BETH FOUND THE NAME LAURIE Shaw beneath one of the six mailbox slots just outside the entry to the lobby of the building, a reasonably modern, nicely kept up place on Green Street. She pressed the button over the name and waited.
Laurie was the woman who’d been having an affair with Frank Rinaldi, the murder victim from this morning. Beth knew that although she was nothing like a suspect in the Rinaldi murder-suicide, she had been the victim’s lover. As such, suspect or not, an interview with homicide inspectors was definitely in her near future.
Beth knew that what she should have done was call Laurie and invite her down for a nice, cozy interview in a videotaped interrogation room. Two inspectors and a videotape. It’s the way things were done. But the case was such a clean murder-suicide that Beth convinced Ike that she could get an interview done with Laurie—check off that box—on her own before dinner.
In fact, she couldn’t have elucidated any clear reason why she felt that she wanted to speak personally to this woman, so suddenly bereft. The phone call she’d made that morning, where she had inadvertently been the one to inform Laurie of her lover’s death, had stuck with her for the whole day, and some sixth sense told her that the woman might benefit from another woman’s empathy. Beth had lost her own husband, Denny, seven years before and knew about the pain of loss.
The buzz sounded. “Yes?”
“Laurie Shaw? Inspector Tully with the police. If you’ve got a few minutes.”
Nothing else came from the squawk box, but the door clicked and Beth pushed her way inside. When the elevator stopped and its door opened, she crossed the hall to number 5 and rang another doorbell.
Laurie was somewhere in her twenties, with oversized blue eyes and a body that bordered on anorexic. She’d obviously been crying. The skin around her eyes was puffed and reddened. Her shoulder-length dark hair was a mess. Barefoot, she wore faded denim jeans and a man’s white dress shirt that hung on her.
“Laurie? Inspector Tully. Beth. We spoke on the phone this morning.”
Nodding, her face vacant, she pulled the door inside and stepped back.
Beth crossed over into her apartment and followed her down a short hallway that on the right led to a spacious, beautifully appointed living room and a kitchen. The door to the bedroom was open on the left, the bed quite a bit more disheveled than just unmade—blankets and pillows on the floor and piled on the mattress.
Three large windows made up the back wall of the living room—the rear of the building—and looked down on this clear late afternoon over Union Street, then the Marina District, and finally the bay.
In front of Beth, Laurie simply stopped walking and stood facing those windows. Without turning around, she said, “He was moving out this morning. I told him to just stay here with me. We could . . . he could pick up his clothes later. Or just buy new stuff. He didn’t believe she would be violent, but she owned her own gun.” She turned around. “What does that tell you? You don’t own a gun if you’re not ready to use it sometime, do you?”
“Did Frank have a gun, too?”
“No way. Frank wouldn’t shoot anybody. He thought everybody, including Shannon, was like he was that way.” As though the thought must have just occurred to her, she asked, “Do you want to sit down? Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good, thank you.” Beth crossed over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. “But you go ahead.” She watched Laurie cross the kitchen, where she free-poured half a juice glass of vodka from the bottle on the drain, then filled the glass with orange juice from the refrigerator. Turning around, she came back and pulled her own chair out from the table. “I’m drinking,” she said redundantly, and took a serious slug, swallowed, shivered, and shook her head. Then, putting the glass down, she broke into tears. “How can Frank be just gone?” she asked between sobs. “How can this be happening?”
Beth found herself getting up and crossing around the table, putting her arms around her. She’d never done anything like that in the whole time she’d been a cop. She’d counseled victims and the families of victims, yes, but never before had it felt so personal. She couldn’t figure it out, and somehow it didn’t matter. She had felt this woman’s pain in their phone call this morning—not that she thought Laurie didn’t share some of the blame—and that was enough.
The young woman’s arms came up around her. Beth held her and let her cry it out. When she was done, Laurie said, “Thank you. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re allowed to cry.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Nobody would expect you to. Do you have someone you can stay with for a while? Or who could stay here? It would probably be better if you weren’t alone.”
She nodded. “My brother Alan is coming over when he’s finished work. He’s taking the weekend off.”
“Good. That’s a good idea.”
“Meanwhile, don’t you have to ask me questions?”
“I should, yes.” Beth took out her tape recorder.
“So how am I supposed to help you?” Laurie asked.
The doorbell interrupted her.
“That’ll be Alan.” Laurie walked back down the hallway to buzz her brother in. Beth heard some muffled words, another small sob, then a male’s deep, consoling voice. She stood up and turned around as they came out of the hall and Laurie introduced them.
Alan appeared to be in his late thirties, quite a bit older than his sister. He was a big man—six feet four or five. His hand completely enclosed Beth’s when he shook it, but though his palms were rough, his touch was gentle. His words when he heard she was from Homicide, however, were not. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t really get why you need to be here.”
“I was just in the process of trying to explain that to your sister.”
“Did you mention to her that when she talks to cops, she ought to have a lawyer?”
“Alan! She’s—”
He held up a hand, cutting his sister off. “She’s a cop, Laurie. There’s her tape recorder. She’s not here on a social call. I promise you.”
Beth spoke up. “Laurie’s not a suspect in her boyfriend’s murder, sir. I’m interviewing her as a witness. She’s not under investigation.”
“But you just have a few questions. Is that it?”
“Yes, I do.” Beth blew out in frustration. This was why, she knew, you didn’t vary the protocol. Whatever your motivations, they were misunderstood. “I haven’t asked her any questions yet, other than how she’s holding up. I just want to establish what we both know to be true—that she had a relationship with Frank Rinaldi that might have played a part in this incident. I thought it would be easier on her, under the circumstances, to talk to her here rather than ask her to come down to the Hall of Justice. That’s all.”
Laurie said, “Alan, she’s not interrogating me. She really just wanted to make sure I was okay. Please, Beth, just stay another few minutes. Ask your questions. I’m so glad you came by. I don’t want you to feel like I’m throwing you out.”
Beth looked from one sibling to the other. “Well, one way or the other, Alan, Laurie is involved in a murder-suicide. So you can see that there are questions that are going to get asked. But I really did come here because when I talked to her on the phone this morning, she sounded really upset. And I thought that under the circumstances, this would be easier than some of the other options.”
“That’s the truth,” Laurie said. “You need to apologize.”
Alan still didn’t look like he bought it. “I’m sorry, but you don’t hear too often about cops making condolence calls.”
“It doesn’t happen every day,” Beth said. “Laurie’s situation here struck me as just particularly tragic. So I thought she could probably use a little support.”
“Well, you’ll pardon me for being protective of my little sis.”
“Of course. Truce?” She put out her hand and he took it.
Again, gently.