CHAPTER TWELVE

 

Back in the parking lot, I yanked at Irene's sleeve. "Did you see his shoes?"

"Those muddy Bruno Magli knock-offs? So what?"

"Exactly!" I speared the air with my finger. "Muddy! There was mud all over them!"

"Probably from playing in cemeteries," Irene said. "Notice we never see any employees around? I bet this mortuary is a one-man operation. Creepy could be the mortician, the gravedigger, and the guy who knocked off the victims to begin with."

I tugged on her to keep her moving. "It's not a one-man operation. Vincent is part of it."

"Vincent." She snorted. "I'm guessing he's not a hands-on kind of guy."

I wouldn't be, either, if I had minions like his friend at the deli. We got into the car.

"The mud on Dominic's shoes is from Lampley Park."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Are you sure? I mean, it rained last night. There's mud all over."

I bit my lip. "True. I'd have to have the silt to clay rations of each analyzed to be certain. But I'm telling you it looks exactly the same. The same pale color, the same viscosity. Trust me. I got up close and personal with that mud last night."

"So you think Dominic Gordon is the one who attacked you?"

"I admit, he looks more like the blood-sucking type," I said. "But yes, the thought occurred to me."

"Well, he does have a temper," she said, thoughtful. "It's hidden beneath a few layers of pasty skin and moth-riddled suits, but we just saw that it's there. You just never know about the creepy undertaker types, do you."

"Be serious," I told her. "I think he was there." I pulled out of the parking lot, enjoying the smooth acceleration of Watson's car. Before we'd reached the traffic light, the ominous black cloud overhead slid away, revealing an afternoon awash in pastel watercolors. If I'd believed in omens, the timing would have freaked me out a little.

"Seems like a lot of people were there," Irene pointed out. "Watson, Wiggins, Tara." She paused. "You really sure Tara didn't hit you?"

I shook my head. "No, I don't think so."

"Why? Because she's a woman? This is the twenty-first century, Marty. Anyone can be a criminal these days."

I couldn't argue with that, since we seemed to be meeting a lot of them. "Granted, she won't win any personality contests," I said, "but I don't know if I see her whacking me over the head. That feels like more of a brute-force move."

"Okay," Irene said, "so, let's say it was Dominic who hit you. Why?"

"Maybe he didn't want me questioning Tara about Lucky's."

"So, you think Dominic Gordon hid Rebecca's body to conceal evidence of the Fluffy Bunny his brother peddles along with the coleslaw and dill pickles?"

I bit my lip. "Except there was no trace of drugs in Rebecca's system," I reminded her. "And she died from a fall, not an overdose."

Irene and I both fell silent, neither of us having a good theory to take that tidbit into account.

"What about Bryan Steele doing the walk of shame from Tara's place this morning?" Irene finally said, breaking the silence.

"What about it?" I asked.

"You know it's entirely possible we have two sets of bad guys here. Maybe Rebecca found out Bryan was cheating on her, they had an argument that got physical, and he pushed her into the counter."

"And the other set?"

"Recognizing Rebecca when she comes to the mortuary, and thinking someone might look for traces of Fluffy Bunny, the Gordon brothers dispose of the body."

I nodded. "It's possible."

"Let's face it—no one is getting a gold star for honesty in this case," Irene reasoned.

Case might be stretching it, but she had a point.

"Maybe we should talk to Steele again," I reluctantly suggested. Not that I wanted to talk to Steele. Steele scared me almost as much as the idea of Vincent and Dominic Gordon and their well-oiled body disposing setup.

"I don't have any meetings for another hour," Irene agreed.

"But maybe we should check the trunk for a tire iron first," I said as I headed for Bryan Steele's place. "Steele's a big man with a gun."

"Don't worry. We have the truth on our side."

"No offense," I said, "but I'd rather have the gun."

