Brady was a first-class interrogator. It was going to be a pleasure to watch him question the man who was quite possibly the last person to see Faye Farmer alive.
Chapter 40
KENNEDY PUT HIS BlackBerry on the table and said to Brady, “Last night. Well, it started in the afternoon. We had a party. Me and Faye. A bunch of our friends came over. Different people at different times drifted in and out.”
He spoke haltingly. Was he remembering the event? Had he been coached? Or was he in shock? Brady asked for the names of his friends and Kennedy listed six ballplayers and eight women, including Faye Farmer.
“What was the occasion?” Brady asked.
“No occasion. Just hanging out. Drinking. Watching videos of old games. And then Faye got worked up about nothing. She’d do that if she wasn’t getting enough attention. Or if I was getting too much. I told her to chill, and she told me to eff myself.”
His cheek muscles twitched. His hands clenched on the table, as if he were having a bad dream or an angry thought.
“You’re saying you fought,” Brady said.
“I ran after her,” said Kennedy, “but she drove off. The next thing I know, it’s morning and a friend is calling to say, ‘Turn on the TV.’”
Kennedy shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.
Brady said, “Which was it this time? She didn’t get enough attention? Or you got too much?”
“There was an extra girl. Friend of one of the other girls. She was showing a little too much skin. Kept flouncing around me. Touched me a few times.”
Kennedy named the girl and the girl’s friend, and then Brady asked, “Did you see or speak to Faye after she left your house?”
“No. I didn’t call her. I was still pissed that she went all diva in front of my guys. If only I’d stopped her. Taken her for a walk or a smoke or something. What the hell am I supposed to do with myself now? We were supposed to get married.”
Conklin asked Kennedy what time Faye left the party, and Kennedy said he didn’t know.
“It was late,” he said. “I’d had a few. Now I gotta live with the fact that we had a fight and I never saw her again. Christ. We were in love. We were really in love.”
Tears fell from Kennedy’s eyes. He used his forearm to dry his face. Fenn put a hand on his back, said, “Take it easy, Jeff.”
Brady said, “Mr. Kennedy, do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt your fiancée?”
“You cannot know what people think about people they see on TV,” said Kennedy. “People are crazy. They stalk celebrities. Sometimes they shoot them. But do I know any specific person who hated Faye enough to kill her? No. And now I have a couple of questions for you.”
I looked up from my notepad. Kennedy had his massive forearms on the table and was leaning in, looking menacing. “Where is Faye’s body? How could someone have stolen her out of the ME’s office? How are you going to find her killer if you don’t have her body?”
“Forensics is processing her car,” I said. “Do you own a gun, Mr. Kennedy?”
“Hell, no. Are you seriously asking me that?”
I said, “Does the name Tracey Pendleton mean anything to you?”
“Who?”
I repeated the security guard’s name. Kennedy grunted, “Never heard of him.” Then he shot up from his seat and, crying, stumbled out of the conference room.
Fenn was saying, “He’s understandably upset.”
Kennedy seemed appropriately devastated and clueless. But I wasn’t buying that his breakdown meant that he was innocent. He had graduated from Stanford with honors. He was 230 pounds of muscle and he’d had a fight with his girlfriend.
Kennedy was a smart jock with a cultivated violent streak.
That could be a lethal combination.
Chapter 41
I OPENED THE front door to our apartment at just about 8:00 p.m. I was desperate to hold our baby, have a bath, a glass of wine, and a bowl of pasta with red sauce. I wanted to get out of my clothes and hug my husband and sleep until morning, not necessarily all at the same time.
I called out, “Helloooo. Sergeant Mommy is home.”
Martha careened around the corner, jumped up against me, and would’ve knocked me down but for my baby weight keeping me anchored.
Girly laughter came from the living room.
What was this?
I followed Martha around the bend and saw that the Women’s Murder Club was loosely arrayed around the room. Claire danced Julie on her thighs and held her up for me to see. Couldn’t help but notice that the baby had a pink gift bow stuck to the top of her head.
