by Meg Gardiner
“But somebody’s home.” Edie pointed at a Honda Accord. “Pull over.”
Tranh parked. Edie got out. “Andy, follow me.”
She hiked to the door, taking in the ambience. An American flag flew from the porch. A child’s tennis shoes sat by the welcome mat. She knocked.
When the little girl opened the door, Edie tipped her head to one side and smiled. She was good with children, even quirky children from San Francisco.
“Hello, young lady. Is your daddy home?”
The child had alert brown eyes and a long, shining braid. She was television-cute. Edie had a knack for knowing who looked good on-screen.
“Well?” Edie said. “Hello?”
“Excuse me, he can’t come to the door right now.” The child turned and called, “Aunt Regina, somebody’s here.” She turned back. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“So serious,” Edie said. She saw the child’s eyes glance past her to Andy and his gear. She smiled. “Have you ever seen a TV camera before?”
A woman stepped into the doorway. Mid-thirties, solid, Latina, looked like she had played water polo in school. Like she could throw an elbow. She patted the child on the shoulder.
“Thanks. I’ll take care of it.” Her expression was veiled. “May I help you?”
“Edie Wilson. Is Gabriel Quintana in?” She raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Quintana?”
“He’s not. And I’m not Mrs. Quintana. But I’ll tell him you stopped by.” The woman, Aunt Regina, glanced over Edie’s shoulder, calmly but with a deathly coldness, at Andy. Making sure the camera wasn’t rolling.
Always a good sign. These people had something to hide.
Edie handed the woman her card. “Have him call me. We’d like to talk to him.”
“What about?”
“Tell him it’s a good idea to phone. He will really appreciate the chance to tell us his side of the story.”
The woman shut the door on them.
Edie turned. “Get that, Andy? Did you get the door slam?”
“Got it.”
Edie practically skipped down the steps to the sidewalk. “They never learn, do they?”
They were back in the rented SUV and halfway up the block, headed for the studio, when a rattletrap VW Bug squealed past and pulled to the curb in front of the Craftsman house. A woman popped out.
“Wait,” Edie said.
Tranh pulled over. They peered out the tailgate window.
The woman from the VW looked like she had fallen through a time portal from the summer of love. And, it appeared to Edie, on the way down she’d bounced off some goths, from Bollywood. And maybe landed in a pile of vodka bottles.
She knocked on Quintana’s front door. After a minute the Latina tank opened it. They spoke. The VW woman didn’t go in. The door shut again.
“My, Aunt Regina does like her door slams,” Edie said.
The VW woman stood in front of the closed door. She gave Aunt Regina the finger, vehemently, with both hands.
“Turn around,” Edie said to Tranh.
They drove back up the street and Edie hopped out. The VW woman paused next to her car, hand on the driver’s door handle.
She raised her chin at Edie. “What’s going on here?”
Quirky didn’t begin to cover this gal. No, what covered this gal looked like pure gold.
“Edie Wilson, News Slam. I’m looking for Gabriel Quintana. Can you tell me anything about him?”
The woman barked a laugh. She scratched her arms, and tucked her velvet-black hair behind an ear pierced with a dozen silver studs. The magenta streak continued to fall in her eyes.
“You’re not the only one looking for him,” she said.
On her arm, in uneven Gothic letters, the word SOPHIEwas tattooed. Edie said, “You’re Sophie . . .”
“She’s my kid. What’s Gabe done?”
Edie tried not to look too excited. “Mrs. Quintana?”
Another bark. “He never went as far as actually marrying me.”
Edie heard Andy behind her, hoisting the camera to his shoulder. “I’d like to talk about that.”
“No kidding? About Gabe?” The woman shifted her weight and tilted her head, curious. “What do you want to know?”
“The truth,” Edie said.
Dawn nodded at the television camera. “That thing working?”
42
IT WASN’T A HOTEL EMPLOYEE. NO WAY.” In the lobby of the St. Francis, a hotel manager insisted that the hotel had not leaked word that Searle Lecroix was staying there. Not hotel had not leaked word that Searle Lecroix was staying there. Not to the media, not to family or friends, not to anybody.
