She ran to the kitchen where she found a small, plastic container with a snap on lid. Reaching into her purse, she found a pair of tweezers.
“Be very still,” she directed. She gently clutched what she now realized was an appalling insect with the tweezers. Moving slowly so as to extract the two small ungulas, the talon-like protrusions the creature had sunk into the warm flesh under Trent’s arm. The pincers moved round as though in anger once Darcey pulled them free and dropped the ugly little thing into the plastic container. She quickly snapped the lid in place, trapping the small monstrosity.
“What is that?” Trent said. He raised his arm. In the mirror he saw the tiny pin-pricks where the insect had attached itself to him. The skin around the small dots was slightly reddened.
“Is that a bed bug?” Darcey asked. She set the container on the dressing table, not wanting it in her hands.
“No, I’ve seen bed bugs,” Trent said. “That’s not a bed bug. That’s not anything I’ve ever seen before.”
“Do you think you picked it up in our travels?” she asked, still horrified.
“That doesn’t seem logical. You never noticed it before this morning,” he said, with a leer. “And you saw me naked from every possible angle over the past month.”
“I don’t think this is funny, Trent.”
“It’s no big deal, Darcey. Just a tick or something. I’m fine.”
“We’re going to make sure of that,” she said as she picked up her phone and dialed a number.
“Who are you calling?”
“My doctor. We’re taking this…this thing to him to send to a lab and let him look at that bite. I’ve only been married a month and I’m not taking any chances on losing you.”
Wednesday, July 27th
Darcey was surprised when Trent told her he was taking her to the Tadich Grill for lunch. The restaurant is a legend among San Franciscans. Tadich Grill is the third oldest restaurant in the nation. Only the Union Oyster House in Boston and Antoine’s in New Orleans came before the Tadich.
It is a no reservations place. You stand in line to wait for a table. Even Tony Bennett stands in line when he’s in town.
Trent insisted they get there by eleven o’clock so they would only have to wait for forty-five minutes or an hour. As it happened, it was a slow day. They were seated within forty minutes. Trent kept a close look out. He didn’t see Tony Bennett.
Darcey ordered a small Caesar salad and seafood curry. Trent convinced the chef to make a Bay Shrimp Louis for him and followed that with lamb chops. Rare.
The Caesar salad was excellent, Darcey pronounced. Romaine lettuce crisp and fresh, selected at five o’clock that morning by the chef.
Trent’s Bay Shrimp Louie, he said, brought back memories. As a teenager, he had spent weeks in the summers roaming Alaska with his father who worked for an oil company. In Alaska the small crustaceans were called Petersburg shrimp. For most of the 20th century the small Southeast Alaska town of Petersburg processed millions of pounds annually. But the always precarious economics of the seafood industry shifted resulting in the closure of the Petersburg cannery. In recent years local entrepreneurs started a new company to once again process Petersburg shrimp for a promising market.
“We should go to Alaska,” Trent said. “I’ve always thought it’s the most beautiful place on Earth. And this Petersburg shrimp processing plant might be worth investing in.”
“Count me in,” Darcey said. “I’d love to see Alaska.”
Her seafood curry included bay shrimp, Dungeness crab and large prawns, served over rice with a mango chutney.
“It’s sweet and spicy,” she said.
“Ah, just like you,” was Trent’s rejoinder.
Darcey laughed.
“Don’t get your hopes up, big boy. I have to go back to the office after lunch.”
“Well, there’s always tonight,” Trent said, with confidence
They lingered over lunch. It was mid-afternoon by the time Trent left Darcey at her office and walked the four blocks on to the condo. In the lobby he noticed that Alexis wasn’t at the concierge desk. The friendly, though nervous, man who usually worked weekend nights was on duty. Clarence, Trent recalled.
“Hey, Clarence,” Trent greeted him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall,” Clarence replied, with a tentative smile.
“Where’s Alexis? Doesn’t she usually work Wednesdays?”
