The captain motioned them to the chairs in front of her desk. “Take a seat.”
Marco and Peyton shared a look. This wasn’t good. “What’s up, Captain?” said Peyton as she lowered herself into the chair.
“Where are you on this Ryder case?”
Peyton reached for her notebook. “We talked with the attending, Dr. Singh, then met with Abe in the ME’s office. We just got back from paying a visit to the husband.”
“And?”
Peyton frowned. “And? Um…”
“Did you get anything from the husband?”
“No, he ordered us out once he figured out what we were there for.”
Marco shifted in his chair. “I took a look around the flat. Didn’t find anything suspicious, except she was on birth control pills.”
“So?”
“She was three months pregnant when she died,” offered Peyton.
“Why was she taking birth control then?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Peyton looked at her notebook. “The only thing we came up with is she didn’t want the husband to know she was pregnant.”
“Why wouldn’t she want him to know?” asked the captain, bracing her elbow on the desk and resting her head on her hand. “Unless she was messing around on him.”
Marco nodded. “Which gives us an even stronger motive.”
Peyton closed her notebook and slipped it into her pocket. “With all due respect, Captain, but why are we in here?”
The captain spread her fingers across her forehead. Her wedding ring glimmered in the light from the overhead fluorescents. “Zoë Ryder was once Zoë Harper, the daughter of a well-heeled gastrointestinal surgeon named Blake Harper.”
“Yeah, from Pacific Heights.”
“From Pacific Heights, yes. The Harpers have beaucoup bucks and a great deal of political pull. You name an election in this city for the last twenty-five years and they’ve had their hands in it. Political fund raisers, lobbyists, the mayor has them on speed dial and the governor knows them on sight. Claire Harper sits on the board of two hospitals and our own Chief ME has been to her house dozens of times.”
Peyton leaned back in the unforgiving chair. It was made of melamine and didn’t conform to the curves of the human body. “What are you saying, Captain? You want us to…” She didn’t finish. In her years on the force, she didn’t remember having a conversation like this.
The captain exhaled wearily. “Claire Harper is demanding the immediate release of her daughter’s body for cremation. Dwight is backing us up right now and holding her off, but eventually he’s going to have to cave. We need to make an arrest and quick.”
“The body is the only evidence we’ve got, Captain. We can’t release it,” said Marco.
“And our motive is pretty weak. We need more time with the husband,” added Peyton.
The captain tapped her fingers against her forehead. “You could haul him in.”
“And he’ll lawyer up,” said Marco.
“Right.” Her fingers drummed a few more times. “Okay, so up the pressure, get him to crack. He works in a bank. I’ll bet they have his accounts. Get them to block him, cut off his funds. Put a tail on him twenty-four seven. Watch everywhere he goes, everyone he sees. We’ve got a narrow window to break him and that window is closing fast.”
“Done,” said Peyton, pushing herself to her feet.
The captain lowered her arm. “Brooks, get me a confession before Claire Harper puts in a call to the mayor.”
Peyton hesitated and looked back. “You’ve got it.”
“Dead socialites and dead lawyers. What the hell? Do I need this, no I do not.”
Peyton didn’t respond. She knew the captain didn’t expect one, so she followed Marco out the door.
CHAPTER 5
Jake picked up his tablet and Zoë’s journal, placing them in his briefcase and snapping it shut. He hadn’t been able to make himself read any more last night, but he intended to spend his lunch hour immersing himself in her voice, her thoughts – anything just to keep a small part of her with him.
Shrugging into his suit jacket, he reached for the keys in the bowl and glanced over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door. Claire wanted him to go through Zoë’s clothes and pick out something for her memorial service. He wasn’t sure why they were having a memorial service when Claire intended to have her cremated, but he just didn’t feel like arguing right now. He dreaded going through Zoë’s things, but he knew he would have to do it sometime.
Scrubbing a hand across his face, he realized he’d forgotten to shave. Not that he really gave a damn. Andrews probably wouldn’t care either. He’d likely be surprised Jake was coming in so soon. God, he needed some coffee. Not a night went by that he didn’t have the same dream – riding in the ambulance, red lights flashing across Zoë’s pale face, the siren screaming in his head.
He bent down and picked up the briefcase, reaching for the doorknob. He slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him and locking it as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to see Mrs. Parker or anyone else in the building.
Hurrying down the stairs, he crossed the entrance hall and pulled open the outer door, descending into the street. He kept his head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. A moment of panic speared through him as he realized he’d have to make polite conversation, pretend he gave a damn about people’s financial needs.
He set a brisk pace toward the bus stop, but when he came to it, he continued on past and jogged across the street. The coffee shop on the corner beckoned him. He could have gone to Zoë’s coffee shop, but he couldn’t face her co-workers yet. A few of them had called and one of them brought him some scones the day after she died. They wanted details on the funeral, but he didn’t have anything to share.
Squeezing past an elderly man, he entered the coffee house and moved to the back of the line. It was crowded – people sitting in armchairs and sipping from paper cups. A few had laptops open on tables and one middle aged man was reading a newspaper.
