by Diana Orgain
We sat together at the table and I gave Ramon my pen. Meticulously he began to write names next to the numbers. After a moment he sprang up.
“What is it?” I asked.
“My adobo!”
I laughed. “I thought you found something!”
For the first time since I’d walked into his apartment he laughed, too. It lit up his face and relaxed him. “Sorry. I can’t let the adobo burn. It’s for the . . .” He sighed and his shoulders drooped. Any cheer that had just been on his face vanished. “We’re having the services tomorrow.”
He suddenly moved with fury over the adobo, throwing in spices, stirring, and whipping the mixture in a frenzy. I looked over the bill in my hand; most numbers had names next to them. The same names appeared repeatedly: “me,” “Dad,” “Elliot,” and “Station.” I’d be able to look up the others in a reverse directory at home.
“Did Nancy ever talk to you about work?”
Ramon shrugged. “The usual complaints. Disliked her boss, wanted more money, and thought her coworkers took her for granted.”
“Do you know any of the stories she was working on? Like one, maybe on the French consul?”
“No.”
“Chuck thought that maybe a story she was working on might have gotten her in trouble.”
Ramon stared at me. “Is that what Chuck told you?”
I nodded.
Ramon shrugged again. “I thought for sure he’d tell you to look into me.”
My stomach flip-flopped. “Anything about you I should know?”
Ramon laughed. “What? Like you don’t know my history?”
I stood up straight, feeling a nervousness in my stomach. After being scolded by Galigani for not checking out Chuck Vann, I’d run Ramon, Nancy’s dad, her brother, and even her boss through the database. I’d found nothing—other than Ramon’s financial troubles.
“I don’t.”
Ramon eyed me. “Oh. I didn’t mean it to sound like anything . . . I just thought you might have looked me up.”
Now I felt like I was being tested.
“I did look you up, Ramon. I didn’t find a criminal history.”
Why not challenge him?
“Have you gone by a different name?” I pressed. “Ever been convicted—”
“Nothing like that,” Ramon said.
“What then?”
All I needed for him to say now was that his previous girlfriend had been found dead in his house. Again, without being able to control myself, my thoughts turned to escape. Maybe I could grab the boiling adobo and throw it at him then rush out of the apartment.
As if reading my mind, Ramon turned off the heat beneath the pot and pushed it to the back burner. He wiped his hands on his apron.
“I don’t have a criminal history, but I thought Chuck would try to poison you and the police against me. Chuck was always telling Nancy I was out for her money.”
I thought about the bankruptcy in Ramon’s past. Maybe Nancy had told Chuck about that and it’d made him overprotective toward her.
I placed the cell phone bill in my bag. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
Ramon chewed on his thumbnail. “Sorry, sometimes I feel like everyone’s out to get me.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
“You got a key to her apartment?”
Ramon smiled. “Yes! I do.” He retreated down the hallway. I waited in the kitchen and, unable to contain myself, peeked under a lid to one of the pots on the stove. A chocolate-sauce scent wafted up.
Molé.
Ramon returned with a key in his hand along with a piece of paper. “Kate, I don’t know if it’s important. I found this in the back pocket of Nancy’s jeans, but only after I washed them.”
He handed me the key along with a dried, crinkled paper. I unfolded it carefully and read it.
“It’s an address,” Ramon said. “But I don’t know whose. I thought it was just a work thing . . .”
I pocketed the paper. “I’ll look into it. Thank you.”
When I arrived home the house was empty. My breasts were burning and I either needed to feed Laurie or pump. It seemed a miracle to me how Laurie and I had fallen into a schedule; my body was completely aligned with her needs. I texted Jim and hoped he would respond quickly. Even though I’d only been gone a short while, I was missing him and Laurie like crazy.
While I waited for a response I dove into research to distract myself. I pulled up the reverse directory database I had access to and was not entirely stunned to see that Nancy had made calls to the French consulate and Kimberly Newman. What surprised me was to find that she had phoned Armand Remy. Granted he was an assistant at the consulate, so maybe she needed him to set up an appointment or something.
Time to find out. I dialed Armand. This time I didn’t chicken out when I got his voice mail. I left a message as my front door creaked open.
I leaned into the hallway to get a view of the door. Jim entered holding Laurie’s car seat bucket followed by David, Paula’s husband.
I rose from the computer and greeted them at the entrance. “Hey. I was wondering where you’d gone.”
Jim laughed. “You weren’t wondering that hard, because you didn’t even call me.”
I kissed him and pulled the handle of Laurie’s car seat out of this hand. “I just got home a few minutes ago and, yes, I did call. I sent you a text.”
Jim pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Oh yeah. There it is. It was loud at the bar.”
I released Laurie from the car seat. She was dressed in an outfit that would have been great if we were Eskimos. Complete with a fur-rimmed hat. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was matted against her forehead. “Oh no! Chicken Little is too warm. Look at her!”
“Is that why she’s been crying?” David asked.
Jim glared at David. David laughed and leaned over to kiss my cheek. “Only kidding, Kate. She was an angel. Never even made a peep.”
I clutched Laurie to me. “Is this how you all treat my baby when I’m not here?”
