“The chief called me in this morning and said it would be more efficient to combine our unit with the Northern Division Homicide Section.”
“What does that mean, ‘combine’?” I asked, dumbfounded at the idea of doubling up in our twenty-by-thirty-foot work space.
“The thinking upstairs is to have more bodies working the cases, more collaborative problem solving, and, hell, probably a new chain of command.”
So that’s why Jacobi looked like he’d been dragged behind a truck. His job was in danger, and that would affect us all.
“It’s not a done deal,” Jacobi said. “Let’s close these cases. I can’t fight if we’re losing.”
The meeting ended with a collective sigh, after which Jacobi invited me and Conklin to join him in what we jokingly call his corner office: a small, glass-walled cell with a window overlooking the freeway.
Conklin took the side chair and I leaned against the door frame, assessing the horizontal grooves that had appeared overnight on Jacobi’s forehead.
“Dowling didn’t have a heart attack,” Jacobi told us. “Chest pains. Rapid breathing. It’s being called a stress attack. Could be. It fits. Or maybe he was acting. Maybe this time he’ll get that Oscar. Meanwhile, he’s just been released from the hospital.”
I told Jacobi that the ME’s report said Casey Dowling had had sex before she died. “We’re on our way to see Dowling.”
“I’ll be waiting by the phone,” Jacobi said.
Chapter 21
MARCUS DOWLING OPENED his door and showed us to a sitting room decorated to the hilt with English-style roll-arm sofas, Flow Blue platters on the walls, and Foo dogs on the mantel. Mayfair meets the City on the Bay.
A woman in a black dress, not introduced, offered beverages and quietly left the room, returning with bottled water for Conklin and me, Chivas for our host.
I said, “Mr. Dowling, tell us again what happened last night.”
He said, “Jesus Christ, I told you everything, didn’t I? I thought you were coming here to tell me something.”
Conklin, who is a sensational good cop to my badass bitch, said, “We apologize, sir. The thing is, your telling us what happened again might trigger a memory or a new thought about who did this.”
Dowling nodded, leaned back in his leather chair, and put down a healthy swig of scotch. “The Devereaus had gone,” he said. “As I told the other officer, I was putting things into the sink-”
“The lady who brought the beverages,” I interrupted. “She wasn’t here to help?”
“Vangy only works days. She has a child.”
Dowling repeated how his wife had gone upstairs before him, how he heard shots, how he found his wife on the floor, not breathing, and how he’d called the police.
I said, “Mr. Dowling, I noticed last night that your hair was wet. You took a shower before the police came?”
He grunted and gripped his glass. I was watching for a tell-a guilty look-and I thought I saw it. “I was devastated. I stood weeping in the shower because I didn’t know what else to do.”
“And your clothes, sir?” Conklin asked.
“My clothes?”
“Mr. Dowling, let me be honest with you,” Conklin said. “We know you’re a victim here, but there are certain protocols. We take your clothes to the lab, and it puts down any questions that might come up later.”
Dowling gave Conklin a furious look and called out, “Van-gy! Take Inspector Conklin upstairs and give him whatever he wants.”
When Conklin and the housekeeper left the room, I asked, “Mr. Dowling, when was the last time you had intimate relations with your wife?”
“My God. What are you getting at?”
“Someone had sex with your wife,” I said, pressing on. “If it was her killer, he left evidence that could help us-”
“Casey had sex with me!” Dowling shouted. “We made love before dinner. Now what exactly does that tell you?”
Fifteen minutes later, Conklin and I left Dowling’s house with a printout of his phone contact list, a cheek swab, and all the unlaundered clothing he owned. Presumably that included what he was wearing when his wife was shot.
“I took everything in the clothes hamper and whatever was on the hook behind the bathroom door,” Conklin said as we walked out to the car. “If he shot her, we’ll have gunpowder. We’ll have blood spatter. We’ll have him.”
