I stared out the window, trying to swallow the hysteria welling up inside.
“If I don’t make jokes I’m going to lose it.”
O’Connor took my hands, which were clutched together in front of my chin as if I was praying, and one by one unfurled them from each other and placed them in my lap.
“You’re doing fine. Keep it together, Mary. Look at me. Do you feel better?”
I swallowed a couple of times and nodded.
“Good,” he answered. “Now, let’s act as if they aren’t going to charge you with anything just yet….”
“Charge me!” My voice reverberated throughout the car.
“Hold on.” He held up both hands to stop my impending hysteria. “It looks like suicide. They’ll proceed along those lines. Until we get the report back pinpointing the time of death, we’ll count you out initially since you were at the funeral most of the morning. Now what did you do between the time you left the church and met with Mrs. Perez?”
My face went beet red. I cursed myself for having that makeover. I mumbled, “I went to Nordstrom and got a make-over and a massage.”
“Thank God. You’ll be in their books and people will remember you. Good thing you didn’t just shop around. On the surface it looks like you were getting it on the side with Brown, something went wrong, and he killed himself in your bed. Or you got jealous and killed him. Fine, I know different. I privately plan to treat this as a murder by persons unknown. Which in my gut I know it is. Publicly, I’ll go along with the party line.”
“Privately? Publicly?” I sing-songed in confusion.
“Mary, you’re connected with two bodies in four days. If the coroner rules it’s murder, you’re in big trouble. The first person they’ll look at is you. I don’t know why you’ve been singled out, but someone is trying to set you up. I’m fighting like hell to stay on the case, but if your alibi doesn’t hold up, the captain’s yanking me as of five minutes ago. We’ve gotta move fast. When they take you downtown, tell the truth. Don’t hide anything. Keep reiterating you don’t know how Brown’s clothes got into your bedroom, you’ve got no idea why he decided to commit suicide in your house. Be very firm and confident in your replies.”
“I’ll try, but it’s going to sound ridiculous.”
“I realize that. Tell me about your neighbors. Is anyone likely to have been home today?”
I mentally catalogued my neighbors: all young lawyers and stockbrokers eager to start families and take advantage of the Albany School District. “Not really. Most of the old people have died off and have been replaced by couples who both work.”
“Too bad. The same thing’s happening in my neighborhood. I went to two funerals last month. Is that it?”
“Your only hope is Mr. Mulliken, the guy two doors down and across the street. He’s bedridden and sleeps most of the day, but you could try him. His bedroom faces the street. Also, he gets Meals on Wheels. Maybe the driver saw something.”
“Good, that gives us something to work with. I’ll call you after I tell Mrs. Brown the news. Come right home after you make your statement and we’ll touch base. Okay?”
“His kids…,” I muttered.
“His kids. It’s the shits. Sometimes I hate my job.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about Brown. I know you worked with him a long time.”
“Yeah, I did.” I felt myself getting weepy again and concentrated on the sun visor in an effort not to cry.
“Mary, come on. I need you hitting on all four right now. Whether you realize it or not, you’re my best resource. You know the people and the setup.”
I took a deep breath and faced him. He looked so tired, his olive, black Irish complexion gray with fatigue. “I’m all right now.”
“First, I can’t take your official statement. It’s got to be someone else, someone you don’t know. I called the captain and he’s having a couple of new detectives that aren’t connected with Jim or me meet you at the station to get your statement. If it starts to get ugly, don’t take any shit, demand a lawyer. Call your Uncle Dom. Got it?”
I nodded, but knew that they would have to be shoving hot pokers under my nails before I’d call my uncle to counsel me on beating a murder rap.
“I’m watching your back and mine. My friendship with you is now working against us. I’ve got to treat Brown’s death with kid gloves until we establish you an alibi. Now, do you have it together to go downtown?”
“I guess so.” I began chewing my lips, something I did only in times of severe stress. A battle waged inside of me. Should I tell him about Gilberto? O’Connor was bending God knows how many rules on my behalf and I wasn’t coming clean with him.
