by Molly Greene
“So, Miss Butler.” The detective’s face was like a stone. “How’d you kill him?”
What a jerk. Maybe the dark-haired man wasn’t the good guy, after all.
Chapter Two
It was ten o’clock when Cambria was escorted into the San Francisco Police Department’s Fillmore Street Central Station by the lead detective assigned to investigate the death of Andrew Ducane.
A well-written film script couldn’t have done a better job of conjuring up bizarre; the place was like a movie scene in a mental hospital.
On one side of the room, a trio of shrieking gay boys windmilled arms as two uniformed cops attempted to separate their brawl. By the looks of them, they were on round eight or nine.
They passed a pair of bug-eyed street people with pupils like black marbles, staring impassively at the room-wide ruckus. The detective ignored them. The stoned duo reciprocated.
Bree’s face must have registered compassion because they reached for her, gently stroking the hem of her coat like supplicants. They mewled unintelligible phrases, as though she were the only person who could share their message with the world.
She shrank from their hands and clutched her purse tighter.
A young woman sobbed in the middle of the room, shuddering with anguish as her boyfriend stood with his hands on her quaking shoulders. Make that husband, he wore a wedding band. The guy was dry-eyed but appeared equally stricken.
Bree averted her gaze from the wrenching emotion. She didn’t want to know what prompted that kind of tears, and she had a truckload of her own problems to juggle tonight.
Detective Eric Garcia motioned to the chair facing his desk, shrugged off his wrinkled sport coat, and dropped like a spent soldier into his own well-worn seat.
He loosened his tie and folded his cuffs back to reveal muscular forearms. There wasn’t much left of the light starch his shirt must have held when he put it on that morning.
Garcia leaned back and closed his eyes, then drew in a deep breath and ran both hands through his shaggy black mane. When his fingers ran out of hair, he dropped them to his desk, then drummed a quick beat on the paper-strewn desktop.
He regarded his charge.
“So. Miss Butler. Let’s go over it one more time.”
Bree tightened her lips. “Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be?”
“Do you always answer a question with another question?”
“Do you always make evening appointments, or was tonight just the odd exception?”
“Mr. Ducane chose the day, the time, the place. I was just being cooperative. That’s what I have to do if I want to get any freelance work. I operate entirely around the quirky schedules of my clients. That’s me, by God. Happy, talented, and accommodating. Of course, right now the happy part isn’t all that obvious.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t your client.”
She closed her eyes, squeezing the lids together and hoping he would disappear before she opened them.
“I was venting, Garcia. I told you, I was asked to interview Andrew Ducane for the Berkeley alumni magazine, one of my regular paying customers. You know. Former geeky university grad makes it big. It’s good for fundraising, get the picture? Now can I go? I have to take a cab to get my car and I’m exhausted and starving.”
“So you’re saying he was a geek. How would you know that if you hadn’t met him before?”
“Oh, good Lord. Are you for real, Garcia? Stop with the cryptic Raymond Chandler dialogue. Please, somebody put me out of my misery.”
“That’s cold.” Garcia rocked back in the chair and stretched his long legs into the aisle. “Somebody sure put Mr. Ducane out of his misery, didn’t they?”
Bree felt a meltdown looming. She hauled in a lungful of air and released it slowly to hold her nerves in check.
“Look, I’m sad for his family. Of course I’m stunned. But I never met him.” She looked up. “Am I not allowed to feel crappy for myself? Can’t I curse my bloody bad luck for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Bloody. Interesting word choice, seeing as how there wasn’t a drop of blood at the scene.”
If this kept up, her head was going to explode.
“Do you always act like such a creep?” Bree dropped her eyes until her heartbeat regulated, then pushed back in the chair. “Why didn’t you make that big bad CEO come down here? He was there, too. He said he found Ducane first. Why isn’t he a suspect? I guess money talks around here. And hey, don’t I get a phone call? Damn it, I want to call someone.”
Detective Garcia pushed the battered telephone toward her side of the desk. “Dial nine first.”
“What, no frigging privacy?”
“Why do you need privacy?” he countered. “Got something to hide?”
Bree struggled to retain her last shred of composure and steeled herself against an impending breakdown. She pulled Gen’s card from her pocket, then drew the vintage corded phone through the chaos of files and paperwork that defined the policeman’s job.
She dialed Gen’s cell number and was amazed when her call was picked up.
“Gen? Bree Butler. I know. Again, so soon. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but it’s an emergency. I’m downtown at the police station, and the nice detective staring at me right now won’t tell me whether I’m actually going to be arrested or not.”
Bree held out the handset.
“She wants to talk to you.”
Chapter Three
Gen saw Bree seated in an interview room as she showed her credentials to the uniformed cop at the front desk. Two minutes and one brief conversation later, she was escorted to the inner sanctum.
Bree was wolfing down a baloney and mustard sandwich. A caffeine-free diet soda sat on the table before her. She swallowed the last bite and emptied her drink in one long pull, then thumped the empty can down on the Formica.
“I hate white bread,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s disgusting. Did you know plumbers wad it up into balls and stuff it in copper pipe to hold back drips while they solder a repair?” She wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of a hand.