Chapter 22
IT WAS THE end of a very long day when Claire and I came in from the dark street into Susie’s, with its splashy sponge-painted walls, spicy aromas, and the plinking drumbeat of the steel band.
Cindy and Yuki were holding down our favorite table in the back room, Yuki in her best go-to-court suit while Cindy had swapped out her denims for something flirty in baby-blue chiffon under a short, cream-colored jacket. They were putting away plantain chips and beer and were in deep conversation about the Dowling case.
Claire and I slid into the booth as Cindy said, “Casey Dowling owned a twenty-karat canary diamond ring worth a million bucks. Known as the Sun of Ceylon. Maybe she fought to keep it. What do you think, Linds? Possible motive for Hello Kitty to go ballistic?”
“Casey didn’t have any defensive wounds,” said Claire.
“And she didn’t scream for her husband,” I added.
I poured beer from the pitcher for Claire and myself, then asked Cindy, “Where’d you get that info about the diamond?”
“I’ve got my sources. But I wouldn’t get too excited, Linds. That rock will have been chopped into pebbles by now.”
“Maybe,” I said to Cindy. “Listen, I have a thought. Since you know who’s who, maybe you could run your fingers through the social register, flag anyone young and athletic enough to do second-story jobs.”
Yuki asked, “You’re thinking Hello Kitty is high-society?”
“Rich does,” Cindy and I said in unison.
Yuki tucked her hair behind her ears. “If Kitty travels with that crowd, he’d know Casey had this huge yellow diamond, and if she recognized him-”
“Yeah, I admit, it makes sense,” I said. “There was a forced-window entry into the Dowling bedroom, identical to the other five break-ins. There’s a witness who saw someone making a getaway on foot. Clapper says there’s no gunpowder or blood spatter on Dowling’s clothing. So if Casey knew Kitty-”
And then Claire thumped the table with her fist. Chips jumped. Beer sloshed. She got everyone’s complete attention.
“I’m sorry, but the Benton killings give me the creeps. WCF. What’s that? It’s crazy. Sinister crazy. Mystery gunpowder stippling. Mystery motive. Dead baby, shot execution-style.
“So let me be clear: I don’t care whose case it is, and I know it’s not right to care more about one murder victim over another. I said I’m sorry, and I am, but this dead baby hurts me. Deeply. And now I’m going home to my man and my little girl.”
Chapter 23
YUKI PAID THE tab and told Lorraine to keep the change. She realized suddenly that she’d never given the others her news. Usually girls’ night out at Susie’s was laughing and venting and dinner. But tonight everyone got intense and then-they were gone.
Yuki stood up, buttoned her jacket, and walked past the kitchen and into the main room. Her hand was on the front door handle when, on impulse, she turned and walked back to the bar.
The bartender had dark curly hair, an easy smile, and a name tag stitched onto the fabric of his wild-printed shirt.
“Miles?”
“That’s my name,” he told her. “Wait. I’ve seen you before. You and your friends-beer and margaritas, right?”
“I’m Yuki Castellano,” she said, shaking his hand. “What do you drink to celebrate a good day in court?”
“You beat a traffic ticket?”
Yuki laughed.
“Do that again,” Miles said. “I think the sun just came out.”
“I’m a prosecutor,” she said. “Things turned out fine for the good guys today. S
o what do you think? What am I drinking?”
“Classic. Traditional. Always in style.”
“Perfect,” Yuki said as Miles poured champagne. “You know, today was stupendous, except for the one stone in my shoe.”
“Tell me about it.”
Yuki ordered a spicy crab salad, then told Miles about the case against Jo-Jo Johnson and how the victim, the dead Dr. Harris, was a very bad dude but that Jo-Jo was worse. He’d let the man die in his own vomit over the course of fifteen hours.
“Should have taken the jury about five minutes to find Jo-Jo guilty,” Miles said.
“Shoulda, but it took a day and a half. Jo-Jo’s lawyer is very smooth, and Jo-Jo is disarmingly simple. Like, you could believe that he really didn’t know that Harris was dying if you totally squinted your eyes and put your common sense in the deep freeze.”