“Uh, do you guys have any leads on Gilberto Perez?”
“No. He didn’t show at the funeral. Bet he was here doing in Brown.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh for Christ’s sake, O’Connor. Do you really think he’s sophisticated enough to simulate Brent’s suicide? How would he get Brent’s things into my house?”
“Maybe not, but he’s not alone on this one. Mary, everything about this case has an organized feel to it, from putting the body in the bag, which obviously was going to be hauled out the door at some point, to planting Brent’s possessions in your house. I’ve put an APB out for Perez’s arrest. He might be a small fish in the bigger picture, but I gotta start somewhere.”
Flying in the face of everything I’d learned being a cop’s wife, I went with my gut. That kid didn’t kill anyone. Gilberto seemed frustrated and angry, not remorseful or defensive. No, I’d wait until I found out what time Brent was killed. If it happened around four o’clock, then Gilberto would have an airtight alibi. If Brent had been killed much earlier, I’d have to turn him in.
“Something else, O’Connor. I think someone’s following me. There’s been a late model blue van trailing me off and on for the last two days.”
He paused for a couple of seconds and shifted uneasily in his seat. “Mary, you’ve been through a lot the last couple of days. I own one of those vans myself. Do you really think someone has been following you?”
Putting my fears into words made me feel silly and neurotic. O’Connor’s reaction didn’t do anything to allay my insecurities. I shrugged, “No, I guess not.”
I reached for the door handle, then stopped. “O’Connor, two things: first, keep Jim away from me. I don’t want any phone calls or visits.”
“That’s going to be tough, Ryan.” Shaking his head, he ran his big hands through his black hair. He was going gray, too.
“I don’t care how you do it, keep him away from me. I can’t handle him on top of everything else.” I looked O’Connor in the eye and placed my soap-parched hand on his thick shoulder. “Second, don’t risk your career for me.”
He flashed me a grin. “Mary, the Irish have to stick together, you know that.”
Chapter 14
Now I know how all those criminals on the news feel when they’re being hauled away. Fortunately it was dark by the time we drove to the police station. My neighbors were huddled together in tight-knit groups just outside the crime-scene tape, no doubt comparing notes on my lack of general civility. The last year had been one long lost weekend for me, and I hadn’t said anything more than a curt hello to anyone. Frankly, I didn’t need to hear about their wonderful marriages and plans for children when I’d just lost all hope of both.
I was spared the indignity of being driven away in a police car. Because of the connection with Carlos’ murder, S.F.P.D. pulled rank. One of the sergeants from the scene drove me in my car to San Francisco to make my statement. It was a long silent drive, punctuated only by the sergeant slipping my clutch every time he downshifted. I’d just had that clutch replaced six months ago. I might as well have burned six hundred dollars in the ashtray.
I thought I knew every inspector in homicide, either by name or reputation, but the two detectives who interviewed me were strangers. They must have been recently pr
omoted. One was a short, stout Latina named Chavez who obviously spent a hefty sum on her dry cleaning. Her blouse was so starched it hung off her shoulders in stiff salute. The other detective was a tall, muscular black guy named Porter whose street-smart, lazy body language fooled me into thinking, oh-oh, quota time. Then he opened his mouth and right away I kicked myself for being so racist.
I spent the next two hours responding to the same questions over and over again asked in slightly different ways. No, I didn’t know why Chef Brown blew his brains out in my bedroom. No, we weren’t having an affair. Yes, we did work together for over seven years, but our relationship was strictly platonic. Yes, I do live alone. No, I didn’t know why men’s clothes and toiletries were in my house. No, I didn’t know whose they were. No, they do not belong to my ex-husband. By the end of the session I’d chewed my lips to a pulp.
Several times during the questioning I almost broke down and called Uncle Dom. It was a toss-up which was more terrifying, facing a potential murder charge or my uncle. As it was, the fallout from Brent’s body being found at my house was going to be huge.
