Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  The officer stepped back and motioned to Hal. “Ms. Fletcher, this is Inspector Harris.”

  “Good evening, ma’am.” He guessed she was between thirty and forty, but the older he got the less he trusted his ability to judge a woman’s age accurately.

  “I’ve got a cold,” she said without offering to shake. She was composed, her expression concerned. Her eyes remained on him; she didn’t fidget.

  Nothing about her stood out as suspicious.

  “No worries, ma’am. I would like to ask you a few questions about Ms. Stein if I could.”

  She pulled the mug a little closer. “We could—” She motioned to her door. “We could sit down in there.”

  “That would be great.” One rule of investigation was always agree to an offer to access the inside of someone’s house. People were more comfortable in their own homes, which made them share more. Plus it was harder for them to get up and leave. “Officer, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in Ms. Fletcher’s apartment.”

  Even from the entry, Fletcher’s apartment felt much more lived in than the victim’s had. Along the front hallway were large framed images of the Golden Gate Bridge in different seasons. In the bottom-right corner of each one was the same looped signature. He paused to study one with snow on the bridge. The last time it had snowed in the Bay Area was the early 1970s. “Is this Photoshopped?”

  “No. That’s snow on the bridge.” She leaned confidently against the wall, the mug drawn in close. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

  “When—”

  “February 5, 1976.”

  He eyed her. She was too young to have taken the picture. “You didn’t take this.”

  “No. My mother was an amateur photographer. A lot of my images were hers. It was her passion, and over the years it’s sort of become a hobby of mine.”

  “It’s an amazing shot.”

  “Thank you.”

  The living room walls were covered with photographs. Most were landmarks he recognized from the Bay Area—Fort Ord, the Presidio, and the Palace of Fine Arts, but he also saw the Eiffel Tower, Stonehenge, and one of a giant redwood. A couple of the images captured churches too old to be in this country.

  These were not photographs of just local sites—her mother had traveled extensively. The images were blown up and hung in identical custom frames. It suggested substantial wealth.

  “What do you do for work, Ms. Fletcher?”

  “Call me Carol. I work for an online gaming company. Project management, but I do a little of everything.”

  He scanned the room and saw a computer sitting on the dining room table. Stacks of papers. The furniture was sleek, all sharp angles in a way that looked both uncomfortable and expensive. A large blown glass statue stood on a high pedestal behind the couch. A thin line was visible where the pinnacle had broken off and been glued again. A deep gouge marred the side of the lacquered coffee table, about the right height for a vacuum cleaner.

  Money but not old money.

  Old money, Hal always noticed, meant everything was just so. The appearance of flawlessness mattered as much as—or more than—what was being displayed. “So, you work from home?”

  “I’ve got a proper office in the back, but I work out here, too, sometimes for a change of scenery.”

  The best witnesses tended to be people who were around without much to do. They paid attention to who came and went.

  And if Fletcher worked from home, then maybe she’d seen or heard something that could be useful. Hal motioned to the couch. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Hal moved a square pillow decorated with geometric shapes in black and brown off to the side and sank into the corner of the couch. It was narrow with a short back that hit him well below the shoulder blades, but the cushions were firm, and the fabric felt expensive. He crossed one foot over the other knee but found the couch was too low to make it comfortable, so he replaced his foot on the rug and balanced his notebook on his knees. At his height, it was unusual to find someone else’s furniture comfortable. Almost always, things were too small.

  This was especially true of women who lived alone.

  Hal flipped open his notebook. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost fifteen years.”

  Hal made a note. “That’s a long time. Mind if I ask how old you are, Ms. Fletcher? Sorry, Carol.”

  She smiled. “Thirty-four.”

  He had guessed about right. He did the math and was surprised. “So you’ve lived here since you were nineteen.”

  “My dad bought it for me after my mom died. It was kind of a consolation prize, I guess. He left when I was three, so when she died, he bought me this place.”

  Hal let a beat pass in a moment of deference to her mother’s death, then poised his pen to write. “When did Ms. Stein move in?”

  “About four months ago, I think. After the new year.”

  “Do you know what she did for work?”

  “I think she said she worked at a bank.” She paused. “I can’t even think which one now. It wasn’t Wells Fargo, I know. Anyway, the bank moved her out here to start some new division. I don’t know exactly what it was.”

  Although he sensed the answer, Hal asked, “How well did you know her?”

  “I’d been over there once or twice for a glass of wine. Mostly we just watched out for each other’s places. She checked in on my cat when I was away for a week in March, and I took care of her plants when she was gone a couple of times for work.”

  “Do you have a key to her apartment?” he asked.

  “Not at the moment. She always gave me one when she was traveling or if she needed me to let someone in.”

  There were no signs of forced entry. Whoever had gotten into the apartment had a key. “When was the last time you let someone into her apartment?”

  “There was a plumber here sometime in February. I think that was the last time.”

  “Did Ms. Stein have many visitors?”

  “Not that I saw, but we keep pretty different hours.”

  “You work at night?” he asked.

