BETH DIDN’T FEEL EVEN CLOSE to caught up on sleep. And Ike was possibly worse.
After they left the Cookes’ home, with written permission to search Geoff’s boat burning a hole in their pockets, out at the curb they put in a call to Len Faro who, after the most demanding night he and his crime scene team had faced since the terrorist attack, was not at his desk. Beth left a message for him, outlining the urgency of her request, but the plain fact remained—and they should have realized it—that the backlog of processing work on the Crime Scene Unit was enormous. Faro, with not one but four homicides yesterday, had undoubtedly put in more hours over the weekend than Beth had. She didn’t hold out much hope that she would hear from him before Monday morning at the earliest. And the priority he would assign to the search of a boat that was not even a definite crime scene . . .
Getting him by Monday, she knew, was optimistic. And that was a full week after Peter Ash had been killed.
She hated the fact that this would give Geoff time to clean up any obvious evidence. But on the other hand, he’d already had plenty of time to do that. The trace evidence that the Crime Scene Unit might locate wasn’t so easy to get rid of.
Statistically, with so much time having passed, she and Ike were now in the neighborhood of the murder that would never be solved.
After leaving her message for Faro, still parked out in front of the Cookes’ home, Beth put in a call to the Ashes, hoping to persuade Jill to agree to another brief interrogation with the boys. Beth wanted some closure on Eric’s missing gun. Jill could call her lawyer and have legal representation while they talked.
In reply, Beth got an earful of bitter abuse from Jill’s sister Julie. Didn’t Beth realize that they were still in mourning? Peter may have deserted the family, but the bare fact, the trauma of his murder, still hung over the house. The family was also trying to deal with the myriad details and emotions surrounding the funeral, which by the way (unstated but understood, “you assholes!”) was tomorrow morning.
Julie then gave Beth their lawyer’s name, Ben Patchett, and recommended that she call him and make an appointment if she wanted to do any more interrogations with the family.
When she hung up, Ike, having checked his messages while Beth was getting chewed out, said, “That was a call from Michelle Griffin with the Chronicle. She was following up on Theresa’s suicide and wants to know what personal relationship, if any, she had with her boss, the homicide victim Peter Ash. Was she in any way a person of interest in our investigation?”
“Shit.”
“Right. So we’re going to have to go check out Theresa’s place, too.”
“In our free time.”
“Or sooner.”
Beth leaned back in the car seat, her head back, and closed her eyes. “I hate to say it, Ike, but I’m running out of gas. How about you?”
“I could probably keep going, but the warning light’s definitely on.” Ike hit the ignition and pulled out into the street. “Really, though,” he said. “Who killed that son of a bitch?”
Beth opened her eyes and looked across at him. “I must say that I’m really starting to like Eric. He buys a gun, admittedly, to shoot his dad. Then—forget the idea that the gun got stolen, which is an absurd lie—he does kill him, on the boat, where either he’s been invited or he invites his dad to come and talk and work stuff out between them after their fight. Then he throws the gun into the bay.”
“How does he get on the boat?”
“His dad gets them both on the boat.”
“He’s got a key to the dock? And the boat?”
“Maybe. He’s Cooke’s good buddy. Maybe best buddy. Maybe Geoff lent him a set of keys. We could go back around and ask him. Geoff, I mean.”
“I think he’s had enough of us for today.”
“Ask me if I care.”
“Well, I do,” Ike said. “And you will, too, if we go back now and piss him off and he revokes his permission to search the boat. And now that you’ve brought it up, I’m done in, too.”
“We can ask him if Peter had a set of keys after we get the search done.”
“Good plan.”
“Along with the boat, and Eric’s gun, and the reporter.”
“Michelle Griffin.”
“Yeah, her. And then, also, we’ll probably need to search Theresa’s apartment.”
“All that’s tomorrow? I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”
“Want me to take the wheel?”
“No. I’m good. But I’m dropping you off and then heading home without passing go.”
