“Press conference?” Al said. “Don’t you think we’re jumping the gun a bit?”
“Get me an ID.”
Casey glanced at the clock. Almost five-thirty. In half an hour, Becca would be meeting him downstairs for drinks. He picked up the phone, called the morgue again.
“This is Kellog up in Homicide,” he told the woman who answered. A different clerk from the last one. “I’m looking for that ID on the accident victim at the Golden Gate Bridge parking lot.”
“Hold on. Let me check…Hey! Bren. The John Doe from the Golden Gate—” He heard her rustling some papers, then a click as she put him on hold. Less than a minute later, she was back. “Our records show we sent it up to you.”
“Well, I don’t have it.”
“It’s sort of a madhouse down here. Maybe it got misfiled. Give me a few to dig it up.”
“Thanks,” Casey said into the phone, then to Al, “Morgue says they already sent up the ID on our Presidio suspect. How long do you think it’ll take them to dig it up? I was meeting someone for drinks.”
Haynes looked up from his computer. “I think I may have gotten your ID. Darrell Fife…I was wondering who he was. Here.” He tossed over a manila folder with a printout on the suspect.
“Thanks,” Casey said. He added the name to his report, finished the last few details, printed it for the lieutenant, then hurried downstairs to meet Becca.
She was waiting by the elevator bank when he got off, and he had to do a double take, since he almost didn’t recognize her out of uniform and with her hair down. Brown and wavy, it hit below her shoulders. It suited her.
And so did the black hooded sweater, white T-shirt, and blue jeans tucked into low-heeled boots.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a bit underdressed for much of anything but the usual haunts.”
The last thing he wanted to do was hang out in some cop bar. “I was thinking the Ferry Building. Been there?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“A little touristy,” he replied. “But my mom likes it.”
Becca laughed. “Your mom? Hmmm. I’m not even sure how to take that.”
“I haven’t gone there with her. She told me it was a good place to impress a girl on a date.”
“Is this a date?”
“I’d like to think so.” He held the door open for her, and they walked through the breezeway, past the morgue.
Al caught up to them. “Got my message, did you?” he asked Casey.
“What message?”
“To meet me down here—” Al stopped when he seemed to notice Becca for the first time. “Officer Windsor, right?”
“Becca,” she said then smiled.
“Becca. Sorry. I hope you two weren’t off to something important.”
“Drinks,” Casey said, even though he knew that Al knew.
“Oh,” Al replied. “I can handle it, then.”
“Handle what?”
“Follow-up on our suspect in the Presidio murder. Being that he’s also a suspect in the Landmark Strangler cases, the LT wants the report on him done before the press conference tomorrow. No worries. I’ll grab Haynes. He was still up there when I left.”
Becca touched Casey on the arm. “Rain check. Okay?”
“If I get done early enough, maybe a late dinner instead?”
“Sure. Call.” She backed away, her smile lighting up her face. “Then again, maybe you’ll get lucky and it really is the Strangler.”
She turned, headed into the parking garage.
Al waited until she was out of earshot then handed the printout to Casey. “She cleans up well.”
Casey ignored him, turning his attention to the paper in his hand. “This is a no-bail warrant.”
“Exactly. For our so-called suspect, Darrell Fife. Which means that he may have been running because of it, not because he killed Trudy Salvatori. We need to walk a search warrant through, see what we can find at his place.”
“I liked this better when we didn’t know who he was.”
“Like the girl said, maybe you’ll get lucky and he really is the Strangler.”
Casey looked toward the parking garage and Becca’s departing figure. “In this case, I’d rather get lucky with her.”
“Welcome to adulthood, kid. You’re finally starting to figure it out.”
SEVEN
Darrell Fife’s last known address was that of his mother, Linda Gregory, and her second husband, Jon, who was the one who answered the door. He stood there, an unlit pipe in his mouth, waiting for them to say something. The moment Casey and Al identified themselves as San Francisco cops, he turned and shouted, “Linda! It’s for you.”
She came to the door, saw the credential cases they held up with their stars. “Oh my G—” She clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes pooling with tears. “Something’s happened. What?”
Al removed his hat, held it against his chest, then gave her that fatherly look, a mixture of authority laced with kindness. “Mind if we come in, Mrs. Gregory?”
She stood there, staring, then, as though it suddenly occurred to her what he’d asked, moved aside to let them in.
Jon Gregory sighed. “I knew this day would come. Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes,” Al said.
He lit his pipe anyway then followed them into the living room.
“Sit,” Linda told them as Jon made a beeline to a battered recliner, something that didn’t match the delicate sofa and matching blue armchair.
As usual, Al stood off to one side. Casey took a seat on the sofa then opened his portfolio. “Darrell Fife is your son, Mrs. Gregory?”
She nodded. “He lives in the garage. We converted it to a studio apartment for him.”
