The word “terrific” got caught in his throat, and tears spilled down his tanned cheeks. He grabbed a tissue and wiped them away. “Sorry,” Blue said. “It’s just that Isa and Ethan saw so many of their friends there. It’s almost as if they’d had a big night out because they knew…”
“Could they have known?” Conklin asked. “How did they seem to you?”
Blue told us that they were “a hundred-percent normal.” Isa had flirted at dinner with a man at a nearby table, and, as usual, that made Ethan wild.
“How wild?” I asked.
Blue smiled, said, “I don’t mean violent, Sergeant. It was part of their foreplay.”
Conklin asked, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted them dead?”
“No. I mean, not in my wildest. But people felt snubbed just as a matter of fact. Everyone wanted to be around the Baileys, and it just wasn’t possible.”
Blue brought up committees that Isa chaired and people who were slighted by that. He spoke of other big-name couples and the not-so-friendly competition among them to see who could be mentioned most often in the Chronicle’s lifestyle pages.
And he went into a kind of rhapsody as he described Isa’s thirtieth-birthday party in Paris, what she had worn, the fact that Barbra Streisand had performed and that their three hundred guests had been treated to a week of exorbitant luxury.
Conklin had been taking notes, but the three-hundred-name guest list stopped him.
“There’s a list of the guests somewhere?”
“Surely there is. I think it was published. You could Google it?” Blue said helpfully. He blew his nose, sipped his drink, and added thoughtfully, “Sure, people hated them. Ethan and Isa attracted envy. Their money. Their fame. And they were both so hot, they perspired pearls.”
I nodded, but after Noble Blue’s hour-long virtual tour of the Baileys’ lifestyle, I was exhausted by so much information that had yielded so little.
At the same time, Noble Blue had managed to hook me. I found that I cared about these two people who’d seemed lucky and blessed until their lives were canceled — as if someone had thrown a switch and simply shut them down.
I thanked Blue, unfolded my cramped legs, and stepped down from the tiki hut in the center of the Tenderloin.
“I know less now than when Jacobi lobbed this hot potato to us,” I said to Conklin as we walked out to Eddy Street.
“You,” Conklin said, unlocking the car.
“Me, what?”
He gave me his lady-killer grin, the one that could make me forget my own name. “You,” my partner said again. “Jacobi lobbed this hot potato to you.”
Chapter 31
THE COPS on the Bailey investigation were loosely arranged around the grungy twenty- by-thirty-foot squad room we often think of as home.
Jacobi sat behind my desk, saying into the phone, “They just got here. Okay. As soon as you can.”
He hung up, told us, “Clapper says there were no suspicious prints in the bedroom or bath. There was nothing interesting in the glasses or the pills or the bottle of champagne.
“Claire’s on her way. Paul, why don’t you start?”
Paul Chi is lithe, upbeat, resourceful, and a first-class interrogator. He and Jacobi had interviewed the Baileys’ live-in staff, and Chi gave his report from his seat.
“First up, the gardener. Pedro Vasquez, forty-year-old Hispanic. Seemed twitchy. He volunteered that he had some porn on his laptop,” Chi said. “But it turned out to be legal-age porn. I spent an hour with him, don’t see a motive, not yet, anyway. His prints were not found in the Baileys’ bedroom. Vasquez told me he’d never been above the ground floor, and at this point, we’ve got no reason to think that’s a lie.
“Two: Iraida Hernandez,” Chi said, flipping the page in his notebook. “Hernandez is a nice lady.”
“Your professional opinion, Chi?” Lemke asked mildly.
“Yes,” said Chi, “it is. Hernandez is a naturalized citizen, Mexican, fifty-eight, employed for more than thirty years by Isa Booth’s family and by the Baileys. As expected, her prints are all over the Baileys’ bedroom.
“She’s got no record, but as for motive? It’s a maybe.”
“Really?” I said.