“Well, uh yes, she does, Mr. Marshall. Usually. But Alexis hasn’t shown up for work since last Wednesday.”
Trent was surprised.
“Has anyone talked to her?”
“The manager tried calling her several times but she didn’t answer. We don’t know what’s going on with her. Maybe she decided to go back where she came from.”
“I hope she’s OK,” Trent said. “She seems like a very nice person.”
“Oh yes, she’s very nice,” Clarence said, in a tone that made Trent think he had more than a casual interest in Alexis.
“See you later, Clarence,” he said as he stepped into the elevator. Just as the doors were beginning to close Clarence said something that got Trent’s attention.
“You and Alexis have something in common, Mr. Marshall. I mean both of you coming from New Orleans and all.”
Trent stuck his arm between the closing doors, causing them to open again. He stepped out of the car.
“Alexis came from New Orleans? Are you sure?”
“Well, uh, she mentioned it one time when we were talking. I don’t know if that’s where she was born. It was where she lived before she came to the Bay area. A coincidence that you’re from New Orleans.”
“Yes,” Trent said. “A coincidence.”
Trent didn’t believe in coincidence.
Upstairs in the condo he called Detective Sergeant Christopher Booth. The detective was skeptical.
“What does that have to do with our investigation? Maybe she got a better offer. She used to live in New Orleans. Lots of people live in New Orleans. Could be only a coincidence.”
“There’s no such thing as coincidence in crime, corruption, and politics, Christopher. I think we should look into her disappearance and do it quickly. In the worst possible case, I will apologize for wasting your time. The best case could be we would save our lives.
Booth said he was on his way.
The building manager was cooperative. He liked Alexis. He told Booth she was a good worker. Never late. Never caused any problems. The residents of the building all spoke highly of her.
They tried calling her one more time. Still no answer. Booth told the manager that he had no warrant and couldn’t require it but he would appreciate knowing where she lived. He said she could be in trouble. If so, maybe Booth and Trent could help her. The manager pulled her file and gave them a home address in Richmond.
The drive through Oakland and Berkeley took most of an hour. Booth parked next to the curb rather than pulling into the driveway. As they got out of the car an elderly man walked by, a small dog tugging on a leash. Trent wasn’t sure who was walking who.
“Are you the police?” he asked.
Christopher said he was.
“Well, it’s about time,” the man said. “You’re finally here. I’ve called three times this week. You probably have heard of me. Siemanszko is my name. Casey Siemanszko. Casey from my baseball days,” he added proudly.
“Yes, of course,” Booth said, playing along with the old man. “Tell me again why you called.”
“Don’t you know?” Casey said. “Lord knows I talked to enough of your people. You should know.”
“I do know, Casey. Do you mind if I call you Casey? We have to be careful in cases like this. Have to be sure of all the facts.”
“Sure, you can call me Casey,” the old man said, beaming. “I was pretty good with a bat in my day.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Booth said, humoring him. “Tell me again about your complaint.”
“W
ell, the smell,” Casey said. “That awful smell. And it’s coming from around here. From this house, I think. Something has to be done about it.”
“Thanks so much for contacting us, Casey,” Booth said. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Just being a good citizen,” the old man said as he resumed his walk, his dog tugging at the leash.
Christopher and Trent had already caught the smell coming from the house. Both knew what it meant.
They rang the doorbell. There was no response. They expected none.
Booth tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed but the door didn’t budge. Something was blocking it. They suspected they knew what the something was. Christopher could have forced his way in but they feared disturbing a crime scene.
Booth went around to the back door. It was locked. He didn’t think they had to worry about disturbing anything at this door. He kicked it hard. The cheap wood was no match for the big cop’s foot. Trent followed him in.
The smell was overwhelming inside. Booth covered his face with a handkerchief. Trent didn’t carry a handkerchief. He regretted it. He was wearing his usual black pullover shirt. He pulled the tail up to cover his nose.
