by D. F. Bailey
A reporter on the rebound.
An ex-cop with nothing to lose.
A murder they can only solve together.
Inspired by true events.
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~ Bonus Features ~
Be sure to review the Bonus Features
available at the conclusion of Stone Eater.
※ — ONE — ※
ALONG THE BAY below Russian Hill the fog horns blew in irregular sequences. Their pitch modulated from high to low as a parade of ships eased through the low mist under the Golden Gate Bridge. But well above the haze a clear night wind rose in light gusts and when the breeze touched the tree limbs outside Gianna Whitelaw’s bedroom windows they tapped in erratic ticks against the glass.
Cutting through the calling horns and the rising wind, a metallic click sounded in the hallway. The noise startled Eve Noon and turned her attention from Gianna’s dresser drawers to the front door. She eased out of the bedroom and stood in the hallway, her ears tuned to the sound of intruders. She sniffed at the air. Nothing but the faintest trace of chocolate. Had Gianna been baking over the past day? Very unlikely. The girl didn’t know her way around a kitchen and rarely opened the pantry door. Unless a man appeared on the horizon. Perhaps this was someone new?
A key slid into the front door lock and Eve drew a shallow breath. She clicked off the light and the apartment blinked into darkness. Her hand swept through her shoulder bag to ensure that she’d gathered everything she’d come for: Gianna’s cell phone, her laptop computer, the file folders and thumb drive that Raymond Toeplitz had entrusted to Gianna’s care. Assured that she had everything in hand, she forced herself to tread through the kitchen to the back door. Then she unlocked the deadbolt, braced her fingers on the door nob and waited. She knew that the door led onto an open-air staircase that zigzagged down three stories to the courtyard. In an emergency she could sprint to the ground in ten seconds.
But better to wait to confirm any danger, she reasoned. If the stranger hesitated or simply moved on, she could continue her search through Gianna’s apartment and burrow through the strange world her friend had concealed over the past ten years. Despite her suspicions, she had no idea what she might find.
All these thoughts dashed from her mind when she heard the key rotate and the lock mechanism unlatch. A moment later she heard the door swing open, then slip closed. The apartment remained in darkness and when she heard a set of heavy footsteps tread along the oak floors she turned the knob to the kitchen door and eased it open an inch. Before departing, she’d like to catch a glimpse of the new guest. After all, it was possible that it could be a friend — another ally come to Gianna’s aid. This thin hope almost prompted her to call out, but her years of police training weighed in; she drew another breath to steady her nerves and leaned into the crevice between the pantry closet and the rear wall and pulled her hoodie over her head. You’re invisible, she assured herself.
A moment later her eyes followed the beam of a flashlight as it tracked back and forth across the hallway floor. The intruder crept along the corridor to the kitchen, paused, swept the light across the counter tops and appliances, the cluttered eating nook, the butler’s desk that folded down from the wall next to the microwave. Apparently satisfied, the prowler turned the lamp back to the hallway and moved toward Gianna’s bedroom where Eve had been digging for valuables just minutes ago. As he swung about, the flashlight reflected in a mirror behind him and Eve could see the prowler. His size shocked her. He stood almost seven feet tall, his shoulders and neck thick as a bear. His nose and lips tapered into a broad snout. No friend of Gianna’s, she concluded. Not even close.
The revelation convinced her that now was the time to move on, but she wanted to wait until she heard him shuffling through the drawers or closets. That might provide enough distraction to cover the sound of her padding down the exterior staircase. With luck, the burglar would never know that Eve had entered Gianna’s condo. Never know that she’d gathered the possessions that Gianna asked her to retrieve in her last text message.
She pushed the door. It moved two or three inches and hit resistance. She pressed her face to the opening and looked onto the narrow landing. A metal garbage pail stood in the middle of the deck. Had Gianna dragged it there from inside the kitchen to create some kind of barrier? She cursed and pressed her weight against the door to shove the pail forward. Another four or five inches was all she needed. She turned her head back toward the hallway and tried to detect any sounds from the bear pawing through Gianna’s underwear. Nothing. With another nudge the garbage can scraped across the plank surface with a stutter, the sound of metal on wood.
