The Dirty Secrets Club

by Meg Gardiner

  "No seat belt."

  "No. Her injuries were unsurvivable."

  "Dr. Cohen?" Tang said.

  He glanced at her. "I'm coming to it."

  "What do I need to see?" Jo said.

  "We discovered it during the external exam, when we removed her clothing."

  He pointed at Harding's left arm. It lay against the table palm up.

  Jesus.

  Jo said nothing, but her temples felt tight.

  Cohen's assistant turned around. "Ready for me to put these back?"

  He had Callie's heart and lungs in his hands. Behind her, Jo heard a retching sound. She turned. Tang had jammed her hand over her mouth.

  Cohen said, "Not in here, Lieutenant."

  Sweat shone on Tang's forehead. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  "Crap," Cohen said. "Dr. Beckett, can you ..."

  Jo was already moving.

  Tang keeled against the counter like a crash-test dummy. Jo grabbed her under the arms and hauled her toward a chair. Her legs were like jelly. Jo plopped her down, slumped to one side.

  "Put your head between your knees," she said.

  The young cop's eyes were glazed and half open. Jo leaned her forward and pushed her head down between her knees to get blood flowing to her brain.

  "She seemed fine," Cohen said.

  "It happens."

  Jo kept her hand on Tang's back. After a few seconds Tang's breathing deepened. She pushed Jo's hand away and slowly sat up.

  "Welcome back," Jo said. "Have a nice trip?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Sure. Just take it easy."

  But Tang was getting unsteadily to her feet. She brushed off the hand Jo extended and held on to the counter instead.

  Cohen nodded at the door. "Dr. Beckett, you want to take the lieutenant where she can get some air?"

  "It's the heat in here. I'll be all right," Tang said.

  She had paled to a shade of glue. Jo took her elbow, held tight so Tang couldn't shake it off, and guided her out the door.

  "Did you see it?" Tang's tone was tough chick, but her voice was mousy.

  "I saw it." Jo heard her own voice, grim. "Second time today that word has shown up."

  Tang looked at her, puzzled. "In the course of the investigation?"

  "In the course of possible murder-suicide. What do you think that means?"

  Four letters, on Callie's arm in black ink. On Maki's boat in gasoline. Pray.

  Jo took Tang to the lobby. The jack-o'-lanterns seemed to leer at

  them. The detective's face looked like wet dough, but she was recovering her composure.

  Self-consciously she pulled her arm away from Jo's hand. "Somebody's writing the word pray on victims?"

  "Or at the crime scene." She watched Tang for a moment, making sure she was steady on her feet. "Let me find out what Cohen can tell me about the blood work. Stay here for a minute; I'll be back."

  "I was only waiting until you showed up. I don't need to hang around to hear all the ghosts that haunt these halls laugh at me."

  "Neither of us wants to rent this place for a Halloween party. But I have information you need to know."

  Back in the autopsy suite, Cohen was bent over the table. Though he couldn't inflict pain, he still moved with delicacy.

  "Barry, can you give me a rundown of what you have so far?" Jo said.

  "Tox doesn't have all the blood work, but there's no sign carbon monoxide affected Harding's driving, and her blood alcohol was point-zero-zero."

  "Has anybody compared the imprints on the bottom of her shoes to the pedals in the BMW?"

  "Not yet."

  That meant they didn't know whether she was on the brake or the accelerator when she crashed. "How about her clothes and effects? Anything unusual?"

  He looked up. "She liked exceptionally fine things. She was not only wearing white-diamond stud earrings, but a black diamond as well." He touched Callie's upper ear. "Here. Several karats, I'd guess. A rare gem."

  Jo nodded. "Anything else?"

  "You'll be the fourth to know."

  "Make me the third. If we don't figure this out, I have a bad feeling somebody else might end up on your table. And I mean soon."

  She turned to go, but he called her back.

  "I think I know how Angelika Meyer was declared dead." His voice tightened. "When I checked her pulse, I had a possible examination bias. The paramedics told me she was dead, and I didn't expect contraindications."

  "Have you spoken to them?"

