by Molly Greene
“Taylor Vonnegon’s suite.”
“This is Cambria Butler, calling for Mr. Vonnegon.”
“Ah, Miss Butler. I’m sorry, but Mr. Vonnegon is very busy this afternoon.” His secretary’s voice could have flash-frozen a bucket of boiling water.
“I’m sure he is. I’m returning his call. I’ll leave a message and he can call back when it’s convenient.”
The woman’s voice turned sweet. “I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t know he’d reached out to you. I would imagine he probably wanted to extend his deepest apologies for any discomfort you may have been subjected to while you were here.
“So,” she continued, “I would be honored to do that on his behalf, and tell you how extremely sorry we are for any inconvenience the situation caused. I’ll let Mr. Vonnegon know you called and that I delivered his message. That way you can put us out of your mind and move on.”
Bree’s back stiffened. Clearly Vonnegon’s gatekeeper was the woman from Friday night, and she was handling things again. “I appreciate your kind words. Even so, I’d like to speak to Mr. Vonnegon in person. Perhaps I should just drop by the office and let him know I tried to get through on the phone.”
The woman hesitated. “No need to go out of your way. One moment, please.”
A scant minute later, Taylor’s voice was on the line. “I wasn’t sure you’d return my call.”
“And miss another free meal? You don’t know me.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you’re not angry. I hope you’re not, anyway. I’m running out of ways to apologize.”
“Did you call Garcia?”
“Yes. I spoke with him Monday morning, as promised. He said he wasn’t really thinking you were the most likely suspect, either.”
“He could have told me that himself.”
“I’m sure he will. I think it’s a police tactic to get people tired, hungry, and stressed. Then they make mistakes. They say things they shouldn’t. Apparently you passed his interrogation with flying colors.”
“Did he share any new developments?”
“Not really. They’re just beginning. The initial examination was not conclusive, so the coroner doesn’t have an answer yet about what killed Andrew.”
“And nobody’s come forward with a tip or an idea? Nobody called in a confession, took credit for the killing?”
“No. That’s the sort of thing terrorists do. The Irish Republican Army does that. I would think most homicidal maniacs avoid confessions.”
“I’m trying to think outside the box.”
“No one has come forward. That would make it easy, though, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess.” Bree sighed. “Seeing him was a shock. He was so young. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Put it out of your mind. Really, there’s no reason for you to dwell on poor Andrew’s death. Despite what I said, the authorities are not completely convinced it was a homicide. There’s still the outside chance he died of natural causes. It happens.”
“I didn’t get the impression it was a natural death while Garcia was hammering me Friday night.”
“The police don’t take this sort of thing lightly, and it isn’t in their nature to be reassuring. So can I make it up to you? Dinner this weekend?”
“Sure. I even promise to be on my best behavior.”
“I look forward to that. I’ll pick you up at your place six-thirty Friday evening. Since I know where you live.”
“I’ll be ready. Fancy or casual?”
“Semi-casual.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Bree fired up her laptop and began to compile notes about Ducane. She recorded her experience at Elergene, how Andrew looked when she found him, her impression of the uniformed officers, and her interview with Garcia when he arrived on the scene.
She got stuck when it came to a description of the police station. Exhaustion had eaten away at her focus by then, and all she’d wanted was to get home and climb into bed. One quick visit to the cop shop would change that, and she could try to pick up something from the detectives while she was there.
Bree phoned. Garcia was unavailable. But when the department’s admin confirmed he was in the office, she pulled on jeans and a turtleneck, then grabbed her keys and headed up to Fillmore.
The sky was leaden. The overcast felt downright gloomy, and the heavy, colorless umbrella hung like a pall of sooty cotton above the rooftops. It was a good day for indoor projects, like fulfilling client contracts. She really should be working, but the pull of the case was more compelling than the prospect of dashing off new employee bios for a company newsletter. They would have to wait.
An open stretch of sidewalk appeared in front of the station and Bree wedged into the curb, parallel parking like a pro in the cramped space. She jumped from the car with an energy she hadn’t felt in months, then pushed through the entrance doors and noted the comparative quiet that enveloped the station midweek.
Drama was apparently aggravated by weekends. And darkness, and alcohol.
She maneuvered among the desks like a practiced visitor. Garcia’s was neater than she remembered, and his hair had been recently trimmed. He was hunched over a file, chin on fist, scrawling jerky notations in the margin.
When she sat in his metal-armed chair, he stopped writing and looked up. “I thought the guy was supposed to make the first move in your story.”
He cast his eyes back down and made a final scribbled entry before clapping the file closed. He tossed the manila folder on top of a haphazard pile that teetered in a plastic bin to his left, then pushed back his chair and waited.
“Good morning, Detective Garcia.”
He nodded.
She bet he possessed great silent treatment skills, but Bree intended to win this standoff. She observed the room closely as the quiet stretched out, then turned her eyes back to the man.
Garcia’s high cheekbones and olive skin hinted at native American blood. By the looks of the crow’s feet around his eyes, he’d passed his mid-thirties a couple years back. They also indicted that he smiled once in a while, although she’d not witnessed it.
