by Joanne Pence
“Be careful,” Rebecca said. She wore her usual jeans and low-heeled boots. “You don’t want to get hurt out here.”
“At least I’ve got my own ambulance and EMT’s,” Ramirez pointed out. “They could pick me up and wheel me to safety.”
“But if they let go, you’d roll down these hills right into the bay.”
“Not funny, Mayfield. My guys wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”
They wouldn’t dare. Rebecca knew the ME had a tendency towards tyranny in her realm. In everyone’s realm, come to think of it.
As they talked, they approached the body and Rebecca got her first good look at the victim. Even in death it was clear the deceased had been a beautiful woman. She was medium height, medium build, probably in her early forties, tastefully made-up and well dressed in a cashmere coat, wool dress, and Prada shoes. The uniforms had already told her that they couldn’t find the woman’s handbag, wallet, and cell phone.
Bill Sutter soon wandered over to see what Dr. Ramirez had to say as she examined the body.
The cause of death appeared evident given the location of the deep knife wounds in the vicinity of the heart and stomach. The murder weapon, however, wasn’t anywhere near the body.
“Any idea as to time of death?” Rebecca asked. It was now almost six in the morning.
“I’d say four, five hours ago.” Ramirez bent over the body looking for anything strange or inconsistent with the obvious conclusion of a death by stabbing and blood loss.
“So around one or two in the morning,” Rebecca said. This location was only a couple of blocks up the hill from Kiki’s spa. That would mean investigating two bodies found two blocks from each other within a four-day time frame. If this was a coincidence, considering this was the kind of neighborhood that didn’t see many homicides at all, it would rank somewhere up there with getting struck by lightning. She had to consider that she’d been looking at Inga’s death all wrong, and the murders were connected to the neighborhood and not the people involved. But then, she reminded herself, Kiki wouldn’t have been attacked in that scenario. Could all this mayhem be random, unrelated?
She shook her head. Nothing made any sense. She expected it would become clearer once this woman was identified.
Dr. Ramirez stood. “I’ll be better able to determine the time of death after the autopsy. Can I take the body now?”
Rebecca saw that the photographer had finished filming the victim and surrounding area. She glanced at Sutter, who nodded his okay. The ME’s staff moved in to transfer the victim to a body bag.
“Our vic looked pretty ritzy,” Sutter said to Rebecca as they walked away and looked over the area.
“Ritzy?” Rebecca said with a smirk.
“You know what I mean. Why would someone like her be out here alone that time of night? Her type usually takes a cab. Or a limo.”
Rebecca shrugged. “Maybe she’s been seeing someone and tonight they broke up so she had to go home alone. It happens.” She could have kicked herself. Why did she come up with such a piece of romance drama, and why say it out loud?
“I’m guessing she lives nearby,” Sutter said. “It could have been an interrupted robbery. She’s still got her rings, earrings, and necklace. They look like gold, and I don’t mean gold-plated.”
“But her purse is gone,” Rebecca said.
“Maybe she put up a fight, and whoever attacked her got scared and ran.”
Rebecca frowned. “Did you notice her fingernails? They were long and fake. They would have popped off in any kind of struggle. But if she didn’t fight …”
“That means someone just walked up and stabbed her,” Sutter said, finishing her sentence.
“Which suggests this was no random robbery,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps she knew her killer. Whoever wanted her dead might have taken the handbag to throw us off.”
Sutter nodded. “Let’s see what the people standing around have to say, if anything.”
Rebecca and Sutter began talking to the neighbors who were out in the street or watching from doorways. At the same time, uniformed officers were dispatched to search for the murder weapon and any identification the woman might have had.
None of the police were allowed to go knocking on doors until eight a.m. or later, according to their new captain’s policy of the police not disturbing anyone between the hours of 9 p.m. and 8 a.m. unless it was an emergency. And a murder investigation, per the new tsar, didn’t qualify.
o0o
Since she wasn’t able to knock on doors, Rebecca found herself searching the streets along with any dumpsters and trash receptacles within a two block radius. In a trash bin in front of a small corner grocery store, she found a black Coach handbag.
