Conklin and I jogged down the fire stairs and through the lobby to the main exit on Bryant.
He briefed me as we checked out a squad car.
“The victims are Paul and Ramona Baron.”
“The record producer?”
“That’s the one.”
I pictured Baron. Dark haired. Midforties. Small guy with a Vegas personality. The picture in my mind was of him recently celebrating a movie deal with a big crowd at the club Monroe.
Rich was telling me, “Their housekeeper, Gretchen Linder, found their bodies when she came to work about a half hour ago. The wife was still breathing, then she died while Linder was calling it in. She’s at the scene now.”
Conklin got behind the wheel, and while I buckled up and flipped on the sirens, he floored it, the car shooting away from the curb. I held on to the armrest as we sped southwest toward Saint Francis Wood, an affluent old-money enclave, one of those neighborhoods where nothing much ever happened—until it did.
Apart from a few expletives when jackass drivers failed to give way, Conklin and I didn’t speak again until we arrived at the murder house.
Three patrol cars were in front of a beautiful old home, about four thousand square feet taking up a double-corner lot. The lawn was mown, shrubbery shorn. The property was as tidy as a freshly made bed.
We parked between the CSI van and an ambulance, got out of the car.
I spent a moment taking in the big picture: the multimillion-dollar old homes as far as I could see, ancient trees lining the street. There were two cars parked in the Barons’ driveway, a late-model Mercedes and an Audi, both gleaming. A well-used Honda was parked at the curb along with the three black-and-whites, CSI’s van, and an ambulance. Incongruent crackles and screeching of car radios, dogs barking, horns honking, underscored that shit had happened.
CSIs waited at their vehicle for a go-ahead. Uniforms taped off the walkway to the house and set up a secondary perimeter, kept traffic moving. The front door of the house at 181 San Anselmo Avenue opened, and Charles Clapper, the CSI director, stepped out and waved us in.
Conklin and I started up the walk—but were stopped by high-pitched screams. Two young children, a girl of about four and a boy of maybe six, both in pajamas, tore out of the backyard and crossed the lawn toward the street. Conklin and I captured them, while a pretty woman in a pink, bloodstained tunic over jeans called out, “Christopher. DeeDee. Come to Gretchen right now.”
DeeDee had wrapped herself around my knees. I picked up the little girl and she hugged my neck, hard. Rich held on to her bawling bigger brother until their nanny, also crying, disentangled them and gathered them to her.
Conklin introduced the nanny, Gretchen Linder, who was distraught. Very.
“We’re not allowed—that man told us to sit outside and wait. This is—oh, my God. Their parents. These poor kids. I saw Ramona die. I saw…I’m in charge of them. I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Should I take them to my place?”
It was kind of her to want to take the children home. But that wouldn’t happen.
Richie said, “We need to take your statement. See that gray Ford next to the ambulance? What do you say I take you all to the police station? We’ll figure out what’s best for the kids, short term. And you can help us figure out what happened here.”
Linder nodded. She put her hands over her eyes and sobbed, then wiped her face with her sleeve.
With Richie right behind her, she shepherded the children to the squad car.