Tomorrow morning Uncle Dom would return from six o’clock Mass. He’d pick up the San Francisco Chronicle that my aunt places exactly four inches from his coffee cup. On the front page would be his niece’s name in bold, black type being tied to a murder investigation. At precisely 7:01 he’d call me and the real interrogation would begin.
In the end I decided to take my chances with Inspectors Chavez and Porter. S.F.P.D. would be a piece of cake compared to Uncle Dom.
Finally they gave each other some secret signal. Porter switched off the tape recorder. Chavez stood up and politely reminded me I might be needed for further questioning once the lab reports on the body were back. I reassured them I’d let Inspector O’Connor know my whereabouts at all times. As I walked down the hall, I felt their eyes following me out the door, every step scrutinized. Despite their courteous manner, I sensed they were like dogs panting to attack and frustrated by an imaginary leash.
It was nine when I exited the station. I felt like a homeless person. Even though Brent must have been on his way to an autopsy by now, I didn’t want to go home until a cleaning service had mopped up the blood and residue from the print powder. With disgust, I recalled how the restaurant looked after Carlos’ murder.
So exhausted that my eyes were beginning to cross, I didn’t trust myself to negotiate the bridge. Nor did I want to be there tomorrow morning when Uncle Dom started his barrage of phone calls. I decided to spend the night in one of those utilitarian motels on Lombard Street, the kind with the tired and tacky coffee shops and the waitresses that call you “hon.” I’d get something to eat, go to bed, and then return to the East Bay in the morning.
I got my car out of the police garage, drove down to Van Ness, followed Van Ness to Lombard, and turned into the first motel with a lit vacancy sign. Something important nagged at me in the back of my mind, but try as I might, I couldn’t remember what it was.
I took a long shower, put my suit back on, and went to the coffee shop for a quick bite to eat. After downing a grease-laden, thoroughly enjoyable plate of sausages, scrambled eggs, and hash browns, I returned to my room. It was ten, just about my bedtime, but the food had given me a second wind. I didn’t want to turn on the television; I’d had enough sensory overload for one day. I’d clean my purse, a woman’s last antidote to boredom.
Dumping out everything on the bed, I methodically picked through all the loose pieces of paper. I checked the scraps over to see if any of them were important. Often when I see an unusual presentation or a great dessert, I’ll jot down the information on napkins or old receipts, anything I can find. Consequently, my purse is always filled with tiny miscellaneous bit of paper with recipes and drawings on them. Most chefs are food vultures. I know one highly regarded chef who eats out three times a week to see what the competition is doing and to “borrow” any interesting ideas.
One piece of paper caught my eye immediately; American Fare’s logo was on top. It was the paper on which I’d written down the addresses of Brent’s girlfriends: Teri Baxter and Drew Smyth-Sommers. Hot dog, Drew’s address was in the Marina on Scott Street, two blocks away from my motel.
Despite the late hour, I walked down Scott to find myself at a very elegant three-story townhouse painted white with black lacquer trim. Blood-red begonias cascaded out of blue-and-white Chinese porcelain pots on small balconies below the floor-to-ceiling windows. Money and class in spades. She wasn’t going to be a pushover like poor Teri Baxter.
I fetched a comb from my purse and ran it through my damp hair while I crunched an Altoid. I rang the front doorbell. Even her door chimes sounded expensive.
Luckily Drew was home. As she opened the door, clouds of Joy billowed out the door, filling my mouth and nose with its overpowering scent. The heavy perfume mixed with the remnants of the Altoid made me gag a little.
Drew was decked out in scandalously expensive ice-blue lounging pajamas the exact color of her eyes, and her feet were daintily shod in white silk mules with her initials embroidered on them. Seeing her standing there in the soft glow of the porch light looking like a photo out of Vogue made me feel like some Appalachian coal miner’s daughter wearing a dress made from flour sacks.
My linen suit, the epitome of chic at nine o’clock this morning, looked like I’d slept in it for a couple of days. I glanced down at my black pumps, scuffed on the toes. Her perfume reminded me I wasn’t even wearing deodorant, and I didn’t dare sneak a peek to see if my blouse front was clean. I was at a decided tactical disadvantage.
