He looked out the big picture window of their living room. He was barefoot wearing just pajama bottoms. He stood and looked at the Richmond Bridge being lit by the dawn, tarnishing its steel-rib structure and rendering it from dawn’s gloom. A few early-morning cars, their taillights glowing, moved across the bridge heading for Richmond. The sketchy-looking lights signaled the beginning of a new day.
It was so good to be alive, he thought. He’d survived war and here he was standing on the floor of this house, with a good job, a wife and a daughter who loved him. He felt as if it was all meant to be. The dead he’d left back in Iraq were somehow meant to be; the living, their comrades in arms, went on living.
The victims of crime, whom he met after they died, the sky, the soon-to-be sun; they were all part of life. The moment he would start the engine to his boat and they —the three of them — would leave the dock, pull out in to the thick mercury-like water of San Francisco Bay was the moment he looked forward to. The smell of the saltwater, the look on his wife’s pretty face while she stood in the tiny cabin lighting the stove.
He’d lived, and there was a reason, and it was called God. God had saved him from death. He was sure of it, standing there welcoming the sun. God had wanted him to live, to marry, to have a child and keep it all going. Not a biblical staid God, but something else, more real, reflected on the surface of the water.
There was no fog, which he took as a good sign as he planned to take out his new sailboat, a 1958 40-foot, all-wood Lapworth, designed by a famous California boat builder. He was excited. He loved to sail, and he loved having his wife and daughter with him. He was full of energy and looking forward to the day that was starting out special. He’d named the new sailboat after his wife— Jen.
He went into their kitchen and made coffee, leaving Jennifer and Rebecca to sleep a little longer. He heard the heater kick on. He had two texts on his iPhone, but he ignored them. One was from a mother whose son had been beaten to death in a road rage incident. The suspect had disappeared, abandoning a car he’d stolen. The suspect was Salvadoran; his girlfriend told them he was a gang member, and had fled back to El Salvador. They had little hope of catching him. The mother was distraught, unable to cope with her son’s loss. She was a single mother, and alone. He’d befriended the woman, and kept in touch.
He fixed coffee and hot milk, and went to the living room again to look out on the quickly vanishing dawn. Traffic was light on the 101 freeway running south, as it was a Sunday. It was just 5:49 a.m. He wanted to be out of the house by 7:00 a.m., and be on the water by 7:30.
He heard his wife get up. She went to the coffee pot, got a cup and walked out into the living room. She was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of his boxers and looked so alive and sexy. She came up and put her arms around him. Getting on tip-toes, she kissed him on the neck, still half asleep.
“What time do we have to leave, skipper? Your mates are a lazy bunch.”
“Seven,” he said. “I love you. I really do.”
She looked at him then. Something was still girlish about her, all her impish fey quality captured in the smile of her freckled Okie-girl-from-San-Bernardino’s face.
“Likewise, Detective.” She slipped out of his arms and went to wake their daughter. They left on time. All the time in the car he’d been talking about the boat and how well made she was. His daughter took a selfie of the three of them standing in front of the new boat. The photo’s time stamp was seven-fifteen, exactly.
***
Mrs. Asha Chaundhry had showered and dressed. She was wearing a bindi on her forehead but it didn’t detract from her beauty, a beauty that even now seemed indelible. It was the kind of female beauty, Marvin thought, that pulled you toward her. He’d known a few other women who possessed it. He felt it himself as he’d turned on the recording device, hidden from her. It was what he’d once heard described as the “Catherine Deneuve effect.”
She was being recorded surreptitiously. Asha Chaundhry seemed eager to talk to the two detectives who had come to the Clift Hotel to interview her. Marvin noticed she was wearing a gold sari and it struck him as odd, her Indian garb. She seemed too modern for it. He also saw finally why his partner felt differently about this particular young woman. It was obvious his partner was attracted to her, and Marvin accepted it as part of life. Had his partner fallen in love with her he wondered. That would be crazy, but it was a crazy world. He’d thought it crazy that Jennifer O’Higgins, a woman he truly cared for, had died because of some stupid freak accident—one broken bolt. It had tested his faith in God, shaken it. Why? When so many horrible people live on.
“When was the last time you saw your husband yesterday, Mrs. Chaundhry?” Marvin asked.
“I saw him at about four, maybe a little after. In his office. He’d come back while I was out at my Pilates class. He’d texted me that he’d come home and was in his office working.”
“Your husband texted you? He was in the house with you?”
“Yes. But it’s a big house. We often text each other. It’s simpler to find him,” Asha said.
“Where had he been, your husband?” Marvin said.
The three of them were sitting in the living room with views of the City. They had decided that Marvin would ask all the questions, with the intention of building a timeline that they could tie Asha Chaundhry to.
“He’d flown to Gilroy in the morning. The car service came at about eight-thirty and picked him up after breakfast and took him to the heliport.”
“When was the last time you saw your father-in-law?”
“At breakfast. Thursday. The same day.”
“The day your husband — the day it happened?” Marvin said.
“Yes. The three of us had breakfast together. My father-in-law took a cab to his lawyer’s office, immediately after breakfast.”
