Murder on Potrero Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 1)

by Hamilton, M. L.

  “What are you saying?” demanded Claire.

  Dr. Singh opened his hands, palms up. “We lost Zoë. There was nothing we could do.”

  Claire leaned back, but she made no other noise. Jake could see her from the corner of his eyes and she just stared out the doors of the hospital without expression.

  Lifting his hands, Jake covered his face. We lost Zoë. Jake knew what those words meant, but his mind couldn’t grapple with the enormity of that statement. We lost Zoë. Lost. Such a word, so lonely a word. There was no way that word could ever mean anything positive.

  “I don’t believe she suffered in the end. She just went to sleep,” continued the doctor. “She just slept.”

  Jake clenched his fingers in his hair, anything to transfer some of the pain in his chest to another part of his body. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. He felt like he was going to explode, like he was going to come apart in pieces, but he didn’t.

  A strange buzz went off in his pocket and he jumped before he realized it was his phone. He looked up into Dr. Singh’s face and he finally drew breath. “I want to see her.”

  “Of course,” said the doctor, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll take you.”

  Jake rose. His legs held him and he started after the doctor. He realized Claire wasn’t coming and he stopped, turning to face her. “Are you coming?” He didn’t mean to be sharp with her, but nothing had any meaning at the moment, nothing made sense.

  She looked up at him, her head rotating slowly. The eyes that met his were blank. “You go. I…I can’t.”

  Jake looked down at his scuffed shoes, then turned away, following the doctor into the box-shaped room. Dr. Singh led him to one of the sliding glass doors and motioned inside. Jake stepped to the opening and stared in.

  Zoë lay in the bed, the covers pulled up to her waist. There were no tubes, no monitors, nothing on her. She looked like she was sleeping, but he could tell already that she was gone. Already she didn’t look like his wife, his Zoë.

  He crossed to her and sank into the chair beside her bed. Reaching out, he started to touch her hand, then stopped and pulled back. Closing his eyes briefly, he drew a deep breath and exhaled. His chest hurt, his stomach ached.

  Reaching out again, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. The skin beneath his fingertips was warm. “Oh God,” he moaned and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to her abdomen where their baby had been only twelve hours before. “Oh God help me.”

  Wrapping his arms around her, he held her tight, trying to etch the smell of her in his memory, the feel of her in his arms. He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly, grounding him, but he held on to Zoë, afraid that if he let go, she would vanish.

  CHAPTER 3

  A knock sounded at the door. Jake didn’t move, just stared at the television set. He didn’t even know what was on. He just needed the motion, the noise right now. The knock came again.

  “It’s open,” he called.

  He heard the hinges squeak and the door swung inward. Someone walked across the wooden floor, making the boards creak, then a hand reached out, picked up the remote, and lowered the volume on the television. Jake looked up into Sam’s brown eyes.

  Sam hooked the ottoman with his foot and pulled it in front of Jake, sinking onto it. He leaned forward and braced his arms on his thighs. “I’ve been calling you for hours now.”

  Jake glanced at the phone on the table. It had been buzzing regularly since he got home. “I don’t feel like talking.”

  “I get that,” said Sam, “but everyone is worried sick about you. Andrews and your sisters. If you don’t call Faith, she and Hope will be out here tomorrow.”

  “Call them for me and tell them I’m fine. Tell Andrews I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is…” His voice cut off. He couldn’t finish that sentence. He couldn’t think about putting Zoë in the ground.

  Sam studied him a moment. “Andrews doesn’t expect you back, Jake. Not for awhile. You need to call your sisters yourself. They’re worried about you. They want to come out now and stay for the funeral.”

  Jake flinched at the word, but he didn’t answer.

  “Talk to me, Jake. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Anger flared inside of him. It burned through the dull ache in his belly. “What the hell do you think I’m thinking? I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. Yesterday I had a wife. Today…today she’s gone. What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Sam? What do you want me to do with it?”

