Or was it all her imagination? No. Devin had been manipulating her the entire time. Anger surged through her at the thought.
Her phone alerted her to a text, and she knew it was Devin, asking if she was on her way. She held up the photo. “Do you mind if I take this?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“I think we deserve an explanation.”
Tony sucked in a ragged breath, his gaze fixed on the picture. “Okay.”
Worried he might change his mind, she walked around to the driver’s door and got in.
Tony knocked on the passenger window, and she lowered it. “What if there’s some explanation?” he asked. “Maybe someone’s just trying to hurt us?”
“All the more reason to let me show this to Devin and find out what’s going on.”
She tossed the photo onto the seat beside her, started the car, then pulled away.
At the top of the street, she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Tony standing there, watching her still. It struck her as odd, and she glanced over at the passenger seat, saw the butt of the gun showing from beneath the towel.
She hesitated, wondering if she should go back and explain why it was there.
Then again, why bother?
It wasn’t as if she was planning on doing anything wrong. At least that’s what she thought until her gaze flicked to that photo.
FORTY-ONE
Casey spent what little time was left before his oral interview finishing up his report on the Presidio case and writing up the search warrant for Marcie’s computer. The office was quiet. Most of the investigators were in the debriefing for the Landmark Strangler surveillance and subsequent arrest. The captain was holding a press conference later, and he wanted Dunmore booked on murder charges so that he could announce to the world that they had caught the Strangler.
Unfortunately, all that they had was circumstantial evidence of the current attacks on the three women, including Becca.
But Casey also knew they had served a search warrant on Dunmore’s apartment and located some very incriminating evidence, and even now they were interrogating the man on what they’d found. And though Casey would have liked to at least observe—via closed-circuit monitor—the interrogation with the other involved investigators, he knew his time was better spent finishing up the Presidio reports.
That case was still outstanding, a killer still on the loose.
In truth, he hoped that by going over the notes and reports he had written and finishing those he hadn’t, he’d find that one piece of evidence or detail that would lead him to the answer.
Who had hired the hit on Trudy Salvatori?
And why?
He had never really liked Marcie for the crime. But the more he looked at it, the more everything pointed to her.
And an unknown male.
Not a lot he could do about it now, he thought as Al and Bishop walked in.
“We got him,” Bishop said. “The Strangler.”
“You did it, Kellog,” Al said. “It was the hooker case that broke him. Once he saw the video, it changed the course of the interrogation. West had him in the palm of his hand.”
“Where is West?” Casey asked.
“Still in there, finishing up the interrogation with the captain for his press conference,” Al said, picking up a file folder from his desk. “Going over the finer details, aka the rest of the nails in Dunmore’s coffin.” He eyed the report Casey had just finished. “Get any studying in?”
“I wanted to finish this first.”
“So it’s done. Go get a cup of coffee. Take a break. You deserve it.” Al tapped the stack of note cards sitting on Casey’s desk. “You have less than half an hour. Use it wisely.”
Casey eyed the cards that he’d studied so diligently each night, feeling confident that he’d ace whatever questions they threw at him. Even so, he picked them up, went over them again. Funny, but until this very moment, he hadn’t been nervous. And now that the interview was nearly on him, his stomach started knotting. There was a lot riding on this. He told himself that he wanted this, wanted to promote, prove to himself—to his parents, to Al, to everyone in Homicide and Robber—that he could do this, that he was cut out to supervise.
Time flew. A glance at the clock told him he was due upstairs in five minutes. He secured the cards with a rubber band then tossed them onto his desk.
He was slipping on his suit coat when Al and Lieutenant Timms walked in from the adjoining office.
“You ready?” Al asked.
Casey took a deep breath then let it out slowly. It helped, and he grinned. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good luck,” Timms said, shaking his hand.
“Thanks, sir.”
Timms left, leaving him alone with Al. The silence grew, and Casey gave a pointed look at the clock. “I better get up there. Any last-minute advice?”
Al studied him a moment. “Look ’em in the eye and be sincere.”
“That’s it?”
“Not sure you need much more than that. You got the Strangler. The rest should be easy.”
“Thanks. For everything. For making me the investigator I am.”
Al made a scoffing noise but then shook hands with him. “Making you less of a pain in the ass, you mean? Good luck, College Boy. I’m sure you’ll knock ’em dead.”
Casey walked out, wondering if he shouldn’t have worn his black suit instead of the charcoal gray. Like a suit color would make a difference.
Nerves. Funny what they did to a man. At least he looked calm on the outside. And as Al said, he had the Strangler cases beneath his belt. Surely that was worth something. But as Casey took a seat in the waiting area where the orals were being conducted, he wondered if being in Homicide and solving some high-profile case was any more of an advantage than that of these other candidates who had far more years of street experience. Maybe it was like Al said. He’d promoted too fast.