“Bharti Kumar, when did you see her last?” Marvin said.
“About the time I went in to find my husband and tell him I had to run to the store. The girls were at the Gilberts, across the street. I’m sure Bharti was in her room because I noticed her door was closed when I went up to make sure the maids had cleaned my father-in-law’s room. The guest room he’s using is across from Bharti’s room. The other two guest rooms aren’t quite ready.”
“Maids?” Marvin asked. It was the first they’d heard of maids.
“We have two. They come in during the day. I always check to make sure things have been left tidy, in their right place. My father-in-law is very particular about that type of thing.”
“But when was the last time you actually saw Bharti Kumar?” Marvin said.
“I suppose it was when I brought the girls back from school, and before Bharti took them over for their play date. I left for my Pilates class at about quarter to three. The play date was scheduled for three, after the girls came home from school. So I saw Bharti then, just before three o’clock.”
“You have a maid service every day?” Marvin said.
“Yes. We asked the Gilberts who they used. They came highly recommended, two Latin girls. Maria — I can’t remember, Gloria. Yes, Gloria is the other girl. I have their number on my phone.”
“They were there, in the house, that day?” Marvin said.
“Yes. They come in every morning around nine and leave by two or three. It’s better if they come regularly, with the children. It’s a big house — you know. And Rishi doesn’t want them there in the afternoons because he usually works in the office before dinner, and didn’t want to be bothered with housecleaners.”
“Was anyone else there at the house that you know of? Workmen? Contractors? Do you have a gardener?”
“No one was there except Bharti and myself, and of course my husband. We do have a gardener. He’s Basque. But he never comes inside. My husband speaks to him. I’ve not met him yet. Rishi found him. I’ve only waved to him.”
“Do they do the laundry, the maids?” Marvin said.
“No. Bharti does it. In the machines. We have two sets of machines. One downstairs behind the kitchen, and one upstairs on the third floor.”
“The bed linens? Who does those?” Marvin said, reaching for the pot of coffee room service had brought in. He poured a cup, looking up at Asha while he did. She made eye contact, which surprised him. She seemed unfazed by the question, unafraid of it.
“Yes. The maids strip the beds once a week and make them up. Bharti makes sure the laundry is folded while the girls are at school. It’s one of her duties. That, and to help me in the kitchen—tidy up after meals. Will this help you?” Asha Chaundhry looked at Michael, expecting him to say something.
All Marvin’s questions were designed to lock her into a timeline, O’Higgins knew. Marvin was careful to intersperse the timeline questions so as not to tip his hand.
She turned back to Marvin.
“You were home after 4:00 p.m.? Is that correct?” Marvin said.
“Yes. Until I went out to the supermarket in the Marina around five. The horrible Safeway. I was gone perhaps half an hour. Parking is always difficult at that time of the day. The Safeway parking lot was full. I had to find a place to park nearby. It’s what took me so long. But I had to go out. I’d forgotten the coconut milk, and it —”
“Why did you go? Why not send Ms. Kumar?” Marvin asked.
“Bharti can’t drive. We have been talking about getting her lessons. I wish she could. Have you told her parents yet? I — I looked for her parents’ number in India but — I didn’t have it. It’s at the house, on my husband’s phone, I think.” Asha said. “Someone has to call them.”
“We’ve notified the Indian Consulate. And Mr. Chaundhry, senior. I believe he’s contacted Ms. Kumar’s family in India,” Marvin said. “How long were you out of the house at the Safeway?”
“No more than forty-five minutes at most,” Asha said. “It had to be after 5:30 by the time I got back. I know because I heard it on the BBC World Service, the satellite radio in the car. They gave the time— 17:30 GMT. The radio presenter gave the time when I turned on the car. I always translate from GMT. I’ve been doing it since I went to school in England. I did it then as I was coming home, because I knew the girls were due home from their play date at five.”
“You are sure it was after five thirty when you got home?”
“A few minutes later. Five-forty, perhaps. It took me a few minutes to drive from the Marina up the hill. There was horrible traffic.”
“When you came into the house, where did you go?” Marvin asked.
“I went straight into the kitchen and texted Bharti to say I was home. She was to pick up the girls at five, so I thought they were already home and upstairs in the playroom, or en route from the Gilberts’ house. Sometimes it’s hard for Bharti to get them rounded up.”
“And did Ms. Kumar text you back?”
“No.”
“Did you think anything was wrong when you didn’t hear back from her?”
“No. Sometimes, especially if she’s with the girls, she might not be holding her phone. I knew she’d text me soon, or she’d simply walk into the house with the girls.”
“So what did you do?”
“I got on with preparing dinner — baingan bartha was the dish I was cooking. I had everything ready, you see. Everything was set. I’d just forgotten the — but when Bharti didn’t text me back, and I didn’t hear the girls come in, I went out into the foyer to see if I could hear them playing upstairs. I noticed the elevator door was ajar. I walked down the hall and called Bharti’s name, thinking she might answer. I thought the girls were playing in the elevator and that was why the door was ajar. I don’t remember much after that — after calling Bharti’s name and walking toward the elevator.”
“You saw your husband’s body in the elevator then?” Marvin said.
