by Diana Orgain
There was silence from inside.
We all stared at each other and waited. Finally, McNearny called from the interior, “I hate Barramendi. Forget it.”
I realized I’d been holding my breath.
Jones leaned close to us and said, “You better go home.”
McNearny shouted from the inside, “Tell Connolly to get in here!”
Jones sighed and motioned me inside the flat.
McNearny was standing in the doorway of the bathroom in the exact spot I’d stood. “Did you touch anything Connolly?”
“No. Just the front door when I pushed it open.”
“Do you know the vic?”
I swallowed past the dry section in my throat, but didn’t feel I could speak. “Mmm hmm.”
McNearny stared at me. “You know the guy?” Before I could answer, McNearny swore under his breath. “Jesus H. Christ, of course you know the guy. You know everyone in the damn city. Everyone who ends up dead.”
“I only sort of know him,” I said in my defense.
I looked at Armand’s face. It was puffy and swollen. His long hair stuck to his shoulders and I noticed a bruising around his neck for the first time.
I filled in McNearny and Jones on the hit-and-run, the party at the consulate, and my visits with Chuck and Ramon. McNearny held his head as I spoke, occasionally looking up but mostly he seemed to keep his eyes on Jones and Galigani instead of me. If he’d been a cartoon someone would have drawn smoke coming out of his ears.
Finally when I finished McNearny looked at me. “You cover a lot of ground, huh? Jesus, I’d hate to see what kind of trouble you’d get into if you didn’t have an infant slowing you down!”
I cringed and felt my face flush.
He was right! I should be home with Laurie.
Wait.
Why should I feel like I was supposed to do nothing else but be at home with her?
Her blue eyes, little eyelashes, and tiny face flashed before me and I couldn’t deny the pang I felt and the outright desire to hold her to me.
“What else do you know about the murder of Nancy Pickett?” Jones asked.
“Not much; her ex thinks she was killed because of a story she was working on about the French consulate.”
Galigani coughed into his hand.
Was there some part of the story I was supposed to suppress?
Maybe the part about him hacking into Mr. Vann’s e-mail.
“Hello?” a voice called from the front door. It was Nick Dowling, the San Francisco Medical Examiner, who I’d met during the previous two cases I’d worked on.
“Back here,” McNearny barked.
We were crowded in the hallway. Nick Dowling peeked around and said, “Whoa! Full house.”
McNearny ushered us into the living room. “All yours, Nick.”
I glanced around the living room, hoping for something obvious. There was a dusty bookcase filled with small model cars and a table nearby with stacks of paper on it. In the center of the table was an empty spot as though a stack had been moved.
No suicide note, no huge muddy footprint, no dead ringer.
McNearny turned to Galigani. “You have anything you want to get off your chest?”
Galigani scratched his head and played dumb. “I don’t think so.”
McNearny nodded, seemingly satisfied for the moment.
“Okay, either of you come across anything, notify me immediately, or I will arrest you and I don’t give a damn about Barramendi.”
• CHAPTER ELEVEN •
I gripped Galigani’s arm as we climbed down the steep stairs. “There is something.”
Galigani wiggled his eyebrows. “There always is.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to hold it back. I only thought about it now and I don’t even know if it’s important.”
“Spit it out.”
“When I was at the consul’s Christmas party, the consul slipped out on the balcony with a lady who wasn’t his wife.”
Galigani eyed me. “He’s having an affair? With who?”
“I don’t know. Do you think that outing the affair was Nancy’s story?”
“Let’s find out.” Galigani steered me in the direction of the consulate.
“How?”
“Let’s ask around.”
At the consulate it seemed business as usual. There was a slight hustle and bustle as people formed a line at the red marble counter waiting for their passports or visas. The receptionist was the same lady who had attended Jim and me the other day. I wondered if she’d remember me.
“Who are we going to ask? The receptionist?”
Galigani shrugged. “That’s a start.”
I frowned. “You’re just gonna come right out and ask her?”
Galigani laughed. “If the opportunity presents itself.”
I pulled Christophe’s card from my purse and showed it to Galigani. “Should we start with him? I met him at the party and I was supposed to talk to him today anyway about the accident.”
It was finally our turn at the counter and Galigani asked for the consul instead.
The receptionist smiled and immediately deferred us to one of his assistants. I silently prayed it wouldn’t be Jean-Luc.
We waited in the reception area. After several minutes a woman with a long face and red polka-dotted scarf wrapped tight around her neck appeared. Even though she was tall, she was still sporting four-inch heels. She hovered over both Galigani and I.
Galigani flashed his credentials. “Miss, I’m a investigator looking into the death of Nancy Pickett. Can we speak privately somewhere?”
The woman’s mouth turned down. “I’m afraid I do not know Miss Pickett. Was she a French citizen?”
“No. American reporter.”
The woman cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps you would like to speak with Christophe in our press and communications department. He works with the American journalists.”
Galigani and I exchanged looks.
“That would be fine,” Galigani said.
We followed the woman down a hallway. My cell phone buzzed. Galigani nodded to me indicating that I should attend to my phone. I glanced at the caller ID. It was home.