Jake kept his head down and studied the lines of his briefcase, thinking about Zoë’s journal. Why didn’t he know she kept a journal? He’d never seen her write in it, never seen her take it out before. It made him question what else he didn’t know about her. How the hell could you live with a woman for more than four years and not know little details like she kept her thoughts in writing beneath your bed, or bigger yet, she was three months pregnant with your child?
He moved forward in the line automatically, hardly registering the other patrons. He could hear the baristas calling drinks out loud, but he paid them only passing attention. Why had Zoë kept the pregnancy from him? How had she gotten that drug in her system? He knew what the cops thought, but he had to believe it was accidental. When he got a chance, he’d have to look up warfarin and see what it did.
He moved forward again.
“What’ll you have, bub?” said a voice behind the counter.
Jake looked up, blinking in surprise. The barista had huge holes in his ears, stretched by the metal gauges he’d placed there, and a piercing between his lower lip and chin. It looked like a stainless steel bar. His hair was a brilliant green at the tips and stood on end.
“What’ll you have?” he repeated, pointing at the menu hanging behind the cash register. His arm was covered in tattoos.
A dose of hepatitis C, Jake thought uncharitably, then glanced at the menu. For some reason, his brain wouldn’t process the complicated names. “Coffee,” he said.
The barista quirked an eyebrow. That was pierced too with another steel rod. In fact, only one half of his brow lifted. “No kidding.”
Jake closed his eyes for patience, then set the briefcase by his feet. “Just plain black coffee. You’ve got that, right?”
The barista straightened. “Oh, you’re serious. Yeah, plain black coffee it is.” He turned around and reached for a cup on the counter behind him, pouring coffee from a traditional pot
into it. He slapped a top on it and slid it across the counter to Jake.
Jake pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and grabbed his debit card, swiping it across the machine. Reaching for the coffee, he took a careful sip. The heat and the bitter flavor made him suck in a breath of steam.
“Declined,” said the barista.
Jake lowered the cup. “What?”
“Your card. Declined.”
Jake swiped the card again. “Maybe it didn’t read right.”
The barista gave him a bored look. The machine made a beep and the young man looked down at the cash register. “Declined.”
Jake placed the coffee on the counter and glanced over his shoulder at the people waiting in line. The woman behind him gave him a sharp look. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, turning back around. “It can’t be declined.”
“It says declined, bub. You got another card?”
Jake opened his wallet and reached for a twenty dollar bill, sliding it across the counter. “My card can’t be declined.”
“Whatever you say, bub.” The barista pressed a few buttons on the cash register and the drawer sprung open. He stuffed the bill inside and reached for change, sliding it across the counter to Jake.
Jake took the money, putting it in his wallet. “Why does it say it’s declined?”
The barista gave him a disgusted look. “It don’t, but obviously, you ain’t got no money, bub.”
“That can’t be. There has to be around a thousand in there.”
“Not my problem, bub. Next?”
Jake shoved the wallet into his pocket as the woman behind him pressed her way to the counter. He bent and grabbed the briefcase, stepping out of the woman’s way. Reaching over her shoulder, he snagged his coffee. She gave him an annoyed look before turning around and placing her order. Jake wended his way through the crowd and out the door, stopping to take a breath as the cool morning fog circled around him.
Declined? How could that be? He hadn’t even been paying for food lately, since neighbors kept bringing him dishes. He started walking toward the next bus stop a few blocks away. Had Zoë made a purchase that he didn’t know about? What would she have bought that drained their checking account?
He heard the hiss of the bus as it pulled up to the stop. Glancing up, he began jogging to catch it. He barely made it to the stairs before the bus driver pushed the handle to close the doors. Climbing, he juggled the briefcase and the coffee as he reached for his pass and pressed it to the reader.
The bus driver nodded him back toward the seats and he grabbed the first one on the aisle, sliding into it and settling the briefcase by his feet. Reaching into his back pocket, he grabbed his wallet and using the side of his hand, slid the debit card free. Turning it over, he studied the magnetic strip. It didn’t look damaged, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t demagnetized.
The bus bumped over a rut in the road and he grabbed the bar on the headrest to steady himself. Replacing the card, he put his wallet in his pocket and settled back in the seat, taking another sip of the coffee. He shouldn’t have come to work today. This was a bad idea. The debit card not working was a sign. It was too soon, he was too raw to get back into the swing of things. He’d check in with Andrews and then leave. There was no way he could face talking with people today.
By the time the bus pulled up at the Market stop, he had calmed himself a bit. He rose with the other passengers and exited. The cool breeze blowing off the bay actually felt good as he walked toward the bank.
Pausing at the entrance, he drew a deep breath, his hand tightening around the handle on the briefcase. Just go inside, he told himself, it’ll get easier from there. He walked to the glass doors and followed a young woman into the foyer. Two ATM machines blinked advertisements from the wall on his left. Directly in front of him were the inner doors to the bank. He could see people already waiting in line to speak with a teller.
The young woman veered off and went to the ATM. Jake walked to the inner door and pushed it open, stepping into the bank. He immediately turned right and set the coffee and his bank keys on his desk, then walked beyond it to the credenza beneath the plate-glass windows, which looked out over Market.