 

*   *   *

 

I hadn't expected Bryan Steele to open the door to us, let alone invite us inside. A half hour later, he surprised me on both counts. Once inside, I half expected to find dorm room furniture or a bare mattress on the floor, but he had oddly good taste. The place was tidy, done in soft grays and blues. Four matching chrome and leather chairs were pushed against the wall, bringing to mind a small-scale poetry reading waiting to happen, with two plush leather recliners arranged in homage to a giant curved screen television accessorized with every electronic component known to man. And to Irene. She practically drooled as she took it all in.

Steele separated one of the bare bones chairs from the herd and sat facing us, his ankle crossed over his knee, his hands resting casually on his shin. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt, and he was barefoot. His buzz cut was damp. Once you got past the severe haircut and the square-jawed, suspicious-eyed face beneath it, he wasn't exactly bad looking. I could sort of get what women like Rebecca and Tara might see in him, especially if they were into men with testosterone overload. Looking at him, I tried to envision him in a fury shoving Rebecca into the granite countertop. It wasn't all that hard.

"You two have got to stop coming over here," he said. "My neighbors are going to think there's something kinky going on."

"Really?" Irene asked, tearing her gaze away from his home theater. "And what would Tara Tarnowski think?"

I'd hoped that he would register surprise like an ordinary human being. But he had the no-reaction cop face down pat.

"Don't try denying it," I added, although he hadn't. "You were seen leaving her place early this morning."

"Oh, golly gee, was I?" He had sarcasm down pat. "Well, isn't that embarrassing." He cocked his head, appraising me. "You should've said something when you saw me. It might have gotten interesting."

Just as I'd thought, he'd been eavesdropping on my conversation with Tara. My already shallow opinion of him drained a little bit more. "I might have," I shot back, "if you hadn't been hiding in another room."

"Look." He pushed up his sleeves, the better to intimidate us with his Popeye forearms. "It's not like either one of us is married. No animals were harmed. No laws were broken."

"Did Rebecca know you were cheating on her?" Irene asked.

"What is it with you two?" This time he couldn't hold a neutral face. He couldn't hold a neutral anything. It was like he suddenly deflated, all the rebellion gone. "I cheated on her?" He snorted. "That's rich."

I frowned at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you got it way wrong." He lowered his head, preoccupied with the cuff of his jeans, quiet for a moment before he cleared his throat and spoke in a more subdued voice. "Rebecca was seeing someone behind my back, alright? She cheated on me first."

Despite his obvious discomfort, that seemed convenient to me. "How do you know that?" I asked.

He looked up. "I'm a cop, remember?"

I just stared at him. In the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator fell silent, as if eavesdropping. Beside me, Irene remained motionless, waiting.

"I know it, alright?" He sighed. "I thought we had a good thing going. An exclusive thing, you know? Finding out I wasn't enough for her wasn't great for my ego. I've got my pride. I'm like any other guy."

Any other guy with a badge, a gun, and a temper.

"Did you confront Rebecca?" Irene asked.

"Worse."

Irene and I exchanged a glance. What could be worse? Murder? Was he about to confess to murdering Rebecca?

Steele was back to picking at his cuff, his face expressionless, which made him impossible to read. He might as well be working from a script he'd prepared ahead of time in case he'd be facing questions. "I'll admit it wasn't the mature thing to do," he said, "but I kind of lost it when I found out. I wanted to hurt her the way she had hurt me…" He hesitated, regrouping. "Rebecca had complained to me plenty about Tara, so hooking up with her seemed like the best revenge."

"Yeah, that's much better than talking it out with Rebecca," Irene said.

His eyes lifted slowly to bore into hers. "Guys don't talk it out. We take action."

I was still chewing on the casual wanted to hurt her remark. "So you knew Tara and Rebecca couldn't stand each other," I said. "You were deliberately trying to upset her."

"That's the point of revenge, Sister Theresa," he snapped. "It's supposed to be hurtful."

But had it gone beyond hurtful to homicidal?

"If Tara was just for revenge, why are you still seeing her?" Irene asked. "Now that Rebecca's dead, I mean."