  Sam reached out and gripped his arm. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. Except I’m sorry, Jake. I’m so damn sorry.”

  Jake exhaled. “That doesn’t help.”

  Sam sat back. “I know. I know it doesn’t help. I don’t think anything is going to help for awhile, but you can’t sit here, listening to a blaring TV. Let me help you. Let me help you make funeral arrangements.”

  “Claire’s doing that.”

  “Without your say?”

  “What say? What am I supposed to say about it? What the hell difference does it make? I signed off to let Claire make arrangements. Planning a funeral isn’t gonna bring her back, is it? That’s all I want, Sam. That’s the only thing that will make this okay. I want Zoë back.”

  “She isn’t coming back, Jake. Zoë’s gone. You have to accept that. You have to accept it someway.”

  “Tell me how. Tell me how to go on living now that my wife is dead.” His voice choked on the word and he buried his face in his hands.

  Sam squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think it just happens, Jake. I think you’ll just start accepting it after awhile. Give it time. That’s what funerals are for – they distract us with mundane chores so that we can come to grips with the loss. You need to help Claire plan it or you’ll never forgive yourself.” He slapped Jake’s shoulder. “Let me help. Let me call people or something, tell them when the funeral will be.”

  Jake rubbed his hands down his face, staring at Sam over the tops of his fingers. “I don’t know.”

  “I get that, but you’ve got to pick a date.”

  “I can’t. They haven’t released Zoë’s body yet.”

  Sam frowned. “Why not? When will they do that?”

  Jake shrugged. “We don’t know. They’re performing an autopsy. It could be a week before we get the results. Until then, they won’t release her.”

  “Why are they doing an autopsy? I thought she died of complications from pregnancy.”

  “They want to be sure. You usually don’t see 26 year olds dying like that from an aneurism. They want to make sure the pregnancy caused it.”

  “What else could it be? I mean her father had weak vessels too, right? Didn’t you tell me it could be genetic? That would explain why Blake had a stroke so young.”

  Jake looked away. He couldn’t talk about Zoë in this clinical manner. It was still too new, too fresh.

  Sam leaned forward. “What are you going to do about Blake?”

  Jake’s eyes snapped back to his face. “What do you mean?”

  Sam ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, then scratched his forehead. “You have to tell Blake his daughter’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “He deserves to know.”

  “He’s comatose, Sam. Why the hell would I tell him something like that?”

  “Because if he’s even a little bit aware of his surroundings, it’s the right thing to do. He needs to know that his daughter passed away, Jake.”

  Jake sank back in the chair and turned his attention to the TV. On the screen a cop bent over a body on a jogging trail, pulling back a sheet to look at the face. Jake closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Neal typed the final few words into the draft and leaned forward. Pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, he read over it, then slid the cursor to the start of the third sentence and typed in a couple more lines.

  Aamani poked her head i
nside his office and gave him a scowl. He glanced up at her, but went back to typing. “It’s almost 7:30, Mr. Goldman. Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”

  He puffed out his cheeks with air and scratched the crown of his curly head. “That late, huh? I guess I can finish tomorrow.” He gave her a smile. “Go home, Aamani, you must have better things to do with your time.”

  “I’m happy to stay if you need me to, Mr. Goldman.” She stepped into the room.

  He took in her linen pants suit, coifed hair, and handbag. “You look like you’re headed on a date.”

  She dropped her eyes shyly and smiled. “So I am.”

  “Well, what are you doing here with an old man? Go home.”

  She started to turn, then hesitated. “I’ll just shut things down then.” She nodded at his computer. He knew she wanted him to go home as well. His wife was probably waiting for him.

  “Yeah, shut everything down out there. I’ll shut down in here.” He saved his file, then closed it, swiveling in his chair to look out the window. Night had fallen and the ever-persistent cloud-cover was sliding over the City. He reached for his cell phone and dialed his wife.