I took a deep breath and started gushing hellos and how-are-you’s. Her response was a guarded, “Fine.” With a lizard-like calm, she waited for me to explain my business.
“Drew, I was in the neighborhood and just decided to drop by. I wondered if you were, ah, sick or something, I didn’t see you at Carlos’ funeral.” I tried to sound solicitous.
“No,” she said, with a tasteful tinge of remorse. “I had another appointment, unfortunately. I sent flowers.” Switching gears, she continued in a decidedly dismissive tone, “I’ll see you at the restaurant. Sorry I can’t stop to chat, I was just getting into bed. Good night.”
Yeah, right. Every night before I go to bed I pour half a bottle of $100-an-ounce perfume on me, too. Who was she waiting for?
I had other plans.
I’d already maneuvered my foot between the door and the jamb, and as she began to shut the door, assuming our little encounter was over, she crushed my foot. I screamed loud enough to make her think she’d hurt me. I clutched my foot and leaned against the doorjamb, my eyes closed as if in great pain.
“Oh, my God,” she sputtered. “Are you all right?” I took guilty pleasure in seeing her eternal calm shattered for once.
“Yes, I think so. May I come in and sit down for a minute?” All those manners drummed into me by the nuns were finally paying off.
I didn’t wait for her to reply. I pushed past her, edged myself along the wall, and sat down on the staircase leading up to her place. Rubbing my ankle vigorously, I said with a wan smile, “I won’t be long, it’s feeling a little better already.”
Resignation on her face, she asked politely, “Would you like something to drink?”
“Oh, just some water, please. That would be great.”
I watched her lithe figure glide up the stairs, her mules making a harsh flap-flap sound on the hardwood.
Brent and Drew had been an item for about a year. She’s the classic Brent girlfriend, about as removed from his sarcastic, obese wife as possible. In another era she’d have been one of those movie goddesses with a full-length mink slung casually over her shoulders, regardless of the weather. A woman always cold to the touch. Beautiful in a chilly Grace Kelly sort of way, her blue eyes registering only two emotions: disdain and boredom. Why Brent was attracted to her was beyond me.
I suspected she worked in
the restaurant because (a) she’s the type of person who needs to be at the center of whatever scene is current, and American Fare is very much the scene in San Francisco; and (b) she has a thing for celebrities. She and I had never had more than the most limited of conversations, all of them having to do with work or food.
Most of the wait staff work their way up. First they buss tables, then they wait lunch, and, if they’ve proved themselves worthy, they finally get the dinner covers where the big money is to be made. With her looks, to-the-manor-born air, and almost mechanical efficiency, she immediately snapped up the most coveted nights of the week, Tuesday (opera night), Thursday (symphony night), and Friday and Saturday. Like most of the younger staff, she claims to be an actress. She’s had some modeling gigs and a few bit parts in commercials. I can’t image her actually acting, but she’d be a natural for those bitchy sorts of roles perfected by Joan Collins.
While waiting for her to come back with my water, I marveled at the difference between Drew and me. If someone had knocked on my door at ten at night, most likely I’d be in the Villains of Disneyland nightshirt my sister got me for my birthday last year—one size fits all—with a pair of white athletic socks to keep my feet warm. And it wouldn’t be clouds of Joy you’d smell. More like the chalky, mint scent of Colgate with Tartar Control. To make myself really feel bad I started comparing the no doubt priceless carpet leading up to her apartment with the imitation oriental runner I’d picked up at Cost Plus for my own hallway when it hit me. The get-up. The perfume. She had a date. Brent. The thought of Brent stiff and very dead in a coroner’s icebox made me crave that water. With a fifth of Jack Daniel’s as a chaser. Then I heard the flap-flap of her mules on the landing above the staircase, so I began rubbing my foot again.
As she descended the staircase, she carried a Baccarat tumbler filled with ice water.
“Here you are,” she said, handing me the glass with so little grace that the water almost slopped over the top. “How’s your foot? I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
Beat Until Stiff Page 13