“I could bring her with me. We could have a girls’ night. You’d like her.”
“I’m sure I would.”
“All right, then. Let’s call it a plan.”
15
MANNY MEYER OF MEYER ELDRIDGE & Kline sat across the huge conference table from the two inspectors in the enormous corner glassed-in room that overlooked the Ferry Building as well as a good portion of the rest of the Bay Area, glistening now below them in bright sunlight. Meyer was sixty-four years old, large and florid, with an over-the-ears silvery mane of hair. He gave the impression of being a guy who laughed a lot, although he was not laughing today.
Hands clasped on the table in front of him, Meyer seemed like a man who’d just been knocked out of his saddle and was trying to figure out where he was. “Everybody here knew that Peter was going through a difficult time the past few months, but I don’t think anybody saw anything like this coming.”
“Like this?” Ike prompted him.
“You know. Getting to the point where he’d . . . want to end things.”
“You’re saying that you think he took his own life?” Beth asked.
“Let me ask you one, Inspector. Have you found something to indicate that he didn’t? I had just assumed. When I heard . . . the news. It was the first thing that came to my mind, that he shot himself. But now are you saying he didn’t?”
Beth shook her head. “Not entirely. We haven’t completely ruled out anything.” She kept her tone neutral, patient. It was possible, she thought, that Meyer might be in some degree of shock. He looked from Beth to Ike and back again. “So you’re saying he was murdered?”
Beth nodded. “Is that so hard for you to imagine?”
“That somebody would want to kill Peter? I’d have to say yes. Almost impossible. At least, for someone who knew him.”
“And why is that?”
Meyer considered for a moment. “Because he was such a . . . I know that this might sound a little out of context, but you had to know him. He was just a charming man, a truly sweet guy. I can’t believe that he’d have an enemy in the world, much less someone who hated him so much they’d decide to kill him.”
Ike asked, “So what about all these troubles in the past few months?”
Meyer made a brushing movement with his hand. “His marriage was breaking up, and I know that took its toll. But he and Jill were still talking, maybe even still trying to make things work. I know that they’d gone to counseling together.”
“We spoke with Jill yesterday,” Ike said. “The divorce was going ahead. They probably weren’t going to be working things out.”
Meyer nodded at the sad reality. “That’s probably true. But you don’t think Jill . . . ?”
“We don’t think anything at the moment, sir,” Beth said. “We’re just starting to talk to people that knew him, see where it takes us.”
“Is there anyone at the firm here with whom he was particularly close?” Ike asked. “Maybe somebody he saw outside of the work environment?”
“Well. Me. We were in a wine-tasting club together. We met every month or so. My wife and I would get together with him and Jill for dinner or the theater or a concert three or four times a year. But as I say, it wasn’t just us. Peter was super-friendly. Everybody liked him.”
“How about his clients?” Beth asked.
“That’s why they were his clients,” Meyer said. “They loved the guy.”
“So no turnover there? No dissatisfaction? He didn’t just lose a big case? Anything like that?” she asked.
Meyer shook his head. “Nothing that hit my radar, and I’m certain that it would have. But you know, if you want to go down that road, maybe you should talk to his secretary, Theresa Boleyn. She’s been with Peter since he came on board. In fact, he brought her with him. If there are any hostile bodies among the clients, which I doubt, she’ll know where they’re buried. I could have her come on down here in a couple of minutes, unless you need anything more from me.” He stood, seeming to slump in his navy blue pinstripe suit, and looked from one of them to the other. “This is such a tragedy. Such a terrible loss.”
* * *
Theresa did not come down to the conference room in the next few minutes because she had not come into work at all that morning. When Beth and Ike got to her apartment in a thirty-unit building on Market Street way up under Twin Peaks, she opened the door before they’d even knocked and invited them in. “Too cold to be standing around even for a minute,” she said.
In spite of the warm welcome and the breezy tone, once everyone was inside, Theresa visibly slumped. She was a naturally attractive young woman, Beth thought, who, with deep-set blue eyes, shoulder-length blond hair, an unblemished complexion, and prominent cheekbones, with minimal effort might transform herself into a true beauty. But, this morning at least, she wasn’t making any effort in that direction. No lipstick, no mascara or other makeup. Unflattering granny glasses.
Leading the way to the island in the kitchen, Theresa slid onto one of the stools. That morning’s Chronicle lay open in front of her and she glanced at it, then pushed it as far out of the way as she could. She nervously rubbed her right hand over first one cheek, then the other. Her eyes were heavy and shot with red. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“What about?” Beth asked.
Theresa shrugged. “Everything. I’m not sick, I guess you can see. But I just couldn’t go in today.” Her expression seemed to seek absolution.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Beth said. “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”
“There’s nothing to do down there anyway, now with Peter . . .”
Ike cut her off. “Did you just find out from the paper this morning?” he asked.
“No. One of my friends saw it on the news last night and called me. I don’t know if I believed . . . but then I saw . . .”
They gave her a minute. Beth pulled another stool around and boosted herself up onto it.