Chi nodded. “She says she’s probably in the Baileys’ will, so you never know, but my Grift-O-Meter didn’t go off. Iraida Hernandez does things by the book. She’s loyal. She didn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone, so as I said, ‘Nice lady.’ ”
“What about the cook?” Cappy McNeil called out. Cappy’s a big guy, two hundred fifty, and if the doughnuts and the stairs don’t get him, he could get promoted out of here to a good lieutenant’s job in a small town down the line. That’s what he’s shooting for. Calls it “going coastal.”
“As I was about to say,” Chi said to his partner, “number three: the cook is Miller, Marilyn, white, forty-seven years old. Moved here from somewhere in flyover country.” Chi looked at his notes. “Ohio. Only been working for the Baileys for a year. Has a clean record. No prints upstairs. All I got off her was ‘What’s going to happen to me now?’ I see no motive. What’s she got to gain? But like the rest of the staff, access to the Baileys was a given. And if we’re thinking poison…”
Chi shrugged as if to say, She’s the cook.
Jacobi said, “I told Miller not to leave the city, and I got two teams from the Special Investigation Division. They’ll be on her at all times.”
Chi was finishing up his report on the remaining two of the Baileys’ live-in staff, a second housekeeper and the mechanic, both as clean as cat whiskers, when Claire stomped into the squad room in her sneakers and scrubs.
She looked around and said, “Are you all thinking, Now that Claire’s here, the party can begin? Think again.”
Chapter 32
CHI WHEELED A CHAIR over for Claire. She sat down, propped her feet up on a desk, said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Baileys’ bodies were so pristine, I expected them to start breathing. No pills in their stomachs, no abrasions, contusions, or lacerations. Negative for carbon monoxide. And since I never let skin stand between me and my diagnosis, I did a layerwise dissection on both necks, and the backs of their necks as well.
“In sum, I looked at everything but their dreams. The autopsies were completely negative.”
Everyone groaned. Even me.
“I spoke with Ethan Bailey’s physician,” Claire continued. “I spoke with Isa’s gynecologist. Both doctors had complete and recent medical histories of their patients, and the Baileys passed their physicals with five stars each, ten stars total. Those kids knew how to take care of their bodies.
“So as I hung up the phone after talking to you ten minutes ago,” she said to Jacobi, “the rushed toxicology report walked in the door.
“I was ready to opine that if there was poison involved, one of the Baileys whacked the other and then took poison him- or herself, so we’d have homicide-suicide or double suicide. But I got surprised — and not in a good way.”
Claire had us by the eyeballs.
No one spoke. Maybe no one breathed.
Claire waved a computer printout, said, “Toxicology was negative. No poison, no opiates, no narcotics, no nothing. Cause of death? No idea. Manner of death? No idea. Something stinks, and I don’t know what,” she told us, “but the likelihood of these two individuals, with completely negative autopsies and completely negative toxicologies, expiring at the same time is statistically astronomical.”
“Oh, man,” I muttered. “So much for ‘The tox screens will give us a clue.’ ”
“Okay, okay, I was wrong about that, Lindsay. Since there’s no such thing as ‘sudden adult death syndrome,’ we’re thinking homicide. Until we’ve got something to go on, I’m giving Ethan and Isa Bailey Chinese death certificates.”
Chi spoke up, said, “Claire, my darling, that’s a new one for me. What’s a Chinese death certificate?”
“Pen Ding,” she cracked. “Case op
en. Any other questions?”
“Yep,” said Jacobi. “What now?”
Claire took her feet off the desk, stood up, and said, “I’m going home. Going to kiss my baby. Then I’m going to eat an entire turkey potpie followed by a bowl of chocolate pudding with whipped cream, and no one better try to stop me.”
She gazed around the room at our faces, slack from the long day and gray from the overhead fluorescent lights. I was pretty sure we looked like the living dead.
Jacobi in particular looked awful. He would be the one telling the family and the press and the chief and the mayor that at the end of the day, we were clueless.