  She picked up on the third ring.

  “Ester, I’m just leaving now. I’ll be home about 8:30.”

  “I had dinner ready at 6:00, Neal.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I got so caught up here, I lost track of time.”

  “Of course you did. I’ll see you at 8:30.”

  He hung up and swung his chair around again. His home page had come up on the computer, showing the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle’s website. A photo of a pretty blond woman caught his attention and he leaned forward, shoving the glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

  Zoë Ryder, daughter of renowned surgeon and philanthropist Blake Harper, dies of an aneurysm.

  Neal slumped back in the chair, staring at her picture. For a moment he couldn’t formulate a coherent thought. He’d just met with Zoë not a week ago and now she was dead. Zoë Ryder – dead.

  “Aamani,” he called into the other room, “bring me Blake Harper’s file, please.”

  She poked her head back inside. “Mr. Goldman, I thought we agreed…”

  “This is important. Get it for me, please. Then you can go.”

  She disappeared.

  Neal sat forward and scrolled through the rest of the story, holding his glasses pressed to his forehead. Aamani brought the file in and set it on his blotter.

  “You all right, Mr. Goldman?”

  “Fine,” he said, shortly. Then he looked up at her. “Go on home. I’ll leave in a few minutes. I just have a call to make.”

  She nodded, then turned away from him as he opened the file.

  “Aamani,” he called when she reached the door.

  She turned and gave him a curious look.

  He held up his cell phone. “Show me how to text again.”

  She returned to his side and pulled up the texting window. “Just put the number in and type the message with the key pad here. Then press send. Do you want me to stay and do it?”

  Neal shook his head, studying the contraption. “No, I think I’ve got it. You can go.”

  She slowly walked to the door, but when he didn’t call her back, she disappeared from view. Neal riffled through the file, searching for the number he wanted, then he punched it into the phone and typed the message.

  Please call me. It’s very important. I need to talk with you in person. Neal Goldman

  He added his number and pressed send, then he slumped in the chair, staring at the file. What should he do? That one message wasn’t enough. He needed to do something more.

  He read the newspaper article again. The reporter said she died of natural causes, so no one was going to believe anything differently. Who would even listen to what he had to say? But he had to try. He had to make some effort.

  He opened a new window on the computer and looked up the San Francisco Police Department’s non-emergency number. He punched it into the cell phone and pressed the on-button. It began to ring. It rang four times, then a recording came on.

  “You’ve reached the Non-emergency line for the San Francisco Police Department. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise, you’ve reached this number after hours. The office is open Monday through Friday, 8:00 to 5:00. Please call back during regular business hours.”

  Neal held the phone pressed to his ear. He couldn’t dial 911 for this. It wasn’t an emergency. Zoë Ryder was already dead. He’d have to call back tomorrow. He disconnected the phone and sat staring at it, hoping it would ring. When it didn’t, he turned off his laptop and put the cell phone in his pocket.

  Then he picked up his briefcase and Blake Harper’s file, carrying them into the other room. He replaced the file in the drawer and walked to the outer door. His stomach hurt and he felt like he might be sick.

  The report said she died of natural causes. He should just accept that. But he couldn’t. What was natural about a 26 year old dying? He opened the outer door and stepped into the hall. Reaching for the keys in his pocket, he locked it, then walked toward the stairs and descended.

  The building was quiet, everyone else had gone home. He moved down the silent hallways and into the entrance hall, passing between the armchairs arranged in a welcoming pattern.

  He opened the door and stepped out into the cool San Francisco night, locking the door behind him again. Then he jogged down the stairs and turned up the street. Maybe the cool of the fog and a brisk walk would settle his stomach.

  He tried to whistle, but the sound failed him, so he picked up his pace, heading for Divisadero where he could catch a taxi to the BART station at the Civic Center. He heard a car start up behind him, but he didn’t remember seeing anyone on the street when he left his office.