He was neatly dressed, and the cuffs of his crisp white shirt were folded back to reveal forearms that looked as though he had the strength to throttle someone with one hand.
No ring. No jewelry at all, in fact.
The desk had been cleared since her last visit, revealing a battered metal Rolodex beside a mug of pens and pencils. His plain white coffee cup was lettered with the word Guadalajara. A vertical file cabinet behind him was topped with a framed photograph of an older couple in bright clothing. Parents? Friends? Beside it was a bulky canvas bag with heavy leather straps.
Despite her intention, she caved first and snapped at him with false exasperation. “Oh, come on. Not even ‘how are you?’”
The corners of his mouth turned up. “Since you’re here, I’m guessing you must feel better. Are the effects of your personal Friday evening nightmare fading?”
“Touché.”
“What brings you? Ready to confess?”
“Rats. The jig is up.”
“I thought so. So tell me how you did it.”
“I hoped you could explain that to me.”
“No can do. Autopsy hasn’t been done yet.”
“Why so long? I thought you’d be in a big hurry to find out.”
“There’s a slew of dead bodies in line ahead of Ducane. San Francisco is a big city filled with its share of deranged people who think murder is an option for solving a problem.”
“Ah. Jaded.”
“Part of the job description.”
“But you’ve established that Andrew was murdered?”
“It looked like a natural death, but the Medical Examiner is extremely curious to see if a foreign substance was introduced.”
“Introduced?”
“Someone may have slipped him something that wasn’t so good for him. Sur
e you didn’t bring the guy homemade cookies or something?”
“If I had, I would have offered you a snack that night, as well.”
Garcia’s grin lit his face and crinkled the lines around his eyes in a charming way. First time she’d seen him smile, and it offered a glimpse of the man he was in his personal life. It must be a challenge to play the role of policeman and deal with thorny situations for a living. She sure wouldn’t want the job.
“Ha,” Bree said. “Made you laugh.”
“And that will buy you a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll pass. I saw your reaction last time you were drinking it.”
“I meant off-premises. I could use a break.” He stood, rolled his cuffs down and buttoned them, then drew on Friday night’s navy sport coat. He turned to the door. “There’s a coffee shop down the street. I’m not sure why you’re here, but it looks like it’s not to give yourself up. Maybe in a less official setting you’ll let your guard down and come clean. Let’s go.”
Bree grabbed her bag and followed. By the time she reached the door, Garcia was holding it open. She fell in beside him when he turned left on the sidewalk.
A block down was a hole-in-the-wall café. Garcia pointed to an empty table in the back and got in line. Bree removed her coat and took a seat. Within four minutes he joined her, bearing a tray with two steaming cups and a plate of pastries.
“Would you mind if we changed seats? I don’t like to have my back to the door. Hazard of the job.”
They shared a flaky cinnamon roll that was fresh from the oven. One sip told Bree her cup was filled with the best cappuccino she’d had in the city. “This is heaven.”
“I’m an expert,” Garcia replied. “My family grows coffee in Chiapas.”
“Chiapas? Isn’t that in Southern Mexico?”
“Right.”
“I didn’t know coffee grew there.”
“Coffee loves the mountains. I pick beans almost every Christmas with my cousins and aunts and uncles.”
“That explains the canvas bag behind your desk.”
He gave her an appraising look. “That’s right. I like to remember where I come from.”
“There’s trouble in Chiapas, isn’t there?”
“Not close.”
“Do you miss it? Them, I mean?”
“I miss it and I miss them. I miss all of it. Simple food. Physical labor. Family.”
“Were you born there?”
“No. San Diego. My parents paid a coyote to sneak them across the border just before I came into the world. Thought they could give their kid a better life.”
“Coyote?”
“People smuggler.”
“And did they? Were things better?”
“The money was. They worked like dogs and sent every extra penny back home to buy more land for the coffee.”
“They didn’t want to stay in the United States?”
“Not everyone thinks California is the promised land. They sent me off to college and went home. I visit when I can.”
“How cool. It’s like you have a foot in two different worlds.”
“Right, straddling two cultural extremes is a real blast.”
“Ah, you have the sarcastic gene. Did your brothers and sisters get it, too?”
“I am my parents’ only child.”
“That’s unusual.”
He shrugged, then put his coffee cup to his lips and down again before he spoke. “Yeah, it is unusual for Hispanic families to only have one kid.”
“Back off, Garcia. That’s not what I meant. It just seems like they went to so much trouble to bring you here, I’m surprised they didn’t have more children.”
“They weren’t able to.” He changed the subject. “Where are you from?”
She smiled. “Here. More or less, anyway. My mom’s parents emigrated from Russia and my dad’s came from Michigan. I’m Bay Area born and bred and ethnically Rushigan.”
“I wonder which side gave you the moxie.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You hold up fairly well under pressure.”
“My kindergarten teacher would disagree.”