“I didn’t want her to be cold,” Jim said.
“Where’d you take her, Antarctica?”
David sat on my couch. “No. We took her down the street for beers. She loved it, didn’t she, Jim?”
Jim smiled. “She was a big hit: People loved her almost as much as the game.”
I rolled my eyes and left the room to change Laurie. When I returned to the living room they were sprawled about watching the fourth quarter.
“She’s in a new rabbit suit,” I said, proudly showing Laurie off.
Jim and David absently nodded to me, their eyes glued to the TV.
“What’s up with Paula?” I asked David. “Any news?”
David didn’t even look up from the game. “She’s at her sister’s with Danny. No baby yet. No contractions. Nada.”
Jim looked up. “Oh, we couldn’t figure out how to collapse the stroller. It’s in our driveway.”
I stared at them dumbfounded. “Between the two of you, you couldn’t figure it out?”
They ignored me.
“There’s a red lever near the back wheels . . .”
I was talking to glazed eyes.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll go down and get it in a minute.”
I headed to the bedroom to nurse Laurie. They didn’t even notice that I’d left the room.
My thoughts turned back to the case. Was it a coincidence that Nancy had called Armand? I had definitely been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Armand crashed into me, but did he know something about Nancy’s death?
I hadn’t been able to figure out who lived at the address Ramon had given me, only that it was on Bush Street, near the consulate. I wanted to drive by but . . .
I studied Laurie’s beautiful face, her tiny chin and the long lashes that seemed to just get longer and longer each day.
She was the reason I was working from home, but that didn’t mean I h
ad to run out on her all the time. I resolved to think about nothing but her for the rest of the day. After all, it was Sunday. Family day. Okay, so Jim was engrossed in the game, but we were all still together.
I could investigate further tomorrow. On a Monday, like a normal working mom.
• CHAPTER TEN •
To Do:
1. Christmas cards and shopping.
2. ✓ Left a message—now what?
3. Research safest car.
4. ✓
5. Call Christophe Benoit.
6. Why isn’t Laurie flipping over? Am failure as a mom.
7. Christmas recipes! What am I going to make for Christmas dinner?
8.
Due to the street-cleaning schedule and San Francisco draconian enforcement efforts, I had to park several blocks away from the building on Bush Street. It was early, 8 A.M. on a Monday morning. I’d left Jim and Laurie at home asleep. Being out while they slept made me feel productive. I wasn’t taking any time away from my family. And, it made me feel professional, handling things during office hours. Of course, there was that added benefit that I’d hope to find the occupant home before leaving for work.
The address was a Victorian flat. One residential unit on top of the other. I needed the top one.
I examined the house for a mailbox and found two. Both mailboxes fed into a covered, secured garage.
I absently wondered about what I would say to the occupant when he or she opened the door. How about, “Hi, I’m a PI—who are you?” Would that work?
I climbed the stairs and caught my breath at the top of the landing. Man, that was a lot of stairs, and they were steep, too. I had a good view of downtown San Francisco from the top.
I pressed my finger to the doorbell and noticed cracked wood near the doorjamb. My stomach dropped. I pressed gently on the door. It opened, ominously inviting me in.
Uh oh.
“Hello?” I called out.
A chill swept me from head to toe and I couldn’t suppress the shudder. Obviously there had been a break-in. Hopefully, that was all it was. If I entered would I find the place ransacked?
“Hello,” I called again. “Anyone home?”
I leaned in just a bit. I could make out a corner of the living space. It looked immaculate, a bit barren, but nothing strewn about.
“Don’t go in, don’t go in, DON’T go in,” the voice in my head screamed.
What should I do? Call the cops? Call Jim? Ring the downstairs neighbor’s doorbell?
I retreated down the stairs. No way was I going in there alone.
About halfway down the staircase, I knew I was kidding myself. It’s like that piece of warm devil’s food cake staring up at you from your dessert plate, with the thick dark frosting, maybe a little strawberry goo swirl on top, and vanilla ice cream on the side. You know you shouldn’t, but you want just one little bite.
I ran back up the stairs and pushed the front door wide open. I promised myself I was only taking one step to see around the living room corner.
“Heeeell-oooo?” I called out. I was frozen at the doorway with one foot in and one foot out. I could now see into the living room. Everything was wrong with nothing being amiss. Visually, there was nothing upturned in the room or kiddiwampus. It was sparsely furnished, like a college-student setup.
Everything was silent but even the air seemed charged somehow. I could see an open doorway to the left, presumably to the rest of the flat. I strained to see around it, but couldn’t unless I stepped completely inside.
I picked up my back foot from outside and pulled it in. Then, like in a game of Simon Says, I took one small step forward and leaned my whole upper body in so I could see into the doorway. And finally, just like I do with the cake—ignoring any warning system I may have in my head or body—I dive in with complete abandon.
Once inside, I could see down the short hallway to the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was open and I could see an arm dangling out of the tub.
Red stained the tile floor and I swallowed back my dread.
I crossed the small hallway and stood in the bathroom doorway. A gasp escaped me.