It was a school night for Ginny and she was asleep when Beth woke up from her five-hour nap at 11:00.
In the jeans and sweatshirt that she’d slept in, Beth tiptoed past Ginny’s bedroom to the living room, where she turned on the television and the late news just in time to see that speculation about Theresa’s relationship with Peter, and the motive for her suicide, had made the cycle. This was not going to lower the profile on the case.
She didn’t need any more reminders of work at home, so she turned off the television, went back to the kitchen, and checked the refrigerator. Tomorrow and Tuesday were, technically, her days off, and she would normally go buy groceries for the week on one of those days. So right now, the shelves were mostly empty except for condiments, juices, wilted vegetables, leftover meatloaf.
In a small den off the opposite side of the kitchen from the bedrooms, she had her computer and a wall of built-in bookshelves. Sitting down at the computer, she booted it up, looked to see that she had twenty-two emails. She didn’t open any of them.
She didn’t know exactly what she was doing there. Not really aware that she was thinking anything, she Googled “Alan Shaw Construction San Francisco” and his site came up—general construction, handyman, no job too small. It also had his email address, which she typed in and looked at for a while. Then she keyed in her message. “Are you awake? I need some pizza immediately.”
She waited. Less than a minute later, his message came back. “Where?”
Not too surprisingly, parking wasn’t much of a problem at fifteen minutes before midnight on a Sunday. She realized before she’d even come to a stop in front of Gaspare’s that the place was closed up. In fact, Geary was a ghost street as far as she could see in both directions. She pulled her Jetta into the spot behind a black Ford F-150 pickup and its driver’s-side door opened and Alan got out and walked back.
She brought her window down. “My bad,” she said. “What was I thinking?”
“It didn’t occur to me either.”
“This is when you realize that San Francisco isn’t New York. You want pizza anytime in New York, you can get it. I promise.”
“We could drive out to North Beach. Some place may be open there.”
“Do you want to go to North Beach?”
“Not really, but I would. If the woman needs pizza . . .”
“You are a gallant soul, but it’s probably not critical.”
“It appeared to be pretty serious in your email.”
“Well, maybe a little.”
“You’re sounding like my sister. Did you have any dinner tonight? Yes or no?”
“I don’t really think so. I’d have to say no. I had kind of a long day.”
“I could make us a pizza in twenty minutes at my place, which is five minutes away.”
“You’re saying I could be eating pizza in twenty-five minutes? Get in your truck and I’ll follow you.”
“Really, though. Who keeps fresh pizza dough in their refrigerator?”
“Somebody who likes pizza a lot. What if the urge strikes after midnight? You need it on hand.”
“And mozzarella and mushrooms and pepperoni and anchovies?”
“All of the above. Necessary staples for the hungry bachelor.”
A silence descended.
“Not to bring attention to my marital status,” Alan said. “But that’s what it is, just for the record.”
“That’s good to hear.” She tore a bite off the slice she was eating. “It would be awkward if your wife came out of the bedroom right now. Also, just for the record, I’m very glad you were awake and on your computer,” she said.
He grinned at her. “I wasn’t. Either one. I was dead out. My phone buzzes when I get emails and it did and I hadn’t turned it off, which I normally do. In fact, religiously. But for some reason, not tonight.”
“A sign,” she said.
“Might have been.”
“The gods making up for the time we lost before.”
“Those wacky old gods,” Alan said. “What are you going to do with them?” He was sitting across the table from her, taking up a lot of space in his small kitchen/dining area. “So. Shall we adjourn to the parlor? Or do you need to be getting home?”
“I can probably spare a few more minutes before the Jetta turns into a pumpkin.”
In the adjoining room, he took the wing chair, and she sat at the corner of the couch. The room was small, and they both had their feet on the ottoman. “I’m pretty damn glad that the gods left my phone on,” he said. “But I’ve got a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, eleven thirty isn’t exactly everybody’s let’s-get-together hour.”
