Cale got out of the cab at 1260 Euclid, walked up the brick stairs, and quickly searched the wall for Monica’s address. He knocked on the door and peered in the bay window through the kitchen. He thought he saw a shadow moving towards the door, so he took a step back to the entrance and waited for someone to open the door. No one came.
“Ms. Stell?” Cale said loudly. He knocked again and tilted his head to the door to hear more clearly. “Ms. Stell, I’m Detective Dixon from San Francisco. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He waited. Cale moved back to the window and put his hand up to shield reflections. He looked through the kitchen and into the living area. Frames of photographs were on the floor in front of the fireplace. Sofa pillows lay about the room. A chest of drawers was open at the far end of the room with files scattered about it. French doors were wide open into a courtyard out the back to the other side of the building. Cale backed up and looked for a gate or a passageway to the courtyard. A wrought-iron gate led Cale to the back of the building. He walked onto Monica’s porch and to the open French doors. “Ms. Stell? I’m Detective Dixon. I just want to ask you some questions about your cousin, Rayman. I think he’s in trouble, and he could use your help. You would be helping him if you spoke with me for a few minutes.”
There was no response.
“I’m coming in. Please don’t be frightened.” Cale walked in and surveyed the scene. The room had been turned upside down and searched. There were two glasses of water on the table near a ripped-up sofa. Cale walked over to the table and looked in one of the glasses. There was a very small cluster of bubbles floating freely on the surface and a water ring outside of the glass. Cale put the back of his hand against the glass and knowingly discovered it was still quite cold. He stepped carefully through the papers and empty picture frames on the floor to get to the telephone and message machine at the edge of the kitchen counter. He pulled a pencil out of a cup on the counter and pushed down on the corner of the message machine button, which was flashing. He put the pencil behind his ear as he listened to Monica introduce herself and leave message details.
“Monica Stell, this Victoria Short from San Francisco. I run the research department at a police precinct. We are investigating a murder at the Cho Estate Museum, and my partner was recently getting some help from your cousin, Rayman Stell. Apparently his house burned down last night, and we are trying to find him. If you could call me back as soon as possible, we would appreciate it. Our phone number is 415-788-7001. Please call; it’s very important. Thank you.”
The message machine flashed a number two and a second message began:
“Hey, Monica, it’s Rayman. I’ve got bad news. We can’t go back to the ranch house anymore. Somebody burned it down last night and died in the fire while looking for the floor safe. It was those people I told you about. I’m coming to see you. Be careful and stay home.”
Cale saw a staircase near the front door, traversed the kitchen towards the entryway, and walked up the cream–colored, carpeted steps quietly. On the landing there were three open doors. Monica’s bedroom overlooked the courtyard. The sheets and blankets were piled up in the middle of her bed. There was a path of clothing from the closet, out the door, and into the bathroom. Cale walked over to her desk and looked it over, searching for something about her or Rayman. Cale turned and looked in her closet and moved her remaining clothes around to see if there was anything in the corners. There was a box on the floor with a photo of two men in military fatigues, John and Robert Stell. They were sitting on the hood of a military jeep in front of the Presidential “Blue” House in Seoul, South Korea.
Cale grabbed the pencil from behind his ear and bent down. With the eraser end he lightly lifted a cover of a folder by its edge. There were more photos of the Stell family. Cale poked around, shuffling pictures, and found a photo of a baby being held by her Korean mother and John Stell, standing behind her with an arm over his wife’s shoulder. Both adults were smiling. There was another photo of Rayman’s family, when Rayman was young, and a photo of both families together at the ranch in Driggs. There were some news articles of the disappearance of Robert Stell, articles on the disappearance of John Stell, and articles and a hospital report on Rayman’s mothers’ poisoning. A framed photo, the same photo Rayman had on his desk mantle, was wedged down the side of the box. Cale tilted his head to look at it. He dug deeper and found a photo of Monica Stell with friends at a rock concert picnic. He pulled out the photo and stood up.
A searing pain grated against Cale’s ribs and entered his right lung. His muscles contracted; he couldn’t breathe. He fell forward to his knees. The jolt of the landing stung and intensified the pain. He winced, holding as much breath as he could. Someone put his hand on Cale’s shoulder and pulled the knife out of his back while pushing him forward with his hand and a foot. Again Cale felt the burning of the blade sliding between his ribs on its way out. Time moved in slow motion as Cale’s body went limp and fell face first against the wall before him. His neck and back arched unnaturally. His draped arms pinned themselves under his pelvis. All went black.