“Quit second-guessing yourself,” he whispered to the empty room.
He thought about what he was going to say when they asked that all important question, “Tell us about yourself.” The answer was supposed to be a spin on one’s career, what many in law enforcement called the I’m-a-god speech. His spin was that everything he’d done in his career led to being a good supervisor. Even so, he wished he’d brought his note cards, just to go over it one more time. Then again, the last thing he wanted was for someone to walk out that door and see him studying them. And no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than the door swung open. A sergeant he barely knew from patrol walked out, his black suit fit to perfection, the burgundy-and-blue stripes of his tie contrasting sharply against his crisp white shirt.
The man eyed Casey, nodded, then continued on past him, and Casey’s heart started thumping at the realization this was it. His time was near, the moment he had to prove to everyone that he had what it took to be a good lieutenant.
“We’ll be right with you,” a woman said from inside the room, just before she closed the door, undoubtedly for everyone to tally and compare notes on the candidate who had just left.
Be calm…
And surprisingly, he was. His heart rate slowed, and he went over his intro speech in his head, making sure he knew both the long and short version in case they threw in some time limitation.
About ten minutes later, the same woman called him into the room, asking him to sit at the table, facing the woman and three men, all lieutenants, two from outside agencies. Introductions were made, and then the woman said, “Tell us about yourself.”
“I currently work in Homicide—”
“Kellog…” the lieutenant from Oakland PD said, and Casey tried not to let his gaze drop to the man’s tie. He couldn’t help it. It clashed with his shirt. Purple and yellow. The guy’s wife must be out of town, or she’d never let him walk
out of the house in that thing. Color-blind, he thought as the man said, “Didn’t I just see you on the news recently?”
It was a moment before his words registered, and Casey worried he was going to bring up Parnell’s accusation of him being corrupt. “Possibly. We’ve had a few high-profile cases.”
“Right. The Landmark Strangler case. Were you involved in that?”
“Yes, sir,” Casey replied, realizing his I’m-a-god speech was being derailed by the notoriety of the homicide case. “We made the link from an older case.”
The Oakland PD lieutenant nodded. “Good work.” And then they started peppering him with questions about supervising, never giving him the opportunity to say what he’d prepared. It didn’t seem to matter. They were all leaning forward, their attention on him, some even nodding in agreement as though he’d hit on the right answer. He was feeling really good about this. And then that Oakland PD officer asked, “You’re supervising a problem employee. One who always seems to be the square peg trying to fit into the round hole. What do you do to make him fit?”
“What sort of problem?”
“You decide.”
It was one of those standard rhetorical questions that oral boards favored to see his thought process in action. He kept visualizing someone trying to pound that square peg into the hole. Only he couldn’t get his mind off the man’s tie.
Color-blind…
And suddenly, all he could think of was the hat they’d seen in Marcie’s living room.
He slid his chair back and stood. “You know, that’s a really good question, and if I had time,” he said, looking at his watch, “I’d answer it.”
“Is something wrong?” the woman asked.
“Possibly. It just occurred to me that I may have overlooked a very important detail in my murder investigation.”
“The interview’s not over. Can’t it wait?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.” He started backing from the room, realizing from the looks on their faces that he had completely blown any chances of passing this interview. He stopped, thought about shaking their hands, but figured it wouldn’t do any good at this point. “Sorry to waste your time, but duty calls.”
He turned and left.
“What the hell?” he heard the Oakland PD lieutenant say.
The woman followed him. “Sergeant Kellog!”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Casey called out, not bothering to stop. “I may have made a terrible mistake on a case.”
“But the oral interview…”
He hurried down the hallway, took the stairs to his office. By the time he reached his desk, he was breathing hard.
Haynes seemed surprised to see him. “You aced the interview that quick?”
“Not exactly. Where’s Al?”
“The morgue. Should be back in a few.”
Casey grabbed his keys and two portable radios, then hurried out the door. Al was just walking out of the morgue when Casey got to the lobby.
“How’d the interview go?” Al asked as Casey handed him his radio.
“I walked out in the middle of it.”
“What the hell for?”
“The Presidio murder. Which is where we’re going.”
“And what? It couldn’t have waited the fifteen minutes for you to finish?”
“I’ll explain in the car,” he said, calling the op center to have a couple of black-and-whites stand by just up the street from the Salvatori and Valentine houses.
Traffic was fairly thick, and he turned on his emergency lights, making a sharp right turn into an alley, then coming out on the next street over, which was less crowded. He ended up taking side streets, bypassing the busy intersections. He was just a few minutes away when his cell phone rang. It was Becca.
He was shocked to hear from her. Recovering, he said, “Can I call you later?”
“You may,” she said. “But right now I’m with Mr. Salvatori.”
