Anything for You--A Novel

by Saul Black

  Then, ten years ago, Elsa had been hit by a drunk driver on Divisadero and killed. She was sixty-two. Vincent had stopped reading books after that. After that the quiet understanding the reading life had yielded seemed nothing but a vicious joke. The reading life hoodwinked you into thinking it was seasoning you, schooling you gently in the paradoxes and pratfalls of the human lot. The reading life, you thought, helped you cope with being alive.

  But it turned out there were things that couldn’t be coped with. For eight years after Elsa’s death Vincent couldn’t go near an allegedly worthwhile book. He tried. It made him physically sick. The little truths were still there, the humble epiphanies, the metaphors and similes that opened like time-lapse flowers—but they disgusted him. They disgusted him because they weren’t enough. Without Elsa, without love, nothing was enough. Continuing teaching—Literature—was, obviously, impossible, so he quit. Instead he watched inane television, read the newspaper in blank indifference, spent hours staring out of the window, seeing nothing. Eventually, his son, Lucas, had persuaded him to move in with him, his wife, Jen, and their twin daughters at their large home in Pacific Heights. They gave Vincent a room on the ground floor and surrounded him with what they knew he needed: active life. Gradually, Lucas had worn away his father’s refusal to even try to read. Vincent had agreed to reacquaint himself with Serious Contemporary Fiction. But it still felt to him like a dog returning to its vomit. Pointlessly.

  * * *

  The Corrections slid from Vincent’s grasp and dropped to the floor. The intruder appeared to be frozen by the sudden glare of the security lights. He stood with one knee bent, arms slightly out.

  Then he turned, ran to the back of the yard, trampled through the raised flowerbed, and disappeared behind the colossal and softly crashing bamboo.

  Vincent lurched to his feet and stumbled through the conservatory back into the house. He took the stairs two at a time. His thighs labored. His face felt blood-packed. He was aware of the loudness of his own breathing.

  “Lucas!” he hissed, pushing open his son and daughter-in-law’s bedroom door. “Jesus Christ, Lucas!” The security lights were still on outside, and by their illumination Vincent found his way across the room to his son’s side. He shook him. Lucas woke with a start.

  “Jesus … Dad?”

  “There’s someone in the yard!”

  “What?”

  “There’s a goddamned burglar!”

  Lucas leaped out of bed and fumbled for his pants.

  Jen woke up. “What the fuck?” she said.

  “Stay here,” Lucas said. “Let me check the girls.”

  “What is it? What is it?”

  “Dad says there’s someone in the yard.”

  “Oh my God.”

  It took Lucas a moment to establish his daughters were safe and sleeping soundly. Jen, in her underwear and T-shirt, was right behind him. Twenty-first-century reflex had armed her with her cell phone, grabbed from the nightstand.

  “Stay in here with them,” Lucas whispered. “Lock the door and call the cops.”

  The men waited at the top of the stairs until they heard Jen on the line. Then they went down, quickly.

  The dark house was an awakened intelligence now, alert and powerless. The smell of the evening’s lasagna hadn’t quite faded. Lucas plucked a golf club from his bag in the back hall.

  “Give me one of those,” Vincent said.

  “Don’t be a moron, Dad. How many?”

  “What?”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Just one guy. I only saw one guy. Don’t try anything. Wait for the cops.”

  “I’m just going to look. Stay here.”

  Vincent ignored the instruction and followed his son through the kitchen to the conservatory. Together they peered out through the glass.

  The backyard was, not surprisingly, empty.

  4

  Less than twenty minutes later a squad car arrived. SFPD Officers Dean Gershon and Maria Lopez. Gershon was tall and blond, with a look of heavy softness to his limbs and a profile that evoked Winnie-the-Pooh. Lopez couldn’t have been more than five seven, with a small, hard-pretty face and liquid black eyes. Her dark hair was scraped back into a short ponytail. For Vincent their presence brought Elsa’s death back, those first hours and days in which the police had stopped being something on TV and started being something in his real life. To him the smell of their uniforms and gear was one of the odors of grief. The arrival of the police gave you the brutal truth: that you were never safe from random evil. No one, anywhere, was safe from that.