He slid back the door on the credenza and settled the briefcase on the bottom shelf, below the neat stacks of fliers for various products the bank offered. The credenza was between his desk and the one to the immediate right of him, but since the financial crisis, the bank had cut back to one loan officer and he was it. He had use of both desks and the credenza without complaint.
Sliding the door shut again, he returned to his desk. He hadn’t even made it to his chair when he stopped short. He’d forgotten about the picture of Zoë that he kept on the right-hand corner. He could see her smile, the line of her cheek, the way her blond hair framed her face. He felt his heart pick up speed, his chest constrict. He swallowed hard, fighting for composure. He didn’t want to break in here. Not now, not in this place.
“Jake,” came Sam’s voice, snapping his attention.
Jake tore his gaze from Zoë’s picture and stared at his friend. Sam’s eyes moved from Jake to the photo and back again. Without missing a beat, he picked up Zoë’s picture and circled around the desk, pulling open a drawer and placing it inside. He shut the drawer and moved toward Jake.
“One thing at a time, okay?”
“I have her pictures all over the house and I haven’t taken them down. I spend hours staring at them.”
Sam grasped his shoulder, his fingers digging in enough to ground Jake. “Yeah, but this is different. Here you have to pretend.”
Jake focused on his friend’s face and nodded. “It’s too soon. I shouldn’t have come back.”
Sam started to respond, but the bank manager, Evan Andrews, appeared behind him, coming toward Jake at a rapid clip. Jake turned toward him as Andrews came to a stop.
“Jake, I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I know, sir, but I thought maybe it was time I come back.” He glanced around at the customers. “I’m not sure it was a good idea, though.”
Andrews shifted his attention to Sam. “Would you give us a moment, Sam?”
Sam backed up a few steps. “Sure.” He moved toward the teller line, glancing over his shoulder at Jake.
Jake shrugged at him, then turned to his boss. “I know this isn’t professional and I know you’re short staffed since I’m the only loan officer, but I don’t think I’m ready yet. It’s only been a week and…”
“Look, Jake,” interrupted Andrews. He was about Jake’s height with a bald crown and a circle of close cropped grey hair marking a line from his ears to the back of his head. He had deep-set, watery blue eyes and a beak of a nose. “You’ve been a good employee for the last three years. I have no complaints.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that you…”
“You’ve got to understand – it’s an image thing, Jake. It’s hard enough to project a positive image as a banker, but any little whiff of scandal and the media vultures would be on us like white on rice.”
Jake rubbed a hand over his face, feeling again the stubble on his jaw. “What? I don’t think I understand what you’re saying.”
“Don’t make me spell it out, Jake. I’m trying to avoid a scene.”
“What scene? I don’t even understand what you’re saying.”
Andrews looked over his shoulder. A security guard had moved into the space between the door and the teller line. Jake’s attention shifted to him.
“When this all blows over, I’ll be happy to write you a recommendation. You’ve been one of our best loan officers. No doubts about your numbers.”
Jake’s eyes snapped to his face. “You’re firing me?”
Andrews blew out his breath. “The police said…”
“The police have been here?”
People in line turned around at the sound of his voice and Jake realized he was yelling.
Andrews held up his hands, motioning Jake to
keep his voice down. “I don’t want a scene. Neither do you.”
“Are you firing me?”
“Jake, image is everything in business and…”
“Answer me!”
Andrews took a step back. “Corporate policy doesn’t allow for a suspect in a criminal case to represent the bank.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Jake shouted, taking a step forward.
Andrews’ hands came up again and the guard moved closer. “No scene, Jake, okay? You don’t need any more trouble right now.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re firing me because some idiot cops think I’m a suspect! I swear I’ll sue this bank. I’ll sue the police department. This is defamation of character. This is outrageous!”
A few people broke away from the line and hurried toward the doors. Andrews caught the motion from the corner of his eyes before he looked back at Jake.
“I need you to leave now, Jake. Please, just leave. You’re scaring customers away.”
Jake found himself shaking with rage. “You can’t do this to me. Mr. Andrews, please. This is ridiculous.”
The guard moved beyond Andrews and reached for Jake. He stumbled back, but the guard grabbed his arm.
“I didn’t want it to be like this, Jake. I really didn’t want it to be like this.” He held out his hand. “I need your keys.”
Jake’s eyes involuntarily went to the blotter on his desk where he’d laid the keys when he came in. Andrews’ gaze followed it and he moved over to snag them up.
“Come on,” said the security guard, tightening his grip.
“Let go of me!” Jake tried to break his hold, but the guard pulled him toward the glass doors. “God damn it, let go of me!”
The guard didn’t even speak and Andrews moved back as if he was afraid Jake might contaminate him.
“Okay, okay,” said Jake, bracing his feet on the carpet. “I’ll leave. Just let me get my things. Just let me get my things!” He frantically looked over his shoulder at his boss, but Andrews had pulled out his cell phone and was calling someone. Jake had a suspicion he knew who it was.
Murder on Potrero Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 1) Page 8
