by Meg Gardiner
"Your ubercoffee turned out extra-acidic, didn't it?" She picked at Jo's muffin. "You busy tonight? I've got plans and it would be more fun if you came along."
"What's his name?"
"Girls' night out. It's cultural. Aerobic. Healthy." Tina smiled. "It's girly. None of that nature grunge, rock climbing shtick you do."
Jo tapped her fingers on the table. "Does it involve my Chi, or dancing with a pole?"
"No. Pinky swear." Tina's eyes were wide with innocence. "Come on."
Jo softened. "What time? Group's at seven."
"After that." Tina became pensive. "How's it going?"
"Good." She shrugged, and smiled. "It gets my mind off psychological autopsies."
"Only you would work with a bereavement group to get your mind off death."
"Tuesdays with Mori."
Tina laughed, but the pensive expression remained. It contained an ever-near melancholy concern for her. Jo hated that look. She wanted people to stop worrying about her. She glanced away, focusing instead on her computer screen.
Lieutenant Tang had sent the list of news articles. One caught her eye.
Boat Fire "Deliberately Set"?
It was an article about the dead fashion designer, Maki. His sailboat had been spotted in flames off the coast. Rescuers had found his body aboard, along with that of his lover. File photos showed them: Maki, a shaven-headed East Asian in his forties, snapped by paparazzi. Disco-ball smile, a top dog's bearing. His lover, William fillets, was pale, Caucasian, with a pinched mouth. The second fiddle. No cause of death had been disclosed. The article speculated that drugs were involved, or a fatal lovers' argument. Because the boat was found adrift outside city limits, federal authorities were involved in the investigation.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Callie Harding says no decision has been made whether to open a criminal investigation.
Hell. Tang had said there must be a link between Harding's crash and Maki's death. And here was a link, a big fat one. Harding had been involved with investigating the burning boat. Jo continued to scroll through the article. She stopped. A team from the 129th Air Rescue Wing at Moffett Field was scrambled to the scene, but found the two men aboard already dead. A spokesman for the Air National Guard declined to comment.
Tina continued talking. "And what would be so bad about going on a date? Friendship, that's all I'm suggesting. Jo, it's been two years. You're doing so great, but you don't have to do it all by yourself. Can you see that?"
She did. She saw who she needed to talk to. His name was there in the police department's notes: the pararescue jumper who had been on duty that night with the 129th Rescue Wing. Gabriel Quintana. Tina tossed a sugar packet at her. "I'll pick you up from UCSF." Quintana. She felt a zing in her fingertips. She looked up. "Sorry. What?"
"You're buzzing like a bee caught in a jar. I'll pick you up tonight.
Eight?"
Unless this case I'm working on turns into a monster." Tina stood up. "Monster case, ooh. Am I going to see you on
television?"
Yeah, walking through a blood-drenched crime scene with a flashlight, wearing tight jeans and a low-cut blouse."
And packing heat. Promise me you'll be strapped. And you'll whip off your sunglasses and vow to wreak justice. Please?"
"Absolutely. When pigs fly in formation and battle Godzilla." She was smiling, but felt it fade. "I need to talk to the 129th Rescue Wing."
"Tell 'em hey, and a big thumbs-up." Tina stopped. "Wait—"
"Yeah." She shut her computer. "Maybe I'll take a flak jacket."
Worry creased Tina's face. Jo gathered her things, kissed her sister good-bye, and headed out into the bracing sunshine. She knew a flak jacket wouldn't shield her. Kevlar only protects the heart against bullets, not grief.
Outside the coffeehouse, the sky had a silvery shine. She put on her shades. She turned and saw, lumbering along the sidewalk toward her, Ferd Bismuth.
"Shoot," she said.
Bismuth straightened and began to strut. She had no time for a long conversation, but it was too late to turn tail and bolt. He'd seen her.
He waved. "Greetings, neighbor."
Ferd was he who lived behind the crap-covered cupids and twitching curtains in the faux mansion next door to Jo's house. He wasn't obese, but walked like he was, weight back as though to balance a stomach, hands held away from his sides as if propped on pillows of fat. He was knock-kneed and his clothes were generously sized. His hair was lustrous with Brylcreem. He looked ready for his photo at NASA Mission Control, circa 1969.
