Author: M.L. Hamilton
Date: 2012-01-29 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Fiction; Thriller; Crime; Mystery Thriller; Suspense; Murder Mystery; Contemporary; Detective
Description: Peyton knows the first suspect is always the husband, but Jake Ryder isn’t acting like a typical suspect. Jake truly loved his wife. So what went wrong? Stepping into the circle of the social elite, Peyton finds that things work differently when you’re at the top. And Jake Ryder seems to be caught in the epicenter. Ultimately, Peyton finds that you never know what darkness lurks in the human mind and that some will murder to keep that darkness hidden. Peyton knows the first suspect is always the husband, but Jake Ryder isn't acting like a typical suspect. Jake truly loved his wife. So what wen
Publisher: Createspace

Murder on Potrero Hill

A Peyton Brooks’ Mystery

Volume 1

ML Hamilton

Cover Art by Karri Klawiter
www.artbykarri.com

Murder on Potrero Hill

© 2012 ML Hamilton, Sacramento, CA

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

First print

All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious.  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Thank you as always, Mom and Dad, for being part of my editing team and pushing me to get this one right.

And thank you to my three sons for the great sight-seeing trip and photo journey to the City for this book. Doing research has never been so much fun.

“So wise so young, they say do never live long.”

-- William Shakespeare, Richard III

CHAPTER 1

Jake settled the computer tablet on the counter and reached for the coffee pot, pouring the steaming, dark liquid into his mug. Carrying the pot into the living room, he looked down the hall.

“Do you want the rest of the coffee?” he shouted.

Waiting for a response, he swirled the liquid around the bottom of the pot. An oily sheen coated the inside of the glass carafe. He heard the flushing of the toilet, but no answer.

“Zoë, do you want the last bit of coffee?”

She usually did. If there was one thing Zoë loved, it was her morning cup of coffee…or three. And it couldn’t be the generic supermarket variety. Not Zoë. It had to be some exotic blend from some place halfway around the globe, shipped in fancy folded bags with fancy names in bold fonts.

Still no response.

He carried the pot back into the kitchen and placed it on the burner, then flipped off the switch. Lifting his own mug, he took a swallow, grimacing as the hot, bitter brew struck the back of his throat. He wasn’t the coffee aficionado that Zoë was. For him, it was just a morning ritual of pouring scalding hot fluids into his body, hoping it would stimulate his muscles enough to get him moving.

As he sipped at it, he picked up the tablet and read through the market report again. With interest rates this low, analysts were predicting a surge in people wanting to refinance their homes. In a housing market as brisk and stable as San Francisco, it meant he was bound to be busy today. That was good. It kept the numbing boredom at bay.

Settling the mug on the counter, he looked again at the last of the coffee in the pot. It wasn’t like Zoë to let coffee go to waste. He shoved the tablet into his briefcase and snapped it closed, then he walked back into the hallway again.

He couldn’t hear the shower running and that was unusual. Pausing in the entrance, he found Zoë sitting on the bed, her head braced with her hand. He frowned in concern.

“Zoë, you okay?”

She looked up at him. Her fair skin seemed a bit flushed and the blond hair around her temples was damp. “I’m fine. Did you call me?”

“Yeah, I wanted to know if you want the rest of the coffee.”

“Oh,” she said, then forced a smile. It was the strangest smile he’d ever seen on her, tense, lips pulled back against her teeth.

“You okay?” He took a step further into the room.

“Yeah,” she said, then braced her chin on her fist. “Just feeling a little queasy this morning. Maybe we should cut out the sushi for a while?”

“You sure you’re okay?” He took a seat on the bed beside her.

She edged over a little, but she didn’t make eye contact. “I’m fine, Jake. Like I said, I think dinner last night didn’t agree with me.”

He placed his hand in the center of her back. “You don’t have to work today, do you?”

“No, Mom and I are gonna go see Daddy in the home, then she wants to take me to lunch.”

“If you don’t feel up for it…”

She shrugged off his hand and rose to her feet, moving toward her dresser. “I told you I’m fine. Shouldn’t you be headed to work?”

He was a little hurt by her dismissal, but he choked it down. Talking about her father always put her on edge. He didn’t blame her. It would be hard for him to see anyone like that, comatose, unresponsive, and at such a young age. A massive stroke at 55 had taken Blake Harper from his family.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll go. The bus should be here in about ten minutes.”

He moved up behind her and kissed her on the top of her head. She looked up at him in the mirror over her dresser.

“I love you,” she said.

He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. “I love you too, Zoë. Feel better and enjoy lunch with your mother.” He released her and walked from the room.

*    *    *

Jake loved Potrero Hill in the morning. The fog rolled in from the bay and blanketed the houses with a misty sheen. The houses stood shoulder to shoulder, some shaped as boxes, their modern lines stark and sharp against the haze; others adorned with the pointed gables of the Victorian style, their ornate gingerbread shingles painted a rainbow array of colors. San Franciscans did not fear color and used it liberally to distinguish their homes from one another.

In a few hours, the sun would creep over the hills and bathe the streets in light, chasing back the claustrophobic gloom. Then the mist on the houses would dry and the air would be crisp and clean, carrying just the remotest hint of the sea with it.

As he walked to the bus stop on the corner, he smiled at the young mothers pushing their babies in strollers from the small grocery on the corner. A few other businessmen in their suits hurried past, weaving between the pedestrians in their single minded purpose to be the first on the Muni. An elderly Asian couple strolled by him, nodding as they passed. He saw them every day, same time, same spot. They never spoke, but it was enough to share the murky morning stroll with each other.

He reached the bus stop as the Muni pulled up to the curb. The heat of the exhaust fought against the fog for dominion and the doors hissed as the bus driver opened them. He waited behind a teenager with earbuds in place, bopping his head to unheard music. The boy scratched his ear over the fabric of his Giants’ ballcap, adjusting the bill before he bopped a nod to Jake and bounded up the stairs into the bus.

Jake stepped back to allow a pregnant woman room to pass, then climbed onto the bus himself and pressed his pass against the reader. The bus driver nodded at him and he moved down the narrow corridor to the first open seat he found. The girl near the window gave him a shy smile and looked down at the book on her lap. In front of her, the teen boy had taken a seat and draped an arm across the top, glancing over to see what she was doing. She made a production out of ignoring him.

Jake sank into the seat beside her with a smile. He figured they probably knew each other from school or something. Sitting this close to the boy, he could hear the pulsation of the bass from his earbuds. It didn’t bother him, but the older woman who took the seat next to the boy glared at him until he shifted face forward and reached into his pocket for the device, turning down the volume.

The doors hissed closed a moment later and the bus lurched forward. Jake steadied himself on the metal headrest before him and glanced at the girl’s book. Hamlet. Pretty sophisticated reading for this early in the morning. He settled the briefcase on the floor in front of him and looked out the window. He knew the other businessmen were talking on their phones or looking up stock quotes on their tablets, but he preferred these few quiet moments to himself without the frantic motions of the business world.

He studied the houses for a few minutes, staring at the gardens, the porches, a cat along a fence. A man waited with his hands in his pockets at a small patch of lawn, while his dog did his business. He blew out air in frustration and it billowed white against the chill of the foggy day.

For some reason, Jake’s thoughts turned to Zoë. This next June they’d celebrate their fourth anniversary. The first three years had been good. Zoë worked in the coffee house on 18th, despite her father’s protests, and she was happy doing it. He’d gotten the job at the bank and although he couldn’t say he enjoyed it as much as Zoë enjoyed hers, it paid the bills and let them rent the flat in Potrero Hill.

Then last fall Blake had his stroke. At first, the family held out hope he’d recover. He was fit, he was young, and he had a lot to live for, but he didn’t recover. As the weeks, then months went by, he showed no signs of getting better. And worse yet, to Jake’s thinking, he hadn’t died. They were all trapped in a terrible limbo of knowing he was gone, and yet knowing he wasn’t. Zoë and her mother made regular pilgrimages to sit by his bed in the convalescent home, reading to him or just sharing the events of their days. Jake had taken his turn early on, but as the time marched past with no change, he’d stopped going. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his father-in-law. Hell, he held him in something akin to awe, but the Blake Harper he’d known wasn’t there in the wax-like shell. He hated seeing the strong, barrel-chested man with a deep commanding voice reduced to a shrunken skeleton with barely enough flesh to cover those bones.

Worse still, as the months paraded past, Zoë had changed. At first, she’d let Jake comfort her, but lately she’d been shrugging off his gestures, moving away from him when he tried to touch her. Dark circles permanently shadowed her eyes and she’d lost weight. When he tried to talk to her about it, she snapped at him and told him most men would be proud to have a thin wife. He didn’t know how to answer that.

Zoë was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman and more. She was California girl pretty with blond hair and big blue eyes. She was tall and athletic, not just slim but well toned. The first time he’d seen her in college, he’d thought she was perfect. She was also out of his league, but that just made her all the more attractive.

He knew she was Pacific Heights elite, while he was a Midwestern boy with humble roots. He’d polished his accent to the flat tones of a true San Franciscan, but every once in a while he said something that made Zoë smile in that quiet, superior way of hers. He even found that charming.

Her interest in him had been surprising, but so damn wonderful. He knew he was nothing like the privileged boy she dated in high school, but she never made him feel inferior. They had moved in with each other after their first date. Not that her father had known. She’d still maintained her apartment with her two roommates, but every night she spent at his flat with the mismatched furniture and dirty socks. He figured he’d never find a better girl.

He missed her. He missed her delight in little things, her ability to navigate the complicated world of her upbringing with the more humble choices of her adult life. He liked that she’d dropped out of the med program to work in a coffee house and that she was happy doing it. He loved the way she could attend the opera one night and an indie rock band in the Tenderloin the next.

He would never forget the first time they met. She was studying in the library and he was pretending, but mostly he was studying her. She had captivated him.

*   *   *

“Organic chemistry?” he said, leaning over to look at the cover of her book.

She glanced up at him, pushing a lock of blond hair behind her ear. Her eyes had a far-off look, but she smiled. Her teeth were even and white.

He realized he was staring at her and looked down, cuffing the toe of his sneaker against the carpet.

“Yeah, it’s awful,” she said. She lifted her chin, trying to see his books. “Yours aren’t much better.”

He shifted the books in his arms and looked at the title. “I don’t know, Business Ethics for the New Millennium is gripping.”

She laughed. He basked in the sound. It was feminine and soft. “Sounds like a magnetic read.” She motioned to the chair across from her. “Why don’t you sit down?”

He pulled it out and sank into it, setting his books to the side. “I’m Jake,” he said, holding out his hand.

She accepted it. Her fingers were small and fit perfectly against his palm. “I’m Zoë.”

“Biology major?”

“Pre-med. My dad’s a surgeon and he wants his little girl to follow in his footsteps.” She closed the cover on her book. “You’re obviously a business major.”

“Yep,” he said with a nod. “Same bad reason. My dad wants me to become wealthy.”

She smiled. It was a smile that made his heart beat a little faster. Her eyes danced when she smiled, glimmering blue in the light from the fluorescents. “Where are you from?”

“That obvious, huh?”

She gave a delicate shrug. “Just a hint of an accent.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “Let me guess, Midwest.”

“Very good. Nebraska.”

“What brought you all the way out here?”

Jake leaned back and spread his arms, indicating the library. “Are you kidding me? This is San Francisco, babe.”

She laughed again. “Right.”

He rocked forward and folded his hands on the table as if he had a secret to tell her. “Honestly, it was the ocean. I was sick of corn fields.” He cocked his head to the side. “Let me guess, you’re from California.”

She twirled a strand of blond hair. “What gave me away? Actually, I was born and raised here. San Francisco native.”

“And here I would have guessed Hollywood.”

She flashed her stunning smile again. “That was smooth, real smooth.”

“You liked that,” he said with a laugh.

“Yeah, as far as lines go, that one ranks right up there.”

They both chuckled, then Jake grew serious. “Was it good enough to earn me a date?”

She glanced down at her book, but he could see the curve of her smile.

“I’ve got more.”

She met his gaze again, amusement simmering in her blue eyes. “That was enough. Trust me.”

“If you say so, but I’ve got a whole repertoire at my fingertips.”

“No doubt,” she said.

“Like, Are you lost? Because heaven’s a long way from here.”

“Wow.”

“Or, I was blinded by your beauty, so I’m gonna need your name and number for insurance purposes.”

“Stop.”

“How about If beauty were time, you’d be an eternity.”

“All right, you win. I’ll go on a date with you.”

Jake sat up straight. “You serious?”

“Yeah, just no more pick-up lines, okay?”

“Deal.”

Her smile blazed across her face and Jake felt his heart beat faster.

*   *   *

Jake was rocked out of his thoughts as the bus made a right turn on Market, sliding him toward the girl reading her book. He tightened his grip on the headrest and braced his legs against the seat back. Glancing out the window, he held his breath as the bus threaded into the dense traffic on Market. Horns honked and the brakes squealed, but the bus pulled up to the curb and lurched to a stop.

Jake reached for his briefcase and stood, following the other businessmen in suits as they pushed their way from the bus and disappeared into the press of people marching up the thin line of sidewalk cutting down the middle of the skyscrapers overhead.

*  *  *

“See the brunette over there,” said Sam in an undertone, throwing himself into the chair before Jake’s desk.

Jake looked up from the computer screen and squinted across the bank platform to the teller line. “Yeah.”

“Nice, huh?”

Jake gave Sam a patient smile. Since his first day on the job three years ago, Sam had been his closest friend. They went to Giants’ games together and grabbed a beer in Fisherman’s Wharf once in awhile. He’d even been to Sam’s bachelor pad a few times off Divisadero.

“She’s good.”

“Good? Man, can’t you at least pretend to look?”

Jake squinted at her again. “Nice…”

Sam leaned forward.

“…hair,” said Jake with a laugh.

Sam shook his head. “So where do you want to have lunch?”

“You pick.”

Sam drummed his fingers on the edge of Jake’s desk. “How about sushi?”

Immediately, Jake’s thoughts shifted to Zoë and how sick she’d been that morning. “Fine,” he said, reaching for the phone. “Let me get this loan finished first.”

Sam pushed himself out of the chair. “Okay. Think I’ll go see if the brunette needs help.”

Jake smiled as Sam wandered away, then he punched in the number for their flat. The phone rang a few times before the voice mail came on. Zoë’s voice filled his head. He adjusted the wedding picture on the corner of his desk and pressed the button to disconnect the call. Dialing again, he tried her cell phone. That, too, rang a number of times before he heard the same outgoing message.

“Hey, Zo, just wondering how you’re feeling? I guess you must be at the convalescent hospital, but give me a call when you get a chance. Talk to you soon, bye.”

He replaced the receiver in the cradle and studied their wedding picture. Zoë looked so happy, so filled with life. Her skin seemed to glow incandescently. He knew he needed to address her growing distance and the loss of her father, but he just didn’t know what to say. Whenever he approached the topic, she got angry.

He had to admit it annoyed him. She treated him as if she was the only person to ever lose a parent. She didn’t seem to remember he’d lost both of his within two years of each other. His mother died of cancer his second year in college and two years later, his father had a massive heart attack.

Zoë behaved as if she was the only one to ever experience such loss. He knew Blake was a huge influence on his daughter’s life, but how did pushing him away help anything?

“Excuse me,” came a voice and Jake looked up. Two well-dressed young men stood before him.

He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “How are you? I’m Jake. What can I do for you today?”

“We’d like to see about getting prequalified for a loan,” answered the taller of the men. “We just found a delightful Victorian and we want to make an offer.”

Jake motioned to the chairs. “Please sit down. I’m happy to assist you.”

*   *   *

The Muni pulled to the curb and hissed as the doors opened. Jake braced his legs to take the sudden stop in motion and gripped the overhead handle harder. This late in the evening there were no seats to be had.

He lifted the briefcase braced between his feet and waited for the other standing passengers to move toward the front of the bus, shuffling down the narrow aisle. He nodded at the bus driver as he turned to go down the stairs. Late spring sun shown over the tops of the buildings, bathing the sidewalk with warmth. He paused for a moment to absorb it, knowing it would soon disappear.

He’d worked later than usual, but when a customer wants to fill out loan papers five minutes before the bank closes, you stay. Two full loan applications and a number of checking accounts. It had been a good day.

He started walking toward the flat.

He majored in business at San Francisco State because his father had wanted him to do something more than he had himself. John Ryder had spent his life working in one factory after another, mind-numbing, back-breaking work. First the metal industry and then the auto industry. He’d only been retired for five years before he had his heart attack and died.

Jake didn’t care for business. He didn’t particularly like working at the bank, but it was what his father had dreamed for him. The money was good and that was enough, or so to John’s way of thinking. He didn’t want his children to have to scrape by every month, worrying that something might break when the paycheck only covered the necessities. Jake knew his father was proud of him, but that didn’t mean he was satisfied. Still, it also earned him Blake’s respect and he’d do just about anything for that.

He jogged up the steps to the flat and reached in his pocket for his keys, fitting one into the lock on the outer door. It swung open and he stepped inside. The row of mailboxes on the wall to the left glimmered in the dying sunlight.

Mrs. Parker and her Pomeranian, Prince, were standing before an open box. Prince immediately began to bark at Jake and kick his back legs. Mrs. Parker turned with a startled look that melted into a smile. Jake smiled back at her.

“How are you, Mrs. Parker?” he said, bending to scratch Prince behind the ears. The little dog quieted, cocking his head in pleasure at the attention.

“I’m just fine, Jake. How was work?”

Jake straightened. “Good. You and Prince just get back from your walk?”

“We did. He saw the cat down the street and tried to go after him. That’s why he’s so worked up.”

Jake smiled again. Prince was always worked up, that is until you confronted him. Then he dissolved into a puddle of canine affection.

Mrs. Parker locked her box, then turned toward the hallway. “Have a nice evening, Jake,” she said.

“You too,” Jake answered and watched her shuffle away, followed by the bouncing ball of hair who was her constant companion. He found the key for the mailbox and opened it, reaching in to take out the envelopes and catalogs stuffed inside. Zoë never got the mail. She said it depressed her to see bills and she didn’t like to be depressed.

Jake tucked the mail under his arm and closed the box, then took the stairs to their flat. He fumbled for the right key at the door, but finally got it in the lock. Pushing open the door with his shoulder, he dropped the keys into the dish on a table by the door and settled his briefcase beside it.

“Zoë?” he shouted as he shut the door again.

The sun had sunk behind the houses and the flat was dark. Jake frowned and dropped the mail into the dish. As soon as the natural light failed, Zoë turned on every light in the flat. They argued about it. Jake didn’t understand why they needed to waste so much energy, but Zoë said she needed the light.

“Zoë?” he called again.  No answer.

She must be with her mother still. He reached for his phone and pulled it out. No text message, no voice message. That wasn’t like her. She was usually very diligent about keeping him informed.

He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and walked toward the kitchen. The kitchen was dark, but he could see the glow of a Styrofoam box from a restaurant on the floor. He reached for the switch and flicked it on. The box had fallen and broken open. Some noodle dish in a red sauce leaked out. Jake frowned.

Zoë hated Styrofoam, said it was killing the environment, but if she went to lunch with her mother, Claire would make sure she brought any food home with her. Claire might have more money than she knew what to do with now, but she hadn’t always been wealthy. Before marrying Blake, Claire had scraped by, going heavily into debt to become a labor and delivery nurse. Meeting her doctor had changed her life, she always said.

He grabbed a handful of paper towel and reached for the container, but he stopped, looking toward the hallway. If Zoë had dropped this here, why hadn’t she cleaned it up? She must be home. She would never leave a mess on the floor like this.

Dropping the paper towel over the food, he moved toward the hallway. The door to the bedroom was open, but dark. Stepping into the doorway, he could see light spilling out of the half-opened bathroom door. For some reason, his heart kicked up speed as he crossed around the bed.

“Zoë!” Alarm made his voice sharp. He reached for the handle, pushing open the door. It bumped into something and he looked around.

Zoë lay crumpled on the floor. One shoe had fallen off and her eyes were closed. Jake pushed his way into the room and dropped beside her. “Zoë!” He touched her shoulder and she moaned. Blond hair spilled across the marble tiles and her breathing was labored.

He scrambled to pull the phone out of his pocket, dialing frantically. While he waited for the ringing to stop, he reached out and brushed the hair back from her face. Her skin was cold and clammy to his touch.

“Oh God,” he whispered, “Zoë, please don’t do this to me.”

The phone clicked and a woman’s voice filled the line. “911, what is your emergency?”

Jake gripped the phone tighter, grinding it against the side of his face, but he couldn’t find his voice.

“911, what is your emergency?”

He shook himself and took a deep breath. “My wife…” he said, his voice quivering. “My wife…please hurry. Please come. We need help.”

CHAPTER 2

Jake sat with his hands clasped before him, staring at his shoes. He needed to polish them. They looked scuffed around the toe. The cold plastic of the hospital chair wrapped around him and the brilliant overhead florescent lights beat down on his head. A headache was beginning in his temples and he had a nasty taste in his mouth.

He could still hear the scream of the sirens in his head, the frantic motion of the paramedics as they worked over Zoë’s body. If he closed his eyes, he could see the pulsation of the lights against his eyelids.

The hospital was cold. Across from him the television blared, some talk show where people shouted at each other from chairs. A young couple sat in the chairs before it, the girl resting her head on the boy’s shoulder. At the other end of the room, an old man coughed into a tissue, his breath wheezing, and a few seats down was a mother with a two year old who cried weakly and said she wanted to go home.

“Jake?”

Jake looked up. Claire bustled into the room. Her hair was perfectly styled in a blond bob, her make-up impeccable, her skirt and blouse out of place in this cold, austere room with its plastic chairs and veneered end tables. He rose to his feet and she bussed a kiss across his cheek without really touching him.

“Where’s Zoë?” she demanded, clutching her green handbag in front of her as if it were a barrier. She shot a look around the room and her painted lips pursed in obvious disgust. “Did they have to bring her here?”

Jake frowned. “Here?”

“This…this place with these…people.”

“Where did you want them to bring her?” Claire had always baffled him. She was so different from Zoë and her father, so…he wasn’t sure.

She looked back at him and her expression softened. “I’m sorry. I just hate to think of her in this place. What has the doctor said?”

“Nothing. They won’t let me see her and I haven’t gotten any news.”

“Have you asked?”

“Repeatedly.” Jake knew it came out sharper than he intended, but Claire was the last person he wanted to see right now.

Claire’s head came up. “Well, then I’ll just have to ask, won’t I?”

Jake lifted a hand and let it fall. No use arguing with that.

Claire bustled over to the desk, slamming her purse on the counter. “Hello,” she said with false politeness. Jake followed at a distance. He felt so out of his depth, but if Claire could get any information, he wanted to hear it.

The weary nurse looked up through her glasses, then pushed them back on her nose. “Can I help you?”

“I am Claire Harper. My husband is Doctor Blake Harper.”

“Good for you,” said the nurse with a smirk.

Jake closed his eyes. This wasn’t going to get them anything.

“Stella, is that right? Your nametag says Stella.”

The nurse’s smile dried. “Yeah?”

“Stella, my daughter was brought in by ambulance an hour ago. I would like an update on her condition. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind leaving your chair and finding out for me, would you?” Claire tilted her head back so she looked down her nose at the nurse. Everything about her said confidence and aggression, but he could see the trembling of her hands on the handles of her bag. That surprised him.

Claire never lacked for confidence and she usually got her way because most people didn’t know how to deal with her aggressive personality.

The nurse studied her for a moment more, but Claire wasn’t backing down. With a sigh, the nurse heaved her considerable bulk out of the chair and leaned on the counter. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Claire flashed her a practiced smile. “Excellent. We’ll wait here.”

“You do that,” said the nurse icily as she turned away.

Claire pivoted on a high heel and lifted her purse, marching back to Jake. “That’s how you handle them,” she said, but Jake’s eyes were drawn to her hands. They still shook. He guessed she was more worried about Zoë than she let on.

He went back to his chair and she perched on the edge of the one beside him, settling the bag in her lap. She stared at the television for a moment, then shifted and stared at him. Jake had gone back to contemplating his shoes, hearing the blaring of the sirens once more, seeing the lifeless way Zoë lay on the gurney, watching the frantic motion of the two paramedics as they tried to start an IV.

“Tell me what happened again,” demanded Claire.

Jake looked up at her. Did he detect a hint of emotion in her voice, a slight tremble? “I came home and found her on the floor of the bathroom. I called 911 and they came. They didn’t tell me anything, just rushed us here. When I tried to go with her, they stopped me. I called you and this is where I’ve been for the last hour.”

“What did the medics say? What did they think happened to her?”

Jake shook his head. “They said nothing. The only thing I heard is that her blood pressure was too low. They had a hard time finding a pulse.”

Claire’s hands shook. “Didn’t they say anything else? Didn’t they have any idea what it could be?”

“No, they were a little busy trying to get an IV started.”

“And no one has come out since then? No one has said anything? What did the nurses say when you registered her? Did they ask you anything?”

“They asked me all the standard stuff – medications, her past illnesses. I couldn’t tell them anything. Zoë’s always been healthy.”

“But they didn’t have any idea what’s wrong? You didn’t pick up anything all this time you’ve been here?”

Jake felt his patience snap. “Claire, you know as much as I do. Why don’t you tell me what happened today? You were with her more than I was. How did she seem?”

Claire tightened her grip on the purse. “You don’t have to snap. I’m just worried about my daughter.”

“We both are. I found a Styrofoam box in the kitchen. Did she eat lunch?”

“A little bit. I couldn’t get her to eat much, so I made her bring it home. I was hoping she’d eat it later.”

“Did you go to see Blake?”

Claire nodded in a strange, tense way, her head jerking up and down very fast. “No change. I wish Zoë would stop going to see him. It always upsets her. I think that’s why she wouldn’t eat much.”

“Did she say she wasn’t feeling well?”

“No, she didn’t say anything like that. I told her I thought she looked tired, but she said she was fine. We got lunch and she took a few bites, then she said she wanted to go home. I asked her what was wrong, but she said it was nothing. I didn’t push it. We left the restaurant and got separate cabs. She seemed fine when I left her.”