She turned sideways and wedged her shoulder past the door jamb. At the same moment she heard the rubber squeak of running shoes cutting from the bedroom through the hallway and into the kitchen. The pace sounded steady but halting, as if the runner might be lame. She turned her head back to the doorway, pressed her chest against the door and realized she couldn’t squeeze through the narrow opening. Sensing real danger now, she stepped back, lifted her left leg into the air and smashed her foot into the door. It swung free and the garbage can crashed against the railing and tumbled down the staircase. At the same moment she felt a hand grip her left forearm. Then she felt the pain.
“Hold on there, little pony.” He spoke with a harsh cockney accent. “Where do you think you’re trotting off to?” His fingers tightened and began to pry her back into the kitchen.
When she turned she could see he was even bigger than she’d imagined. His awkward smile revealed a row of flat, simian teeth. She dropped the bag from her free hand and spilled the contents onto the deck. She swung around to face him and in one jab, hammered him squarely in the Adam’s apple. A second shot hit the bridge of his nose, crunching the cartilage as her knuckles landed below his eyebrows. A look of shock crossed his dull eyes and his hand fell away from her arm and brushed over his face.
While he struggled to recover, Eve scrambled to sweep Gianna’s belongings back into her shoulder bag. As he flailed about, the beast managed to land a right hook on her left cheek. She cried out and as she stumbled backward, his arm snagged the strap of her bag. The phone, thumb drive and files flew onto the deck again. He let out a grunt, a laugh from the center of his gut, and drew the bag to his chest. Eve could see he was not about to release anything that came into his possession. She set her jaw, swung her leg wide and landed a round-house kick in his crotch. He bounced against the open door frame and slumped to the floor. Eve shoved the thumb drive and cell phone into her pocket and clambered down the stairs leaving the paper files and laptop computer behind. At the second floor landing, she climbed over the garbage pail. A moment later she stood on the courtyard and glanced up at the apartment. Certain that he still lay flat on the floor, she adjusted her clothing and considered the outcome of the skirmish. She’d secured the phone and thumb drive but the thief now had Gianna’s computer and paper files and Eve’s shoulder bag. At best, a draw. She primped her hair into place and strolled through the brick archway that led onto Lombard Street.
Bastard, she whispered to herself, and released any regrets about losing the bag — just another carry-all from Trader Joe’s. As she moved onto the street she saw a gray-haired woman struggling uphill, a cane in one hand and a leashed poodle at her side. Eve stepped past her and smiled.
“Hello,” she said, loud enough to assure the older woman that they were both alive and well. For another night, at least.
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Eve Noon pressed an ice pack to her bruised cheek as she gazed at the morning light shimmering above the baki
ng asphalt on Geary Street. One more day in the month-long heat wave, she murmured to herself. She walked over to the wall mirror and stared at the blue contusion below her left eye. The ache in her arm continued to pulse at a low ebb and she rolled up her sleeve to examine the marks on her forearm. The prowler hadn’t hurt her too badly. He’d inflicted just enough pain to remind her of the danger she’d skirted past last night. The only lingering question was, would she see him again? Or worse, could he track her down?
She poured some coffee into the big pottery mug she reserved for times when she had to plow through impossible projects. Then she sliced and toasted a poppy-seed bagel, spread a thin layer of peanut butter across the surfaces, and settled into the armchair in her living room.
She sipped her coffee and eased Gianna’s flash drive into her laptop. A password screen appeared. She clicked the close button and the display vanished. Did the flash drive hold a digital version of the stack of paper files that she’d left behind with the bear? Maybe she’d ask Gianna when they met for lunch. But to ask that question Eve would have to reveal that she’d tried to read the files. Which would amount to a confession that she’d nosed through Gianna’s secret life — definitely a breach of Gianna’s closely-guarded privacy. The girl did not like anyone snooping into her world. Ever.
