"You nail him?"
She shook her head, looked away. "On the way home, I stopped for gas and cigarettes."
Hailey was poised to write.
Jamie shook her head. "I can't think of it." She rolled her hand through the air. "The one with the tiger."
"Exxon," Hailey supplied.
Jamie nodded. "Exxon. Off the Central San Rafael exit. On Irwin, maybe. I paid cash. Marlboro Lights. Kid behind the counter had red hair, skinny, some tattoo on his forearm. A lizard or something. Oh, and one of those little squares of hair under his lower lip. What do the kids call that?"
"Soul patch."
"Right." Jamie fiddled with the butt of the cigarette like she wanted to light another one. "Stupid-looking thing."
The details were good. Any cop knew that details were what made a story believable. Some things would be hearsay, but details like that could be checked. "And before the interview?"
"I was at the awards thing with you until I got the call on Osbourne. It was—what—close to nine o'clock? I went straight to the hospital and from there to the station. Came back this morning. In between, I was at home."
Hailey hesitated a moment. She hated to ask but there was no way around it. "And at home. You were alone?"
Jamie paused, drawing a deep drag on her cigarette and blowing it out over her shoulder. "Alone."
Something about the way she said it made Hailey hesitate. "You sure, Jamie? If you weren't alone, it would make it easier. I can be discreet."
Jamie smoked a moment, then dropped the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out.
Hailey waited. "You were alone," she prompted again.
"I've got a dog named Barney. Don't know if he'd be convincing in cross-examination."
Hailey crossed her arms. Sighed. "This isn't fun for me, either. You think I want to interrogate a friend? But everyone's going to be asking the question. You had motive. Big motive. Public motive. I get you out of the mix early, I can find the real killer."
Jamie picked up the cigarette butt and put it in her pocket. Then, turning, she faced Hailey for the first time. Jamie was taller than her by a good three inches, and she looked like hell. Dark circles, no makeup. She'd been up most of the night with a rape case, back early. From her appearance, Hailey would have guessed she'd been dragged out of bed a few days ago.
Jamie paused. When she spoke, her voice was soft and void of humor. "Don't feel like you have to lie. We're not friends, Hailey. Feel free to bring me in if you have more questions. Sorry I couldn't provide a better alibi." Then she turned and walked away.
Hailey didn't watch her. The guilt bobbed to the surface like a buoy released from deep waters. Jamie was right. They weren't friends although once upon a time, they had been. Sort of. In the way that women like Hailey and Jamie made friendships. Without the hand-holding and weeping of other women. And without the intimacy, too. They didn't share. Not much. Some not at all. The job was heavy enough. Hearing the wounds caused at home, in their private lives, would only make their heavy loads harder to bear. After the incident with Jamie's ex-husband and Natasha, people had dispersed. At first, they took off all at once and rapidly, like tree full of birds fled at the sound of gunshot. Women who had been her friends left. Many didn't look back. Hailey liked to think that she wasn't one of those, but she might have been. Less because she blamed Jamie or took Natasha's side but more because her own life was quickly growing complicated enough to absorb all her energies.
Jamie would do well to drop the defensiveness. It made her seem suspicious and, as far as Hailey could tell, going after Jamie was the wrong move. At the very least, Jamie didn't fit the crime's MO. Though Natasha was found in her car, the evidence indicated that she had been killed in her office. That meant that the perp had killed Natasha, then moved her. No drag marks around the car meant she'd been lifted. It would take a man's strength to move Natasha's body. Plus, not many people would move a dead body—the very act indicated that whoever killed her also cared for her. Maybe the killer was trying to save her; maybe he was going to hide the body. Either way, Jamie was not the right fit.
As far as Jamie as a suspect, motive was a little thing, too. Sure, Jamie had reason to want Natasha dead eighteen months ago when she'd found them in bed together. But if she'd really had it in for her, why let all that time pass?
Hailey was also confident the killer wasn't anywhere near here now. Every cop knew to look in the crowd first. Jamie wouldn't be that stupid. It didn't change the fact that after the shooting incident, people would point to her first.