Jake leaned back in the chair and rubbed his hands across his face. Pressing his knuckles into his throbbing temples, he closed his eyes.

“Do you have a headache?” asked Claire.

Jake fought for patience and nodded.

Claire snapped open her purse, rummaging around inside. Jake canted a look down at her. The bag was filled with brushes and compacts and lipstick canisters. Shoving her wallet aside, she reached into the bottom and pushed various medicine bottles out of the way, then came up with a small white bottle labeled aspirin. She glanced up at him. When she caught him looking, she snapped the bag closed, then pressed it against her stomach as she struggled to open the safety lid.

Shaking two white pills into her palm, she held them out. “No use being in pain.”

Jake frowned, but reached for the pills. Her actions were so matter of fact. Did she just not understand how serious this was? At 26, Zoë should be in the peak of health, not lying motionless on a gurney.

He pushed himself from the chair and walked over to the water fountain, popping the pills in his mouth. He turned the handle as he bent over the fountain, letting the cold water fill his mouth.

“Mr. Ryder?”

He swallowed and straightened quickly. The heavy-set nurse from the counter stood behind him.

“Yes?”

“Follow me.” She motioned to the door on the left of her counter.

Jake glanced at Claire, but she was already hurrying toward the door, her heels marking a sharp, staccato tattoo on the floor. He followed the nurse into a box-shaped room. A nurses’ station occupied the center and branching off like wagon-wheel spokes were other smaller rooms, separated by sliding glass doors. Jake could see a few sick people lying in beds behind the sliding glass doors. Visitors sat in chairs beside the beds and in a few, nurses checked vital signs or started IVs.

“Wait here,” said the nurse, pointing to a white wall.

Jake looked around again. Wasn’t there a consultation room or something they could go into? He felt exposed here. Claire started to say something to the nurse, but Jake shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wanted to know about Zoë and he couldn’t see her behind any of the sliding glass doors.

Another swinging door opened across the room and a doctor in blue hospital scrubs moved swiftly across the space toward them. He was tall, over six feet, and thin. He held a pair of latex gloves in one hand and his feet were covered with paper shields.

“Mr. Ryder?” He held out his hand.

Jake took it automatically. It felt rough and cold in his grip. “Doctor?”

“Singh.” He glanced at Claire and raised a black brow. “And you are?”

Claire stuck out a manicured hand. “Claire Harper, Dr. Blake Harper’s wife. Surely you’ve heard of my husband?”

“Yes, of course,” said Dr. Singh, turning back to Jake.

“Zoë is my daughter,” continued Claire as if she didn’t notice the doctor had turned away. “I’d like to know what is being done to help her and exactly what is wrong.”

The doctor nodded. “Of course, that’s why I’m here.” He shifted toward Jake again. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but we’ve been trying to stabilize your wife.”

Jake’s mouth had gone dry. He wanted to ask about Zoë, but something in the way the doctor held himself made his thoughts scatter.

Dr. Singh let out a long sigh. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

Claire pushed up closer. “Out with it. What is going on with Zoë?”

Dr. Singh’s hand tightened around the glove. “We believe Zoë has a ruptured aneurysm.”

“A what?” Jake heard himself say.

“A ruptured aneurysm. Her blood pressure dropped so low because she’s been hemorrhaging. We’re having trouble getting her blood pressure to stabilize.”

“Where is this aneurysm?” asked Claire.

The doctor shifted weight. “We believe the rupture occurred in her brain. We’re taking her to have a CT scan right now. That should show us the extent of the damage and the exact location.”

“Then what?” said Jake.

“If we can get her stabilized, we’ll operate.” He glanced away, then back. “However, I have to warn you, should she be stable enough to endure surgery, there will likely be permanent damage.”

“Brain damage?”

The doctor finally met Jake’s eyes. “Yes. We fear the damage may be extensive.”

Jake shook his head. For some reason, he wasn’t understanding this. “How could this happen? How could someone as young as Zoë have an aneurysm?”

“Age has little to do with it. Many aneurysms are congenital, meaning they are present at birth. A weakness in a vessel that goes undetected until there is a stressor that triggers it.”

“What could trigger it?” said Jake.

The nurses at the desk looked over at him and he realized he was talking loudly. He didn’t care. His mind couldn’t grapple with the information Dr. Singh was providing.

The doctor shifted weight again. “I think it’s best we go somewhere else to discuss this.”

“No,” snapped Jake. “Tell me what you know. I don’t want to go somewhere else.”

“Jake, you’re making a scene,” said Claire.

Jake stared at her. What the hell was she talking about? Didn’t she understand what was happening? Her daughter was fighting for her life and would likely be impaired if she survived. Jake’s gaze shifted back to the doctor as his thoughts suddenly found focus.

“She will make it, won’t she?”

Dr. Singh twisted his gloves.

“She will make it, won’t she?” Jake repeated louder.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

“That’s not what I asked you. My wife will live, won’t she?”

Dr. Singh exhaled. “I just don’t know.”

Jake leaned against the wall. White noise filled his head.

Dr. Singh put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “You have to know the rest. You asked me what could trigger a rupture. Many things can be triggers. The vessel weakens over time, high blood pressure, but one of the most common triggers is pregnancy.”

“What?” Jake’s voice sounded like someone else’s. “What did you say?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Ryder, but we couldn’t save the baby.”

“The baby? What baby?”

Dr. Singh’s hand fell away. He took a step back. Jake stared at him, marking that black spots were dancing across his field of vision and it appeared the doctor was getting smaller, drifting further away from him.

“You didn’t know your wife was pregnant?” The doctor’s voice came from a great distance, as if he were shouting down a tunnel at him.

Cold sweat broke out over Jake’s skin and he pressed his palms flat against the wall, seeking the coldness of the cinderblocks beneath his fingers.

“Jake?” Claire sounded like she was underwater, the pulsations of her voice drumming in his head.

Jake felt himself sinking.

“I need a crash cart.”

Hands gripped him and held him up, but his legs had lost their strength. He found himself sitting on the ground. Dr. Singh had his hand on the back of his head and was pushing downward.

“Put your head lower,” he ordered.

Jake tried to shove him off. “I’m fine.”

“Get me a blood pressure cuff.”

He felt someone fumbling with his sleeve and he jerked his arm away. His vision was beginning to clear and the noise in his head was receding.  “I’m fine,” he shouted, shoving the hands away.

Dr. Singh’s worried face came into focus. Behind him was a crowd of anxious nurses.

“I’m fine,” he said again, reaching up to brush a line of sweat off his upper lip. “Please leave me alone.”

“All right,” said Dr. Singh to the nurses. “Go back to your stations.”

They meandered away, giving him worried looks. Jake closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His shirt was plastered against his skin, damp with cold sweat.

“I’m sorry. I thought you knew about the pregnancy.”

Jake shook his head, pressing back against the brick. The pain helped chase away the lingering light headedness. “She never told me. How far along?”

“We estimate three months.”

Jake leaned forward. “Three months? Shouldn’t she be showing?”

“That’s still early and she was thin. You didn’t notice anything?”

Jake thought of her sickness this morning, but he should have known sooner. He should have seen the signs, but she’d been pushing him away the last few months. She wouldn’t let him get close to her. He’d believed it was because of her father, but maybe it was this. Maybe she hadn’t been sure about having a baby with him?

He braced his head with his hands. “I can’t believe this is happening. How can this be happening to us?”

Dr. Singh griped his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ryder. Is there anything I can do?”

Jake looked at him through his hands. Behind him Claire was watching with a strange expression on her face, her hands locked around that damn green, leather handbag. He pushed himself to his feet and Dr. Singh helped him up with a hand under his elbow.

“You’d better get back to her,” he said.

The doctor released him and nodded.

“Please keep me informed.”

“Of course.” He started to turn away, but Jake reached out and caught his arm.

“Please do everything you can to save her. Please.”

The doctor simply nodded, nothing more.

*   *   *

Jake punched in the text to Sam, telling him that he wouldn’t be into work today. He didn’t wait for a reply, slipping the phone back in his jacket pocket. Rising to his feet, he walked to the sliding doors of the hospital, staring out at the parking lot. A couple of security guards manned a podium to the right of the door, both of them sipping at coffee. The sun was fighting to shine through the cloud cover, stray beams touching down on the bed of succulents lining the ambulance lane.

It always struck him that life went on no matter what. It didn’t even pause. The sun still rose, people still drank coffee, and the hours paraded past. Hospitals, however, were like time warps – dead zones where minutes ticked by in seconds so slow you could almost see them.

“Here,” came Claire’s voice behind him. He turned and accepted the paper cup. The heat of the coffee stung his fingers, but he ignored it, lifting it to his mouth. He took a sip and grimaced.

“It’s pretty bad,” remarked Zoë’s mother.

“Bad is a compliment,” said Jake, running his free hand through his hair. His suit was wrinkled, his face itched with stubble, and his hair probably stood on end. Claire, however, looked as pressed and polished as she had when she came in hours ago. Not a hair was out of place on her bleached blond head.

Jake walked back to their plastic chair encampment and sank into the seat again. It had been 8:00PM when the ambulance arrived last night. It was now 8:00AM. Twelve hours had come and gone, upending all of their lives. Jake still couldn’t get his head around how much could change in such a short span of time.

He took another sip of coffee and watched Claire perch on the edge of the chair next to him. She sipped at her own coffee, holding it delicately between her thumb and forefinger. Studying her features, Jake could see tiny lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, but they were concealed under a heavy layer of makeup. Her nose turned up at the end and she had a bow-shaped mouth, accentuated with red lipstick. Studying her this closely, Jake had a hard time seeing Zoë in her features. Zoë looked more like her father, he guessed, but even then there was a roundness, an openness about Zoë that neither Claire nor Blake possessed. Zoë’s forehead was wider, her cheekbones higher, her eyes large and round, and blue. Jake frowned. Neither Blake nor Claire had blue eyes and Claire’s blond hair was an unnatural, brassy blond, not highlighted with golden brown strands like Zoë’s.

Then there was Blake. Blake had been a bear of a man with huge hands. Jake always wondered how he performed the delicate operations he did with such blunt fingers; however, he was a premiere surgeon, top of his field.

Both Claire and Blake had tried to make Jake welcome in their home. He couldn’t fault them for that, but Claire was so above his league and Blake frankly intimidated him. He remembered when he’d asked Blake for permission to marry Zoë.

*   *   *

He climbed the curved stairs and passed between the white columns beside Zoë. She smiled back at him and reached for his hand, her other hand holding the small, wrapped gift.

“Relax. You’ve been here a hundred times.”

He forced a smile for her benefit. Not quite a hundred, but every time he’d been here only  reinforced that he and Zoë were not of the same social class. His parents’ home would fit in the entryway of the Harpers’ mansion.

Zoë turned the knob and stepped into the foyer, pulling Jake behind her. The house reminded Jake of a museum and he always felt he should lower his voice. Zoë tugged him through the entrance to the hallway leading toward the kitchen.

The Harper maid was bustling about the vast room, transferring hors d’oeuvre from a baking tray to a pewter platter. Zoë snuck up to her and threw her arms around her shoulders, bending to kiss her cheek.

The maid gave a startled laugh and patted Zoë’s arm. Zoë showed her the present. “Feliz cumpleaños, Junita.”

Juanita threw up her hands and turned, hugging Zoë. Zoë looked at Jake over Juanita’s shoulder. Go on, she mouthed, nodding at the French door, which led to the yard.

Jake drew a deep breath, then left the two women fussing over the little package. He opened the door and walked down the few steps into the Harpers’ enormous yard. A Greek-style swimming pool dominated the center of it, accented at each corner with a tall Cypress tree. A full outdoor kitchen took up the left side of the yard and smoke rose from a massive barbecue. To the right was a covered porch with an outdoor fireplace and black wicker couches arranged like a living room. A flat screen television blared over the fireplace and two football teams, one in gold and red, the other in blue and white, bashed each other on a brilliant green field.

The Harpers and their guests lounged on the couches, watching the game, but everyone stood when Jake appeared. Claire was the first to hurry over to him. She wore white Capri’s and a pink, sleeveless blouse. She had her blond hair pulled up in combs.

“Jake, I’m so delighted you came.”

She took his hand and gave him an air-kiss.

“Thank you for inviting us.”

Blake lumbered up and held out his hand. Jake felt like his own hand disappeared inside the larger man’s. “How’s school?”

“Good, sir. I finish this May.”

Blake slapped him on the shoulder. “Good, good. Remind me that I’ve got some contacts for you when you get out.

“Thank you, sir.”

Claire slipped her arm in his and directed him toward the couches. An older couple and a young man with massive shoulders stepped forward to meet him. “You remember our dear friends and neighbors, the Dixons.”

Jake shook each of their hands. “Nice to see you again.”

They smiled at him.

“And their son, Brandon.”

Brandon crushed Jake’s hand in his, giving him a hard stare. “Hey.”

“Hey,” said Jake, trying to extricate himself. He’d met Brandon once before. Zoë’s boyfriend from high school was the opposite of himself. Brandon had played defensive tackle in high school and then spent two years with a full ride to a college on the East Coast. After his second year, he dropped out and came home, declaring, according to Zoë, that college was for posers. Apparently work was for posers as well.

“Let’s get you a drink, Jake,” said Blake, patting his shoulder.

The Dixons went back to their game.

Jake followed Zoë’s father to a full bar built under the windows of the kitchen. Blake slipped behind it and motioned Jake onto a stool at the front.

“Where’s my daughter?” he asked.

“She’s giving Juanita a gift for her birthday.”

Claire followed them and perched on a stool at the end of the bar. “Make me an appletini, darling,” she said.

Blake glanced over at her as he reached under the counter. “You didn’t tell me it was Juanita’s birthday,” he scolded.

“I did, but you never listen to me.” She gave Jake a look that said her husband was senile.

Jake studied the surface of the bar.

Claire braced her chin with her hand. “Don’t worry. We sent her flowers and she has an extra day off next week.”

Blake looked at her a moment, then turned back to Jake. “Beer?”

“Sure.”

Blake opened a glass bottle and placed it on the counter in front of Jake. Jake turned it so he could see the label. No domestic beer for Blake Harper.

“My college buddy has his own microbrewery,” Blake said, reaching for the vodka.

Jake nodded and took a sip.

Zoë came out of the house and went first to her mother, kissing her cheek. “Hi, Mama.”

Claire kissed the air.

Zoë leaned on the bar and kissed her father. “Daddy.”

“Hey there, kitten, what can I get you?”

“Just bottled water.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, slipping in to Jake’s side and wrapping an arm around his waist. “It sure is a beautiful day.” She looked out at the late summer sun. “Perfect for a barbecue.”

“Gotta love Indian summer in the City,” said Blake, shaking the martini.

Brandon came up and gave Zoë a once over. “Hey, hot-stuff, you’re looking brown and beautiful.”

“Thanks, Brandon,” she said, then turned back to her father. “So what are we talking about?”

Blake smiled at her and reached for a handful of peanuts on the bar. “We were discussing Jake’s prospects after he graduates in May.”

“You shouldn’t eat those, Blake,” scolded Claire. “Your blood pressure’s through the roof.”

“Really?” asked Zoë in concern.

“It’s fine. I’m taking my medication. Besides, it’s a party. I can cheat a little on a party day.”

“So, you been tanning or something?” asked Brandon, ignoring the gist of the conversation.

Zoë gave him an annoyed look. “I guess.” She turned back to her father. “Have you seen the doctor lately?”

Blake scratched at the back of his neck. “Of course. I’m fine, kitten. Let not worry about it today.”

Claire climbed off the stool. “Let me show you the new curtains I got for your room, Zoë.”

Zoë allowed herself to be led away from the bar.

Brandon watched her go, then leaned on the bar next to Jake. “You like football, Ryder?”

Jake took a sip of his beer and placed it on the counter. “I’m more of a baseball fan.”

“Wussy-ass sport, baseball,” said Brandon, laughing for Blake’s benefit. “Real men play football, right, Dr. Harper?”

“Sure, Brandon,” said Blake, then he gave Jake a conspiratorial wink.

Brandon leaned on Jake’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come over and I’ll explain the game to you. Unless you’d rather look at curtains with the women.” He laughed and grabbed the beer Blake held out to him, returning to the couches and throwing himself onto one.

Jake exchanged a smile with Zoë’s father.

“It’s good to see Zoë’s taste has improved with age,” said Blake.

Jake studied him a moment, then looked down at the bar and fingered a water stain. “Actually, sir, there was something I wanted to ask you.”

Blake leaned back against the windows and took a drink of his beer. “Really? Well, go on, young man.”

Jake glanced up, trying to meet Blake’s stare. “Your daughter is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

A loud cheering exploded from the Dixons and Jake glanced over. Brandon was on his feet, pumping his fist.

Jake shifted on his stool. “Dr. Harper…”

“Blake.”

Jake met his gaze then. “Blake, I’d like your permission to ask Zoë to marry me.”

Blake bit his inner lip and studied Jake intently. Another cheer went up from the couches, but he ignored it. “Here’s the thing, Jake,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You gotta understand that in my mind, no one will ever be good enough for my little girl.”

Jake dropped his eyes to the bar again and slowly nodded.

“But…” he continued, “if I had to pick someone for her, I’d probably pick you.”

Jake took a relieved breath and exhaled.

“You have my permission, son.”

“Thank you, sir…” he began, but at the same time, Brandon reached over and hi-fived his father with a celebratory whoop.

Blake glanced at them and sighed. Turning back to face Jake, he gave him a wry smile. “But you’d better hurry and seal the deal, son. God knows I could wind up with door number two over there.”

Jake laughed and reached for his beer, feeling a flush of pure happiness.

*   *   *

The swinging door next to the nurses’ station opened and Dr. Singh stepped out. He looked around the waiting room with heavy, dark eyes. He had removed his surgeon’s cap and his salt and pepper hair was mussed.

Jake set the coffee down on the end table and rose to his feet. His heart was pounding, his mouth felt dry. Dr. Singh’s eyes settled on him and he exhaled. That one motion was enough. Jake knew. Jake knew.

He sat down hard again and stared at his feet. Claire gave him a puzzled look, then glanced over her shoulder at the doctor moving toward them.

“Dr. Singh?” she asked, rising to her feet and clutching her handbag.

Dr. Singh put a hand on her shoulder and guided her back to Jake. “Sit down, please,” he said, then hunkered down before them.

Jake could see the doctor’s hands, clasped in front of him, large hands with a sprinkling of fine black hairs across the back. He couldn’t make himself look the doctor in the face. His stomach was trying to push its way out of his mouth, his heart was banging against his ribs. So much blood rushed to his head that he felt flushed and chilled at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” began the doctor quietly. His fingers tightened and then relaxed. “Sometimes the damage is so extensive, there’s nothing modern medicine can do.”

“What are you saying?” demanded Claire.

Dr. Singh opened his hands, palms up. “We lost Zoë. There was nothing we could do.”

Claire leaned back, but she made no other noise. Jake could see her from the corner of his eyes and she just stared out the doors of the hospital without expression.

Lifting his hands, Jake covered his face. We lost Zoë. Jake knew what those words meant, but his mind couldn’t grapple with the enormity of that statement. We lost Zoë. Lost. Such a word, so lonely a word. There was no way that word could ever mean anything positive.

“I don’t believe she suffered in the end. She just went to sleep,” continued the doctor. “She just slept.”

Jake clenched his fingers in his hair, anything to transfer some of the pain in his chest to another part of his body. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. He felt like he was going to explode, like he was going to come apart in pieces, but he didn’t.

A strange buzz went off in his pocket and he jumped before he realized it was his phone. He looked up into Dr. Singh’s face and he finally drew breath. “I want to see her.”

“Of course,” said the doctor, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll take you.”

Jake rose. His legs held him and he started after the doctor. He realized Claire wasn’t coming and he stopped, turning to face her. “Are you coming?” He didn’t mean to be sharp with her, but nothing had any meaning at the moment, nothing made sense.

She looked up at him, her head rotating slowly. The eyes that met his were blank. “You go. I…I can’t.”

Jake looked down at his scuffed shoes, then turned away, following the doctor into the box-shaped room. Dr. Singh led him to one of the sliding glass doors and motioned inside. Jake stepped to the opening and stared in.

Zoë lay in the bed, the covers pulled up to her waist. There were no tubes, no monitors, nothing on her. She looked like she was sleeping, but he could tell already that she was gone. Already she didn’t look like his wife, his Zoë.

He crossed to her and sank into the chair beside her bed. Reaching out, he started to touch her hand, then stopped and pulled back. Closing his eyes briefly, he drew a deep breath and exhaled. His chest hurt, his stomach ached.

Reaching out again, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. The skin beneath his fingertips was warm. “Oh God,” he moaned and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to her abdomen where their baby had been only twelve hours before. “Oh God help me.”

Wrapping his arms around her, he held her tight, trying to etch the smell of her in his memory, the feel of her in his arms. He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly, grounding him, but he held on to Zoë, afraid that if he let go, she would vanish.

CHAPTER 3

A knock sounded at the door. Jake didn’t move, just stared at the television set. He didn’t even know what was on. He just needed the motion, the noise right now. The knock came again.

“It’s open,” he called.

He heard the hinges squeak and the door swung inward. Someone walked across the wooden floor, making the boards creak, then a hand reached out, picked up the remote, and lowered the volume on the television. Jake looked up into Sam’s brown eyes.

Sam hooked the ottoman with his foot and pulled it in front of Jake, sinking onto it. He leaned forward and braced his arms on his thighs. “I’ve been calling you for hours now.”

Jake glanced at the phone on the table. It had been buzzing regularly since he got home. “I don’t feel like talking.”

“I get that,” said Sam, “but everyone is worried sick about you. Andrews and your sisters. If you don’t call Faith, she and Hope will be out here tomorrow.”

“Call them for me and tell them I’m fine. Tell Andrews I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is…” His voice cut off. He couldn’t finish that sentence. He couldn’t think about putting Zoë in the ground.

Sam studied him a moment. “Andrews doesn’t expect you back, Jake. Not for awhile. You need to call your sisters yourself. They’re worried about you. They want to come out now and stay for the funeral.”

Jake flinched at the word, but he didn’t answer.

“Talk to me, Jake. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Anger flared inside of him. It burned through the dull ache in his belly. “What the hell do you think I’m thinking? I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. Yesterday I had a wife. Today…today she’s gone. What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Sam? What do you want me to do with it?”

Sam reached out and gripped his arm. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. Except I’m sorry, Jake. I’m so damn sorry.”

Jake exhaled. “That doesn’t help.”

Sam sat back. “I know. I know it doesn’t help. I don’t think anything is going to help for awhile, but you can’t sit here, listening to a blaring TV. Let me help you. Let me help you make funeral arrangements.”

“Claire’s doing that.”

“Without your say?”

“What say? What am I supposed to say about it? What the hell difference does it make? I signed off to let Claire make arrangements. Planning a funeral isn’t gonna bring her back, is it? That’s all I want, Sam. That’s the only thing that will make this okay. I want Zoë back.”

“She isn’t coming back, Jake. Zoë’s gone. You have to accept that. You have to accept it someway.”

“Tell me how. Tell me how to go on living now that my wife is dead.” His voice choked on the word and he buried his face in his hands.

Sam squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think it just happens, Jake. I think you’ll just start accepting it after awhile. Give it time. That’s what funerals are for – they distract us with mundane chores so that we can come to grips with the loss. You need to help Claire plan it or you’ll never forgive yourself.” He slapped Jake’s shoulder. “Let me help. Let me call people or something, tell them when the funeral will be.”

Jake rubbed his hands down his face, staring at Sam over the tops of his fingers. “I don’t know.”

“I get that, but you’ve got to pick a date.”

“I can’t. They haven’t released Zoë’s body yet.”

Sam frowned. “Why not? When will they do that?”

Jake shrugged. “We don’t know. They’re performing an autopsy. It could be a week before we get the results. Until then, they won’t release her.”

“Why are they doing an autopsy? I thought she died of complications from pregnancy.”

“They want to be sure. You usually don’t see 26 year olds dying like that from an aneurism. They want to make sure the pregnancy caused it.”

“What else could it be? I mean her father had weak vessels too, right? Didn’t you tell me it could be genetic? That would explain why Blake had a stroke so young.”

Jake looked away. He couldn’t talk about Zoë in this clinical manner. It was still too new, too fresh.

Sam leaned forward. “What are you going to do about Blake?”

Jake’s eyes snapped back to his face. “What do you mean?”

Sam ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, then scratched his forehead. “You have to tell Blake his daughter’s gone.”

“What?”

“He deserves to know.”

“He’s comatose, Sam. Why the hell would I tell him something like that?”

“Because if he’s even a little bit aware of his surroundings, it’s the right thing to do. He needs to know that his daughter passed away, Jake.”

Jake sank back in the chair and turned his attention to the TV. On the screen a cop bent over a body on a jogging trail, pulling back a sheet to look at the face. Jake closed his eyes.

*   *   *

Neal typed the final few words into the draft and leaned forward. Pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, he read over it, then slid the cursor to the start of the third sentence and typed in a couple more lines.

Aamani poked her head inside his office and gave him a scowl. He glanced up at her, but went back to typing. “It’s almost 7:30, Mr. Goldman.  Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”

He puffed out his cheeks with air and scratched the crown of his curly head. “That late, huh? I guess I can finish tomorrow.” He gave her a smile. “Go home, Aamani, you must have better things to do with your time.”

“I’m happy to stay if you need me to, Mr. Goldman.” She stepped into the room.

He took in her linen pants suit, coifed hair, and handbag. “You look like you’re headed on a date.”

She dropped her eyes shyly and smiled. “So I am.”

“Well, what are you doing here with an old man? Go home.”

She started to turn, then hesitated. “I’ll just shut things down then.” She nodded at his computer. He knew she wanted him to go home as well. His wife was probably waiting for him.

“Yeah, shut everything down out there. I’ll shut down in here.” He saved his file, then closed it, swiveling in his chair to look out the window. Night had fallen and the ever-persistent cloud-cover was sliding over the City. He reached for his cell phone and dialed his wife.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Ester, I’m just leaving now. I’ll be home about 8:30.”