Jo turned to the detective from Homicide Detail who was interviewing her about Lecroix’s death and the shooting of Noel Michael Petty.
“He may be right. Lecroix could have mentioned it, or his management, anybody. Word was out. Earlier today I saw a photographer across the street in Union Square.”
The cop wrote it down. He underlined it casually. He was done debriefing her.
“Thanks, Doctor.”
Outside the front doors, the doorman was flanked by uniformed SFPD officers. The press and paparazzi had been moved across the street into Union Square. The scene was a scrum of people, cameras, lights, microphones, TV vans, and microwave antennas.
Jo gave the detective her card. “If you need anything else.”
He put it in his jacket pocket. “Sounds like you couldn’t have done anything more for Lecroix.”
Jo tried not to frown. The man was trying awfully hard to put her mind at ease. “Thanks. I wish it had ended differently.”
She stood to go. Across the lobby she spied two men headed in her direction—the SFPD’s mismatched departmental twins, Donald Dart, the media spokesman, and Chuck Bohr, Tang’s bald and burly superior.
Bohr’s jaw was working a piece of gum. It looked as though his jaw had been working at something for years. His neck was so thick that his white dress shirt was about to rip at the collar.
“Dr. Beckett. Don’t go anywhere,” he said.
Dart’s mustache had been brushed to a silvery sheen, maybe with a Brillo pad. His aviator shades were tucked in his jacket pocket. He nodded at the press mosh pit outside.
“We need to make a statement to the media.”
Jo felt drained. She wanted out of this hotel. She wanted to go home and clean off under a shower with the water pounding so loud that nobody could hear her cry, not even herself.
“You need sound bites from me?” she said.
Bohr’s jaw worked the gum. “Don’t look so down. You were right. You’ve been vindicated.”
“Excuse me?”
“And it’s over. You can write your report and sign off on the case.”
“A stalker,” Dart said. “You spotted it.”
“You called the whole thing,” Bohr said. “Don’t look so surprised. Credit where due.”
Jo’s shoulders ached. Her hands, though she’d scrubbed them with soap and near-scalding water, nevertheless still felt bathed in Searle Lecroix’s blood.
“Excuse me if I don’t feel like bragging,” she said.
Dart said, “You don’t have to. Just stand beside Captain Bohr while I make a statement to the press. You’re part of the team.”
“And then you can sign off on the McFarland case,” Bohr said.
Jo felt a headache coming on. “I need to complete my interviews and review Ms. McFarland’s medical records before I can finish my report.”
Dart looked at her, either incredulous or anxiety- ridden. “But we got her. Petty. We got her, in the act.”
The headache crawled up Jo’s scalp. “Maybe.”
Bohr took Jo’s elbow and led her toward the front doors. “This case has been unpleasant and difficult. And you don’t want any more unpleasantness and difficulty dumped on you. Make it simple. Stand beside me while Dart gives them the news.”
“But—”
“You’re a he
ro, Doctor. You figured it out. You warned the police about Petty being armed. You tried to save Lecroix.” He glanced at her. “I’m not bullshitting you. I’m serious.” He reached the door. “Take a bow. Then bow out gracefully.”
Dart swept past them. He straightened his tie and smoothed down his Ronald Reagan hair. Bohr urged Jo out the door.
When they stepped onto the sidewalk, the media swarmed across the street, dodging traffic, swerving around a cable car, pouring toward them like a sandstorm. Dart raised a hand. Bohr positioned himself and Jo a few feet behind. A crowd had gathered in Union Square. Overhead, three helicopters hovered. The noise, the painful whup of their rotors, battered the walls of buildings all around. The sun was still bright, the sky an innocent blue. Jo’s head pounded.
Had Noel Michael Petty killed Tasia McFarland?
Dart and Bohr wanted to think so. They wanted Jo to think so, and say so in her psychological autopsy report. Jo couldn’t. Not yet. She didn’t know whether Petty had killed Tasia. She had a strong feeling that the scenario was wrong.
She leaned toward Bohr. “Have you been encouraged to tell me to wrap up my report?”