I answered expecting Jim, but Mom’s voice filled the line. “Where are you? We’re late for the photo shoot.”
Laurie’s Christmas photos!
My heart plunged.
I’d forgotten the photo appointment! I’d thought I’d been so smart to schedule her photos during workweek hours to avoid the crowds, but that was before I decided that I should hold normal work hours and, of course, before I’d found Armand dead.
The woman stopped in front of an office and looked at me.
“Mom, something’s come up. Let me call you back.”
I hung up. The woman nodded at me, then knocked on the office door. She introduced Galigani and me to Christophe Benoit.
Christophe stood, his expression serious, as though he expected trouble from us. He greeted us and then invited us to sit across from his desk.
His rumpled curly hair was so endearing and I found myself liking him regardless of my vow to dislike everyone associated with the place.
Galigani filled Christophe in on Nancy Pickett’s death and Mr. Vann retaining us.
Christophe’s face filled with sadness. “I knew Nancy,” he tsked. “I provided her with data for a story she was working on.”
“Which story?” I asked, leaning in.
“It was a human interest story on France’s foreign aid to Sudan.”
“I saw her leaving the consulate the day before she was killed. Had she been meeting with you that day?”
Christophe wiggled the mouse on his computer and took a moment to look at his online calendar. “No. I hadn’t met with her for some time. The last time was in November.”
“She was with Kimberly Newman, another reporter. Were you meeting with Kimberly?”
Christophe’s eyes darted right. He clenched a fist and shift
ed his body toward his computer so that his face was concealed by the monitor. “Kimberly Newman? No. I have not met her.”
Well that didn’t seem right. Surely he was lying. But why?
What had Kimberly been doing at the consulate?
I sighed at Galigani. The case seemed to be moving faster than I could. I should have already spoken with Kimberly—but when?
I probably shouldn’t have taken yesterday off.
A feeling of guilt rushed through me as I realized that Armand was most likely killed yesterday. What if I had visited him then? Would I have run into the killer? And was his killer the same person as Nancy’s?
I doodled in my notebook and wrote Armand’s name in the margin. When Galigani glanced at me I pointed to the name.
Galigani took a breath.
“Can you tell us about Armand . . .”
“Armand Remy,” I finished.
Christophe looked puzzled. “Armand? He is an assistant here. Would you like to speak with him?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Galigani’s hand shot out and touched my arm. “No need. I think we are done for today.” He stood.
I stood alongside him as we were about to exit. Galigani turned back to Christophe. “So the consul got a big fancy award, huh?”
Christophe beamed. “Yes! The Légion d’honneur; it’s a great accomplishment. And today, we got word from the San Francisco Board of Supervisors that they intend to give the consul a resolution commending him for his success serving and building Franco-American relations among the residents of the city and county of San Francisco, and—”
Galigani nodded, cutting off Christophe’s proud rampage. “Is he here today?”
Christophe laughed. “Oh, non, non, non. He doesn’t come in on Monday mornings.”
“Probably was out celebrating . . .” Galigani’s eyes locked on Christophe’s.” . . . celebrating with the wife at a nice dinner.”
Christophe blushed slightly. After a moment, he said, “Probably.”
As soon as we left his office, I turned to Galigani. “I wanted to talk to him about the hit-and-run. Why did you wave me off?”
“There’ll be time for that. Let the authorities notify the next of kin. After that, you can clear up the insurance matters.”
I sighed and dialed home as we exited the building. Galigani continued to walk next to me in silence. Jim picked up on the third ring.
“Honey! I’m so sorry I blew it!”
“What?”
“The photo thing with Laurie. Now I’ll have to reschedule. Unless they can squeeze us in tomorrow, I don’t see how I can get the Christmas cards printed and out in time. Maybe we’ll have to do New Year’s cards instead.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Your mom took her.”
“What? Mom took her where?”
“To the mall for the photos. Listen, I’m sorry, I have to go. Dirk Jonson is calling through on the other line. Are you on your way home?”
My chest constricted. Mom had taken Laurie?
I should be happy, right? I’d have Christmas cards in time.
My baby was getting her first Christmas photos taken and I wasn’t there!
“No,” I said to Jim.
“Huh?”
“I’m not coming straight home. I’m going to the mall.”
“Okay. I gotta go. Call me later.” Jim hung up.
Galigani watched me, a frown on his face. “Why are you crying?”
I wiped the tears streaming down my face. “I’m not crying. I’m late and I’m parked about a mile away!”
Late.
I’d been too late to save Armand.
Galigani pointed to his car. “I’m parked right here. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
Any hope I’d had of making it in time was dashed when I saw Mom, who was wearing a headband with reindeer ears glued to it, pushing Laurie’s stroller out of the photo shop. The ears flopped as Mom walked and her eyes lit up when she saw me, but her face turned serious when she spotted Galigani.
“Kate! Don’t worry about a thing. We got the job done,” Mom said.
Laurie was decked out in a beautiful green crushed velvet dress. She had on a little Santa hat and gave a cheerful baby coo when she saw me. As I got closer she kicked her feet and got progressively noisier, indicating a desire for me to get her out of the stroller.