“Heyyy,” Claire said. “Look who I’ve got.”
“Heyyy,” I said back. “Give her to me.”
I grinned at my baby and at the same time noted Claire’s slurred greeting and lazy laughter, the open bottles of wine and empty glasses on the coffee table. A party had started without me.
Joe was on his feet and coming toward me with open arms. He kissed me and asked, “What can I get you?”
I tipped my chin toward Claire, said, “I want what she’s having.”
Yuki’s laughter is one of the most adorable sounds I’ve ever heard. If laughter were a flower, Yuki’s laugh would have to be called merry bells.
Julie was laughing, too, as Claire flew her over to me. I said, “Hang on a sec.”
I removed my jacket and gun, then took Julie into my arms. And still she didn’t cry.
“Aren’t you the little party girl?” I said.
I sat down, kicked off my shoes, and smooched my pretty baby as Cindy brought over cheese and crackers and Joe put a glass of Merlot on the lamp table.
“So,” Cindy said, sitting so close to me on the sofa she was almost in my lap. “How was your first day back at work?”
My reporter girlfriend was interviewing me. We all just cracked up, Cindy saying, “What? What?”
I said, “It was a long twelve hours.”
“We brought presents,” said Yuki.
Gifts were on the coffee table and Joe took Julie so that I could open the sixteen-flavor margarita kit from Yuki, a stack of Monster Proof pajamas from Cindy, and a pair of Giants tickets from Claire. Front-row seats!
My postpartum party was great, but after I slugged down my wine, I began to fade.
Claire clapped her hands and said, “Time to go, girlfriends. Lindsay, we’re making Morales an honorary member of the club, summer pass only. Come with us to Susie’s?”
“Me? Thanks, but I’m a dead mom walking.”
Everyone laughed and I hugged them good-bye at the door, shouting after them, “Claire, let Cindy drive.” I took Julie back from Joe, and what do you know? As soon as the girls were gone, Party Girl started to cry.
“Aww, sweetie.”
I sank into Joe’s armchair and patted Julie’s back as Joe cooked dinner and then put the baby to bed.
He kissed me, sweaty as I was, and he said, “Why don’t you hit the rain box?”
When I returned from my shower smelling like lavender, wearing blue pj’s, barefoot, and with my hair up in a ponytail, linguine marinara was on the table and Louie Armstrong was on the Bose.
“Tell me about your day,” said my wonderful Joe.
Chapter 42
AFTER THE MEETING at Fenn & Tarbox, Rich Conklin had stood on Battery Street with Brady and Lindsay, their collars up against a misty rain.
Brady had said what they’d all been thinking—that if Kennedy had motive and a gun, he could have gotten into the car with Faye Farmer, shot her, then walked home. He would never have been missed at his free-floating party.
If he had a motive. If he had a gun.
They still had no idea how Faye Farmer’s body had left the morgue and if the theft had anything to do with her murder.
The three had parted, driving away in separate cars.
There was almost no traffic downtown, and Rich drove from the Embarcadero Center through North Beach and Pacific Heig
hts without catching a single light. From the Richmond he crossed the Panhandle on his way to the apartment he shared with Cindy on Kirkham.
As he drove, he thought about Jeff Kennedy’s story about his last fight with Faye Farmer, and understood how frustrated the man had been with the woman he loved.
He and Cindy had also been fighting. He said she was inconsiderate. She said that he was. He thought she’d changed. She shrugged, said, “Maybe I have.”
He wanted comfort and affection when he came home. And maybe some good sex once in a while.
She said, “I’m busy,” and “I’m tired.”
Rich grabbed his cell from the passenger seat, speed-dialed Cindy, and when she didn’t answer their home phone, he called her cell.
“It’s me,” he said when she answered. “Where are you?”
He could hear background noise, dishes clattering, and the muffled roar of shouted conversation.
“Susie’s,” she said.
Susie’s. Where the “girls” meet to eat. Also blow off steam, commiserate, and do some problem solving, too. Maybe they could solve his problem.