  "Yes. They didn't examine her. When they arrived they were immediately called to work on the victims in the airport shuttle. The first cop on the scene said the two in the BMW were dead. Young guy, Latino. Quite upset, they say."

  Jo thought about it. "Chain reaction?"

  "Like playing Telephone." He shook his head. "Still, I detected no signs of life, and I should have."

  "She's alive. That's what counts," Jo said.

  He smiled bleakly. "Thought you didn't do therapy."

  "Guess I won't bill you, then. Thanks, Barry."

  She walked back to the lobby, and with Tang headed outside. Stepping into the fresh air, they inhaled in concert.

  Tang took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She lit up, drew hard, and tilted her head up to exhale. "Ghosts. Hate 'em. Bunch of them are my ancestors."

  "They seemed more like jinns to me. Maybe ghouls."

  "Jinns? Now you're screwing with my head."

  "Genies. Spirits. Some of them become diabolical."

  "How Old Country of you to think so." Tang took another drag and squinted at her. "What are you, anyway?"

  "Grandma was Japanese. Grandpa was Coptic Egyptian. Couple of the Irish were horse thieves. Mom and Dad met at Disneyland." She smiled. "I'm pure California mutt."

  Tang smirked, pinching the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger.

  "Something strange was going on with Callie Harding," Jo said.

  She found Callie's handwritten invitation, saying Welcome to the Dirty Secrets Club.

  Tang took it. "What the hell?"

  "There's more."

  Jo handed her the sealed Baggie containing the album sleeve she'd found in Angelika Meyer's purse, with the song "Dirty Little Secret" highlighted.

  "What was going on?" Tang said.

  "Don't know, but Callie and Meyer both worked at the U.S. Attorney's Office. We need to talk to Leo Fonsecca."

  Tang threw the cigarette to the sidewalk. "You drive; I'll call him. Tell me the rest on the way."

  On the way to the Federal Building, Tang sat small and prickly in the passenger seat.

  "We've got Dirty written on Harding's leg in lipstick. You've been bad and Welcome to the Dirty Secrets Club in her handwriting. Dirty Little Secret and a request to play in Meyer's. Followed by a fistfight and a swan dive off the bridge," she said. "They were lovers. It was a freaky game."

  "I don't think so."

  "Two women, black lace, red lipstick, self-loathing. Screaming death. Sounds like it to me."

  "Last night you thought it was part of a bizarre killing spree."

  "I still do. What do you think, they were fighting over a man? If I can't have him, neither can you—bam? That would be a real piece of psychodrama. Hard-core street theater."

  Jo gave her a dark look.

  Tang returned it. "I'm working through the possibilities, and don't knock it. I've been an investigator longer than you've been playing Vulcan Mind Meld with dead people."

  Jo slowly turned her head, eyed Tang, and laughed. "That's a new one on me. Not bad."

  Tang leaned back, a porcupine of a woman, but her shoulders dropped an inch. Traffic gleamed along in the sunshine. Ratty commercial buildings and cracked sidewalks blurred past. Then a soup kitchen, and a vacant lot where a chain-link fence guarded a profusion of weeds.

  "Fine," Tang said. "You're the expert on cases where crazy sexual posing is part of the death scene. Tell me what you think."

 
; "I think the Dirty Secrets Club is more than a game Callie and Meyer were playing. I think other people are involved."

  "A real club? With a secret handshake, a refreshments committee, and a newsletter?"

  "I think Maki and Yoshida were part of it. Callie's browser history was jammed with search hits for their names." Jo stopped for a red light. "I think all three of their deaths are part of a series. And how come nobody told me Maki and his lover were shot to death?"

  "You didn't know?" Tang looked at her with suspicion. "Then how'd you find out about the shootings? That information hasn't been released."

  "I talked to the PJ who was on scene."

  "Did you tell him to keep it quiet?"

  "He's not going to talk to the press, or even his drinking buddies."

  Tang ran a hand over her spiky hair and put up a hand. "My oversight about the shootings. I'm snowed under."

  "Understood."

  "So these deaths are related. But..."

  "But there's no evidence that anybody murdered Callie. Right? No bombs under the BMW, no severed brake lines?"

