Carlucci turned to his left and gazed at the ugly rectangular buildings of the modern Cliff House, the source of his bad memories. Eight or nine years ago, out here to investigate the drowning death of a twelve-year-old girl, he had seen Andrea coming out of the Cliff House restaurant, hand-in-hand with a man he had never seen before. He had watched them kiss, then part, the man to a car and Andrea across the street to the bus stop. He had stood, not far from where he was right now, and watched her waiting, saw her smile and wave at the man as he drove past her, and Carlucci had wondered why the hell the man didn’t give Andrea a ride, why he made her take the bus back into town. He had remained there unmoving, numb and disoriented, until the bus arrived; Andrea climbed aboard, and then the bus pulled away.
That night, as they lay in bed with the lights off and bright moonlight streaming in through the window, he had come right out and asked her about the man. After a long silence, Andrea had told him she’d been having an affair with the man for nearly a year. She’d also told him that, now that he knew, she would bring it to an end; she didn’t want it to threaten their marriage. He had expected her to tell him who the man was, something about him, how the affair had started, things like that. But she didn’t. He had wanted to know why, but she wouldn’t talk about that, either. She said it didn’t matter, that it had nothing to do with him, or the family, or their marriage, that it was something to do with her alone. Although he couldn’t believe that entirely, Carlucci had sensed that in some important ways it was true. They hadn’t talked about it again. As far as he knew, there had been no other affairs, before or since. But the memories of that day still hurt, even after all these years.
“Lieutenant?”
Carlucci turned to see Jefferson and Tran walking downhill along the cracked sidewalk toward him. Jefferson looked like he; was still sick with the flu that had kept him home for more than two weeks—he was gaunt, his eyes were heavy, and he seemed out of breath.
“You all right?” Carlucci asked him.
Jefferson shrugged. “Better. The old boneman says I shouldn’t be contagious anymore, and that maybe it would be good to get out a little.” He smiled. “Don’t know that this was what he had in mind, checking out a murder in the rain, but what the fuck.”
They stood in the mist, which was getting heavier, and looked down at the cops standing under the protective tarp down near the edge of the ruins.
“Who was first on scene?” Tran asked.
“Santos and Weathers,” Carlucci answered. “They’ll be in charge of the case.”
Tran nodded, said, “Ruben and Toni, good. We can do that.”
Jefferson coughed several times, shook himself, then said, “Let’s get down there.”
Carlucci frowned at him. “You want to stay up here? Have Binh fill you in later?”
Jefferson was looking down through the drizzle at the muddy slope, the makeshift trails that twisted down and through the rubble. He nodded. “Yeah, maybe I’d better.”
“Go on back to the car,” Carlucci told him. “Get out of the rain.”
Jefferson nodded again, said, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and started back up the hill. Carlucci and Tran walked in the opposite direction, along the sidewalk to an opening that had been cut in the chain-link fence and flagged. The opening was at the head of what appeared to be the best path down to the ruins. The slope wasn’t as steep here, almost terraced. They worked their way slowly down the hillside, past crumbling walls half buried, past the remains of floors and pipes and an occasional piece of roofing. They used chunks of concrete or rock or tufts of grass for footing whenever possible. The drizzle had become so heavy now that he could barely see the vague outlines of the Cliff House, could barely see the ocean.
“Anything on that parrot, yet?” Tran asked.
“No. It swears a lot, but they haven’t picked up much more than that. The CID people are starting to think we’re crazy. Maybe we are. Maybe it’s all a goddamn waste of time.” Carlucci smiled. “Kelly’s growing fond of the parrot, though. Says he might take it home when they’re done with it.” He stopped, trying to find a way past a steep, slick streak of mud. “How is Jefferson?”
“He’ll be fine,” Tran said. Carlucci looked at him, and Tran repeated himself. “He’ll be fine.”
Carlucci backtracked a couple of steps, worked uphill, then out along a strip of crumbling brickwork, dropping a couple of feet to a thick patch of sea grass. Tran dropped down beside him.