  He dismissed it and kept walking. Alta Plaza Park was quiet and empty as he walked along it. He could make out the huddled bumps of homeless people lying on the park benches.

  He came to the corner of Washington Street and stepped off the curb. He made it halfway across the street when he heard the car accelerate behind him.

  He glanced over as the headlights blinded him, forcing him to blink behind his glasses. He took a step as if to jump out of the way, but the car careened into him, throwing him up and over the hood. He slammed into the windshield and felt it splinter beneath him. Pain exploded in his head and the air rushed out of his lungs. Then he was flung forward, the briefcase torn from his hand.

  He landed in the street with a sickening crunch of bones.

  Gasping for breath, he tried to pull himself up, but pain spasmed through his body. Looking through the spider-webbing of his broken glasses, he saw the tail-lights of the Benz speed down the road.

  * * *

  The foil covered hamburger landed on the blotter with a solid thwunk. Peyton reached for it and tore the foil back, taking a huge bite. Her mouth filled with the blessed combination of juicy meat and melted cheese. She sank back in her chair and closed her eyes in bliss.

  “That stuff’s gonna kill you one of these days. Clog your arteries to hell and gone,” said Marco, throwing all 6 foot 4 inches of well-toned man into the chair across from her.

  Peyton gave him a beaming smile and took another bite. “Admit it,” she said around a mouthful. “You’re jealous. You know you miss hamburgers and steak and oh, God, lobster dripping in butter.”

  Marco scrunched up his nose in disgust and plopped his salad on his desk. “I don’t know how you eat like that and stay as teeny tiny as you do.”

  “Fast metabolism,” she said, reaching for the milk shake he set next to her computer. “Chocolate, right?”

  “Chocolate, right,” he said with a laugh. He nodded at the computer. “What are you working on?”

  “Finishing up the report on the bum roll in the Tenderloin.”

  Marco speared a clump of lettuce and placed it in his mouth. “Hate that crap.”

  Peyton
knew he meant the paperwork. In the seven years they’d been partners, she’d done the bulk of it. She would have bristled at the chauvinistic manner in which she became responsible for pushing paper, except Marco never treated her chauvinistically. He really did hate filling out the paperwork and she was better at it. He couldn’t spell to save his life, said he was dyslexic. Of course, it did occur to her that it might be an excuse.

  Well, he usually picked up their lunches, got her things like chocolate shakes when she asked. It seemed like a more than fair trade. She polished off her hamburger and threw the foil in the garbage can just as Maria Sanchez walked up and tossed a file on her desk.

  “Heya, Marco baby,” Maria said, winking at Peyton’s partner.

  Marco gave her a lazy look. “Hey Maria, what’s shakin’, baby?”

  Peyton made a gagging sound. Marco looked like a Chippendales dancer with his shoulder-length black hair and blue eyes. Women and a lot of men threw themselves at him.

  “What’s this?” she said, tapping the file.

  “New case, VIP according to the captain. Wants you to take a look into it, but keep it discreet.” She gave Marco another wink. “Pacific Heights discreet.”

  Marco offered her a practiced smile, showing a row of perfect white teeth. Peyton rolled her eyes.

  “My hamburger is backing up on me,” she said, leaning toward the garbage can by Maria’s feet and making another retching sound.

  Maria took a few steps back and glared at her. “Just check it out, all right, and fast. Captain wants to put this one away quick.”

  “Wouldn’t want to keep a socialite waiting,” said Peyton with a yawn. “Don’t ya have anything else? Can’t you give this to Simons and Cho?”

  “They’ve got a dead lawyer,” said Maria, fixing a hand on her hip.

  “Lawyers are worse than socialites, Brooks,” said Marco, bracing his head on his hand and spearing another lettuce leaf.

  “I guess so, but this one’s dead.”

  Maria slapped a hand against her thigh. “You really want me to tell the captain you don’t want it?”