He stares me down before replying. “As I said, Detective, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”
It doesn’t sit right with me that he didn’t actually answer my question one way or the other. But nothing about this case does.
“Sun is setting fast,” I tell Patel as we walk back to the car. The sky is turning dark, and I’m desperate to make something of this day before it’s gone. “I really want to dig into those call logs…but do you think we could make it to Pacifica by nightfall?”
“Depends on commuter traffic. It’s close to six.” Patel frowns at me. “Why?”
“Dean Lewis still hasn’t returned my calls.” I slide into the unmarked cruiser, and when Patel joins me, I point straight ahead, toward Point Reina. “It’s time to pay the Harrises’ chef a visit.”
* * *
The town of Pacifica is a gem. Tucked on the coast between San Francisco and Point Reina, it’s a short jog off Highway 1, a six-mile stretch of picturesque beaches and sprawling hills twenty minutes south of the city. Although it’s larger than Point Reina, Pacifica is still relatively quiet—an oasis for surfers and hikers and those seeking refuge from the daily grind.
I could see why someone like Dean—someone who spends his workday shuffling meals between Point Reina and San Francisco—would like it here.
Patel’s GPS sparks to life, informing us that Dean’s residence, Seascape Apartments, is ahead on the right. Painted brown and muted green, the complex fades into the landscape and looks as though it hasn’t been remodeled in the last few decades. The lawns are mowed short, the trees trimmed back. It’s the view at the end of the street that sells the place. A brisk, two-minute walk to the west and I’d be standing in the surf.
“What does Dean drive?” Patel asks, frowning at the line of parked cars at the curb. “A Camaro?”
“2012 Mustang Convertible. Kona blue. Bought it three years ago. According to DMV records, he’s the second owner.”
“Did I tell you about my wife’s new car?” Patel kills the engine. “She’s in love. Better be, considering they asked for one of my kidneys as collateral. If I thought I was broke before, I had no idea. You should hear the plans she has for our new pool.”
I make a sound of agreement as he goes on about the infinity pool they’re putting in.
“The promotion’s going to be perfect timing,” Patel rambles on.
“Promotion?” I hadn’t heard anything about it.
“Didn’t I mention my meeting with the lieutenant? Sure I did. He said the Harris case is getting national attention now. Said it wouldn’t look good for the department if the case stalled. They want us to wrap it up quickly. Might be a promotion in it for me if we do.”
It all makes sense. The promotion is perfect timing. Especially if he and his wife have already spent the money he’d earn from the raise. No wonder he wants a reckless pursuit of Joanna Harris’s killer, leading to a quick arrest.
But that’s not how I work. He should know that by now.
“Let me be the first to congratulate you then,” I say, without bothering to keep the cynicism from my tone. “Can we get back to work now?”
Without waiting for an answer, I exit the cruiser, slamming the door behind me. He follows and meets me at the curb as a surfer passes by, lugging a board. The breeze carries a scent of sand and salt. I breathe in deeply and take in my surroundings. Run-down duplexes across the street. Dead-end road. Seagulls swooping in the distance. No traffic. Not much beach parking. Actually, there’s hardly enough street parking for Seascape’s tenants. There must be a private lot, or—there it is. Up ahead, past the complex, a driveway turns off the main road.
“I’m going to check out the tenant garages,” I tell Patel. “I want a quick look before we head in.”
“All right,” Patel says, “but I’m going up. See if I can get him talking. Meet me up there. 3B.”
“I know,” I call over my shoulder. “I remember.”
Flanked by ruthlessly groomed hedges, the driveway leads behind the complex to a large lot edged by three rows of garages. Beside each single-car garage is a covered stall for a second vehicle. I stride down the nearest row, scanning. Honda Civic with expired plates. Dodge pickup truck with blacked-out windows. Electric company work truck. No sign of Dean’s blue Mustang.
My gaze lifts to the small metal placards posted above each garage door. 6A, 5A…
The stall beside 3B’s garage bay is empty. Oil stain on the concrete. Naked lightbulb overhead. There’s nothing to find here.
But I’m not about to leave any stone unturned, so I enter the covered stall and search for a side entrance.
“Hey,” someone calls from behind me. “That’s my garage. Can I help you find something?”
Dean.
I’ve already run his record, and feel like we’ve met before, even though we haven’t. He’s Caucasian, six foot one, thirty-four years old, and has lived in San Mateo County his whole life. Graduate of the California Culinary Academy. Top honors. Never married. Doesn’t receive government assistance or pay child support. I put his plates through the system, too. Three speeding tickets in the last two years for going over ninety miles per hour. Not surprising considering his choice of vehicle. Other than the speed infractions, and one night spent in jail after a nasty bar fight—in which I figure he earned that gnarly scar on the side of his neck—he’s clean. Tonight, he’s carrying two gym bags, one dangling at the end of each arm.
“I’m Detective Shaw from the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office,” I say as I approach him. “I left you several messages.”
“I’ve been busy.” I can tell from his tone that Dean’s not going to be too talkative today. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand. I’m late for an appointment in the city.”