He said to Cindy, “We’ve got a bad connection,” then clicked off.
He reversed his direction, headed east on Oak to Van Ness, and then turned onto Broadway. He was steaming the entire time. Cindy hadn’t told him she was going out. He’d had a day he would’ve liked to have told her about. He would have enjoyed seeing her face across the dinner table.
Ten minutes after he hung up with Cindy, Rich parked the car on Sansome and walked a couple of blocks to the corner of Jackson. The light coming through the windows of Susie’s brightened the sidewalk and made him think of food.
He pushed open the front door and walked into the Caribbean-style café and its welcoming ambience—steel drums, the pungent smell of spicy food, and the good feel of conversation bouncing off the walls.
The hostess had her back to him and he didn’t wait for her to turn around. He broke through the bar crowd in the front room, made his way along the narrow passageway, and walked past the pickup window, where he sidestepped a waitress with a loaded tray.
When he got to the back room, he saw Cindy, Claire, and Yuki at their favorite booth. Cindy’s blond hair was curled tight from the rain. It looked like a halo around her sweet face.
He said, “What’s today’s special?”
Cindy looked up and he kissed her.
She didn’t look happy to see him.
Chapter 43
CINDY COULDN’T BELIEVE that Richie had appeared without warning and was looming over her. He leaned down and kissed her and Cindy accepted his kiss, but she was pissed, giving him the eye that clearly told him so.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Hey, Claire. Yuki. I haven’t eaten. Cindy, I’m starving. What’s good here?”
Rich swung into the banquette, squeezed in next to Cindy.
“The pulled pork is tasty,” Yuki said.
“This seat is taken,” Cindy said, pointing to the half-full beer mug at Rich’s right hand.
“Not a problem.”
Rich signaled to the waitress, asked her for a chair, then ordered an Anchor Steam and pulled pork with plantains.
Claire said, “Richie, you’re looking pale, buddy. You sure you’re okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” he said. “Here’s the thing, Claire. And I really want you to be honest. Cindy and I are engaged. I proposed, she said yes, jumped into my arms. We moved in together and now, a year later, no wedding date. She says, ‘What’s the rush?’”
Cindy said, “Rich. Not here.”
“I’m taking this rare opportunity,” he said, “to get advice from our friends. They know us. Let me talk, Cindy.”
“You’re being ridiculous and you’re embarrassing me. But I guess you know that.”
“When I actually see her,” Rich said to Claire and Yuki, as if Cindy hadn’t spoken, “I want to cook dinner with her, watch a movie. But she says, ‘Not now, hon, I’m writing.’ She writes in her head, you understand,” Rich went on. “Then, when she starts typing, she might as well be in an under-ground bunker.”
The waitress put Richie’s beer down on the table, then dragged a chair to the head of the booth. She sat in it and said to Rich, “Hi—I’m Lorraine.”
“I’m Rich Conklin. Cindy’s fiancé. Nice to meet you.”
“We just ran out of the pork,” Lorraine said. “Want to try the pulled chicken?”
“Okay. Fine.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Yuki said, “We’re all obsessed with our careers, Richie. Women have to work harder—”
“Do you talk to Brady?” Rich asked Yuki.
“Talk to him? Sure.”
“You go out to dinner with him?”
“Uh-huh. Couple times a week.”
Cindy looked up as Mackie Morales came back from the ladies’ room. She looked cute, seemed smart, had been working in the squad room for the last couple of months. Richie thought she was a good assistant. Very helpful.
Mackie tapped Rich on the shoulder, said, “I believe you’re in my seat, Inspector.”
Rich jumped up and said, “Morales. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Don’t let me interrupt.”
Morales took the chair at the head of the table and sipped from her mug. Cindy thought that Rich didn’t look so pale anymore. In fact, his ears were red.
“So I feel very bad,” Rich continued. “Cindy won’t talk about what’s bothering her. This is a bad situation for both of us. What do you think we should do?”
