“Jake, please listen to me…”
“No. Just get Brandon’s blood, Mighty Mouse, please. And tell Adonis I said hi.” He disconnected the call, then glanced around the street. Walking to the curb, he located a storm drain and tossed the phone into it.
When he stood up again, he found an old woman watching him. He turned away and headed up Divisadero to the north. At the corner of Union, he turned left and began running west until he reached Broderick, then another left at Washington so he was headed east until he found Scott Street.
He leaned on the street sign for Scott and reached into his pocket for the order form where he’d written Goldman’s address. He fought to catch his breath as he unfolded the scrap of paper. Walking down Scott, he searched the addresses and deliberately calmed his breathing. He didn’t think he’d get much information out of the lawyer, but he had to try. It would be better if he didn’t look like he was running from the police.
When he found the address, he had a momentary feeling of panic. What if the police had already been here? What if they had someone waiting inside for him? He drew a deep breath and held it, then deliberately exhaled as slowly as he could.
If they were waiting for him, he would give himself up, but he had to risk it. He had to know what Goldman wanted to tell Zoë about the changes to her father’s will. At least if he were caught here, they might get a warrant for any files Goldman had about the Harpers.
The address belonged to a three story Victorian with gingerbread shingles and cream colored paint. A number of stairs led to a wooden door with a glass panel in the center of it. He climbed the stairs and carefully opened the door. Thankfully there was no bell on it, nothing to alert the occupants of his arrival. The entry opened into a small room with dark paneled walls and a few arm chairs. Between the arm chairs were tables sporting an array of magazines.
To the right of the door was a board, listing the businesses in the building and their suite addresses. He ran his finger over a couple of marriage counselors, a number of lawyers, and a title company. Goldman’s name was in the middle, Suite 2B.
Beyond the entrance was a hallway that branched left and right. He glanced down both ends and marked the suite numbers on the doors closest to him. He chose the right corridor and began walking down it, feeling a bit unnerved in the quiet. A stairwell opened on the hallway about halfway down and he turned into it, taking the stairs to the second floor.
He exited the stairwell and turned right. He found Suite 2B. The words Neal Goldman, Esq., were etched into the frosted glass in antique gold lettering. He could see a few dark forms through the frosting on the door, but little else. Glancing down the hallway, he reached for the knob and turned it, stepping into a brightly lit office.
Plants lined each side of it, partnered with a number of wing-backed armchairs in red leather. A receptionist desk dominated the center of the room and a young woman of Middle Eastern ethnicity sat behind it.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, giving him a quizzical look. She rose and crossed around the desk. “Are you looking for someone?”
Jake frowned at her. What a strange question to ask. “Uh, yeah.” He looked around again. Another frosted door bisected the middle of the wall behind her desk and to the left were rows of file cabinets.
“Sir?”
Jake forced a smile for her. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I have an appointment with Mr. Goldman to go over my will.”
Her face fell immediately. In fact, it was such a stunning change, Jake wasn’t sure he interpreted it right. He expected her to hurry back to her desk and grab her phone, dialing the police or maybe scream. Screaming would be really bad and he wasn’t exactly sure how he’d respond. She obviously knew about him from the police and hadn’t really thought he’d show up here.
He glanced over his shoulder at the door. Was it too late to escape?
She didn’t scream. Instead, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr…”
Jake’s gaze snapped back to her. “Huh?”
“Mr.?” she prompted again.
Jake looked around and his eyes fell on the greenery in every corner. “Plant. Uh, Robert Plant.” He winced when he realized what he’d just done.
She lifted her brows and studied him. “Robert Plant?”
“Yeah, parents huge Led Zeppelin fans,” he offered lamely.
“Okay,” she said, giving him a strange look. “I must have missed your appointment in the computer. I’ve been trying to contact all of Mr. Goldman’s clients. When did you make it? I don’t know how I could have missed it.”