“Do you know why we’ve got extra teams called in on this one?” Tran asked. “It’s only one victim, isn’t it?”
Carlucci shook his head. “Ruben just said it was a hot one, and to get two extra teams down here as soon as possible. He wouldn’t say why. I think Hong and LaPlace are already here. Yeah, there’s Hong.” The tall, thin detective was apart from the others, crouched at the edge of the old foundation, gazing into the leaf-covered water. His glasses were misted over, and Carlucci wondered how he could see anything.
The ground leveled out as they neared the old foundations, covered by large patches of ocean grasses and succulents, and walking became easier. A narrow path had been marked out along the beds of ice plant and concrete slabs, a futile attempt to preserve the integrity of the crime scene. They stayed on the path and made their way to the group of cops huddled under the tarp. There were two uniforms, who kept back, only partly out of the rain, and three detectives—Santos, Weathers, and LaPlace. Several feet away, still crouched by the water, Hong looked up and nodded at Carlucci. At the feet of the cops was a covered form laid out along the edge of the concrete foundation.
“I’m sure as hell glad you’re here,” Santos said as Carlucci and Tran squeezed in under the tarp. “I was afraid you’d be too late.”
“Too late for what?” Carlucci asked.
“Someone’s going to try to take this case away from us.” He stared hard at Carlucci. “I don’t want that to happen. You might be able to hold on to it for us.”
“Who’s going to try to take it?”
Santos shrugged. “Someone.” He shifted to the side and looked up the slope to the road and fence at the edge of the cliff. Carlucci followed his gaze, but didn’t see anything. Tran lit a cigarette, and almost immediately Toni Weathers and one of the uniforms followed suit. The falling drizzle on all sides kept the smoke contained, and it built up under the tarp, hovered around them.
“Morgan,” Santos finally said.
Morgan was homicide lieutenant for the Financial District, which had its own separate department within the force. But the ruins of the Sutro Baths weren’t anywhere near the Financial District.
“Do we have an ID?” Carlucci asked. That had to be what had Santos spooked.
“Oh yeah,” Santos said. “She was chipped, and we got an instant hit, complete with goddamn flares and alarms.”
“Who is she?”
“It’s not who she is. It’s who her father is.”
“Who is she, Ruben?”
Santos shrugged again. “Naomi Katsuda.”
Carlucci didn’t say anything, just looked down at the covered form at their feet.
“You know her?” LaPlace asked.
Carlucci stepped toward the head, the other cops making room for him. He knelt beside the body and pulled the dark nylon cloth away from the face. Her skin was gray and cold and lifeless, the lips a smeared silver now, the eyes closed and bruised, but he recognized her. The initials “CC” had been neatly carved into her forehead. He stared at her for a minute, feeling almost dizzy. Then he covered her face and stood. A cold tremor of fear rattled through him, settling in his stomach where it continued to tremble.
“I met her once,” he finally said.
“Cancer Cell,” said Tran. When the others looked at him, he pointed at the body. “The letters carved in her forehead. Cancer Cell.”
Only Carlucci knew why it had occurred to Tran, but he didn’t want to explain now. He turned to Santos. “Why all the flares and alarms? And why a
re you worried about Morgan?”
“Her father, Yoshi Katsuda, is the CEO of Mishima Investments. And Mishima Investments is New Hong Kong.”
Carlucci nodded, trying to work things out. Martin Kelly had never mentioned Naomi’s father. Didn’t he know? She hadn’t mentioned it either. But Santos was right. Morgan would try to suck this case in, take it for his own, into Financial District jurisdiction where it would be investigated in complete secrecy, investigated in whatever way Mishima Investments and Yoshi Katsuda, and maybe even New Hong Kong, wanted it investigated.