She took it out and opened it. Inside she found a wallet with no credit cards or money, but it did have a driver’s license.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured. The driver’s license photo looked just like the murder victim, but it was the woman’s name that most stunned her: Audrey Poole. Auburn hair. Brown eyes. 5’6”. 130 lbs. Forty-seven years old. Her driver’s license showed the Noriega Street address of Bay-to-Breakers Realty. The same place Rebecca and Sutter had tried to contact the woman with no luck.
Rebecca did find health insurance information, and by contacting them, she obtained Poole’s home address. She called Sutter, and met him at the address. It was on Vallejo Street, approximately a half-block from the murder scene. It was an older building, but appeared to have been renovated with new, large windows.
Sutter rang the bell for the manager, and they were buzzed inside.
“I can’t imagine anyone harming Audrey,” Lois Jamieson said after Rebecca and Sutter introduced themselves and explained what had happened. “She was a lovely woman. Doing very well for herself, too.”
Rebecca asked to see the victim’s apartment, to see if anything there could help catch her killer.
“Oh, of course!”
Jamieson led them to the elevator to the top floor and unlocked Audrey Poole’s door. She stood in the doorway as Rebecca and Sutter entered. The apartment was immaculate with a view of San Francisco Bay. It was the sort of place Rebecca could only dream of renting.
“How long did she live here?” Rebecca asked as Bill Sutter headed for the bedroom.
“She bought it a good dozen years ago, I’d say,” Jamieson replied.
“Bought it?”
“It’s a condominium.”
That put a new light on things, Rebecca thought. It also told her Richie probably knew the address and hadn’t given it to her. “Did she live alone?” Rebecca asked.
“She did.”
As Rebecca looked around, she understood what Richie had been saying about the woman finding a way to make a lot of money. The condo’s location and furnishings had to be worth a small fortune.
A den was off the living room and Rebecca entered. The desk was fairly neat, but the room also contained a large filing cabinet. Rebecca opened the cabinet to find it filled with many folders, all listed under a complex numbering system. Rebecca picked up a few folders and flipped through them. Each seemed to pertain to properties sold, but there were many folders for each property. She could only hope this case wouldn’t require her to go through all the financial statements and legal documents in this room. If so, she might never finish it.
The desktop was much easier to understand. On it, a small rubber-banded bundle of brochures and business cards showed “Audrey Poole, Realtor” and the business as Bay-to-Breakers Realty. Also, there were several fliers listing homes and apartments for sale throughout the Bay Area. None, however, showed Audrey Poole as the seller’s agent. Something seemed a little off here, but nothing jumped out as a cause for murder. And was it only yesterday that Richie had visited the woman?
She knew the news of Poole’s murder was going to upset him. He seemed to be genuinely fond of her.
A laptop sat in the middle of the desk, and Rebecca decided the best thing would be to take
it back to Homicide and go through it. She also found an iPad, and an older BlackBerry. No smart phone had been in the handbag or anywhere in the apartment that she could see. Yet, she suspected this was a woman who was joined at the hip with her phone. It very likely had been stolen along with the wallet, cash and credit cards.
Soon, Sutter joined her in the den, having found nothing of note elsewhere in the condo.
On the top shelf of a bookcase, Rebecca found an address book. She was surprised it was up there until she opened it and discovered Audrey used it to jot down her passwords. Instead of M being used for friends with last names like Mayfield, for example, it was where she showed “macys.com” followed by a user name and password. Clever. Except too easy to find.
Under A, Rebecca found Apple, plus a four-digit pin, but no phone number.
“Do you have Ms. Poole’s cell phone number?” Rebecca asked the manager.
“I do.” Mrs. Jamieson hurried off to her place. “I’ll be right back with it.”
