Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “I’ll join you.” Roman took a pack of Camels from a kitchen drawer and grabbed an ashtray off the counter.

  Jean made a disgusted face as she followed them out to the garden and moved upwind of the smoke. “Can’t you do your male bonding over a drink?”

  “The inspector is still on duty,” Roman said. He shook out a cigarette and lit it. Hallock, holding his Marlboro Lights, looked at Roman’s pack. “I haven’t had one of those in years,” he said wistfully.

  Roman offered him one. “Help yourself.”

  Hallock lit a Camel with a plastic lighter, inhaling deeply. “Ah, that tastes good.” He blew out a big cloud of smoke. “So, Ms. Applequist. Simon Emory was definitely the man wanted for the container deaths. Closing that case made a lot of New York cops very happy.”

  “What about Oksana’s murder?” Jean asked.

  “I expect we’ll close that case, too.” Hallock wagged his cigarette at Roman. “I imagine we have you to thank that Kay Wingo’s letter has been on the Internet since the middle of last night.”

  “Just trying to be a good citizen,” Roman said.

  “Hey, I’m not on your case,” Hallock said. “Her aide, Donald Grimes, is a real upright Christian. The letter shook him up. He came straight down to the Hall this morning and admitted he broke into the Wingo house the night of the wedding, and also searched the office and yacht. When Kay Wingo heard her ex was in the bay, she called from Washington and ordered him to find the letter. She told him the security codes and where to find the keys. She denies it, of course. I told her the letter had her fingerprints on it, so she admitted writing it, but claims she didn’t know Martin still had it, that he must have approached Grimes about it and he took matters into his own hands.”

  “Did the letter have her fingerprints on it?” Jean asked.

  Hallock gave her a sly look. “The technicians are working hard on this one. But thirty years is a long time, forensically speaking.”

  Jean grinned at him. “Inspector, I’m shocked. And her a former state senator.”

  “A suspect’s a suspect to me,” he said with a shrug. “This one’s just more slippery than most. But she’s in for some rough times even if she dodges that bullet.”

  “What about the last break-in at the house?”

  “I like Emory for that one. We’ll see.”

  “What do you think happened that night after Martin came ashore?” she asked.

  “Wingo arranged to meet someone outside the Soares woman’s condo, but we don’t know who or why. Later they must have fought, and Wingo lost. Once he was unconscious, the killer changed him back into the tuxedo and took him to Aquatic Park.”

  “Why do that?” Jean said. “It would have been really hard getting an unconscious man into wet clothes.”

  “Yeah, it would,” Hallock said. “We think the perp wanted it to look like Wingo never came ashore.”

  “But he must have known that Flavia and whoever pulled Martin out of the bay would say different.”

  “Could have been to destroy evidence. When we find the guy, we’ll ask him.”

  “Who’s your main suspect now?” The breeze shifted, and Jean fanned away smoke with her good hand.

  Hallock took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Well, we know Wingo had blackmail evidence on his ex-wife, Setrakian, Rivenbark, and Emory, but all of them have alibis. We’ve been talking to some of the people he did business with, and it looks like those four are just the tip of the iceberg. We’re going to dig deeper into his business dealings, interview his employees, track his movements—find out who else he was squeezing.”

  Jean felt a wave of anxiety. That meant Hallock would start with the person who worked most closely with Martin—Zeppo.

  “I’m also determined to find the boat that dropped Wingo at South Beach,” Hallock said. “It’s like a stone in my shoe.” He took a last affectionate drag on his cigarette and ground it out. “I want you to come down to the Hall on Tuesday to answer some more questions on the Setrakian incident. He’s telling a wild story about getting punched out by a fat guy named Ivan.”

  As he stood, he gave Jean one of his rare smiles. “Well, I’ll be getting back to the Hall. You take care, Ms. Applequist. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Roman let Hallock out and came back to sit with Jean. “It seems Inspector Hallock is a pretty good cop,” he said.

  “He’ll go after Zeppo now, and Diane, too.”

  “I predict he’ll have the blue box out of her within a week.”