“I get the feeling you’re dodging my calls,” I say, keeping my tone light, “but you wouldn’t have any reason to do that, would you?”
“I’m not dodging your calls, Detective Shaw. I merely have nothing to add to your investigation. I thought I’d serve Joanna better if I stayed out of the way so you can do your job.”
I have to tread carefully with this guy. I want him on my side.
He drops his bags to the asphalt, crouches, and with one swift move, lifts the garage door. It rolls back with an obnoxious whinny and settles on its track overhead. Inside, the garage space is tidy. No garden tools, I note immediately. Not a speck of dirt on the concrete floor.
“No lock?” I ask, pointing to the door resting on the track overhead.
“The lock busted last spring. It’s not a big deal.” Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out his car keys, and presses a button on the fob. The Mustang’s trunk jerks open with a loud thud. “I don’t keep anything valuable in here anyway.”
His garage is barely wide enough for the Mustang’s doors to open. Against the back wall, a narrow cabinet reaches from floor to ceiling.
Wonder what he keeps in there?
“Listen,” Dean says, picking up his bags and tossing them in the trunk. “I don’t want any trouble.” He slams the lid closed.
I put up my hands as if to surrender, smiling. “I just want to talk about Michael and Joanna Harris. Two minutes.”
Maybe ten.
“I like my job, Detective.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
He steps closer. He’s wearing cologne, something peppery. “You think Mr. Harris would be happy if he knew the police were interrogating me about his family? If anyone sees me talking to you, the news will make it back to Point Reina faster than I will.”
“What’s wrong with having a civil conversation?” I counter, still smiling.
Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m going to make this easy on you. I loved Joanna as a friend, and—”
&n
bsp; “Only as a friend?” I interrupt. “Never crossed the line?”
“Never.”
“Not sure I believe that.”
His breathing remains even. His gaze holds mine steady. He’s either telling the truth or he’s a very skilled liar. He huffs in disgust, charges around to the driver’s side of his car, and yanks the door open. “I told you I was late. Have a good evening, Detective.”
I move in front of the garage door, so he can’t leave unless he plans to run me over. “You like your job, and Point Reina is a tight community. You can’t afford a bad name, or you won’t work anywhere around there again. You’re loyal to the Harrises because you and Joanna were close. I get all that. But if you loved her—as a friend—help us figure out who did this to her.”
If he doesn’t know already.
He curses under his breath, glaring at me. Then he says, “Okay. I’ll answer anything you want about Joanna. But their marriage was none of my business. I don’t want to get involved.”
“You already are, Dean.” I stare him down. “You go in and out of Ravenwood almost every day. You know what goes on inside those walls. Inside that marriage. You knew back then. Do you remember anything strange happening last summer?”
“Strange? No. Nothing.”
“Anything, Dean. Did they go anywhere in May, June, or July? Take any trips, or—”
“They didn’t go anywhere,” he blurts. “Especially in May. Christ! Joanna wouldn’t even come out of her room for the last half of the month.”
“Do you know why?”
He shrugs. “Said she wasn’t feeling well.”
“She secluded herself in her room for half of the month, and you don’t think that’s odd behavior?”
“It’s not a crime to be sick, Detective. She had a horrible pregnancy. Nauseous all the time. Couldn’t keep food down. It wasn’t abnormal to find her in bed half the day.”
“So she kept to her room and to her bed. Do you know who took care of her during that time?”
“Samara—the woman wouldn’t leave Joanna’s side.”
“Were she and Mr. Harris arguing at the time? Or any time before or after she secluded herself in her room?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? If I want to keep my job, I can’t talk about their marriage.”
“Did Mr. Harris give you that ultimatum?”
His jaw twitches as he stares into the Mustang’s interior. It’s as if Dean’s deciding whether or not to bolt. Staying would probably mean disrespecting or even disobeying his employer. But running from an open investigation would immediately throw suspicion on him. If he’s not guilty, why would he need to dodge innocent questions?
I’ve got him pinned, and we both know it.
“All right, Dean,” I say, pretending to give a little ground. “I’ll keep my questions focused on Joanna.” Because it’ll loosen him up for the more complicated questions later. “Did she have any enemies?”
“No.”
“Can you recall any disagreements between Joanna and Rachael Martin?” I press. “Or anyone else in the neighborhood?”
“No.” With a heavy exhale, Dean slams his car door shut. The sound ricochets off the walls of the garage like a thunderclap as he approaches me, fire blazing in his eyes. “That’s the thing you’re not getting. Everyone loved Joanna. Everyone. She was the light in any room. The life of the party. She was unbelievably charismatic, and kind, and funny. When she talked, you listened. When she walked away, you watched. Everyone did. Women wanted to be her. Men wanted to be with her.”
“Then,” I insist, feeling my own pulse jump at his words, “who the hell would do this to her?”
“If I knew of one person who thought poorly of her, who would wish her even the slightest bit of harm, I would tell you. But I can’t think of a single person in all of Point Reina because there isn’t one.”