The gum worked in his jaw. His eyes, watchful and cautious, held on to her gaze for a second too long.
The hovering helicopters thundered overhead. The headache crawled across her skull. The media pressed forward. Dart raised both hands, gesturing for quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “At three forty- five P.M. this afternoon, a nine-one-one call was received requesting police and an emergency medical response at the St. Francis Hotel.”
Jo wanted to sink into the pavement. She saw Lecroix’s eyes, begging her to tell him he was going to live.
“When officers arrived, they found a white male suffering multiple stab wounds. At four P.M. today, Searle Lecroix was pronounced dead of those wounds.”
Noise erupted. Reporters shouted. Shutters clicked. People in the square screamed. A young woman fell to the sidewalk in tears. Cameras and lights seemed to bleach the view white.
Over? Jo thought. Not even close. And the media rodeo was just getting started.
The president was coming to town.
REPLAY THAT.” Edie Wilson was in the backseat of the Volvo SUV, leaning toward Andy, the cameraman. “Pure gold. We’re going to eat this story alive.”
Tranh’s phone rang. Five seconds after saying hello, he braked and pulled a wild U-turn in the middle of Castro Street, phone to his ear, steering with one hand.
Edie grabbed the door handle for balance. “What’s going on?”
Tranh put his foot down. “Stabbing at the Saint Francis. Searle Lecroix’s dead.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Suspect was shot and killed by the cops. Police are giving a news conference.”
He sped up Castro, aiming for Market Street.
Edie grabbed the driver’s seat. “Now? Right now?”
“Right freaking now.”
“I’m missing it? Goddamn it.” She punched the back of Tranh’s seat. “God-shitting-damn it.”
She hauled out her phone and called the network. By the time they got to Union Square, she was still yelling at her network producer. She hung up.
“Local affiliate got the news conference. But I wasn’t there. Tranh, why didn’t you know about this?”
“Maybe because they didn’t announce it until the police spokesman walked out the door of the hotel?” he said.
Ahead, Edie saw the side entrance to the St. Francis. “Pull in. If anybody’s still around, they won’t be leaving through the front door. We’ll catch them coming out the back.”
JO CROSSED THE ECHOING LOBBY of the St. Francis and headed toward the back exit, away from the click of camera shutters and the jostling press horde and the sobbing fans and Lieutenant Dart’s smooth patter. She called and left Ferd a message, thanking him for all he’d done. She said she’d tell him the whole story when she got home. She headed through the door and turned toward the street. She didn’t think she could walk another step.
She raised her hand to flag a yellow cab. And on the sidewalk she saw Edie Wilson, her big blond hair, and her raptor’s smile.
“Doctor Beckett.”
Wilson didn’t seem to walk toward her. Perhaps it was an optical illusion caused by the monstrous headache, but Wilson seemed to glide instantly in front of her, like a demon-possessed mannequin. She raised a microphone.
“Why didn’t the police get to the hotel in time to save Searle Lecroix?” she said.
Jo fought every instinct for fight and flight. She had no reserves left. She told herself: Don’t crack.
“I’m not going to talk about it,” she said.
“Why were the police so slow to react to the threat?” The microphone jabbed nearer to her face.
“Really, I can’t talk right now. Please excuse me.”
She tried to walk away. Wilson and her cameraman blocked her path.
“Why won’t you talk to us? What about Searle Lecroix? Doesn’t he deserve an answer?”
“Please, don’t.”
“Who’s going to speak for Searle? Why didn’t the police get there in time? What did you do?”
The yellow cab stopped at the curb. The driver gaped at the scene outside his window, as if Godzilla had just appeared to snack on the cars and trucks and shrinks of San Francisco.
“Did you tell the cops to back off?” Wilson said. “Did you lead them astray?”
“Sorry, but I have to go.”
Jo blinked back tears. If she got angry, she’d blow it. She climbed in the cab and slammed the door. The cabbie peered at her in the rearview mirror, perplexed.
“Kearny and Sutter. Go,” she said.
“Is that—”
“Yeah. Let’s roll.”
The cab pulled out. Wilson shouted, “How about Gabe Quintana?”
Jo whirled to look out the back window.