  “You’re right,” Jean said. “She’ll never be able to stand up to a serious police interrogation. Then they really will charge Zeppo with obstruction and withholding evidence. He might even do time.”

  “So might you and Diane, and Peter could be disbarred if they can prove he knew about it,” Roman said. “In fact, the smartest thing you four could do is go to Hallock immediately and tell him everything.”

  “I suppose so.” Jean yawned. Her wrist hurt again and she felt exhausted. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Is it time for my pain pill yet?”

  Roman stood and held a hand out. “Time for a nap, too. Come inside and I’ll fix you up.”

  In a little while Jean lay in Roman’s bed, the curtains drawn. Roman worked in his office at the end of the hall—she could hear the faint clicking of computer keys and low, soothing music, a cello playing Bach. Soon she was in a deep sleep.

  Jean was having a lovely erotic dream about Zeppo, both of them uninjured, when she rolled over onto her cast and a stab of pain woke her. She reluctantly opened her eyes. It was dark outside and she could no longer hear music. Back to ugly reality.

  Roman was right—they had to level with Hallock. Whatever punishment they were in for would be infinitely worse if they waited until he uncovered their deceptions. As she thought about what lay ahead, she felt a pang of dread for herself, but especially for Zeppo. He’d be the star witness and would have to tell everything he knew about Martin’s operation. The whole process would be agonizing for him. Travis Treadway and Felix Ursini would go down, too, and who knew how many other people from the blue box. The police would scrutinize Frank and even Roman. Not to mention her biggest fan, Ivan.

  Jean lay for a long time in the dark, rerunning the events of that night through her mind. What had Martin intended to do before coming home? Why would he deliberately meet someone who had a reason to kill him? He must have been confident he could control whoever it was.

  She considered another possibility: What if the person Martin called had no reason to kill him until he got to Flavia’s?

  Jean tried to imagine what Martin could have said or done to set his killer off. She came up with only one scenario that worked, one she’d never taken seriously before. She looked at it this way and that, but could find no contradictions with the facts of the case, and it even explained things that had been bothering her. The more she examined it, the more sense it made.

  She finally got out of bed and went in search of Roman, who stood at the kitchen sink trimming artichokes.

  “Roman,” she said. “I think I know who killed Martin.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Roman helped Jean fasten her seat belt and backed out of his garage. “If you’re right, Diane will be crushed,” he said.

  “She’ll also be crushed if we’re all prosecuted for obstruction of justice in her husband’s murder investigation—it was her idea to cover up everything,” Jean said.

  Roman drove the short distance to Bernal Heights and pulled into Frank’s driveway. The patch of grass and annuals looked dry and neglected. Roman rang the bell, and in a few moments Frank answered, looking even more haggard and careworn than the last time Jean saw him. Now she knew why.

  “Jean!” he said, embracing her. “Am I glad you’re OK. I heard about what happened. You sure you should be out running around?”

  “It looks worse than it feels. Frank, this is my friend Roman.”

  The two men shook hands. “Diane says you’
ve been a big help,” Frank said. “Thanks for that. Come in and have a seat.” Trigger made his arthritic way over to them and Roman scratched his head.

  They sat in overstuffed chairs near the television, which was tuned to a basketball game. Frank switched it off. “What brings you over here?” he asked.

  “We’ve just spoken to Inspector Hallock,” Jean said. “He’s on the verge of figuring out about the blue box, and when he does Diane and Zeppo will be in big trouble. We all will. Peter could be disbarred, and some of us may go to prison.”

  Frank sat back, frowning. “That’s terrible news. I don’t know how much more of this Diane can take.”

  “We’re worried about her, too, and scared on our own accounts,” Jean said. She paused—she didn’t want to blow this. “There is one way to spare her. To spare all of us. It’s up to you.”

  “What’s that?” Frank asked.

  “You have to admit you killed him,” she said gently.

  He looked away and said nothing. After a moment he stood and went to the glass door, staring out over the city, arms crossed.

  “I know how it must have been,” Jean said. “He called you that night and told you to meet him at Flavia’s. You went because you were used to doing what he said. You’ve been backing him up for years, and he was going to confront Hugh Rivenbark.”

