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After Polly and Noel left, Maren couldn’t stop from turning over in her mind ways she might make progress on Sean’s case. Even in the unlikely event that the Ecobabe interns were able to find something useful in Simone Booth’s tapes that linked Marjorie Hopkins’s murder to Tamara’s, that would take time. But there was Sean’s jacket that he’d left behind in her studio the night of Tamara’s murder. She retrieved it and emptied the pockets onto the round pine table in front of her fireplace.
The receipt from the Department of Motor Vehicles appeared to be a printed record of an online transaction. It was torn at the bottom. Sean seemed only to have been interested in keeping the part that had his name and a confirmation number. She set that aside. She dismissed the loose change and the taco receipt as unimportant. That left the pills. She dumped them out of the small travel case. There were four flat orange tablets with tiny printing on them. She could just make out the writing.
Wellbutrin 75.
Maren powered up her laptop and looked it up. “A typical antidepressant, without the side effect of suppressing sexual performance common in many antidepressants.”
She closed the computer and sat back in her chair. She’d known many people who took mood stabilizers of one kind or another—antianxiety, antidepressant, or both. So it wasn’t surprising to find that Sean had them in his possession. Except for the fact that until Tamara’s death, his baseline affect had always struck her as cheerful, even when he’d lived in the studio and she’d seen him almost daily. She wondered if he might carry a “take in case of emergency” supply of antidepressants, although she thought she remembered hearing that for most people it took a while for the treatment to have an effect.
While mulling over the pills and what they might mean, something else occurred to Maren.
She reopened her laptop and found the California Department of Motor Vehicles site. She tried a few links and located one where, by entering Sean’s name and the confirmation number from the receipt, she could view the full transaction.
An order for a replacement driver’s license.
Maren smiled.
That would explain Sean keeping his passport on him. He would have needed it as identification until his new license came.
Despite the hour, she couldn’t stick with her earlier resolution to wait for the next business day. She left a message for Lana with her findings, and asked that the attorney call her in the morning.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY MAREN was in her office, too distracted to get anything accomplished, when the call she’d been waiting for finally came in at 11:00 a.m.
“I spoke with JPS,” Lana said. “They did the usual intake on Sean. He didn’t say anything about depression or being on medication. I’ve requested that they do a more thorough mental health assessment of him.”
Maren knew from her internship at the public defender’s office in San Francisco that JPS stood for Jail Psychiatric Services, which was chronically understaffed.
“When will that be?” Maren asked. “If Sean is depressed with no support, going through this —
“I’ve requested it urgently,” Lana said. “But given the caseload in the jail for mental health, including inmates’ immediate crises like psychotic breaks, that could mean weeks. I’ll keep checking.”
Maren heard Lana speak to someone in the background, then return to the call.
“The Department of Motor Vehicles record is helpful. I spoke with Sean and he says he told the police he had his passport with him because his driver’s license was lost. That statement is not in the records that I received.” Lana hesitated. “Even so, the fact that he only applied for the replacement license online that night—after the time of the murder—could be problematic. There is the possibility that Sean intentionally dumped his license so if he was caught later with a passport on his person it would make some sense, other than as preparation to flee—”
“Do the police really think Sean would have been that calculating?”
“Maren, the police think Sean is a murderer,” Lana said. “So, yes, I do believe they think he’s that calculating.”
Maren could barely manage a civil good-bye to Lana as she hung up. She felt resentment and anger welling up inside her, like bad heartburn, only worse. Each discovery she made that she thought would help to clear Sean seemed to her to be twisted by the police and the DA to prove his guilt. Picking up a loose paper, she crumpled it into a hard ball, and then spying the waste can in the far corner, hurled the ball toward it, missing by a long shot. She crumpled another paper, throwing it in the same general direction and hitting the bookshelf. Her third shot narrowly missed the photo of Noel on her desk. She made five more tries in mad succession. Since she was taking no time to aim, it was not surprising that none went in.
“Maren? Shall I come back?”
Clay Zimbardo spoke softly as he pushed her office door open a few inches. She realized she must have left it ajar.
At twenty-six, Clay had been at Ecobabe only six months, a financial whiz kid with a degree in design thinking from Stanford—a relatively new field geared toward infusing innovation into a company’s daily culture. Ecobabe had hired Clay to take the organization’s sales to the next level using the most modern strategies. Maren had been given responsibility for mentoring him and vetting his ideas before they went to the company CEO.