“I had dinner ready at 6:00, Neal.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I got so caught up here, I lost track of time.”

“Of course you did. I’ll see you at 8:30.”

He hung up and swung his chair around again. His home page had come up on the computer, showing the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle’s website. A photo of a pretty blond woman caught his attention and he leaned forward, shoving the glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

Zoë Ryder, daughter of renowned surgeon and philanthropist Blake Harper, dies of an aneurysm.

Neal slumped back in the chair, staring at her picture. For a moment he couldn’t formulate a coherent thought. He’d just met with Zoë not a week ago and now she was dead. Zoë Ryder – dead.

“Aamani,” he called into the other room, “bring me Blake Harper’s file, please.”

She poked her head back inside. “Mr. Goldman, I thought we agreed…”

“This is important. Get it for me, please. Then you can go.”

She disappeared.

Neal sat forward and scrolled through the rest of the story, holding his glasses pressed to his forehead. Aamani brought the file in and set it on his blotter.

“You all right, Mr. Goldman?”

“Fine,” he said, shortly. Then he looked up at her. “Go on home. I’ll leave in a few minutes. I just have a call to make.”

She nodded, then turned away from him as he opened the file.

“Aamani,” he called when she reached the door.

She turned and gave him a curious look.

He held up his cell phone. “Show me how to text again.”

She returned to his side and pulled up the texting window. “Just put the number in and type the message with the key pad here. Then press send. Do you want me to stay and do it?”

Neal shook his head, studying the contraption. “No, I think I’ve got it. You can go.”

She slowly walked to the door, but when he didn’t call her back, she disappeared from view. Neal riffled through the file, searching for the number he wanted, then he punched it into the phone and typed the message.

Please call me. It’s very important. I need to talk with you in person. Neal Goldman

He added his number and pressed send, then he slumped in the chair, staring at the file. What should he do? That one message wasn’t enough. He needed to do something more.

He read the newspaper article again. The reporter said she died of natural causes, so no one was going to believe anything differently. Who would even listen to what he had to say? But he had to try. He had to make some effort.

He opened a new window on the computer and looked up the San Francisco Police Department’s non-emergency number. He punched it into the cell phone and pressed the on-button. It began to ring. It rang four times, then a recording came on.

“You’ve reached the Non-emergency line for the San Francisco Police Department. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise, you’ve reached this number after hours. The office is open Monday through Friday, 8:00 to 5:00. Please call back during regular business hours.”

Neal held the phone pressed to his ear. He couldn’t dial 911 for this. It wasn’t an emergency. Zoë Ryder was already dead. He’d have to call back tomorrow. He disconnected the phone and sat staring at it, hoping it would ring. When it didn’t, he turned off his laptop and put the cell phone in his pocket.

Then he picked up his briefcase and Blake Harper’s file, carrying them into the other room. He replaced the file in the drawer and walked to the outer door. His stomach hurt and he felt like he might be sick.

The report said she died of natural causes. He should just accept that. But he couldn’t. What was natural about a 26 year old dying? He opened the outer door and stepped into the hall. Reaching for the keys in his pocket, he locked it, then walked toward the stairs and descended.

The building was quiet, everyone else had gone home. He moved down the silent hallways and into the entrance hall, passing between the armchairs arranged in a welcoming pattern.

He opened the door and stepped out into the cool San Francisco night, locking the door behind him again. Then he jogged down the stairs and turned up the street. Maybe the cool of the fog and a brisk walk would settle his stomach.

He tried to whistle, but the sound failed him, so he picked up his pace, heading for Divisadero where he could catch a taxi to the BART station at the Civic Center. He heard a car start up behind him, but he didn’t remember seeing anyone on the street when he left his office.

He dismissed it and kept walking. Alta Plaza Park was quiet and empty as he walked along it. He could make out the huddled bumps of homeless people lying on the park benches.

He came to the corner of Washington Street and stepped off the curb. He made it halfway across the street when he heard the car accelerate behind him.

He glanced over as the headlights blinded him, forcing him to blink behind his glasses. He took a step as if to jump out of the way, but the car careened into him, throwing him up and over the hood. He slammed into the windshield and felt it splinter beneath him. Pain exploded in his head and the air rushed out of his lungs. Then he was flung forward, the briefcase torn from his hand.

He landed in the street with a sickening crunch of bones.

Gasping for breath, he tried to pull himself up, but pain spasmed through his body. Looking through the spider-webbing of his broken glasses, he saw the tail-lights of the Benz speed down the road.

*   *   *

The foil covered hamburger landed on the blotter with a solid thwunk. Peyton reached for it and tore the foil back, taking a huge bite. Her mouth filled with the blessed combination of juicy meat and melted cheese. She sank back in her chair and closed her eyes in bliss.

“That stuff’s gonna kill you one of these days. Clog your arteries to hell and gone,” said Marco, throwing all 6 foot 4 inches of well-toned man into the chair across from her.

Peyton gave him a beaming smile and took another bite. “Admit it,” she said around a mouthful. “You’re jealous. You know you miss hamburgers and steak and oh, God, lobster dripping in butter.”

Marco scrunched up his nose in disgust and plopped his salad on his desk. “I don’t know how you eat like that and stay as teeny tiny as you do.”

“Fast metabolism,” she said, reaching for the milk shake he set next to her computer. “Chocolate, right?”

“Chocolate, right,” he said with a laugh. He nodded at the computer. “What are you working on?”

“Finishing up the report on the bum roll in the Tenderloin.”

Marco speared a clump of lettuce and placed it in his mouth. “Hate that crap.”

Peyton knew he meant the paperwork. In the seven years they’d been partners, she’d done the bulk of it. She would have bristled at the chauvinistic manner in which she became responsible for pushing paper, except Marco never treated her chauvinistically. He really did hate filling out the paperwork and she was better at it. He couldn’t spell to save his life, said he was dyslexic. Of course, it did occur to her that it might be an excuse.

Well, he usually picked up their lunches, got her things like chocolate shakes when she asked. It seemed like a more than fair trade. She polished off her hamburger and threw the foil in the garbage can just as Maria Sanchez walked up and tossed a file on her desk.

“Heya, Marco baby,” Maria said, winking at Peyton’s partner.

Marco gave her a lazy look. “Hey Maria, what’s shakin’, baby?”

Peyton made a gagging sound. Marco looked like a Chippendales dancer with his shoulder-length black hair and blue eyes. Women and a lot of men threw themselves at him.

“What’s this?” she said, tapping the file.

“New case, VIP according to the captain. Wants you to take a look into it, but keep it discreet.” She gave Marco another wink. “Pacific Heights discreet.”

Marco offered her a practiced smile, showing a row of perfect white teeth. Peyton rolled her eyes.

“My hamburger is backing up on me,” she said, leaning toward the garbage can by Maria’s feet and making another retching sound.

Maria took a few steps back and glared at her. “Just check it out, all right, and fast. Captain wants to put this one away quick.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep a socialite waiting,” said Peyton with a yawn. “Don’t ya have anything else? Can’t you give this to Simons and Cho?”

“They’ve got a dead lawyer,” said Maria, fixing a hand on her hip.

“Lawyers are worse than socialites, Brooks,” said Marco, bracing his head on his hand and spearing another lettuce leaf.

“I guess so, but this one’s dead.”

Maria slapped a hand against her thigh. “You really want me to tell the captain you don’t want it?”

Peyton reached for her milkshake and placed the straw in her mouth, slurping deliberately.

Maria offered her a smirk. “See ya later, Marco baby,” she purred.

He gave a playful jerk of the head with just his chin.

Peyton wrinkled her nose at him. “Really? You’re all kinds of badboy, aren’t ya, Marco baby.”

Marco laughed. “You jealous, Brooks?”

Peyton reached for the file. “Yeah, I was thinking of asking Maria out myself,” she said.

Marco laughed again.

Peyton scowled as she read the report, then pushed it across the desk to Marco’s side. “This is the shit I hate,” she commented. “Why do men always gotta off their wives?”

Marco frowned and reached for the file.

*   *   *

Jake passed a twenty over the seat to the cab driver and opened the door, climbing out. He shut the door and looked up at the imposing façade of the Harpers’ mansion.  It sported four white columns and a circular set of stairs leading up to the wide front porch, topped by a balcony overlooking the front yard. The mansion was box-shaped, constructed of brown stones trimmed in white molding.

The cab sped off as Jake moved to the gate in the walk and pushed it open. He passed under the arbor covered by a white climbing rose and moved up the stone walkway toward the door. Jogging up the stairs, he passed between the columns and rang the doorbell.

He could hear voices behind the double doors and then the door on the right opened. Claire peered out.

“Jake,” she said, stepping back. “Come inside.”

Jake moved into the marble floored entrance. To the left rose the ornate circular staircase. Coming down the stairs was Brandon Dixon. Jake stopped and waited for the man to descend.

“You remember Brandon Dixon from next door,” said Claire, motioning to the man.

Jake frowned. With his short cropped brown hair, khaki pants, and polo shirt, Brandon looked every bit the privileged Pacific Heights resident.

Brandon held out his hand. Reluctantly Jake accepted it only to feel like his bones were being ground together. He hated men who shook hands like that. There were always men who felt they had to show their machismo through their grip.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Brandon, but the words lacked any real warmth.

Jake wasn’t going to discuss Zoë with this man. He gave him a nod.

Claire hovered in the background. “Brandon came by to bring some food. There’s so much food in the kitchen I won’t have to cook for weeks.”

Jake studied her. The kitchen was in the back of the house on the main floor. Brandon had been coming down the stairs. What the hell was she talking about?

He dismissed it. He didn’t really care. Although, he thought it ironic that Claire mentioned cooking. As far as Jake knew, Claire had never cooked in her life.

“I’ll just be going. Call if you need anything, Claire,” said Brandon, touching her shoulder.

She gave him a tired smile and he walked to the door, pulling it closed behind him. After he was gone, Claire motioned to the parlor and led the way.

“Would you like something to drink? Tea or something?”

“No,” said Jake, taking a seat in the wing backed chair before the front window. Claire always entertained in this room. Besides the chair where he sat, there were three other wing backed chairs in striped, white linen arranged around a cherry wood table with a tray rim. On the wall directly across from the window was a grand piano, a beautiful, glistening black instrument that Jake had never heard played. A Persian rug in muted blue and white tones covered the marble tiles, and floor to ceiling curtains in shimmering silver satin framed the large bay window.

Usually, Claire had a maid who opened doors and served drinks, but she seemed to be the only one home at the moment. Jake tried to remember the maid’s name, but couldn’t. It was Juanita or something.

Claire settled into a chair across from him. “How are you doing?”

Jake shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about Zoë with her mother either. He wasn’t sure he’d ever want to talk about Zoë again, but he didn’t have much choice. They needed to finalize the funeral arrangements.

“I was wondering if you have any news about…” Jake’s voice failed him and he cleared his throat. “…about Zoë.”

Claire always sat on the very edge of a chair as if she was prepared to spring up at any second. She wore a tailored skirt and blouse with a string of pearls. Her blond hair was pulled up in back and clipped with a pearl comb. She had on a pair of red pumps and her wedding ring glimmered from her manicured hand.

“There’s a small problem,” she said, clasping her hands tightly together. “Zoë’s body has been moved to the Medical Examiner’s office for the autopsy.”

“What? I thought the autopsy was being performed at the hospital.”

Claire wrung her hands. “I thought so too, but when I called this morning, they told me she’d been moved. Something about her age and the fact she lost the baby…”

Jake looked down. The rug had swirls of blue in it, some of them almost forming butterflies in the weaving. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” he said quietly.

Claire didn’t immediately answer, then she rose to her feet and walked into the entryway. Jake leaned forward and watched her as she crossed to the coat rack beside the door. Her green, leather handbag hung from one of the hooks and she reached inside, pulling out a brochure. She carried it back to the parlor and handed it to Jake.

Jake turned it over in his hands. Cremation. He dropped the brochure on the tray table and sat back in the chair, letting his hands dangle over the sides. “That’s what you want done?”

Claire took her seat again, smoothing out the sleek lines of her skirt. Her eyes lowered to the brochure and she nodded, vigorously. “I think it’s best. Zoë would want that. More environmentally sound.”

Jake had to admit Claire was probably right; still it bothered him to think about it. And yet, he figured it wouldn’t matter what they did with Zoë, it was bound to bother him.

“I’ve made all the arrangements. Everything’s ready to go as soon as they release her body.”

“Did they give you any indication when they’d do that?”

“No, but I’ll call over there again tomorrow and demand to talk to the Chief Medical Examiner. There’s no excuse for this. She’s Blake Harper’s daughter. She deserves more dignity than she’s getting. I don’t sit on the board of two hospitals for nothing.”

Jake didn’t doubt that Claire would have more sway than he did. He slid forward, prepared to go. It bothered him that Zoë had been moved to the Medical Examiner’s office. He hated to think of more people cutting into her, probing her. He wanted her to have peace. He hesitated and gripped the arms of the chair. This wasn’t the only reason he’d come out to Pacific Heights.

“Claire, have you been to see Blake since Zoë…since she died?”

“I went yesterday.”

Jake’s fingers tightened. “Did you tell Blake about Zoë?”

“Tell him?” Claire gave Jake a look that said he’d lost his mind. “Jake, Blake is comatose. He doesn’t know we’re even there.”

“What if he does? What if some part of him is aware? Don’t you think he should know about his daughter? Don’t you think he’d want to know?”

Claire didn’t answer for a moment. Her features hardened and her eyes narrowed. When she spoke, Jake had never heard her voice so cold. “No, I don’t think he should know. I think that man has been through enough. I don’t think he should suffer anymore at all.”

Jake released his hold on the chair. “Okay,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “It’s your decision.”

“It certainly is.” Claire rose as well.

“Let me know when you hear something.”

“I will. Do you need me to call you a cab?”

Jake shook his head. “No, I’ll walk to the bus stop. I wouldn’t mind the exercise.”

Claire led him into the entry way. “Take care of yourself, Jake. You look tired.”

Jake didn’t answer as she pulled open the door. He guessed he did look tired. He’d been sleeping on the couch since Zoë died. He couldn’t bear the thought of climbing into their bed without her, but the couch wasn’t really meant for long term slumber. And worse still, the dreams wouldn’t let him rest. He kept hearing the sirens, seeing the lights whenever he closed his eyes.

“I will. You too. Is there anything you need?”

Claire leaned against the door. “Just to put Zoë to rest. I can’t move beyond this until I do.”

Jake hesitated on the porch. Move beyond this? Was there a way to move beyond it?

“I’ll talk to you soon,” said Claire, then before he could answer, she shut and locked the door.

*   *   *

The security guards eyed Peyton and Marco as they moved toward the doors of the emergency room. Even though neither of them wore uniforms, people always knew they were cops. The doors hissed as they opened and Peyton led the way into the waiting room.

“I hate hospitals,” muttered Marco under his breath.

The waiting room was full. All eyes shifted to them as if they’d made an announcement upon their arrival. Peyton knew they looked silly together. She was five foot three, five six in her three inch boots, Marco six four. She glanced over the people sitting in the hard, plastic chairs, then focused on the nurse behind the counter.

The woman wasn’t looking at them. Peyton reached for her badge as they came up to the counter, but the nurse slapped a clip board on the counter and reached for a pen.

“Fill this out and have a seat. We’ll be with you in a minute.”

Peyton held the badge under the nurse’s nose. The woman’s head shot up and she gave them a scowl. “We’re here to talk to Dr. Singh. Is he available?”

The nurse rose immediately to her feet. “Go through the door over there,” she said, leaning forward and pointing. “I’ll meet you on the other side.”

Marco walked to the door and pushed it open. Peyton followed. They entered a large box with smaller rooms around the perimeter. The nurse motioned them into one of the smaller rooms. Reaching for a curtain, she pulled it half closed as she backed out of the room.

“Dr. Singh will be here momentarily.”

“Thank you,” answered Peyton.

The nurse pulled the curtain closed the rest of the way and they heard the glass door slide shut. Marco wandered around the small space, staring at the instruments. Peyton took a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He seemed to fill the room with his bulk.

“I hate hospitals,” repeated Marco.

“No one likes them.”

“Doctors and nurses love them. I hate them.”

“Reported and noted,” said Peyton, shaking her head in amusement. “Hopefully we won’t be here long.”

“You heard from the M.E. yet?”

“No, I put in a call before we came down.”

“Who got the case?”

“Abe.”

Marco sighed. “Great. Now I get to put up with more sexual harassment.”

Peyton smiled. She knew Marco was mostly kidding. Abe did flirt shamelessly with him, but he meant it all in good fun. He was also the best M.E. in the City, so they were lucky to have scored him for this case. Marco knew that. “You shouldn’t be so damn irresistible then.”

“Can’t help it. It’s in the genes.”

Peyton started to respond, but the glass door slid open, then closed again. A moment later, a tall, thin man with brown skin walked around the curtain. He wore blue scrubs and a paper cap over his hair. Peyton rose to her feet and showed him her badge.

“Dr. Jashmit Singh?”

He nodded. He didn’t look happy about being there.

Peyton gave him her most disarming smile. “I’m Inspector Brooks and this is my partner, Inspector D’Angelo. We understand you were the attending when Zoë Ryder was brought in three days ago.”

“Yes.” He clasped his hands before him. Peyton marked the slump of his shoulders and the way he tried to keep Marco in his sight without making it obvious. “I didn’t expect anyone to come out.”

“You are the one who signed her body over to the M.E., right?”

“Yes, but I thought that would be it. I don’t want to testify or anything.”

Peyton deliberately took her seat on the bed again. Best to make him feel more comfortable. Even innocent people acted guilty when confronted by police. Her father had always said you got more traction playing good cop than bad. Peyton tended to agree with him.

“We just want to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” She motioned to a stool. “Please sit down. You must be tired. That emergency room is jammed tonight.”

Dr. Singh sank onto the stool. “It’s always like that. The later it gets the busier.”

“Was it busy the night Zoë came in?”

“I can’t remember. She took priority. Her vitals were so unstable.”

“What exactly does that mean? I’m not very good with medical jargon.”

“Her blood pressure had bottomed out. We could hardly find a pulse. She was unresponsive, even to painful stimuli.”

“I see.” Peyton reached for the small notebook she kept in her jacket pocket and pulled it out, flipping open the cover. “She was young, right? 26?”

“Yes.”

“That must have been unusual, wasn’t it?”

“It was. I was baffled by her presentation, but I knew she had to be hemorrhaging.”

“Hemorrhaging? Losing blood, right?”

“Right. After we made our initial examination, we discovered she was pregnant and was actively miscarrying.”

“Did you think that was the cause of the hemorrhaging?”

Dr. Singh glanced at Marco, but Marco had his back turned, pretending to study a chart on the wall. Peyton knew he was completely focused on their conversation though. “No, I knew the miscarriage was a secondary issue. One of her pupils was dilated, the other was not. That’s a sign of a brain injury.”

Peyton looked at her notes. “Initially you thought it was a ruptured aneurysm. What made you think that?”

“The pregnancy. It’s not uncommon for pregnancy to bring out a genetic weakness, especially in blood vessels. So much more blood is flowing through a woman’s system during pregnancy that it can cause a traumatic failure if a vessel is weak or damaged.”

“Later, though, you changed that diagnosis. What made you suspicious?”

“The initial tox panel. It came the next day.”

“Do you always run tox panels?”

“The minute you enter the hospital. Especially on someone so young.  Our first protocol is to suspect some sort of drug overdose.”

“What was unusual in her tox panel?”

“I sent everything over to the M.E. for his review, but it was the presence of warfarin that alerted me.”

“Warfarin?”

“A stroke medication.”

Marco turned around and stared at him. “Stroke medication? Why would a twenty-six year old be on stroke medication? Could she have taken it by mistake?”

“Not at the levels she had in her system.” Dr. Singh looked down at his hands. “I just don’t get it. Who do you think could have done this?”

“Most likely it’s the husband, Dr. Singh.”

Dr. Singh looked up again. “Her husband? I can’t believe he would hurt her. Do you really think it could be him?”

Peyton gave him a sad, weary smile. “It usually is,” she said.

*   *   *

Peyton pulled the Charger into a parking space at the rear of the M.E.’s office and applied the emergency brake. They exited and walked toward the back door. Marco showed his badge to the guard and the man circled around his podium and pulled open the door for them. They walked down the stairs into the belly of the building, the bright fluorescent lights in the stairwell reflecting off the white walls. The temperature dropped as they descended and Peyton stuffed her hands into the pockets on her leather jacket.

Marco pulled open the door at the bottom of the stairwell and they entered a sterile white hallway. At the very end was a double door with a keypad. Peyton punched in the code and the doors swung inward on air-compression pistons.

Abraham Jefferson’s lab was the third one on the right, according to the placard on the wall.  They pushed open the swinging door and found him seated at a bench, his eye pressed to the lens on a microscope. His dreadlocks lay about his shoulders and his long fingered hands reached for the slide and removed it, grabbing another one from the table and replacing it.

“Be with you in a moment,” he said without looking up.

Peyton glanced around the large, austere room. A metal table took up the middle of the floor and directly below it was a drain in the floor. She was surprisingly grateful there was no body on it. Behind the metal table were rows of shelves encased in glass. Any number of bottles, flasks and test tubes crowded the shelves. Below the glass shelves were drawers that Peyton knew housed saws and blades and instruments worthy of a medieval torture chamber. For a homicide detective, she realized her squeamish nature was at odds with her job description.

“Hey, my soul sista,” came Abe’s voice.

Peyton turned and found him beaming a huge smile at her. Abe always looked like his mouth sported too many teeth. He shook back his dreads and rose to his full six feet. His dark eyes shifted to Marco and his smile grew wider.

“And the Italian Stallion,” he said, giving him a saucy wink.

Marco shot him one of his quelling stares, but Abe wasn’t afraid of him. “What can I do you for?”

Peyton glanced at Marco, knowing he would catch the double entendre. A smile tugged at the corners of Marco’s mouth and he walked away, looking at the bottles in the shelving unit.

“We’re here about the Zoë Ryder case, Abe,” said Peyton.

Abe’s playful demeanor fell away and he turned toward his desk, reaching for the file on top. He placed it on his bench next to the microscope and opened it. “Nasty bit of business, that,” he said, reading.

Peyton inched closer. “We just went to see Dr. Singh, the attending. He said he sent you all of his findings and the tox report. Have you completed the autopsy?”

Abe nodded. “Just waiting on the results of my own tox screening. They sent me the fetus too.” He looked up, narrowing his dark eyes. “Hate that part like crazy.”

“I know.”

Abe turned a page with his elegant long fingers. Peyton had always been fascinated by Abe’s hands, long fingers, smooth seal-brown skin, but capable of sawing through a human skull without a moment’s hesitation. Abe Jefferson was the best M.E. in San Francisco, and one of her closest friends.

“So, the attending initially thought it was a ruptured aneurysm?” prompted Peyton.

“Yeah, she presented as such, especially with the pregnancy, but he got the initial tox report back the day after she died.”

“That’s when he found the war…whatever.”

“Warfarin. Yeah, really high levels too.”

“Is that what caused the hemorrhaging?”

Abe met her gaze. “Massive. She basically bled out, Peyton. Poor girl.”

“Dr. Singh said something about it being stroke medicine.”

Abe pursed his lips. “Yeah, warfarin is a blood thinner. Miracle drug, really, if used properly.”

Peyton eased onto the stool on the other side of Abe’s bench. “Is that what the hospital uses warfarin for?”

“Stroke patients? Yeah. If you give them warfarin when they first present, it can almost reverse the damage. It’s saved many people’s lives, kept them alive, and for those who’ve had strokes, it’s improved their recovery immensely.”

Marco wandered back to them. “Could she have done this to herself?”

“You mean suicide?”

Marco shrugged.

“Hell of a way to go. I’ve never heard of it before.”

“What if she was exposed to warfarin and didn’t know it? Could that have caused this?” continued Marco.

“Naw. She ingested huge amounts. There are signs of bleeding in her stomach.”

“Could the hospital or the medics have given it to her when they picked her up? Maybe they thought she was having a stroke?” asked Peyton.

“Her symptoms wouldn’t have presented as such. They would have suspected something was bringing her blood pressure down and they wouldn’t have wanted to lower it further.”

Peyton exhaled.

“It’s a terrible way to die,” said Abe. “By the looks of her stomach, she would have been suffering for days. Would have been more humane to put a gun to her head.”

“It would have been more humane to divorce her. That bastard is gonna ride the needle if I have anything to do with it,” Peyton said.

CHAPTER 4

Jake wandered aimlessly around the flat, staring out the window, sitting in front of the television, watching people go about the business of living. Mrs. Parker had been by twice and asked him to go for a walk with her and Prince. He begged off because he couldn’t stand the thought of small talk, pretending he gave a damn about anything right now.

He sat and stared at the phone, wondering why Claire didn’t call with news about Zoë, then he feared she might. It terrified him to think of the finality of a funeral. As long as they didn’t have it, he could continue to pretend – pretend none of it happened.

He stood up and wandered over to the pictures he’d taken of Zoë in Golden Gate Park. He had so carefully planned that day and he’d been terrified something would mess it up, but it had gone perfectly.

If he closed his eyes, he could remember the scent of juniper and eucalyptus, the warmth of the sun and the softness of the grass. She had leaned against a tree and he’d snapped her picture there. She had smiled as if she wanted nothing more than to be with him at that moment.

God, he loved her so much.

*   *   *

“What are we doing?” she said, laughing and running to keep up with him as he tugged on her hand.

The great dome of the Spreckels Temple of Music rose across the concourse, and both right and left were the ornate buildings of the Academy of Science building and the deYoung Museum.  The San Francisco Symphony, dressed in black formal wear, were taking their seats under the bandshell.

Jake led Zoë to a blanket on the lawn and she stopped, staring at it. “Wait, is this ours?” She pointed at the basket, sitting in the middle of the blanket.

“Of course, did you think I just stole someone’s dinner?”

She gave him a look, half amusement, half confusion. “How did you do this?”

“I have my ways.” And help, he thought. He owed Sam a six-pack.