  Frank sighed and rubbed his eyes.

  Jean pushed ahead. “But when you got there you realized he hadn’t changed at all, that he was still sleeping with Flavia and still blackmailing people. You couldn’t stand it that Diane was married to a shit like him. Something happened—you confronted him, had an argument—and you hit him. Once he was unconscious, you decided to set Diane free. You changed his clothes because he’d been in your car. He must have had Trigger’s hair all over him.”

  Frank was silent for several seconds. “Diane always told me you were smart,” he said without turning around. “I did it for Diane. I thought one sharp pain would be easier on her than years of suffering at Martin’s hands.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Roman said in a soft, encouraging voice.

  Frank turned from the window and dropped heavily into his chair. “It was pretty much like Jean said. Martin called my cell and I met him at Flavia’s. He got in my car and said he wanted me to go with him to Hugh’s apartment. The deal was that if Hugh agreed to give him The Eyrie, Martin would say he didn’t see who pushed him into the bay and would keep quiet about something else he knew about Hugh. I told him I wanted no part of it, that I’d had enough of his blackmail games. He laughed at me. He said, ‘You’ve been going along for ten years. Have you suddenly grown a backbone?’

  “Then I accused him of seeing Flavia behind Diane’s back. He said, ‘Diane won’t know about it unless you tell her. Why shatter her illusions?’ ”

  “He was a wretched man,” Jean said, quoting Hannah.

  “I must have gone crazy for a moment—I pulled him out of the car and hit him. He was semiconscious. We were still in the parking structure near Flavia’s condo. No one else was there. I put him back in the car and drove him to Aquatic Park, where I changed his clothes.”

  “Why did you take the trouble to put the tuxedo back on him?” Roman asked.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to throw him in the water naked. He was an evil man, but he was my daughter’s husband.”

  “I’m so sorry to force your hand, Frank,” Jean said. “You know how I felt about Martin. But right now we have to protect Diane and Zeppo.”

  Frank gave a half-hearted smile. “I got what I wanted, didn’t I? Diane is free of him, and wealthy. She’s found a good man in Peter. I’ve given her a better life.”

  “You need to talk to George Hallock,” she said.

  “I’d have called him soon anyway. My conscience is killing me. I can’t eat or sleep and my ulcer’s acting up.” He stood. “I’ll call him now. You still have his card?”

  Jean took Hallock’s card out of her purse and handed it to him. He walked to a phone on the kitchen counter, lifted the receiver, and dialed.

  CHAPTER 48

  On a foggy afternoon a week after Jean shot Simon Emory, Roman picked her up in his Prius and headed for San Francisco General to take Zeppo home. Jean had visited him every day and couldn’t wait to get him alone. The plan was that he’d stay with her until the cast and sling came off so they could help each other with two-handed tasks like cooking and getting dressed.

  Jean’s face was healing fast but she’d have the cast on for five more weeks, which meant her Porsche would languish in Roman’s garage beside Zeppo’s Jag until then. She was back at work, and typing one-handed was driving her crazy. It had taken her an entire day to write up the tasting notes from a vertical of Penfolds Grange, the great Australian red.

  With Frank’s confession in hand, Hallock had closed the Martin Wingo case. Although Diane was devastated, Frank had spared all of them any further police attention.

  The police had also discovered that Armand Setrakian stole a Wine Digest office key from the receptionist’s purse the day before the fight with Jean. Several more women had accused Armand of assaulting them and he’d been denied bail. According to an Internet auction report Jean had read, the value of his work had tanked.

  Kyle did his reluctant hero act as promised, looking daggers at Jean whenever he had to retell the story. She’d already bought him lunch three times as installments on her debt to him. Jean had decided to keep quiet about Treadway’s wine scam after receiving a desperate phone call from Travis begging her not to expose him for his daughters’ sake. Besides, he’d supplied the weapon she’d used on Hugh, the bottle of Marcassin Chardonnay, which he claimed was the real thing. Jean was working on getting it back from the police. With any luck, storage conditions in the evidence room wouldn’t ruin it.

