“It’s coated. You can touch it.”
She ran her fingers across the cool metal. “How much does a piece like that go for?”
“That one there is about fifty.”
“Fifty,” Jamie repeated.
“Fifty thousand.”
“It’s very beautiful.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”
Brody put his hand on the small of her back as he waved back toward the living room. She moved ahead of him so that his hand came off her back, then stepped aside in the living room. Without hesitating, Brody crossed the room and sank into a sleek, pea green couch with metal legs and arms. The coffee table looked exactly like the staples you fed into a stapler, all snapped together, only magnified a thousand times. She didn’t want to imagine what something that ridiculous cost.
She pulled out her notebook.
Brody crossed one foot across his other leg and leaned back, stretching his arms up straight before settling them behind his head.
She didn’t let her gaze drop to his chest. “I understand you know the Bordens.”
“I do. Sondra bought one of my first pieces. She’s connected me to a lot of my current clients.”
“How long have you known them?”
“Ten years, plus or minus.”
“And you taught Charlotte?”
“I did.”
“The acid process?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t think Sondra would like that.”
Sondra.
“No, Lotti and I worked on more basics. Perspective, drawing.” He rose from the couch and pulled a portfolio case out of a closet. “This is actually Lotti’s stuff here.”
He laid the case on the coffee table and unzipped it to display a large pencil sketch of Brody’s marble sculpture—the woman with the long braid and flowing gown.
The artist had captured the sculpture extremely well. “Charlotte?”
“She has an eye for it,” Brody said.
“Do you have other students?”
“Not really, no.”
“Not really?”
“No. Lotti was the only one.”
“And why did you teach her?” Jamie waved around the apartment. “Doesn’t look like you needed the extra income.”
He shrugged. “She asked. I said yes.”
“Charlotte asked?” Jamie confirmed.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“She called you up and asked if you could give her art lessons?”
“Something like that.”
Jamie wrote in her notebook: Sondra asked for lessons? Or Lotti? Why lie? When she glanced up again, she asked, “So, if Charlotte asked for lessons, why did she stop coming?”
Brody closed the portfolio and zipped it back up, setting it beside the couch. “I don’t have any idea. You’d have to ask her.”
Jamie waited for him to mention that Charlotte was in a coma. “You have heard what happened to her?”
“I did.” No remorse. Not the slightest shift in body language. Either Heath Brody had nothing to do with what had happened to Charlotte or he was a full-fledged sociopath.
“When was the last time you taught Charlotte?”
Brody stretched his neck left and right. “January, I think, but Sondra would know better.”
“What did you talk about during your lessons?”
Brody cocked an eyebrow. “Art.”
“Really? Just art?”
“Well, she chattered about school and friends,” he conceded. “I didn’t really pay attention.”
“She mention a boyfriend?”
He smiled like the idea was silly.
“Something amusing, Mr. Brody?”
“No. She never mentioned a boyfriend,” he responded, drawing out the word “boy.”
“A male friend?”
“No.” The humor gone.
“You’re close with the Borden family?”
“I’m not invited for Christmas, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You’ve been to their home, then?”
“Yes,” he said. “Sondra’s included me in a few functions to meet some of her friends. As I said, she’s introduced me to quite a few of my clients.”
“Do you have any idea who might want to attack Charlotte?”
Brody leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His sculpted form created no strange rolls or bulges.
“A young, rich, beautiful woman. Seems like there would be a lot of suspects,” Brody offered. Then, leaning back again, he added, “I can’t imagine how you’d go about looking.”
Jamie stared at Brody. He sat, unflinching. He was a liar. She could tell that much, but without a reason to request a search warrant, there was nothing more to be gained from Heath Brody.
She stood up from the couch and Brody led her to the door. A door off the hallway was ajar.
His bedroom.
She pretended to dig in her purse. “I’d like to leave you with a card,” she said, palming through the bag as she stole glances into the room.
“In case you remember something useful,” she added. Chin down as though searching in her purse, she scanned the room. A bed in the center of the room, dark covers strewn across it. A tall, dark bureau. No photographs. A wallet on the bureau, keys maybe. Assorted papers that might have been receipts. Her fingers found the hard case and she pulled it out. Removed a business card. Looked again.
On the far side of the bed hung a sketch. Done in heavy charcoal, it was a view of the Golden Gate Bridge with the land peninsula on either side. Unlike most pictures of the bridge, the bridge wasn’t the focus in this one. Instead, the artist had balanced the bridge with the peninsulas on the Marin and San Francisco sides. “That’s a lovely drawing,” she told him, pushing the door open slightly. “The one beside the bed.”
Brody crossed to the door to pull it closed.
Her foot was in the way. “Is it yours?”
Brody stared down at her foot.
She moved it slowly. “It’s different from your others,” she added. When he said nothing, she went on. “Can I ask who did it?”
“I can’t recall, I’m afraid.”
She took a last glance at the drawing. “So, it isn’t yours, Mr. Brody?”
Brody closed the bedroom door and opened the front one. “Have a nice afternoon, Inspector.”
