“You hanging in?” Jo said.
“The main attraction will be here in a few minutes. Homicide Detail—they’ll take my weapon, drive me someplace quiet and official to find out whether I shot Petty in self-defense, or lost it and went
Dirty Harry
on her.”
“I heard multiple gunshots.”
Tang turned and leaned over a potted palm. Hands on her knees, she fought down a dry heave.
“Got any gum?” she said.
“In my front pocket. You don’t want me to reach for it.”
Tang noticed the blood, tacky and smeared, on Jo’s hands. Jo turned her hip and Tang dug the pack of gum from her jeans.
“They won’t want me to confer with anybody. So I have about two minutes to tell you what just happened.” Without touching the gum itself, she popped a piece from the package into her mouth. “It was suicide by cop.”
“Petty fired on you?”
“Realized she was cornered. Uniforms were running up the stairs from the lobby. I was running down from above. All the elevators were locked. She stopped on the landing, screamed, and began firing. I returned fire.”
“Then you’re going to be exonerated,” Jo said.
“Yes. And I’m so far off this case that I’ll never see its backside disappearing over the horizon.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was already under orders to pull you back. To figure out how to wind it down quietly.”
“You just killed a homicidal stalker. There’s no way this case can be wound down quietly.”
“I came over here at your request. I was . . . acting independently of my superiors’ guidance. They won’t be happy. When my desk duty ends, I’ll be assigned to other cases.”
“Chuck Bohr won’t—”
“Chuck Bohr won’t care. He’s got his own problems.”
“What?”
“IRS audit.” Tang waved dismissively, as if to swat away an irrelevance.
“No, Amy. You just ended this.”
“Not fast enough.”
And the tough, predatory bird faltered. Tang’s head dropped and she crumpled against the wall.
Jo put an arm around her. Instantly Tang stiffened and shook Jo off. She spun and punched a framed oil painting. Her fist drove the canvas into the wall.
She grabbed her hand. “Crap. Jesus, that hurts.”
She shook her fist. Blinked as though her eyes stung. Jo was sure they did. Her own eyes certainly did.
“You weren’t late getting here. I was,” Jo said.
“Lecroix didn’t answer the phone. He let Petty in. Not your fault.”
“Did the press know Lecroix was staying at this hotel? Because if they didn’t, how did Petty find out?”
The elevator dinged. Two men in blue suits stepped out and glanced around.
“Here we go,” Tang said.
The departmental suits looked as grim and gray as dead fish. “Lieutenant Amy Tang?”
She unholstered her pistol and handed it to them, butt first. “I fired the fatal round, with this weapon. Once I determined that the scene was secure and everybody was safe, I holstered the weapon. Nobody else has handled it.”
They nodded. They mentioned that the Crisis Incident Response Team was being assembled to debrief her. “Come this way, Lieutenant.”
She followed them. Halfway down the hall, she looked back at Jo. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Jo said.
Lie of the afternoon. The first of many.
Tang shook her head. “And to think—on the drive here, I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.”
Jo gave her a funny look. “What?”
“My parents have been raided by the ATF.”
T
HERENTED SILVERVOLVO SUV crept up the street through Noe Valley. The neighborhood was tidy, slightly ramshackle—a comfortable place for striving families, Edie Wilson guessed. Small houses stacked one right next to the other on hilly streets. Bright colors. People in San Francisco had a thing for homes painted like M&M’S.
“Quirky place,” she said.
Tranh, behind the wheel, gave her a distinctly unpleasant look. Just a fraction of a second, but she saw it. She was highly attuned to other people’s vibrations. And she was from suburban Dallas, so she had a far better sense of what was normal and what was quirky than did a Californian like Tranh.
From the backseat, Andy said, “That’s it.”
Tranh slowed. They all looked at the compact Craftsman house with the green-painted trim, shaded by a live oak.
“His SUV’s not in the driveway,” Andy said.
“But somebody’s home.” Edie pointed at a Honda Accord. “Pull over.”
Tranh parked. Edie got out. “Andy, follow me.”
She hiked to the door, taking in the ambience. An American flag flew from the porch. A child’s tennis shoes sat by the welcome mat. She knocked.