  Spider had given her a tearful thank you for dispatching Oksana’s killer. Ivan had called several times; he might be a sexist, racist, homophobic brute, but he was growing on her. She’d sent him a case of good wine as thanks.

  The police had been unable to build a case against Kay Wingo for ordering Donald Grimes to search the house, office, and boat, but the letter did its work anyway—she’d been forced to withdraw from her various political affiliations. Jean had followed Hugh Rivenbark’s activities closely—he’d been granted bail and was back at The Eyrie in the company of a male nurse-bodyguard, awaiting trial. She hoped he still had a headache.

  Zeppo, in jeans and a Celtics T-shirt, waited on a bench in front of the hospital. He hurried to the car as they pulled up, opened the door, and helped Jean out, giving her a onearmed hug and a deep kiss, knocking their slings together. His bony frame felt so good against her that she didn’t want to let go, but Roman had the car doors open and Zeppo’s suitcase stowed, so they reluctantly ended their embrace.

  Roman and Zeppo embraced as well. “We’re buying you lunch,” Roman said. “What have you been craving?”

  “Besides Jean, you mean?” Zeppo said, grinning at her. “You know what I’d really like? A carne asada burrito from La Cumbre.”

  “Done,” Roman said. They drove through the Mission to the taqueria, where they ordered three burritos, rice, and beans to go. Soon they were seated around Jean’s kitchen table. Eating the overstuffed burritos was challenging with one hand, and Jean ended up with guacamole on her shelf, but it was deliciously worth it.

  When they were done eating, Roman cleared the table and Jean produced a lumpy white envelope. “I’ve got a welcome home present for you, Zeppo,” she said, handing him the envelope. “Here’s a little something from Diane.”

  He pulled out a familiar platinum watch with a new black leather band. “Wow,” he said. “Martin’s watch. She doesn’t want it?”

  “Not anymore, and she knows how much he meant to you. Hey, keep going. The best gift is still in there.”

  Zeppo took out a one-page letter, read it, and whooped loudly. “It says I’m admitted to U.C. Davis. Awesome. How’d she
do that, Jeannie?”

  “She’s been thinking about endowing a chair at the Haas Business School at Cal in Martin’s name, so she finally did it, gave them $2 million. Only she made a condition: They have to let you into Davis.”

  “I’m amazed,” Roman said. “It’s almost Martinesque—if he’d been a philanthropist.”

  “Diane learned a few things from him,” Jean said.

  “I bet it was your idea, Jeannie. Thanks so much. This is really great.”

  Roman stood. “That’s my cue to depart,” he said. “I’m sure the two of you would like to get reacquainted in the Biblical sense.” He hugged them both and left.

  Zeppo turned to Jean. “I thought he’d never leave,” he said. He gently pulled her close and gave her a long, slow kiss. They undressed awkwardly, helping each other, struggling with buttons and slings, and got into bed.

  Jean ran her hand over him. “You’re even skinnier than before. It’s a good thing I’m padded.”

  “You’ve lost weight, too,” he said as he touched her. “God, I’ve missed this.”

  “So have I.”

  They were careful at first, trying not to jostle their arms, but soon they’d forgotten their injuries. After some trial and error, Zeppo lay back on the bed and Jean straddled him. They both came quickly, and Jean collapsed on the bed next to him as he pulled her close with his right arm.

  “Whew,” she breathed. “I think we just set a new record for the fastest fuck.”

  “The first time was quicker,” he said, nuzzling her short hair. “I almost came when you touched me.”

  “You always were easy.”

  “Not you. You were very hard to get, for a tramp.”

  “Watch your mouth, you weasel.” Jean lay happily in the crook of his arm, thinking about the prospect of having him in her apartment for the next few weeks. She’d lived with lovers a few times before, but never for very long; men tended to assume that cohabitation meant monogamy. Usually the prospect of having someone around 24/7 made her apprehensive, but she thought the arrangement with Zeppo might just work out. It was only for a few weeks, and anyway, she couldn’t see starting something new with her arm in a full cast.