That got another smile out of him, but no comment. “Nature-nurture. We’re born with traits that are molded by our surroundings and the people who raise us. Some things grow stronger, some weaker.”
“What got stronger in you?”
“My bullshit-o-meter.”
“That’s handy. What’s it telling you about me?”
He watched her for a moment, angling his head from one side to the other. “You’re cloaked. My stats on you are dim. Mostly, they just scream ‘danger.’”
“In a good way or bad way?”
“Danger seems like an obvious clue. Hang around and I’ll let you know if I get clarity.”
Hang around? Bree wondered if he meant it literally. “So. What’ve you found out about Ducane?”
“Why do you ask?” Garcia’s expression clouded. “I can’t discuss the case more than I have.”
“Just curious. Did you have to tell his relatives? That must be tough.”
He nodded. “I talked to his folks in Iowa.” He toyed with the handle of the cream pitcher. “Not one of the better aspects of the occupation.”
“Is there a good aspect?”
He nodded again. “It has its satisfying side.”
“What would that be?”
“Helping people. Not letting the bad guys win.”
Bree’s eyebrows went up. Given his demeanor, that answer was unexpected. She started to make a joke, but decided to let it pass. “So Ducane’s mom and dad live in Iowa.”
“Yeah. His old man has an insurance agency in De Moines.”
“He must have a sibling out here, though.”
“What makes you think so?”
Oops. Way to go, Bree. Open mouth, insert foot.
“Nothing.”
Too late. Garcia’s cop mask descended, and his voice was guarded when he replied. “Come on, Miss Butler. Spill.”
She considered lying but cast that option aside. “I accidentally met his sister-in-law. It was an odd coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Where did this fluke meeting take place?”
This time she hesitated longer, wondering how to hide their trip north and make it sound like a casual thing. She gave up. “On his boat in Tiburon?”
Garcia was silent for a beat longer than was comfortable. “Before his death, or after?”
“After, of course.” Bree bit her lip. “I was telling the truth when I said I’d never met him.”
“Great.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again and stared toward the front door. When he finally looked at her, he said, “You’ve been busy.”
“Sort of.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Not much. Gen Googled him and found an old article. He was fresh out of MIT and on his way to sunny California. You know, college grads take on the world. It quoted him as saying the first thing he was going to do was buy a sailboat. Apparently he did. She tracked it down in a slip in Belvedere. We drove up and found it. His sister-in-law was there to clean up, so we didn’t stick around.”
Garcia stared at the table. He stirred his coffee, then tapped the spoon against the rim of his cup.
“We saved you time, right? One less bit of detecting for you.”
He discarded the cutlery and contemplated his folded hands, then rose and retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair. “This was productive. Thanks.”
Bree was saddened by his tone. She slung her purse on her arm and trailed him as he headed for the street. Outside, the gloom had lifted from the sky but hadn’t moved from Garcia’s angular face.
He shook hands with her pleasantly enough, then delivered a parting caution. “Stay out of my case, Miss Butler. I can’t imagine what prompted you to do what you did, but if you happen to come across any pertinent information going forward, simply pick up the phone a
nd deliver it to me. Absolutely do not take any action. If you ignore these instructions, I will haul you in for interfering with a police investigation.”
“That’s harsh. You can see I’m sorry.”
“For what? That you went up to Tiburon and snooped around where you shouldn’t have, or that you screwed up and had to admit it?”
“Look Garcia, there’s no need to be an ass.” Bree kicked at a piece of paper sliding by on the concrete. “We didn’t do any harm.”
“Ducane’s an only child. He doesn’t have a sister-in-law.”
Bree’s eyes widened. She cleared her throat, but before she could open her mouth to speak, he continued.
“Mack will contact you this week. You’ll need to provide a description of the woman. After that, stay the hell out of my case.”
Bree stared at Garcia’s broad shoulders as he walked away.
“You don’t need to speak to me like that,” she called to his retreating back. Her voice echoed with anger, but her words were tossed back by the shifting wind.
If he heard, he chose not to respond.
* * *
Bree called Gen on the way back to her car and confessed about her run-in with Garcia. “So he knows we were on the boat and he’s mad.”
“You shouldn’t have gone to see him without telling me,” Gen said. “I would have talked you out of it.”
“Sorry, Genny.”
“You can’t be running around on your own like a loose cannon, even if it was to talk to a cop. If Ducane was murdered, whoever did it is still out there, have you thought of that?”
“You don’t need to worry about me dropping in on Garcia again. He’s a jerk.”
“He’s a jerk doing his job.”
“Well, in a way, so am I.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have any backup that can get you out of a jam, just remember that. On a lighter note, Ryan took the receipt to his friend at the SS lab. The name of the book Vonnegon bought on Amazon was Poisonous Plants of North America. The bill was paid with an Elergene credit card though, so we can’t actually pin the purchase on him.”
“Oh, but still,” Bree replied. “Now I’ve got the creeps. What if he used that book to find something in the woods and poison Ducane? I’m supposed to have dinner with him this weekend.”