He trundled toward her, smiling. "I must have just missed you at the cable car stop."
She had to calibrate her response. With Ferd, pleasantries were a Minefield. She hefted her satchel higher on her shoulder to give the 'impression that she urgently needed to get somewhere. Which she did, but need and urgency never deterred Ferd. She could have been
fire and he wouldn't be dissuaded from talking to her. For that Matter, he could have been on fire.
Weather should be a harmless topic. "Beautiful to see the sun-shine, isn't it?"
His smile shrank. "Should I have applied sunscreen? With it being October, I thought I was safe." He glanced at his arms as if cancerous freckles were even now incubating.
She took a step. "Factor twenty, that's always good. But don't hide from the sun—it gives you vitamin D. And it cheers you up."
"Vitamin D? You mean—wait, no, Jo, don't go. Are you saying I could get rickets?"
She'd blown it. Never give 'em an opening—hadn't she learned anything from testifying in court? Don't ever give an open-ended answer, much less a suggestion, that a lawyer can crucify you with on cross-examination. But here she'd gone and given Ferd a bunch of nails and a Physicians' Desk Reference to hammer them in with.
He was the worst hypochondriac she'd ever met.
"Vitamin D? You mean with the rain and fog we don't get enough?" He looked at his knees. "Am I at serious risk? I don't want my bones to soften."
"You're not going to get rickets, I promise. Have a great day. I'm running behind."
"One thing."
She backed away. "I have to talk to the Air National Guard. If I don't, they'll send commandos."
"This won't take a sec."
He inhaled and blew out a gust. Please, God, don't let him think he has high-altitude pulmonary edema.
"I'm—well, I'm . . ." He wiped his palms against the thighs of his chinos. "I'm having a Halloween party tomorrow night."
Did her face show panic? "That's fine; the noise won't bother ntf. Thanks for letting me know." She backed up another step.
"Some guys are coming—I mean, people from the firm."
The firm was Compurama, the computer store where he worked He wasn't a rich man. He was a house sitter for the owners of the mansion, who were away in Italy for nine months. She never saw him without his Compurama name tag on his shirt.
"I was—it's . . . well, you're invited to the party. Costume optional, but most people are coming as their World of Warcraft avatars."
He glanced furtively at her chest. She presumed World of Warcraft contained a sexy elf in a ragged deerskin bikini. Then he seemed to realize that she didn't play the online sword 'n' sorcery game. His eyes filled with shining desperation.
He stuck out his hands in a no worries gesture. "But that's totally up to you."
"Thanks. I may have to work."
"No problem. Just let me know."
And he smiled so innocently, like a baby harp seal, that she felt guilty. She caved.
"I'll try. How about if I stop by? With dip?"
"Splendid."
She began walking backward, giving him a small wave. He returned it, head tilted, and grabbed the door to go into Java Jones. She spun around.
"One question," he said.
"I have to go . . ." But if she did, when she came home he would be watching for her from his balcony. She turned back around.
He touched his n
ose. "My septum."
"A deviated septum cannot cause tuberculosis. Really. I know for sure."
To hear Ferd tell it, his deviated septum had variously been the culprit behind his snoring, halitosis, poor posture, and recurrent anxiety.
With planning the party, it's been acting up." He put his fingertlps to his cheeks. "I get this pressure. What if it triggers a panic attack and my whole sinus system seizes up?"
'Ask your doctor, Ferd." "But-"
You know my rule. I don't treat friends."
"Just this once—"
I don't prescribe for them, either."
The DIRTY SECRETS CLUB 53
52 Meg Gardiner
"This isn't about prescription decongestants."
"Good."
"You wouldn't be prescribing drugs. It's a whole different approach to anxiety management. Nature's way. It would be an emotional support prescription."
Not hug therapy again. She watched for his arms to shoot toward her. Please, not that. "Ferd, your own doctor needs to handle it. I have to jet." I
His brow creased. "Okay." I
She waved good-bye. His face softened again into baby-seal affection. She suspected that as she walked away, his eyes were on her rear end.