“Oh, I didn’t make it with you. I ran into Mr. Goldman at a charity dinner and asked him if he’d do my will.” He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, prepared to run for the door. Did lawyers attend charity dinners? He thought they did, but he wasn’t sure.
“Yes, of course, for the Shriners?”
Jake latched on to that. “Right. Right, the Shriners.”
Her face fell again and she briefly closed her eyes. “Mr. Goldman was always doing things like that. Making appointments, then forgetting to tell me.”
Jake keyed in to something she said. “Wait. Was?”
She met his gaze. “I’m sorry. Didn’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry, Mr. Plant. Of course you didn’t know or you wouldn’t have shown up for your appointment.”
Jake shook his head in confusion.
“Mr. Goldman died about a week ago.”
Jake stared at her, stunned. He couldn’t formulate a thought. He raised a hand and ran it across his beard. Why couldn’t he think? Why couldn’t he grasp what she’d just said? “I’m sorry?”
“Mr. Goldman is dead, Mr. Plant. I’m so sorry.” She hurried back to her desk. “I can recommend a number of other lawyers to you.”
“Wait. Dead? Are you sure?”
She looked up at him. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m sorry. I thought I’d contacted all of his clients. I obviously missed you.”
Jake ran his hand across the back of his neck, applying pressure to get himself to think. “Wait. How?”
“How did he die?”
“Yes, what happened to him?”
She straightened and looked down. “He was hit by a car. It was late and he was leaving the office. He liked to walk to Divisadero and pick up a taxi. He lived down the Peninsula. The driver must have been drunk because he didn’t even stop.”
Jake felt the blood drain from his head.
“Are you all right?” she asked, crossing around the desk again and grasping his arm. “Sit down.”
He did so and let his head hang, his fingers closing on the backpack.
“I’ll get you some water.” She hurried off.
Jake waited for the white noise to clear out of his head, then he sat back, until she appeared in front of him, holding out a glass of water. He took it and drank, draining it, then handed it back to her.
“Better?” she said, giving him a worried smile.
“Yes, it was just a shock.”
“I know. I can’t believe it myself. I’m just tying up loose ends, then we’re shutting down the office, his wife and I. He didn’t have any partners and I was his only paralegal. I have a list of lawyers who are qualified to take his clients. Can I give it to you?”
“Sure,” he said and watched her go back to her desk. While she searched for the paper, his eyes focused on the file cabinets. Blake Harper’s will had to be inside, but how was he going to get it before everything was turned over to someone else?
She found the paper and brought it back to him. He took it and folded it in half, shoving it into the backpack. Then he rose to his feet. His legs supported him and he was grateful for that.
“Thank you. I appreciate how kind you’ve been.”
She waved away his thanks. “Don’t mention it. I’m just sorry I hadn’t contacted you before.”
“Not your fault,” he said. “Well, I guess I’d better
go.”
She smiled.
“Good luck,” he said, walking to the door.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Plant,” she answered as he opened it and stepped into the hallway.
Jake shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Now what? How was he going to get that file? He could contact Peyton again and see if she would subpoena it, but he wasn’t sure she would see a connection.
No, he had to get it himself. He started wandering down the hallway toward the stairs, sifting through the plans that popped into his head. He could come back here tonight and break in. If he timed it right, he could be in and out before the police arrived. And if he got caught, at least, he could hand the file to them himself. Curiosity would make them want to read it, right?
He could also find out when the paralegal left for lunch and sneak inside. She probably didn’t lock the door, but if she did, he could break through the frosted glass before anyone would know. Or maybe there was a fire escape in the back he could climb. A broken window into Goldman’s office wouldn’t be discovered as quickly as a broken front door.
His steps faltered as he moved into the stairwell. Right before him was a red box labeled fire alarm.