The symphony began tuning up and other people moved toward the chairs arranged before the dome. Zoë clasped her hands, her eyes shining in the late afternoon sunlight.

“A picnic and a concert?” she asked.

He merely lifted a brow and sat down, lifting the lid on the basket and pulling out a bottle of champagne. He took out two glasses and set them up on the blanket. “Are you going to join me?” he asked.

She sank down beside him, her sundress fanning out around her. “Jake, this is amazing.”

He smiled at her as he tore the foil off the bottle’s neck and began unwinding the wire. She looked around at the people and then back at the dome as the conductor took his place before the musicians.

When the cork popped on the bottle, she gave a start and laughed. He filled both glasses, then handed her one. He touched his to hers and looked at her intently. “To a thousand more memories just like this.”

She sipped at the wine, studying him over the top of the glass. “You are so wonderfully romantic and corny. I love it.”

He smiled and settled his glass beside him, then he reached for his camera and turned it on. He pressed the button and pulled up the pictures they’d taken that day. She leaned closer to him.

“Anything good?” she asked.

He frowned at the viewfinder. “What is this? I don’t remember taking this.”

“What?” she asked.

He held the camera out to her and she took it. As she looked at the display, the symphony began to play Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. She glanced up, then focused on the camera again.

“Why it’s a picture of a ring in a basket…” Her eyes lifted to the picnic basket.

Jake held his breath.

She looked at him and slowly set the camera down. “Jake?” she asked.

He gave the basket a pointed look.

She lifted the lid and peered inside. Then she reached in and brought out a glittering diamond ring in a black velvet ring case. She turned to him and her eyes shimmered with tears.

“Jake?”

He took the ring out of the holder and rose on one knee. “Zoë Harper, will you marry me?”

She didn’t say anything for a moment and Jake felt his heart kick against his ribs. Then she launched herself into his arms, spreading kisses all over his face. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said, holding her off. “Will you marry me?”

She smiled radiantly. “Actually, I was waiting for some awful pick up line.”

He thought for a moment. “Is there a rainbow, because you're the treasure I've been searching for.”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Or It's not my fault I fell in love. You are the one that tripped me.”

She winced.

“Or Do you have a bandage? Because I just scraped my knee falling for you.”

She placed a finger against his lips, stilling him, then she leaned forward and kissed him, a slow, lingering kiss. When she pulled away, she pressed her forehead against his.

“Yes,” she said, “I will most definitely marry you.”

*   *   *

Peyton pulled open the refrigerator and removed two beers. She carried one to the counter and passed it across to Marco where he perched on the barstool. Pickles, her Yorkshire terrier, slept in his lap, balanced by one muscular arm. When he tried to open the bottle, Pickles growled at him. Marco gave Peyton a lift of his dark brows and passed the beer back.

She settled hers on the counter and twisted the cap off his, sliding it to him. Then she uncapped her own beer and took a long swallow. Reaching down, she pulled off first one boot, then the other, kicking it across the room. Opening the drawer by the sink, she took out a pile of take-out menus and dropped them on the counter.

“What do you want? Pizza, Chinese? Thai?”

“Thai,” said Marco.

She located the right menu and reached for her phone. “Same as always.”

“Yeah.”

She dialed the number imprinted on the front of the menu and placed the order. Then she settled the phone on the counter, took another sip of beer, and stripped her jacket off. Padding in stocking feet to the entryway, she hung the coat on the rack by the door and unstrapped her shoulder harness, hanging the Glock on the second hook before padding back to the kitchen.

She pulled the file to herself and opened it. A photo of a blond woman stared back at her. She lifted it and took a closer look. Even for a driver’s license photo, this woman was pretty. Creamy skin, large blue eyes, wide forehead.

“She was pretty,” she said, handing the photo to Marco.

He took it. “Yeah.”

She lifted the second photo of a man. Jacob John Ryder. He wasn’t bad looking. Straight brown hair with lighter highlights, parted on the left, a straight nose, thin mouth, strong chin. He had huge brown eyes framed with thick lashes. He wasn’t as good looking as Marco, but few men were. Still he looked sturdy and wholesome, your basic Mid-Western white boy with a solid family background.

“Is this the face of a murderer?” she asked, passing the photo to Marco as well.

“The prime suspect is always the husband or boyfriend…”

“Or lover, I know,” finished Peyton. She reached for her beer and took a swallow. “My dad always said a case was like a stool, built on three legs. The first is your suspect, the second your evidence, and the third your motive.” She pointed the neck of the bottle at Marco. “We got the first and some of the second. So then, what’s the motive?”

Marco scratched Pickles’ head. The dog stretched and growled in his sleep, then settled more comfortably. “Guess we’ll have to ask him when we talk to him tomorrow.”

Peyton nodded. She placed her beer on the counter and walked into the living room. She stopped at the table by the window and picked up a picture frame. A striking man with dark skin in a police officer’s uniform stared back at her. Officer Benjamin Brooks had served twenty-three years on the force before he was shot in a routine traffic stop. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Peyton had just finished her rookie year when she got the call.

She set the frame down and looked out the window. The lights from the cars sped up and down 19th Avenue. Fog was rolling in, sliding through the houses and settling over the street.

“You ever think about getting married, Marco?” she asked without turning around. She knew Marco had his fair share of conquests. Men who looked like him always did, but in the seven years they’d been partners, she’d never known of a serious relationship.

“No, I don’t think cops should marry.”

Peyton nodded, her thoughts turning to her mother. Alice Brooks had never remarried after her husband was killed. She moved in with her sister and worked in a tourist trap of a store for little more than minimum wage. Not that she needed the money. Ben had left her with a healthy pension and a life insurance policy. Still, she liked having something to do. Peyton didn’t see her much. She didn’t approve of Peyton’s job, not after her father died.

“With divorce as frequent as it is now, why would he kill her? Why wouldn’t he just leave?”

Marco swiveled in his chair. “Maybe he didn’t want to be a father. Maybe he was afraid he’d have to pay child support.”

Peyton didn’t turn. Marco had hit on the motive she feared most. It was bad enough to kill one’s wife, but to off an innocent baby…that was truly sick.

“Hey, Brooks, you ever think about getting married.”

She turned around and wandered back to the kitchen. “No man can handle me,” she said with a laugh, reaching for her beer.

*   *   *

Jake watched the coffee drip into the pot, inhaling the rich aroma. Reaching for a mug, he poured himself a cup, but didn’t take a sip. Wandering to the refrigerator, he pulled it open. Beyond a bottle of catsup and a half an onion, there was nothing inside to be called food.

He’d have to go to the store today, and tomorrow he was forcing himself to go to work. He couldn’t keep turning around in this flat or staring at the closed bedroom door. Sam had called three times, but he’d let it go to his voice mail. He hadn’t been able to avoid Faith’s repeated attempts to get a hold of him, but he really had nothing to say to her, so she’d hung up after a few minutes of asking if he was all right or if he needed her to come out. Then he’d gotten the really strange text message.

Please call me. It’s very important. I need to talk with you in person. Neal Goldman

He didn’t know any Neal Goldman, but he’d called the number anyway. It didn’t even go to a message center, it just buzzed with a busy signal. He’d given up after the third try. If Neal Goldman wanted to get ahold of him, he could call again.

He returned to his mug and lifted it, taking a tentative sip. It burned his palate, but he didn’t mind. The smell of the coffee brought Zoë’s face to mind, Zoë closing her eyes in bliss as she took a sip. God, he missed her. He missed everything about her.

A knock sounded at the door. For a moment, he thought of ignoring it. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Mrs. Parker kept bringing him sweets – chocolate cake, cookies, a cherry pie – as if eating such things could replace his wife.

The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. Jake set down the mug and walked into the entry, pulling the door open without looking through the peephole. A short woman and a very tall man stood in the hallway.

The woman held out a shining bit of metal in a leather case. “Jacob Ryder?” she asked.

He glanced down at the metal and saw the words S.F. Police Department embossed on the top. A badge. “Yes?”

She snapped shut the badge. “I’m Inspector Brooks and this is my partner, Inspector D’Angelo. Can we come in and talk with you for a moment?”

Jake backed up to allow them inside, not sure what they could possibly want with him. Had there been a robbery or something in the building?

Both of them sauntered into the flat, looking around. The woman stood about five six, but she wore three-inch heels. She was of mixed ethnicity, probably part African American. She had a mound of curling black hair pulled into a ponytail at the back of her head. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black and her skin was a honey-brown color. She had full lips and high, wide cheekbones. She wore jeans and a black leather jacket. Not traditionally pretty, but exotic looking.

The man was well over six feet, massive shoulders. His jacket pulled across his chest, outlining his muscular build. He was probably Italian with black, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes. He looked like a male model, but the way he surveyed the room gave him a dangerous, edgy air.

The man walked around the flat, looking at the photos on the wall. He picked up a photo of Zoë on the mantle, one Jake had taken in Golden Gate Park. She was leaning against a tree, her blond hair thrown over one shoulder. He showed it to the woman.

“Is that your wife?” she asked.

Jake nodded with a frown. He didn’t like the officer handling Zoë’s picture.

“Nice picture,” he said, setting it down again.

The woman wandered over to her partner’s side and looked at the photos he was inspecting, all pictures Jake had taken at various times and places throughout the City. She faced him again. “You take these?”

“Yeah.” He realized he was still holding open the door. He closed it and moved into the family room. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“We’d just like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

Jake shrugged. He was so confused he wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess.”

She settled herself on the couch and pointed to the arm chair diagonal to her. Jake walked to the chair and sank into it. At the other end of the couch was a blanket and pillow he’d folded when he got up this morning. Zoë would have expected him to put it away, but he couldn’t find the energy. Just folding it had taken will power.

Officer Brooks reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small notepad. She flipped up the cover. “Your full name is Jacob John Ryder, your parents were John and Grace Ryder, you have two sisters, Faith and Hope, both married, and one niece Emily. You work at a bank as a loan officer, right?”

Jake shifted and looked over his shoulder at the male officer. “Yeah, what’s this about?”

“Your wife was Zoë Harper Ryder, daughter of Dr. Blake and Claire Harper. She worked…” The officer paused and looked up at him, lifting her brows. “…at a coffee shop.”

“Yeah.” He shifted back around. “What exactly are you here for?”

She gave him a smile. It was pleasant enough. “We just want to ask you some questions. When someone as young as Zoë dies so suddenly, it’s standard protocol to ask questions.”

Jake frowned.

“Do you mind if my partner takes a look around the flat?”

“What would he be looking for?”

“You’re the one that found Zoë, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“In the bathroom.”

“That would be what he’s looking for. You don’t mind, do you?”

Jake wasn’t sure whether he should mind or not. He still didn’t understand why they were there. He shrugged.

Officer Brooks smiled. “Thank you,” she said warmly. She gave her partner a brief nod.

Jake looked over his shoulder as Officer D’Angelo went into the kitchen.

“Back to the questions. How long were you married?”

“Almost four years.”

“Where did you meet?”

“College.”

“San Francisco State?”

“Yes.”

Officer Brooks consulted her pad. “You were a business major and Zoë was pre-med.”

“That’s right.”

Officer Brooks’ brows drew down into a frown. “But she worked in a coffee house?”

“She didn’t want to become a doctor. That’s what her father wanted. She enjoyed being a barista.”

Officer Brooks nodded, her dark eyes searching his face. Then she leaned forward. “Bet that was annoying, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Here she had the potential to make so much more money as a doctor, but she chose to work for minimum wage.”

“It’s what made her happy.”

The officer shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. You like working at the bank?”

“It’s a job.”

Her gaze shifted to the photographs. “Bet you’d rather take pictures though?”

Jake glanced at them as well. “Few people can make a living doing that.”

“Still, it must have rankled. You working so hard, while she pissed around in a coffee house.”

Jake shifted uncomfortably. He was beginning to think agreeing to this wasn’t the best idea. What the hell did they want? “As long as Zoë was happy, that’s all that mattered. I don’t mind my job.”

“Did you have a good marriage? I mean marriage is hard in the best of circumstances, but it must have been really hard marrying someone like Zoë?”

“What does that mean?” Jake’s voice came out sharper than he intended. He flinched when he heard the bedroom door open. He shifted to look over his shoulder and could just see Officer D’Angelo disappear into the room.

“You weren’t exactly from the same social class, now were you? She’s the trust fund kid from a wealthy surgeon and you are the third child of work-a-day stock.” She looked at her pad. “Your father worked in factories, didn’t he?”

Jake turned back around. “What the hell is this about?”

“I can sympathize. I can’t even imagine how hard it must have been. She was used to so many things. Things not even your bank salary could provide. It must have caused friction.”

Jake rose to his feet. “Okay, I don’t know what this is about, but I want to know why you’re here.”

Officer Brooks also rose and Jake marked that her hand went inside her coat. Gun? He was so stunned, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He sensed the other officer looming in the doorway of the bedroom. A cold sweat broke out across his body and he felt his stomach knot.

“Take a seat, Mr. Ryder,” said Officer Brooks. The tone of her voice was no longer gentle or warm. This was a woman who was used to being obeyed.

He sank down onto the chair, his knees trembling, and gripped the arms. He could hear her partner cross the hard wood and come up behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. He kept his attention focused on the woman until she slowly removed her hand from her coat.

“Are you familiar with a drug called warfarin, Mr. Ryder?”

That took Jake by surprise. “Should I be?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. You see Zoë had unusually high amounts of warfarin in her system when she died.”

Jake’s eyes widened. It suddenly made sense – the delay in releasing her body, the movement of her remains to the Medical Examiner’s office, the visit by the police…except it didn’t make sense. Zoë died of a ruptured aneurysm. Dr. Singh had been certain.

“Wait,” he said, tunneling his fingers into his hair. “What are you saying? She committed suicide with this stuff?”

“No, Mr. Ryder,” came Officer Brooks chilling tones, “that’s not at all what I’m saying. Tell me, how did you feel about becoming a father?”

Jake looked up through his fingers and stared at the officer. He didn’t know what to say. His brain wouldn’t fit everything together. What the hell was she talking about? If Zoë had this warfarin in her system when she died, what did that have to do with their baby?

He rose to his feet again so swiftly neither one of the officers had time to react. “I want you out of here,” he said, pointing to the door. “I want you out of my house immediately! What the hell are you accusing me of doing? What the hell is this all about?”

Officer Brooks rose, snapping closed her notebook and slipping it into her pocket. “We just wanted to ask you some questions. Nothing more.”

“Get out of my house now! I’m not answering another thing. I don’t understand what is going on, but I damn well know this can’t be legal.”

Officer Brooks’ eyes shifted beyond his shoulder, then she nodded toward the door. The officer behind him moved toward the door, walking backwards as if he feared Jake might spring on him. Jake was trembling in a mixture of fear and fury. He glared at the other man as he reached for the doorknob.

Officer Brooks was holding something out to him. He tore his eyes from the man and looked down. It was a business card with the SFPD emblem in the corner.

“Here’s my card. If you think of anything or want to talk, call me.”

Jake blinked at her in disbelief.

“There are deals we can make, Mr. Ryder, things we can do. You have a clean record. I’m sure the D.A. would take that into consideration if you cooperate.”

Jake didn’t take the card. “Get out!” His voice shook. “Get out of my house!”

Officer Brooks bent and laid the card on the table, then backed to the door as well. When she had a couch between her and him, Officer D’Angelo opened the door and stepped into the hall. Officer Brooks followed him.

“Don’t forget. Call me if you change your mind. Call me and I promise to help you any way I can.”

Jake blinked rapidly, his hands tightening into fists. Officer D’Angelo pulled the door closed. Later Jake wouldn’t remember how long he stood and shook in the middle of his family room, but when he finally stumbled into the kitchen, he found his coffee had grown cold.

*   *   *

Marco unlocked the Charger with the remote and Peyton slid into the passenger seat. She stared at the dashboard as Marco walked around the back of the car and sank into the seat behind the steering wheel. They both sat for a moment without speaking.

Finally Marco stirred, placing the key in the ignition. “What do you think?”

“Don’t know. He certainly has a temper.”

“That he does.”

Peyton rested her elbow on the door and spread her fingers across her forehead. “Kind of a weenie way to off someone, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but he probably thought he wouldn’t get caught.”

“Yeah.” Peyton shifted in the seat and looked at him. “So what do we have?”

“Prime suspect is always the husband.”

“Check.”

“He found her himself.”

“Check.”

“He definitely has a temper.”

“Check. And we have motive, assuming he didn’t want to be a father.”

Marco sighed. “Well?”

“What? Did you find something when you were snooping around?”

Reaching into his pocket, Marco leaned forward and looked up at the flat. He pulled out a foil wrapped packet and held it up. Peyton recognized the circular, blister-pack of white pills with the numbers beneath them. “Tell me why a woman who is three months pregnant needs birth control pills.”

Peyton reached for them. “Maybe they’re left over from before the pregnancy?”

“Turn it over.”

Peyton flipped it to the back. The prescription sticker covered the backside.

“She had them filled just two weeks before she died,” said Marco.

Peyton tapped the packet against the dashboard. “You think she didn’t want him to know she was pregnant?”

“Seems that way.”

“Why?”

“Maybe she knew he’d react badly. Maybe she was afraid of what he’d do.”

Peyton looked up at the flat herself. “Yeah, but she couldn’t keep that hid forever. Seems to me she was running short of time.”

Marco reached for the keys and the Charger roared to life. “Maybe that’s exactly what happened.”

*   *   *

Jake stared at the coffee until he could get his emotions under control. Such a strange mixture of fury and confusion. Although the officer hadn’t come out and accused him directly, the implied threat was there. They thought him capable of murder?

His hands tightened into fists on the granite and he closed his eyes. How the hell had Zoë gotten some drug in her system? Why would she have taken anything, especially knowing she was pregnant? He’d never seen her take anything stronger than an aspirin before. There was no way she was on anything else and he didn’t know it.

However, a small thought niggled at his awareness. He hadn’t known she was pregnant. She had kept that from him. Maybe he wouldn’t have known if she kept anything else from him.

He pushed away from the counter and left the kitchen, turning into the hallway. Blood pounded so fiercely through him that he barely registered he’d crossed the threshold of their room for the first time in a week. He rushed beyond the bed and entered the bathroom, wrenching open the medicine cabinet. He grabbed the bottles lined up on the glass shelf, glancing at each as he threw them into the sink. When that turned up nothing, he wrenched open the cabinet drawer and began throwing things out of it. Hairbrush, hairclips, blush, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick. Kneeling down, he pulled open the doors on the cabinet and knocked peroxide, drain cleaner, cotton balls, lotion into a heap on the floor.

Leaving the mess where it was, he stalked into the bedroom and grabbed the drawer on her nightstand, tearing it out and dumping the contents on the bed. He found nail files, tissues, and a few necklaces and earrings – no pills.

Grabbing the bedclothes, he heaved them off the bed and sent the entire pile crashing to the floor on the other side. Pillows landed at his feet and he kicked them again and again, sending them flying into the dresser, knocking over bottles of perfume and other knickknacks. Still, his anger didn’t dissipate and he found himself swearing, kicking the blankets, the mattress…anything.

Finally he sank to his knees, panting, an ache spreading through his stomach. He couldn’t draw a deep enough breath, loosen the tightness that banded his chest. He felt light headed, so he shut his eyes, praying for calm. Gradually he took a breath, then another, his shoulders dropping, the muscles in his stomach unknotting.

Slowly, deliberately he opened his eyes. They came to rest on the red spine of a notebook, poking out between the box-spring and the mattress. He leaned forward and tugged it out. The word Journal was embossed in gold letters on the front cover.

He eased into a sitting position and placed the journal on his knees, then reached for the front cover.

Zoë’s  round handwriting sprung out at him.

June 16th,

Amy gave me this journal for my shower, said it would be good to keep my thoughts. Never been one for journaling, but thought I’d give it a try.

Tomorrow is my wedding day. Jake and I are spending the night apart. Got to keep up traditions, but I can’t wait until it’s over. It’s become too big. Mom and Dad invited half of Pacific Heights and most of the hospital. I wanted just family, but that wasn’t to be.

I’m looking forward to the honeymoon though. Two full weeks, relaxing in Belize. I can’t wait to spend time with my guy.

Jake has been so great through all of this. I know he was uncomfortable at the rehearsal dinner, but he never complained. Whatever I want, he’s agreed. I don’t know how I wound up with him, but I am so lucky. Can you imagine that tomorrow I will become Mrs. Zoë Ryder? Ha, probably should have kept my own last name, but Mom would have had a coronary.

Jake smiled. He could almost hear Zoë’s voice, see her expression as she wrote those words. He closed the cover and pressed it against his chest. Hugging it to him, he bent his head and wept, great wrenching sobs that felt like they were tearing him in two.

*   *   *

Jake peeked in the open window of the dressing room. He could see Zoë’s back in the flowing white gown and Claire, standing before her, adjusting the veil. He dropped below the window and listened.

“Just remember, when you’re in the reception line, point out the mayor for Jake. I’m not sure he’ll know who he is,” said Claire.

“I’ve got it, Mama,” said Zoë, just the slightest hint of exasperation in her voice.

“And remember to thank him for coming. It’s such an honor that he found time to attend.”

“I know,” said Zoë. “Listen, Mama, do you mind if I have a minute to myself?”

“All right.” Claire seemed taken-aback by the request.

“I just want a moment of quiet before everything begins. Please, Mama.”

Claire gave a tight laugh. “Okay. Don’t be so dramatic, darling. This is the happiest day of your life.”

“I know. I just want to savor it before everything sweeps me up, all right?”

“Sure. I’ll just be outside.”

“Thank you.”

Jake waited until he heard the door open and close again. Then he reached up, grabbed the window sill, and hoisted himself into the room. Zoë turned at the sound and a startled laugh escaped her.

“Jake, what are you doing? It’s bad luck to see me before the ceremony.” She hurried over and helped him climb inside.

He righted himself and then stared at her. Her gown was off-the-shoulder with a beaded bodice and a full skirt, leading down to a long train. Her blond hair was wound up on top of her head and stray curls softened her face. She wore long white, fingerless gloves and a sparkling tiara, which held the veil in place.

He sucked in a breath and let it escape. “You are beautiful,” he said.

A smile beamed across her face and she reached up to straighten his tie. “You aren’t half bad yourself, sir. What are you doing here though?”

“I had to see you before the ceremony. Once it begins, we won’t have a moment to ourselves.”

Her smile turned grim. “It’s too big, isn’t it? This isn’t what I wanted, Jake. I wanted a little ceremony with just our families and closest friends. How did it get out of control like this?”

He took her hands and rubbed his thumbs across the backs. “Your mother is a force to be reckoned with,” he said with a laugh.

“She is at that,” said Zoë.

He pulled her closer and pressed his forehead to hers. “Just remember. Tomorrow we’ll be on a plane to Belize for two weeks, just you and me. Then when we get back, our little flat is waiting for us. No more mansions, no more mayors, no more mothers.”

She sighed. “It sounds so wonderful.”

“It will be.” He pressed the back of her hand to his lips. “By the way, Claire is right. I won’t have a clue who the mayor is unless you punch me in the ribs.”

A laugh bubbled out of her and she kissed him impulsively. “You’ve got to go. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” she said, pushing him to the window.

He backed up, still holding her hands. “How can it be bad luck? I’m the luckiest man alive. An angel came down from heaven and agreed to marry me.”

She stopped and stared at him, then a smile spread like sunlight across her face. “And there it is. I was waiting for that. I love you, Jake Ryder.”

He smiled back. “I love you, Zoë Harper.”

*   *   *

Peyton sank into her desk chair and stretched out her legs. Marco sat down across from her, reaching for the file and opening it.

“What are you looking for?”

Marco shook his head, but didn’t look up. “Something we missed.”

“You still thinking about the birth control pills?”

“Yep.”

Maria approached the desk. “Hey, Gorgeous, captain wants a word.”

Peyton swiveled her chair around and gave the buxom brunette a sultry smile. “You don’t have to flatter me like that, Maria.”

She didn’t even bother to look at Peyton, her gaze fixed on Marco. He shut the file and pushed himself to his feet. “Thanks, beautiful,” he said. “You coming, Brooks.”

Peyton rose with a sigh and edged around Maria. “Next time you could try chocolates. I like the ones with caramel centers.”

“As if,” snorted the other woman and turned on her heel.

Marco shook his head. “Why do you bait her?”

Peyton batted her eyelashes. “Me? I didn’t do anything.” She walked past him toward the captain’s office, but he easily caught up with her. “Besides, she hates me. It’s fun to watch her fume.”

“You’re a horrible person, Brooks, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, her hand on the knob. “And you’re an angel. That’s why we make such good partners.”

They entered the captain’s office. It was brightly lit, even though the single window was covered with a shade. A modern, glass desk took up the middle of the room with a chair behind it and two in front. The only other furnishings were a white board that hung on the wall behind the desk and a laptop computer. There was one picture in a glass frame that sat on the edge of the desk. Peyton knew it was a photo of the captain’s husband, a computer software guru who did something that Peyton really didn’t understand.

The captain was of medium height. Peyton could look her in the eye when she wore her boots. She had brown hair that she kept in a short bob and small brown eyes that perpetually squinted. She refused to wear glasses, said they didn’t work for her, but Peyton suspected it had more to do with vanity than anything else. Not that Katherine Defino gave a damn about beauty, but she sure didn’t want anything to make her look weak. For her, glasses screamed weakness. Peyton guessed she understood. It must be hard to be a female captain in a predominantly male occupation.

The captain motioned them to the chairs in front of her desk. “Take a seat.”

Marco and Peyton shared a look. This wasn’t good. “What’s up, Captain?” said Peyton as she lowered herself into the chair.

“Where are you on this Ryder case?”

Peyton reached for her notebook. “We talked with the attending, Dr. Singh, then met with Abe in the ME’s office. We just got back from paying a visit to the husband.”

“And?”

Peyton frowned. “And? Um…”

“Did you get anything from the husband?”

“No, he ordered us out once he figured out what we were there for.”

Marco shifted in his chair. “I took a look around the flat. Didn’t find anything suspicious, except she was on birth control pills.”