  “Mornings actually,” she corrected. “I’m up about four, and I usually work until two or three in the afternoon. After that, I do errands and meet with friends. I’m usually in bed by seven or eight.”

  Four until two was a ten-hour day. So, not a trust fund baby. Unusual hours, too. “Really,” he commented. “Doesn’t quite fit the online gaming stereotype I had in mind.”

  “I hear that a lot,” she said. “But most of the issues with gaming happen in the early hours of the morning—when people have been playing for long stretches.”

  “It’s past your bedtime, then.”

  “I woke up when Victoria’s sister buzzed me. Then when she found her sister—well, I couldn’t sleep after that.” Her gaze settled on the wall.

  “So you didn’t have company last night?”

  “I rarely have people here. My boyfriend is long-distance, and I am not a big entertainer.”

  He wondered about the expensive furniture. It didn’t really seem to suit her. Perhaps the place had been decorated this way when she moved in. Perhaps it was her father’s style. “I hear you.” Hal didn’t entertain either but mostly because his place was about the size of Ms. Fletcher’s galley kitchen. “Any indication that Victoria Stein was worried about something?”

  Fletcher pursed her lips and shook her head. “No. Things were going well for her, and I haven’t seen anyone around.”

  “Did you happen to know that all the security cameras in the building were out last night?”

  “No, but it’s not that unusual,” she said with a sigh. “The building is working with a totally antiquated system. It probably goes down a few times a month.”

  Hal made a note. Even with surveillance down a few times a month, he didn’t like the coincidence of the timing. “Is the building managed by an outside company?”

  “No. The building employs about five fron
t desk guys. They work some rotation. All of them are part-time, I’m pretty sure. But the guys have all been here awhile. The newest one is the tall redhead. Liam is his name, I think. But no one’s here after three. That’s why Victoria wanted me to let her sister in.”

  “So the sister buzzed you?”

  “Yes, Terri is her name. She was driving up from Los Angeles. She lives down there somewhere. When she arrived, she buzzed, and I let her into the building.”

  “But you didn’t have a key to Victoria’s unit?” Hal asked, skimming his notes.

  “No,” Fletcher confirmed. “Terri had her own key. I just let her into the building. I was getting back in bed when I heard the screaming. Terri had gone into the bedroom and found her sister.” She covered her mouth. “It was awful.”

  “I’m sure,” Hal said. “Let me know if you need a moment.”

  Fletcher looked down at her tea and shook her head.

  “When was Victoria supposed to be home?”

  “Not until tomorrow, I think. She was supposed to have training up in Sacramento and be back around midday.”

  Her attention settled into the carpet again. He knew the look from experience. She was recalling the body. People unaccustomed to death often reacted this way—the distant, unfocused gaze, arms crossed, body closed. He’d probably gotten as much as he could.

  Hal stood and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He handed Fletcher his business card. “I’d appreciate a phone call if you think of anything that might be useful.”

  She took the card. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

  Hal thanked her for her time and headed back to Victoria Stein’s apartment. It had been an average interview. He wasn’t surprised. People didn’t know their neighbors the way they used to. Witnesses had grown less reliable.

  Early in his career, there were more people paying attention to what their neighbors were doing. These days almost everything was recorded somewhere—Facebook or Instagram—but no one really saw anything anymore.

  In some instances, the Internet made his job much easier. But not here. This one was going to take the old-fashioned kind of work.

  Back in Stein’s apartment, Hal found Roger squatting next to the bulky ActionPacker that stored his crime scene kit. The plastic box was maybe three and a half feet wide and two feet tall, its exterior bright orange with black handles that snapped into each end to hold the top in place.

  At some point, Roger—more likely one of his kids—had put a large SF Giants sticker on the side. The scratches and wear on the sticker suggested it was from a couple of World Series back.

  From where Hal was standing, the overhead light hit the top of Roger’s bald head and reflected it like the sun.

  Roger had been new in the lab about the same time Hal was taking his inspector’s exam. Roger suffered from alopecia universalis—he had no hair on his body. Early on, Hal had heard Roger explain the condition to people who came in and out of the lab while Hal was there, waiting for results on one thing or another.

  One day Hal asked if it got annoying. While Roger was generous about it, Hal imagined it had to get old. Hal found a bumper sticker that said, “With a body like this, who needs hair?”

  To this day, it hung at Roger’s work space in the lab.

  “Roger, man,” Hal said. “I’m gonna need some shades.”

  Roger laughed without looking up. “It’s the halogen spotlights, man. They reflect the bald well, don’t they?”

  Hal palmed his own bald head. “I guess so. How do I look?”

  “Not as reflective, I’m afraid,” Roger told him. “To really make it work, you’ve got to be both totally bald and pasty white. You’re only one of the two.”

  “I’ve got some pictures where I shine pretty bright, too.” He crossed the room and stopped beside Roger. “Find anything interesting?”

  Roger nodded. “Couple things, actually,” he said, standing up. “There was only one wineglass out on the counter, but we found a second one up in the cupboard. Rinsed out and put away in a hurry from the looks of it.”

  “Any prints?”