“I’m sorry,” Theresa repeated. “Really, I’m just . . . you never expect.” She wiped at her eyes again.
Ike seemed uncharacteristically impatient. “When was the last time you saw him?”
The abruptness of the question broke her from her reverie, and she fastened on Ike, her mouth a tight line of concentration. “What’s today? Thursday. Then Wednesday, no. Tuesday. It must have been Monday. It was Monday. It was the only day he was in this week.”
Ike kept it going. “Did he work a full day Monday?”
“Yes. Well, for him, lately. Although he left before I did. I could check, but probably around four thirty.”
“Did he have an appointment?”
“Not that I know of. It wasn’t calendared, if he did.”
“So he didn’t come in on Tuesday at all?”
“No.”
“Was that standard?”
“Well, there wasn’t really a normal routine anymore. He usually came in, except when he didn’t. He worked whatever hours he wanted.”
“He didn’t tell you where he was going to be?”
“Most of the time. Yes.”
“Did he have appointments on Tuesday or Wednesday?”
“Yes. He had a depo scheduled at another firm in town on Tuesday, and he was supposed to go to LA on Wednesday.”
“But he didn’t make either of those?”
“No. Neither one.”
“And did that worry you?”
“Of course. Not showing for Tuesday’s depo was bad to the level of inexcusable. I was really worried by Wednesday. I tried to call him a number of times on his cell. No answer. But I still thought he’d just turn up the way he tended to.”
“Did it occur to you to call the police?”
“Not really, no.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “Because this kind of thing had happened before. More than once, actually. He would have killed me if I called the police to look for him after a couple of days of just not checking in. I mea
n, it was more my job to cover for him, not call attention to when he was acting . . . you know, being irresponsible. Figuring stuff out.”
Finally, Beth put in a word. “Did you have any indication of what that was, that he was figuring out? Specifically?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t really confide in me on that kind of stuff.”
“So, what?” Ike said. “You were supposed to read his mind?”
A small smile. “If you look up legal secretary in the dictionary, Inspector,” she said, “that would pretty much be the job description.”
“And he didn’t give you a hint about what was on his mind? What he was doing?”
“Well, I knew his schedule, of course. I kept his calendar. So in theory I knew where he was supposed to be all the time. But then if he blew off a meeting or an appointment and I’d ask him, he was all like, ‘Don’t worry about that. That’s my job. I know what I’m doing.’ He acted like it was all some game he was playing.”
“And that didn’t bother you?” Ike asked. “Didn’t you call him on that?”
She thought for a while before answering him. “You’ve got to understand. He was a great boss. He took me with him when he came over to Meyer, eight years ago. I make a really good salary, probably more than I’m worth, and it was all because of Peter. I figured his problems were mostly about his marriage breaking up. Kidding around with me was just his way of letting go of some of the pressure. What was I going to do, scold him about it? Tell him he ought to take his work more seriously? Come on. If I couldn’t flow with it, I didn’t deserve his trust. I figured that when everything settled down, and it would, he’d revert to his old Type A self, and then we’d go back to being the way we used to be. But until then, how could it hurt to humor him?”
Beth had no answer for that, so she moved on. “So what about the marital problems?”
This question sparked what looked to Beth like a guilty response. Theresa’s eyes darted from one inspector to the other, finally settling back on Beth. “I don’t know any details about them,” she said. “His marital problems. As I said, he didn’t confide in me about his personal life.”
Ike followed up. “All right. But you did notice this change in his behavior. His wife told us that it came on all at once, or at least over a very short period of time. Would you agree with that?”
She thought a minute, then nodded. “I guess I’d have to say yes.”
“Do you remember anything specific?” Ike asked. “About exactly when that might have been, or what might have brought it about?”
Theresa scratched at the counter. “I don’t, I mean, nothing I could swear to.”
Beth said, “Nobody’s asking you to swear to anything, Theresa. Whatever it is you’re thinking, even if it’s just a vague impression, it might be important. Was it something to do with a client, maybe? Mr. Meyer told us you’d be the one to talk to about if Peter had had some negative run-ins with one of his clients.”
“No.” She was shaking her head again, still picking at a spot on the counter. “I mean, none of his regular clients. They all loved him.”
“But . . .” Beth prompted her.
Theresa finally let out a breath. “It might have been . . . I thought she might be a potential client.”
“She?” Ike asked.
“I mean, this is so unlikely . . .”
“Go ahead,” Beth said. “Unlikely is good.”
Theresa drew a breath, let it out, then finally gave an emphatic nod, committing to what she was about to say. “Sometime back in the spring, when all this started, he got a call from a woman who didn’t identify herself when I asked her. All she told me was she needed to talk to Peter and that it was extremely important.”
“A legal matter?” Ike asked.
“She didn’t say, but what else could it have been?”
“Right. Of course. Go ahead.”
“Well, she was very polite, but she wasn’t taking no for an answer, not from me, anyway. So I asked her to hold and I punched up Peter, and he said he’d talk to her, and I put her through.”
“And then?” Beth asked.