“So?”

“She was three months pregnant when she died,” offered Peyton.

“Why was she taking birth control then?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Peyton looked at her notebook. “The only thing we came up with is she didn’t want the husband to know she was pregnant.”

“Why wouldn’t she want him to know?” asked the captain, bracing her elbow on the desk and resting her head on her hand. “Unless she was messing around on him.”

Marco nodded. “Which gives us an even stronger motive.”

Peyton closed her notebook and slipped it into her pocket. “With all due respect, Captain, but why are we in here?”

The captain spread her fingers across her forehead. Her wedding ring glimmered in the light from the overhead fluorescents. “Zoë Ryder was once Zoë Harper, the daughter of a well-heeled gastrointestinal surgeon named Blake Harper.”

“Yeah, from Pacific Heights.”

“From Pacific Heights, yes. The Harpers have beaucoup bucks and a great deal of political pull. You name an election in this city for the last twenty-five years and they’ve had their hands in it. Political fund raisers, lobbyists, the mayor has them on speed dial and the governor knows them on sight. Claire Harper sits on the board of two hospitals and our own Chief ME has been to her house dozens of times.”

Peyton leaned back in the unforgiving chair. It was made of melamine and didn’t conform to the curves of the human body. “What are you saying, Captain? You want us to…” She didn’t finish. In her years on the force, she didn’t remember having a conversation like this.

The captain exhaled wearily. “Claire Harper is demanding the immediate release of her daughter’s body for cremation. Dwight is backing us up right now and holding her off, but eventually he’s going to have to cave. We need to make an arrest and quick.”

“The body is the only evidence we’ve got, Captain. We can’t release it,” said Marco.

“And our motive is pretty weak. We need more time with the husband,” added Peyton.

The captain tapped her fingers against her forehead. “You could haul him in.”

“And he’ll lawyer up,” said Marco.

“Right.” Her fingers drummed a few more times. “Okay, so up the pressure, get him to crack. He works in a bank. I’ll bet they have his accounts. Get them to block him, cut off his funds. Put a tail on him twenty-four seven. Watch everywhere he goes, everyone he sees. We’ve got a narrow window to break him and that window is closing fast.”

“Done,” said Peyton, pushing herself to her feet.

The captain lowered her arm. “Brooks, get me a confession before Claire Harper puts in a call to the mayor.”

Peyton hesitated and looked back. “You’ve got it.”

“Dead socialites and dead lawyers. What the hell? Do I need this, no I do not.”

Peyton didn’t respond. She knew the captain didn’t expect one, so she followed Marco out the door.

CHAPTER 5

Jake picked up his tablet and Zoë’s journal, placing them in his briefcase and snapping it shut. He hadn’t been able to make himself read any more last night, but he intended to spend his lunch hour immersing himself in her voice, her thoughts – anything just to keep a small part of her with him.

Shrugging into his suit jacket, he reached for the keys in the bowl and glanced over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door. Claire wanted him to go through Zoë’s clothes and pick out something for her memorial service. He wasn’t sure why they were having a memorial service when Claire intended to have her cremated, but he just didn’t feel like arguing right now. He dreaded going through Zoë’s things, but he knew he would have to do it sometime.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, he realized he’d forgotten to shave. Not that he really gave a damn. Andrews probably wouldn’t care either. He’d likely be surprised Jake was coming in so soon. God, he needed some coffee. Not a night went by that he didn’t have the same dream – riding in the ambulance, red lights flashing across Zoë’s pale face, the siren screaming in his head.

He bent down and picked up the briefcase, reaching for the doorknob. He slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him and locking it as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to see Mrs. Parker or anyone else in the building.

Hurrying down the stairs, he crossed the entrance hall and pulled open the outer door, descending into the street. He kept his head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. A moment of panic speared through him as he realized he’d have to make polite conversation, pretend he gave a damn about people’s financial needs.

He set a brisk pace toward the bus stop, but when he came to it, he continued on past and jogged across the street. The coffee shop on the corner beckoned him. He could have gone to Zoë’s coffee shop, but he couldn’t face her co-workers yet. A few of them had called and one of them brought him some scones the day after she died. They wanted details on the funeral, but he didn’t have anything to share.

Squeezing past an elderly man, he entered the coffee house and moved to the back of the line. It was crowded – people sitting in armchairs and sipping from paper cups. A few had laptops open on tables and one middle aged man was reading a newspaper.

Jake kept his head down and studied the lines of his briefcase, thinking about Zoë’s journal. Why didn’t he know she kept a journal? He’d never seen her write in it, never seen her take it out before. It made him question what else he didn’t know about her. How the hell could you live with a woman for more than four years and not know little details like she kept her thoughts in writing beneath your bed, or bigger yet, she was three months pregnant with your child?

He moved forward in the line automatically, hardly registering the other patrons. He could hear the baristas calling drinks out loud, but he paid them only passing attention. Why had Zoë kept the pregnancy from him? How had she gotten that drug in her system? He knew what the cops thought, but he had to believe it was accidental. When he got a chance, he’d have to look up warfarin and see what it did.

He moved forward again.

“What’ll you have, bub?” said a voice behind the counter.

Jake looked up, blinking in surprise. The barista had huge holes in his ears, stretched by the metal gauges he’d placed there, and a piercing between his lower lip and chin. It looked like a stainless steel bar. His hair was a brilliant green at the tips and stood on end.

“What’ll you have?” he repeated, pointing at the menu hanging behind the cash register. His arm was covered in tattoos.

A dose of hepatitis C, Jake thought uncharitably, then glanced at the menu. For some reason, his brain wouldn’t process the complicated names. “Coffee,” he said.

The barista quirked an eyebrow. That was pierced too with another steel rod. In fact, only one half of his brow lifted. “No kidding.”

Jake closed his eyes for patience, then set the briefcase by his feet. “Just plain black coffee. You’ve got that, right?”

The barista straightened. “Oh, you’re serious. Yeah, plain black coffee it is.” He turned around and reached for a cup on the counter behind him, pouring coffee from a traditional pot into it. He slapped a top on it and slid it across the counter to Jake.

Jake pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and grabbed his debit card, swiping it across the machine. Reaching for the coffee, he took a careful sip. The heat and the bitter flavor made him suck in a breath of steam.

“Declined,” said the barista.

Jake lowered the cup. “What?”

“Your card. Declined.”

Jake swiped the card again. “Maybe it didn’t read right.”

The barista gave him a bored look. The machine made a beep and the young man looked down at the cash register. “Declined.”

Jake placed the coffee on the counter and glanced over his shoulder at the people waiting in line. The woman behind him gave him a sharp look. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, turning back around. “It can’t be declined.”

“It says declined, bub. You got another card?”

Jake opened his wallet and reached for a twenty dollar bill, sliding it across the counter. “My card can’t be declined.”

“Whatever you say, bub.” The barista pressed a few buttons on the cash register and the drawer sprung open. He stuffed the bill inside and reached for change, sliding it across the counter to Jake.

Jake took the money, putting it in his wallet. “Why does it say it’s declined?”

The barista gave him a disgusted look. “It don’t, but obviously, you ain’t got no money, bub.”

“That can’t be. There has to be around a thousand in there.”

“Not my problem, bub. Next?”

Jake shoved the wallet into his pocket as the woman behind him pressed her way to the counter. He bent and grabbed the briefcase, stepping out of the woman’s way. Reaching over her shoulder, he snagged his coffee. She gave him an annoyed look before turning around and placing her order. Jake wended his way through the crowd and out the door, stopping to take a breath as the cool morning fog circled around him.

Declined? How could that be? He hadn’t even been paying for food lately, since neighbors kept bringing him dishes. He started walking toward the next bus stop a few blocks away. Had Zoë made a purchase that he didn’t know about? What would she have bought that drained their checking account?

He heard the hiss of the bus as it pulled up to the stop. Glancing up, he began jogging to catch it. He barely made it to the stairs before the bus driver pushed the handle to close the doors. Climbing, he juggled the briefcase and the coffee as he reached for his pass and pressed it to the reader.

The bus driver nodded him back toward the seats and he grabbed the first one on the aisle, sliding into it and settling the briefcase by his feet. Reaching into his back pocket, he grabbed his wallet and using the side of his hand, slid the debit card free. Turning it over, he studied the magnetic strip. It didn’t look damaged, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t demagnetized.

The bus bumped over a rut in the road and he grabbed the bar on the headrest to steady himself. Replacing the card, he put his wallet in his pocket and settled back in the seat, taking another sip of the coffee. He shouldn’t have come to work today. This was a bad idea. The debit card not working was a sign. It was too soon, he was too raw to get back into the swing of things. He’d check in with Andrews and then leave. There was no way he could face talking with people today.

By the time the bus pulled up at the Market stop, he had calmed himself a bit. He rose with the other passengers and exited. The cool breeze blowing off the bay actually felt good as he walked toward the bank.

Pausing at the entrance, he drew a deep breath, his hand tightening around the handle on the briefcase. Just go inside, he told himself, it’ll get easier from there. He walked to the glass doors and followed a young woman into the foyer. Two ATM machines blinked advertisements from the wall on his left. Directly in front of him were the inner doors to the bank. He could see people already waiting in line to speak with a teller.

The young woman veered off and went to the ATM. Jake walked to the inner door and pushed it open, stepping into the bank. He immediately turned right and set the coffee and his bank keys on his desk, then walked beyond it to the credenza beneath the plate-glass windows, which looked out over Market.

He slid back the door on the credenza and settled the briefcase on the bottom shelf, below the neat stacks of fliers for various products the bank offered. The credenza was between his desk and the one to the immediate right of him, but since the financial crisis, the bank had cut back to one loan officer and he was it. He had use of both desks and the credenza without complaint.

Sliding the door shut again, he returned to his desk. He hadn’t even made it to his chair when he stopped short. He’d forgotten about the picture of Zoë that he kept on the right-hand corner. He could see her smile, the line of her cheek, the way her blond hair framed her face. He felt his heart pick up speed, his chest constrict. He swallowed hard, fighting for composure. He didn’t want to break in here. Not now, not in this place.

“Jake,” came Sam’s voice, snapping his attention.

Jake tore his gaze from Zoë’s picture and stared at his friend. Sam’s eyes moved from Jake to the photo and back again. Without missing a beat, he picked up Zoë’s picture and circled around the desk, pulling open a drawer and placing it inside. He shut the drawer and moved toward Jake.

“One thing at a time, okay?”

“I have her pictures all over the house and I haven’t taken them down. I spend hours staring at them.”

Sam grasped his shoulder, his fingers digging in enough to ground Jake. “Yeah, but this is different. Here you have to pretend.”

Jake focused on his friend’s face and nodded. “It’s too soon. I shouldn’t have come back.”

Sam started to respond, but the bank manager, Evan Andrews, appeared behind him, coming toward Jake at a rapid clip. Jake turned toward him as Andrews came to a stop.

“Jake, I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I know, sir, but I thought maybe it was time I come back.” He glanced around at the customers. “I’m not sure it was a good idea, though.”

Andrews shifted his attention to Sam. “Would you give us a moment, Sam?”

Sam backed up a few steps. “Sure.” He moved toward the teller line, glancing over his shoulder at Jake.

Jake shrugged at him, then turned to his boss. “I know this isn’t professional and I know you’re short staffed since I’m the only loan officer, but I don’t think I’m ready yet. It’s only been a week and…”

“Look, Jake,” interrupted Andrews. He was about Jake’s height with a bald crown and a circle of close cropped grey hair marking a line from his ears to the back of his head. He had deep-set, watery blue eyes and a beak of a nose. “You’ve been a good employee for the last three years. I have no complaints.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that you…”

“You’ve got to understand – it’s an image thing, Jake. It’s hard enough to project a positive image as a banker, but any little whiff of scandal and the media vultures would be on us like white on rice.”

Jake rubbed a hand over his face, feeling again the stubble on his jaw. “What? I don’t think I understand what you’re saying.”

“Don’t make me spell it out, Jake. I’m trying to avoid a scene.”

“What scene? I don’t even understand what you’re saying.”

Andrews looked over his shoulder. A security guard had moved into the space between the door and the teller line. Jake’s attention shifted to him.

“When this all blows over, I’ll be happy to write you a recommendation. You’ve been one of our best loan officers. No doubts about your numbers.”

Jake’s eyes snapped to his face. “You’re firing me?”

Andrews blew out his breath. “The police said…”

“The police have been here?”

People in line turned around at the sound of his voice and Jake realized he was yelling.

Andrews held up his hands, motioning Jake to keep his voice down. “I don’t want a scene. Neither do you.”

“Are you firing me?”

“Jake, image is everything in business and…”

“Answer me!”

Andrews took a step back. “Corporate policy doesn’t allow for a suspect in a criminal case to represent the bank.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jake shouted, taking a step forward.

Andrews’ hands came up again and the guard moved closer. “No scene, Jake, okay? You don’t need any more trouble right now.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re firing me because some idiot cops think I’m a suspect! I swear I’ll sue this bank. I’ll sue the police department. This is defamation of character. This is outrageous!”

A few people broke away from the line and hurried toward the doors. Andrews caught the motion from the corner of his eyes before he looked back at Jake.

“I need you to leave now, Jake. Please, just leave. You’re scaring customers away.”

Jake found himself shaking with rage. “You can’t do this to me. Mr. Andrews, please. This is ridiculous.”

The guard moved beyond Andrews and reached for Jake. He stumbled back, but the guard grabbed his arm.

“I didn’t want it to be like this, Jake. I really didn’t want it to be like this.” He held out his hand. “I need your keys.”

Jake’s eyes involuntarily went to the blotter on his desk where he’d laid the keys when he came in. Andrews’ gaze followed it and he moved over to snag them up.

“Come on,” said the security guard, tightening his grip.

“Let go of me!” Jake tried to break his hold, but the guard pulled him toward the glass doors. “God damn it, let go of me!”

The guard didn’t even speak and Andrews moved back as if he was afraid Jake might contaminate him.

“Okay, okay,” said Jake, bracing his feet on the carpet. “I’ll leave. Just let me get my things. Just let me get my things!” He frantically looked over his shoulder at his boss, but Andrews had pulled out his cell phone and was calling someone. Jake had a suspicion he knew who it was.

The guard knocked him off balance, dragging him closer to the doors. His briefcase with Zoë’s journal was still in the credenza. They couldn’t make him leave before he got that.

“Mr. Andrews? Please, Mr. Andrews, let me get my things.”

Andrews placed the phone in his pocket. “The police are on the way, Jake. I think you better get out of here before they arrive.”

Jake felt the fight go out of him.

“Get him out of here,” said Andrews, walking beyond Jake and pulling open the door.

The guard led him to the opening and across the foyer. Using his free hand, he shoved open the glass doors and then threw him out onto the sidewalk. Jake stumbled, but caught himself and whipped around. Andrews and the guard blocked the entrance. Behind them, Jake could see Sam watching him with a tortured expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, Jake, I really am.”

Jake looked around the street. Some of the customers were staring at him. When he looked back up, Andrews was gone, leaving the guard standing at the door, watching him.

Jake’s gaze shifted to the plate-glass windows. Sam and a few other colleagues were looking out at him. He couldn’t read their expressions from where he stood, but he sensed their confusion. A moment later, Andrews appeared behind them, scattering them like gazelle.

*   *   *

Peyton’s cell phone vibrated on the desk and she automatically reached for it. “Brooks.”

“Officer Smith here.”

Peyton didn’t recognize the voice, but she remembered the name of the patrol officer sent to follow Ryder during the day. “Hey, Smith, what ya got for me?”

“He just got thrown out of the bank.”

“Hm, he went to work, huh?”

“Yeah. The manager placed a call to dispatch, but we intercepted it. You want us to pick him up?”

“No, tail him. Don’t haul him in yet. D’Angelo and I are trying to get more evidence before we bring him in. Don’t want him lawyering up on us.”

“You got it.”

“Hey, how’d he get to work? He doesn’t have a car registered in his name.”

“Bus.”

Peyton reached for a pen and jotted a note on her pad. Need to revoke bus pass. “Where’s he headed now?”

“He’s just standing around in front of the bank, looking lost.”

“When you say they threw him out, do you mean literally?”

“Yep, the security guard dumped his ass on the street.”

Peyton’s brows lifted. She hadn’t expected that when she talked with the bank manager. Nothing like innocent until proven guilty. Well, she was responsible. She hadn’t left much wiggle room when she talked to Andrews. She made it clear the first suspect was always the husband. Ninety percent of the time that proved to be the assailant as well.

“He’s on the move,” came Smith’s voice over the phone

“Where’s he headed?”

“South, toward Mission.”

“Don’t lose him.”

“We’re on him.”

“Where do you think he’s headed?”

“Bus stop.”

“Okay. I’ll get his pass revoked. Make sure he doesn’t see you.”

“Got it.”

Marco dropped something on her desk, then circled around to his seat and slumped into it.

“Keep me posted,” she told Smith.

“Done.”

Peyton lifted the paper and glanced at it. “What’s this?”

“Motive.”

Peyton read more carefully. “Life insurance?”

“Quarter of a million. Look at the beneficiary.”

Peyton nodded. “I see. Did he have one as well?”

“Yeah. Same amount.”

Peyton tapped the paper with her pen. “They got these when they married.”

“I know.”

Peyton sank back in her chair. “A lot of couples get life insurance when they get married. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel solid to me.”

“We’re pretty slim on everything. Your daddy’s stool is a bit wobbly on this one.”

“So there’s got to be something we’re missing. Did you check his prescription records?”

“Yep, no warfarin.”

“What about hers?”

“Nope.”

“Where the hell did he get the stuff?”

Marco opened the file again and riffled through a few pages. “Her father had a stroke five months ago. He’s in a convalescent home on California Avenue. I called the home and asked if Ryder had ever visited. They looked back over the records and found multiple times when he was there.”

“Are you saying he got it from the home?”

“It could be a source.”

Peyton tapped the pen again. “We need something else, a real solid motive. I wish we could find out if she was messing around on him.”

“Do we know any of her friends? She might have told one of them.”

“I haven’t found anything yet. I was thinking of putting in a call to her mother. See if she knew who Zoë’s friends were.”

“Yeah, you handle that one,” he said with a dramatic shudder.

“Okay. If I’m gonna call the Socialite Queen Bee, you head over to the coffee house and find out who Zoë hung out with at work.”

“On it,” said Marco, rising to his feet.

“I’ll bet they’re gonna love you,” laughed Peyton, reaching for the phone.

Marco gave her a wicked smile as he headed for the door.

*   *   *

Jake exited the bus at Powell and walked toward the branch on Kearny. He couldn’t believe how angry he was. He needed to get his card fixed and he sure as hell couldn’t go back into his branch to have it done.

Andrews had thrown him out without allowing him to get his things. He needed to call Sam and ask him to collect them, but he was so humiliated he couldn’t face that call just yet. He needed to walk off some of this frustration and anger.

The damn police. Where did they get off contacting his employer? They had nothing on him. They hadn’t even hauled him into the precinct yet. Why the hell were they messing in his life?

His thoughts turned as always to Zoë. They said this drug was in her system, a drug he’d never heard of before. How did he even know that part of it was true? He believed them without any evidence to prove it. Zoë would never have taken anything knowing she was pregnant. He was sure of that.

So how the hell did she get it? It had to be a lie. Dr. Singh said she died of an aneurysm. Why would he lie? Why would he tell the police something different than he told her husband? Maybe he made a mistake and gave her the wrong medication. Maybe the whole thing was Dr. Singh’s fault.

He paused outside the bank and stared at the doors. For a moment, he couldn’t remember why he’d come here. Then he blinked and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He needed some real sleep. He was getting punchy and this whole situation was beginning to spook him.

He climbed the stairs and pushed open the doors. Only two other people waited in line for a teller, so he moved up behind them.

If Dr. Singh was lying about the warfarin stuff and he was the one who gave it to her, what made her sick in the first place? What made her blood pressure drop so low? Maybe she’d had a ruptured aneurysm and they gave her the warfarin stuff to stop it. He had to look up warfarin and see what it did, but his tablet was in the briefcase with Zoë’s journal.

Two windows opened up and the people in line moved to them. Jake pushed thoughts of Zoë into the background and reached for his wallet, pulling his card out. Another window opened and the smiling young woman behind the counter beckoned him forward.

“Good morning,” she said.

Jake forced himself to smile in return. “Good morning.” What an ironic statement! It had been anything but good. “My card seems to have become demagnetized.” He held it out to her.

“No problem. Let me just take a look at that.” She took the card and swiped it on the keyboard of her computer, then began clicking on things with her mouse. “How has your day been so far?”

Jake leaned on the counter. He couldn’t believe how tired he felt and it was only just past 11:00. “Fine,” he lied.

She smiled at him again, then looked at the screen. Her brows drew down into a frown. “Do you have some ID on you, Mr. Ryder?” she said.

He opened his wallet and showed her his driver’s license. She tilted it toward her, then made a few more clicks on the screen.

“Let me just get my manager, all right?”

Jake straightened. “What? Why? Is something wrong?”

She gave him a tight smile and backed away from the counter. “I’ll be right back.”

Jake watched her hurry over to a desk in the back, picking up a phone. She said something into it, covering the receiver with her hand. Jake glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the bank. No one else seemed to be on alert. A security guard wandered toward the front doors, but he didn’t even look Jake’s way.

A middle aged Asian woman emerged from a hallway in the back and walked toward the teller. They exchanged a few words and the teller handed her Jake’s card. Together they approached the window again.

“I’m sorry to make you wait, Mr. Ryder.”

“Is something wrong?” Jake realized his voice came out sharp when the teller flinched.

“Your accounts have been frozen and…”

“What?”

“Your accounts have been frozen as of this morning.”

“I’m an employee of this bank.”

“We can see that.”

“Why the hell are my accounts frozen?” He suspected he knew, but he just couldn’t get his mind around the fact the police had so much power. “I want my money. There must be at least a thousand dollars in my checking account. I want to withdraw it now.”

The manager’s eyes went beyond him to the security guard. “I promise you I’ll look into this matter myself and see what can be done, but for now there’s nothing more I can do.”

Jake moved up to the counter and the two women fell back a few steps. “Don’t tell me you can’t do anything. I want my money. You have no right to hold it.”

“Calm down, sir,” came a voice behind him and Jake knew it belonged to the security guard.

The manager edged to the counter and laid a card on it. “Here’s my card. Call me tomorrow and I’ll see what I can find out. I should have some information for you by then.”

“Who put the hold on my account?”

“It was placed by the branch on Market.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t say, but I promise I’ll look into that for you.”

Jake realized he was breathing hard. “I need that money. I have bills to pay. You have no right to put a hold on it.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I wish I could do something for you.”

“You can give me my damn money!” he shouted.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “I said calm down, mister.”

Jake shrugged the hand off and backed away from the counter. “I don’t understand this. What the hell is going on?”

The manager and the teller gave him pitying looks. The security guard rounded on him, stepping between him and the counter. “She said she’d look into it.”

Jake took another step back. He didn’t want to be thrown out of another bank today. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything to anybody.”

The security guard took a step forward and Jake took one back. “Just leave now, okay? Just leave.”

Jake looked at the manager once more, then turned on his heel and hurried from the bank. He stumbled down the stairs and stopped on the street, bracing his hands on his thighs. He felt light headed, the blood pounded so fiercely in his temples.

What was he going to do now? He couldn’t get money to buy food or pay rent. He’d lost his job. And why? He didn’t even understand what was happening to him. He needed to sit down and think his next move. He wondered if he should contact a lawyer, but how the hell would he pay a retainer?

He’d probably have to go to Claire and ask for help, but he didn’t know how he was going to explain that the police were suspicious about Zoë’s death and thought he’d had something to do with it. Would Claire believe him capable of something so horrible? How could he know? Zoë was her daughter.

He forced himself to slow his breathing. He needed to go home. He needed to get some real sleep and then think through his next move. They hadn’t brought him into the precinct, which must mean they didn’t have a very solid case. They were speculating right now. He just needed time to figure this out. There had to be a way he could prove he’d done nothing and get them off his back. There had to be something he could do.

He walked to the bus stop on the corner of Powell and sank into the seat. Leaning forward, he braced his head in his hands. He felt like he was in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. How had this happened to him? Just a week ago, he’d been happy. His life might not have been overly exciting, but he was satisfied with it. He had no problem with routine. He didn’t long for anything more. How could things have changed so quickly?

“Got any spare change?” A filthy hand shot into his line of sight and Jake looked up. A homeless man with a wreath of wild grey hair stood in front of him in tattered clothes. “Got spare change?”

Jake reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a few coins, extending them to the man. As he did so, his eyes landed on a white Crown Victoria parked across the street from the bus stop. Two men sat in the front seats, looking back at him.

The homeless man hit his hand with his open palm. Jake dropped the coins onto it, but his attention was fixed on the car. It had no markings, but a large antenna sat on the roof. The two men were nondescript, both white, one middle aged, the other younger. Jake didn’t recognize them, but he was certain they watched him.

He rose to his feet, but as he did so, the bus pulled up to the curb, blocking his sight. The doors hissed open.

Who the hell was watching him?

“You riding?” said the bus driver.

Jake tried to look around the bus without being suspicious, but he couldn’t see the car.

“Hey, you riding?” said the bus driver again.

Jake looked down, trying to corral his thoughts. None of this seemed real. He felt like he was completely off kilter.

“Mister?”

Jake lifted his eyes to the bus driver, then stepped around the homeless man and reached for the handrail, pulling himself up the stairs.

He automatically reached into his pocket for his keys and thumbed the bus pass forward. Pressing it to the reader, he started toward the seats.

The reader made a strange sound.

“Hold up, mister,” said the driver. “Do that again.”

Jake backed up and pressed the pass to the reader another time.

The reader made the same strange sound.

The bus driver leaned back and looked up at Jake from beneath the brim of his hat. “Dude, it says declined.”

CHAPTER 6

Marco entered the coffee house. It was crowded as these places always were. He took in the overstuffed arm chairs, the small, round tables, the people of every race, every age, lounging around the room, reading from tablets or typing on laptops. He even saw a woman with a paperback. Funny how you didn’t see many of those anymore.

