The Last Good Place

by Robin Burcell

  Just a screech of tires. Then a sickening thud as he bounced from the hood onto the windshield. Someone screamed as he hit the ground.

  Casey barely stopped in time. “Son of a…”

  He keyed the radio, tried to keep his voice calm. “Four-oh-eight. Roll a four-boy unit code three.”

  Casey kneeled down to check the man’s pulse. A crowd gathered around them, then someone pointed at Casey. “He caught him. He caught the Landmark Strangler.”

  FOUR

  Casey directed a newly arrived park ranger to keep the growing crowd back from the accident scene. The primary ranger, who had called for their assistance, looked a bit sick as he stared at the dead suspect. Al, arriving from the trail, moved beside the man. “You okay?”

  The ranger nodded as he leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

  “Talk about a cluster,” Al told the ranger. “Two deaths in one morning. Paperwork for days, never mind the autopsies. Well, probably not so much on the suspect. We know what killed him. But the woman? Definitely gonna have to autopsy her. Always sort of creeps me out when they start peeling the face—”

  The ranger turned on his heel and made a beeline toward the restrooms.

  Al walked up to Casey. “That should about do it.”

  “Little harsh on him, don’t you think?”

  “You wanted the case, didn’t you?” Al nodded toward their suspect. “That’s the guy who took off?”

  “Dumped his sweatshirt somewhere. But pretty sure he is,” Casey said, keeping his voice low. “Whether he’s the killer or not—”

  “Let’s hope he is, since he’s dead. Makes the investigation a lot easier.” Al saw a white news van just down the road, stopped, fortunately, by an officer who was directing the van’s driver to back up. “Great. More press.”

  An ambulance rolled up with the requested motor officers, better known as four-boy units. And all too soon, traffic on the bridge in both directions was at a standstill and probably would be all day because of the murder. The news vans, however, were coming in the back way, avoiding bridge traffic, which meant they’d need to expand the blockades, because it was only going to get worse.

  This part of the investigation, at least, was out of their hands and would be handled by the traffic units. Casey only hoped they’d release him from the accident scene soon so he could get back to the case he was supposed to be investigating. Well, assuming the homicide would be turned over to the PD. “You think the ranger’s gonna take it?”

  “The kid was as green as his uniform. He’s probably calling his supe right now to suggest they turn it over. But it can never hurt to check.” Al called the op center, asking them to contact the commanding officer for Parks. “Be sure to let them know there are two homicides associated with it. And that we’d be glad to take both.”

  It was less than five minutes later that they received word that Parks was not going to be taking the cases. Casey tried not to appear happy about it when the park ranger reappeared a few minutes later. “Mr. Harris and his wife?” Casey asked Al, worried he had missed them. “Where are they?”

  “Sent them home once I took their statements. Of course, had I known you were gonna find the suspect, I might’ve brought the wife up here for an ID. Save the time of putting together a photo lineup.”

  Casey eyed the bloodied corpse. “Let’s hope we can ID him. If he is the Landmark Strangler, I’d like to at least know his name.”

  Any further discussion was put aside by the arrival of the traffic officers. After Casey gave his statement to them, he turned to Windsor and held out his hand. “Thanks…I appreciate the help, Officer.”

  “Becca,” she said, returning his shake.

  “Becca, thank you.”

  He started to walk away, then stopped, turned toward her. “You, uh, wouldn’t be interested in going out for a drink sometime, would you?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him as though trying to decide if he was serious. Or worthy. Or whatever it was females thought about in these situations. Then, “When?”

  “Tonight? This weekend? Uh…” God, he sounded like a moron. “What’s good for you?”

  “Tonight. Drinks after work. Lobby, six.”

  “Six.”

  Al grinned widely as he and Casey walked down the hill toward the overflow lot.

  “What’s so funny?” Casey asked.

  “You. Thinking you’re gonna get off at six.”

  “This case is practically writing itself. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “No reason.”

  They continued on to the car, Casey thinking about how long it had been since he’d actually had a date. Months, he was sure.

  “Earth to College Boy…”

  Casey eyed Al. “Yeah?”

  “Feel free to unlock the car.”

  He dug the keys from his pocket, pressed the button, and the locks popped up.

  The victim’s neighbor lived less than ten minutes away from the murder scene, a short drive up the hill on Lincoln Boulevard through the Presidio, just off Twenty-Fifth Avenue. Al told him their witness said to look for the For Sale sign on the house next door belonging to the victim, Trudy. It was easy to spot, swinging from a post in the center of a planter smack dab between the two properties, a two-story beige house with white trim, the other gray with white trim.

  Definitely some pricey real estate, Casey thought as he parked. Not quite the tony Sea Cliff neighborhood a few blocks to the west overlooking the Pacific Ocean, but close enough to make anyone envious. Plop them sixty miles due east on the other side of the bay, the price would be cut in half. Another sixty miles east beyond that, and even Casey could afford one on his salary. Here, he’d need the winning lotto ticket just to make the down payment.

