Damage (29 page)

Glitsky reached out and switched off the recorder.

Chomorro cocked his head to one side, curiosity writ large on his features. “That’s it?” he asked. “Falls a little short of a confession, don’t you think?”

Glitsky spoke in measured tones. He didn’t want to appear to be hard-selling it if it was supposed to be self-explanatory. “Bracco never mentioned what he was talking about, Your Honor,” he said, “and Ro went right to the killing yesterday of Matt Lewis. It couldn’t have been more obvious.”

“Actually, it could have been a lot more obvious, Lieutenant. This man, Ro Curtlee, knows that you both are pulling out all the stops to get him back in jail. In spite of the rulings of two of my colleagues. So your inspector alludes to his whereabouts yesterday afternoon and Ro assumes, correctly I might add, that he is now a suspect in another murder that happened at that time. Do you really think it’s that odd that he could predict which murder that was? It’s been all over the news. It would have been more surprising if he hadn’t known.”

“Your Honor,” Farrell said. “This man shot one of my investigators . . .”

“ ‘Allegedly’ shot, Mr. Farrell. As I tried to explain to Chief Lapeer yesterday. The ‘allegedly’ goes away after you get a conviction.”

“Your Honor”—Farrell didn’t give in—“with respect, it’s a fact. My guy was following him. Look at what’s happened since Ro got out of jail. He’s ...”

But Chomorro, heating up a bit himself, held up a finger. “While we’re on that, I got the impression from the first part of that tape we just listened to that Ro was under suspicion for yet another homicide and giving his alibi for that. Isn’t that true? Lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“On what evidence in that case?”

“The connection, Your Honor. She was the wife of his jury foreman. Her murder and the burning of her body was the same MO, not only as the killing Ro got convicted on, but as his first victim after he got out, Felicia Nuñez.”

“Another ‘alleged’ victim, I’m afraid. Is she not?”

Glitsky couldn’t keep the reproach out of his voice. “She’s a real enough victim, Your Honor. She’s just as dead as can be. As is Janice Durbin.”

“And yet,” Chomorro said, “on the tape, Ro gives a completely plausible alibi for the time of the Durbin murder, does he not? And his father backs him up. What do you say to that? So is he no longer a suspect there?”

“ ‘Plausible’ doesn’t mean true, Your Honor,” Glitsky replied.

“It does if it gets enough corroboration.”

“His parents and their employees. What do you expect they’re going to say? He’s lying. They’re all lying.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Chomorro all but collapsed back into his seat. He took a slow breath, then came back to Glitsky, then over to Farrell. “Gentlemen,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “I understand your predicament. I even empathize with you. I know you believe that this man is a danger to the community, and quite possibly, even probably, you are right. If he had said to your inspector, ‘Yeah, I killed that inspector. What are you going to do about it?’ you’d have your warrant signed by me before you turned off the tape. But what you have isn’t enough, not nearly enough.”

“Your Honor—” Farrell began.

But Chomorro cut him off, again with a raised finger. “Please. So, the bottom line is we’ve got to do it by the book. That’s the only way it works, and both of you know that. We start arresting people and searching houses without probable cause, we all might as well close up shop, because we’re no longer working under the rule of law. And the rule of law is what we do here, do we not? So my answer, and I’m afraid it’s a final answer, is no.”

“Well,” Farrell said. “Thanks anyway for your time, Your Honor.”

“If you get anything truly substantial,” Chomorro replied, “anything that rises to the level of probable cause, I’ll be happy to revisit this anytime. I’m just saying what you’ve got now isn’t enough.”

“I thought it was worth a try,” Glitsky said.

“It couldn’t hurt.” Chomorro stood up, announcing that the meeting was over. He shepherded them over to the door, making small talk, and just as they were about to go out, he said, “You know, this kind of thing is more or less what a grand jury is all about. Make your case to them and they might indict.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Farrell said. “Thank you. That was and remains our Plan B.”

“You still might need more than you’ve shown me,” the judge said.

“We’re working on that,” Glitsky said.

“But we’re also thinking,” Farrell went on, “about attaching the first murder, the one he got convicted on, with these latest, which makes it multiple murder, which makes it a special circumstances case. But as I say, it’s going to take a couple of weeks to put the thing together. Maybe longer than that.”

Chomorro hung by the door, holding it open, perhaps not completely willing to be sending them away with so little result or even encouragement. “I know this seems to have gotten personal to both of you, but if this guy did any or all of this, he’s got to have slipped up somewhere and if he did, I’m sure you’ll find out where.”

“That’s what we keep hoping,” Farrell said.

“But it’s already not soon enough,” Glitsky added.

Though his office entitled him to, Farrell found that he didn’t want to use a driver all the time. For the daytime events that made up such a disproportionately large segment of the job—when he was going out and speaking before civic groups or doing lunch fundraisers—he was happy for the company and sometimes protection afforded by the rotating police inspectors who ferried him around in one of the city’s few Lincoln Town Cars. Most days, though, he found that he preferred to drive in on his own, park in his designated spot behind the Hall of Justice, and drive home.