Then there was a third option. A plan formulated quickly and he climbed the stairwell all the way to the top. A door opened onto the roof and he propped it with his backpack in case it had an automatic lock if the fire alarm was activated. Stepping onto the small rooftop, he marked a number of ventilation pipes, which offered scant cover to hide until things settled down.
Walking back to the door, he pulled it open, then double checked the backpack to make sure it was wedged securely. Climbing down the stairs to the entrance of the third floor, he curled his fingers in the fire alarm handle and took a deep breath. Please let this work, he prayed. Then before he could think better of it, he pulled the handle.
The cacophony of the alarm made him jump and he covered his ears with his hands. When he heard the first doors open on the third floor, he ran up the stairs and huddled in the doorway, straddling his backpack.
People’s voices and the clomp of heels on the cement stairs marked their exit. He crouched where he was until he could hear them no more. It seemed to take forever with the shrieking of the alarm in his head and the pounding of his heart beneath his ribs, but finally he felt it was safe.
He knew he had a narrow window between their exit and the arrival of the fire department, so he ran down the stairs, gripping the handrail, and skidded on the cement as he landed on the second floor. He bumped his shoulder on the door as he turned the corner and raced for Goldman’s office. For a moment, he panicked that she would have locked the door, but it opened at the turn of the knob and he sprinted around her desk, searching the drawers for an indication of which one.
Grabbing the fourth drawer, he pulled it open, then began thumbing through the files at the front of the drawer for Harper. A new sound infiltrated his awareness. The sound of a siren. He searched faster and his fingers stumbled upon Harper, just as the fire engine pulled up before the building with a hiss of brakes.
He pulled the file out, clutched it against his chest, and kicked the drawer closed, then ran for the office door. He bolted for the stairs and raced up them, slamming into the roof door with his bruised shoulder and snatching his backpack as he jumped through.
He chose the furthest exhaust pipe and dropped behind it, hoping he couldn’t be seen from the doorway. Leaning his head back, he panted to regain his breath, fighting a hysterical laugh. Reaching up, he rubbed his bruised shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Holy crap, he’d done it. He had the file. Now he needed to wait until the firefighters left and the workers returned to their offices. Then he’d go back down the stairs as if he belonged there and onto the street.
Feeling his heart slow, he released his death grip on the file and laid it on his thighs, then he reached for the front cover. The first document that greeted him read Divorce Application across the top. It was signed by Blake Harper and dated a week before he had his stroke. The second document was his will. Jake stared at it in amazement. It had been drafted two days before the stroke.
* * *
Peyton opened the door to Captain Defino’s office and stepped out into the squad room. Marco followed behind her, closing the door at his back. They didn’t talk as they began weaving their way through the desks.
The captain had made it clear. They had twenty-four hours to bring Ryder in or she was turning the case over to another set of inspectors. Claire Harper’s influence was far and wide. Even the mayor had put in a call on her behalf.
Peyton hated that part of police work. She hated the politics. No matter how much she might wish differently, there were citizens and then there were Citizens with a capital C. Claire Harper was a Citizen of the first order.
She came to a halt, giving Abe a pointed look. He sat in Marco’s chair, his feet propped on Marco’s desk, his long-fingered hands clasped on his belly. “Please tell me you’ve got something interesting,” she said.
Abe waggled his brows at her. “You are looking fine today,” he drawled.
“I know you aren’t talking to me,” she answered, sliding into her chair.
Marco stopped beside her desk, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Nope, talking to that cool dish of Gelato next to you.”
“Did you get the files?” asked Marco with a scowl.
Abe dropped his feet to the floor. “You think I’d leave the sanctity of my lair if I hadn’t gotten them. Well, maybe to flirt with you, my Angel’D.”
“Lair is right,” said Marco, quirking a brow.
Abe laughed.
Peyton flattened a palm on the desk. “Please, please tell me you have something. We’re running out of time.”
Abe gave her a slow smile. “Have I ever let you down, my soul sista?”
Peyton shook her head. “Not even once. What do you have?”