As she waited, Rebecca did a quick perusal of the well-stocked kitchen with a variety of exotic spices. Audrey must have been a good cook. That probably added to her appeal to Richie.
Soon, Lois Jamieson returned. Rebecca called the number she was given, and the BlackBerry rang.
Something wasn’t right.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Richie and Vito sat in Richie’s favorite booth at the back of the Leaning Tower Taverna on Columbus and Vallejo streets. Richie was digging into a plate of carbonara, and Vito had a meatball sandwich. They always met before Shay arrived since he never ate restaurant food. In fact, Richie almost never saw him eat. Period.
This was the first time he and Vito had eaten together since Richie had been rude to him last Saturday night. Richie still felt bad about that, especially since Vito and Shay had taken it upon themselves to solve his gambler client’s debt problem. They convinced him to give away shares of his company stock to the individual he owed as well as to the men who ran the floating game. It was collateral. He either worked hard and bought the stock back, or they could sell his company out from under him. Richie assumed it would work, but at that point, it wasn’t his problem. Vito and Shay had done what the client wanted—made his current gambling problem disappear without his wife knowing about it.
Yesterday, Richie had directed the two of them to find out all they could about Audrey Poole’s current business dealings, and called this meeting to talk about their findings.
Now, Richie spent most of the meal trying to make up to Vito for his previous foul mood. He claimed he didn’t know what had gotten into him.
Well, actually, he did know—Rebecca—but he wasn’t about to tell Vito. The problem was between his head and his heart, and Richie was not a person who normally lived a conflicted life. Until lately.
He gave a mournful sigh as he slowly twirled his fork in the pasta, captured some, and stuffed it in his mouth. He washed it down with chianti.
Vito was grateful for Richie’s apologies, and ate quietly, occasionally using his finger to stop the spaghetti sauce from escaping the sandwich. He’d look woefully at Richie now and then, but knew better than to try to offer advice where it wasn’t wanted.
They were just finishing up when Shay walked in. Richie watched the waitress, who had spent the past half hour gushing over him and Vito, give Shay a sullen nod. She knew his cup of hot tea wouldn’t result in enough of a tip to warrant a smile.
“Same?” she asked him.
Shay nodded. Her sour expression apparently didn’t warrant a spoken response.
“How’s it goin’?” Richie asked Shay as he removed his jacket and ascot and slid into the booth beside Vito.
“Not good,” Shay said. “Audrey Poole has been murdered.”
Vito stopped adding sugar to his coffee, and Richie sat up straight in the seat. He felt as if he’d been sucker-punched. “Murdered? I just saw her yesterday.”
“All I can tell you is I was looking into her financials when the bank moved in and froze everything. I had to back out so my hack wouldn’t be found. I checked into why they were doing that, and discovered that Poole was dead. They found her on the street not far from her condo. She’d been stabbed.”
“Stabbed.” Richie shuddered, not able to stop himself from imagining the terror and pain she must have felt. “Damn! Poor kid. She was hiding out, doing all she could to stay safe. This makes me sick. It pisses me off.”
“I know she was a friend, boss,” Vito said. “I’m sorry.”
Richie nodded, trying to pull his emotions together. “Any word yet on who did it?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Shay said.
“See? Didn’t I tell ya?” Vito spoke up. “Something’s not right with her business. It ain’t natural.”
“He’s right,” Shay said. “And from the little I was able to see, there’s more to your ex-client’s story, that Steve Burlington, than he’s telling you.”
“As if another lying client should surprise me.” Richie shook his head, Audrey’s murder weighing heavily on him. “I don’t know why I deal with these scumbags.”
“Maybe it’s ’cause they’re the ones who get into trouble, boss,” Vito said. “Like Dante said, pride, envy and avarice are the sparks that set men’s hearts on fire. That’s why they need you.”
Vito’s favorite book was Dante’s The Divine Comedy. After he somehow managed to wade through it in his teens, he decided nothing else was worth reading. He read it again and again, and pulled out quotes at weird times, like now. Richie once swore that if Vito said “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” one more time, he’d tear his tongue out.