Ten feet around the corner, she got out her cell phone. She found the number for Gregory Harding. She paused a moment before making the call.
Harding was Callie's ex-husband, but still close enough that he'd' been the one they called to identify her body. Jo gazed at the sky and straightened her shoulders before she dialed. It was answered on the second ring. "Yes?" "Mr. Harding?" She introduced herself and explained that she was a forensic psychiatrist consulting for the police department. "I'm
sorry for your loss."
"Wasn't my loss, it was hers. Why are you calling?" Tick. There was resentment in that answer. "I'd like to talk to you Is there some time today we could meet?"
He paused. "The cops want to make Callie out to be a head case-'
is that what this is about?" I
"No, sir. It's about gathering evidence to accurately explain hfl
death." II
There was a longer pause. "I have an office in Palo Alto. There's j coffee place by Borders on University. I'll be there in two hours."
She checked her watch. "Fine." "Be on time." He clicked off.
Perry Ames sat alone at a table. The sun was garish, the day breezy. Plenty of people would be outside, but he sat indoors by himself, with a Scrabble board set up, watching the television on the wall.
Three dead in the crash, the news was reporting. No names yet, but he knew Callie Harding was one of them. A passenger was injured. He needed to know who that passenger was. He set Scrabble tiles on the rack. Two men walked by, talking. They stared at the game board and at him. He'd take them on if they were willing. He could arrange a killer game. Take bets, run it big, like the poker game. An executive game, sure—people would be even less suspicious of Scrabble nerds than they were of high rollers playing Texas Hold 'em in a downtown hotel suite. And Scrabble players would be even easier to intimidate if they took a long line of credit,
got overextended, and lost big. His bread and butter at times in his life.
Nobody offered to join the game. Nobody wanted to talk to him. He moved the tiles around.
Doctor. Yoshida was a proper name, so he didn't bother with that
Son. Overdose.
The satisfaction burned in his chest, like acid.
Boat. He crossed another word with it, going down. Maki. Screw rules; he liked seeing their proper names. Willets. The A-list fashion queen was dead and so was his shrieking weed a boyfriend. Crankhead, skinny as a flower stem, sadistic as all fuck. Pouted like a lily but poisonous. Like all of them. But Perry had found a surefire weed killer.
The men who had walked past him sat down at a nearby table cups of coffee. It was noisy in here. He couldn't hear what they ere saying, but they were gawking at him. Fucks. They stared, hard
glares. Looking at his neck, and the scar. Nobody wanted to join a game with the freak.
For a second he considered setting them straight. But this place had a guard, a fat guy loitering near the door with his thumbs hooked on his belt. A real wannabe hard-ass lard-ass, dressed in a puke-green uniform. Where'd they get that color, some store that made clothes for officious dicks like priests and prison guards?
The coffee drinkers stared. Perry stared back. They looked away, like submissive dogs.
Fear. Good. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit jack shit.
He set out another name on the game board. Harding.
It was a good start.
But he wasn't near the end, and time was short. He wanted answers by tomorrow. He had meetings downtown, and needed names by then.
He needed Skunk to get to work. He swept the tiles back into the box and stood up. He glanced at the coffee drinkers. He decided to set them straight after all.
He walked by their table. Pausing, he waited until they looked at him. He reached into his pocket. They went still. He took out his voice synthesizer and pressed it to his crushed larynx.
"Next time, we'll play Hangman. I never lose."
The intensive care unit at St. Francis Hospital was bright and hushed. The nurse at the desk, motherly in pink scrubs, was writing on a patient's chart when Jo came up the stairs. Jo was wearing a badge around her neck that identified her as a physician with staff privileges at the hospital.
"Angelika Meyer?" she said.
The nurse pointed over her shoulder. "Down the hall."
"How's she doing?"
"Serious but stable. Broken ribs, punctured lung, hairline skull fracture."
"Is she conscious?"
"Intermittently."
"Has anybody been by to see her?" Jo said.