  “Well,” Officer Gershon said, coming back into the hall from his sweep of the grounds, “there’s no one out there now. We’ll notify the neighbors, but at the moment there’s not much more we can do.”

  “Everything’s secure,” Officer Lopez said. She’d been round the interior with Lucas, checking doors and windows. Redundantly, she knew, since like all the homes in Pacific Heights, this one was intruder alarmed up the wazoo, and the alarm, clearly, had not been tripped.

  “Looks like your yard adjoins your neighbor’s at the back there, right?” Gershon said.

  “More or less,” Lucas said. “There’s a stupid little overgrown alley between them that comes out between the two front yards. We put a padlocked iron gate in there a couple of years back, but it’s easy enough to climb over, I guess.”

  “He’s most likely gone,” Lopez said. “The lights coming on will have spooked him. I’m guessing we’re not dealing with a genius here. Break-ins in this part of town would need to be a lot higher-tech.” She turned to Vincent. “You see any gear on him? A bag or a rucksack or anything?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Okay, well, we have your statement. Best thing we can do right now is check with your neighbors. If I were you I’d just reset the alarm codes when we’re out of here, then go back to bed and get some sleep. We’ll write you an incident reference in case you need to get back in touch. But for now—”

  Her walkie clicked and a female voice came through: “Unit Twelve, Code One. Unit Twelve, Code One.”

  Some instinct or protocol, Vincent assumed, made Lopez leave the room as she responded: “Unit Twelve. Go ahead, Dispatch…”

  Vincent expected a shift in Gershon’s demeanor (though he had no idea what “Code One” might mean) but the officer remained where he was, leaning against the wall with his left hand in his pocket. To Vincent the posture was deflating: It was simply human. The police were human beings. Not omniscient. Not omnipotent. Only occasionally the dispensers of inadequate justice. When something happened to you—when crime happened to you—that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted deadly infallible machines who suffered neither fatigue nor ambivalence. That, and the power to raise victims from the dead, to reverse the math that had subtracted the meaning from your life.

  Lopez rejoined them in the hall. Her alertness had been dialed up. Now Gershon did straighten. His hand left its pocket.

  “We’ve got a two-four-five and possible one-eight-seven,” Lopez said to her partner, heading toward the door. “Right now.”

  “Where?” Gershon said.

  “What’s going on?” Vincent said.

  “Stay inside and lock up,” Lopez called over her shoulder. “Don’t let anyone in except us. We’ll be back.”

  “What the hell?” Vincent said—but the officers were gone and the door slammed shut behind them.

  5

  Outside, Lopez was running to the squad car.

  “Qué pasa?” Gershon said.

  “It’s here,” Lopez said, popping the trunk.

  “What?”

  “It’s right next door.”

  “Shit. Our guy?”

  “Home intrusion, double stabbing, husband and wife. Wife made the call. Husband might have bought it already. Here, take the Halligan.”

  “Perp still here?”

  “Apparently not, but we’re not taking any chances
. Ambulance is five minutes away. Another unit’s en route.”

  They sprinted across the front lawn of the property next door to the Lyles’. Big maple trees, pale flowers like little faces in the dark, the scent of orange blossom and warm, sprinkler-rinsed travertine. Suburbia at night smelled of America at peace, Lopez thought. The old illusion.

  At the door to 2088, Gershon worked the Halligan into the jamb. His face had a martial focus. He was sweating.

  “Come on,” Lopez said.

  “It’s coming … Got it. Chain’ll go with a shove. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Gershon extracted the Halligan from the second busted lock, drew his Luger, took a step back, and kicked the door as hard as he could.

