The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  The sex was incredible. Really incredible. The next morning, we exchanged phone numbers, and he promised to call me in Madison. He never did. For months, I fought the impulse to call him. He has my number, I told myself. He could call if he wanted to.

  After that, all the other men I met seemed lackluster, destined to be no more than friends. “Why don’t you at least sleep with one or two of these guys you go out with?” Thalia had urged over the phone, managing my social calendar from afar. “You can’t put your life on hold for that arrogant jerk.”

  “No . . . that doesn’t seem fair to them when I know there’s no future in it.”

  “Not fair?” Thalia said. “What planet are you on? Sex with no commitment is every guy’s dream.”

  Thalia, meanwhile, was serial dating. As soon as a guy became loopy over her, she grew bored. “There’s no challenge,” she complained. “They fall in love with me too easily.”

  “Boo-hoo,” I said. “Frankly, Thalia, I don’t know how you do it. Don’t you feel even a little bit attached after you sleep with someone?”

  “It’s like eating,” Thalia said nonchalantly. “I like variety. Some men are grilled cheese. Some are chateaubriand. But even with chateaubriand, you don’t want it every night.”

  Why not? I wondered.

  Eight years later, after I had moved to San Francisco, I was thumbing through a local magazine, and there was a photo of Peter, looking thinner, his face more chiseled with fine lines around the drop-dead blue eyes. The article was a profile of him and his restoration work that was the talk of the Bay Area.

  I looked him up, then nervously dialed his number, rehearsing the message I’d leave. He answered. “Hi. It’s Rae Crespi. I met you—”

  “Rae with the architect father. And the great ass.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I remember you. I think about you a lot.”

  This was certainly moving along faster than I’d expected.

  “So I’m guessing you saw the article about me?” he prompted.

  “Yes. Very flattering.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read.”

  I laughed.

  “I lost your number, you know,” he said smoothly. “I kept hoping you’d call me.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him, although I very much wanted to. We arranged to meet for lunch at a café on Chestnut Street in the Marina. I arrived late, not wanting to appear too eager. He was sitting at an outdoor table.

  “Rae!” He got up as I approached and hugged me. Damn. He was even better looking than I remembered. My resolve to play it cool was quickly evaporating.

  We lingered over lunch, catching up on the past few years. I accepted his offer to see his house, which had been featured in the article along with various other projects he’d designed. Zipping over the Golden Gate Bridge in his Porsche with the top down and the sun shining, I felt as besotted as I did eight years earlier. The tour of his house took a detour into the bedroom, where he pulled me toward him and started kissing me. “I was a fool not to call you,” he murmured.

  After that day, we began spending most of our free time together. When we decided to get married seven months later, most of my friends whooped with excitement. Thalia, though, had her reservations. “You hardly know this guy,” she said.

  “I know he makes me feel beautiful. He’s crazy about me. He’s smart as anything and talented. And he helps support his mother, who lives in Oregon.”

  “All good, I admit. But . . .”

  “He’s chateaubriand,” I told her.

  Thalia rolled her eyes. “Sweetie, sex—albeit a marvelous activity—isn’t everything. You don’t think I married Garrett for the sex, do you? No,” Thalia said, answering her own question. “I married him because we’re compatible. We like the same things. We like going to the theater and the ballet. We like to travel. We’re good doubles partners.”

  “Oh.” To me, this sounded more like a best friend than a husband.

  Thalia laughed and squeezed my arm. “You marry your handsome chateaubriand and live happily ever after. I’m just being a curmudgeon. If that’s what you want, you know I support your decision. Besides, Garrett likes him. They talk about investments.

  My reminiscences came to an end as I turned off Kezar Drive onto Waller Street. TV news trucks crowded the police station parking lot. Reporters and cameramen were set up in front of the building. And a podium with a microphone stood at the bottom of the steps. I exited the lot and searched for a spot on the street. By the time I walked back, the press conference was starting. From the back of the crowd, I watched as reporters peppered the man at the podium with questions.

  “First of all, I want to reassure the people of the Bay Area that Golden Gate Park is safe,” the man was saying. His prematurely silver hair was in stark contrast to his tanned, unlined face. His tie was loosened, and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the rate of crime in the park is extremely low, especially for such a well-used facility in a large metropolitan area. That being said, we have beefed up park patrols in response to this unfortunate incident.” He went on to summarize the known facts of the case, which were few. “Now I’ll take questions.”

  The questions, as well as the answers, were mostly predictable. Yes, the police believed it was an isolated incident. Yes, there were signs of robbery. No comment on what was stolen. No signs of sexual assault.

  One reporter asked, “Captain Ryken, do you believe that the victim was killed by someone she knew?”

  “As I said, it’s still too early to determine the motive for the crime,” Ryken responded. “We’re looking into all possibilities.”

  Another reporter asked, “You said there were signs of robbery. Isn’t that a motive?”

  “That’s certainly possible,” said Ryken. “But we’re not ruling anything out yet.”

  Yet another reporter pressed the captain for answers: “Given that the mayor is friendly with Garrett Holcombe, will you be fast-tracking this investigation?”