"Just the police, and the attending kept them out of her room."
"May I see her chart?"
The nurse found it. Jo flipped through. Though Meyer's condition had stabilized, her situation was precarious. She could still slip into the abyss.
"We found a key ring in her purse," the nurse said. "It has her nickname on it. Geli."
She pronounced it the German way. Gaily.
"Thanks." Taking the chart with her, Jo walked down the hall to Meyer's room.
Intensive care never changed. Day or night, it had an atmosphere of controlled crisis. The quiet, the vigilance, the monitors and watchfulness—ICU felt to Jo like the staging ground for a Special Forces mission.
ER was a different story. From her trauma rotation at UCSF she remembered the noise, the adrenaline, the way dog bites and flu could abruptly be replaced by drownings and gunshot wounds. ER was shock and awe. ICU was a stealth campaign. But people died here in greater proportion, because you didn't come to ICU unless you were in bad shape.
And Geli Meyer looked damned bad.
Jo paused in the doorway. Propped in the hospital bed, sprouting tubes, Meyer looked like one of the aliens in the research lab in Independence Day. She had ECG suckers stuck to her chest and a central line IV inserted near her neck. A Foley catheter, a drain in her side, oxygen cannulas under her nose—she looked like a porcupine. Her skin was pallid gray, her blond hair ropy. Her eyes were closed.
Quietly Jo crossed to her side.
She put her fingers to the young woman's wrist. Her pulse felt strong and regular. She stroked Meyer's hand, hoping for a response, but the girl lay motionless. Her hand was cold. Jo pulled up the thermal blanket and tucked it comfortably around Meyer's legs.
What happened to you, girl? Why were you in the car with Callie Harding? What is it you want me to stop?
She walked over and opened the small closet. Meyer's shoes and skirt were inside. No shirt or bra. They must have been cut off in the ER. Meyer's purse sat on a shelf.
Jo glanced out the door. The nurse was on the phone.
Jo wasn't a cop. She had no search warrant, and rifling a patient's belongings was far beyond
frowned upon. But she wasn't a thief, either, and Meyer wasn't talking. Maybe her possessions could talk in her stead. Jo glanced again at the nurse. She opened the bag and took everything out.
Pink lipstick, breath mints, lighter, grocery list. No cell phone. She opened the wallet, found a driver's license, two credit cards, eighty dollars in cash.
One photo, a snapshot of a man who had a Kansas farmer's weather-beaten face and a smile so cool, he looked like he was auditioning for Reservoir Dogs. His thumbs were hooked over a belt with a gigantic silver buckle, rodeo size, shaped like a casino chip. Tarantino Gothic.
Older brother? Boyfriend? No name or date, no way to contact him. Dead end.
She put everything back.
She picked up Meyer's black skirt, reached in the pocket and felt a slick piece of paper. It was an album sleeve from a CD. The All-American Rejects, Move Along. It contained the lyrics to the songs on the album. One song had been circled in black pen.
Jo blinked, and her breath snagged.
"Dirty Little Secret."
She knew the song, could hear it in her head, the playground taunt of the melody and the singer's teasing, conspiratorial tone. The final line of the chorus had been highlighted with bright yellow marker: Who has to know?
A note was scrawled across the page in black ink. Callie, this is what you were talking about, isn't it?
And below that: Can anybody play?
With a smiley face drawn next to it.
Jo compared the handwriting to that on the grocery list. They matched. She returned to the bedside. Meyer lay still and silent.
"Geli, I want to help you. I wish you could help me."
She might as well have been talking to the sky. After a minute she returned Meyer's chart to the nurses' station. She asked for a sealable plastic bag, an adhesive label, and a black Sharpie. Putting on her toughest I'm-a-doc face, she held up the Ail-American Rejects album sleeve for the nurse to see.
"This is evidence relating to the crash." She put it in the plastic bag.
The nurse scowled. "Where did you get that?"
"It needs to go to the police." She sealed the bag, stuck the label across the seal, signed and dated the label. She handed the Sharpie to the nurse. "You need to sign it as well. You're my witness that I've created a chain of custody."