Wilson’s eyes were bright. “Quintana, Doctor Beckett.”
Shit. Jo knew she’d just made a big mistake. The cab accelerated toward Union Square, taking her out of Wilson’s range. But she knew more shots would be arriving soon.
43
JO LOCKED THE FRONT DOOR BEHIND HER AND SAT DOWN ON THE stairs. The light in the hall seemed green and cracked, as if the horrors of the afternoon had dropped her inside a funhouse tiled with broken bottles. “Amazing Grace” played endlessly in her head.
And she could no longer persuade herself that she was being paranoid. Tang and Captain Bohr had convinced her otherwise. Bohr, because he had tax problems. Tang, because her parents’ business had been raided. And it was all federal. Internal Revenue Service. ATF—the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.
Air National Guard.
Gabe’s orders had been changed as a message to her. He was being ripped from his little girl and dropped into a hot war to pressure her to drop her investigation into Tasia McFarland’s death.
She took her phone from her pocket and punched a number. “Beer. I’m buying.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Tang said.
“You know Mijita, outside the ballpark? I’ll meet you there.”
The Giants were on the road, a three-game stand against the Cubs. In the plaza outside the ballpark, the bronze statue of Willie Mays shone in the sun. The sky, blue and crisp, seemed sterile. When Jo walked into Mijita, Tang was sitting against the wall, holding a Corona. Jo got a Sam Adams and joined her.
“Don’t ask me how I feel,” Tang said.
“Not planning to.”
“Because the Homicide Detail has my service weapon. To keep you from shrinking me, I’d have to beat you to death with a Mexican beer bottle, which would be messy and tiring. Besides, we’re heroes. That’s how we feel. Heroic.”
Tang tried to live inside a spiny shell, where none of her vulnerabilities could be seen, much less attacked. But the shell had fractured, and she looked ashamed.
Jo thought it was be
cause Tang had been so quick to leave Lecroix’s side, and so relieved. She hadn’t been able to deal with a dying man. She’d tossed the responsibility in Jo’s lap, and she knew it.
Tang slid a sheaf of photos across the table. “Even though I’m on desk duty, they slipped these to me. Detectives found a key in Noel Petty’s pocket. Cheap residence hotel in the Tenderloin.”
As Jo examined the photos, a creepy chill infused her. Petty’s room was wallpapered with photos of Searle Lecroix and Tasia McFarland. The Lecroix walls featured full-color pictures torn from glossy magazines. The wall of Tasia consisted of photos with eyes scratched out, horns drawn on, or other faces pasted over hers. Miss Piggy, Margaret Thatcher, and, most commonly, a mad cow.
“These were beside the bed,” Tang said.
They were photos from Bad Dogs and Bullets concerts: Searle, center stage, guitar in his hands. In the front row, nearly crushed against the barrier separating the crowd from the stage, Petty’s frowning face was clearly visible.
“Seattle and Tucson,” Tang said. “She was following him.”
“Ace Chennault mentioned an incident at the concert in Tucson.”
“Petty had a bit of money from a slip-and-fall settlement against an employer. Apparently she used the settlement to support herself as Searle’s number one groupie and stalker.”
“Did he know her? Had he met her?” Jo said.
“That’s the next phase of the investigation. We haven’t even begun to crack open her computer and phone records.”
“Was she at the concert here when Tasia died?” Jo said.
“Found a ticket on her desk. So, yes.” Tang leaned back. “But you don’t consider that dispositive, do you?”
“No. The idea that Noel Michael Petty shot Tasia is implausible.”
Tang pushed a photo toward Jo: Tasia, with her face replaced by a wild-eyed Guernsey heifer.
“She loathed Tasia,” Jo said. “But unless your colleagues uncover proof that Petty got within kissing distance of Tasia in the seconds before her death, I don’t buy it. Hatred isn’t action.”
“No. It’s motive.”
“Yes, Petty was obsessed with Lecroix. She might have had a delusional belief that she and Lecroix had a relationship. She almost certainly believed that her ‘love’ entitled her to claim him as her soul mate. But I don’t buy her as Tasia’s killer.”