After a short hesitation, she said, “I wish I could explain it. You’ve got this aura of calm and I just felt like I needed to be around it.”
“That must be the other Alan Shaw.”
“No. It’s this one.”
His expression softening, he gave her a small nod. “That’s a nice thing to hear.” A beat. “So calm in your life is in short supply, is it?”
“It seems to be. Part of it is this case I’m working on, but that’s not it entirely, either. I don’t get it. There seems to be some connection with . . . getting shot.” She huffed out a sigh. “There,” she said. “Getting shot.”
“Almost getting killed, in fact.”
“I guess so. Yes. I think about if they’d, the bullets . . . I mean, a few inches either way . . . maybe it’s that. Some of it, anyway.”
“Maybe a lot of it.”
“Okay. Not arguing.” She went on. “And then Ginny. I keep wondering what would have happened to her. I still think, every day, if I wasn’t here . . .” She looked across the space between them. “God,” she said, “I so didn’t want to talk about this.”
“I think you do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please.” He waved that off. “You’re going along in life like everything’s fine and then, suddenly, with no warning, everything changes. The world goes upside down. You almost die. You’re in the hospital for weeks, you’re going through rehab, your daughter needs to take care of you, your job feels different. And then you don’t want to talk about it because you don’t want anybody to feel sorry for you, or cut you any slack, but there’s no place to put what you’re feeling and what you’re going through.”
Tears in the dim light left glistening streaks down her cheeks. “Yeah,” she said. “Roughly. That.”
“I don’t mean to be presumptuous.”
“Are you kidding? You got it exactly.”
His gaze settled on her face for a few seconds. Taking his feet off the ottoman, he stood up, walked back into the kitchen, and returned with a box of Kleenex, which he put down in front of her. “You’re allowed to feel whatever it is, Beth. As to what you’re doing now that you’ve survived that attack, not only are you back at your rather intense job, you’re raising an awesome daughter. If Laurie somehow comes out of this nightmare she’s been living in, and for the first time now I’m thinking she might, it’s all going to come back to Ginny, and that means you, too. Nothing would have started without you stepping in. Do you see that?”
“I suppose I do.” She took one of the tissues and dabbed at her eyes. “Then why do I feel so messed up?”
“Maybe because the world you’re living in now is so different than it was six months ago. I mean fundamentally. Priorities. Plans. Expectations. And really, with all that you’ve been through, how could it be the same? I think you’re just going to have to give things some time. Get used to the new order.”
“That’s not really been my strong suit.”
He shrugged and chuckled again. “Well, you might have to get over that one.”
She looked over at him. “And so, what about my case?” she asked.
“What about it?”
“Well, time is the enemy on investigations. It won’t help if I give myself some more time to figure it out. But beyond that . . .” She stopped.
“What? Tell me.”
“This is what makes so little sense to me. I’ve worked literally dozens, maybe a hundred homicide cases. They don’t usually get personal. And suddenly this one . . . it feels like it’s part of all this confusion that’s been eating me up, that we’ve been talking about here.”
“About you getting shot? And the aftermath?”
“I think so, yes. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Only that it’s more death, and you’re obviously immersed in it.”
“Which is true of all my cases.”
“And maybe just now they’re all catching up with you and you’re getting to some critical mass. I don’t know how this stuff works, Beth, but it would be more strange to me if you didn’t feel these cases even more strongly now. I mean, homicide almost happened to you. Of course it hits close to home. Of course it’s more personal.”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “We had a young woman, about Laurie’s age, one of our suspects, commit suicide on Saturday. It’s just so damn sad.”
“And now you feel it more than you used to.”
“All of life, it seems like.”
“That, you know, might not be all bad.” He paused. “So. You’re doing the Peter Ash case.”
Suddenly she snapped to full attention. “How do you know that?”
“It was his secretary—right?—who killed herself. It’s all over the news.”
“And you’re following it?”
“A little bit. As you say, the whole thing is pretty tragic. And not just the secretary. His family, too. Peter’s. Everything that happened with them. I didn’t know he was your case.”