“You had good instincts about this,” Richie said finally, ignoring the quote. “I should have listened.”
Vito beamed. “It’s okay, boss. I think you been distracted.”
“Maybe so, but no more.” He took a deep breath. “We’re going to find whoever killed Audrey and make him pay, dammit. Vito, stick with Bay-to-Breakers Real Estate. With Poole gone, who takes over? Who comes, who goes? Shay, spread out to others in the business. Let’s get to the bottom of just what the hell happened to her.”
Shay nodded. “Isn’t Mayfield on-call this week? If so, Audrey Poole’s murder will be her case.”
“You even keep track of her schedule now?” Richie asked with a scowl.
“It helps,” he replied.
Richie grimaced. “You’re right. She’s on. Damn, but she’s going to be pissed if I start nosing around one of her cases again.”
“I know her neighbor was attacked and the woman’s assistant killed, but you aren’t looking into that without us, are you?” Shay asked.
“Not really. Audrey was the only connection, except that I now know the neighbor, Kiki, was the one screwing up Audrey’s latest deal,” Richie said.
“And the two deaths, and attack on Kiki, are probably somehow related,” Shay said.
“Hard to believe they aren’t,” Richie said.
“Don’cha think, boss,” Vito said, “that you should pay Rebecca a visit and talk about us all working together with her? I mean, we don’t wanna step on any toes here, not the Inspector’s anyway.”
“Pay her a visit, my ass.” Richie ran his fingers through his hair, thinking about their last meeting in Homicide. “It’ll be like walking on hot coals. But on the other hand, I don’t really have a choice.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rebecca requested Audrey Poole’s phone and banking records, but they hadn’t yet arrived, so she decided to go through the few security tapes she and Sutter had gathered from the area near the crime scene. She hoped she would have more luck with these than she had looking at the street in front of Kiki’s spa. Her instincts told her this was more than a robbery gone bad, or a crazed killer stalking lone women. But she needed to rule out those possibilities.
Pacific Heights wasn’t the type of neighborhood with much violent crime, which meant its residents were already up in arms abou
t the dead body found in their neighborhood. Even before the victim’s name had gotten out, it was clear to them that she might have been one of their own—namely, wealthy. They demanded protection, and wanted the city to provide it. Protection from what, no one could say. But the pressure was already mounting on Rebecca and Sutter to clear up this case fast, and to make sure the death happened for a reason, and not because of some random lunatic that might cause general fear and panic.
Rebecca stifled a yawn as she scrolled through the security tapes. Sutter, who hated that kind of desk work, had gone to Audrey’s bank to lean on them to hurry up with the information about Audrey’s account. Looking at videos wasn’t how homicides were worked in the old days, Sutter liked to say, and he had no intention of working them that new high tech way if he could possibly avoid it. It took shoe leather, he claimed.
It took both, Rebecca believed. But she’d learned long ago not to argue with Sutter. When she did, he sulked, arms folded, and jutted out his lower lip. It was an ugly thing to behold. She preferred to ignore him.
There weren’t many security cameras in the area where Audrey had been killed except for the business section of Union Street. To Rebecca’s surprise, she spotted Audrey, on foot and alone leaving Pinocchio’s Bar and Grill—two doors down from Kiki’s place—at 12:45 a.m. At last, a solid lead.
She went to Pinocchio’s and asked to speak to everyone who worked there the night before. She showed the staff Audrey Poole’s picture. Two people remembered her. One was the bartender, who noticed she had entered the bar area alone and sat at a table by herself, but then he lost track of her completely. The other was the cocktail waitress, Lisa Hayes, who served her.
“She’s come in here a few times,” Hayes said. “Seemed to be a nice lady.”
“The bartender seemed to think she was at a table alone. Is that how you remember it?”
“Not exactly.” The waitress looked nervous, but that was typical of anyone being interviewed in connection with a murder investigation. “A man came in and joined her.”