“I know you’re just getting started, and so am I,” said Claire, her smile beaming a small ray of hope into our collective gloom. “I sent the samples back to the lab. Let the night crew take a crack at this,” she said. “I’m asking them to run the tests again, this time instructing them to look for the weird, the strange, and the bizarre.”
Chapter 33
CONKLIN AND I spent seven full hours interviewing Isa and Ethan Bailey’s friends, family, and the short list of their non-live-in personal employees: Isa’s secretary; the dog walker, who was also a gal Friday; and the children’s tutor.
Nothing popped. We filled our notebooks and moved on.
While the rest of my team went back to the neighborhood canvass, Conklin and I went to see Yancey and Rita Booth, Isa’s indescribably wealthy parents, who tearfully invited us into their magnificent Nob Hill home.
We spent hours with the Booths, mostly listening and taking notes. The Booths were in their sixties, devastated by Isa’s death, and needed to talk their way through the shock by telling us about the Booth and Bailey family histories.
According to Yancey Booth, there was a hundred-year-old dispute between the Booths and the Baileys, ongoing to this day, that had started with a plot of land with ambiguous boundary lines.
We learned that Ethan Bailey had three brothers, none of them successful, and that little fact opened a door to a new branch of the investigation.
We looked at the Booth family photos going back to the gold-rush days, and we met the grandkids, or rather they met us, demanding to be let in to see the police.
At five in the afternoon we turned down an offer to stay for dinner. We left our cards and assurances that Isa Booth Bailey was our number one priority — and then we got the hell out of there.
As we walked down the front steps, I grumbled to Conklin, “We’re going to be working this case until we retire.”
We got into the car and sat there, talking over what we knew about the lives of Isa and Ethan, wondering if this case would ever come together.
I said to Conklin, “Her parents are never going to get over this.”
“They sure loved her,” he said.
“When Mrs. Booth broke down —”
“Heartbreaking. I mean, I think she could really die of this.”
“And those little boys.”
“Just old enough to understand. When the smaller one, Peter, said, ‘Please tell me why anyone would do this to Mommy and Daddy…’ ” Conklin sighed. “See? Isa and Ethan couldn’t have done it. I don’t see one killing the other. Not with kids like that.”
“I know.”
I told Conklin about my sister’s kids, Brigid and Meredith, who are about the same age as the Bailey boys. “I’m going to call my sister tonight. I just want to hear the little girls’ happy voices.”
“Good idea,” Conklin said.
“We were supposed to visit them. Me and Joe. He had to go on a business trip.”
“That’s too bad. But you can see Cat when he gets back.”
“That’s what he said.”
“You like kids, Lindsay,” Conklin said after a moment. “You should have some.”
I turned away, looked out the window as all those forbidden thoughts tumbled over one another, how close Rich and I had become, the taboo words and deeds, the smell of his hair, what it had felt like to kiss him, the part of me that regretted saying no because now I would never know how we would have fit together.
“Lindsay? You okay?”
I turned to him, said, “I’m just thinking,” and when I looked into his eyes, there was that hit, that arc of electricity going from me to him to me.
A phone rang in the distance.
On the third ring, I grabbed my cell off my belt, feeling mad, sad, and glad — in that order. It was Jacobi calling, but I wouldn’t have cared if it had been a wrong number.
I’d been saved by the bell.
Because in another moment, I might have suggested doing with Conklin what I was thinking — and all that would accomplish would be to make me feel worse.
Chapter 34
CLAIRE STOOD IN the center of the squad room again, but this time she looked weird, like she’d taken a punch.
“For those of you who haven’t heard my lecture, there are two types of cases — one type is circumstance-dependent and the other is autopsy-dependent.”
She was pacing now, talking as much to herself as she was to the ten of us, who were waiting to hear about the second tox run.
“That homeless guy, you know the one, Bagman Jesus. He had trauma all over him, six gunshot wounds to the head and neck, plus a postmortem beat- down. His body was found in a neighborhood frequented by drug dealers — but I don’t even need to know the circumstances.