“No, it’s fine,” Maren said, adjusting her belt, which had slipped a notch during her poor imitation of San Francisco Giants ace pitcher Madison Bumgarner. “I was just thinking.”
Clay nodded. Of average height with washed-out brown hair and pale brown eyes, he always seemed to Maren on the verge of fading away. She suspected that was one of the reasons he was so good at getting others to speak up with their ideas. Completely non-threatening, Clay seemed to take up little of the world’s space, leaving room for his colleagues to feel empowered.
His gaze took in the graveyard of paper balls around her office. He cleared his throat. “I believe we’ve come to a good place in the iterative process with our sales field representatives. The rapid prototyping we undertook permitted them to consider new prospects. They’d like to expand beyond our primary network of independent toy and game stores to add product placement in big-box stores and major retailers.” Clay smiled tentatively. “Utilizing only those outlets with ethical hiring practices and green, sustainable energy policies, of course.”
Maren took a deep breath and the burning sensation in her chest left her. “I’ve got a meeting with Evie in a few minutes. Email me your recommendation on sales expansion and we can talk about it tomorrow.”
She asked Clay to close the door behind him as he left. She cleaned up the mess she had made.
An hour later, Maren and Evie were more than halfway through putting together the quarterly lobbying report to file with the state. Evie rose and went to the lone filing cabinet next to her desk to retrieve the needed numbers. Nearly everything in the Ecobabe office was paperless, stored on computers, but they still kept important financial and legal documents in hard copy.
Evie’s office wear, a bright-yellow sweater dress, was not typical for a woman of her ample proportions. But paired with shiny black boots and tasteful makeup it produced a result many females would have been happy to emulate, and at least as many males pleased to embrace. Maren was in the chic black-and-white outfit she’d worn to dinner at Simone’s daughter’s home.
Evie noticed her boss’s departure from her usual style. “You look nice—meeting downtown?”
“Thanks.” Maren glanced at the time. “I’ll be late if I don’t get going.” Lunch with my ex isn’t exactly a meeting, Maren thought, but close enough. Just then, the door to the office suite opened and Liza Booth-Henry entered, Zane and Zoey trailing behind. Zane had a firm grip on his sister’s hand.
“I hope this time is okay,” Liza said, taking in the table covered in work. “I’m sorry to bring the kids with me.”
There’s the first apology. Maren thought she might be onto a successful drinking game for young professionals—take a shot of liquor each time someone with kids says they’re sorry to the world at large for their off-spring’s existence.
“It’s no problem,” Maren said, standing to welcome Liza, demonstrating through her action that the work on the table wasn’t urgent.
“It’s just that I couldn’t manage Zane and Zoey and the boxes at the same time . . .”
The tapes, Maren realized. Evie must have called her after my text last night, and now Liza’s here to drop off Simone’s tapes and files. “Come, I’ll help you bring them up. The kids will be fine with Evie.”
Evie retrieved a large box of colored pencils from her desk and was in the process of clearing papers for coloring space when Zoey, on tiptoe, managed to knock the box over.
“Are you sure?” Liza asked, moving to pick up the scattered pencils.
“Go on,” Evie urged, a smile on her face. She lifted Zoey onto her broad lap and pulled a chair closer so Zane could sit next to them. “I have three little brothers.”
* * *
“THE ELEVATORS IN THESE older buildings in Midtown seem to have only one speed—slow,” Maren commented as she and Liza exited the suite and headed down the hall. The single elevator in the Ecobabe building took the same time in transit as walking the three floors, but was more conveniently located than the back stairs.
Liza appeared paler and thinner than when they’d last met.
Maren was sure the young woman’s grieving over the loss of her mother must be starting in earnest, replacing the initial shock.
It would be different, of course, than when Maren’s own mother passed when Maren was fifteen, but Liza and Simone appeared to have been close, and the deep nature of the pain would be the same.
The bronze-colored door of the small elevator slid open with an unsettling creak, and the two women got in.
“How are you?” Maren asked.
“I’m okay. Work is a distraction. Although it’s harder to coordinate my jewelry shows now. Mother took care of the kids when I had business to attend to. I need to find new child-care, but Zane and Zoey miss their grandma. Especially Zane. I don’t know if they’re ready for someone else to watch them.” Liza’s deep-brown eyes matched her young son’s, except that hers were so very tired.