I pulled her out and hugged her close. I glared at Mom. “How could you do this?”
“Do what?” Mom asked.
“I wanted to do it,” I snapped.
Mom looked at Galigani for an explanation. Galigani shrugged. “We found the kid that hit Kate. He’s dead. She’s upset.”
Mom sighed. “Oh! Darling—”
“What? No,” I said to Galigani. “That’s not it. I wanted to be the one to get her pictures taken. I’m her mother. She’s my baby!” I choked back a sob. “It’s her first Christmas! I . . . this isn’t even the right dress!”
Mom looked at me as though I was an alien. “Well, the red one you picked out was dirty from the accident. I got her this one from Macy’s.”
“Maybe I can treat you beautiful ladies to lunch,” Galigani said.
Mom looked panicked. “Oh, Albert, isn’t that sweet of you. But no, we couldn’t. We have to get Laurie home.”
Galigani blinked.
“Maybe tomorrow?” Mom asked.
Something seemed wrong, but I was so upset about missing Laurie’s photos that I couldn’t pick out what it was until I saw a man approaching us.
Hank!
Mom’s other gentleman friend.
My brain was stuck in some kind of mental sludge. I should say something, make something up, do something, but the mental fog was too great. All I could do was sort of clear my throat to try to get Mom’s attention. Mom looked at me, the reindeer ears swinging back and forth, a frown creasing her brow.
It was too late . . . a hand reached for her shoulder.
“Hello, Vera!” Hank said, planting a kiss on her cheek and laughing. “Or should I say, deer! And look, it’s Santa’s little helper!” He reached across and grabbed one of Laurie’s feet. He tugged at it and she gurgled happily at him. “Hello, Kate,” he said.
I looked at Galigani, his lips set in a line. Not disappointment, not upset, more like mild curiosity. He stuck his hand out. “I’m Albert Galigani.”
Hank smiled and shook his hand.
“Hank,” I said. “Mr. Galigani is my boss.”
Galigani flashed me a look but I couldn’t make it out because Mom was shooting me her own panicked look.
Hank wrapped an arm protectively across Mom’s shoulder. “Will you all be joining us for lunch?”
Galigani licked his lips and squinted at Hank.
He knew. He had to know.
“I . . . uh . . .” I muttered.
What could I say? Couldn’t my phone ring? Or Laurie start to fuss? Instead, she laughed. She swung her feet in the air and giggled.
Great fat lot of help she was.
“I couldn’t possibly,” Galigani said. “But thank you for the offer.” He nodded to Mom and smiled, then turned on his heel and spun around.
“Wait! You’re my ride!” I said. “We have work to do.”
And suddenly, I realized I couldn’t go with him and take Laurie. He didn’t have an infant seat in his car. I was stuck with Mom and Hank.
He turned back to me, looking at me with eyes that said I was a traitor. “Nah, kid, don’t worry about it, take the afternoon off.”
• CHAPTER TWELVE •
How I got through lunch, I’ll never know. I tried to focus on Laurie and keep my mind off the sticky sweetness of Hank’s affection for Mom. That he was devoted to her there was no doubt. Did he suspect Mom had been dating Galigani for the last month? Seemed unlikely. He’d brought more vacation brochures for her to peruse, ranging from an African safari to gold mining in the high country.
Mom giggled and clucked at him.
To ke
ep from pulling my hair out, I evaluated the proofs of the Christmas photos. It was a black-and-white printout of thumbnail photos of Laurie. Laurie in her green dress on a sled with a white winter scene background, Laurie with the Santa hat propped on pillows with a Christmas tree in the background and fake presents around her, and finally Laurie looking like a little angel wrapped in a sheet with an aluminum halo stuck to her head.
I hated the angel photos. Not that there’s anything wrong with angels, but dressing her up as an imitation of something struck me the wrong way. Plus, she seemed upset in those shots, like she was cold in the sheet. I was glad that Mom had picked one of the sled photos for the cards. The prints were supposed to be ready in one hour. It seemed like an eternity.
I texted Jim and asked him to pick Laurie and me up. I figured by the time he arrived I’d have the prints in hand and be ready to escape.
I should have been putting together my Christmas list and a plan of attack on the stores. After all, since I was in the mall I should take advantage and knock out my shopping, but I only picked at the salad I’d ordered and thought about the day. What a disaster—from finding Armand to missing the photo shoot to witnessing the Galigani-Mom-Hank debacle—and it was only lunchtime?
Mercifully, my phone buzzed. Jim was five minutes away. Plenty of time for me to swing by the portrait place, pick up the prints, and meet him in the parking garage.
I buckled Laurie into the stroller, thanked Hank for lunch, and waved to Mom. Mom wiggled her fingers at me and mouthed, “Call me.”
Yeah. Right. It’d be the first thing I’d do when Laurie turned twenty-one!
“I don’t get why you’re mad at your mom,” Jim said.
We were driving home and I’d filled him in on the day’s events. His statement made me even angrier.
“I’m mad at you, too.”
“Me? Why?”
“Why did you let Mom take Laurie to the Christmas photo shoot?”
He looked dumbfounded. “I thought you’d be happy about it. One less thing for you to do.”