  Ryken’s mouth tightened, but he quickly hid his annoyance and gazed earnestly into the cameras. “Politics plays no role in any of our investigations. We investigate all homicides with equal vigor. Rest assured that we are devoting all the resources at our disposal to identifying and capturing the perpetrator, as we would with any homicide.”

  I was doubtful that a homeless man who had his throat slit in a fight would receive the same attention as the well-heeled Thalia Holcombe, but really, what else could Ryken say? I was grateful that the case was receiving so much attention—and that nobody was asking about any extramarital affairs. For now, at least, Thalia’s private life seemed to still be private.

  The questions continued for several more minutes, then Ryken thanked everyone and went back inside. I waited a moment for the throng to dissipate before walking up the steps. I told the uniformed officer at the desk that I was here to speak with Detective Hernandez but was informed that he was out in the field. “Detective Warren is here, though,” the officer told me. “I’ll call him for you.”

  Damn. I was hoping to speak to Hernandez, preferably in private. I could tell Warren didn’t like me—and it was mutual. The cop on the phone said, “Rae Sullivan is here to see you.” I couldn’t hear Warren’s response, but I saw a slight smirk cross the officer’s face before he said to me, “He’ll be right out.”

  A few minutes later, Warren greeted me cordially, led me into a room, and closed the door. Before I was even in the chair, I said, “I really need to tell you about Marcel. He—”

  “Yeah, we’ll get to that. But I have a few questions for you first.” I was annoyed but nodded in agreement. Warren opened a folder on his desk and scanned the first page. “I see that you and Mrs. Holcombe had life insurance policies on each other.”

  I gave him a blank look. “What? No we didn’t.”

  “Yes, it seems that you did.” He pushed the paper across the desk to me. I read through
it, puzzled. “I don’t know what this is,” I said.

  “That’s your signature, isn’t it?” he challenged.

  “Yes . . . but I don’t remember any life insurance policies.”

  “And yet your business has been paying the premiums for three years.”

  I frowned. “I don’t know anything about that. Thalia pays all the bills.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly true,” Warren said. “I see that the most recent checks were signed by you on July 22.”

  “That’s because Thalia was out of town,” I said indignantly. “I’m telling you, I normally don’t pay the bills. I did write a check to the insurance company, but I assumed it was for fire and theft. I don’t know anything about life insurance. Thalia handled all the finances.”

  “But this is your signature, isn’t it?”

  I wanted to slap him. Here I was trying to help and he was treating me like a criminal. I forced myself to hold my temper. “Yes. It appears I did sign that when we set up the business. But there were so many papers to sign, I really have no memory of it. Garrett handled it all for us. You should ask him.”

  “Oh, we will. We definitely will.”

  At that moment, Hernandez came in. “Good morning. Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.” He pulled up a chair and smiled at me—not the condescending smile Warren had given me, but a patient, kindly smile. He gave his partner a meaningful look, and the younger detective left the room.

  Feeling encouraged, I took a deep breath, then plunged in: the blackmail note, another note, the rendezvous in the park. Hernandez allowed me recount the whole thing without interrupting, as the video camera recorded it all. I ended by emphasizing how fervently I’d tried to talk Thalia out of going. “I knew it was a bad idea! I told her to at least take her brother with her. She should never have gone there alone.”

  I was hoping Hernandez would say something absolving me of blame, but instead he said, “Tell me a little more about this first note, the one that said, ‘I know about your affair.’ You say Mrs. Holcombe received it in Paris at her hotel. Do you know the name of the hotel?”

  “Hôtel Sainte Bernadette. It’s where she always stays.”

  “And do you know when she received it?”

  “A few weeks ago. It was the day before she flew home. Hold on a minute.” I checked the calendar on my phone. “Here it is. August 5. I met her the next evening, and she showed me the note.”

  “So you actually saw it.”

  “Yes, of course.” Why was he being so skeptical? “It was printed on white paper.”

  “Do you mean printed by hand, or a printout?”

  “A printout.”

  “What else did it say?”

  “Something about paying.”

  “Did it specify an amount?”

  “Oh, no. It was vague. It didn’t actually ask for money.” I could hear how dumb this sounded. He was probably thinking that wasn’t blackmail. Peter had pointed out the same thing. “I know it doesn’t sound like blackmail,” I said lamely.

  “No, no, it’s not uncommon for demands to start that way,” Hernandez said mildly. “The idea is to throw the person off-balance, make them fearful of exposure before demanding money. Now how did Mrs. Holcombe react to the note?”

  “Well, she was positive it was from Marcel,” I said with certainty. “She said he was trying to intimidate her.”

  “Intimidate her how?”

  I shrugged. “By threatening to expose the affair, I suppose. Does it matter what he meant?” I felt my annoyance rising. “Someone sent her a note in France, and then a few weeks later, when the people from France arrived, she was killed. Can that just be a coincidence?”

  Hernandez said nothing.