Hailey would have liked to rule her out early. An alibi would have done it. Barney the dog would not. Taking a moment to pause, Hailey searched the crowd for Mackenzie Wallace. Propped against a black Chevy Blazer, the rookie stood stretched out, arms crossed, one ankle hooked across the other. Her lean legs were like the neck of a violin, strings taut.
Hailey approached and waited until the woman's gaze shifted to hers. Fear was stark in her eyes.
"You're new?" Hailey asked though it was redundant to what she already knew.
Mackenzie nodded, looked down, ashamed. "My first dead body."
"I'm sorry."
Something like gratitude flashed in her expression. Young, naive, awkward were the words that came to mind. "Thanks."
"Captain James could arrange for some time off," Hailey said.
She shook her head, stood up straight, and rubbed her hands together. She dwarfed Hailey. Over six feet tall. "I'm sorry. I've tried to remember everything."
Hailey drew her notepad out, poised her pen. "No need to apologize."
Mackenzie nodded, like it was a criticism. "It was still too dark to see clearly and only one thing stands out."
Hailey waited.
"Another car. I only saw it from a distance. The rear left brake light might have been missing a small section. The bottom right corner looked broken." She glanced away then back. "Like I said, it was just a glimpse."
"That's helpful. Anything else? Type of car?"
"Only thing I saw were the taillights. Domestic, I think, and square. Made me think of an older model pickup. Ford, I'd guess."
Hailey made notes, then looked up. "That's a lot of detail to remember about a car you only saw for what—"
"Less than thirty seconds. I used to work for the rangers' service in Yellowstone. We tracked poachers and hunters in the park at night. Helps to be able to recognize cars by their taillights."
For whatever reason, Hailey had the image of Mackenzie, wearing a cowboy hat and riding horseback in pursuit of a car with a moose on its roof rack. Too many of the children's cartoons probably. "Nothing about the color?" Hailey continued. "The car's color, I mean."
Mackenzie shook her head. "No good light, so all I saw was black. Could have been any color."
"Reflection from the taillights didn't help?"
Hailey smiled softly. "Always makes the car look red. I'm guessing this one wasn't."
"Red's pretty conspicuous," Hailey agreed.
"Not what I'd choose if I were going to murder someone." She seemed to swallow the last words, shook her head. "God, I'm sorry. That was inappropriate."
"We all do it," Hailey said.
The rookie didn't answer.
Hailey asked a few more questions, but the taillights were the best clue Mackenzie could offer. Hailey figured the description narrowed it to somewhere around twenty-five thousand cars in San Francisco alone. Better than the almost three hundred and sixty thousand she'd have otherwise.
Hailey thanked the rookie for the help and saw Mackenzie's gaze drift back to the empty car. The body was now en route to the morgue for autopsy.
"It gets easier."
Mackenzie looked at her. She furrowed her brow. Intense. "Does it?"
Hailey saw Jamie leaving the scene, moving away like a much older person. The red ember of her cigarette glowed at her side. Hailey considered where Jamie was in her career. How far up she'd climbed. How far she'd fal
len back down. She sighed, shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe sometime." Probably not, she thought.
Mackenzie seemed to understand the elusiveness of the answer.
As Hailey walked away, the rookie's gaze swung back to the crime scene. Hailey guessed she'd see a dead Natasha in her mind for longer than she could imagine.
Chapter 9
Stepping out of the car at Hunters Point, Jamie zipped her flimsy jacket to combat the hostile wind. People milled around in front of the building. She'd suffered enough talk this morning. And last night. Damn Tim. He swore he'd turn himself in first thing this morning. He'd begged her to give him time for a shower and a change of clothes. Promised he would take the ones he'd been wearing in with him as evidence. He'd be honest and smart and he would not, under any circumstances, mention that he had come to her house.
How would that look if her ex-husband had come straight to her, covered in his lover's blood? The lover who had effectively ruined their marriage. How quick her brain was to blame Natasha. He did it, too. But she was the instigator. Now here she was and there was absolutely no sign that he'd spoken to anyone. And then she'd lied to Hailey Wyatt. Why hadn't she just ratted out the bastard? Damn, she was dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Not as dumb as Tim, though.