When the little girl opened the door, Edie tipped her head to one side and smiled. She was good with children, even quirky children from San Francisco.
“Hello, young lady. Is your daddy home?”
The child had alert brown eyes and a long, shining braid. She was television-cute. Edie had a knack for knowing who looked good on-screen.
“Well?” Edie said. “Hello?”
“Excuse me, he can’t come to the door right now.” The child turned and called, “Aunt Regina, somebody’s here.” She turned back. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“So serious,” Edie said. She saw the child’s eyes glance past her to Andy and his gear. She smiled. “Have you ever seen a TV camera before?”
A woman stepped into the doorway. Mid-thirties, solid, Latina, looked like she had played water polo in school. Like she could throw an elbow. She patted the child on the shoulder.
“Thanks. I’ll take care of it.” Her expression was veiled. “May I help you?”
“Edie Wilson. Is Gabriel Quintana in?” She raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Quintana?”
“He’s not. And I’m not Mrs. Quintana. But I’ll tell him you stopped by.” The woman, Aunt Regina, glanced over Edie’s shoulder, calmly but with a deathly coldness, at Andy. Making sure the camera wasn’t rolling.
Always a good sign. These people had something to hide.
Edie handed the woman her card. “Have him call me. We’d like to talk to him.”
“What about?”
“Tell him it’s a good idea to phone. He will really appreciate the chance to tell us his side of the story.”
The woman shut the door on them.
Edie turned. “Get that, Andy? Did you get the door slam?”
“Got it.”
Edie practically skipped down the steps to the sidewalk. “They never learn, do they?”
They were back in the rented SUV and halfway up the block, headed for the studio, when a rattletrap VW Bug squealed past and pulled to the curb in front of the Craftsman house. A woman popped out.
“Wait,” Edie said.
Tranh pulled over. They peered out the tailgate window.
The woman from the VW looked like she had fallen through a time portal from the summer of love. And, it appeared to Edie, on the way down she’d bounced off some goths, from Bollywood. And maybe landed in a pile of vodka bottles.
She knocked on Quintana’s front door. After a minute the Latina tank opened it. They spoke. The VW woman didn’t go in. The door shut again.
“My, Aunt Regina does like her door slams,” Edie said.
The VW woman stood in front of the closed door. She gave Aunt Regina the finger, vehemently, with both hands.
“Turn around,” Edie said to Tranh.
They drove back up the street and Edie hopped out. The VW woman paused next to her car, hand on the driver’s door handle.
She raised her chin at Edie. “What’s going on here?”
Quirky didn’t begin to cover this gal. No, what covered this gal looked like pure gold.
“Edie Wilson,
News Slam
. I’m looking for Gabriel Quintana. Can you tell me anything about him?”
The woman barked a laugh. She scratched her arms, and tucked her velvet-black hair behind an ear pierced with a dozen silver studs. The magenta streak continued to fall in her eyes.
“You’re not the only one looking for him,” she said.
On her arm, in uneven Gothic letters, the word SOPHIEwas tattooed. Edie said, “You’re Sophie . . .”
“She’s my kid. What’s Gabe done?”
Edie tried not to look too excited. “Mrs. Quintana?”
Another bark. “He never went as far as actually marrying me.”
Edie heard Andy behind her, hoisting the camera to his shoulder. “I’d like to talk about that.”
“No kidding? About Gabe?” The woman shifted her weight and tilted her head, curious. “What do you want to know?”
“The truth,” Edie said.
Dawn nodded at the television camera. “That thing working?”
42
I
T WASN’T A HOTEL EMPLOYEE. NO WAY.” In the lobby of the St. Francis, a hotel manager insisted that the hotel had not leaked word that Searle Lecroix was staying there. Not hotel had not leaked word that Searle Lecroix was staying there. Not to the media, not to family or friends, not to anybody.
Jo turned to the detective from Homicide Detail who was interviewing her about Lecroix’s death and the shooting of Noel Michael Petty.
“He may be right. Lecroix could have mentioned it, or his management, anybody. Word was out. Earlier today I saw a photographer across the street in Union Square.”
The cop wrote it down. He underlined it casually. He was done debriefing her.
“Thanks, Doctor.”