  “And Marcel was up to something at Etienne’s company. Thalia told me she had caught him going through Etienne’s private files. He was definitely not trustworthy. Julien—Etienne’s son—said so too.” This was not going as smoothly as I’d expected. “Look, Marcel is planning to leave San Francisco in four days. Isn’t there any way you can keep him here while you investigate?”

  “I understand your sense of urgency, and I assure you we’re taking this very seriously. Now you say the victim received a second note three days ago. Tell me about that.”

  I described Thalia’s discovery the morning after the party and our meeting at the farmers market. “Don’t you see,” I said, my voice rising, “it makes perfect sense that it was Marcel. After all, he was in both places when she got the notes.”

  “So were several other people,” Hernandez said quietly. He paused to let that sink in before continuing. “Tell me about the second note. Was it on the same paper as the first?”

  “It was just plain white paper. I don’t know if it was the same paper. But this one was handwritten. It looked fake, like someone right-handed had written with his left hand or something. It asked for money. Twenty thousand dollars. I don’t remember the exact wording. But it described where to drop off the money. It was very specific.” I told him about the instructions as best as I could recall, including crossing Fulton Street and getting on the bus.

  Hernandez asked more questions, clarifying the details of Monday night. They had examined my phone to get the exact timing of the calls—the first one as Thalia approached the park, the second one from Smitty’s, the final missed call at 8:22. We went over the sequence of events several times. I wondered whether he was checking to see if my story changed. Finally, he moved on.

  “Can you tell me about any jewelry Mrs. Holcombe usually wore?” he asked.

  I was surprised by the question but had no trouble answering. “Her wedding ring. Her tennis bracelet. Usually earrings.”

  “Tell me about the bracelet.”

  “It was a tennis bracelet. You know, a row of diamonds linked together. It was an anniversary present from her husband.”

  “Which hand did she usually wear it on?”

  “Her right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. She’s had it for years. She always wore it on the right. She was left-handed.”

  “Would she have been likely to have worn it on the night of her death?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t say for sure.” I tried to remember whether I had noticed it when I found Thalia’s body. I had no memory of the bracelet, but the sleeves of her coat would probably have covered it.

  “Do you know of any reason someone would want to murder Mrs. Holcombe?” Hernandez asked.

  “I keep telling you! She was being blackmailed.” Why wasn’t he understanding?

  “Blackmailers generally prefer to keep their victims alive,” he said wryly.

  “But what if she knew who it was? And she confronted him? Then he would want to kill her, wouldn’t he?”

  “That’s certainly possible,” Hernandez conceded. “And we’re looking into all possibilities.”

  I looked at him earnestly. “Are you really?” It wasn’t a challenge. Just a frank question.

  “Yes, yes we are.”

  His quiet confidence reassured me that he would get to the bottom of this eventually. “Thank you,” I said, and I rose to leave, but he wasn’t finished.

  “I need to ask you about the insurance policy you held against Thalia Holcombe,” Hernandez said.

  “I already told Detective Warren. I didn’t know anything about it. Garrett set up all the paperwork for the business. That must have been his idea. I honestly never gave it another thought.”

  “I see. Were you and your husband having any financial problems?”

  “What? No! Definitely not. You can check my finances. Look at anything you like. I have absolutely nothing to hide!” I walked toward the door. “I need to be going now.”

  Hernandez stood up. “Thank you for coming in,” he said as he held the door open. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll prepare a statement for you to sign, if you’ll just have a seat in the hall.” He politely cautioned me not to leave the Bay Area in the
coming week without notifying him.

  While I was waiting to sign my statement, I overheard Warren saying, “Was I right? I told you that one was going to be a pain in the ass.”

  But Hernandez came to my defense. “Oh, come on. She’s a breath of fresh air. It’s nice to meet someone who still believes it’s easy to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”

  Not exactly what I was hoping for, but at least he liked me. Still, he hadn’t responded the way I’d hoped, showing no inclination to arrest Marcel. So much for wearing my ugliest shoes.

  CHAPTER 7

  On a whim, I phoned Julien as I left the police station and invited him to lunch. Although we hardly knew each other, I felt a kinship with him, since he was the only other person in this mess who distrusted Marcel. My hope was that he could tell me something that I could bring to the police, something that would make them take notice. Julien accepted my offer with enthusiasm. “I’d love to get out of here. My parents have been fighting all morning,” he said. “I can’t stand listening to them.”

  I drove up Stanyan Street, made a left on Fulton, which bordered Golden Gate Park to the north, and then turned right on Arguello, heading toward Washington Street in the tony Presidio Heights neighborhood. The Victorian and Edwardian homes were painted neutral grays and taupes, muted shades of pale blue and dusty green. The only nod to ornamentation was the gilding on the fretwork of some homes. Black iron railings encased neatly clipped boxwood hedges.

  I pulled up in front of the Jameson Hotel, a genteel five-story building from the 1920s that occupied the corner of a residential block. It occurred to me that the hotel was only a ten-minute drive to the scene of the murder. Easy for Marcel to get there and back without anyone missing him. I checked my watch and looked expectantly at the lobby. A slim, stylish woman strolled by, walking a slim, stylish dog.