“Is that so?” Gen yanked a tissue from a packet in the side pocket of her bag, indicated a spot on her own chin, then held it out.
“Yeah. It disintegrates when the water gets turned back on.” Bree accepted the Kleenex and scoured the bottom half of her face.
Gen sat down. “Where’d you pick up that interesting tip?”
“My Dad’s a plumber. He worked his butt off changing out other peoples’ filthy toilets so I could go to an expensive college and become a famous journalist. We can both see how well that turned out.”
Gen let the comment evaporate into the air of the tiny room. “So. Did you do it?”
“No.” Bree wiped her fingers on the crumpled tissue, then wadded it into a bullet and launched it across the room, nailing the waste basket under the window. “Like I told Garcia and the cops at the scene, I never met the guy before I found him on his office floor. I did not kill him.”
“That’s all I need to know.”
“Why do they think it was murder, anyway? Maybe he just had a heart attack.”
“He’s pretty young to die of natural causes, so they’re suspicious at this point. But they won’t be sure until after the autopsy.” Gen scraped her chair back and stood. “Let’s go.”
“Just like that? I can walk out of here?”
“You’re a person of interest, but the po-po don’t have grounds to hold you. You won’t be able to take any extended trips until they find out who did it, though.”
“Shoot. I had this whole around the world in eighty days thing planned.” Bree reached for her purse. “Hey, Genny, thanks for your help.”
“Thank me when you’ve been ruled out as a suspect.”
“What about that smarmy creep of a CEO? Why didn’t they drag his butt down here, too?”
“They probably t
hink the odds are against an enormously successful business owner murdering an employee onsite. You’re an unknown, so all eyes are on you.” Gen stretched and yawned. “But I don’t know the details, so I can only guess why they didn’t bring him in.”
She thrust an open hand toward Bree and wriggled her fingers. “Give me a dollar.”
“Why, you want a Coke or something? The vending machine downstairs charges a buck fifty.” Bree scooped two bills from her wallet.
Gen took one. “It’s a down payment on my fee. They’re releasing you into the custody of counsel, so you’re officially my client now. I’ll start tomorrow. Right now, let’s get your car and I’ll follow you home. I’m betting it’s been a long night for you.”
A figure filled the open doorway.
“Evening.” The newcomer touched the brim of a faded green baseball cap stitched with the word Caterpillar in gold. He smiled at Gen, nodded, and touched his cap again. “Ma’am.”
Gen noted the badge displayed on a chain around his neck. Military dog tags peeked out behind it. He wore tatty leather hiking boots and a navy t-shirt tucked into the waistband of worn jeans, topped by a flannel shirt with the tails out.
Light brown hair tickled his collar. A three-day scruff bristled on his cheeks and chin. Mirrored aviator sunglasses hung from his breast pocket.
“I’m Mackenzie Hackett, Detective Garcia’s partner.”
“Gen Delacourt.” Gen offered a palm and the cop shook it. His grip was strong.
He repeated the gesture with Bree. “You must be Miss Butler.”
Bree nodded.
“We were just about to leave,” Gen said.
“I won’t keep you. I’m sorry for your–” He hesitated. A wrinkle between his brows puckered slightly before he continued. “Your unfortunate experience. I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know I’ll be working on the case.”
Bree bristled. “Look, I’m exhausted. I’ve already told Garcia everything I know, which is nothing.”
“Forgive us, Mr. Hackett,” Gen said, “but my understanding is that Cambria is free to go.”
“Please, call me Mack.”
“Like the truck, right?” Bree was fuming. “I’ve already been flattened tonight.”
Gen reached out and curled Bree’s hand into her own. “We’re both pretty tired. Can this wait?”
“I didn’t stop by to pester you,” Hackett replied. “Garcia will brief me about what you’ve already shared.”
“Fine, Mack,” Gen said. “As you can see, we really need to get some sleep.”
“Of course. Just wanted to offer my services.”
Gen felt a wave of irritation, and she was too tired to keep it from showing on her face. “And that would be?”
“Just an ear. Anytime you’d like to chat.” He handed her his business card.
“Ah, I see.” Gen took the card. “You’re the good cop.” She looked him up and down, not bothering to conceal her inspection. “Let’s see, Southern backwoods boy get-up designed to make you look as if you just climbed down off a tractor and you’re harmless. Slight drawl that you probably lost long ago, but you hold on to it because it disarms people into thinking you’re, well, just a little slow. Am I close?”
This time Mack flashed a grin. “And you,” he replied, “have allowed your career as an attorney to discolor your picture of the city’s dedicated police force.”
Gen’s smile was equally swift; clearly he’d asked about her at the front desk. “Gee, it’s not as if the fuzz haven’t given us reason to question their agenda before.”
She hitched up the strap of her purse and squared her shoulders, then brushed past him, pulling Bree along with her. “Nice to meet you.”
As they left the room, Detective Garcia stood and stretched, then scratched his ear and made a face as he took a deep pull at his coffee cup. He jerked up his chin in acknowledgement as they made their way toward the door.
“See you, Garcia,” Bree said. “Thanks for the lovely evening and the gourmet meal.”