He realized she was one of the units sent out to stand by. “I wanted everyone up the road.”
“And we were,” she said. “Until Mr. Salvatori called us. He saw Marcie taking off with a gun on her front seat. Pretty upset by the sound of it. Something about a photo of Devin and Trudy sitting at a restaurant, far too close for casual acquaintances.”
“Thanks for the call.”
Al overheard. “Guess Trudy had more than the congressman on her list of conquests. So where do you think Marcie was on her way to?”
“If I had to guess? Wherever Devin is.” And then he turned on his lights and siren and made a U-turn, heading to the construction site at the Marina District.
FORTY-TWO
Marcie slammed on her brakes and blasted her horn at a car that zipped in front of her from the adjoining lane. As usual, commuter traffic choked the streets and undoubtedly frayed the nerves of every driver on the road.
As if Marcie’s temper wasn’t already stretched taut.
Her fingers itched to pick up that gun, aim it at the jerk in front of her—and anyone else who got in her way.
She pictured the headline: Mad Housewife Shoots Driver in Road Rage Incident on Way to Kill Husband.
This was all Devin’s fault. She should’ve told him to find a ride home on his own. She hated driving in rush-hour traffic. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have made that one stop first. That delay certainly didn’t help matters. But she was seeing red, not thinking about how crowded the roads were becoming.
Finally, though, she arrived. She parked near the fence, careful to keep the gun wrapped as she walked to the gate of the construction site, which was still unlocked. Most of the workers had left by now, and she didn’t see anyone on the grounds. Just as well, considering, and she walked around to the side of the building, to the door that Devin texted her would be unlocked.
He wasn’t in his ground-floor office, and she called his cell phone. “Where are you?”
“Top floor,” he replied. “Come on up.”
“I thought that level wasn’t done yet.”
“It’s getting there. At least we have windows now.”
“I’m on my way.”
Her footsteps echoed on the polished concrete floor as she crossed the expansive lobby to the elevator. The once-dated bank building had been transformed into modern, upscale offices, with the top two floors renovated into penthouse offices with bay views that would turn a hefty profit when they were sold or leased out.
Her husband was counting on that money, since his business had invested far more into it than they could afford.
A risky venture with great rewards, he’d told her, and that was the thought she carried with her as she gripped that towel-wrapped gun. She pressed the elevator button. The door slid open. She stepped on and rode it up to the top.
The elevator opened to a vast, empty space, the floors unfinished and covered with sawdust and metal shavings. Steel framing indicated where offices would eventually be placed, but at the moment one could see all the way across the entire floor to the far side, where her husband stood over a table set up on two sawhorses.
He saw her and waved. She walked over, her heart slamming into her chest with each step. How was it she’d managed to be so calm downstairs, but not here?
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“I needed to make a stop first.” She glanced at the table, saw blueprints laid out, weighted down by a toolbox on one side and a large wrench on the other.
“For what?”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“About what?”
“Tony seems to think you and Trudy were having an affair. He wanted to know if I knew about it.”
“We’ve already had this discussion.”
“That was before I saw this.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the photo, placing it on top of the blue
prints. “That’s our restaurant.”
He glanced at the photo. “So Tony got the letter?”
She’d expected him to deny everything. Come up with excuses. “It’s true?”
“Of course it is.”
“How could you?”
“How could I what?”
“Send the letter to Tony!”
He gave a casual shrug. “I needed to make sure you saw it. I knew he’d show it to you.”
“But…why?”
“Easy. I don’t love you. It’s your fault that Trudy’s dead.”
His words hit her like a blow to her gut. Her heart thudded, and her legs turned to lead weights, too heavy to move. “Why did you need me to see that picture?”
“Same reason I needed you to bring the gun.” He nodded toward the bundle in her hand. “And why I had the security camera installed in the kitchen. So there’d be proof that you were angry enough to come kill me.”
“I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Well, that’s just it. You only tried to kill me. I was fortunate enough to get the gun from you before you could.”
“You’re insane.”
He lunged toward her and grabbed the gun, throwing the towel to the floor. He aimed it at her. “Calculating, yes. Insane? No.”
Move, she willed herself. But she couldn’t take her eyes from the gun. “It’s not loaded.”
“You’re sure? It feels like it is.”
Marcie saw the elevator from the corner of her eye. It seemed so far…. “Devin. Think about what you’re saying. You don’t have to do this. I’ll give you a divorce. Whatever you want.”
“The house?”
“Is that what this is about? Because I won’t sell my house?”
“Do you even know how much it’s worth? How much those damned trees behind it are worth?”
She edged toward the table. “Did you kill Trudy?”
“Her death was an accident.”
“Accident…?
He took a step forward. “It should have been you.”
The Last Good Place Page 25