Jon pulled his pipe from his mouth, saying, “Keep him out of the damned house is why. No good—”
“Jon!” She smiled at Casey. “I’m sorry. Please. Continue.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
She looked over at her husband. “He works odd jobs, so we don’t always see him regularly.”
“Odd jobs my ass,” Jon said. “Doubt he’s ever worked a day in his life. It’s why I can’t even park my own truck in my own garage. You did find it, didn’t you?”
“Find what?” Casey asked.
“My truck. I called and reported it soon as I saw it missing from the driveway this morning. Green Chevy. Seems it went missing same time as Darrell.”
Casey and Al exchanged glances. They’d run every vehicle plate found in that area and would certainly have remembered if one was reported stolen.
Al pulled out his phone. “I’ll have someone double-check. You have any paper work on that truck, Mr. Gregory?”
“Sure.”
He stood, but Mrs. Gregory said, “What’s this about? Has something happened to Darrell? Was he in that truck?”
And though it would’ve been nice to get through all the questions before imparting such bad news, Casey realized they couldn’t put it off. “I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs. Gregory. But your son, Darrell, was killed.”
She simply stared at Casey, nodding as though she’d expected such news all along. Her husband put his pipe down on a tray on the table then moved to his wife’s side, taking her hand in both of his. She leaned into him, the tears finally falling.
Mr. Gregory looked at Casey over the top of her head. “What happened?”
“He was hit by a car.”
“An accident?” Mr. Gregory asked.
“In a way. He was running from the police. We have a warrant to search his house.”
Jon Gregory nodded. “I see. Well, easy enough. He doesn’t live here. He lives in the garage. Converted it over. You’re welcome to have at it. Isn’t that right, Linny?”
She nodded.
“I k
now this can’t be easy for you, Mrs. Gregory, but we’re hoping to learn as much about him as possible. What he did. Who he associated with. That sort of thing.”
Mrs. Gregory wiped at her eyes. “We wouldn’t let him bring any of his friends over. That was one of the rules. The neighbors got very upset when they’d ride up on their motorcycles. You could hear them all the way up the street. Horrible noise.”
Casey nodded, trying to appear as sympathetic as Al always managed to look. “Any of these so-called friends of his come by lately?”
“No,” Jon said. “I made it very clear that if I so much as saw one of them at my house, he was gone.”
“Except,” Lin said. “There was that one man a couple of days ago.”
“What man?” Jon asked.
“He brought a phone by for Darrell. I told you about that.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“Well, I thought I did. And he was only here for a minute, so I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“What phone?” Casey asked.
“I assume it was Darrell’s. He certainly didn’t seem surprised when I gave it to him.”
Jon made a scoffing noise. “Probably stolen. Not like he was paying for it.”
She got up, crossed the room to a small writing desk, and pulled a tissue from the box sitting on it. “He told me it was for a job. So I thought you’d be happy that he was working.”
“Working? The only money he ever made was from selling drugs. And that’s when he wasn’t using them.”
Her tears started anew, and Al stepped forward, saying, “Mrs. Gregory. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for some water?”
Al led her into the kitchen, listening as she said, “It was the drugs. We stopped giving him money. That’s why we couldn’t let him in the house anymore. He—he couldn’t help himself…”
“Of course not,” Al said.
When they were out of earshot, Mr. Gregory leaned toward Casey. “Frankly, I’m glad he’s dead. Got to where I was sleeping with a gun in my nightstand. Not that I’d say so to my wife, you know what I mean,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen.
“I can understand,” Casey said.
“So why were you chasing him?”
“Believe it or not, because he ran.”
He gave a slight nod, puffing on his pipe as he took in the news. “Where’d you say this happened?”
“Out by the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Hmm,” he said as the smoke plumed up above him. “Saw that on the news. The woman who worked for Congressman Parnell. Lin’s boy, eh?”
“It was. Don’t suppose he had any dealings with the congressman?”
“Nope. Why? You think Lin’s boy had something to do with that woman’s murder? That’s why he ran?”
“That’s one theory. He also had a no-bail warrant.”
“And my stolen truck.”
“And that.”
“Don’t think he’d want to go to jail,” he said, chewing on the end of his pipe.
“You think he’s a killer?”
Jon glanced into the kitchen, probably making sure his wife was out of earshot. “Threatened me a few days back. Said it wouldn’t be the first time he killed someone. About when my truck keys went missing, now that I think about it.” He leaned back in his chair, nodding to himself. “So I guess the answer is yeah. As long as there’s something in it for him.”
“You know that moment,” Al said on their drive back to San Francisco, “when you think you have a slam-dunk case. Got your dead suspect, got your witnesses. The only thing left is to write it up, then collect the accolades for a job well done?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, this ain’t it.”
Casey glanced over, then back at the road. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I would’ve never figured that one out on my own.”
“That’s Sergeant Obvious to you,” he said as his cell phone rang. “Probably the lieutenant. Chomping at the bit.”
“Champing,” Casey said.
“See? Only you would know that. There’s such a thing as too much book learning.”
“Those books are what got me here.”