  “Prints on both glasses. Won’t know if they’re the same or if they belong to the victim until we get them back to the lab.”

  If the two had wine together, then the killer was someone Stein knew.

  Did they wash the glass only to hide their prints, or because they were trying to hide the fact that Stein was killed by someone she would drink wine with, someone she knew? “So maybe she had a guest here.”

  “You talked to the neighbor?” Roger asked.

  “Yeah, but she didn’t hear anything.”

  “These places are pretty solid,” Roger noted. “Unless someone was really loud, I doubt you’d hear anything from across the hall.”

  “Definitely the high-rent district.”

  “You’re not kidding. The way the market is in the city, these places probably go for two or three million.”

  Hal whistled. That was about what he’d make in his entire career, and someone was paying that on maybe twelve hundred square feet of living space. Without rent control, he wouldn’t be living in the city at all.

  Rents on places like his were close to four grand. He’d been there sixteen years and paid $1,175.

  These days you couldn’t rent the shelter of a doorway in an alley for that. “Prices like that, you’d think they could afford a better security system.”

  “You’d think. The computer squad is checking. They suspect it was a virus that shut down the system. Happened about fifteen minutes before three o’clock, which is when—”

  “The front deskman gets off duty,” Hal finished for him.

  “Right.”

  “So someone sends a virus, and the whole system is down. Makes it easy to get in and out without being captured on film.” That implied planning, but Hal already knew that this murder was not an act of blind rage. It had been carefully choreographed, which would almost certainly make it tougher to solve.

  Hal tried to imagine Schwartzman married to a man capable of something like this.

  “It may not even be as sophisticated as all that. According to the front deskman, they have virus problems pretty regularly. Something about how they perform the nightly update and some issue with their antivirus software.”

  Hal palmed his head. “So you’re saying this wasn’t a planned attack? That’s a pretty big coincidence.”

  “It definitely is,” Roger agreed. “It basically happened about fifteen minutes before the end of the shift. The front desk guy says he called tech support and waited on hold, but when he called in to tell his boss that he had to stay, guy told him to take off. Kid said he would have stayed. Could’ve used the overtime pay.”

  Hal groaned. “So no surveillance all night.”

  “The computer guys will see if they can locate the source of the virus and track it. But we might not get anything.”

  “So besides the wineglass and the security system failure, we find anything else noteworthy?”

  “Not yet. We collected the flowers to compare with the ones Dr. Schwartzman received at her house. They were a low priority until now.”

  Everyone would step up the focus on Schwartzman. Comparing the flowers for any similarities, usable prints, skin cells—epithelials—that could be run for DNA.

  Anything to link to a suspect.

  “That will take us a few days. We’ve also got all the trash from the kitchen and bathrooms. We’ll run through it for prints and evidence. We’re looking for the wine bottle itself. There’s evidence of broken glass on the kitchen floor, but no glass in the trash. I’ve got someone going through the dumpsters.”

  “We get lucky, might find some usable prints.”

  “That’s the hope,” Roger said. “You talk to the victim’s sister?”

  “Not yet,” Hal said. “Stein wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow at noon, so she had a key to let herself in. The neighbor buzzed her in the front door,” he ad
ded. “I’ll check her out.”

  The apartment had offered precious little about the victim. He needed a list of friends, her work contacts. Someone knew something. It was a matter of following the trail. He just needed one bread crumb to start.

  Roger drew a plastic bag out of his pocket. “Ken collected this and gave it to me.”

  Hal flipped over the bag and looked at the receipt inside.

  “It’s a gas receipt. The sister filled up on Vasco Road in Livermore at nine fifty.”

  Hal pulled out his phone to map the distance from Livermore to Stein’s apartment.

  “Already Google Mapped it,” Roger said.

  Hal stopped fiddling with the phone. “And?”

  “Purchase was made an hour and twenty-five minutes before we got the call,” Roger said. “The drive from there is at least an hour, hour and ten.”

  Hal pocketed his phone. A solid alibi. “That doesn’t leave her time to get here, kill her sister, clean it up, stage her, then leave, get buzzed back in by the neighbor, and call us. Plus—” He remembered the image Ken Macy had shared of the petite woman tucked into a ball on the couch.

  “Your gut says no,” Roger supplied.

  “Something like that.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Hal trusted his instincts. Roger’s, too. The sister wasn’t their killer.

  He scanned his memory for anyone else who should have stood out. The victim was staged, which meant there was a chance that the killer stuck around to see the reactions. Naomi had taken pictures of the people on the street, but most were dressed in nightclothes and huddled in small groups. Neighbors most likely. No one looked out of place.

  “Any other leads?” Roger asked.

  As he handed Roger the bagged receipt, Hal considered the people closest to the scene. The neighbor was one, but the careful staging of the body implied a sexual element to this murder. This just didn’t feel like a case of two female neighbors fighting over who had to water the plant that separated their front doors. “I’m going to check the front desk staff. One of them is new. Kid named Liam. Then we’ll try to talk to the folks at her job, but, basically, I got nothing.”