She held a clenched fist over her chest. “You knew Peter Ash? Don’t tell me you knew Peter Ash.”
“Okay, I didn’t know Peter Ash.” She didn’t laugh at the sarcasm, so he added, “But in fact, I did.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Not really.” He sat on the ottoman in front of her and lowered his voice. “What’s the matter, Beth? I can tell this upsets you. What are you upset about?”
“I’m not. I’m surprised, is all.”
“No. You’re unhappy, too. You can’t kid a kidder.”
She let out a sigh. “How did you know him?”
“I did some work at their house a while ago. We went out for drinks a couple of times afterwards. He was a good guy.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I know. A sweetheart. That’s what everybody says.” Closing her eyes, leaning back into the couch, she shook her head in disbelief or denial. “This is just what we were talking about earlier. How this case is everywhere in my life. No wonder it’s freaking me out. And now with you . . .”
“Beth.” He reached out and took her hands in his. “Listen. I have nothing to do with this case. I worked on the guy’s house a year ago and haven’t really thought of him since, until he got himself killed. He’s no part of me, I promise you.”
“I know. All right, I know. But it’s just . . .” Extricating her hands, she brought them both up to her face. “I really shouldn’t talk to you about this, Alan. When did you first know he was my case?”
“Never. I mean, never before just now, when you told me about the secretary. Could I please have your hands again?”
She met his eyes, let her hands fall onto her lap, did not resist when he took them. “This has nothing to do with you and me,” he said. “This is a coincidence, plain and simple. Crappy timing, evidently, and a coincidence.”
Letting out a breath, she said, “Do you have any idea how much we’re trained not to believe in coincidences?”
“No, not really. I’m guessing the answer is ‘a lot.’ ”
“Somewhat more than that. Remind me to tell you someday.”
“I will. And I hope that means we’re still likely to have a someday? Not to be pushy, but you and me?”
She tried to break a smile, but it didn’t quite take. “I’m sorry. You’re not being pushy. I’m being difficult, and I hate that. The last thing I want is to complicate things with us.”
“This doesn’t have to do that.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to,” she said, “but here it is.”
“So what do you want to do?”
She still sat on the front few inches of the couch, her hands in his on his lap. “I want this case to be over. I don’t want anybody else to die. I want Ginny to be safe and Laurie to start eating. I want you and me to see each other again. I really do, but I don’t know how to make that happen. Most of all, I want to be not so fucked up.”
“You’re not fucked up, Beth. You’ve been shot. Twice. Things are in flux and maybe not so easy to understand. And then in the middle of talking about how you’re feeling and why all this stuff is freaking you out, you find out I knew Peter Ash. If this case was messing with your head before, that’s not going to make it any better, is it? I get it.”
Hands entwined, they sat facing each other in the low-watt, amber-tinted light. Alan brought her hands to his mouth and kissed them.
“I should probably get going,” she said.
“Did I just drive you off?” he asked. “That kiss?”
“No. The opposite, in fact. It makes me want to stay, which is why I’d better get going.”
He inclined his head. “All right.”
“Before anything happens,” she said, “I’ve got to get some of this resolved.”
“Didn’t I already say I got it? I get it.”
“It was still fantastic pizza.”
“Good. I can make it anytime you want.”
This time, it was she who brought their hands up together and planted a kiss on the back of his hand. Then she let go of them, pushed up off the couch, and got to her feet. “Despite all indications to the contrary,” she said, “I hope you know that I’m really not crazy.”
“I never thought you were.”
“Just a little confused.”
“Join the club.”
She met his eyes. “Would it be too forward to ask you not to give up on me?”
“No. At this stage, nothing you could do would be too forward.”
She flashed him a smile of regret. “Don’t tempt me.” She took her leather jacket off the back of the chair where she’d draped it and shrugged into it. “I’ll see you when I do?”
“It’s a date,” he said. “Drive safe.”