Gen glanced over her shoulder. The two detectives stood about fifteen feet apart, Mack leaning against the jamb of the room they’d just exited. They were looking at each other, but she couldn’t make out either man’s expression.
Bree wasn’t finished. “You really know how to treat a girl.”
“My pleasure,” Garcia replied. “Keep in touch.”
“I think etiquette calls for the gentleman to contact the girl after the first date.”
“I’ll do that,” he replied. “I’ve got your number.”
* * *
When the lift ground to a halt at the sixth floor, Bree hugged Gen fiercely. “Thank you, Genny. You saved me. I hope this thing goes away and you never have to come to my rescue again.”
Gen gave her a double thumbs up. “It’s been a long night. Get some sleep.”
Exhausted, Bree jabbed the button for the seventh floor and stifled a yawn, then dropped her chin against her chest. The doors drew closed, and the old steel cables shrieked a complaint as the car began to rise.
She shook her hair off her face and sidled close to the exit, ready to depart as soon as the opening was large enough to allow her body through. The metal curtain parted. She stepped from the car and turned toward her front door.
“I do hope your evening wasn’t too terribly excruciating.”
The disembodied voice clashed against the late hour and her frayed nerves. Bree choked back a scream, then shoved a key between her fingers in case she needed a weapon. She spun around, keeping her right hand hidden behind her back.
Taylor Vonnegon lounged casually in a chair tucked into the hallway alcove. He appeared rested and every bit as hunky as earlier that evening, this time in a western shirt and well-worn Levis that clung to his muscled thighs. The crocodile cowboy boots on his feet looked custom made to fit his size thirteens.
Nice.
He smiled, then pushed out of the chair and stuck his hands in his pockets as he approached.
Bree raised her middle finger. “Screw you and the horse you rode in on.” She wheeled around and ported the key into the lock.
Vonnegon chuckled and spoke again, this time sounding contrite. “I don’t blame you for being upset. Will you let me explain?”
“Upset? You’ve got a lot of nerve.” Bree flung the words over her shoulder as she fumbled with the knob. “You’re a murderer, for all I know. I will not listen to a word you say.”
When the door moved inward, Bree lost her footing for the second time that night and fell through into her condo. She recovered and shot the chain home, effectively barring him from entry, but left the heavy slab of a door open half an inch.
“I just endured the humiliation of being questioned by frigging Sherlock Holmes,” she continued. “You could have told them I didn’t have a thing to do with it, Mr. Big Shot CEO. But nooooo, you told them I could actually have done it because everyone else was gone for the day. Do you realize how terrifying this has been? I had to call an attorney just so they’d cut me loose and let me go home.”
“I’m sorry. I had–” He lowered his voice. “I had my reasons.”
“Oh, now I understand. You had a reason. What could it be? No, don’t tell me. You wanted to deflect suspicion away from you, right?”
Vonnegon’s eyebrows shot up and he opened his mouth to speak, but Bree cut him off.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Her voice rose with each question. A door hinge screeched somewhere down the hall, reminding her of the late hour. Suddenly tired and ready to be done with it, she muttered, “What do you want?”
“I want you to know that I accessed Andrew’s Outlook calendar, which included your name, the time of your appointment, and your phone number.” His face was close to the door and he was whispering now.
“Then I Googled you. Now I know you’re legitimate. Your phone number led me to your home address, and here I am. I came to apologize, and clarify my behavior. A
s much as I can, anyway.”
“If that was an apology, it’s not accepted. And as for explaining, whatever you have to say should be said to Detective Garcia.”
Another squeaky hinge rendered them both silent; clearly their exchange was too loud for the late hour. When no one entered the corridor, Vonnegon looked back at Bree’s door.
“All right,” he whispered, “I understand. Would you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I can vindicate myself. And you, if you’ll give me the chance.”
“I have a simpler way. Call the cops and tell them the truth.”
“I will,” he said.
She moved to shut him out.
“After lunch tomorrow.”
The door held.
“Eleven o’clock,” he said. “Fifth and B. Do you know it?”
“If my attorney can make it on such short notice, I’ll be there,” Bree hissed through clenched teeth.
The deadbolt slammed home.
Chapter Four
The rooftop was empty at six-thirty in the morning, as it nearly always was at that time. Most of the residents in the complex were childless professionals drawn to living downtown in an urban setting, and they were all sleeping in after a hard work week. Aside from a shower, getting wet was the last thing on their minds.
The pool was the main reason Bree first looked at the building, and the most important factor in her decision to buy in.
She’d told her real estate agent that there had to be a place to work out close by, or it would be a deal breaker. There had to be a place for her to swim.
Swimming was Bree’s regular workout, a practice that both toned and strengthened her body and distanced her busy mind from its perpetual rounds. She was addicted.
Despite her fatigue, Bree dove purposefully into the deep end. Although the lap pool was heated and she was prepared, hitting the water was a shock. She surfaced and pulled into a crawl, working her way down the lane with a steady consistency.
Her first underwater flip turn was slow and unhurried, almost lazy. There were dozens to go before this session was complete. Perhaps an hour would pass before her mind would be settled.