“So very much. Let’s start with Blake Harper. Medical records show that Blake has been suffering from exceptionally high blood pressure for many years. He was on medication for it; however, suddenly in September, he collapses at home. His wife calls an ambulance and describes the symptoms. Based on symptomology and his medical history, paramedics assume stroke and begin the appropriate course of action. Dr. Harper is given warfarin to mitigate the damage of the stroke, but he doesn’t respond and presents at the hospital with severe intracranial bleeding, presumed to be from a blocked artery that ruptured. He never regains consciousness. You know the rest.”
Peyton curled her hand into a fist, but she didn’t want to interrupt Abe.
“Now let’s talk about patient number 2. Annabelle Harper was twenty-three when she became pregnant with her first child. The pregnancy was completely normal, not even one mention of elevated blood pressure. She went into labor a week after her delivery date and although long, the birth was completely uneventful. A perfectly natural vaginal delivery of a baby girl, which she named Zoë. Mother and daughter were both given clean bills of health.”
“But she died two days later?”
“I’m getting to that. Because she was the wife of a prominent and well-respected surgeon, she wasn’t rushed out of the hospital as quickly as most women are. A day after delivery, she complained of stomach pain and a headache. They took her blood pressure and found it was a bit low. They assumed it was due to blood loss during the delivery and started her on a rigorous course of iron, but a day later she was dead.”
“From what?” asked Marco.
Abe twirled one of his dreads. “A ruptured aneurysm. The cause of death was listed as complications of pregnancy, the grieving husband declined an autopsy, and Annabelle Harper was cremated before her daughter even left the hospital.”
“Wait. A ruptured aneurysm?” Peyton narrowed her eyes. “Tell me they did a blood test when she first complained of being sick?”
Abe shook his head.
“Why not?�
�
“Can’t tell you. It’s not indicated on the file. They assumed it was anemia and that’s the course of treatment they began.”
“How did they get around the autopsy?”
“Because Blake Harper was a surgeon. I’m guessing she had the baby in his hospital,” answered Marco.
“Smart and beautiful,” said Abe, giving him a wink.
Peyton rubbed her eyes with her fists. “Doesn’t it seem like there are an awful lot of coincidences in these deaths?”
“Genetic weakness,” said Abe with a shrug.
Peyton lowered her hands. “Genetic weakness? Was Annabelle Harper related to Blake somehow?”
“Likely not.”
“Then how genetic weakness?”
“Playing the devil’s advocate.”
Peyton gave him a severe look. “My dad always said there are no coincidences.”
“A lot of dads say that,” remarked Marco. “Especially when you try to explain why the car has a new dent after you’ve driven it.”
Abe held out his hands, palms up, then he rose to his feet and leaned on the desk, his dreads swinging forward. “Want to know something else interesting?”
Peyton met his mischievous look. “I’m thinking I really do.”
“Oh, you really, really do. Guess who was Annabelle Harper’s attending nurse?”
Peyton leaned back in her chair. “I’ll bet I don’t have to guess.”
“I’ll bet you don’t either.” He rose to his full height and gave Marco a lurid stare, then walked away, waving over his shoulder at them.
Peyton swiveled toward her partner, but just as she was going to speak, her phone rang.
* * *
Jake stepped over the legs of a homeless man, stretched out on the sidewalk, and entered the bar on 7th Street. It was close to a BART station and multiple light rail stops. The place was crowded and the pounding bass vibrated in his head. A number of scantily clad bodies writhed and bumped against each other on the dance floor.
He pushed through the gyrating couples and approached the bar. A mirror over the counter allowed him to see back to the door. He settled on a stool and pulled the backpack around in front of him. A trio of young college age girls sat next to him, leaning close and laughing at the people dancing. The one next to him was a bottle blond with a skirt that barely covered her ass and a camisole that showed off an impressive display of cleavage.
Murder on Potrero Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 1) Page 20