Colleen sat in her office, drinking her second cup of coffee of the morning, mulling over the reports left in her mailbox. She’d done the rounds of the plant, and all was secure.
Much had fallen into place. But one thing hadn’t. She flipped open the coroner’s report one more time, called the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s office.
It was open seven days a week, but general enquiries by the public were only handled Monday to Friday during normal business hours.
Colleen dialed Directory Assistance. Millard Drake, the forensic analyst who had written Margaret’s autopsy report, did not reside in San Francisco. Colleen tried Oakland, Berkeley, Marin, Palo Alto, and a couple more Bay Area cities before she completely exasperated the operator. Colleen thanked the woman and hung up.
What she really wanted was to see the evidence. Actually see it. Those two odd pieces of plastic found in Margaret Copeland’s stomach—she couldn’t get them out of her mind.
She called Christian Newell, the Copelands’ lawyer.
“What if I wanted to see the crime scene evidence from Margaret’s case?” she asked.
“What kind of evidence?” he said suspiciously.
“Her clothes, personal effects.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be winding this thing down?” Christian said. “Mr. Copeland asked me to settle up affairs with you. I’ll mail you a check.”
“Whoa,” she said. “What’s your hurry? It’s only Saturday. I have until Monday morning.”
“You can keep the fee. You don’t need to work on this anymore.”
“I still have a couple of items to clear up. Then I’ll write it all up. I want to get the report professionally typed up. How about end of the week?”
Christian Newell sighed. “I’ll pencil you in for middle of the week for the report. Wednesday. Courier it to me. There’s no need to bother the Copelands anymore. Have a nice weekend.”
Have a nice weekend. It was a strange new language these Californians were speaking these days, one that meant absolutely nothing.
It was time to call Moran again.
Moran was out in the yard gardening. His wife, Daphne, gave a loud theatrical sigh when Colleen asked for him, put the phone down with a distinct clunk.
A moment later, Colleen heard someone pick up the phone.
“No update on Lesley Johns, Hayes,” Moran said. “I told you someone would call if anything came of it.”
“That’s not why I’m calling,” Colleen said. “But I do have another favor to ask.”
“Related to the Copeland case?”
“I want to look at some physical case evidence. There’s something that doesn’t make a lot of sense.” She brought Moran up to speed.
“This has gone too far, Hayes. You’re treading on dangerous ground.”
“I’m fine.”
“I disagree. You say Mr. Copeland told you to wind it down. Take the money and run.”
“That’s what I tell myself,” she said, “but I can’t do it.” She thought of Edward Copeland. And Alex. And, in her heart, she thought of Jim Davis, who might still be warming a barstool down at Dizzy’s if not for her. Finally, she thought of Margaret Copeland, who never got justice. “I just can’t walk away.”
Moran gave a weary sigh. “You should have been a cop, Hayes.”
“It’s a little late for that,” she said. “Unless they’ve changed the rules on hiring ex-cons.”
She heard Moran take a breath. “Got a pen?”
Thank God. She had one ready. “Shoot.”
“Call this number. Use my name discreetly. Be prepared to hand over some cash. And when you see what you need and are still stuck, think seriously about what I just told you.”
“I really appreciate this,” she said, jotting down a San Francisco phone number.
“And if you decide you still aren’t going to take my advice and walk away, call me again. I need to convince you to drop this thing.”
She didn’t need a sixty-five-year-old man who’d been to hell and back risking his neck for her again. “Will do.”
“I doubt that.”