He pushed past the line of patrons waiting to order drinks and walked up to the counter. He felt the eyes of the customers on him, but he ignored them. Behind the counter, the employees scurried around, making drinks or grabbing pastries out of the glass cases. A lower counter to the left allowed patrons to pick up their drinks once they were made. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his badge, flipping it open.

He set it on the counter and pushed it forward, so the young woman making coffee could see it. She paused as she set a cup on the counter and looked up at him.

“A caramel latte with nonfat milk,” she called. A man reached around Marco and grabbed the cup.

“I’m Inspector D’Angelo,” he said, picking up his badge.

She studied him, nodding slowly. She was in her early twenties, Hispanic. A thick, brown braid ran down her back and she had at least six earrings in each ear. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you know Zoë Ryder?”

She sighed and looked down. “Yes. She and I worked together a lot.”

“What’s your name?”

“Teresa. Teresa Gomez.” She glanced at the other baristas, who were watching them. “Is something wrong?”

Marco looked at them as well. “Can you take a break, Teresa? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About Zoë?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

He nodded.

“Hold on.” She moved toward the other workers and whispered something to them. Marco stepped back, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room following him.

Untying her apron, Teresa shoved it beneath the counter, then eased past her coworkers and met him in the middle of the store. She motioned to the doors. “Let’s talk outside.”

He followed her to the patio and took a seat opposite her in one of the metal chairs. The sun was breaking through the cloud cover and the temperature was pleasant. A few more people entered the coffee shop from the street. When Marco glanced over his shoulder, he could see a number of the patrons looking out at them.

“Curious bunch,” he said, offering the girl a smile.

She studied him with a worried expression.

Reaching into his inner pocket again, he pulled out his business card and passed it across the table to her. He noted that her eyes were locked on his jacket where it gaped open. The butt of his gun must be visible. He straightened and covered the gun.

“Tell me about Zoë.”

“What’s to tell?”

“Were you close with her?”

“I guess. We went out for drinks and a movie or two. I’ve even been to her flat.”

“Did you know she had a college degree?”

“Yeah, biology, but she didn’t want to be a doctor. That’s what her dad wanted for her.”

Marco nodded.

Teresa leaned forward. “I thought she had a blood clot or something. I can’t remember what it’s called, but her husband said she died from some genetic defect.”

Marco’s brows lifted. “That’s what he told you?”

“Yeah, I went by the house to take him some food, sandwiches and stuff that we made up for him.”

“How did he seem to you?”

“Devastated. He was sleeping on the couch. Wouldn’t even go into their room. I felt so bad for him.” She fingered a ridge in the metal table. “Why are you here? What does the police have to do with this?”

Marco ignored her question. “Did you ever see Zoë with her husband?”

“Yeah, he came in here sometimes. Once he sent her a dozen roses – their anniversary or something.”

“Did she ever talk about him?”

“All the time. They were always going on these little day trips up and down the coast. You know, Half Moon Bay, Santa Cruz. They liked to have lunch at some little dive in Pescadero and he really liked walking along Miramar Beach. He has all these pictures he took of her out there.”

“Did she ever say anything about their marriage? Complain about fights or anything?”

Teresa sat back. “What’s this about? Why are you asking these questions? He loved her. He was always good to her. I mean he let her work here and he never complained about it.” She watched a couple of people leave the store. “We make minimum wage. Who chooses to work for that? But he never said anything about it.”

“Did they fight, Teresa?”

“Of course they did. What couple doesn’t?”

“What did they fight about? Did she tell you?”

“Stupid crap. She was all into environmental stuff and she’d get angry if he didn’t recycle. She was pretty upset when he stopped visiting her dad. He’s in a home, you know? Had a stroke or something.”

“Jake stopped visiting her dad?”

“Yeah. He went regularly for the first few months. All three of them took turns – Zoë, her mom, and Jake, but Jake stopped going.”

“Why?”

“I guess he didn’t see the point. Dr. Harper is a vegetable or something. You know, comatose? Zoë wouldn’t give up on him. She went all the time. Read to him. It really upset her.”

Marco shifted in his chair, trying to stretch out his long legs. “Did you know Zoë was pregnant?”

The look on Teresa’s face told him everything. “No, pregnant?” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, God, poor Jake.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No, but…” Her eyes drifted away.

Marco waited.

Finally she looked back at him. “Pregnant? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why?”

Teresa picked at the metal ridge again. “It’s just that…well…”

Marco leaned on the table. “You can tell me, Teresa. I’m trying to help Zoë.”

Teresa flatted her palm. “Why? You still haven’t told me why you’re here. What happened to Zoë?”

“Was Zoë taking any medications that you’re aware of?”

“Zoë? Are you kidding me? She hardly took aspirin. I told you she was something of an environmentalist, a health nut.”

“Zoë had a very dangerous drug in her system. It caused her death. We can’t find any record of her taking anything either. That’s why I’m here. I need to find out how she got the drug or…” He drew a breath and exhaled. “Or who gave it to her.”

“Gave it to her? You mean deliberately?”

Marco nodded.

Teresa leaned forward. “You don’t think…” She glanced at the departing customers and lowered her voice. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”

Marco didn’t answer.

Teresa covered her mouth again. Her eyes filled with tears. “You don’t really think that do you?”

“Did she say anything? Tell you anything that you thought strange at the time. You started to tell me something earlier, but stopped. What was that?”

She didn’t answer and a tear escaped, rolling down her cheek.

Marco leaned forward and covered her hand with his. “Please, Teresa, anything you can remember will help. I know you want to help Zoë, so please tell me anything you know.”

Teresa swiped at the tear with her free hand. “She just seemed so sad lately, so on edge.”

“Go on.”

“She would snap for no reason and once I found her crying in the back. She was sitting on the floor, crying.”

“Did she tell you what it was about?”

“She said she couldn’t tell me. When I kept asking, she said she was sad about her father. I left it alone. I didn’t want to push too much.”

“Okay. How long had she been acting like that?”

Teresa shook her head and another tear escaped. “I don’t know…maybe two…three months.”

Three months? The amount of time she’d been pregnant. “Did she mention any other men? Did anyone come to visit her?”

A frown drew a line between Teresa’s brows. “Men? No, what men?”

Marco shook his head and squeezed the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Teresa.” He pushed the card closer to her. “If you think of anything else, will you call me?”

She ran both of her index fingers under her eyes. “Yes.” She reached for the card. “You don’t really think he would hurt her, do you?”

“Who?”

“Jake. He couldn’t have done this, could he? He was her husband. How could her husband do something like this?”

Marco sighed. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He nodded at the card. “If he comes in here, you give me a call, okay?”

She swallowed hard, then curled the card in her fist. “Yeah, I’ll call.”

Marco pushed himself to his feet. “Thank you for talking with me, Teresa.”

She gave him a sad smile and he walked away.

*   *   *

Peyton put her cell phone on the desk and looked up. Marco was just going into the break room. She pushed away from the desk and followed him. He was pouring coffee into a mug, his back facing her.

“I thought you went to a coffee house.”

He turned, lifting the mug to his lips. “I’m a cop, Brooks. I’m not paying $7 for a cup of coffee when I can get diesel fuel here.”

She smiled and leaned against the table. “Find out anything?”

“Not much.” He moved to the table and took a seat. “I met her friend Teresa. Talked to her for a little bit.” He placed the mug on the table and stretched out his legs. “How the hell did no one know she was pregnant?”

“Her mother knew.”

He looked up. “You talked to her?”

“Yep. Interesting conversation. She kept demanding to know why I was calling. I finally had to tell her there were some concerns about Zoë’s death.”

“And?”

“She immediately jumped to Ryder.”

“That’s what everyone does.” He leaned forward and pushed a hand through his loose hair. “I like gun murders better. At least then I know what I’m looking for. What are we looking for here?”

“Teresa give you anything else?”

“The way she tells it, Ryder was a great guy. Bought Zoë flowers, took her to the beach.” He shrugged and lifted the mug, taking another sip.

“Did she say if they ever fought? If Zoë mentioned anything?”

“She said it was normal stuff.” He narrowed his eyes. “She did say she caught Zoë crying in the back room one time. Said she wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. When Teresa pressed, she just said she was sad about her father’s condition.”

“When was this?”

Marco lifted the mug toward Peyton as if making a point. “About three months ago.”

“When she found out she was pregnant?”

“Yep.”

Peyton sighed. “Okay, so Claire said Zoë told her about the pregnancy, but she told no one else, not even her girlfriend?”

Marco shrugged.

“Did you ask Teresa about other men?”

“Yeah, she got snippy with me and said what other men. Did you ask Claire?”

“I asked her if there was a reason Jake wouldn’t have known about the pregnancy. She couldn’t think of one. She was more concerned about keeping him away from the house. Wanted me to put a patrol in front of her place. Told her that wasn’t in the budget and I didn’t think she had much to worry about. Still, I think I better run it past the captain.”

“What about other girlfriends? People she hung out with? Did Claire give you any names?”

“I asked, but she said Zoë wasn’t close to many people. She had her family and that seemed enough. From the moment she met Jake, she didn’t seem to need any other contact. Claire obviously didn’t approve of this, but Zoë led her own life.”

“Here’s what bugs me. Zoë was obviously keeping secrets from her husband, yet she didn’t complain about him to the only girlfriend we’ve found. You’re a woman, Brooks.” When Peyton gave him a narrow-eyed stare, he flashed her a stunning smile. “In theory.”

She punched him in the shoulder.

“Wouldn’t you tell your only girlfriend you were having marital problems? Wouldn’t you tell her you were pregnant?”

“I don’t know. I’m not the right person to ask. You and Abe are my closest friends. I don’t have any girlfriends I talk to on a regular basis.”

He sipped his coffee. “Something isn’t clicking for me.”

Peyton swung her leg beneath the table. “Me either, but we’re running out of time. Claire was pretty insistent she wanted Zoë’s body released. I think I bought us some time, but once the shock wears off about her actual cause of death, she’ll want to continue with her plans. And believe me, she isn’t gonna be happy about us waiting to bring Ryder in. She’ll want him arrested with or without evidence.”

Marco settled the mug on the table and nodded. “Who’s on stakeout tonight?”

Peyton pulled out her notebook and flipped it open. “Holmes and some rookie named Bartlet.”

He tapped her knee. “What’s say we pick up some Chinese takeout and relieve those two for a few hours? See if Ryder makes a move, then we can pick him up and question him.”

“Bring him in?”

“No, if he comes out of the house, we can cite probable cause, cuff him and put him in the back of the patrol car. That might scare him enough to get him to spill.”

“What probable cause would we have? We have less than no evidence, no solid motive, nothing.”

“We can say he was headed to Claire’s and we wanted to protect her.”

“That’s pretty weak sauce, D’Angelo.”

“What else do we have?”

She raised her brows, but didn’t answer. She wished she knew what direction to go next. She wished something would land in their laps, guiding them, but… “I’ll have to pass,” she answered. “I have a date tonight.”

Marco leaned back. “A date? With who?”

“Devan Adams.”

“The Assistant D.A.?”

She gave him a nod. Devan Adams was tall, dark and handsome, everything she liked in a man. He looked a lot like a young Denzel Washington, and he was smart. Not only did she like looking at him, she liked listening to what he had to say. Plus he had money. Marco had one thing right – they couldn’t afford many luxuries on their salaries and Devan always took her to the best restaurants. In a city like San Francisco, that was saying a lot.

“How long has this been going on?”

“About a week,” she answered with a smile.

“I thought you said no man can handle you, Brooks.”

“Well, I’m willing to let him try.”

Marco made a face. “Ewww.”

“Have fun on your stakeout.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Call me if you get anything.” She hopped off the table and turned around.

“Like I’m gonna interrupt your hot date,” he said, smacking her on the ass.

She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Call anyway. I wanna know.”

“Go have fun, Brooks,” he said as she reached the door. “Forget about this place for awhile.”

She looked back at him from the door. “Night, Marco baby.”

“Night, Brooks.”

*   *   *

A knock at the door woke Jake from a deep sleep. He sat up, letting the blanket pool around his waist and looked around the room. The shadows were long, coming in from the window. The knock sounded again and he looked over his shoulder at the door.

With a yawn he climbed off the couch and went to the door, but before his hand touched the knob, he hesitated and looked into the peep hole. Not that he could do anything if it was the police. He just wanted to prepare himself.

Sam’s distorted forehead was the first thing he saw and he unlocked the door, pulling it open. “Did you get my text?”

Sam nodded, then gave him a critical stare. “You look like shit.”

Jake moved back to let him in, scratching at his mussed hair. Sam wasn’t carrying anything. “You didn’t get my briefcase?”

“I wasn’t able to get anything. Two police officers came in and went through your desk. Took all your personal belongings.”

“The briefcase too?”

“I didn’t see them take a briefcase. Was it in the desk?”

“No, I told you it was in the credenza under the window.”

Sam gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Jake. The police cordoned off that area and Andrews is patrolling it like it was his particular mission. I don’t think I’ll be able to get it tomorrow either. Maybe once this blows off.”

Jake shook his head. “I need my briefcase, Sam. You’ve got to find a way to get it.”

“How, Jake? There are cameras all over that branch. How do you think I’m gonna get it without getting fired? Besides, what’s so important about a briefcase? Seems like you’ve got bigger problems.”

“My tablet was in there and Zoë’s…” He stopped and looked at Sam closely, registering the last thing Sam said. “You don’t believe I would hurt Zoë, do you?”

Sam gave him a wounded look. “Why the hell would I be here if I believed that? Shit, Jake, do you know what I risked when I argued with Andrews over you?”

Jake scratched at his stubble. “I’m sorry. This whole thing is making me paranoid.”

“I know. You need to get out of here. Grab some shoes. You’re coming back to my house. I already ordered a pizza. We’ll drink beer and watch the Giants game.”

All Jake could think about was getting Zoë’s journal. He wondered if he should just call the police and demand it. They had no right to hold it. They hadn’t charged him with anything.

“Come on, Jake. Let’s get out of here.”

Jake walked to the couch and sank into it. “No, I need to figure out my next move. I need to call Claire and see if I can borrow money. They blocked my accounts and my bus pass.”

Sam put his hand on his shoulder. “You can’t think without food. Besides, you need to get a new perspective. Come on. I’m parked illegally downstairs. Grab a jacket and let’s go.”

Jake looked up at him. He did have a point. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. Pushing himself off the couch again, he returned to the entryway, grabbed a pair of sneakers from beside the door, and shoved them on, then grabbed a jacket out of the small closet next to the kitchen.

When they stepped into the hall, Jake motioned Sam toward the stairs as he locked the door. “I don’t want to see any neighbors.”

Sam jogged down to the lower level and across the entrance hall. Jake followed. When he got outside, the few pink clouds floated overhead and the air had grown crisp. Sam pressed the remote and unlocked his Civic, crossing around the front of it and climbing inside. Jake grabbed the passenger door, but hesitated. A Crown Victoria was parked across the street.

The officer in the driver’s seat was the one who had come to the flat the other day, the big man who bordered on pretty. The second officer wasn’t the woman, but a young man. He looked like he wasn’t older than a high school student.

As Jake stared at them, the good looking officer gave him a short nod. Jake yanked open the Civic’s door and slumped into the seat. He braced his hands on his thighs and stared at the dashboard.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just go.”

“Put on your seatbelt, dude,” said Sam, starting the car.

Jake reached for the seatbelt as Sam pulled away from the curb. Looking into the rearview mirror on his side of the car, Jake watched the Crown Victoria make a U-turn in the middle of the road and pull up behind them. Swallowing hard, Jake gripped the armrest.

The entire ride to Sam’s apartment passed in silence as Jake kept the police car in his sight. When Sam pulled beneath the building into the garage, Jake didn’t get out for a moment. He watched the Crown Victoria pass by, then the garage door closed.

“Jake?” Sam poked his head back into the car.

Jake reached for the handle and shoved the car door open, climbing out. He followed Sam into the building and watched as Sam pushed the button on the elevator. He turned and looked toward the glass doors leading to the street, but he could only see the rapid traffic passing by in a multi-colored blur.

The elevator opened and Jake stepped inside behind his friend. Leaning against the back wall, he closed his eyes. His legs felt weak and he had a strange flutter in his stomach. He really needed to eat something.

When the elevator opened, he trailed behind Sam as they went down the hall, then waited while Sam fished out two sets of keys, juggling them as he unlocked the door. Jake’s gaze focused on the keys clasped in Sam’s other hand. He could see the distinct box shaped ones to the bank – one for the outer door, leading to the ATM machines, and one for the inner door, leading into the branch itself. If he just had his keys, he could retrieve his briefcase on his own. He didn’t give a damn who saw him now. He didn’t think breaking into a bank was nearly as bad as being accused of murdering your own wife.

Sam turned to look at him. “You okay?”

Jake realized he was standing in the hall. He dug the heels of both hands into his eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn tired and I don’t remember when I ate last.”

“Come in and I’ll get you a beer. The pizza should be here any minute.”

Jake nodded and followed him into the apartment. While Sam disappeared into the hallway to their right, Jake wandered toward the windows. Sam’s apartment was toward the front of the building, overlooking the street at an angle. Jake unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped onto the tiny cement balcony. If he leaned over the edge, he could see the front of the building and the street.

The Crown Victoria was parked in front of a small grocery across from Sam’s building.

“Here.”

Jake felt his heart kick against his ribs and he jumped. Sam held out a beer to him. Jake reached for it and realized his hand was shaking.

Sam noticed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone need a drink as bad.”

“Thanks.” Jake lifted the beer and drained half the bottle.

Sam motioned toward the apartment. “Let’s watch the game.”

Jake walked to the couch, a low slung, modern piece in green leather, and sank down. Sam turned on the television set and settled the remote on the glass coffee table. Jake was only half aware of the game as he finished off his beer.

At some point, Sam replenished the beer and answered the door. A few minutes later, he plopped a pizza on the coffee table and motioned for Jake to help himself. Jake settled his beer on the table and took a piece. The first bite nearly made him sick. He felt his throat contract, but he forced himself to eat it and take another piece.

Sam brought him another beer. Within minutes, they finished off the rest of the pizza and a line of empty bottles ringed the table. Jake didn’t remember drinking that much, but a familiar buzz filled his head.

Sam rose and went into the other room. Jake watched the batter knock the bat against each shoe, then the corners of home plate, not really seeing it. What the hell was he going to do? The cops were outside. He had no money. His job was gone. He didn’t even have the last thing connecting him to Zoë – her journal.

“Here.”

A wad of bills appeared in his line of sight and he blinked up at Sam. “What’s that?”

“Two hundred dollars. I want you to have it.”

Jake pushed the money away. “I can’t take your money.”

“Consider it a loan.” Sam’s words were slurred.

“You’ve had too much to drink. I’m not taking your money.”

Sam grabbed his hand and shoved the wad into it. “I’m fine and you need some cash to help you get through until this whole thing blows over.”

Jake extended the money to him. “I’m gonna go talk to Claire tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but you need money for cabs and food. Take it, Jake. You can pay me back later.” He slumped on the couch and reached for another beer. “Trust me. It isn’t much.”

Jake put the money in his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Ain’t no thing.”

“Actually it is. Just having you believe me is a lot.”

Sam lifted his beer and drank. “Ain’t no thing,” he repeated.

Jake pushed himself to his feet and swayed. He’d had a little too much to drink as well. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“You know where it is,” Sam said, pointing with the neck of his bottle.

Jake weaved his way to the back of the apartment and found the bathroom. He relieved himself, then washed his hands, splashing water on his face to clear away some of the buzz. On his way back to the living room, he halted. Sam’s dresser occupied the space beside the bedroom door and on the top of it were the things any man carried in his pockets – wallet, comb, receipts and…keys.

Jake’s gaze whipped to the doorway. He could hear Sam talking to the TV, complaining about a call. Before he knew what he was doing, Jake snagged the bank keys and tucked them into his jeans’ pocket. He felt a cold sweat break out across his shoulders and down his spine, but he didn’t put them back.

Hurrying into the living room, he grabbed his beer and downed the rest of it in one swallow. “I think I’m gonna head out,” he said, praying the tremor in his voice didn’t give him away.

Sam leaned forward. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, you’ve had too much to drink. I’ll take a cab.”

Sam slumped back on the couch. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Thank you for the pizza and beer, especially the money.”

Sam waved him off. “You want me to call a cab.”

“No, I’ll walk until I find one. I need to clear my head. I drank too much too.”

Sam climbed to his feet and walked him to the door. “You take care of yourself, okay? I’ll give you a call in a few days.”

Jake stepped into the hallway, trying not to appear too anxious to get away. “I mean it, Sam, thank you.”

Sam shook his head. “Stop saying that. Talk to you soon.”

“Sure,” answered Jake, then he started toward the elevator before Sam closed the door. Once inside, he leaned on the rail and closed his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. He couldn’t believe he’d taken Sam’s keys and he didn’t know what he planned to do with them, but what was done was done.

The elevator opened and he crossed the entry hall, pushing open the outer door. A breeze blew over him, cooling the sweat on his body, and his eyes immediately fell on the Crown Victoria. He stumbled to a halt and stared at it. He had to be drunker than he thought because he couldn’t believe what he was thinking. Still, he wanted to know exactly what the police had on him before he made another move. There was only one way he could think of to find out.

*   *   *

The City spread out below them, glistening brilliantly in the night. The Top of the Mark was on the 19th floor of the Mark Hopkins hotel and it commanded a panoramic view. The maître-d’ held the chair for Peyton as she slipped into it and Devan took the seat across from her. Looking out, she could see lights blinking on Alcatraz and the red-orange of the Golden Gate Bridge awash in a fluorescent glow. Fog was seeping into the city from the ocean, cutting the bridge in half and flowing into the bay.

“This takes your breath away,” she said.

“It does,” answered Devan.

She smiled at him. “Thank you for bringing me here. This is a sight no one should miss.”

He smiled in return. “Do you like martinis?”

She glanced up at the maître-d’, waiting patiently by their table. “I’m not sure.”

“May I recommend the Cosmopolitan? It has a touch of cranberry and lime juice,” suggested the maître-d’.

“That sounds wonderful,” answered Peyton.

“Two, please,” said Devan.

The maître-d’ inclined his head and left the table.

Peyton looked back out at the view, but she could feel Devan’s eyes on her.

“You are stunning tonight,” he said.

She laughed, reaching up to touch a wild curl. She’d let her hair free of its ponytail and put on makeup. Her black dress and high heels made her figure look trim. The dress had no sleeves, so she’d worried her toned arms might seem less than feminine, but a lace shawl had helped to soften the look. She’d even added a small, beaded handbag and she hated handbags. She preferred to keep her keys and credit card in her pocket, but little black dresses didn’t come with pockets. She figured Devan was lucky she hadn’t worn her shoulder harness and gun.

“Why do you laugh?” he asked.

“I don’t often hear that.”

“You should. You are a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He braced an arm on the table. “After the third date, don’t you think we should talk about our families. Isn’t it odd that we’ve avoided that until now?”

She glanced at the table and reached for her napkin, spreading it in her lap. “Mine is complicated.”

“Why do you think I haven’t talked about mine?”

She smiled at him. He was so unlike anyone else she’d ever dated. So sophisticated and worldly. “You go first.”

“Serves me right, I guess.” His teeth flashed white against his dark skin. “Both of my parents are corporate attorneys. Dad’s thinking of running for office. He even has a fact-finding team in place, but my mother is not happy about becoming a candidate’s wife.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t want to give up her career.”

“I can understand that,” said Peyton. “Are you an only child?”

“Yes, you?”

“Yep, Dad said they couldn’t do any better than me, so I’m it.” She held up a hand.

Devan laughed, then fingered the rim of his water glass. “Mom said it took too much time away from work.”

“Child rearing?”

“Child birth.”

Peyton couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged, his shoulders pulling the lines of his suit jacket. He wasn’t as muscular as Marco, but he was fit. “They gave me the best of educations and I’ve never wanted for anything. They were always actively involved in anything I did. I shouldn’t complain.” He leaned forward. “Now it’s your turn. I know your father was a cop.”

A waiter arrived with their drinks. “Do you know what you’d like to order?” he asked as he set them down. He tucked the tray behind his back and leaned forward.

Peyton used the interruption to grab her menu. Devan watched her for a moment more, then picked up his own. Her eyes widened when she saw the price, but she couldn’t back out now. The Top of the Mark offered a three course meal with two main entrée choices. She wanted to laugh. She was used to being able to select ten different types of hamburgers at her favorite burger joint.

She realized both the waiter and Devan were waiting for her. She looked up. “I’d like the Chateaubriand, please.”

“Excellent choice,” said the waiter, leaning toward Devan.

“I’ll have the same,” he answered and the waiter left.

Picking up her drink, Peyton took a sip. The astringent mix of vodka and cranberry flooded her mouth. A moment later she tasted the lime. She sucked in a breath. “Wow.”

Devan took a sip of his own drink. “Good, huh?”

“Very.” She didn’t want to tell him she was more of a beer kind of girl. “Marco would give me a bad time for ordering the Chateaubriand. He became a vegetarian two years ago.”

Devan gave a nod. “You and Marco are very close, aren’t you?”

Peyton heard the deeper question in his voice. She wasn’t about to lie. “I would take a bullet for him.”

Devan picked up his drink and took another sip as if to pretend he wasn’t bothered. Peyton could tell by the tight angle of his shoulders that he was.

“He’s my best friend and honestly, after all these years, he’s family, like the brother I never had. There’s nothing else there.”

Devan lifted his dark eyes. “I’m glad. Not sure I can compete with a man that pretty.”

Peyton laughed. “He’s one of those men that make women swoon and men wonder if they’re gay.”

Devan laughed with her. “You’re avoiding my question, you know?”

“I know. I don’t mean to avoid it. It’s just hard to talk about my dad. I still miss him. And when he died, I didn’t just lose him. I lost my mother in a way.”

“How?”

“It’s complicated and unfortunately, it’s gotten more complicated in the last few years.” She ran her finger along the stem of her martini glass. “Dad was a beat cop, as you know. He was happy with that. Didn’t want to climb the ranks or anything. He made me want the same thing. Then he was shot and killed in a routine traffic stop.” She braced her elbow on the table and sank her fingers into her hair at the temple. “They said it was drug related. The perp had so many priors.”