Whenever it suited her, however, Gianna could divulge a new surprise, a glimpse into her life that exposed opulence, luxury and excess. When they first met as sophomores at Berkeley, for example, Gianna had concealed her last name from Eve. Not that she’d lied about it, but after a month of sharing notes from their pre-Columbian American History course Gianna finally disclosed her identity.
“It’s Whitelaw,” she confessed after a little prodding. As Eve’s face revealed her rising astonishment, Gianna continued, “Yes, that Whitelaw. I’m the senator’s oldest daughter. Twice removed,” she added and then explained that her mother, the first Mrs. Whitelaw, was separated by two divorce settlements from the notorious senator — “Senator Libido,” as she called him.
The Whitelaw libido could well be an inherited gene, Eve figured; it certainly emerged as a dominant trait in Gianna. As their friendship developed, Eve realized that Gianna found new men everywhere they went. Her good looks made it inevitable, she realized, and Eve loved the connections that she could establish with men though Gianna. She provided enough sexual charm for the two of them.
Musing about their past, Eve took up Gianna’s smart phone and swiped a finger across the screen. Another password interface appeared, this time a sequence of six blank spaces. She entered Gianna’s birthdate. An error message appeared: “Wrong Password.” She sighed and set the phone on the arm rest.
She finished the last bite of her bagel and then clicked on her own phone and scrolled through the series of texts she’d traded with Gianna over the past month. Two weeks ago she’d texted news of her trip to the family lodge in Cannon Beach, a beautiful, secluded village in Oregon that Eve had visited with Gianna twice before. Then came the text announcing that Raymond Toeplitz would join her. Next, the shock which followed three days later, her terse note the day after Raymond’s horrible death: “He’s gone.”
Of course Eve had heard the news. Everyone had. He’d been pulled from his car by a bear on a remote mountainside. And then devoured. The San Francisco eXpress sent a reporter, Will Finch, to unearth the details. (Gianna had texted Eve about meeting with him, too, adding that “he’s smart and gorgeous.”) His investigation revealed nothing more than a few second-hand stories and a photo of Toeplitz’s Mercedes with a mass of claw marks torn across the driver’s door. Nonetheless, the story began to buzz through the internet and cable news networks.
As the so-called back story emerged — that Toeplitz, the Chief Financial Officer for Whitelaw, Whitelaw & Joss, decided to testify for the prosecution in a bitcoin fraud trial against Gianna’s father’s investment firm — the mainstream media joined the feast. The fact that Franklin Whitelaw served as a US senator added a dash of celebrity to the scandal. Then a few days ago, the eXpress reporter was wounded in a mountainside gun battle that killed the local sheriff. Incredible. The entire narrative burst through the internet as a top-ten trending story. As one local TV news reporter gloated, “This story just grew legs. Ten of them.” A platoon of TV crews landed on the scene and filled the air with rumors and color commentary. But no one could crack the story wide open. What was it all about?
Just as the feeding frenzy came to a boil, Gianna sent another text on Monday afternoon: Just got back in town yesterday. Meet me at Bar Tartine for lunch on Wednesday? 12.30 OK? But later that evening her final, inscrutable message appeared: Emergency. Grab my cell, laptop, thumb drive and paper file folders. They’re all yours. In my dresser, top drawer. ASAP. Love you.
As Eve sipped her coffee and glanced at the cellphone and thumb drive, more questions loomed in her mind. A feeling of exasperation washed through her. She reached for the TV clicker. The answers to all these uncertainties would have to wait until their lunch date. She’d hand the cellphone and flash drive to Gianna and ask her point blank: “What gives? Why the big emergency? And by the way, on Monday night I had to fight my way past a monster with a Brit accent. Not one of your exes, I hope.” She intended to add this small bit of sarcasm to lighten the mood. And to show her that despite the bruise on her cheek their decade-old friendship still stood and they could joke about whatever new crisis now confronted Gianna.