Outside the front doors, the doorman was flanked by uniformed SFPD officers. The press and paparazzi had been moved across the street into Union Square. The scene was a scrum of people, cameras, lights, microphones, TV vans, and microwave antennas.
Jo gave the detective her card. “If you need anything else.”
He put it in his jacket pocket. “Sounds like you couldn’t have done anything more for Lecroix.”
Jo tried not to frown. The man was trying awfully hard to put her mind at ease. “Thanks. I wish it had ended differently.”
She stood to go. Across the lobby she spied two men headed in her direction—the SFPD’s mismatched departmental twins, Donald Dart, the media spokesman, and Chuck Bohr, Tang’s bald and burly superior.
Bohr’s jaw was working a piece of gum. It looked as though his jaw had been working at something for years. His neck was so thick that his white dress shirt was about to rip at the collar.
“Dr. Beckett. Don’t go anywhere,” he said.
Dart’s mustache had been brushed to a silvery sheen, maybe with a Brillo pad. His aviator shades were tucked in his jacket pocket. He nodded at the press mosh pit outside.
“We need to make a statement to the media.”
Jo felt drained. She wanted out of this hotel. She wanted to go home and clean off under a shower with the water pounding so loud that nobody could hear her cry, not even herself.
“You need sound bites from me?” she said.
Bohr’s jaw worked the gum. “Don’t look so down. You were right. You’ve been vindicated.”
“Excuse me?”
“And it’s over. You can write your report and sign off on the case.”
“A stalker,” Dart said. “You spotted it.”
“You called the whole thing,” Bohr said. “Don’t look so surprised. Credit where due.”
Jo’s shoulders ached. Her hands, though she’d scrubbed them with soap and near-scalding water, nevertheless still felt bathed in Searle Lecroix’s blood.
“Excuse me if I don’t feel like bragging,” she said.
Dart said, “You don’t have to. Just stand beside Captain Bohr while I make a statement to the press. You’re part of the team.”
“And then you can sign off on the McFarland case,” Bohr said.
Jo felt a headache coming on. “I need to complete my interviews and review Ms. McFarland’s medical records before I can finish my report.”
Dart looked at her, either incredulous or anxiety- ridden. “But we got her. Petty. We got her, in the act.”
The headache crawled up Jo’s scalp. “Maybe.”
Bohr took Jo’s elbow and led her toward the front doors. “This case has been unpleasant and difficult. And you don’t want any more unpleasantness and difficulty dumped on you. Make it simple. Stand beside me while Dart gives them the news.”
“But—”
“You’re a hero, Doctor. You figured it out. You warned the police about Petty being armed. You tried to save Lecroix.” He glanced at her. “I’m not bullshitting you. I’m serious.” He reached the door. “Take a bow. Then bow out gracefully.”
Dart swept past them. He straightened his tie and smoothed down his Ronald Reagan hair. Bohr urged Jo out the door.
When they stepped onto the sidewalk, the media swarmed across the street, dodging traffic, swerving around a cable car, pouring toward them like a sandstorm. Dart raised a hand. Bohr positioned himself and Jo a few feet behind. A crowd had gathered in Union Square. Overhead, three helicopters hovered. The noise, the painful
whup
of their rotors, battered the walls of buildings all around. The sun was still bright, the sky an innocent blue. Jo’s head pounded.
Had Noel Michael Petty killed Tasia McFarland?
Dart and Bohr wanted to think so. They wanted Jo to think so, and say so in her psychological autopsy report. Jo couldn’t. Not yet. She didn’t know whether Petty had killed Tasia. She had a strong feeling that the scenario was wrong.
She leaned toward Bohr. “Have you been encouraged to tell me to wrap up my report?”
The gum worked in his jaw. His eyes, watchful and cautious, held on to her gaze for a second too long.
The hovering helicopters thundered overhead. The headache crawled across her skull. The media pressed forward. Dart raised both hands, gesturing for quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “At three forty- five P.M. this afternoon, a nine-one-one call was received requesting police and an emergency medical response at the St. Francis Hotel.”
Jo wanted to sink into the pavement. She saw Lecroix’s eyes, begging her to tell him he was going to live.