“Nothing unexpected on the body?”
“A tattoo with the perp’s name, perhaps?” He shook his head. “You saw him. He got pretty mangled before he washed up. No wallet, no ID. Have you seen the autopsy?”
“Pretty bleak.”
Faro nodded his head. “No kidding. The bullet was through and through and then gone. Touched nothing except the heart, which didn’t much slow it down. No stippling, no tattooing. Crime Scene says no GSR”—gunshot residue—“on the clothes. No alcohol or drugs on board. Not much there.”
“And,” Beth said, “I noticed, not much of an indication of time of death. Which means all we’ve got is the last person to see him.”
“And who was that?”
“So far, his secretary, Theresa. Monday afternoon.” Beth shrugged. “You know, Len, on TV, you’d have cracked the case with something forensic by now, with time left over to sell Subarus and Viagra.”
Faro made a rueful face. “Yeah, I am bitterly and constantly aware of that shortcoming. So given that, how can I help you?”
“Well, I was thinking. Assuming he didn’t fall into the water when he was shot, his killer probably moved and dumped him, right? And we know where he got found.”
“And you’re wondering,” Faro said, “if we could check the tide tables or something and get an idea of where he entered the water.”
“You read my mind.”
“It’s not a bad thought,” he said. “And we even kicked it around a bit.”
“Did you get anything?”
“Short answer, no. He could have gone in anywhere—just offshore from where we found him, or on any of the northern beaches, or—my favorite—off a boat.”
“A boat?”
Faro held up a hand. “The wildest conjecture on my part. But there were no drag marks as if somebody pulled him across a beach or a parking lot or even in some shallow water. The real answer is it could have been almost anywhere. And almost anytime after Monday.”
“But maybe not that,” Beth rejoined. “Maybe closer to Monday than Tuesday.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he got chewed up pretty well, didn’t he? He washed up Wednesday morning. Could that degree of damage happen in one day?”
“Possibly not. But if he happened to drift into a Great White or a particularly hungry pod of Dungeness crab, I couldn’t rule it out.”
“Put it like that,” Beth said, “I’m going to hold off on seafood for a few weeks.”
“Probably not a bad idea,” Faro said.
* * *
San Francisco’s new medical examiner could not have been more different from his predecessor, John Strout, who—pushing the city’s mandatory retirement guidelines to their limits—had finally called it a career last year at the tender age of seventy-nine. The new ME, Amit Patel, was thirty-six years old, although he appeared to be a decade younger. After a general residency at Columbia, a PhD in endocrinology from UC San Francisco, and six years of research with Big Pharma (he would not reveal the actual company), it finally dawned on him that his problem with medicine was that he didn’t like working on living people. Terrible though it might sound (although he made no apologies for it), he hadn’t gone into the profession to save lives or ease pain, but to philosophically and theoretically understand the incredibly complex systems and cool structure/living mechanism that was the human body. So he went back and got his boards in pathology, and when the medical examiner position opened up, he’d jumped at it.
He also had more than a little bit of Sherlock Holmes in him.
Beth had met him on a few cases when he’d first come on, although it had now been several months since they’d seen each other. No sooner had she sat down in his antiseptic office when he templed his fingers at his jaw and said in his wispy voice, “I hope you’re in a physical therapy program and aren’t just hoping the legs will get better all by themselves.”
“Not anything regular. Other than working out most days.”
“Most days?”
She shrugged. “Walking anyway. My doctors said that walking is critical.”
“No doubt. It is important. But you also need a PT program if you don’t want the muscles to atrophy. Pardon me for insinuating myself.”
“You can tell?”
Patel shrugged. “The right thigh is the worst, I see. You want to isolate and exercise the problem area if that is possible. Walking may help, of course, but it will take twice as long, and may not get you all the way back to where you were.” Nodding in a self-satisfied way, Patel pushed back from his desk and crossed his legs. “But I’m sure you will do what is best. Meanwhile, you have a question on the Ash autopsy?”
She couldn’t help teasing. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what the question is?”
“I would think it might have something to do with whether or not he had sex on the night he was shot. And the answer, sadly, is that I cannot tell.”
She had to laugh in admiration, since he’d nailed the exact question she was going to ask him. “How did you . . . ?”
With a self-deprecating gesture, Patel said, “Some of the staff were speculating. Rumor had it among them—where they hear these things, I never know—that he was known to have a promiscuous lifestyle. And of course, you as a homicide inspector would be interested to know whether he had sex shortly before his death since his partner, if any, would be at least a person of interest. But as I say, alas . . .”
“Understood,” Beth said. “Was there anything of that general nature?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Might there have been female DNA, for example? Or any other DNA?”
“No. Really nothing.”
“All right. Let’s forget the sex for a moment, unless something else about it occurs to you. How about the time between when he was shot and when he went into the water?”
The question made Patel sit up and frown. “I don’t understand the question.”
“All right. Could he have still been alive when he went into the water?”