“I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon, Mr. Brody,” Jamie said, walking away from the apartment.
*
Jamie hated parent-teacher conferences at Z’s school. Even when the teachers had nothing but good news to report, there was always the sense that she and Z were both damn lucky to be there. Or the sideways glances at her slacks, inevitably wrinkled after the day, and once actually torn across the knee when she had gone to question a suspect and he’d taken off running. She’d caught the bastard but not before snagging her pant leg on the edge of a rusty swing when she chased him through a yard. Torn out a whole strip of the knee. There was no hiding that on the walk across City Academy’s swanky campus. At least she kept an extra outfit in the trunk. Not that her extra outfit was anything worth mentioning.
The teachers at City Academy had nicer wardrobes than she did.
Brody was no boost to her mood either. The arrogant jerk. Then, getting a parking ticket on the street in front of Brody’s apartment added insult to injury. She was parked in a twenty-minute loading area with her police credentials in full view on the dash. How did the parking enforcement officer miss that?
Even if she had been in the red, she’d like to meet the asshole who wrote her a ticket. Not that she’d have to pay it, but that wasn’t the point. Maybe she’d send it over to Parking with a note.
She pulled into the lot at Z’s school. Here she was again. Midterm review. Pre-term, mid-term, post-term, City Academy was all about communication.
Plenty of that was accomplished with the looks from the parents of paying students.
She parked the department car and opened the door, which emitted an ear-piercing creak from somewhere in the hinge. This was her car’s latest issue. Thankfully, City Academy’s parking lot was relatively quiet. Tony’s Camry wasn’t there. It would be tight for him to get to the school after teaching his last class.
She crossed through the lot toward the English building where Z’s advisor was to meet them. A navy Lexus parked, occupying the center of two spots. Typical. As she came around behind it, the rear lights went on and the car began to back up. Jamie slapped the trunk. “Whoa.”
The car hadn’t actually moved, she realized, pulling her hand away and tucking her head down to walk past. From the corner of her eye, she saw the driver’s side window go down. Expecting some snotty remark about denting the car with her hand, Jamie moved a little faster.
“Inspector,” called a man’s voice.
Jamie turned back. Windblown hair, big expensive sunglasses, a fancy watch on his wrist, she had zero idea who he was. With a tight smile, she kept walking.
He lifted his sunglasses onto his head. “Inspector, hold up. It’s me, Travis Steckler.”
She stopped. No recollection.
“Dr. Steckler, the friend of Sondra and Gavin Borden. From the hospital the other day.”
“Oh, right. Hello, Doctor.”
“Hang on a second,” Travis said, and he quickly put his car in reverse, sped out, and pulled back in to occupy only one space.
Ten minutes until her meeting with Z’s teacher. She would either have to wait in the anteroom or spend it talking to Dr. Charming. The anteroom seemed better, but she remained in place.
Moving quickly, Dr. Steckler locked the car and jogged to join her on the curb. He was dressed for work. A button-down shirt in some sort of fancy fabric that had a tiny pattern to it and a little sheen. A tie that matched the shirt perfectly. He propped his sunglasses up on his head and squinted in the sun as they started across the campus. “You here to interview some of Charlotte’s teachers or friends?”
“No…”
“Good. Because the kids are actually off today. It’s parent-teacher conference day.”
Jamie said nothing.
“Ah, she doesn’t comment. Can’t leak any details of the case.”
What did he want?
“Do you drink coffee?” he asked.
“Why? Are you going to tell me that my blood pressure is too high and I should quit?”
Looking startled, Steckler stopped walking. A moment later, he laughed out loud.
Jamie didn’t know what to do, so she stopped, too. She frowned at him.
“No,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Then, yes. I do. Drink coffee, that is.” Jamie started walking again, and Steckler quickly caught up.
“I want to take you out, Inspector.”
“Well, then I’ll remind you, Dr. Steckler, that you did almost take me out about two minutes ago—with your car.”
“Call me Travis.”
Jamie said nothing.
“I mean, I’d like to take you out for coffee… or dinner.”
Jamie stopped walking.
Travis had pulled out his wallet and removed a business card. “Would you consider that? Like a date?”
Jamie glanced down at the card he handed her. It listed his office on Webster Street. It was close to Pacific Heights. “You want me to call the office and make an appointment?”
Travis grinned. Like she was hilarious. “That bottom number is my cell phone number. You can call or text, whichever.”
With that, Travis touched her shoulder. “I’d love to hear from you. I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I have a meeting with my daughter’s teacher.” Then, leaving her there, he walked on.
After his hand was gone, the heat of his palm passed through her blouse. It wasn’t him, she told herself. How long had it been since a man had touched her at all? Certainly, she and Tony had never been the hugging type, and the little cuddling she used to do with Zephenaya had completely stopped with the start of middle school.
She was reacting to the contact.
