Walking past the coroner’s van and the crime lab’s van, he saw a vintage Porsche, fire-engine red. Deputy coroner Al Fink was on the scene. As Hastings raised the hood of his parka, he saw Canelli, who was turned away. Canelli was wearing a short red poplin windbreaker, a black-and-orange Giants baseball cap, shapeless corduroy slacks, and mud-caked running shoes. If past performance was any guide, Canelli had neglected to bring a raincoat. If the rain worsened, Canelli would get soaked.
As Hastings drew closer, a uniformed patrolman nodded and straightened his stance, acknowledging the presence of a superior officer. Seeing the patrolman’s reaction, Canelli turned.
“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Just get here?” His smile was cheerful.
“That’s right.” Hastings nodded to the patrolman, whose name he’d forgotten. As Hastings stood still, surveying the scene, Canelli came to stand beside him. It was part of an established routine, a protocol. Since death in other than ordinary circumstances was the category, code nine ten, the men from Homicide were in charge. Therefore, it was accepted that when Hastings arrived on the scene, he would be briefed by his subordinate from Homicide. During their conversation, no one would interrupt them, with the possible exception of the deputy coroner, whose rank equaled the officer in charge.
“So what’s it look like?” Hastings spoke quietly, deferring to the dominion of death that touched them all.
“Well,” Canelli said heavily, “the plain truth is, we haven’t made a whole hell of a lot of progress, Lieutenant. Partly it’s the layout. We can’t see much the way she’s lying without we screw up evidence. And we can’t move her until everything’s set. I guess you know how the squeal came in.”
“Anonymous.”
Canelli nodded. “Right. About three hours ago, give or take. The lab guys’ve been here for about an hour.”
“How’d they handle it?” Asking the question, Hastings looked beyond Canelli, studying the crime scene. Clear plastic sheeting covered perhaps twenty-five feet of the road, ending at the yellow tapes strung across the road. A large piece of white-painted plywood stenciled SFPD had been placed on the sheeting opposite the body. Looking inquiringly at Hastings, Al Fink stood on the plywood, his black satchel beside him. Hastings’s nod signified greeting but granted no permission to proceed. First Canelli must answer the question.
“They took maybe a hundred pictures, flash and Polaroid, all angles, the usual sequence on a deal like this. Then they took maybe eight square feet of plaster castings, all keyed and everything. They took up the castings about fifteen minutes ago. So then—” Canelli sighed heavily. “So then, after it was all signed off, and everything, I went out on the plywood, and pushed back the branches, and took a look. She’s absolutely nude, not a stitch. It seems like she was strangled, that’s pretty clear. I’d say she was maybe thirty, well built—very well built, matter of fact. She looks to be—you know, well nourished and everything. Blonde. A real blonde, if you know what I mean.” Canelli ventured a smile.
“Nothing at the scene? Weapons? Anything?”
Regretfully Canelli shook his head. “As far as I can see, Lieutenant, there isn’t a goddamn thing except twigs and dead leaves and a couple of candy wrappers on the ground. And I looked, too. I really looked. But as far as I can see, all we’ve got is a good-looking naked lady stuffed in a bunch of bushes. Except for some broken branches, that’s it.” Canelli shrugged apologetically.
“So she was dumped, probably.”
“That’s what I’d say. Someone could’ve driven up, dumped her out, taken off. There’re tire tracks, probably, in the dirt. And footprints, too, probably. Except that the first unit on the scene drove past three times before they saw her. And then they had to walk to where the perpetrator did, probably, to get a look at her. So I don’t know how lucky we’ll get on the physical evidence.” Canelli sighed again. “It’s the same old story. Nobody starts worrying about evidence until it’s too late.”
“Okay—” Hastings looked once more at Fink, this time nodding encouragement. “I’ll take a look, then we’ll get her out of there, so Fink can make his examination. Right?”
Canelli nodded agreement. “Right.”
Walking carefully over the plastic sheeting to the plywood, Hastings looked at the dirt beneath the plastic as he walked. Yes, the moist dirt had taken the imprints of tires and shoes.