  Tang took out a cell phone and punched a number. "We have any results on the BMW?"

  She whipped out a little notepad and scrawled. The light turned green as she hung up.

  "Forensics says the BMW was in perfect condition. It was so new, when you opened the doors you could still smell the Black Forest. Brakes, drive train, engine were all fine. The gas pedal didn't jam. The car didn't cause the crash."

  "Okay. But I still can't rule out an accident. Need to look at the road, the driver, or interference from another source."

  "Road and interference, nada. You think Callie screwed up at the wheel?"

  "Possibly. And how about the emergency brake?"

  "Not engaged. And none of the tires were blown out. And no bombs." Tang frowned out the window. "What's the evidence for and against Harding having killed herself?"

  "You want the indicators that a motor vehicle crash is suicide?"

  "Knock yourself out."

  "Count five red flags. First, good weather. Second, good road conditions—dry pavement, good street lighting. Third, the road's straight—it's not like the driver lost control on a hairpin curve."

  "And Stockton Street is as straight as a ski jump."

  "Fourth, no skid marks—and the vehicle leaves a straight road headed directly to a fixed object, such as a bridge abutment."

  "Check, and check again."

  "Fifth, the driver is the lone occupant in the car."

  Tang crossed her arms. "So there's our monkey wrench. Either that, or we're back to murder-suicide."

  "Do you have any indication that the burning boat was anything other than murder-suicide?"

  "No. From everything so far, the evidence is conclusive. Maki shot William Willets and then himself."

  Jo was quiet a moment. "What killed Dr. Yoshida?"

  "We suspect a barbiturate overdose. It looked like a heart attack because he was found slumped at the wheel of his car at the beach. We should know later today."

  "And his son died shortly before he did?"

  "An overdose, two days earlier."

  Jo glanced at her. "Forty-eight hours?"

  "I know."

  They rolled along in traffic, silent for a minute. Ahead the stately granite buildings of the Civic Center came into view.

  Tang was pensive. "Tell me what you think. Wild-ass speculation."

  "I think the Dirty Secrets Club exists, and that Callie was a ranking member. The invitation to join the club—the near formality of the note, and the stationery, strike me as significant."

  "How about the sexual angle?"

  "Callie had racy lingerie and an ex who can't get her out of his head. He seems lost but also angry and emasculated."

  "She was a dominatrix?"

  "This all indicates she may have been in a position of authority. If there's a club, I think she helped run it."

  "So what's it about? Guilt, you think? Expiation through suicide?"

  "I don't have enough evidence to judge."

  "Is it becoming a death cult?"

  "Pray suggests a religious aspect, but Callie apparently wasn't devout. On the other hand, it could be a message from a killer. Repent, the end is near."

  "So what's your conclusion?"

  She glanced at Tang. "I think this club is why Callie, Yoshida, and Maki are dead. It's why Meyer is nearly dead. And we'd better find out if other people belong, because something bad is going on, and it's not over. That's why Meyer begged me to stop it."

  "So who's next? And how do we keep them from dying?"

  Jo looked at her watch. She didn't know, but they were down to thirty-six hours.

  Scott Southern listened to his cell phone ringing. Outside, the wind funneled around the car. But in the Range Rover, parked with the windows rolled up, it was hot and still. His ringtone was the USC fight song, and to his ears it sounded like a mockery.

  Only three people could be calling. The offensive coach of the 49ers, worried because he wasn't at practice. Kelly, hurt because he'd slammed the front door when he stalked out of the house earlier. Or the man in the Cadillac.

  The parking lot at the Palace of Fine Arts was shaded by towering eucalyptus trees. Tourists strolled the grounds, wandering beneath the dome of the Roman rotunda. On the bay nearby, the water was a sparkling blue.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  He was in trouble and sinking like a stone. The buzz he'd been experiencing with the club, the adrenaline rush, the huge relief he'd found by being able to confess, openly—it was all dissolving. David Yoshida's death no longer seemed a sad misfortune. And Callie . . .

  He ran a hand over his face. This whole adventure was going wrong.