  The chain, as predicted, snapped—and the door flew open. Gershon pulled on gloves and hit the light switch. A large white hallway faced them, doors leading off. Gray stone floor tiles. One huge abstract canvas in streaks of purple and gold. A copper chandelier presiding. Twenty paces to the floating glass staircase.

  “She’s upstairs,” Lopez said. She had her own weapon drawn. Between her and Gershon now was the familiar current, the fear and death and excitement. Years of training force-woven into their DNA. And still there remained the human margins the training didn’t cover. That was the thrill, Lopez knew, the gap where you had to trust your imperfections.

  “We need to clear.”

  “I’m going up.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “She could be bleeding out.”

  Gershon spoke into his walkie. “Gimmie an ETA on the medics.”

  “Two minutes.”

  He looked at Lopez. Two minutes? If there was hemorrhaging … He nodded: Okay.

  Lopez moved across the hall and went up the stairs. Her hand was wet around the Smith & Wesson’s grip. The landing’s ceiling light was on, an opalescent glass globe the size of a beach ball. A bronze sculpture of an elongated female figure stood on a white plinth beneath it. The house was filled with judiciously dispensed wealth. How the other half live, Lopez thought. How the other half die, too. Death didn’t discriminate. Death was politically correct.

  The doors to the five upstairs rooms were all ajar.

  The first was unmistakably a teenage girl’s, unoccupied. Unmade bed, music posters, strewn clothes, a dressing table cluttered with cosmetics and goth jewelry, an odor of patchouli and denim. A Hello Kitty shoulder bag lay open on the floor.

  Don’t let it be her, Lopez thought. Rape, kidnapping, murder. Hello Kitty. For God’s sake don’t let it be her.

  The next two doors revealed en suite guest rooms done in white, each with an abstract canvas similar to the one in the downstairs hall, but the second with two walls filled with books. Both rooms empty.

  The fourth was a big family bathroom with a blue mosaic floor, walk-in shower, and sunken bath.

  The fifth (as Lopez’s soul already knew) was not empty.

  Master bedroom. Polished oak floor and a white bed splashed with blood. Pastel silk scatter cushions, nightstand knocked over, lamp on the floor, its amber glass shade smashed, bare bulb exposed. One wall was occupied almost entirely by arty black-and-white photographs. A door led off to an en suite bathroom.

  The first victim was naked on his back on the ivory rug at the foot of the bed. White male, late thirties. Dark lustrous hair and a lean body that was no stranger to the gym. His left arm was twisted under his spine and he was covered in blood. Eyes fixed and staring. Not breathing, as far as Lopez could see.

  The second victim lay on her side by the open French windows that led out onto a balcony. White female, maybe early thirties, with short, stylishly chopped red hair. Her green silk nightdress was torn just above the knee, and she was bleeding from wounds in her left shoulder and side. She was struggling for breath—but she was breathing. An iPhone lay by her head. The operator’s voice came through:

  “Ma’am, stay with me … The officers are right there … Ma’am? The medics are coming…”

  “Unit Twelve,” Lopez said into her walkie. “Ten ninety-seven. She’s alive. Give me her name again.”

  “Caller ID is Rachel Grant. Repeat: Rachel Grant.”

  “Copy that.”

  Lopez crossed to where the woman lay, poked her head out the French windows to check the balcony. Empty. Just the night’s warm exhalation and San Francisco’s lights twinkling prettily in the darkness.

  Check the bathroom.

  But the woman’s hand came up and grabbed her calf.

  “Adam…” the woman gasped. “Please … Adam?”

  “Rachel, you’re okay. Help’s on the way. Is it just you and your husband here?”

  The woman’s eyes flirted with unconsciousness. Lopez got down on one knee—avoid the blood, don’t mess with the scene—and took her hand. “The girl’s room down the hall. Your daughter?”

  The word “daughter” hauled Rachel Grant back, widened her eyes. “She’s … at a friend’s … Is Adam—”

  “Just lie still,” Lopez said. “The medics will be here any second. Don’t try to move.”