She just hoped he didn't do anything stupid. Anything else.
Blowing the last breath of smoke out her nose, she dropped the cigarette. She stamped out the butt, picked it up, and threw it away. She'd save a hell of a lot of time if she'd just litter, she thought. Hell, if she didn't smoke.
But that wasn't going to happen. She'd already given up drinking. If she was going to quit smoking, too, she might as well just jump in a freshly dug hole and start shoveling the dirt over her own face.
The lab was down a hallway to the right, but Jamie turned toward the bathroom. On the women's room door hung a sign that read, "Temporarily closed for maintenance."
"No way," she mumbled, shoving the door open.
"Closed," a young voice called back.
Jamie walked in and found a gangly teenager on his hands and knees in the far corner of the bathroom.
"What are you maintaining? A mouse hole?"
"We're closed," the kid said without turning around. "Use the one upstairs."
In answer, Jamie headed for a stall.
"Jesus Christ," the kid said, getting to his feet. "What a bunch of bitches."
She locked the stall and heard the outer door slam closed. When she was done, she came back out, washed her hands, and walked over to where the boy had been kneeling. A section of maybe one square foot of two-inch tiles had been newly laid. Grout was slopped all over them. She touched it. It was nearly dry.
Just then the door opened again.
"Hey," the kid called to her. "Get away from that."
Jamie didn't move. "You're doing it wrong."
"Bullshit, lady."
"You're going to make a mess of it," she added.
He paused and crossed his arms over his chest. "And what the hell do you know about it?"
She glanced up, scanned the boy's face. Early twenties, maybe. "Obviously a lot more than you," she said without rising.
His chin jutted up toward the ceiling. "My father owns the contracting company."
"So what," Jamie countered. "My father was a firefighter. Doesn't mean I know anything about putting out fires."
"Well, I know about this. I've been dragged along on these fucking jobs since I was nine." He looked at her with his eyebrows up, as though testing her with his language.
She just stared. If he thought language was going to shock her, he needed to spend a day in her job.
He pressed his shoulders back. "If people would stop interrupting, I'd be done already."
"You'd better get back to it before that grout dries and you've got a bigger mess."
Frowning, he slumped his shoulders. "Yeah."
She looked back at the floor and picked up the bag of dry grout.
He tried to snatch it from her hands.
"Let me show you a little trick." She grabbed a fist full of the dry powder and sprinkled it on a small section of wet grout.
"What the hell are you doing? You're just making a bigger mess that I'm going to have to clean up." He sighed. "Come on, lady."
Jamie found a dry rag and rubbed it across the area where she'd strewn the dry grout. The dry grout stuck to the wet stuff and acted as an abrasive to clean the grout off the tiles themselves while leaving it in the grouted areas.
"Seriously," he whined.
"Come look," she told him.
The kid dropped down beside her. He stared a moment then reached out to touch the grout. "Huh."
He sounded so shocked, Jamie actually laughed. Then she caught herself. When was the last time she'd laughed? The boy looked at her like she was mad.
"Well?" she said, offering the bag out to him.
He reached in and filled his fist with grout and repeated what she'd done.
Still kneeling, Jamie handed over the rag.
He wiped it across the grout, then leaned down to survey the area. "It works."
She nodded.
He scowled. "How'd you know that?"
She shrugged. Her father had redone every room of the house they'd lived in. Helping was about the only father-daughter bonding time they'd ever had. Jamie stood up and washed her hands. As she headed for the door, the kid said, "Thanks."
She looked back.
He grinned at her.
"No problem," she said, turning back for the door.
"And, lady?"
"Yeah?"
"You've got grout on your pants."
She glanced down at her navy slacks. Both knees were covered in gray mud. She swiped at it, feeling the little chunks of hard grout. She picked a few off then decided to hell with it. She didn't like these pants anyway.