  A gust of salt-tinged wind hit them as they got out of their car, and Al had to hold the brim of his hat to keep it from blowing off as they walked past the For Sale sign toward the house next door. A woman in purple athletic shirt and pants and running shoes stepped out the front door, her smile looking strained, tired. Their witness, Marcie Valentine.

  Her eyes were red from crying, and she crumpled a tissue in one hand as she held open the door for them.

  Al removed his fedora as he entered then stopped next to a coat-tree. Among the sweaters draped on the wrought-iron hooks was a wide-brimmed black hat trimmed with a purple flower. “Nice hat,” he said, smiling, then held up his own, adding, “People should wear them more often.”

  That was the way Al worked. Find something innocuous, anything to get the witness’s mind off the hard stuff, put them at ease. It seemed to work. Marcie eyed the hat then nodded. “I—I was just making coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  “Please,” Al said, and they followed her through the dining room into the kitchen. Al stepped to the window at the back door, looking out. A grove of cypress and eucalyptus grew just the other side of her backyard fence. “Can you see the bridge from here?”

  She glanced over as she poured coffee into three mugs from an automatic drip machine. “From upstairs. Here, bring your cup. I find it particularly calming, and today I need calm.”

  She led them out of the kitchen door to the brick patio that overlooked a small garden of potted flowers, then on up a narrow staircase ascending to a wrought-iron balcony on the second story. A white iron bistro table and two chairs faced the bay. Casey took in the impressive view through the grove of eucalyptus, their dagger-shaped leaves rattling in the wind, bringing with it the heavy, distinct scent of the trees. There was at least an acre or two of undeveloped tree-filled property just behind the fence of Marcie’s backyard, and those of the other houses on the street. A lot of these older neighborhoods in the greater Bay Area had greenbelts behind them, though they were not so common in the middle of San Francisco. This one was probably owned by the city, Casey decided, or it would ha
ve been developed ages ago for the multimillion-dollar view. And what a view. To the left, through the trees, was the Pacific Ocean, and to the right, visible through the marine layer, the vermilion Golden Gate Bridge. Casey tried to imagine what it might be like to walk out of his bedroom door and onto this balcony each morning. Perhaps if he’d gone into hedge funds instead of law enforcement, he thought, his eye returning to the fence line and the wide strip of property behind it.

  Al nodded. “Nice, eh?”

  “I’ll say,” Casey replied, as he took a seat across from their witness. He opened his portfolio notebook to a blank page, thanked her for taking the time to see them, then asked her what she was doing in the area at the time of the murder.

  “Running,” she said. “I run every morning along the Presidio and back. Sometimes with my neighbor, Trudy.”

  “The woman who was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she with you?”

  She shook her head and turned away. When she looked at him once more, her eyes glistened. “Not this morning. I was…late.”

  “Late?”

  She nodded. “She left before me. When I got there, I saw—That couple who had been running in the area found her.”

  “Did you see anyone else on the run?”

  “No. Not that I noticed.”

  He wrote down her answer then asked, “Any reason you could imagine why someone would want to kill her?”

  “Kill her?” She seemed surprised by the question. “Are you saying it’s not that same guy…the Landmark killer?”

  “We don’t know. But what makes you think that?”

  “Because it’s near the bridge. Even my husband told me I shouldn’t jog near there anymore. I just—Oh my God…That’s who killed her. Isn’t it?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  She set her coffee cup on the table, her hand shaking.

  “Just a few questions for now, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re a substitute teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your husband.” Casey poised his pencil over the paper. “Where does he work?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  Al stepped forward, his expression one of empathy, something he did so well. “Empty boxes on the report form, Mrs. Valentine. Have to fill them all out. Sorry.”

  “He owns his own company. Valentine and Son. He’s the son.”

  “What sort of place is that?” Al asked.

  “Construction.”

  Casey made a notation then asked, “Is he here?”

  “Um, no. I think he’s at work.”

  “You think?”

  “He wasn’t here when I got home.” She dabbed at the new tears.

  “He hasn’t heard yet?”

  “I sent him a text.” She looked away, and he wondered more at what wasn’t said.

  Al shifted slightly, and knowing his partner, Casey realized he was probably thinking the same, because Al pointed to the backyard and the view of trees, suddenly changing the subject. “That’s quite the grove of eucalyptus and cypress behind your fence.”

  Her eyes lit up. “The last good place.”

  Al smiled in return, waiting for her to explain.

  “That’s what my grandfather always told me. When I was little, we’d sit right here at this same table…” She ran her hand across the glass insert of the tabletop.

  “This used to be your grandfather’s house?” Al asked.

  “I inherited it from him a little over five years ago,” she said, a soft smile playing about her mouth. A gust of wind brought with it the faint scent of eucalyptus. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I always think of him when I smell the trees…” When she looked at Casey this time, her expression had surprisingly hardened. “Can you believe the real estate agent who listed Trudy’s property contacted the city to cut them down? To capitalize on the unobstructed view? I can’t even believe Trudy would ask. She knows how I feel about those trees.”