Quite the speech. But I’m not falling for it. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Am I a suspect now?” he asks bitterly.
“We haven’t ruled anyone out, Mr. Lewis.”
“July, I guess.”
“I don’t want you to guess,” I say flatly. “Take a minute to think about it.”
Anger flares in his eyes again, then recedes. “I can’t remember exactly, but with the exception of that period in May, when she was sick, we met every morning to go over their menu. I couldn’t say if that happened the day she was killed or not, but in all likelihood it did.”
So he would’ve seen Joanna on the morning of July sixteenth, before she went to Pilates. It’s not concrete, since he can’t note anything specific that happened that day, but at least he’s giving me something.
“Did you see Joanna outside of work?” I ask. “Did you go shopping together? Movies? Dinner?”
He levels his humorless stare at me. “All of the above. Anything else?”
Aha. “You must’ve been devastated when she left Mr. Harris in July.”
His jaw clenches. “I was.”
“Anything strike you as odd about the way she left?”
He blinks, then stares me down for so long, I fear I’ve pushed too far. “If you’re asking my opinion, Joanna wouldn’t have just vanished without at least saying goodbye. It wasn’t like her. She was always thoughtful and kind.”
“If you thought her disappearance was strange, why didn’t you ever go to the police?”
“Mr. Harris insisted she was fine.” He glances at the cabinets at the back wall of the garage, though I’m not sure if he’s mentally searching for something hidden there or just desperate to avoid eye contact. “He said she was with her sister. I left message after message on her cell, but there was never any reply. It was strange.”
“It was strange,” I agree. “And yet you never filed a missing person’s report.”
“I thought about that,” he says bitterly, bringing his gaze back to mine, “and I even mentioned it in passing to Mr. Harris one morning. He said it was absurd. He explained that Joanna wasn’t in danger, that she chose to leave, and any effort to bring her back would be useless.”
Interesting. Harris hadn’t mentioned any of this. “Would you consider Mr. Harris a decent boss?”
“I would say so, yes,” he says. “He’s reasonable when it comes to days off, allowing vacation time, and even offers me benefits. Some people pay more for silence on certain issues, and—”
“No, you’re not skipping over that,” I interrupt. “Did Michael Harris offer a bribe to keep you quiet?”
His lips press together tightly, giving away nothing.
“What kinds of issues might someone pay to keep quiet?” I prod.
“I told you. I won’t answer any questions about my boss’s marriage.”
Dean’s acting like he doesn’t want to play this game, but I’ll get the information I need one way or another. “Abuse?”
Again, he stares me down, then lowers and lifts his chin. It’s the smallest of affirmative movements. If I hadn’t been looking right at him, waiting for a sign, I would’ve missed it.
“Mr. Harris loved his wife, Detective. I don’t think that’s what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. In fact, he probably loved her too much, and held on too tightly when she wanted more freedom.”
Fascinating. “Did she ever mention having an affair?”
He laughs.
“More than one affair?”
“For a detective, you sure don’t seem to be digging too deep.” He shakes his head. “I told you. She was loved by everyone who knew her. Everyone, Detective.”
He loved her, too.
There’s no doubting the nature of their relationship now. Dean Lewis and Joanna Harris had an affair. But he won’t divulge the truth to me because he knows it�
��ll make him a prime suspect.
Too late.
“Anyway,” he goes on, glancing at his watch, “I know she and Mr. Harris had their problems, but who am I to say what I would or wouldn’t do in a certain situation? Everyone has issues.”
I get the feeling that I’m teetering on the edge of something dark with Dean Lewis—valuable information that’ll turn this case around. I gamble, taking advantage of the answers flowing freely from him now.
“Does Mr. Harris know you and Joanna were having an affair?”
“You think he would keep me on his staff if he suspected I was sleeping with his wife?” With a curse, he jerks open the Mustang’s door, and slides inside. “Clearly you don’t know a thing about Mr. Harris’s character. The man would’ve carved me in two if he thought for one second that we were sleeping together.”
“Were you?”
I need to hear him say the words, if for no other reason than to prove my suspicions about him were right.
“If you want to know about their marriage,” he says grimly, “ask Mr. Harris. Be sure to tell him that I wouldn’t give you squat.”
I barely have time to scramble out of the garage before he reverses, barely missing my toes. Quickly, as if he nearly forgot, he rushes out of the car and yanks on the garage door until it slams against the asphalt.
“I left my number on the voicemails. Call if you think of anything that might help with the case.”
He flops into the driver’s seat and bangs the door shut again. He doesn’t even glance in my direction when he cranks the wheel and peels out of the lot.
“Was that Dean Lewis?” Patel hollers, charging along the stretch of garage doors. He’s out of breath. “Flag him down so we can talk to him!”
I’m still shaking my head, watching the taillights of Dean’s Mustang fade into the twilight. When Patel reaches my side, he doubles up to rest his hands on his knees.
“You didn’t stop him,” he wheezes.
“I didn’t need to. Our conversation was over.”
“Damn it. Took a two-minute phone call and missed him.”
In Her Shadow Page 18