“Who was it?”

“Luis Garza. They believe he had Mexican cartel connections.”

“I remember reading about that now. He’s in San Quentin?”

“Two consecutive life sentences.”

Devan reached over and touched the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, Peyton.”

She turned her hand over and clasped his. “Thank you.” She released him and picked up her drink, taking another sip. “Anyway, after he died, my mom moved in with her sister and started working in a tourist trap of a store down by the Wharf. I don’t see her much.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t approve of my job. And now she has this boyfriend. He’s a piece of work.”

“How so?”

She glanced at Devan from the corner of her eyes. “He doesn’t exactly approve of mixed couples or their offspring.”

Devan opened his mouth to respond, then simply nodded.

“Closet red-neck, but Mom doesn’t see it.”

“I can see why you didn’t want to talk about it.”

Peyton shrugged. “We all have our baggage.”

The waiter brought the first course and set in in front of them. Peyton picked up her fork and moved the lettuce around on the plate, then took a bite. Now this she liked. The creamy smoothness of the cheese with the tart vinegar in the dressing exploded in her mouth.

Devan finished his martini. The waiter appeared as if by magic and reached for the empty glass.

“Can I get you another?” he asked.

Devan shook his head. “No, I’m driving, but bring one for the lady.”

Peyton started to protest, then thought better of it. Why not? She needed something to take the edge off. This Ryder case was driving her crazy.

As if he read her thoughts, Devan cleared his throat. “I need to talk with you about your case.”

Peyton paused with her fork midway to her mouth. “All right.”

“I hate to bring it up here, but I want to get it out of the way, so we can just focus on us.”

She studied him in the light from the candles. What could be so serious? “Go on.”

“This Ryder case,” he began.

“Yeah?”

“Watch yourself, Peyton. These Harpers are some powerful people. My boss has gotten a call from Dwight Boyd about it.”

“The Chief M.E.?”

“That’s the one. Claire Harper wants her daughter’s body released for burial and she’s pretty connected. At one time Blake Harper had his hands in about everything in San Francisco. Claire Harper is just as ubiquitous.”

“The only evidence we have is the body, Devan. We really don’t have anything else.”

Devan picked up his fork. “You may not have that, if you don’t get a break on this.”

“Would you charge the husband with what we’ve got?”

Devan considered it for a moment, then he shook his head. “No.” He leaned forward again. “But we both know ninety percent of the time it’s the husband. What motive do you have?”

Peyton shrugged. “They both had life insurance policies.”

“Pretty weak. I’ll bet they got them when they got married.”

“They did.”

“What else?”

“He didn’t know she was pregnant and Marco found a recent prescription for birth control pills when he searched the flat.”

Devan frowned. “But she was pregnant?”

“Abe has a fetus in his lab.”

Devan lowered his fork. “Why was she on birth control?”

“She didn’t want him to know she was pregnant?”

“That might be something. I’d follow that lead.”

The waiter set another martini down in front of her and Peyton reached for the old one, draining it. The waiter swept it away. She didn’t really like Devan telling her how to do her job, but he was trying to do her a solid by warning her about the Harpers.

“I appreciate the heads up,” she said. “Now, let’s try not to talk about work.”

He flashed that brilliant smile of his and gave her a smoky look. “As the lady wishes.”

The rest of the meal passed amicably. They talked about their childhood. He told her about the expensive boarding school he attended on the East coast. She told him about cutting classes, so she could try surfing in the frigid waters of the Pacific.

The Chateaubriand melted in her mouth and then dessert was the most decadent chocolate cake with pomegranate sauce she’d ever tasted. She ate every morsel of it. Devan seemed to delight in her enjoyment.

When they left the restaurant, she was full and slightly tipsy. She watched the City speed past out of the windows of his silver Lexus, and when they pulled up in front of her house, she waited while he came around the car to open her door. She could get used to being pampered like this.

He walked her to the door and reached out, fingering a curl that lay on her shoulder. “I really enjoy being with you, Peyton.” He bent down and gave her a soft kiss. His lips were warm and gentle on hers.

Peyton stared up at him and realized she was tired of being alone. Marco might be right and cops shouldn’t marry, but it didn’t mean they had to live a life of solitude and celibacy. She reached for the lapels on his jacket and pulled him down to her, giving him a real kiss.

He made a little gasp of surprise, then his arms went around her, pulling her tight against him. Peyton deepened the kiss, sliding her hands up around his neck. Then she eased back a bit and stared into his eyes.

“Do you want to come in?” she said.

“Hell yes,” he answered and reached behind her for the doorknob.

CHAPTER 7

Marco watched the cars go by at the end of Baker on Fell Street. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to go on stake-out. He hated the boredom, but something about this case was driving him crazy. He liked his murders simple. Someone gets pissed, pulls out a gun, bang, there’s a body. This…this just felt so damn sneaky and he hated sneaky.

You could understand why someone would pop someone with a gun in a moment of passion. Not that you liked it or got used to it, but it made sense. Humans were creatures of passion and they snapped sometimes. But premeditation? Who schemes and plans and designs a method to off another human being? For that you have to think about it constantly, meticulously research what you’re going to do, and then execute it with full awareness of the consequence of your actions.

He’d never interviewed someone who shot a person in rage or frustration or fear who didn’t say I didn’t mean to do it. Never. But this murder…this one…someone meant for Zoë to die and that someone was the person who should have protected her, taken care of her…in sickness or in health. Good damn reason to never get married, he thought.

“Uh,” said the rookie, knocking Marco’s shoulder with his arm. “Uh.”

Marco frowned at him, but the boy was looking across the street. Marco whipped around and saw Ryder leave the building by the front door. He staggered a little, then grabbed the railing on the stairs and stumbled down them.

Great. The idiot was drunk.

Ryder positioned himself directly across from the squad car and squinted at them. The streets were dark, only a few lamps along the sidewalk, but one was right above them where they’d parked. Then he looked both ways, waiting for the traffic to thin.

“What the hell…” said Marco, but from the corner of his eyes, he could see the rookie reaching for his gun. He turned on him as his hand reached for the door handle. “Don’t pull that thing here.”

“He’s coming this way.”

“I’ll take care of it. Just stay in the car.”

“He’s crossing the street.” The rookie’s fingers closed around the butt of his gun.

Marco filled his line of sight. “Do not pull that gun and do not get out of this car.” He yanked back on the door handle and unfolded himself from the car as Ryder jogged up to him. “What the hell are you doing, Ryder?” he said, easing the door closed.

“Hey, Adonis. Just wanted to say hi.” He leaned down and looked into the car. “Where’s Mighty Mouse?”

Marco really hoped the damn rookie didn’t pull that gun. He’d likely miss and shoot his partner instead. “You’re gonna get your head blown off, ya damn fool.”

“Would be a mercy, probably.”

Marco raised one brow and allowed his coat to gape open, revealing the butt of his gun. Ryder didn’t seem to notice. “You coming to give me a confession?”

Ryder’s face twisted. He leaned closer. “To what?”

Marco could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You drunk?”

“Why the hell not? Let’s see. Today you got me fired, blocked my accounts, and took away my transportation. What’s next? Get me evicted?”

Marco didn’t answer.

“I haven’t done anything. I’m the victim here. I’m the one who lost my wife.” He held his arms out to his sides. “Where do you get off ruining someone’s life? Where do you get that power?”

“You need to go home and sleep it off. You’re drunk.”

“Go home.” He turned an unsteady circle. “Go home? How?” He slapped a hand down on the hood of the car.

Marco flinched, catching his breath. He was afraid that if he looked inside, he’d see the rookie with his gun pointed at the windshield. “You’re gonna get yourself shot, Ryder. You don’t come up to cops on the street like this.”

Ryder straightened and his eyes widened. “Really? But you can take away my money, my bus pass, and accuse me of things…things that I can’t even stand to think about? But I’m not supposed to approach you!”

He was shouting and Marco looked around. A couple walking a dog was watching them. “If you want to tell me what happened, I’m all ears.”

Ryder looked up at him. His eyes were unfocused and watery. “My wife died. I don’t know how she died, but she did. Do you think I give a damn about anything else?”

Marco looked down at the asphalt. “Go home, Ryder. Get some sleep.”

When he didn’t answer for a long time, Marco looked up again. Ryder was staring at some keys in his hand. “You might as well take me home,” he said.

“What?”

Ryder glanced at him and shoved the keys into his pocket. “You might as well drive me home. I don’t have a bus pass and I don’t want to walk that far. I can’t afford a taxi. Besides, you’re only gonna end up there anyway. You might as well take me.”

Marco studied him. He’d planned to see if shoving Ryder in the back of a patrol car would make him break, but he hadn’t expected him to offer it himself. “You’re drunk.”

Ryder shrugged.

Marco looked around. The couple with the dog was finally moving away. What the hell was Ryder playing at now? God, he hated this case. Nothing fit, nothing made a damn bit of sense. “Put your hands on the car.” He grabbed his shoulder and shoved him toward the vehicle.

Ryder stumbled into it, but braced his hands on the roof. Marco moved up behind him and kicked his legs apart.

“You think I have a weapon? I thought you believed I poisoned people.”

Marco leaned closer to him. “You really should be careful what you say, unless you want to confess.” He made a quick search down the sides of his body, then bent to search his legs.

Ryder squirmed under the invasion. “Is this necessary?”

“You asked for a ride, dumb ass. I’m not putting you in a patrol car without knowing if you’re armed.”

Ryder shut up until Marco finished, but when Marco opened the back door and motioned him inside, he stopped in front of him. “I loved my wife.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Ryder stared him directly in the eye. He had to look up to do so, but his gaze never wavered. “You’re looking in the wrong spot. You should be looking at Dr. Singh. You’re letting past experience cloud your judgment.”

Marco frowned. Ryder didn’t seem as drunk as he had a few minutes before. “Get in the car,” he snapped.

Ryder studied him a moment longer, then he ducked into the backseat.

*   *   *

Jake locked the door, then went to the window and looked out. The Crown Victoria was across the street and D’Angelo was talking into his cell phone. Jake’s head buzzed from the beer, but he reached into his pocket and took out the keys he’d stolen from Sam.

He couldn’t believe he was thinking of doing this. If he got caught, the police would have something to charge him with finally. But Zoë’s journal was in that credenza and he wanted it. It was the last connection he had to her, the last thing he could look at and hear her voice. He couldn’t allow the police to take that away from him.

He went to the closet and put on a heavier coat, then changed into the hiking boots he’d bought with Zoë last winter when they went to Tahoe over Christmas. He’d hoped a vacation would let her forget about Blake for a few days, but she’d been moody and distant, snapping at him when he’d tried to bring her out of it. They’d actually left two days early.

Tying his boots, he leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think of the bad times with Zoë. He only wanted to remember the good. Which is why he needed that journal. He needed to see those events through her eyes and know that she had been happy.

He went back to the window and looked out. A black and white patrol car had pulled up to the Crown Victoria and a uniformed officer stepped out. D’Angelo exchanged places with him and the marked car pulled away, taking D’Angelo with it.

Jake breathed a sigh of relief once D’Angelo was gone, then he waited while the other officer settled at his post before he reached into his pocket and ran his fingers over the keys to the bank. Finally he went to the door and let himself out. Glancing at his cell phone, he was surprised to see it was almost midnight. Where had the hours gone?

He descended into the entry hall and glanced toward the doors. He could just see the front bumper on the Crown Victoria. Turning to the right, he hurried down the back hallway and stopped before the door leading to the back of the building. He eased it open, it squeaked horribly, then he peered around it into the courtyard beyond. Three stairs took him down into the utility yard, littered with hoses, broken furniture and a dumpster. He snuck around the edge of the building and looked down the alley to the street. He couldn’t see the Crown Victoria at all from here.

Returning to the dumpster, he pulled the lid closed, then shoved it against the rear wall. Dragging a plastic crate over to the side, he climbed up until he could use the ridge on the side to hoist himself to the top. The lid gave a little under his weight, but it held and he grabbed the brick wall, pulling himself along the top of it. He looked over into the yard behind the wall. It was a clear drop onto a raised planter bed. He waited a moment, listening, hoping there weren’t dogs in the yard, but he didn’t remember hearing barking whenever he took the garbage out.

Closing his eyes, he swung his legs out over the yard, then shimmied around until he was on his stomach, his feet dangling. He let himself drop and he landed in the planter bed hard enough to lose his footing. He fell on his backside and sat for a moment, waiting for someone to sound an alarm.

When no one did, he crawled to his hands and knees, then edged over the planter bed until his feet touched the cement of his neighbors’ patio. Rising to his full height, he tried to take stock of his surroundings. There were no lights in the backyard and the moon was covered by clouds. He felt forward with his hands stretched out before him and finally bumped and stumbled his way to the house. Plastic toys, a playhouse and the barbecue made a nearly impossible obstacle course through the darkness. Finally his hands touched the cool lines of siding and he breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God these people didn’t have a dog. He’d made enough racket to wake the laziest of canines.

He found the side yard and using the house to guide himself, moved toward the gate. He prayed it wasn’t locked. He didn’t know if he could climb over another obstacle. Already the cold bay air and the exercise were clearing the buzzing from his head and he was beginning to rethink his plan.

The gate was closed by a simple latch and he opened it. Light from the street lamp fell over him and he blinked until his vision cleared. He didn’t bother to look around, just walked out to the sidewalk and turned north.

It was a good hike uphill until he got to the branch on Market. Traffic still flowed up and down the thoroughfare and there was no way to keep out of sight now. He stopped a short distance down from the bank and studied it. A couple of homeless people huddled in doorways, nothing more than a pile of blankets and bags. Other than that, the foot traffic was light.

He thought through his plan again. Get in, get out. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. No one had to know he was even here. They wouldn’t go through the tapes unless something happened and they had to. Once he was done, he could put Sam’s keys in an envelope and mail them to him. Andrews would never even know.

Drawing a deep breath, he walked briskly toward the bank and pulled the keys out. He didn’t look down the street or glance behind him, trying to appear as natural as he could. He fumbled to get the key into the outer lock, realizing his hand was shaking again. He turned the lock and pushed open the door, then locked it again once he was inside. He could hear the alarm pulsing in the wall to his right.

That gave him a moment’s pause and he stared at the display, wondering if they’d changed the codes since they took the keys away from him this morning. Oh God. If they had, he was screwed. He would set off all of the alarms and they already had him on the tape from the ATM machine. He knew he had only about a minute to decide. He should go back out the door and run, but it was already too late. He was caught.

Swallowing the rush of bile in his mouth, he reached out a hand and punched in the old code, wincing as he did so. The alarm made three loud beeps, then the screen flashed to DISARMED. Jake pressed his forehead to the brick wall and let his breath escape in a rush.

Lifting a hand, he ran it over the back of his neck, feeling cold sweat run beneath the collar of his shirt. What the hell was he doing? Sneaking around in the middle of the night. Breaking into banks. He reminded himself that the police now had a reason to hold him, a reason to charge him with a crime.

He pushed away from the wall and walked to the inner door. He found that key more easily and unlocked it. He still wouldn’t allow himself to look back, afraid he’d see D’Angelo’s bulk looming behind him.

Once inside the bank, he took a last look around the shadowed interior, then hurried over to the credenza and slid back the door. His briefcase lay on the lower shelf and he snatched it out, hugging it to his chest. For some reason, tears stung his eyes. God, he must still be drunk.

Curling his fingers around the handle, he rose and left the cabinet open, crossing back to the inner door and pulling it open. He locked it, then raced across the foyer and shoved the outer door open. He also paused to lock that too.

Blood was pounding furiously in his head and against his rib cage. His hand felt sweaty around the handle, but he was almost clear. Slipping the keys into his pocket, he turned back the way he’d come and tried to appear nonchalant.

“Mr. Ryder?”

Jake came to an abrupt stop and his heart slammed forcefully against his ribs. Slowly he turned on his heel. A short, bald man in a brown uniform stood at the foot of the bank stairs, holding a flashlight in his hand. The beam was directed at Jake.

Jake shivered in terror. Oh, shit. This was it. Think, damn it.

“Mr. Ryder, is that you?”

Jake nodded, but he feared the motion was jerky and strange.

The little man sidled up to him and lowered the flashlight, letting out a bark of strained laughter. “Damn, I’m glad it was you.”

Jake gripped the briefcase tighter. In the street lamps, he could see the man wore a bank security guard uniform. He was in his late sixties, early seventies. His bulbous nose and close set eyes seemed familiar. “Charlie?” he said as recognition dawned in him.

A smile bloomed across Charlie’s face. A strange buzzing noise issued from inside his uniform, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Mr. Ryder, how are you?”

“Good,” said Jake with a laugh that bordered on hysterical. “Well, actually, I’m okay. What the hell are you doing here this time of night?”

Charlie looked back at the bank. “They moved me to night patrol, Mr. Ryder, about a month ago. I sit out here all night, watching the damn bank.”

Jake frowned. “Why? Weren’t you on days?”

“Yeah.” Charlie leaned closer and dropped his voice. “I think they’re trying to force me to quit. I don’t even get to sit inside the bank.” He motioned to the alleyway on the left side of the bank. “I park my pickup down there and that’s where I keep patrol.”

Jake exhaled, feeling some of the tension snake out of him. Another buzz vibrated from Charlie’s jacket and he placed his hand against his pocket as if that would stop it.

“I’m sorry. That sucks,” Jake offered.

Charlie shook his head. “I gave this bank thirty years. No retirement, hardly enough to pay for the mortgage, but I show up every single day. Now they’re trying to force me out.” He suddenly gave Jake a sharp stare. “What are you doing here this time of night, Mr. Ryder?”

Jake held up the briefcase, hoping his shaking wasn’t visible.  “I wanted to pick up a few loan docs, make some calls from home.” When Charlie’s frown deepened, he added, “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come down and get them when no one else was here. Really don’t want to talk to people.”

“I heard about your wife, Mr. Ryder. I’m real sorry.”

Jake tensed. What else had they told him? Surely they’d told him Jake had been escorted off the premises.

The buzz sounded again. Charlie reached into his pocket and dug out his cell phone. “Stupid thing,” he said, hitting it with the heel of his hand. “It keeps doing that.”

“I think it means you’ve got messages,” Jake told him before realizing he shouldn’t have.

Charlie gave a sad chuckle. “Lot of good it does them to send me messages. I don’t know how to check them. They send those text thingies and I never know how to get them. This damn thing vibrates all day long, driving me crazy. I want to throw it away. Whenever I ask my grandson, he mutters something I can’t hear, punches a bunch of buttons and hands it back. What the hell good does that do me? The bank could fire me through this thing and I wouldn’t even know.”

Jake stared at the phone despite himself. “Well, I better get going. It was good to see you, Charlie.”

“Yeah, you too, Mr. Ryder. You take care of yourself, you hear?”

Jake paused. Such a simple thing to say, but it meant a lot after the week he’d been having. “Same to you, Charlie,” he answered, then walked away.

When he got back to Potrero Hill, he wasn’t sure what to do. It was nearly three in the morning and he didn’t want to climb over the back fence again.

In for a penny, in for a pound, or something like that.

He gripped the briefcase tighter and walked boldly up to his apartment, dashing up the stairs and into the front entrance hall. He raced up the inner stairs and hurriedly unlocked the door, slamming it shut behind him. Then he leaned against it for a long time, panting, letting the sweat dry on his body. Finally he pushed himself away and settled the briefcase on the coffee table as he went to the window and looked out.

The Crown Victoria was in place, but based on the slumped forms in the front seat, he suspected the two cops were asleep. Breathing a sigh of relief, he went to the couch and dropped onto it, then he reached for the briefcase, snapping it open. His fingers touched on his tablet first, so he turned it on and typed in his password. Then he pulled up a search engine and entered warfarin. It was a pharmaceutical given to stroke patients to thin blood. As he read further, he came across the dangers and side effects. Massive hemorrhaging. He quickly closed the browser window and sat holding the tablet. How the hell would something so dangerous be in Zoë’s system? The only answer had to lie with the hospital. They had to have given it to her by mistake.

Laying the tablet on the briefcase, he covered his face with his hands and realized he was sober. A headache hammered in his temples. He forced himself into the bathroom and pulled open the medicine cabinet, reaching for the aspirin, but it wasn’t there. He found it on the floor where he’d thrown it in his rage. He picked it up and opened it, shaking two pills into his hand. He put them in his mouth and bent over the sink, taking a drink from the faucet. Turning off the water, he wandered back into the living room and sank onto the couch again. Reaching for his briefcase, he pulled Zoë’s journal out.

For a moment, he simply sat, holding it. He felt such a mixture of dread and happiness whenever he read her words. It kept her close in his memory, but it also made him ache horribly for everything he’d lost. Life without her seemed so empty, so meaningless. He couldn’t seem to get his head around the fact that she was gone and there was no way of getting her back. No way it would ever be okay again. How did you learn to live without the person you loved most? How did you go on without your wife? He leaned back on the couch and opened the cover, leafing to the page where he’d last read.

August 10th

Jake and I found this adorable flat in Potrero Hill. It’s near a park and a short distance to the coffee house. Jake can catch Muni about a block from our door.

I can’t wait to decorate it. Of course, Mom wants to insist the landlord refurbish the floors and paint everything fresh, but I want this to be my project. I want to decorate it my way. Jake doesn’t really care as long as I don’t put doilies on everything. And pillows. He doesn’t want a bunch of decorative pillows crowding the couch. He says he doesn’t understand why women love pillows…and shoes. Men.

Dad took me to lunch the other day. He wanted to talk about med school, but I put him off. I told him Jake and I were planning a family, not that we’ve talked about it, but I couldn’t think of anything else to keep him from lecturing me.

Maybe I should have just taken the lecture because now all he’s going to want to know is when he’s getting a grandchild.

Jake closed the journal and pressed it to his chest. He and Zoë had never discussed having a family. It hadn’t bothered him before, but now that he thought about it, shouldn’t they have talked about it at least? Discussed the possibility? Didn’t all couples talk about those things? Why hadn’t they?

*   *   *

Jake studied the sign. Potrero Hill Community Garden. Beyond the hand painted sign lay the City, skyscrapers stretching into the sky. He stood on the sidewalk and studied it, enjoying the way the sun glanced off the windows and shimmered as if a magical fairy kingdom lay below them.

“Here,” said Zoë, hitting his arm with a pair of gardening gloves.

Jake looked down at them and gave her a grimace. “Do we have to do this?”

She reached for his hand and slapped the gloves into his palm. “Yes, don’t you want to be part of the community?”

Jake gave her a narrow eyed stare and didn’t answer. She shoved him playfully in the shoulder.

“Of course you do,” she said, pushing him toward the rickety little gate. She opened it and stepped into the garden. Jake followed her reluctantly.

He’d expected a vegetable garden. He’d read a story about urban sustainability, but this was a flower garden. Beyond getting flowers to win Zoë’s attention, he didn’t really see much purpose in them, but Zoë was determined.

“Good morning,” beamed a tall, lanky man in sandals. “Come to help us out?”

“That’s right. We just moved in over there.” Zoë pointed over her shoulder to their building. “I’m Zoë and this is my husband, Jake.” Whenever she said husband, she got this goofy smile on her face that made Jake fall in love with her all over again.

A little Jack Russell terrier sidled up to Jake and sniffed his shoe. Jake bent over to scratch the dog behind the ears. He cocked his black and white head in pleasure and closed his eyes.

“I’m Josiah and that is Killer.” He pointed to the Jack Russell.

Jake shot him a smile and continued scratching the dog’s ears.

“Where would you like us to work?” Zoë asked.

Josiah pointed to a raised bed. “We could use a good weeding over there.”

“Done,” she said, reaching down and tugging on Jake to get him to stand. They went over to the bed and Zoë put on her gloves. Killer came with them and Jake took a seat on the edge of the bed so he could continue petting him.

Zoë hunkered down in the dirt and began pulling out the weeds. “Leave the dog alone, Jake, and help me.”

Jake gave Killer an apologetic look. “Sorry, pal, the wife’s nagging,” he joked.

Zoë laughed and threw a clot of dirt at him. They pulled weeds for a while and Jake could feel the back of his neck burning from the sun. He edged closer to Zoë and bumped her with his hip. “How does this make us part of the community?”

“This is the community garden, and we’re gardening, ergo we’re now part of the community.”

“Can’t we do like your mother and give them money instead?”

Zoë gave him a severe frown. “Absolutely not. Stop whining. We are going to really contribute something of value here, not pay our way out of it.”

Jake shrugged and went back to picking weeds. “I left Nebraska to get away from the land. Didn’t expect to get back to my roots in San Francisco.”

“It builds character,” she said.

“It builds blisters, and that’s something you tell your kids when you’re trying to get out of doing something by forcing them to do it.” He sat up and gave her a mischievous look. “That’s what we should do. Have kids so we can make them become productive members of the community.”

Zoë rolled her eyes skyward. “I already have a big kid. I sure don’t need more.”

“Pizza!” came a call toward the street. “Come and help yourself.”

Jake scooted around and moved toward the edge of the planter bed, but Zoë hooked him by the back of his sweatshirt and pulled him off balance. He fell on his back next to her.

“She said pizza,” he protested, looking up at her.

“You haven’t done anything to earn pizza. Now get to work.”

He lifted up and kissed her quickly on the mouth.

She gave him an annoyed look that was destroyed by the smile hovering on her lips. “You’re impossible.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down on him, rolling her over until she was lying on her back in the planter bed. She was laughing, but he kissed her again, silencing her.  This time it was a long, lingering kiss.

When he lifted his head, she pushed him in the chest. “Oh, go get your pizza and let me weed,” she said with mock severity.

He kissed her nose and jumped up. “I’ll save you a slice,” he called over his shoulder as he hurried toward the road.

*   *   *

Marco pulled the Charger into the space behind the M.E.’s office. “So I took him home. When I called Holmes this morning, he said he didn’t see a sign of him the rest of the night.”

“He probably passed out.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. He looked like shit. I don’t think he’s been sleeping too good.”