“He was not. He would have drowned, then, with saltwater in his lungs. Of which there wasn’t any.”
“So he definitely did not drown?”
“Definitely. He was shot through the heart and died instantly, or very close to instantly. But why do you care about that?”
She held up a hand. “Bear with me. If we knew this, how long it was between when he was shot and when he went into the water, it might narrow down where it happened. On or near one of the beaches. Maybe on a boat.”
Patel came forward, his fingers intertwined on his desk. “I don’t think I can help you with that, Inspector. He was shot, then sometime later, he was dumped into the water. There is no telling forensically how long a time passed between the two events. I can say that it probably wasn’t days. But that’s the best I can do.”
“I was afraid you would say that. But if anything else should occur to you . . .”
“It goes without saying,” Patel said.
* * *
“She’s responding to the antibiotics,” Ike was telling Beth on the phone. “That’s about all they’ll give us. They don’t want to get our hopes up, God forbid. But I guess it’s better than not responding to the antibiotics.”
“Way better, Ike. Believe me. Is her fever down?”
“Slightly. One oh three.”
“Better than one oh five.”
“No question, Pollyanna. So, what have you got?”
She told him about her morning, which had yielded so little, concluding with, “. . . so I thought next I’d check out Theresa’s phone calls back in May, the mystery woman.”
“Good luck with that,” Ike said. “Sorry I forgot to tell you, but I’ve got nothing but wait time here, and I called Manny Meyer this morning and asked if he could take a look at their phone records and let us know if there were any numbers—calls Ash made—that he couldn’t identify.”
“Good. What’d he say?”
“Not so good. He said he didn’t think he’d be able to supply those records because there might be a conflict.”
“With what?”
“Who knows? A couple of Ash’s clients? Some chance they might compromise the attorney-client privilege in some way. The point is, Meyer’s not comfortable letting us look at the records, unless either we get a warrant with a judge’s sign-off and a special master . . .”
“You’ve got to be shitting me. This is a homicide investigation, Ike. And we don’t want to know what anybody actually said on these phone calls. We’re just talking about the fact that Ash made the calls.”
“I know. But in this case, without a judge, we lose.”
“This noncooperation just sucks,” Beth said. “You know that?”
“I have some sense of it.”
After a moment, Beth suggested, “Maybe we can get something out of Theresa?”
“I don’t know,” Ike said. “I still like her as our killer.”
“I know you do. But let’s see if maybe I can get her to help out with these phone calls before we get too excited,” Beth said.
“I’d be careful if you go that way.”
“Of course. Careful is my middle name. And listen, Ike, Heather’s going to be okay.”
“Your mouth to God’s ear,” Ike said. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“I hear you. Hang in there.”
“Nothing else to do,” he said. “Talk to you.”
19
DRESSED IN PERFECTLY TAILORED WORK clothes that flattered her figure, and with her face made up, an unexpectedly lovely Theresa Boleyn sat alone against the side wall on a chrome-and-red-plastic chair in the windowless coffee break room at Meyer Eldridge & Kline, a mug in front of her on the small table. When Beth entered, she turned her head and nodded uncertainly, as though she couldn’t place where this woman came from. When recognition dawned a moment later, she let out a sigh. “Inspector,” she said.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” Theresa gestured at the chair cater-corner to her. Behind the coffee mug was a crumpled wad of Kleenex. Close up, Beth could hardly fail to see the swollen redness around Theresa’s eyes. “How are you holding up?” she asked after she’d sat down. “Doesn’t look as though you’re getting much sleep.”
“Not too much. I just can’t seem to get my head around the idea that Peter’s gone. Everybody always says they want finality or closure or whatever you want to call it, but I wish they’d never found his body. Then maybe I could believe he just ran off to Tahiti or someplace, instead of . . . instead of what happened.” Suddenly, she focused and looked sharply over at Beth. “Have you discovered something?”
“Nothing groundbreaking.”
“Well, then, no offense, but why are you here with me again? I’ve told you everything I could think of that might help.”
“We appreciate that,” Beth said. “But I thought of a few things you might be able to clarify.”
“Okay,” Theresa said uncertainly. “However I can help.”
“Great. Thank you.” Beth took a small tape recorder from her breast pocket and put it on the table between them.
“What’s that?” Theresa asked.
“Usually we tape witness interviews.” Beth pushed the Record button. “Do you mind?”
“Not really.” Her face, however, was clouded with doubt. “But you didn’t do that last time, did you? Did something change?” She hesitated, then let out a few notes of nervous laughter. “Am I some kind of suspect now? We’re surrounded by lawyers here, you know. Should I call one of them?”
“Of course, that’s your absolute right. As to you being a suspect, at this point, most of the whole world is in that category. If you’re more comfortable with a lawyer in here with you, by all means invite one in, but if the advice you’ll get is not to talk to me, as in not say one word, that isn’t going to get us any closer to finding who killed Peter. But it’s your call.”
Theresa pondered for a second. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t tape me before.”