This morning, though, between the sleepless night he’d experienced along with the actual fears for his physical safety, he called in and had the car come pick him up at home. Now, coming out of the Hall in the dark at quarter to six, he was extremely grateful for the perk. Dragging with fatigue, Gert on her leash alongside him, he let her pull him by the coroner’s office on the right and then the jail on the left and over to where the car sat waiting.

His most regular driver, with whom he got along very well, was Sergeant Ritz Naygrow. Tonight, Ritz was still on duty behind the wheel, undoubtedly working it for the overtime, and by the time Farrell got to the car, he had come around and opened the door for them. Gert immediately jumped into the backseat and settled down, and Wes climbed in behind her. Ritz closed their door and then went around and got himself arranged behind the wheel.

But though he put the car into gear, he didn’t take off driving right away. “So where are we off to on the people’s business tonight, sir?” he asked.

Farrell had already closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat. Now, with what felt like Herculean effort, he opened them. “I hope the Chinese Merchants, if my calendar isn’t wrong, which it might be. Treya’s gone on vacation with no warning and she keeps my book. And I thought my back, too. Or did.”

Ritz looked back at him. “You didn’t know she had a vacation coming? How’d that happen?”

“She didn’t know it, either. She’s Glitsky wife, you know that?”

“Sure.” It took him a second, then he half turned in his seat. “Oh, the threat. Ro Curtlee.”

“She took it pretty seriously.”

“I would, too.”

“Well, we’ve got people on him around the clock now. Hope that slows him down some. He is one bad motherfucker. Still, I wish Treya hadn’t gone off. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”

“You want,” Ritz said, “I’ll swing by Ro’s place while you’re talking to the Chinese Merchants tonight and shoot him dead. Then you can say I was with you the whole time, and we’re good. And then you can call Treya and tell her she can come back, the coast is clear.”

“Okay,” Farrell said. “Let’s do that. That’s a good idea.”

“Long as we got a plan,” Ritz said. “So where are we going?”

“The Mandarin Oriental. I think.”

“At least it’ll be good food.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Ritz. It might start out good, but by the time it gets to my plate ... Let’s just say they don’t call it the rubber chicken circuit for nothing. Now I’m going to close my eyes.”

“The Mandarin’s like five minutes away, sir. That’s a short nap.”

“It’s five minutes more sleep than I’ve had since yesterday.” After another few seconds, Farrell opened his eyes and said, “Are we going?”

“One other thing, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. What?”

“If you could let dispatch know if you’re going to be bringing your dog along to work when you want the car? The thing is, I’m pretty allergic.”

“To Gert?”

“To pretty much all dogs, sir. Cats, too. Pollen. You name it.”

“I’m sorry about that, Ritz. I didn’t know. So, what, you wouldn’t take the gig on those days?”

Ritz shrugged. “Other guys could cover. Just to let you know.”

“Okay,” Farrell said. “I’ll try to call and let somebody know. If I can remember. When I’m bringing Gert down.”

“Is that likely to be often, you think? Just so I can plan?”

“I don’t know, Ritz. Sometimes, I guess. I don’t really know.” He paused, slumped down farther with his hand over his eyes. “My girlfriend left me, too,” he said. “Last night.”

Ritz spun his head to look at him. “Are you shittin’ me? Sam?”

“Sam.”

“Man, first Treya, then Sam.”

“Actually the other order. Sam, then Treya, but yeah. Then you, if you want to count people leaving me for one reason or another.”

“It’s not like I wouldn’t stay if you really wanted me.”

“It’s all right. You do what you have to do.”

Ritz took a beat. “Man, you are having some bad week here.”

“I know,” Farrell said. “I feel like a Haitian with a Prius.”

Abe Glitsky’s father, Nat, was rinsing what few dishes they’d used tonight in the kitchen of the small duplex he shared with Sadie Silverman on Third Avenue just off Clement Street. The kitchen was in the back of the flat, and although its dimensions were only about ten-by-eight feet, they used it for a dining room as well, sitting while they ate on their spindly wooden chairs and eating off one of Sadie’s dainty occasional tables from her old house.

Nat wasn’t exactly robust anymore, but then again, at eighty-three, he wasn’t in the ground, either, so there really wasn’t much to complain about. His weight was down from his lifetime high of 180 to about 155 pounds, and most disturbing, he’d lost an inch and a half of his original five foot ten—where had that gone?—but he still had all of his hair, now wispy and white, but still there, thank you very much.

At the table sipping at the thimbleful of port she’d poured herself, Sadie turned the page of her book, sighed, and closed it. “I don’t get all these vampires,” she said. “This is my third try on one of these books and I just can’t get myself to believe them.”