Armand lay dead in the tub, soaking in bloodred water. I covered my mouth and prayed silently. Frozen in place, I stared at him, willing him to pick up his head. He was just a boy!
I’d wanted to find him so badly, but I hadn’t wanted this. I thought if I’d found him, it would be hard not to want to strangle him. After all, hadn’t I even dreamt about it? But seeing him dead only brought me grief.
It looked like suicide. His forearms were slit about twothirds of the way up his arms and his face was completely white, all the blood and life drained from his body.
My heart went out to his mother. The most horrendous news a mom could fear and now she’d receive it in the face of the holidays.
I fumbled for my cell phone, my hands suddenly shaking uncontrollably. I dialed Galigani as quickly as I could.
He picked up on the first ring.
I closed my eyes, but Armand’s image was burned into my brain. “I shouldn’t have come inside,” I said into the phone.
You can’t unsee things in your mind.
“Kate? Where are you?” Galigani asked. “Are you all right? Inside where?”
I explained the situation to him. He told me to retrace my steps and wait for him and the homicide cops on the front stoop.
Homicide.
Surely he would call McNearny. They were old partners. I dreaded another encounter with McNearny.
“You don’t need to call homicide, I think it was a suicide!” I said, instantly regretting the words.
“Suicide?” Galigani screamed. “Why the hell was the door broken in? The guy breaks into his own place to kill himself?”
While waiting on the front stoop I prayed.
Please let Galigani get here first. Please let Galigani get here first and NOT McNearny.
Suddenly, I caught myself. How selfish! I was more worried about my fate than poor Armand. I said a prayer for him and his family and after several moments realized that my worry about McNearny was a defensive mechanism employed by my small mind, so as not to face the real issue—mortality.
I fidgeted on the stoop.
Yes. I would have to discipline my mind.
Meditation was supposed to be good for that. I would add that to my to-do list. In the meantime, what would I say to McNearny if he arrived before Galigani?
Simple. Just explain the truth.
Yes. The truth.
And that would be . . . what exactly? That I couldn’t resist sticking my nose inside the door?
Mercifully, I watched Galigani’s familiar form walk down the block. When he reached me, instead of scolding me he embraced me. “Kid. You can’t do stuff like that! You put yourself in unnecessary danger.”
I clutched him hard, relieved to feel another person’s touch. One that was alive and warm. “There was no danger,” I choked. “He’s dead.”
Galigani tsked at me. “You’re in shock. We’ll have to talk later.”
He was right. I had a strange adrenaline working in my system, keeping all my pieces glued together. If I thought too much about Armand, I knew I would come apart at the seams.
An unmarked vehicle parked in front of the building and homicide inspectors McNearny and Jones stepped out.
With a simple nod of acknowledgment to Galigani, McNearny said, “Thank you for finding us more work, Mrs. Connolly.”
Jones shook Galigani’s hand and raised his eyebrows at me.
McNearny examined the front door. “Go ahead and tell us how you broke in, Mrs. Connolly.”
“I didn’t break in!” I protested.
“Oh? You live here?” McNearny said.
“I mean, I didn’t do that,” I said, pointing to the busted doorknob.
McNearny let his eyes roll back in complete disdain for me. “Did you enter the premises this morning, Mrs. Connolly?”
“Yes. I pushed the d
oor open, but just a little and took a tiny peek, you know, just a little tiny peek,” I said, nervously. The three pairs of homicide-experienced eyes bore down heavily on me. “I didn’t know he was dead! I called out and no one answered. What if he needed help?”
“If he’d needed help, don’t you think he’d have answered your calls?” McNearny suddenly screamed in my face.
“Not if he was unconscious!” I shouted back at him.
Galigani’s eyes went wide as I yelled at McNearny.
McNearny waved his hand in a gesture of “enough” and said to Jones, “Book her! Breaking and entering. Interfering with an investigation.”
Jones opened his mouth to protest but a look from McNearny shut him down before he could get any words out.
Galigani frowned. “Come on, Mac. You don’t need to do this. The kid’s on our side.”
McNearny’s face turned beet red. “She is not on my side. Maybe she’s on your side, I don’t know. We used to be on the same side! The only thing she is—is a thorn in my side.” He turned from us and barreled into the flat.
Why did he always have to be so mean?
Jones stood silently a moment. “You heard him, Kate. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not arresting her!” Galigani said.
Jones held up his hands and gave a hopeless shrug.
“It won’t hold up. It’s just a paperwork nightmare and he’s only trying to inconvenience Mrs. Connolly,” Galigani protested.
Jones nodded. “I know, but he’s the senior guy. I don’t need any more hassles.”
Galigani put a hand on my shoulder. “Go with him and I’ll call Jim and then Barramendi.”
Jones grimaced. “Barramendi? You’re going to call that guy?”
Barramendi was a high-powered criminal defense attorney. I had worked with him last month on another case.
Galigani and I exchanged glances. “He’s a fan of Kate’s.”
Jones waved us off. “Forget it. You’re right, it’ll be a paperwork nightmare.” He pushed open the front door of the flat and yelled into McNearny, “They’re going to call Barramendi.”