  Rachel Grant released her hand. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed.

  Lopez went to the male victim and checked for a pulse. Nothing. She ran to the bathroom and plucked a hand towel from the rail. Returned and did her best with it to apply pressure to the wound in Rachel Grant’s side. There was a lot of blood. “Hang in there, Rachel. Open your eyes. Tell me your daughter’s name.”

  “Elspeth,” Rachel Grant whispered, but her eyes didn’t open.

  A siren, close. A vehicle pulled up, doors opened. Revolving blue light splashed the landing. Lopez hoped a vital organ hadn’t been punctured. And thanked the God she no longer believed in that the daughter wasn’t home. That would be the cold consolation once Rachel Grant learned her husband was dead: Be grateful your daughter was somewhere else. Be grateful for that, even though your life will never be the same again.

  6

  Homicide detectives Valerie Hart and Will Fraser arrived at the Grants’ house just after the CSI team had begun their work. It was getting light out. The open French windows framed a curdled blue-and-pink San Francisco sunrise over the bay, thin swirls of cloud it looked to Valerie like God had stirred in a languid doodle before moving on to other things.

  Rachel Grant had been rushed to the ER at California Pacific. She was just out of surgery, but word was she’d live. Her husband’s body was exactly as Officer Maria Lopez had found it.

  The medical examiner, Ricky Santayana, pulled off his gloves. Twenty years ago he might have greeted the detectives with a jaded quip. But their professions burned their share of levity fast. Superfluity lasted maybe a year. After that you were stripped to the essentials. Even hellos and good-byes were left behind.

  “What’s the story?” Valerie said, then, glancing at the corpse’s face, did a double take. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah,” Ricky said. “It’s that Adam Grant.”

  “Holy moly,” Will said. Both he and Valerie recognized the attorney. Until three years ago he’d been a star prosecutor in the DA’s office. Then, to the vocal disappointment of his employers, he’d made the switch to private practice.

  Valerie felt the chorus of assumptions rising. Silenced them. Homicide Lesson One: Take nothing for granted.

  Homicide Lesson Two: Don’t investigate the murder of anyone you’ve slept with.

  Fuck.

  Heat filled her face. Stars of sweat came out in her palms. She had an image of herself as if she were looking down from above: She was on her bed, blouse open, jeans off. She was lifting her hips to make it easier for Adam Grant to get her panties down.

  Ricky massaged his left shoulder. Arthritis. He’d grown a plump beard recently. To Valerie, its gray streaks gave him the look of a badger. “Maybe two hours, no more,” he said. “At least a dozen stab wounds, one almost certainly through the heart. Multiple deep skull fractures. Claw hammer. Rebecca’s already bagged it. Officer Lopez ove
r there was first on the scene.”

  Valerie and Will skirted the cordoned area (CSI went about their delicate business like large, gentle insects) to where Officer Maria Lopez stood waiting to give her report. Her face made it clear this wasn’t her first murder scene, but a microclimate of spent adrenaline still surrounded her. Valerie had seen her around the station, but as far as she recalled they’d never spoken.

  “Detectives,” Lopez said.

  “Maria—right?” Will said. Valerie registered: There wasn’t a pretty female officer under forty whose first name Will didn’t know.

  “Right,” Lopez said.

  “Talk us through,” Valerie said.

  Lopez had her notepad open. She’d had time to draft the basics since arriving, but Valerie knew not all her colleagues would have used it. Good. She liked competent cops—but she liked competent female cops the best.

  “We got here around two thirty A.M. in response to a possible two-five-nine in progress at the house next door. That’s Lucas and Jennifer Lyle, their twin daughters, and Lucas’s father, Vincent Lyle. Lyle Senior was in the conservatory at the rear of the house when the security lights came on and he saw a guy in black gear and a ski mask on the back lawn. Suspect ran, and by the time we got here there was no sign of him. The two houses’ backyards are separated by a narrow alleyway, so presumably he just went over.”