“Six gunshot wounds. That’s a homicide.
“Now we’ve got two dead people found in their beds. Got a completely negative autopsy, completely negative environment…”
She stopped speaking. Swallowed.
“The tox run for the weird, the strange, and the bizarre,” I said, trying to give her a little push.
“Negative. Completely negative, so thanks, girlfriend, I almost forgot what I was saying. But now I remember: the Bailey case is circumstance-dependent.
“And a circumstance-dependent case means we need police work. You all know what I’m getting at. What were their finances like? Anyone having an affair here? Anyone leading a double life? You gotta help me out, give me a direction, because I’m twisting in the wind.”
So that was it. Claire was stumped. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her stumped before. Ever.
“This is the press release I’ve got to give in the morning,” Claire said. She took a piece of paper out of the pocket of her scrubs and began to read from it.
“The Bailey case is under active investigation by the medical examiner’s office. Since these deaths are suspicious, we are treating them as homicides. I’m not going to comment because I don’t want to undermine the overall investigation.”
Claire stopped reading and looked up.
“And then the press is going to beat the hell out of me.”
“You’re not saying you’re finished, are you?” Jacobi said.
I felt worried for Claire. She looked pained and scared.
“I’m gonna get a consult. I’ve got calls in to two very knowledgeable board-certified forensic pathologists, asking them to come in and take a look,” said Claire. “You have to tell the families, Jacobi. Tell them that they can’t have their children’s bodies yet, because we’re not done.”
Chapter 35
YUKI WAS STARING into his blue-gray eyes again, this time across a small table in the hospital cafeteria, Dr. John Chesney working on his vegetarian chili, saying, “Finally having lunch, fourteen hours into my day.”
Yuki thought he was adorable, felt giddy just looking at him, knowing full well that adorability didn’t mean he was good or honest or anything. She even flashed back on a couple of handsome rats she’d dated in her life, not to mention more than a few gorgeous killers she’d faced in court — but never mind!
Not only was John Chesney adorable but he was damned nice, too.
She could almost feel her mother’s breath on the back of her neck, her mom whispering, “Yuki-eh, this doctah John, he good man for hus-band.”
Mom, w
e know nothing about him.
Chesney sipped his Coke, said, “I’m not sure I’ve met San Francisco yet. I’ve been here for four months and my schedule is get off work, jog home, fall asleep in the shower.”
Yuki laughed. Imagined him naked, ash-blond hair plastered to his head, water sluicing down his compact, muscular body…
“When I wake up, I’m here again. It’s like Groundhog Day in a war zone, but I’m not complaining. This is the job I’ve always wanted. What about you? You’re a lawyer, right?”
“Yep. I am.”
Yuki told John that she was currently waiting for a verdict on a pretty high-profile case, maybe he’d heard about it.
“Former beauty queen kills her father with a crowbar, tries to do the same to her mother —”
“That’s your case? We’ve all talked about the mother surviving five solid blows to her head. Jeez, a caved-in cranial vault, broken orbital socket, and smashed jaw. Man, she wanted to live.”
“Yeah. It was a real kick in the pants when she recanted what we call her ‘dying declaration’…” Yuki started thinking about Rose Glenn, ran her hand over her new buzz cut, looked up to see Chesney smiling, turning those eyes on her approvingly.
“That’s a great look on you, Yuki.”
“Ya think?”
“You know I had to do it, don’t you?”
“Well, good intentions are no defense, Doctor. You started this with your clippers, did you not? Used them like a lawn mower. Gave me the worst haircut I’ve ever had in my life, isn’t that so, Doctor?”
Chesney laughed, said, “Guilty of inciting a bad haircut. But I gave you very neat stitches.”
Yuki laughed with him, then said, “John, I called because I want to apologize. I’m sorry I was such a crazy bitch when I was here.”
“Ha! You were the best mad patient I’ve ever had.”
Women's Murder Club [08] The 8th Confession Page 7