“I won’t let him take this case,” Carlucci said. He looked up the slope, understanding now why Santos had been looking up there earlier. When Santos and Weathers had locked onto the identity chip in Naomi Katsuda’s shoulder, and her identity had been confirmed, a bolt would have been transmitted directly to Morgan. It was surprising he wasn’t here yet.
“Coroner’s crew and crime scene techs should be here any minute,” said Weathers. She looked at her cigarette, which was almost gone, then flicked the butt away, toward the ocean. Tran did the same. It probably didn’t matter much, Carlucci thought. With all this rain and mud the crime scene was a mess anyway.
“Any idea how she was killed?” Carlucci asked.
Santos and Weathers both shook their heads. “You could almost wonder if it was accidental, except for the letters carved into her forehead. I’m pretty sure the carving was postmortem.”
“She wasn’t in the water, was she?” What he’d seen of Naomi Katsuda’s face hadn’t looked like a floater, unless she’d been in the water a very short time.
Santos shook his head again. “We found her just where she is now.”
Carlucci glanced at the two uniforms, but they both shook their heads as well. The older of the two, a woman in her forties, said, “We didn’t touch her, Lieutenant. We were just a few blocks away when the call came through, we flashed over here and marked off the path, then waited for the detectives.”
“Who called it in?”
“Manager of the Cliff House restaurant,” Weathers said. “A customer spotted it.” She smiled. “I guess it spoiled their lunch.”
Hong joined them under the tarp, his hair soaked, water dripping down his face. He wiped his glasses with a handkerchief.
“You find something over there?” Carlucci asked.
“No. I was primarily thinking about the job the crime scene techs are going to have.” His mouth worked into the faintest of smiles. “They’re going to have to drag all that, aren’t they? Can you imagine the crap they’re going to find in there? And probably none of it will have any connection to this.”
“Oh, fuck,” LaPlace said. “They’re here.”
They all looked up at the road that curved its way along the edge of the cliff. Two cars were just coming to a stop, pulling up over the curb and onto the sidewalk—a gray BMW, which was probably Morgan’s, and behind it a black, medium-sized limousine. Two men got out of the BMW, Blaise Morgan and Alex Warsinske, Morgan’s flunky. They approached the chain-link fence and looked down through the misting rain at the group of men looking back up at them. They wore slickcoats over their suits, but no hats, and they didn’t look too happy to be standing out in the rain.
No one emerged from the limousine.
“Is Morgan waiting for us to come up there after him?” Santos wondered aloud.
“You don’t want him to get his shoes muddy, do you?” LaPlace said. “Fucking thousand-dollar Italian shoes.”
“Watch it,” Carlucci said. “Italians make the best shoes.”
LaPlace snorted. “Yeah, but who can afford them? Where the fuck were your shoes made?”
“Probably Guatemala,” Carlucci said, smiling. The other cops laughed.
“Fuck him,” LaPlace said. “He wants this case, let him climb on down here.”
“Yeah,” Weathers added, “and maybe that ferret Warsinske will end up on his ass.”
Two more vehicles pulled up behind the limousine—the coroner’s van and an old department junker with crime scene techs. Men and women climbed out of the two vehicles and, loaded with equipment and cases and a jacked-up stretcher, headed toward the break in the fencing. Morgan and Warsinske remained where they were, looking down at the ruins.
Carlucci turned back to Santos and Weathers. “All right, Ruben, Toni. This is your case. You’ve got Hong and LaPlace, and Tran and Jefferson. You need more help, just ask. You get any flak from Morgan or anyone else, send them to me. I’ll run interference.” He glanced at Tran. “Binh might be right about Cancer Cell. I’ll let him explain. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but there’s more involved than just Naomi Katsuda’s death. We’re keeping this goddamn case.”
“Here he comes.” LaPlace pointed up the slope.
Carlucci turned around and saw Morgan and Warsinske taking the first cautious steps through the break in the fence. The coroner’s assistants and the techs were about halfway down the slope. Carlucci breathed in deeply once, let it out. “All right.”