He shrugged. "Turns out Tara's not so bad, actually. I kinda like her."

Having seen Tara's generous cup size, I could guess what it was he liked.

"Who did Rebecca cheat on you with?" I asked. While I still wasn't sure I 100 percent believed him, it felt like another party was suddenly thrown in the mix. If Rebecca had been seeing someone on the sly, maybe that someone didn't want anyone to find out and killed her.

He scowled at me as if he'd caught me doing a hundred in a school zone. "Don't know, and it doesn't much matter. When I found a pair of boxers at her place, she couldn't very well deny it."

Okay, that bordered uncomfortably on TMI.

"You said you slept with Tara out of revenge…I'm guessing that means you didn't hide it from Rebecca."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "That would kinda defeat the purpose, wouldn't it."

"Is that what you were arguing about with Rebecca at the theater the week before she died?" I asked.

Bryan turned his gaze on me. At first I thought he'd deny it, but finally he nodded. "She was pretty pissed." Instead of looking pleased, he looked almost sad.

"Well, what did you expect?" Irene asked

"Sue me," he said, turning on her. "I've got feelings too. Haven't you ever had someone cheat on you?"

Irene shook her head. "No. But if he did, I'd break up with him. I wouldn't play juvenile games with him."

His smirk was taunting. "What's it feel like to be so perfect?"

"One last question," I cut in before Irene could answer that. I could feel her hackles going up. "Where were you when Rebecca died?"

"As if it's any of your business, but I was with Tara."

Convenient. Our two best suspects just happened to be each other's alibis.

 

*   *   *

 

I dropped Irene off in the Mission for a VC meeting to back a restaurant that served only gluten-free, fat-free, casein-free, cruelty-free, sustainably farmed, organic raw food. Then I made my way to Stanford for a shift of serving caffeine-laden, fatty, buttery, chocolaty, creamy coffees and pastries at the coffee bar. The afternoon crowd was relentless, being close to midterms, which gave me little time to think about the case. I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, as my mind ran circles around the sparse facts we knew so far. The truth was, Rebecca hadn't seemed particularly loved by the people in her life. And any one of them could have had a potential reason to want her dead.

"Hey, Marty," Pam said, coming up behind me as I knelt behind the counter, restocking the bakery case during a much-needed lull mid-shift. "Guess what? I'm in love."

I took the tray of muffins she handed over. "Mr. Leather?"

Her nose wrinkled. "No. I'm totally over him. Turns out he's too old for me. He's almost thirty."

"Wow. Ancient," I mumbled, calculating the precious months I had left before I became "too old."

"Anyway, he came in yesterday, and I think he was flirting with me."

"Really? Can you pass me the doughnuts?" I asked. "What's his name?"

She paused. "You know, I forgot to ask." She slid the tray into the case herself, her fingers flying like hummingbird wings as she arranged the pastries.

"He a student here?"

She shrugged.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Do you know anything about him?"

She bit her lip. "I guess I did most of the talking. He was a great listener. He wanted to know all about the bookstore, the coffee bar, you, Alberta…"

"Wait—me?" I stood, my internal radar pricking up.

She nodded. "Like I said, he was a great listener."

"What did you tell him?"

She gave me a blank look. "I dunno. Just stuff."

"You told a stranger 'stuff' about me?" I loved Pam, but too trusting was like her motto in life.

"Don't worry. He was, like, totally a nice guy."

"What did this nice guy look like?"

Pam's face broke into a grin, and she pulled out her phone. "I took a selfie of us."

I took one look at the screen and thought a really dirty word. I'd know that self-confidant grin, taunting me from next to the image of Pam leaning over the pastry case, anywhere. Wiggins.

"That is not a nice guy, Pam," I told her.

"You know him?" She blinked at me.

"I know he's bad news."

She looked at the photo. "Come on. He's so cute. How could he be bad news?"

I thought about telling her, but knowing Pam, it was best to just let this crush play out. Chances were by nightfall she'd be in love with another guy anyway.

