since I didn't do anything. How far back do you want to go, Sergeant?

Last week?

Q: Let's start when you got off work.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Christina stood by the French doors and watched Dooher move about his backyard, greeting the other mourners.

She was fighting the feeling that she really didn't belong here, guilt that in her heart she didn't mourn Sheila Dooher's passing. It freed Mark – there was no sense denying it. She sighed heavily.

'I'm glad you're here. I don't know anybody.'

She turned to see Sam Duncan, her arm still in a cast. 'You know me now. But why are you here?'

Sam gestured behind her. 'Wes. He's taking over details for Mark for a while. Even without the police stuff, this whole thing is just so horrible.'

Christina laid a hand on Sam's arm. 'What police stuff?'

'Damn.' Sam's face clouded. 'I'm not supposed to talk about it. Wes doesn't want any rumors going around.' She lowered her voice. 'He's worried that they're going to say Mark did it, killed his wife.'

Christina mouth dropped. The idea was absurd. 'What? He wasn't even here, was he? How could he have-'

'I know, but Wes is afraid they might. I mean, so soon after the Trang thing and all.'

'But they didn't find anything there either.'

'No, but apparently our friend Sergeant Glitsky didn't like being proven wrong. And he's the Inspector on this case.'

'But Mark wasn't even here!'

'Evidently the police can make a case that he was.' Sam held up a hand. 'Wes says if they really want to get you, they can make your life pretty miserable.'

'I guess they didn't really want to get Levon Copes.'

Sam made a face. 'Still a sore subject. But that was Glitsky, too.'

'But what does Glitsky have against Mark?'

'No one knows. Wes isn't sure if there's any reason. And nothing's happened yet. He's just worried. He thinks Glitsky might be overworked and guessing wrong. He did screw up on Levon Copes. And you know about his search warrant on Mark. There's two strikes.'

'You don't think he'd plant evidence, do you? The police don't really do that, do they?'

Sam shrugged. 'I don't know what they'd do.'

Farrell was sitting in a corner of the kitchen with a beer, listening to Mark's two youngest children, Jason and Susan, talking to their friends. He'd known the two kids their whole lives, and they looked very much alike, both very thin with slack blondish hair, waif-like features, and piercing green eyes – Mark's eyes. Susan wore black silk – tunic and pants – and Jason had the baggy pants, an outsized brand-new dress shirt buttoned to the collar, a camouflage jacket.

None of Farrells own kids had made it home for the funeral, which very much disappointed him, especially since Sheila and Mark had been godparents to Michelle, his youngest. But he consoled himself with the fact that neither had Mark's eldest, Mark Jr, the wildcatter sculptor.

Wes had tried to help Dooher out with breaking the brutal news, making the call to Mark Jr, and had been unprepared for the venom he'd heard. His dad never needed him for anything before – he didn't need to see him now. Besides, it was too much of a hassle to come down from Alaska, he said. His mom was already dead anyway. What good was it going to do? And he didn't have the money to spare.

Oh, Dad was offering to pay, to fly him down? No, thanks – one way or another, he'd wind up owing him. He'd have to pay. Even for something like this.

All the young people were drinking beer.

He was comfortable here in the kitchen with them, especially since Lydia was out in the great room, mingling as she did. So he was avoiding her. And he didn't particularly want to introduce her to Sam, either. That kept him in here, too, not that it had been uninteresting up to now. He was learning a lot, listening. Just edit out the 'dudes' and profanity and most of it was English.

Jason, sitting on the counter now, had sat next to his sister in the pew with Mark, but both of them down five feet or more from their father. An eloquent-enough statement. The boy cried at the Mass, but was over that now.

He was enthusing over the snow in Colorado, the winter he'd spent back there, how he was going down to Rosarito from here, surf the summer away, like, starting tomorrow. He had to get out of here. This scene here with his dad was just too weird.

His sister leaned up against the sink, holding hands with another young woman. 'How Mom took it I don't know,' she said.

More Dad-trashing coming up, Wes thought – even a child could do it. Suddenly, stoked by the beers, he stood, deciding to butt in. 'Hey, guys. How about you give the old man a break, would you? He's having a tough enough time.'

Susan nearly snorted. 'Dad doesn't have tough times.'

'I've just been through one with him, dear.'

'I'm sure.' She dropped her girlfriend's hand and walked the four steps over to him – a bit unsteadily. 'You think you know my dad, don't you? You think he's devastated by all this?' She shook her head hopelessly. 'You're a good guy, Wes, I really think you are, but dream fuckin' on,' she repeated.

'Dream on what, Susan? What are you talking about?'

Jason: 'Hey, come on, look around.'

'I'm looking around. What am I supposed to see? I see your dad trying to maintain here. I see he's lost his partner.'

Susan snorted derisively, nodded over at Jason. 'Six months?'