  “Why was she selling?” Al asked.

  A slight hesitation, then, “Divorce.” A few tears sliced down her cheeks, and she seemed to be struggling with her emotions, perhaps tempering her anger over the property dispute as well as the loss of her friend.

  Al turned back toward the view, a silent indicator that he was relinquishing the interview. Casey took a sip of his now-cold coffee, curious about Al’s interruption. The man did everything by instinct. Maybe one day Casey would handle it all in his head like Al, but for now, he depended on his list, referred to it once more, and continued with his questions, most routine, all answers he expected. “I know this can’t be easy,” he said at the conclusion, handing her a business card. “But if you think of anything else…”

  “I’ll call.” She started crying again.

  Al stepped forward, placed his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll let ourselves out if you’d like some time to yourself.”

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  Casey followed Al down the patio staircase. The backyard wasn’t exactly what one would call spacious, the long narrow lot being mostly occupied by the house. But it had a decent-size brick patio off the kitchen door filled with flower pots, as well as a brick planter box filled with yellow-and-white pansies that ran alongside the fence that separated her property from that of the victim’s home next door. The whitewashed gate was latched, and Casey lifted it, pulling the gate open. The sound of screeching tires caught his attention from down the street, and he looked over, saw a royal-blue Toyota pickup turning the corner, then drive up the hill, parking in front of the house. A dark-haired man got out, ran toward the porch, then stopped suddenly when he saw Casey and Al. “Are you the police?”

  “Sergeants Kellog and Krug,” Casey said. “SFPD.”

  The man glanced toward the house, then at Casey. “I just heard. I—I can’t believe it.”

  “You are…?”

  “Devin Valentine. Marcie’s husband. Is she okay?”

  “Understandably upset,” Casey replied. When the man ran up the steps, Casey asked, “A minute of your time?”

  Devin stopped midstep, turned toward them. “Can it wait? My wife hasn’t been feeling well lately. I’ve been worried about her for some time now.”

  “She was fine when we left her,” Casey assured him.

  Al smiled sympathetically. “Just a few questions.”

  He nodded, then sat on the steps, apparently not interested in inviting Casey or Al inside.

  While Al took his preferred position off to one side where he could observe unnoticed, Casey sat beside the man, opened his portfolio. “How well did you know Trudy?”

  “She and my wife have been friends since we moved here.”

  “Any reason you can think of that anyone would want to kill her?”

  He dropped his head into his hands, staring down at the porch. “No,” he said, his voice broken. “No one.”

  “Where were you this morning?”

  “Oh my God. You don’t think that I…?”

  Al smiled again. “Routine questions, Mr. Valentine.”

  “Of course. I was here until my wife left for her run. That would’ve been…seven.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I left for the office maybe—I don’t know—five, ten minutes after. My secretary will know what time I got in. We had a meeting that started at eight. I—I picked up coffee at Starbucks…” He dug into his pocket, pulled out several dollar bills and a receipt that he handed to Casey, his fingers shaking.

  Casey took the paper, saw today’s date and the time stamp: 07:35. “Mind if I keep this?”

  “Feel free.”

  He tucked it into his portfolio to book into evidence, then asked a few more questions, the location of his office
, how long it took to get there from the Starbucks. Assuming the man’s answers were truthful, it would put him well out of the area at the time of the murder. When Casey couldn’t think of anything else to ask, he finished with, “Any reason at all you can think that someone would want to kill Trudy?”

  “You asked that already.”

  “We did,” Al said. “Maybe you’ve thought of something since then?”

  Devin shook his head. “No. Everyone loved her…”

  Al nodded. “But her husband was divorcing her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a contentious divorce? Any fights, that sort of thing?”

  “Nothing physical, but—No. He wouldn’t have…”

  “Wouldn’t have what?” Al asked.

  “Killed her. I don’t think—I guess you never really know someone, do you?”

  “No.”

  “But what about that Landmark killer that’s been in the news?” he asked Al. “I mean, that path where they were jogging. It’s practically in the shadow of the Golden Gate, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Oh, God…”

  He seemed genuinely upset. Casey almost felt guilty watching him and was just about to end the interview when Al said, “One more question, Mr. Valentine. You said you only just found out about the murder…?” He let the question hang.

  “My wife sent a text to me.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty minutes ago?” Devin pulled out his phone, unlocked it, then showed the message to both investigators:

  “Trudy was killed at the Presidio. You have to come home.”

  Al slipped on his glasses to read it. “Thanks,” he said. “That should do it.”

  Casey handed the man his business card. “In case you think of anything else. Anything at all.”

  The man nodded, stared blankly at the card, as though he wasn’t even sure what was in his hand. Then, after a moment he stood, and without another word, he walked inside the house.

  Al eyed the closed door. “Well, that was interesting.”

  “What was?” Casey asked.

  “That text was sent right before we got here.”