“So it’s terrific that you won.”
“Yeah. I’ve been at this a couple of years. I’ve had a lot of losses.”
“So you didn’t say. What’s the stone in your shoe?”
“His name’s Jeff Asher. Opposing counsel. He came up to me after his client was taken out in handcuffs and said, ‘Congratulations on your win, Yuki. What is that? One in a row?’”
“He’s a sore loser,” the bartender said. “You hurt him, Yuki. Definitely. Guess what? Your champagne’s on the house.”
“Thanks, Miles. Yeah. You’re right. He’s a sore loser.”
“Bartenders never lie,” Miles said.
Yuki laughed.
“Here comes the sun,” he said.
Chapter 24
CINDY’S BLOUSE WAS a cloud of silk chiffon in the rear foot well of Rich Conklin’s car. Her skirt was rolled up to her waist, and her panty hose dangled from one foot. She was damned uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t change a thing.
She rested her hand on Rich’s chest, damp from the romp, and felt his heart thudding. He pulled her in tight and kissed her.
“What a concert,” he said.
“Tremendous rhythm section,” she said, both of them cracking up.
They were parked in an alley near the Embarcadero, where Rich had pulled the car into the shadows because Cindy’s hand on his leg had made it impossible to wait.
He said now, “I can almost hear the cop knocking on the window with his flashlight, saying, ‘Hey, what’s going on in there?’”
“And you putting your shield to the glass, saying, ‘Officer down.’”
Conklin started laughing. “I don’t have any idea where my shield is. You are so witchy, Cin, and I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
She gave him a sly smile and ran her hand over his naked chest and slid it down, then kissed him, starting up his breathing, and there he was, hard again, kissing her, pulling her on top of him.
“Keep your head down,” he panted. “Headlights.”
Cindy leaned over and fastened her mouth to his, broke away, raised and lowered her hips, and worked him with her eyes open, watching his face change, letting him see her, really see her. She slid up and away from him, and he put his hands around her waist and pulled her down on him, hard.
“You drive me crazy, Cin.”
She put her cheek down on his collarbone, letting him drive the action, feeling secure and at risk the whole time, a powerfully explosive combination. And then she was calling his name, and he released himself into her.
“Oh my God,” she said, panting, then fading, wanting to fall asleep in Rich’s arms. But there was something bothering her, something she’d never felt it was okay to ask him until now.
“Rich?”
“Want to go for three?” he asked her.
“Dare you,” she said, and they both laughed, and then she just blurted it out. “Rich, have you ever-”
“Maybe, once or twice before.”
“No, listen. Did you ever do it with Lindsay?”
“No. No. C’mon, Cindy. She’s my partner.”
“So that’s what-illegal?”
“I think my arm’s dead,” he said to her.
Cindy shifted her weight, and then there was a whole lot of looking for articles of clothing and deciding where to spend the night.
She’d spoiled the mood, Cindy thought, buttoning her blouse. And she wasn’t even sure he’d told her the truth.
Chapter 25
PETE GORDON WAS standing in the kitchen, whipping up some instant mashed potatoes on the stove while watching the baseball game on the undercabinet TV, when his wife came through the door.
“Whatcha burning?” she asked.
“Listen, princess, I don’t need your frickin’ cooking tips, and now you made me miss that pitch.”
“So why don’t you rewind it, sweetie?”
“Do you see a DVR in here? Do you?”
“Sorry, Mr. Cranky. I’m just saying you could save that if you put a little milk in it and turned down the flame.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Pete said, switching off the gas, scraping the potatoes into a bowl. “You just can’t let me have a single simple pleasure, can you?”
“Well, I have a surprise.”
“Let’s hear it.” He dialed up the volume and ate the potatoes standing in front of the set. He spit into the sink as the food burned his mouth, glancing up in time to see the opposing team crossing the plate. “NO!” he screamed. “Goddamn Giants. How could they lose this game?”