Maren nodded. “If something urgent comes up, Evie works a flexible schedule. She can usually get away, or you could bring the kids here.”
Liza laughed. It was unexpected, a sparkling, light sound. “In your office? Zoey would have it looking like Katrina hit. I call her my personal hurricane.”
“Two-year-olds do have a special way with the world,” Maren agreed, smiling. “But we’re toy makers, one step removed from Santa’s elves.” The elevator door opened on the first floor and she followed Liza out into the small foyer. “We’ve had interns bring their kids to the office. It reminds us of why we do what we do. You can get Evie’s number before you leave today.” The two women exited the building into the bright sunshine, the cold spring days finally warming up. “You mentioned moving. How’s that going?”
Liza reached into a pocket of her coat and pulled out the key to a maroon Subaru Forester parked in a loading zone in front of the building. “We’re figuring out where to put everything. Mother wasn’t a hoarder, but she collected furnishings, pottery, and art over a long life. John and I don’t have much, but the kids sure do.”
Liza lifted the hatchback as she spoke, revealing two clear plastic bins filled to the brim with cassette tapes and a third that contained brightly colored file folders.
“Let’s take two now,” Maren said. “I’ll ask an intern to come down and get the last one.”
“John loaded these up before he left for school. I didn’t realize how many there were.” They each hoisted a bin. As they did, Maren saw Liza’s gaze go to the multitude of colorful toys on the vehicle’s backseat, wedged in around the two car seats. “Sometimes I wonder how Zoey would have fared in the days of the pioneers when her only possessions would have been a corn husk doll and a chalk tablet for learning the alphabet.”
Maren thought the real question was not how Zoey would have managed, but how Liza would have survived without an armory of distractions for her busy daughter.
Maren looked at the bins, assessing the size, realizing there must be hundreds of tapes in there. “Do you know whether your mother left an index of any kind?” Maren asked.
Liza’s brow wrinkled slightly as she shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“To the tapes. Having reviewed some of your mom’s work, there are a few interviews I’m particularly interested in.” Maren didn’t see any reason to upset Liza by going into detail about the interview related to the researcher’s murder.
“I’m not sure. Mother wasn’t much for electronics. She seemed to use her old computer as a typewriter. John printed out what she saved on it—that’s the box still in the car. You could check in there.”
The tapes weren’t heavy, but the bins were awkward to hold. Their conversation ceased as they got them inside. Both women set them down as they waited for the elevator. When it arrived, it remained motionless on the ground floor even after the doors closed behind them, and Maren had pushed the third-floor button.
“Is this thing okay?” Liza asked, eyeing the elevator’s control panel.
“Yes, it’s fine. I think it’s girding itself for the return journey.” Maren hit the third-floor button again, hoping they weren’t actually stuck. “Do you have a firm move-out date?”
“We gave notice on our flat. We have to be out by April fifteenth,” Liza said. “We’ll have professional movers, so that’s set. But I’ve had trouble getting an alarm service scheduled for installation. Mother’s place is in a transitional neighborhood. Not bad, really, but not what we’re used to. Our current flat is on the second floor. I like that. Mother’s house is one story, everything street level.”
A lumbering sound and a slight jerk signaled the elevator’s intention to take them to the third floor.
“Where is it?” Maren asked.
Liza provided the address.
“It’s nice there,” Maren said. ‘It might look a little rough around the edges in spots, but there are lots of families in the homes and young professionals in the apartments. You’ll be fine.”
“I guess,” Liza said, leaning against the back wall to steady herself as the elevator shuddered. Evidently, going up was more difficult for the ancient conveyance than going down. “Since the murder of that young woman in the capitol building, I haven’t felt safe. Thank goodness they caught the guy so fast. Still, it’s a reminder there are crazy, violent people out there.”
Maren felt cold. So this is what’s being said about Sean now. She didn’t want to upset Liza, who was grieving, and it had been a casual comment. But she couldn’t let it go entirely. As they stepped out on the third floor, Maren gripped the handles of the bin she held tightly and concentrated on keeping her voice even. “The person in custody in that case, Sean Verston. I know him.”
Liza’s face blanched. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s okay,” Maren said.
Liza reddened. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“It’s complicated. I recognize the police wouldn’t have arrested Sean without what they believe are good reasons. But an arrest doesn’t mean he’s guilty. it doesn’t always mean a conviction.”
Liza nodded, while Maren silently prayed that in Sean’s case it wouldn’t.