He stepped out from the shelter of the tarp; the drizzle was even heavier now, though he still wouldn’t call it rain, exactly, and it was still fairly warm. The salt smell had grown stronger. He worked his way along the marked pathway, eyes to the ground.
Just before he reached the foot of the slope, he met the crews coming down and stepped to the side to let them pass. Most of the men and women nodded to him as they went by, and he nodded in return. When they were by him, he took a few more steps, then sat on the remains of a cinderblock wall, his slickcoat protecting his ass from the wet, and waited for Morgan and Warsinske. They were still only halfway down the slope, struggling with their footing, slipping on the mud, and Carlucci could hear Morgan swearing.
He looked back at the raised tarp. The body was no longer even partially visible, surrounded now by close to a dozen people. It was going to be a long and miserable afternoon for everyone. Maybe he didn’t want to go back onto the streets. Maybe it was time for him to get out.
Morgan and Warsinske finally reached the bottom of the slope and approached. Warsinske hung back, as though trying to hide behind his boss.
“I want this fucking case,” Morgan said.
Blaise Morgan was a handsome man, an inch or two taller than Carlucci, but probably five or ten pounds lighter. Even with his dark hair soaked by the drizzle, he looked slick and polished—he was the perfect man to run Homicide in the Financial District. He was also a good cop, though Carlucci thought that politics held way too high a priority for him. He looked down at Morgan’s shoes; they probably were expensive Italian leather, but it was hard to tell with all the mud smeared over them.
“What are you looking at, Frank?”
Carlucci looked up. “Your shoes.”
Morgan made a snorting sound. “They’re probably ruined.” Then, voice hard, “I want this case, Frank.”
Carlucci shook his head firmly. “It’s not your jurisdiction, B.J. It’s not even close.”
“You know who the victim is?”
“Yes.”
“Her father is head of Mishima Investments, for Christ’s sake. She worked for them, too. Mishima is my jurisdiction.”
“If she’d been killed in the Mishima building, I’d agree completely. But she wasn’t. We’re miles from the Financial District, B.J.”
“Maybe she was killed in the district, and her body dumped here.”
Carlucci just shook his head, not bothering to respond.
Morgan pointed back up the slope at the limousine parked above them. “You know who’s in that limo?”
“Yoshi Katsuda, would be my guess.”
“Damn fucking right, Frank. He’s her father, and he wants me to run the investigation. He knows me, he knows the teams that work in the Financial District, he knows we’ll be discreet.”
“I don’t care,” Carlucci said. “And I won’t even be insulted by that. It’s not your jurisdiction.”
“You afraid I’ll gh
ost the case? Find out who did it and let Katsuda work his own family justice?”
“It’s not yours to ghost, B.J., so I don’t think anything.”
“You want to tell that to Yoshi Katsuda? Tell him you’re ignoring his wishes?”
“If I have to.”
“He’s a powerful man, Frank, you know that. He could make your job a misery.”
“I just don’t give a shit.”
Morgan didn’t say anything for a minute, staring hard at Carlucci. Warsinske had come out from behind Morgan, but still hung back, waiting to see how all this was going to play out.
“And what if I go to Vaughn?” Morgan asked.
“He might give you the case. And he might not. Either way I’ll raise a big fucking stink about it, and what will Yoshi Katsuda think about that?”
Morgan went silent again. He looked away from Carlucci, gazed at the people clustered around the body, then slowly turned to look up the hill at the limousine. Still no one had emerged from the limo, and Carlucci wondered if Yoshi Katsuda was staring down at them right now through the smoked windows. Or was he sitting calmly in the rear seat, eyes straight ahead, not really seeing anything, just waiting for Morgan to come and talk to him? Carlucci almost felt sorry for Morgan.
“We can work out some kind of cooperative arrangement,” Carlucci finally said. He could play some politics, too, when he had to. He was probably going to need Morgan’s help with this.
Carlucci Page 56