Cindy felt like something had exploded between her ears. She couldn’t take it for another second. It was outrageous. He was outrageous.
“Rich, are you high?” she shouted. “I make breakfast for you every morning. I do your laundry. I have to work all hours. You do, too. You do the same thing as I do.”
“I need more than breakfast,” he said. “I need devotion.”
“Oops,” said Morales. “Well, my babysitter likes to go home about now. Thanks, everyone,” she said, putting a twenty on the table and grabbing her purse from the floor. “This was fun.”
“Yeah, me, too,” said Yuki. “Well, I don’t have a babysitter, but I’ve got a conference call. Play nice, you two.”
She kissed Claire’s cheek, did the same but more awkwardly with Cindy, who had gone stiff and was staring at Richie as if her eyes were the business end of double-barreled shotgun.
“I’m staying right here,” said Claire. “Let’s talk it out with Mama.”
Chapter 44
CINDY SAID, “NO offense, Claire, but I don’t want to talk this out with anyone. Not you, not Dr. Freud, not anyone. This is personal between Rich and me.”
Claire said, “Dr. Freud?”
“Rich wants us to go into therapy, and I’m not going. I refuse, and I’ve tried to explain it to you, Rich. I don’t have a mental disorder. Newspapers are folding worldwide. Writers are creating free content on blogs and are competing for the chance to work for no pay at all.
“I have to nail down my niche so that when the music stops, I have a chair.”
“I’m not getting enough out of this relationship,” Rich said. “You have to decide what’s more important to you—”
Cindy bolted from the booth, pushed past the tables in the center of the room, threaded her way through the passageway, and went out into the bar. There was a limbo competition in progress and a skinny woman in hot pink was shimmying under the bamboo pole.
Cindy bumped into the stick and it clattered to the ground, which was followed by loud and very vocal disapproval from the crowd.
Cindy said, “Sorry,” and kept going through the doorway, into the misty night. She began running up the street to where she had parked her car, on Jackson and Battery.
Rich was calling her name, but she didn’t stop. She had her key fob in hand, and when she was within range, she disarmed the car alarm.
/> Rich was saying, “Stop running, Cindy. Just stop.”
When she got to the car, it chirped as the alarm reset itself. What the hell? She pressed the button and the car chirped again, then again.
Rich had a duplicate of her fob. Every time she turned off the alarm, he turned it on again. This was insane.
She spun around to confront him.
“Leave me alone, Rich.”
“First we talk.”
“Do not go cop on me.”
He smiled.
She said, “And do not try to humor me, either.”
“Answer me this, Cindy. When was the last time you kissed me like you meant it?”
Everything seemed to stop but the rain.
Chapter 45
CINDY STARED AT Rich as he rested his butt against the left front fender of her car, crossed his arms over his chest. He looked seriously angry. She was pretty mad herself. When was the last time she’d kissed him with feeling?
He said, “You’re ambitious to a fault.”
“Oh, really?”
“Other women would be planning a wedding. They’d be designing their wedding dress and so forth. Picking out a honeymoon spot. You don’t want to set a date. You make a little sound in your throat when you see a baby.”
“What sound, Rich? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s like you’re disgusted.”
Cindy felt the sting of truth. Tears welled up and spilled over. Rich came to her and tried to put his arms around her, but she shook him off, said, “Don’t touch me. Please don’t.”
“Let’s go home,” he said. “I’ll drive your car. I’ll get a ride in the morning.”
The truth was opening her up, but the price of the truth was the loss of Richie.
“Rich. I’m sorry that I can’t be … I’m sorry that I’m not like other women. But I’m not. I didn’t want to face it, but you’re completely right. I’ve been keeping walls up because I knew that if I admitted that we want different things, this would be over.”
She had been wearing Rich’s mother’s ring for almost a year. She pulled at it until it came off, and then she pushed it at Richie. He grunted as if he’d been punched in the belly. But he took the ring, closed his hand around it, then put it into his pocket.
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