"Just do me a favor. If he comes back, don't talk about me." I paused. "And don't tell him where I live!"

She grinned and rolled her eyes. "Give me some credit, Marty."

I tried on a daily basis, but it usually boomeranged back.

While she took over refilling the napkins and swizzle sticks, I took the moment of quiet to check my phone. Five more texts from Watson had silently come in since I'd shut off the ringer. Two telling me to stay away from Dominic. Two had come in while we were at Bryan Steele's place, asking what was in the Richmond District. And one asking me if I was ignoring him. The boy caught on fast.

As much as I liked having wheels—and precision performance ones at that—it was time to ditch the GPS babysitter.

I sent off a text to Watson. Car is at Stanford.

A minute later his response came in. I know.

Duh. GPS monitor. I can drive it to you after work.

It took a couple of minutes for the response to pop in this time. Don't bother. I'm already here.

Here? As in, here here?

That question was answered as I looked down to find Watson on the ground floor of the bookstore, making his way up to the coffee bar. And, from the looks of the tension in his shoulders and set of his jaw, he wasn't happy.

I did a little one-finger wave in his direction as he approached.

"Hey," I said.

"Why have you been ignoring me?"

Wow, cutting right to the chase, huh?

"I haven't been ignoring you. I've been…busy."

He glanced around at the empty coffee bar and raised an eyebrow my way.

"Well, I was busy. You know, investigating stuff. And then here. When there were customers here. But there are not now, clearly. Which is why I got back to you." I held up my phone, as if the text thread proved my point.

Watson sighed, running a hand over his jaw. Unshaven, I noticed. As if he'd been up too late last night thinking about a certain blonde who kept getting herself into trouble and making him hot under the collar. Or maybe I was reading too much into it.

"What were you doing at Dominic Gordon's mortuary again today?" he asked.

I bit my lip. "Investigating."

"I thought we agreed to leave that up to Sherlock Holmes."

"We didn't agree on anything. You asked me to leave it to Sherlock. I said I'd talk to him."

"Did you?"

"Yes?" Only it sounded more like a question.

He shot me a hard look. "Did you at least call Lestrade to report the attack?"

"Sort of?"

"How do you sort of call someone?"

"Fine." I threw my hands up. "No, I did not call Lestrade, and, no, I did not talk to Sherlock Holmes," I said, spitting the hated name out a little harder than I'd meant to. "And you want to know why?"

Watson crossed his arms over his chest. "Why?"

"Because I'm not some damsel in distress. I am a private investigator. And I know what I'm doing." Big words from someone who (a) was not an investigator and (b) had no idea what she was doing. But I stood my feminist ground anyway, matching his crossed arms with a mirrored posture of my own.

"Marty, you're being ridiculous."

"Really? My job is ridiculous?"

Watson shook his head. "No, I'm not making any comments about your job or your abilities. And," he added as I opened my mouth to protest, "before you get the wrong idea, I'd be giving the same speech to you if you were a man."

I snorted. "I doubt that."

Watson frowned. "Okay, fine, I probably wouldn't be quite as personally invested in your well-being if that were true."

I paused. Was that a roundabout way of saying he liked me?

"But, I'm just asking you to be careful," he added. "Take proper precautions. Don't go running around town accusing people of crimes that may or may not even exist."

I bit my lip again. He had a good point. We were running down a supposed killer for a death that very well might have been an accident after all.

"Fine," I conceded. "I'll be careful."

"Thank you," he said, his voice softer. More tender. He took a step toward me, and suddenly all I could focus on were his pouty lips inching toward mine

"Hey, Marty!"

Watson took a step back, suddenly creating a void between us. I reluctantly swiveled to find Pam hailing me from behind the counter, where a line had formed.

I turned an apologetic gaze back to Watson. "I have to go."

He nodded. "Duty calls" was his rueful reply.

"Thanks." I paused. "But take your car back. I'll be fine."

The look on his face said he didn't 100 percent believe that. Truth be told? Neither did I. But I wasn't about to confess that to him.