“My aunt said she’d like to take all of us out to dinner tomorrow. Special treat-on her.”
“Yippee. Sounds like fun. Your fat-assed aunt and all of us around a table at the Olive Garden.”
“Pete.”
No answer.
“Pete,” she said, reaching up and turning off the television. He swung his head around and glared at her.
“It’s not about you, handsome. It’s about the kids having dinner with their family.”
“You guys can get along without me. Just wing it, princess,” Petey said, not quite believing it when she took the remote off the counter, jammed it down the disposal, and hit the switch.
“Go to hell, Petey,” she said as the machine gnawed on the plastic. “No, I really mean it.”
Pete shut off the grinder and watched his fucking wife flounce out of the room. He reran the last scene in his mind, only this time he put wifey’s hand into the grinder. Yeah. The metal teeth chomping through muscle and bone as she screamed her head off.
He was going to get her.
He was going to get her and Sherry and the stink bomb one day really soon.
WCF, people. Wait for it.
Chapter 26
MY EYELIDS FLEW open at 5:52 a.m. exactly. I know because Joe has a projection clock, a high-tech gadget that shows the time and temperature in red digits on the ceiling.
I like knowing this information by simply opening my eyes. But this morning, I saw the red numerals and thought, WCF.
That goddamned baby-killing psycho had infiltrated my mind, and I didn’t hold it against Claire one bit that she was so incensed and freaked and practically murderous herself. The insidious lipstick letters-the clue that led to nothing-were like the freight train heading toward the house when there was no place to run.
I wondered how Chi and McNeil were doing with the phone list that matched those initials. Man, it would be great if it led to the shooter, but a killer signing his work with his actual initials? Forget it.
I closed my eyes, but Martha was on to me. She put her snoot on the mattress, pinned me with her gorgeous brown eyes, and started thumping her tail. Then Joe turned over. He wrapped his arms around me, brought me into a bear hug, and said, “Linds. Try to sleep.” It was now 6:14.
“Okay,” I said, turning away from him so that he could hold me in the hollow of his body. He was breathing softly over my shoulder, so I sent my mind back to the days when I lived in my own place on Potrero Hill. My life had been very different then, jogging with Martha most mornings, running the squad, coming home to Martha at night. I remem
bered the microwaved, one-dish cooking, a little too much vino, wondering when I’d hear from Joe. Wondering when I’d see him.
And then my apartment burned down.
And now Joe was living here, and I was wearing his ring. At this moment it felt almost as though he were riding along with my thoughts. He held me closer and cupped my breasts. He got hard against me, and then he ran his hand down to my belly and pressed me to him.
As his breathing sped up, so did mine, and then he was turning me as though I were a tiny thing-a feeling that I just love. I squirmed from his touch, heating up under this new kind of loving that felt so different from the roller-coaster craziness of the time before Joe and I finally committed to a shared life.
I faced him and wrapped my arms around his neck, and he pulled my legs up to his waist, and this incredible, breathtaking moment bloomed. I waited through the tension of those long seconds before he entered me. I looked into his deep-blue eyes-and gave myself over to him.
“I love you, Blondie,” he said.
I nodded because I couldn’t speak. Tears were in my eyes and my throat ached as we joined together. He held me and rocked me, and I was happy. I loved this man. Our lives were finally blending in a delicious and balanced way.
So what was nagging me from a cul-de-sac in my mind? Why did I feel that I was letting myself down?
Part Two. SHOWTIME
Chapter 27
SARAH WELLS FLIPPED the chicken-fried steak in the pan and removed the garlic bread from the oven, thinking that it was all heart-attack food-or was that just wishful thinking?
The TV was on in the next room. Sarah could see it through the wall opening and could hear Helen Ross, the pretty, blond talk-show host, over the crackling of grease in the pan. Ross was sympathizing with Marcus Dowling about the pain of losing his wife.
“Come on, Helen,” Sarah muttered. “Put him on the grill. Don’t be a jerk.”
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