“Hello, Frank.”
“Hello, Al.” As the two men shook hands, Fink gingerly stepped off the plywood.
“Been here long?” Hastings asked.
“Twenty minutes, maybe. I can’t work on her in those bushes.”
“I know—” Conscious of a bone-deep reluctance that never eased, the worst part of the job, Hastings turned toward the tangle of brambles that concealed all but a patchwork of white flesh: arms, legs, and torso. Using both hands, he drew back two large branches. She lay on her side, feet toward the road. Her face was jammed against the base of a small, low-growing tree. Her hair was dark blond and covered most of her face. A scattering of dead leaves and debris was sprinkled across the body, as if the earth were already claiming her. Because she’d been dead for hours, the bodily fluids had settled, flattening the body at the bottom, another claim of nature upon the flesh of the dead. Yet, even though the muscles no longer functioned, the lines of the body were still exciting. As Canelli had said, a good-looking naked lady. And, yes, she’d probably been strangled. Through a parting of the hair, bruises on her throat were clearly visible. Her mouth was open wide, as if she were still gasping for breath.
Hastings released the branches, stepped to the edge of the plywood, and parted a different set of branches for a better look at her face. Yes, beneath the sheer spread of blond hair he could see the curve of her cheek and forehead.
About to release the branches and step back, he hesitated. To look into the victim’s dead eyes, forever stilled, was the worst chore of all. Yet, unaccountably, he was shifting his grip on one of the branches, for a fresh grip. If he arched his body forward and to the left, he could see—
Meredith’s face.
Her eyes empty, her tongue bulging.
A face made grotesque in death, an obscenity.
But Meredith’s face, once so beautiful. Even as a little girl, Kevin’s little sister, always so beautiful.
Lurching, he stepped quickly forward, regaining his balance—saving himself from crashing through the thick-growing branches to lie beside Meredith.
12:45 P.M. Granville took a fresh grip on the rope that he’d hooked around Chum’s neck, to hold Chum back. Whenever anything unusual happened, even joggers going by, Chum wanted to investigate, join right in. Chum was like that, always so friendly, ready for anything. Sometimes Granville tried to remember how his life had been before he’d found Chum, just a tiny little puppy, soft and furry, that someone had let go in the park so long ago.
When he’d told Tim Welch about the dead, naked lady, Tim had warned him not to go too close to whoever came to look at the dead lady. Tim hadn’t told him why, he’d just told him what to do. And he knew, without being told, that if he let Chum go down among all the cars and the men with faces so serious, and the yellow streamers, then when he called Chum, they would follow Chum, and they’d find him.
Had he ever seen someone dead before?
Animals, yes. The park was filled with animals. Wild animals. And animals killed each other. Sometimes he heard them cry, at night. Horrible cries. They were death cries, Tim Welch had said. The last sounds they ever made. So sad. So terrible, when it happened.
12:47 P.M. Mouth open, eyes wide, voice awed, Canelli said, “She was a friend of yours, Lieutenant? A friend?”
“I grew up with her. Christ—” Hastings shook his head. “Christ, I saw her two days ago. We had lunch together.”
“Oh, Jeez—” Deeply shocked, Canelli spread his hands wide, palms up. It was a gesture of helpless compassion. “Jeez, this is terrible, Lieutenant. Just terrible.”
Without replying,
Hastings turned back to face the murder scene. Fink was gesturing to the two coroner’s assistants, standing by with a stretcher. Both men wore identical hooded dark-blue foul-weather gear, departmental issue, and their apathetic resentment was apparent in their stance. Their job was unpleasant enough, their body language projected, without the added inconvenience of the rain, now worsening.
Standard procedure, Hastings knew, would be followed. The coroner’s men would bring the body out of the brush. If rigor permitted, they would straighten her out, so that she lay on her side, on the stretcher. Fink would make his preliminary examination. To try to establish the time of death, it was essential that Fink take her temperature. Because it was the body of a woman who had been beautiful, remarks would be made. It was routine that remarks would be made.