The two women had been dead for a week. Both bodies were in an advanced stage of decomposition. It was not a sight for a weak stomach. For any stomach.
They had been through the stages of hypostasis and rigor mortis. They were bloated. Swollen as to be unrecognizable. Their color was blotchy. Some parts turning black. The skin was beginning to blister and split.
Trent thought the woman whose body was wedged against the door was probably Alexis. She at least had a head. The other woman, Trent suspected, had the barrel of the gun in her mouth when the killer pulled the trigger. Most of the back of her skull was missing.
Both men had seen all they needed to see for now. They pushed their way through the broken door and out of the house. Both moved to the far end of the back yard, gasping for air. Clean air. Booth called the Richmond police homicide department.
Detective Sergeant Nancy Patrick was first on the scene, followed quickly by two black and whites. She directed the uniformed officers to mark the crime scene, then joined Christopher and Trent. Christopher introduced Trent to Sergeant Patrick. She had short dark hair, dark eyes, and sharp cheek bones. Trent thought she was an attractive woman. Even sexy in more feminine attire. Today she wore a no nonsense charcoal gray pants suit. When she spoke, her voice matched the no nonsense pants suit.
She and Christopher were friendly toward each other. Friendly enough to make Trent wonder. But now was not the time.
Christopher told her he had kicked in the back door. He told her it was pretty bad inside.
“I guess I have to see it anyway,” she said. He offered her his handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth. She accepted it and squeezed through the shattered door.
As Trent and Christopher had done, she came out gasping for air. She placed a call to the forensics crew to let them know they would need masks and oxygen. There was no way they could do their jobs until the bodies were removed and fresh air could be let into the house.
“It’s going to take a lot to make that house livable again,” she said, still breathing deeply.
Another unmarked car rolled up. A bald man whose belly matched the shape of his head bounced out.
“What are you doing here, Booth? You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”
“Hello, Captain,” Booth said, not in the least put off by the man’s attitude. “Captain Terry Wooster, meet Trent Marshall.”
“A civilian? You’re bringing civilians with you? I want to know what’s going on and I want to know now!”
“No problem, Captain,” Booth said, cheerfully. “I’m not here on police business. We were just worried about a friend of ours who hasn’t been showing up for work lately. Turns out she had a good reason. Her body is in there along with another woman. They’ve been dead, I’d say, about a week.”
“You got a warrant?”
“Why would I need a warrant?” Booth said, continuing his friendly misdirection of the bumbling captain. “I told you we were just worried about a friend. No intent to search. No intent to arrest. Not investigating any crime.”
“No warrant and you entered the premises anyway?” the captain accused.
“Yes, like we would if we smelled smoke or natural gas or heard someone calling for help,” Booth said. “In this case it was the smell of decaying bodies.”
“Why didn’t you call my office?”
“I did. That’s why Sergeant Patrick is here overseeing these officers as they secure the crime scene.”
Captain Wooster’s face turned red with fury.
“I’ll be talking to your boss about this, Booth. You have no business poking around in my town.”
He hustled over to where the uniformed officers were working and began shouting orders that made little sense. Trent noticed the officers didn’t pay much attention to him.
The New Orleans connection is bothering you, isn’t it?” Christopher said as he drove them back into the city. “It could be coincidence, Trent.”
Trent looked at him.
“Yeah, I know. There’s no such thing as coincidence in crime, corruption, and politics.”
“You’re a fast learner,” Trent said. “You seem to know Sergeant Patrick pretty well.”
“Yeah, pretty well,” Christopher said, suppressing a self-satisfied smile.
“Well enough to ask her for a favor?”
“Yeah, I know her that well.”
Given their filling lunch at Tadich Grill followed by the less than savory events of the afternoon, Trent declined dinner. Darcey said she would just have a light snack. Trent waited until after she had eaten before telling her what they had found in the small house in Richmond. He didn’t go into great detail. Darcey was grateful.