“Well, I don’t even know if this is related or not, but after a few minutes Peter came out of the office and said he was going out to clear his head. He said he’d be back after a while, but if he ever came back, it was after I’d left. That was the first time he broke his schedule.” She looked pleadingly from one inspector to the other. “But he really did have a depo that was eating him up. It might have had nothing to do with the woman and her phone call. But now, thinking about it . . .”
“It might have had something to do with it after all,” Ike said.
“Well, that’s the other thing,” Theresa said.
“What’s that?” Beth asked.
“A couple of days later, that same woman called again.”
“No name? No identity?”
“No, I’m sorry. Normally, I try to find out on these types of calls, of course, but . . .”
“That’s all right,” Beth said. “Did she say what she wanted that second time?”
“No. Just that she needed to talk to Peter again. But he wasn’t in the office, and I sent her to his voicemail, but she didn’t leave a message.”
“And you say that this was right around when Peter started behaving differently?”
“Yes.” Theresa furrowed her brow and looked over at Ike.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I just remembered the time of it more exactly. The woman’s call, I mean. It was the week before the terrorist thing at the Ferry Building. On the day of the attack, Peter had told me that he was going to lunch there, but then he changed his mind and went to Tadich instead. And I remember being so glad that he hadn’t gone where he said he was going, and how out of character that change of plans would have seemed until just recently, which I guess is why it stuck with me. Anyway, in my mind, this mystery woman seemed somehow connected to when he started changing. If you could find out who she was . . .”
“That could be helpful,” Ike said. “We’ll look into that.” He glanced at Beth as though he was going to say something else, but in the end came back to Theresa. “Thanks for your time and all this information.” He handed her his business card. “And of course, please contact us if you think of anything else.”
* * *
“What do you think?” Ike asked Beth as he pulled into the Market Street traffic heading back downtown.
“As in ‘Do I think she was sleeping with him?’ ”
“Right.”
“Did you pick up anything that indicated she was?”
“Nothing except she’s thirty-ish, single, and has been with him for eight years.”
“Don’t you think it’s possible that they have a friendly and solid professional relationship and that’s all?”
“Definitely. I’m sure that happens all the time with a lot of people.”
“But . . .”
“But my intuition tells me they were doing the bonero.”
“What an elegant turn of phrase,” Beth said. “But I thought, being the woman in our partnership, I was the one who was supposed to have the intuition.”
“And you don’t have a feeling with Theresa?”
“Not really, no. She seemed like a loyal and dedicated secretary to me. Besides which, if she gets involved with him romantically and they break up, it threatens her job. A woman living alone doesn’t want to risk that. So I’d say it’s unlikely. And even more unlikely that she killed him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Same reason. Killing him is killing her job. And again, if she was romantically involved with him, why is that a reason she would have killed him?”
“Easy. He started this fling with her, which of course she didn’t think was a fling. And then he either dumped her outright or moved along to the next one. Which made our Theresa crazy and jealous and she blew him away, job be damned. What do you think?”
She
shot him a sideways glance. “I’ll try to keep an open mind.”
16
GEOFF COOKE WASHED HIS FACE in the firm’s bathroom sink, then dried it with one of the paper towels. He stared into the mirror, shocked at the gimlet tint his eyes had taken on.
He’d been sick on and off all through the day, ever since he’d read about it in the paper in the morning. Breakfast had come right on up at him, and he didn’t even try to get down any lunch, instead locking his office door and trying to grab a nap on the couch in his office. That effort had been futile as well.
He hung on with busywork for another couple of hours. A bit after 4:00, he gave up entirely, told his secretary the truth, which was that he felt like he was getting the flu—she probably shouldn’t expect him to come in to work tomorrow either—and left the office. Wearing a heavy tan cashmere coat against the chill, he considered getting his car from the garage and driving up to the Marina—an hour or two out on the bay with his sailboat generally worked for his peace of mind no matter what it was that ailed him.
But today, somehow, that didn’t appeal.
Instead of going down to the garage for his car, he started walking around the downtown streets, strolling really, his mind empty except for the swish of vertigo from the sick-making emotion that seemed to wash over him every couple of breaths.
But otherwise, without a plan.
Fifteen or so minutes later, he found that he’d crossed Market and was on Fifth, heading south, a destination vaguely forming in his mind.
Straight out of law school, long before he’d even dreamed of going into private practice, Geoff had worked for two years as an assistant district attorney in the city. He still maintained relatively current friendships with a couple of the guys he had known back then.
There, a block over to his right, he made out the massive bluish-gray monolithic structure that was his former workplace—the Hall of Justice—home to Superior Court, the Southern Police Station, the district attorney’s offices, and assorted other smaller local bureaucracies. When he got to it, the front of the building was as inviting as it had always been, which is to say not. Several homeless people lay in their sleeping bags by the struggling foliage on either side of the glass-and-plywood front doors; a line of fifteen or so desultory and mostly poorly dressed citizens blew on their hands as they waited to slowly move forward into the building proper, where they would eventually encounter the security checkpoint and metal detector before finally gaining admission.
Fatal Page 12
