Damage by John Lescroart Page A

across from city hall. Finally the meeting and dressing-down had ended, and having jogged across the street through the rain, they got to the parking lot’s elevator, all shivering wet dogs, anxious to get to their cars and back home.
    Glitsky, in the lead, went to push the elevator button.
    But Farrell came up from behind, put his hand out, and blocked him. “Hold on a minute, Abe. Amanda. I’d like a word.”
    “It’s a little late and a lot cold, Wes,” Jenkins said. She was wearing her trademark short skirt and she had her arms crossed into her armpits. “Can it wait?”
    “You know, actually”—Farrell was atypically brusque—“I don’t think it fucking can.” He squared around on them. “I got both of you here now and I want to tell you both how much I don’t appreciate the spot you put me in back up there.”
    Glitsky and Jenkins shared a glance.
    “What? You don’t know what I’m talking about? Don’t give me that. We talked about this very thing just this morning. I’m sure you both remember.”
    Glitsky started in. “That was before Ro came by ...”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your house. I get it. But here’s the thing I don’t get, Abe. What I don’t get is, even assuming that it was a bona fide threat to your family, which I’m not sure I completely buy . . .”
    “It sure as hell was,” Jenkins said.
    “Maybe. But why make the visit a threat? If he wanted to hurt you, why didn’t he just do whatever it was he wanted to do when he was there? Treya answers the door, whammo. Nobody knows he’s there. He hits and he’s gone. But he doesn’t. Why not? Anybody got an answer to that one?” In the small space, Farrell made a half turn in agitation, then came back at them. “And if it was a threat, okay, then why didn’t you go get a warrant? Tell a judge; make it official. I’m willing to bet you could have found one down at the Hall, even here on a Saturday. Instead, you go flying off with a couple of starstruck rookies and basically just go in and kick some ass. Which is exactly what you, personally, Abe, wanted to do.”
    “I did not . . .”
    “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Abe. Don’t even try. And meanwhile, you give the fucking Curtlees everything they could ever need to make their case that you’re harassing their precious little prick of a son? Did I get any of that wrong?”
    “He was . . . ,” Glitsky began again.
    But again Farrell cut him off. “So I don’t give a damn what Ro’s doing! Why can’t you seem to get that? The mayor was absolutely right in there when he was talking about the way it’s going to get reported, and not just in the fucking Courier . I’m going to predict that you’re not going to get flattering coverage in the Chron , either.”
    “Come on, Wes,” Jenkins said, “it’s not about the papers.”
    “Okay, it’s not about the papers, but I’ll tell you what it is about. It’s about both of you putting me in a position where I’ve got to back up what you’ve done, when we had already discussed it and decided you weren’t going to do exactly what you did.”
    “Wait a minute, Wes.” Glitsky was finally getting a little hot. “You told me if I had something, almost anything, I could arrest him and you’d support me.”
    “And I just did that upstairs, in the face of the mayor, don’t forget.” Farrell raised a finger. “But here’s what I don’t understand, and it really, really, really fucking fries my ass, Abe, if you must know”—Farrell in a true rage now, his voice ratcheting up—“is why in God’s name you had this great reason to go and righteously arrest Ro, and you didn’t see fit maybe to run the idea by me. And you know how that strikes my cynical mind? It strikes me that you didn’t think your reason was good enough. You thought I’d say no, and you know, I might have.
    “And why?
    “ ’Cause it still wasn’t enough, not given all the political ramifications and all the other bullshit we’re now