She thought again of Tony’s comment. That they could be something more than friends. It wasn’t true. They couldn’t. She couldn’t. He knew too much; she knew too much. Touching Tony would never have the spark she’d felt from a complete stranger. Did she expect to ever have that again? Her life was too complicated for dating. That didn’t mean she would settle for something else either, like whatever Tony meant…
She folded Steckler’s card in two and pocketed it to throw away later. As she walked across the campus, though, the notion played in her mind. A date with Dr. Travis Steckler. A date with a doctor. What would they talk about? He acted like she was charming.
She was as charming as a troll, especially with this case.
Truth be told, she was usually about this charming.
Was it some sort of joke? But why? To humiliate her? Surely, they were beyond that stage in their lives.
A date with Travis Steckler was completely impossible. She imagined being seen with him and trying to explain it to Captain Jules. Sure, Captain. The suspect is my son’s dad and I was on a date with the victim’s close family friend. Up ahead, Travis walked into the science building without so much as a backward glance.
The door closed behind him. She fought against disappointment. He hadn’t looked back. Damn it. Who was she kidding? She was absolutely attracted to that man.
Tony called out to her. He jogged to catch up with her. “Hey, thanks for waiting,” he said. “I didn’t think you heard me calling.”
She watched the door Steckler had gone through. “Sure. Of course.”
The two walked toward the English complex.
“Should be good news, right?” Tony asked.
Jamie nodded. They hadn’t gotten any reports on Zephenaya since the cigarette incident, so there was no reason to think the meeting would go badly. Tony tensed beside her.
What was it about this place that made every meeting like walking into a firing squad?
Chapter 14
They were going to try to pin Charlotte on him. He had no part of that shit. Innocent. Wouldn’t make no difference to them. Not to the cops or the lawyers or the press. Hell, not even his family. No one would take his side over theirs. The public defender would tell him to plea. That’s what they all did. No one wanted to take on the case of an innocent man. Not a poor one. Be rich like O.J. Simpson and leave your size thirteen bloody footprints all over and shit, no one could touch you. Be poor, though, and you’d better fly under the radar. Way, way under.
Which is exactly what he’d been doing. Biding his time, paying his dues. Saving. He’d thought this sort of shit was in his past. He was actually dumb enough to think that he could get out of here. That’s what he got for listening to outsiders. For believing them. Especially her. Damn, how bad he wanted to believe her. Nothing was more addictive than hope and no drug was as painful to kick. That’s what he felt. Like someone standing over him, kicking him in the head. How could he have been that stupid?
For years, he’d been careful not to let the hope get to him. Most of them were smarter than that. He’d been smarter than most. He didn’t hope for anything. Not a new pair of sneaks or a ticket to the movies. None of that shit. He let the hope bead and run off like rain off a windowpane. No cracks. He held it all out. The attention, the way she looked at him like she really cared.
He’d effectively ignored it—seen it for the bullshit it was. He was like a mangy dog to them. Something you pitied, tried to scrub up and de-flea. But it only lasted as long as you were cute and pathetic. She didn’t lose interest. She kept texting, kept calling.
He let her see the worst parts of him. He swore and cussed and didn’t shave and got angry. But there was more, too. He told her the truth and, by doing that, he’d let her in.
Only four months and she’d splintered his strength, shattered the parts of him that protected ag
ainst the idea that things might be different. As he huddled in the corner of the room, the fresh reality was excruciating. So much more painful than the time his father knifed him for “back talk,” which, in his case, was confusion about what his father wanted, so thick was his father’s whiskey slur. He was only six then. He hadn’t known that hearing his dad sound like that meant it was time to hide and hide well.
Worse than watching the paramedics take his mother to the hospital because she nearly OD’d when his baby sister was eight weeks old, leaving him alone with her. This was worse than watching Justice Burrows get shot on the basketball court for no reason other than that some gangbanger was trying out a new clip. They were nine.
Finding her at the base of those stairs, he told himself it might be all right. She wasn’t dead. Naive. The stupid dreams of a kid. They would find him. They would target him. There was no such thing as right and wrong. No matter what had happened that night, he was to blame. Born here, die here.
He’d managed to hold off that fate for a lot of years. He should be grateful that he wasn’t already a lifer. So many of them were. It was where he’d been headed from birth. What happened in between was just a circular path back down into the gutter where they all ended up.
He pulled the carpet up in the corner and retrieved the bundle from under the busted floorboard. Crouched in the corner, he opened the soiled rag, smelling of gun oil and blood. A week ago, he’d thought about getting rid of the gun altogether. Starting fresh. Gone so far as to tell her that he was done with that. Made plans. No one here made plans. What a fucking fool he was. He clenched the gun and aimed it at the far wall. The desire to shoot, to fire off all the rounds was so intense. Then, he turned it up to the ceiling and brought it slowly toward his face, until he could see down the barrel. He lowered it to his mouth and opened, letting the barrel knock against his teeth. A sob caught in his chest and he pulled the barrel from his mouth. There was no room for self-pity. There was no suicide in the slums. That was for rich people, people who believed that life should turn out a certain way. Where he grew up, they knew it would never be fair. It was never about fair. Here, the game was survival.
He gripped the pistol in his hand, released the magazine, and checked the ammo. Snapped it back in place. No way he was going to Folsom without a fight.
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