Pressing the ice pack to her cheek, she clicked through the mid-morning shows until she hit on a local news flash. Sometimes they were worth scanning and more than once they’d provided new business opportunities: clients who needed private investigators. Two years ago, after she’d parted company with the SFPD and renewed her acquaintance with Gianna, she’d explained her business model over dinner.
“What I offer,” she said, “is an up-market version of a private detective agency. Catering specifically to women. I provide discreet, fully-documented research.”
A second later the memory evaporated. Gianna’s face flashed across the TV screen. Below the image a news line scrolled from right to left: “Senator’s Daughter Drowns. Dead at 32, recently returned to San Francisco….” Eve’s eyes widened. It can’t be. The news alert cut to a live segment transmitted from a wind-blown spot on Fisherman’s Wharf. Standing in front of a tourist shop an on-the-scene reporter continued the story.
“James, I’m standing a few feet away from the place where Gianna Whitelaw’s corpse was discovered on Pier 45 earlier this morning. The body of Senator Franklin Whitelaw’s eldest daughter was found cast against the pilings at this iconic tourist stop. The pier manager, Jess Merrilee, claims the morning tide could easily have carried Gianna Whitelaw to this place from the waters beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Speculation is mounting that Ms. Whitelaw fell from the bridge sometime last night. Police, however, are only able to confirm her death and identity.
“While citizens have long urged the city to anchor safety nets below the bridge railings and mount CCTV monitors along the bridge decks, these proposals have yet to be implemented. The unofficial count of people plunging from Golden Gate Bridge to their deaths since it first opened in 1937 now exceeds sixteen hundred. In the past few years, on average one person jumps from the bridge every two weeks.
“The Senator’s family is expected to issue a statement later today, but a spokesman has asked the media to respect the family’s privacy at this time. James, back to you.”
Eve stood up and walked a step closer to the TV. James Traynor, the desk anchor, tipped his head to one side, a token gesture of condolence and continued:
“Thanks, Lori. And I’ve just been informed that Gianna Whitelaw’s last Facebook entry, posted at one forty-seven this morning is being construed as a suicide note by several social media analysts. You can be sure that we’ll be following this story in the hours ahead. To recap, Gianna Whitelaw, daughter of California’s senior US senator, died early this morning, possibly the resu
lt of suicide.”
“No.” The word slipped from Eve’s lips in a whisper.
She clicked off the TV and spun around the room, pacing in front of the coffee table from the window to the bathroom door and back again. She pulled her hair into her hands and tried to think. Christ. Impossible. She realized she needed more information, opened her laptop and googled “Gianna Whitelaw.” A dozen links popped onto the screen, most of them local news feeds. Each one provided the same skeletal details from the TV broadcast and as the facts and speculations began to overwhelm her, Eve slumped into her chair. She clicked on Gianna’s Facebook page and read her most recent entry: With each passing day, Raymond’s loss becomes more unbearable. Please don’t feel sorry for me. I loved you all, but can love no more. And if I can’t love, I can’t go on. G.
Eve read the message three times. It didn’t sound like Gianna. Too sentimental. Too mawkish.
She wiped the tears from her eyes and set her teeth. She opened her cell phone and studied the last text from Gianna, tried to make sense of the few lines on the screen. Gianna wasn’t simply asking for a favor. This was a cry for help. “Emergency,” she’d written. But obviously she wasn’t in a state of complete distress, otherwise she wouldn’t have taken the time to add Love you. And why — why? — would she hide her cell phone in her dresser before she left her condo?
Eve decided to call Tina Durham, one of her many loyal friends in the SFPD homicide squad. It had been one thing to drum Eve out of the force, but quite another to break the bonds she’d built with the women who’d suffered the same discrimination over the five years they’d worked together. She called Tina’s cell phone and left a message: “Hi Tina. It’s Eve. Look, I just heard about Gianna Whitelaw. The media is playing this like a suicide, but I’m not convinced. Call me, will you. I need to talk this through. Love you.”