  The phone rang again. One of two people, then. Coach, getting pissed off now. Or Cadillac Man. He closed his eyes.

  How did the guy get his name? Who had told him? The club promised impenetrable secrecy, but somebody had talked. And now the whole lousy story was close to coming out.

  He ignored the scornful ringtone, hanging on to his last moments of quiet. Once he opened the door, all the noise in the world would howl down on him.

  He was twenty-nine. He was paid four million dollars a year to catch a football for the 'Niners. Another six on top of that in annual endorsements for Adidas, the Outback Steakhouse, and Mattel.

  A week ago he was on top of everything—the NFL, his game, a skyscraper rooftop with Callie. Today he'd been supposed to meet with her, to find out if his spectacular dare had earned him entry to the top level of the club, where the big payoff was supposed to be. The breath went out of him, like he'd been punched. Callie, Christ. The thought of earning a black diamond didn't excite him anymore.

  And now this.

  He felt like he was sinking in tar. He had a beautiful woman at home, hurt and frightened. Cadillac Man had mailed her an anonymous note. Your husband has a dirty secret. He knew it was really a threat: Do what the man wanted, or the rest would come out. How had the guy found out?

  The trees rustled. Beyond the Roman rotunda, the surface of the lagoon shivered under the breeze. The white Cadillac pulled in, disco thumping from its speakers, and parked next to him.

  Cadillac Man, the slick of grease who called himself Skunk, was behind the wheel. He got out, walked over and stood in front of the Range Rover. He looked like a skunk, with his oily gray-streaked hair and his dumb suspicious eyes.

  The tar felt thick and clinging. Scott got out. The wind was brisk, funneling through the Golden Gate headlands and across the bay.

  A smile curdled on Skunk's little mouth. "I lost two hundred bucks on your team this weekend."

  Scott felt perplexed. "Is this about money?"

  "I wish. Let's walk," the man said.

  "No. Tell me what you want."

  Skunk looked around. "Want these people to hear it?"

  The wind went further out of Scott's sails. He followed Skunk through the gate into
the grounds.

  Skunk looked five foot seven, maybe a hundred forty-five pounds. Scott was six three, two fifteen, all speed and muscle. He could snatch a football from the air amid a tangle of defenders, cradle it like a baby, grind and spin it into the end zone. He could have straight-armed this rodent, knocked him flat with a couple of broken ribs. But that would get him nothing. Skunk wasn't the only one involved. Put him down, somebody else was behind him.

  And it didn't matter how well Scott could keep from fumbling a football, how strong and nimble he was, how determined to win. This was about his failures. All at once he felt incredibly small.

  "I told you, I can't give you what you want," he said. "I don't have the information. I don't know who does."

  "And I told you—find out."

  Ahead, through the trees, the rotunda shone in the sun. Columns were topped with gods and angels. Somebody had once called this place a beaux arts hallucination. It was like the Roman Forum had been transported to the present day and set down in a woodsy park.

  Skunk leaned toward him. "I said, find out. Like I told you on the phone, the prosecutor's dead. You want to be dead, too?"

  Scott didn't respond.

  "How did it work?" Skunk said. "Did she come to you, or was it the other way around? You got dirty with her, told her all those secrets you never wanted anybody to know?"

  Despite the wind, the air felt suffocating. The noise of traffic was like the onrushing sense of destruction he had felt since this nightmare began.

  "Here's the deal," Skunk said. "You get the names we need today, or your secret won't be a secret anymore."

  "I can't. There has to be some alternative. Money? I can pay you whatever you want."

  "If I wanted money I'd tell you to drop a pass or two against the Rams next weekend."

  Scott fought the constricting feeling around his chest. "I can do that."

  Skunk slid his little hands into the pockets of his Members Only jacket. "I bet you would. You'd throw the Super Bowl to keep this stuff secret."

  He would. And he felt the tar seeping higher, the weight pressing on his chest. The sky no longer looked blue to him, but flat gray. Jesus.

  Skunk would tell. He would tell the world and he would enjoy it. He would smile at the sight of Scott Southern being torn to shreds in the media.