“Last time my partner, Inspector McCaffrey, kind of ran away with the interview and I didn’t think to slow him down and get a tape running. My bad, but there you go. It happens.”
With a sigh, Theresa looked down at the little red dot that meant the machine was recording. “Okay,” she said with resignation. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, a couple of things. First, the last time we talked, you mentioned this mystery woman who called Peter’s office sometime around the Ferry Building attack.”
“Right. I thought you said you were going to check our phone records and see if Peter maybe called her back so you could identify who she was.”
“Well, that’s the issue. We haven’t had any luck getting information about any calls Peter made. So I thought I’d ask you if you could remember anything else about that call or the woman who made it. Even the smallest detail.”
Theresa frowned, leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. After a few breaths, she opened her eyes. “I think she asked for Peter, not Mr. Ash. That’s why I thought there might have been something personal in it. Just the way she asked for him.” A pause. “You said the smallest detail.”
“No. That’s fine. It’s something. If there is any information at all that you think of or that comes to your attention, it would be a big help.” Beth figured that this was as far as she could go, especially on tape, to nudge Theresa to take it upon herself to look up the phone records. “Meanwhile, I’ve got another question for you that might be easier.”
“Shoot.”
“This was just Monday, Peter’s last day. You said he left work around four thirty.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you remember, was he in business clothes? Suit and tie?”
This time, it took her only a couple of seconds. She nodded and said, “Yes. I joked with him and straightened his tie when he came out of his office on the way out. He loosened it up again and said he was off for the day and he could undo his tie if he wanted to. So definitely, he left work in his business clothes. Why is that important?”
“Because he wasn’t wearing a suit when we found the body. Which means if he was killed Monday night, he changed after work first.”
“Which means he went home,” Theresa said.
Or someplace else where he kept a change of clothes, Beth thought. But she only said, “It might mean that.” Once again, Beth wished she had some information about Peter’s sexual activity, if any, in the last few hours of his life. But the clothes situation had occurred to her soon after she’d left the medical examiner’s office that morning. “It’s something to consider about the chain of events, in any case,” she said. “Can I ask you another one?”
“As many as you’d like.”
“Did you know a friend of his named Geoff Cooke? He’s another attorney in town.”
Theresa didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure. I mean, I didn’t know him well personally, but he came by here and picked up Peter for lunch or sometimes dinner or whatever. They were buds. Why? What about him?”
“I don’t know. Probably nothing. I was hoping maybe you could tell me.”
“You want to give me a hint?”
Beth shrugged. “Really, I don’t know anything about him, other than he came by my office yesterday and asked if he could help us. He basically corroborated most of what you told us about Peter’s change of behavior over the past few months, but he said he might know something that he didn’t know he knew. If there’s a hint in there, it’s all yours.”
After a couple of beats of reflection, she said, “Nothing’s jumping out at me. They hung together pretty regularly—lunch, dinner, ball games, golf—just guy stuff. Sailing.”
The word sent an electric buzz down Beth’s spine, but she kept her voice in check. “Sailing?”
Theresa nodded. “Geoff has a small boat in the marina. I don’t kn
ow if they actually went out a lot. I gathered it’s where they broke out the cigars and Scotch.”
“That would have been when Peter wasn’t dating, I presume?”
Theresa narrowed her eyes, tightened her mouth. “What do you mean, when he wasn’t dating?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t consider Scotch and cigars the world’s strongest aphrodisiacs.”
“No,” Theresa said with great firmness. “They weren’t seeing women, if that’s what you were thinking. Maybe the one, the mystery woman, back in May. But even she, whoever she was, was out of the picture the last few months. Absolutely.”
“So all this bad behavior with Peter, breaking up his marriage, all of that . . . it wasn’t about him running around or being unfaithful to his wife?”
Theresa shook her head. “Peter was not seeing other women, Inspector. I never heard anything about that, and I would have. The craziness was all about drinking and the breakdown over the stress with work and his family and everything, but . . .” She shook her head in utter conviction. “No. He was confused, but he wasn’t out playing around. I’m sure of that. That’s just not who he was.”
* * *
The temperature had come up about ten degrees, though it was still under fifty, the sky bright blue, the sunlight glaring everywhere. Beth sat in her Jetta, parked illegally at a bus stop, talking to her partner about his sick daughter. Heather continued to improve, although Ike didn’t think he’d make it out into the field today.
Eventually they got around to the job.
“So did she come through?” Ike asked. He was still fixated on Theresa somehow getting them the phone records.
“No. I just planted the seed. I didn’t want to ask her straight out since, as you point out, that would be unethical. It’ll either come to her in a vision or it won’t. But meanwhile, you’re not going to believe . . . Peter Ash wasn’t sleeping around.”
“Yes, he was.”
“That’s what I thought, too. It’s also what Geoff Cooke believed, unless he was lying, which he was not. He actually saw our boy Peter with not just a few but many of these alleged women . . .”
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