“And the stuff I learned on the mean streets are what got me here before those textbooks were ever written.” He pulled out his phone, hitting the speaker function. “Hey, LT. We’re just clearing the house.”
“I’m sitting here in the captain’s office. Tell me you have good news.”
“That depends. I don’t think anyone’s gonna sue us for accidental death of the suspect. Regular dirtbag, according to the stepfather.”
“Is he or isn’t he the Strangler?” It was the captain’s voice. Apparently the lieutenant had them on speakerphone as well.
“Right now? We’re still trying to make him as the killer, period. The search was a bust. Clothes and drugs were about it. Not even a computer. So personally I’d hold off on the press conference tomorrow if I were you. At least until we get that settled.”
“Too late,” the captain said. “The moment those reporters found out there was another strangling and the victim worked for the congressman, the phone’s been ringing nonstop. So whatever it is you need to do to figure it out? Get it done. Tonight. Come tomorrow morning, I want you and your partner front and center.”
A beep signaled the disconnection.
“Great,” Al said, dropping the phone into his pocket.
“Why do we need to be front and center?”
“So the press knows who to blame should we fail.”
Casey glanced at the clock on the dash. Almost eight. “So much for dinner.”
“Drop me off at the BART station. I can ride into the city, and you can catch a bite to eat with Becca.”
“That’ll go over well with the captain.”
“One, we haven’t eaten since lunch. We’re allowed breaks. Two, there’s no rule we have to eat together. The only thing left to do is write up the reports and put out a BOLO on the missing truck. Other than that, I’m not sure what it is he thinks we’re going to be able to do tonight.”
“Maybe it’s already been found. You try to run it?”
“Thinking with your head. We might make a good investigator out of you yet.” Al turned on the cab light to read the information that Mr. Gregory had given him on the truck, then called dispatch on the radio. “Ten-twenty-nine on the following…” He read the plate, then added, “Status update only. We do not have the vehicle in sight.”
“Copy. Stand by,” the dispatcher replied. A moment later, she repeated the plate number, adding, “Ten-twenty-nine comes back ten-eight-five-one on a green Chevy pickup reported stolen from San Bruno this AM.”
“Copy. Confirm it’s still outstanding?”
“Affirm.”
“Ten-four. BOL on that vehicle in the area of Golden Gate Bridge and Presidio. If found, contact me ASAP.” Al turned off the light. “So it’s still in the system,” he told Casey.
“I know they ran the plates out at the scene this morning. I specifically asked. Nothing came up stolen.”
“Maybe I’ll drive out there after dinner. Don’t know about you, but I’m starved. BART station?”
“Your call.”
“Your date.”
“BART it is.”
Casey phoned Becca the moment he dropped Al off at the Daly City BART station. “Any chance you’re free for a quick bite to eat?” he asked her.
“They’re letting you have some time off after all?”
“I still have to finish a report later, but apparently we’re allowed dinner. I’m about ten minutes away. Where do you want to go?”
“Come on by my place. I cook a mean microwave pizza.”
“Pizza it is.”
By the time Casey pulled up in front of Becca’s house, he w
as as nervous as a schoolboy about to be alone with his first girl. He didn’t move, just sat in the car, trying to even his breathing. This was silly, he thought. It hadn’t been that long.
Or had it?
Okay, it had.
Get out of the car.
With one last calming breath, he exited, walked up to the porch, wiped his sweaty palms on his jacket, then knocked.
Becca opened the door a moment later, standing aside to let him in. She was dressed in jeans that fit her like a second skin, and a turquoise sweater that hugged all the right places. She wore absolutely no makeup, and her damp hair hung in loose ringlets about her shoulders.
He smiled, trying to think of something clever to say, but all that came out was, “You showered?”
“You keeping track?”
“What? No, I—Can we start over?”
She laughed then took his hand, leading him into the kitchen. “I just got back from the gym when you called.” She let go of his hand, then walked over to the refrigerator, opening it and pulling out two amber-colored bottles of Anchor Steam. “Beer?”
He found himself staring at her backside as he slipped off his suit coat.
Get it together, Casey, he told himself as she looked over her shoulder at him, waiting for his answer. “Water, please. Still on duty, technically.”
She put one bottle back, set the other on the counter, then filled a glass with ice and water from the refrigerator tap. “Your drink.”
Once she popped off the top from her beer, she held up her bottle in a toast. “Cheers.”
He clinked his glass to her bottle. “Cheers.”
She sipped at her beer then opened the freezer, digging through the contents. “Sorry about the lack of a decent dinner offering.”
“I love microwave pizza.”
“Really?” She looked back at him, surprised.
“No. But I don’t care. I’m not here for the food.” He set his water on the counter and crossed the narrow space in two steps. “Or was I wrong?”
She shook her head.
That was all he needed to know, and he pushed the freezer door shut, pulled her close, and ran his fingertips against her cheek. “Fair warning,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
The Last Good Place Page 5