Turning away, he spoke to Canelli: “Tell them to keep their goddamn mouths shut. Do you understand?”
“Yessir,” Canelli answered. “I understand.”
2:00 P.M. A glance at Friedman’s face as he entered Hastings’s office and sank into the visitor’s chair told Hastings that Friedman had heard the news.
“This Golden Gate Park thing—” Friedman gestured: an uncharacteristically tentative lifting of his thick hand. “Is she the one you were telling me about, day before yesterday? The one that was abused when she was a child?”
“That’s right.” As he spoke, Hastings stared at the file folder lying on his desk. He’d just printed “Meredith Powell” on the folder’s tab. Technically, it could be the wrong name, since she’d been married. So he might not even know her legal name.
By now her body would be in the morgue, on a stainless-steel table. Because Fink knew of her connection with Hastings, and because Fink knew that time could be crucial in a homicide investigation, he would give the autopsy top priority. Already Fink could be at work—slicing her up the middle, probably opening her throat, certainly taking off the top of her skull to check for substance abuse.
“Maybe you shouldn’t take it,” Friedman said, speaking quietly. “Maybe you should let me have the case. Give yourself a break.”
“No—” Hastings shook his head. “No, it’s okay.”
“Stubborn, eh?”
Hastings shrugged. Friedman let a final beat pass, then spoke briskly. “Okay. So what’ve we got? Anything?”
“Nothing. I’ve got her phone number, but that’s about it. It’s unlisted, so the phone company is calling back, with the address. I don’t even know her married name. She told me, but I can’t remember. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”
“You knew she was in trouble.”
“She was in a relationship with a guy who scared her. She wanted to get out of it. She said he—”
His phone rang, the intercom line.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the address for you, Lieutenant.” It was Culligan, the newest man in Homicide. “It’s Twenty-one Fifty-two Hyde Street.”
“Right—” He wrote down the address. “What about a car?”
“They’re still checking.”
“Consumer’s credit?”
“Not yet.”
“She lived in Los Angeles until a couple of years ago. See what you can find down there. She was married, though, for most of that time. So the name’ll be different.”
“I’ll see what they say. It’d sure help, though, if we had a driver’s license, or canceled checks.”
“I should have something for you, once I see where she lived.” He broke the connection.
“I talked to Canelli,” Friedman said. “It sounds like she was dumped out there.”
“No question.”
“Golden Gate Park—” Friedman shook his head reflectively. “The biggest, the most natural park in the world, they say. I love the place. When my kid was growing up, we used to spend part of almost every weekend there. But, Christ, the place is a goddamn jungle after dark. Bodies half eaten by animals. Bodies cut up and stuffed in trash cans. Asian refugees trapping dogs to take home and eat. It’s enough to make you—”
“Listen, I don’t need the background. Okay?”
Friedman shrugged diffidently. But from Friedman, Hastings realized, a shrug was the equivalent of an apology. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. “So what’d you want me to do?”
“I meant to get the numbers on the black-and-white that”—he broke off, swallowed—“that discovered the body. I want the lab to take the tire prints, for elimination.” As he spoke, Hastings rose to his feet and reached for his jacket.
“Right.” Also rising, Friedman watched the other man prepare to leave for the field. They stood facing each other tentatively. For this moment, this situation, they had no precedent. No words were available to them, no stock phrases. Finally Friedman shrugged again, spread his hands again.
“I guess it’s a lottery,” Friedman said quietly. “It’s just a goddamn lottery.”
“Life, you mean.”
Friedman nodded gravely. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
3:15 P.M. The crest of the Hyde Street hill was a tourist attraction second only to Fisherman’s Wharf. Cable cars, each one designated a historical landmark, labored up a series of lesser hills from Market Street before descending the long Hyde Street hill that ended at the southern shore of San Francisco Bay. From the crest, the view of the Golden Gate Bridge was unobstructed. But today the bridge was invisible, obscured by the angry, wind-whipped fog blowing in from the ocean. In the cable cars, only a few hardy passengers in down jackets and stocking caps braved the cold of the outside steps.