He told her he had learned that Alexis moved to San Francisco from New Orleans. That was a red flag for him, he said, reminding her that he didn’t believe in coincidence.
“I should have known she was from New Orleans,” Darcey said.
“Why would you know that?”
“Jordan called me several months ago and asked me if I knew of any jobs that might be available for a young woman who had escaped the streets and was doing a good job of turning her life around. The building had an opening on the concierge staff and I told him about it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about that?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think it was important. I forgot all about it until now. He never gave me a name. When Alexis came to work here I didn’t even know she was the one he had called me about.”
He made them each a French 75. They sat on the terrace watching the fog roll in.
Trent reached for his cocktail and almost dropped the glass. He clinched and unclenched his hands. Stood and walked around the terrace.
“All you all right?” she asked.
“I think so. My hands and feet feel numb. There’s no feeling at all. Strange. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Darcey wasn’t so sure. She was glad they had an appointment with the doctor tomorrow.
The pizza arrived only a few minutes before Detective Sergeant Nancy Patrick got home. Detective Sergeant Christopher Booth had been home for a couple of hours. He had showered, changed into shorts and a tee shirt. The double murder in Patrick’s jurisdiction made it a longer day for her.
Booth handed her a glass of chilled Chardonnay when she walked through the door of the apartment they shared in Walnut Creek. He kissed her. She let him hold her for a few minutes. It was their evening ritual. A metamorphosis from the tough cops they had to be on the job and an ordinary, likable couple in love when off duty.
“To the shower with you,” he said, as he swatted her bottom playfully. “Go wash off the cop smell. Don’t let the pizza get cold.”
After they finished the pizza, Christopher poured her another glass of wine and opened a
second beer for himself. They sat outside on their small terrace.
“Trent asked if I know you well enough to ask a favor.”
“What did you tell him?” she asked.
“I said I thought so but you were pretty tough to work with.”
She laughed and gave him a punch to his well-muscled shoulder.
“So, what’s the favor?”
“He wants to know if you could get some of the DNA from the body blocking the door down to Jordan Baron in New Orleans.”
“Whoa. The Rooster would go nuts if he found out I did that,” she said. The Rooster was what Richmond cops called Captain Wooster. Christopher thought “an old hen” would be a more appropriate appellation. He was always clucking and flapping his wings.
“Lieutenant Baron can go through official channels and get it that way.”
“Nah,” Nancy said. “It’s too much fun to mess with the Rooster.”
That brought a chuckle from Christopher.
“Why does he want a New Orleans cop to check her DNA?”
“It’s what sent us to Richmond. The woman was a concierge at the building Trent and Darcey live in. When he didn’t see her on duty today he asked her stand-in what was up. The guy said she hadn’t shown up for work for a week. Then he said it was funny that she and Trent both came from New Orleans,” Christopher explained. “That got Trent’s attention.”
“Could be coincidence,” Nancy said.
“To quote Trent, ‘There is no such thing as coincidence in crime, corruption, and politics.’”
“Hmmmm. I never thought about that. He might be right. I’ll see what I can do.”
Thursday, July 28th
Dr. Smith was six feet four inches tall and weighed less than 200 pounds. That explained why all his colleagues, the nurses, and most of his patients called him Dr. Slim. He was easy going and a good doctor. He wore a traditional white lab coat. The woman in his office wore one, too. He introduced her as Dr. Angie Raymond. Trent and Darcey thought her presence didn’t mean the news was good.
“You have contracted a zoonotic disease, Trent,” Dr. Slim explained. “That simply means a disease that can be transmitted to a human from another species. It’s not uncommon. More than half of the viruses and bacteria that make us sick are spread that way. This one, however, is a little more challenging. That’s why I asked Dr. Raymond to join us. She is a specialist in treating similar diseases.”
Neighbors and Other Strangers Page 6