Asha shook her head up and down. “I didn’t believe it was Rishi, not at first. I thought it might be — I don’t know what I thought. The police came then. I don’t remember exactly. I got into the elevator and they took me out.”
“You got into the elevator?”
“Yes. I held Rishi. I tried to pick him up — but I couldn’t — I kept trying. Then the police came.”
“Okay. Let’s take a break,” Michael said. It’s the first time he’d spoken since they’d walked in the hotel suite. He gave Marvin a look that said lay off.
“It’s all right. My mother said I was to tell everything to you. We must find who killed Rishi and Bharti. I understand that. I want to help,” Asha said.
“Did you have any reason to believe that Bharti Kumar was having an affair with your husband?” Marvin said, ignoring his partner’s call for a timeout.
“No. That’s ridiculous — what are you saying?”
“So there was no indication that your husband might be — cheating on you with Ms. Kumar?”
“No. That’s absurd. She was just a girl.” Asha looked at Michael for help, sensing that he was protective of her.
“Your father-in-law suggested that Ms. Kumar and your husband were having an affair,” Michael said. “That’s why we’re asking the question. I’m sorry.”
“He’s ¬— He’s wrong. That’s ridiculous.”
“Did you know that Bharti Kumar was pregnant?” Marvin said.
“No.”
“Did you go upstairs while the girls were at the Gilberts and harm Ms. Kumar? Is that what happened? You discovered they were having an affair and you decided to confront her?” Marvin said. “Things got out of hand. You two argued.”
“No!”
“Did you catch the two? Is that what happened? Were they — did you catch them in an intimate situation while they thought you were out of the house?” Marvin said.
“No.” She looked at O’Higgins for help.
“Did you argue with your husband and then stab him because he was having an affair with a very attractive young girl who he employed, and who he could pressure into having sex with him whenever he liked?” Marvin said.
“No.”
“No what, Mrs. Chaundhry?” Marvin felt his neck muscles tighten. He was angry, he realized, because his partner was putting them both in jeopardy by his attitude toward the woman who might have committed the murders. It was the first time he felt betrayed. All eyes were on them. The Chronicle had run a front-page article about the “society killings.” The story had also been covered by the New York Times, as well as in several European and Indian papers. Both his name, and his partner’s name were cited as the lead detectives in the Chronicle’s story. The heat was on.
“No. I didn’t kill my husband. I didn’t kill Bharti,” Asha said in a quiet voice.
“Did you go into the bathroom and see Ms. Kumar’s body yesterday?”
“No. I never saw Bharti after I left the house for Pilates class.”
“Did you go into the third-floor bathroom of your home and stab Ms. Kumar after killing your husband, and while your children were across the street at the Gilbert residence?”
“No!”
“Were you jealous of Bharti Kumar? Perhaps she was the one pursuing your husband? That’s possible, isn’t it? Your husband was a very wealthy man, an attractive man. Any young girl would be tempted, I suppose,” Marvin said.
He’d found that pushing people at the right time broke them. Not always, but sometimes, and because they wanted to break. Marvin thought that if he pushed Asha Chaundhry, in just the right way, she would break and confess. He believed she was probably the one who’d killed both victims. He believed that she’d killed her husband. He wasn’t sure why, but he did. It was the simplest explanation for the two killings. And it was usually the simplest explanation, he’d learnt, after so many years in homicide that was the explanation for the crime.
&
nbsp; “Stop it. Please,” Asha said. “Please, stop it!” She began to shake. She reached across the table and Marvin Lee witnessed the unthinkable. His partner took her hand and held it.
We’re fucked now for sure, Marvin thought, turning off the recorder. He was being pulled into a conspiracy and he didn’t like it. It was crazy.
“My daughter is coming home this weekend for a visit. Tonight. You can’t be here.” Michael said. He was standing in the doorway of his place in San Rafael. Madrone had called him and asked to see him. “She wouldn’t understand.”
“You want me to leave?” Madrone said.
“No,” he said. He got out of the doorway and she walked by him. “Are you okay? I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Michael said.
“Wrist was tweaked, that’s all,” Madrone said.
His neighbor saw the two of them standing in the doorway as she pulled out of her driveway and gave Michael a surprised look from the street. She’d been very friendly with his wife. He closed the front door.
“I just didn’t hear him,” Michael said. “Did you? Breaking into your apartment?”
“No, not really. He walked right by the bathroom. I was taking a pee. It was dark. I think he was scared and focused on you in the bedroom. He was looking for something. I watched him from the hallway. I was going to shoot him, but decided I might miss and hit you, or the bullet would go through a wall and kill someone. I keep the baton by the toilet. It’s the one I had in Iraq. I live alone, so — I stash weapons around the place.”
“What is it … I mean what do you want?”
“I want to be with you. Sex. I guess. If I’m being honest. I like you. Hey, I don’t beat someone like that, unless I like you,” she said and smiled.
He smiled back. It was the kind of humor he’d heard over there. He’d missed that about Madrone, her battlefield humor. She’d seemed squared away, balanced. But he’d met a lot of vets who appeared to be “squared away,” and most definitely were not.
Last Ferry Home Page 15