After locking the driver’s door of his Honda, Hastings turned to face 2152 Hyde Street. Atop Nob Hill, offering some of the world’s most magnificent urban views, this block of Hyde Street real estate was as expensive as any in San Francisco. And 2152, across the street, was typical of Nob Hill architecture: a brick and frame and stucco building that was divided into either apartments or flats, probably condominiums. The building was about fifty years old, Hastings judged, doubtless as sound as the rock of Nob Hill itself. Probable value: at least two million dollars.
Could Meredith have lived in this building?
Did the man she feared live there?
As he walked across the street, Hastings realized that he could be making a mistake—one of those mistakes that policemen only make once. Meredith had been frightened. She’d been in a relationship she’d wanted to get out of but couldn’t. It was possible that Meredith had been killed by her lover. And her lover could reside at 2152 Hyde Street, just across the street.
It was also possible, therefore, that Hastings, without backup, might be about to ring an odds-on murder suspect’s doorbell. It was a rookie’s mistake. A dumb rookie’s mistake.
Requiring, therefore, that he stop. Look. Listen.
Standing in the building’s entryway, he looked at the polished brass nameplates, each with its own buzzer. There were three names: “C. L. Persse,” on the first floor, “W. & A. Cowperthwaite,” on the second floor—and “M. Powell,” on the third floor.
Three Nob Hill flats, each with a world-class view of the bay. To rent, maybe three thousand dollars a month. If they were condos, the price for each unit might be almost a million dollars.
What had she done to make it from Thirty-ninth Avenue to the top of Nob Hill? How many nights had it taken, on her back?
He turned to the glass door and looked into the foyer. There was a narrow marble table with a bowl of flowers, and two gilded metal chairs placed at either end of the table. He saw three matching doors, one of them with a small round window, an elevator door. Another door would lead to the garage, and another to an interior staircase. The wall paneling, the carpeting, everything translated into money. Lots of money.
He tried to twist the polished brass doorknob, unsuccessfully. He pressed the illuminated bell button beside “M. Powell.” He waited, tried again. Then, leaning closer to a perforated brass speaker disc, he pressed the Cowperthwaites’ button. The Cowperthwaites weren’t answer
ing. Were they both working, bringing home enough money each month to make the rent? Were they at a museum, lunching at an upscale restaurant? He tried “Persse,” also unsuccessfully. There was no service door; the trash doubtless came out through the garage, which would require an electronic opener to operate from the outside.
The regulations governing the situation were clear: call the DA, who would call a judge, who would issue a search warrant. Then call a locksmith. Elapsed time, probably eighteen hours. Minimum.
Or he could return to his car, call Communications, tell them to contact a cooperative locksmith, who, in consideration of a triple fee, would arrive within an hour. Meanwhile, he would sit in his car and watch the door of 2152 Hyde Street.
4:00 P.M. “When you get it open,” Hastings said to the locksmith, “I want you to keep the door latched.” He spoke softly, cautiously. “Do you understand what I mean? I want you to keep it closed. Then I want you to leave. Get in the elevator, and go downstairs, and get in your truck and leave. Understand?”
The locksmith was a lady: young, well built, quick-moving, self-assured. She looked at him with dark, lively eyes.
“Is this—you know—cops and robbers? The real thing?” Her voice, too, was low.
“It’s called being smart.”
“Gotcha.” She turned her attention to the lock and began working. Moments later, with a small flourish, she turned the knob, carefully tested the closure, and nodded.
“Piece of cake,” she said.
He tested the latch for himself, then stepped back, jacket unbuttoned, hand on the butt of his service revolver. “Okay,” he whispered, moving his head toward the elevator. “Thanks. Go. Tell your boss to send the bill to my attention.” As he spoke, he looked up and down the silent, elegantly furnished hallway.
A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 9