After crossing the main entrance, she walked down the hall to the lab. She stopped to write her name on the sign-in sheet. Just inside, a group hovered by the door. The senior criminalist, Sydney Blanchard, stood with three other lab techs. Two had their backs to her. Voices were low, bodies crossed and closed.
Hailey Wyatt stood with them. She met Jamie's eyes, her gaze cool. Jamie knew they were talking about Devlin. Sydney glanced over and saw Jamie. Her red eyes widened. She'd been crying.
Jamie scanned the other faces, her gut tight. She searched for anything appropriate to say, failed.
"I'm here on Osbourne."
Sydney wiped her cheeks. "It's under the second scope."
Jamie passed them and peered down into the eyepiece. Immediately, she knew something was wrong. "Shit." It was the same something as before. A normal sperm sample showed white and red under the scope. The red denoted the nuclei of the cells. Jamie exhaled. No red in this sample. "No cells at all?"
Sydney nodded. "Doesn't look like we got any semen."
Jamie shook her head. "She swore he didn't use a condom. It's just like Shawna Delman. No prints, no DNA. No way to prove it was him. So the guy just walks."
Two police officers raped and she had absolutely nothing. "Have we processed anything else from the case?" she asked.
Sydney shook her head. "We're working Devlin full force."
Jamie looked at Hailey, who stepped toward her.
"Tim came forward just after you left," she said.
Jamie didn't respond.
"You knew, didn't you?"
She nodded.
"And you protected him."
It wasn't exactly a question so Jamie didn't answer it. She didn't have a good answer for it anyway. Why would she help him? She had no allegiance to him? They weren't friends. He didn't call and check on her or keep in touch. Was it just because he seemed so pathetic, so scared? So small. No, sheer stupidity was the only thing that came to mind, but she knew Hailey could come to that conclusion on her own.
"That's a hell of a risk, Jamie." Jamie didn't answer. "He's lucky you care so much about him."
&
nbsp; Jamie met her gaze. "I don't care about him. I trusted him to come forward."
Hailey nodded. "It would have been better if he'd done it before he cleaned up."
Silent, Jamie turned to leave. Her surveillance on Marchek was due to expire in a few hours, and she had no evidence to keep watching him. She knew better than to think she was going to get any attention on Emily Osbourne's case now.
Even dead, Natasha Devlin would steal the fucking limelight.
Chapter 10
Crouched inside his shed, Zephenaya watched the lady through the window. When she sat on the bed, he picked up the jagged rock that he kept tucked in the small space under the cabinet. It was a good night tonight. His stomach wasn't growling and it wasn't cold like some of them. He held the rock tight in his fist and made a notch in the wood. Same as every night. He'd been watching her for thirty-nine plus ten days.
When he got to thirty-nine, he started at one again because he couldn't remember what came after thirty-nine. He knew he used to know that number, but he'd forgotten it. He kept trying to remember, playing little games with himself. Like trying to count on his fingers to distract himself from the numbers or counting super fast, hoping the next number would spring into his head. So far no luck.
Sometimes he doubted that he ever knew what came after thirty-nine. He'd only been in school 'til kindergarten. He had a few weeks of first grade, but it didn't seem much different than kindergarten. Then his father lost his job and they'd had to move. After that, he remembered three different houses, but maybe there were more. He'd never really gone to school in those places. Oh, they made him show up a few days. But he sat in the back and didn't listen. Now he wished he had. He could have used some more counting. His sister could count higher and she would have told him, but she wasn't there. He didn't know where she was. There was a man who told him she was dead, that she took drugs, but Zephenaya didn't believe it. That man was wearing a police uniform but he was a liar. No way Shawna would leave him.
That's why he came here. This lady was friend's with his sister. She came to the house after Shawna's accident. Called her and stuff. She gave Shawna her home address and phone number, wrote it right down for Shawna. His sister kept that piece of paper from the lady in her top drawer. His sister's top drawer was filled with stuff like that. Notes from some of her boyfriends. Pictures like the one of him as a baby and the one of Shawna and their mother when Shawna was two or three. Her first driver's license and the certificate saying she passed her police exam. That top drawer was where she kept the things that she cared about.
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