“Works for me,” said Peyton, removing her seatbelt and reaching for the door handle.

“Yeah, I really hope Abe has something. I’m sick of this case already, Brooks. I wish we’d gotten Simon and Cho’s dead lawyer.”

They climbed out of the car and walked toward the building. The security guard nodded at them as they showed him their badges. Marco pulled open the door, motioning Peyton through.

“So when you had him in the patrol car, did he say anything?”

“Nope, just stared out the window. I thought he might be asleep for awhile. That rookie Bartlet damn near pissed his pants the whole time though. That was pretty funny.”

Peyton smiled as they came to the automatic doors before the lab.

“So spill. How was your hot date last night?”

“It was good. Took me for martinis at the Top of the Mark.”

Marco let out an appreciative whistle. “You don’t say. And they let you in with your ass-kicker boots.”

Peyton punched him in the shoulder. “I wore heels and a dress. You should have seen it. Sleeveless little black number.” She pushed open the door to Abe’s lab.

“So what time did he leave this morning?”

“I’m not answering that,” she said, smiling as Abe walked toward them.

“Well, if it isn’t Marco-my-heart-beat-faster,” said Abe with a wink.

Marco grimaced.

“That was awful,” answered Peyton.

Abe hooked his arm in hers. “Don’t like that one? Okay, I’ve got more. Marco-all-my-dreams-come true.”

A bark of laughter escaped Marco.

Peyton shook her head. “You’ve gotta stop.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all. So who’s having sex?”

Peyton gave him a bewildered look.

“You were talking when you came in.” He released Peyton by his bench and gave Marco a once-over. “Is it you, Handsome?”

“Nope. It’s Brooks.”

Peyton glared at her partner, but he gave her a wicked grin.

Abe placed his chin on his fist, his dreads swinging forward. “Do tell. Who is it?”

Marco sat down on a stool. “Devan Adams.”

“The dreamy Assistant D.A.?”

“That’s the one.”

“You little hussy,” said Abe, slapping her arm.

Peyton laughed despite herself. “That’s enough. So you called us down here for something, Abe. What was it?”

The professional mask fell over Abe’s face. “Right. So I’ve got a biology lesson for you two.”

“Go on.”

“We need some background first.” He reached for a file and pulled it open. “When they brought Zoë Ryder into the ER, her blood pressure was almost non-existent. Dr. Singh made the correct assumption that she was bleeding internally, so what to do then?”

Peyton shook her head. “Transfusion?”

“Bingo. In order to do a transfusion, you have to type the blood. Simple skin prick, done.”

“Okay?”

“Here’s where it gets interesting. He tells Ryder what he’s going to do. Ryder offers to donate his own blood. Singh doesn’t really need it, but he goes ahead and types him, figuring he would feel like he was doing something positive to help his wife.”

Peyton glanced down at the file. “That’s all in there?”

“Every word. Our Dr. Singh is a meticulous note-taker as most E.R. doctors learn to be. Saves on depositions for lawsuits and such.”

“Go on.”

“Turns out Zoë is O negative. Universal blood donor.”

“And Ryder?”

“O positive.”

Peyton exchanged a look with Marco. “And?”

Abe tapped the file. “Remember I told you they sent me the fetus.”

Peyton straightened on the stool. “Yeah.”

“Well, I’m as meticulous as Dr. Singh, maybe better. Let’s say I’m better.”

“Abe!”

He held up a long fingered hand. “I decided, on a whim, to type the baby.”

“And?”

“B negative.”

Marco’s hand closed into a fist on the bench. Peyton opened her mouth to comment, then stopped.

“Here’s your biology lesson. In order for the baby to be B negative, one of the parents had to be as well. We know Zoë was the mother for obvious reasons, which means…” He let the last trail away.

“Ryder wasn’t the father,” Peyton finished.

Abe touched his nose, then pointed at her.

Swiveling on her stool, she met Marco’s eye.

“That’s motive, Brooks.”

“That’s motive.”

Marco’s phone suddenly rang. He fished it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear. “D’Angelo?”

Peyton could just make out the voice on the other end, taking rapidly. Marco didn’t answer, just listened, but his knuckles went white as he tightened his grip on the device. Peyton and Abe shared a look, then Abe began reading through his file again.

“Okay, yeah, got it,” said Marco. “No, let me call you back with that.” He thumbed the phone off and met Peyton’s gaze. “Seems our boy took a walk last night without our patrol noticing.”

“What?”

“The bank manager called. A night security guard caught Ryder coming out of the bank around two this morning. He’s an older guy, doesn’t know how to use his phone, so he didn’t get the briefing about keeping Ryder away from the bank.”

Peyton frowned. “I thought they took his keys.”

“They did. He must have gotten another set from that friend of his.”

“Okay, so he goes to the bank after what? Money? He had to know that stuff is locked in the vault at night.”

“He wasn’t after money. Once the security guard told Andrews about seeing Ryder, they viewed the surveillance video. He used the keys to get into the bank, but all he took was a briefcase that was stored in a credenza beneath the windows. We missed it when we searched his desk because it was part of the general furniture in the place.”

“A briefcase? He breaks and enters a bank to steal back his own briefcase…” Peyton’s voice trailed off. “What the hell is in that briefcase?”

“Our murder weapon?” suggested Marco.

“Where the hell is Ryder now?”

“Patrol did a wellness check on him around five when they changed men. Said he was in his apartment. They want to know if you want them to bring him in.”

Peyton looked away. Her eyes landed on the table where Abe did his dissections. “No, we’ll get him. I don’t want him flushing those pills or something if he thinks we’re coming for him. We need to get a warrant to search the place, then we’ll arrest the son of a bitch and haul his ass in.” She pushed herself off the seat and started for the door. “Thanks, Abe.”

“You got it, my soul sista. Bye, Marco-a-wish-upon-a-star,” he called after them. Peyton waved over her shoulder, but Marco gave him a dramatic scowl.

Once through the automatic doors, Marco put a hand on Peyton’s arm and stopped her. “Put a call into your boyfriend and ask him to meet us at Interrogation. It’d be good to have him there when Ryder confesses.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said, but she reached for her phone.

“And you let him spend the night? Hoowee, you are a hussy, Brooks,” said Marco with a laugh.

Peyton swung at him, but he ducked out of the way.

CHAPTER 8

Jake was wrenched out of sleep by the violent pounding on his front door.

“Police! Open up!”

He blinked, looking around the flat. The blanket was pooled around his waist and Zoë’s journal just peaked out between the folds.

“Police! Open up!”

Jake grabbed the journal and shoved it under the coffee table, then he scrambled to his feet as the pounding began again. He fumbled for the lock and turned it, but before he could open the door, it was forcefully shoved inward, knocking him backward.

Guns pointed in his face and he automatically lifted his hands. Police officers streamed into the flat, fanning out around his living room. Behind them entered Brooks and D’Angelo. They also had their guns drawn, but when they saw he wasn’t offering any resistance, they both holstered them.

“You’d damn well better have a warrant,” he said. It came out braver than he thought it would. His heart was trying hard to force its way out his throat.

Brooks held up a piece of paper.

He lowered his hand enough to take it, but he couldn’t make sense of the words on the page. Another headache hammered behind his eyes. He handed the paper back. Brooks nodded at an officer standing behind him. The man shoved Jake against the wall and frisked him.

“What the hell is this about now?”

“He’s clean,” said the officer, releasing him.

“Search everywhere,” said Brooks and the officers dispersed throughout the flat.

Jake turned toward her, pulling his t-shirt back into place. “Why the hell are you doing this to me?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Where’s your briefcase?”

He involuntarily glanced toward the coffee table. She followed his gaze, then circled around the couch, leaning over to move his tablet aside as she picked up the briefcase. D’Angelo moved closer to Jake as she riffled through the case, then dropped it on the coffee table again.

“Nothing,” she said, then looked down at the tablet. Picking it up, she turned to a cop going through his bookshelf. “Hand me an evidence bag.”

When he did, she slipped the tablet into it and zipped it shut. Then she faced Jake, nodding at D’Angelo.

“Jacob Ryder,” she began as D’Angelo took his cuffs off his belt, “you have the right to remain silent…”

Jake just stared at her as D’Angelo grabbed his arm and snapped the cuffs on his wrist.

*   *   *

Peyton watched Jake through the one way mirror. He sat at the metal table, his head in his hands. He hadn’t moved for the last ten minutes. Marco leaned on the table beside her.

“How long did tech say they would need with the tablet?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No estimate.”

The door opened and Captain Defino and Devan walked through. Marco rose to his feet and shook Devan’s hand.

“Captain,” Peyton said and then smiled at Devan.

He smiled back, turning to the mirror. “That our perp?”

“That’s the one,” said the captain. “Who’s gonna question him?”

“Brooks,” answered Marco.

“You know how you’re going to approach it?” asked the captain.

“I think so.”

“Then you’re on,” she said, nodding toward the window.

Peyton smoothed her hands on her jeans, picked up the file, and walked to the door, pulling it open. She crossed to the Interrogation room and the officer stationed outside of it opened the door for her. When she entered the room, Ryder didn’t lift his head.

She dropped the file on the table and leaned on it. “So let’s go back to the beginning, okay?”

Ryder raised his head and stared at her through his fingers. His brown hair was mussed and a couple days growth of beard shadowed his jaw. His eyes were bloodshot.

“What do you want from me?”

“The truth.” She took a seat in the other chair and opened the file. “You say you found Zoë in the bathroom. She was unconscious, so you called 911.”

“That’s right.”

“What did you do while you waited for the ambulance?”

“I tried to get Zoë to respond.”

“How? Did you shake her? Yell at her?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Where was Zoë earlier that day? Was she working at the coffee house?”

“No, she had the day off, so she went with her mother to visit Blake.”

Peyton looked down at the file and turned a page. “Let’s talk about Blake.”

Ryder frowned. “Blake?”

“You used to visit him with Zoë when he first had his stroke, then you stopped. Why?”

Ryder rubbed the back of his neck. “I couldn’t see the point. The doctors all agreed he wasn’t responding to treatment. He wasn’t coming back.”

“Did this cause trouble between you and Zoë?”

“I don’t know. I guess. She couldn’t accept that he was gone. As long as he was in that hospital, she held out hope.” He sighed. “I think they should have…” His voice trailed off.

Peyton leaned forward. “You think they should have what?”

He looked up at the mirror. “Nothing.”

Peyton flattened her hand on the file. “I want to help you, Jake. I do, but I can’t help you if you won’t be honest with me.”

Ryder stared at her for a moment, then exhaled. “You don’t want to help me. You just want to close this case and it doesn’t matter what the truth is. You just want a person to blame and that’s it.”

“I’m giving you a chance to tell your side. We’ve got enough to hold you on now, Jake, so I don’t really need to talk to you, but I thought you might like an opportunity to explain things to me. What did you start to say about Blake?”

“I think they should have taken him off life support.  It would have been kinder to him and kinder to his family. They could have mourned his loss, then moved on with their lives. As it was, Zoë never did.”

“I guess that was a point of contention for you, wasn’t it?”

Ryder wrapped a hand around his chin. “No, not contention. It made me feel helpless. I wanted to make things right for Zoë, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t make it better.”

Peyton looked at the file. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. She’d given him an opening to complain about his wife, but he didn’t take it. She needed to upset the balance between them if she was going to get him to confess, but she didn’t want to give away her biggest point of leverage.

“So, did you take the pills from the nursing home when you visited Blake?”

He dropped his hand to the table and his frown deepened. “Pills?”

“The warfarin. It’s stroke medication, you know? Did you sneak them off Blake’s bedside table or something?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, then he gave her a level look. “Besides, they don’t leave medications lying around like that in hospitals or nursing homes.” He leaned forward. “I didn’t have anything to do with my wife’s death and no matter how you phrase things, I’m not going to confess to something I didn’t do.”

She rose to her feet and moved to the end of the table, closer to him. “Let’s talk about the baby.”

Jake looked away.

“A lot of men get scared, knowing there’s a baby on the way. They worry it will change their lives.”

“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“That’s right. Dr. Singh was impressed with that performance. He genuinely believed you didn’t know.”

Jake swiveled his head and looked up at her. “If you really want to find out what happened to Zoë, you’d start there. I’ll bet you they gave her the wrong medication and are trying to cover it up.”

“We were talking about the baby.”

“Of course. You don’t even want to consider there might be another possibility to Zoë’s death. You just want to put me away for something I didn’t do.”

“Explain to me how a husband doesn’t know his wife is pregnant. Three months go by and you don’t question why she doesn’t have a period, you don’t question why she keeps getting morning sickness?”

Jake opened his hands, palms up. “I didn’t know. I don’t know why, but I didn’t.”

“And you don’t think it’s strange she didn’t tell you? I mean that’s a pretty big secret. You’ve got to wonder why she would keep it and…” She leaned closer to him. “What else she might have hid.”

Jake’s gaze snapped to her face. “Every moment of every day. It’s driving me insane.”

“I’ll bet. It’s got to hurt. Being lied to, being deceived. It would make anyone angry. Hell, I’d be downright furious about it. I’d feel betrayed on so many levels.”

Jake just stared at her.

“Here you work your ass off to provide for her, while she pisses around in a coffee shop and mopes about her dad. You do everything in your power to make her happy and she withholds the most important information from you. It would make even the most reasonable person want revenge.”

Ryder looked at the mirror. “Just charge me with whatever you want and let me go home. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Peyton ignored him. She reached for the file. “Let’s go back again, okay?”

He closed his eyes and pressed his palms against his temples.

“The paramedics come and they try to find a pulse. They can’t, so they begin CPR and start an IV. They transport you to the hospital and the only thing you know is her blood pressure is too low. They don’t tell you anything else.”

Ryder continued to ignore her.

“You arrive at the hospital where Dr. Singh takes over. At some point he comes out and tells you Zoë needs a transfusion.”

Ryder lowered his hands and opened his eyes, staring at the table. Still he didn’t answer.

“You volunteer to give blood, right?”

“Right.”

Peyton pushed the file in front of Ryder and leaned on the edge of the table, bringing herself closer to him. “Here’s what I learned the other day. In order to do a transfusion, they first have to type the person receiving it, so they don’t give them the wrong blood. You know what Zoë’s type was?”

“No.”

“O negative. You know what your type is?”

Ryder leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “O something.”

“That’s right. O positive.”

“What the hell does this have to do with anything?”

Peyton lifted her brows at him. “A lot.” She pointed to the file with her index finger. “Your baby was typed as B negative. B negative?”

Ryder’s face went slack.

“Now as I understand it – in order for the baby to have B negative, one of his parents had to have it as well, which means, Jake…” She leaned toward him, crowding his personal space. “Which means you weren’t the father.”

Ryder fixed his eyes on hers and a shudder went through his body. She saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed convulsively.

She leaned back. “My dad was a cop. He always said a case was like a stool, built on three legs. First you’ve got your suspect, second you have your evidence, and third you have your motive.” She tapped the file with her finger. “That, Jake,that is what we call motive.”

Ryder’s brown eyes searched her face. She wasn’t sure what he was looking to find.

“Tell me, Jake, did she confess? Is that what happened? She told you she’d been having an affair and you…what? Did you snap? A little warfarin in her dinner, some in her morning cup of coffee? Maybe you thought she’d miscarry? Maybe that’s all you wanted, but it killed her instead? I can understand that, Jake. I can understand wanting to get rid of the baby. It was tearing your relationship apart, destroying your life.” She closed the file and crossed her arms also. “Let’s face it, Jake. Zoë’s concern over her father wasn’t affecting your marriage, but her pregnancy was, her affair was. Did you find out who it was? Someone at work, someone she met on-line?”

“I want to go home.” His voice was flat, brittle. His gaze shifted to the mirror. “I want to go home.”

“Come on, Jake. Just tell me the truth. Tell me what happened. I understand. It must have felt so horrible to know she was cheating on you, using you that way. God, what man can stand the thought of his wife carrying another man’s child.”

Ryder moved so suddenly, Peyton wasn’t prepared. He slammed his fists onto the table and rose to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. Peyton stumbled back off the table and scrambled to her feet as the inner door slammed open. Marco loomed in the entrance with his gun drawn.

Peyton held out her hands. “It’s all right!” she said. “It’s all right!”

Ryder stared at both of them, his chest heaving, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I want to go home,” he said. “I just want to go home.”

Marco slipped the gun back in his holster. “Sit down, Ryder!” he commanded.

Ryder sank into his chair again, his hands hanging by his sides. He looked so lost, so forlorn. Peyton watched him in surprise. He didn’t look like a man ready to confess.

Marco touched her arm and the two of them backed from the room. They returned to the observation room where the captain and Devan waited.

Peyton met Devan’s dark eyes. “We don’t have enough for arraignment, do we?”

“You don’t have enough to hold him,” said Devan.

“We’re just gonna let him go?” she asked in frustration. God, Marco was right. This case was a bitch.

“We can hold him for 24 hours on the breaking and entering. Maybe a night in jail will make him ready to confess,” offered the captain.

Peyton looked to Devan for confirmation. He was studying Ryder where he sat at the table, staring at the floor without expression. “You can do that, but if he doesn’t confess, you’ll have to let him go. The breaking and entering without theft is at most a misdemeanor.”

“He’s not gonna break after a night in jail. He hasn’t broken yet no matter what we’ve done. What the hell are we supposed to do?” she said, holding up her empty hands.

Devan turned to her. “You don’t have a murder weapon, you don’t have a confession, and your motive seems a bit hinky seeing his reaction to it.” He reached out and wrapped a curl around his index finger. “You’re a good cop, Peyton. You’ll think of something. Maybe you need to go at it in a different direction.” He rubbed the curl with his thumb, then released it. “Call me if you get anything.”

He moved past her and disappeared out the door. Peyton was left facing the captain and Marco, who both looked at her with raised brows.

“What the hell was that?” asked the captain.

Peyton dropped her gaze. “I had something in my hair.”

“Yeah, his fingers,” drawled Marco, earning him a glare.

*   *   *

Peyton stared at the white board she’d dragged out of storage. She had written as much information on it as she could, but looking at it this way only emphasized what they didn’t know. She’d traced Dr. Singh like Ryder suggested, but that had quickly led to a dead end.

First of all, she couldn’t find a single complaint about the doctor, even through the Medical Board. Second, Zoë had been hemorrhaging when the paramedics showed up at the flat. Something had caused her loss of blood and that something was the warfarin that she’d been given before the medics arrived.

Marco handed her a paper cup. “Chocolate,” he said, studying her white board.

She took it and set it down on the desk.

He shifted and gave her a concerned look. “You don’t want it?”

“Of course I do,” she said, “but this case is making me insane. What the hell are we missing, Marco?”

He leaned against the desk with her and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “A lot. Obviously, Dr. Singh is a dead-end.”

“So is everything else.”

A man in his early thirties approached them. He was of average height and thin with glasses and curly brown hair that perpetually looked mussed. He wore his button down shirt tucked into his jeans and his sneakers were scuffed at the toe.

“Hey, Stan,” said Peyton, giving him a smile. “You got something for me.”

Stan pursed his lips. “I finished that tablet you brought me.”

“And?” Peyton reached for the milkshake and took a sip. The beautifully smooth, cold flow of chocolate crossed her tongue.

“I found a search for warfarin.”

Peyton sat up straighter. “That is the best news I’ve had all day.”

“Well, hold on a minute. It was done this morning about 3:00AM.”

Peyton felt herself wilt. “You’re sure about that?”

Stan looked offended. “Of course I’m sure.”

“Nothing else?” asked Marco.

“A bunch of stock quotes, interest rates, but nothing else. Mostly this guy used his tablet for work.”

“Thanks, Stan,” said Peyton.

“No problem,” he said and walked away.

Peyton looked up at Marco. “We have nothing.”

“We have less than nothing. Your boyfriend’s right. This case is hinky.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Peyton, chewing on the end of her straw. “You know what really bothers me?”

Marco exhaled. “A lot bothers me, but tell me anyway.”

“He didn’t know the baby wasn’t his. You can’t fake that reaction. He was stunned…stunned and devastated.”

“I know, which blows our motive to hell and gone.” He drummed his fingers on his crossed arm. “You know what bugs me?”

“What?”

“He hasn’t lawyered. Why? Why hasn’t he asked for a lawyer, Brooks? You get any two bit criminal in here and the first thing they’re screaming for is a lawyer. Not Ryder. Why?”

“I don’t know. You aren’t suggesting that you think he’s innocent, are you?”

“No. It’s always the husband. I know that, but I just wish this case wasn’t so slippery.”

“Noted and reported. Now what?”

“Let’s do what Adams said. Let’s go at it from a different angle.”

“I’m listening.”

Marco rose and picked up the eraser, wiping Dr. Singh off the board. “We know it wasn’t him.”

“Right.”

“Let’s focus on the murder weapon. Where could someone have gotten this warfarin stuff? It would have had to be prescribed by a doctor, but what doctor?”

Peyton shook her head, sipping at the milkshake. “If we’ve eliminated Dr. Singh, the only other doctor on that board is Zoë’s father, Blake.” She set the milkshake down on the desk. “He’s in a coma, D’Angelo. He couldn’t have done this. Besides he’s her father.” She searched the board for another link, but her eyes kept coming back to Blake. “Right?”

“What if the motive isn’t the baby, but something else? If we find the murder weapon, we might find the motive. I don’t know where else to start looking, but the only person who would have had access to prescription medications is Blake Harper.”

“So you’re saying we need to go see Blake?”

“I’m saying we need to go see Blake.”

*   *   *

They led him to a room and made him remove his clothes, then they gave him an orange jumpsuit and a pair of shoes with no laces. He didn’t even realize what they’d done until he automatically sat down to tie them.

He stared at the shoes and a frantic laugh escaped him. No laces. No suicide. Why? So they could keep playing cat and mouse with him.

An officer with coffee-dark skin and a bald head led him down a corridor with cells on either side. Jake glanced into the cells, feeling his heart pick up speed. This was real. They were going to lock him in.

The officer stopped at a cell and spoke into his shoulder receiver. Jake wasn’t sure what he said, but the cell door slid open and the officer motioned him inside. “Dinner’s at 5:00PM,” he said.

Jake walked into the middle of the cell and stood there. No one was on either side of him, a mercy that he didn’t want to think about too hard. Besides a cot, a thin mattress, one blanket, a sink, and a toilet, there was nothing else in the cell. Three walls were bars, the back one cinderblock, the floor cement with a drain in the center. He had a hysterical vision of them hosing down the cell after he left, like they do with animals in a zoo.

When the cell door clanged behind him, he looked around dazedly. A cell. A freakin’ jail cell. Panic edged his awareness and he clenched his fists in the jumpsuit. A jail cell. He was locked in and there was no getting out.

He whipped around, but the officer was walking away. Across from him, he could see a bearded jaw and two bloodshot eyes staring at him, nothing else. He backed up until he bumped into the cot, then he sat down hard, his hands dangling between his knees. A jail cell. Oh, God.

He put his head in his hands and tried to slow his breathing. If he didn’t get control, he’d start kicking things or screaming. That would only give them ammunition against him. He searched the ceiling, looking for cameras. He spotted one turning lazily in the corridor beyond the cell.

Okay, he could reason his way through this. They hadn’t told him what they were charging him with…or maybe they had. After Peyton told him about Zoë and the blood typing, he didn’t really hear much else.

Think, he commanded himself. What did they say when they fingerprinted you and took your picture? Picture – oh God, no, a mug shot. A mug shot. He was now in their system with a mug shot. For murdering a woman he loved more than anything. A woman he would have done anything to save. A woman who betrayed him. He closed his eyes. This wasn’t helping.

What did the officer say when they printed him? They were holding him for…for…breaking and entering. That was it. Not murder. Breaking and entering. He exhaled and tried to lower his shoulders. His back hurt, he was holding himself so tight. Not murder…not yet.

He lay back on the cot, pressing his heels into the thin mattress and tenting his knees. He dropped an arm over his eyes and clenched his other hand into a fist. He tightened the fist as hard as he could until his nails dug into his palm, then he released each finger, forcing them to stretch out until his palm was flat on the blanket.

He could get through this if he just didn’t lose control or look at the bars, or watch those eyes across the corridor watch him. He could do this. He only had to get through the night. He didn’t think they could hold him longer than that.

He tried to remember what else they said to him, but all he could hear was Peyton’s voice, the way she looked at him as if she could see into his skull and read the thoughts parading through his head. She had manipulated him and led him down a path, pretending to understand, yet trying to get him to confess. That’s all it was. She didn’t care if he killed anyone. She just wanted the collar, she wanted the credit for solving this case, whether it was solved or not.

It must have felt so horrible to know she was cheating on you, using you that way. God, what man can stand the thought of his wife carrying another man’s child. His hand curled into a fist again and he pounded the mattress.

A growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of rage and fury that he couldn’t contain. Horrible? It felt like someone had ripped out his intestines and shown them to him. What the hell did she think it felt like? She was toying with him, trying to make him lose his temper and admit something too awful to think. She wanted him to say he’d killed his wife because she cheated on him.

He rolled to his side and curled his knees into his chest. Oh, God, Zoë, why? Why would she have done something like that? He opened his eyes and stared at the bars. How could she? When would she have had time to carry on an affair?

I can understand that, Jake. I can understand wanting to get rid of the baby. It was tearing your relationship apart, destroying your life. But it wasn’t. He and Zoë were happy together. They loved each other. She never gave him a moment to doubt her love.

Even as the thought entered his mind, Jake realized he was lying to himself. She had been distant the last few months, refusing to let him touch her. Pulling away when he tried to hug her. He’d felt it, he’d recognized it, but he’d tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. He stuffed the hurt inside and ignored it. Just as he’d done when his parents died.

His sisters had mourned openly, but he had just stuffed it away and retreated back to San Francisco, telling himself he never wanted to see Nebraska again. That was how he handled loss, that was his way of coping – pretending the thing hurting him was gone.

Just pretend it was gone.

*   *   *

Morning light was filtering into the jail as Jake collected his things and was led to the door. The cop guiding him motioned him outside, then left him on the sidewalk looking around. A long, sleepless night had brought him to a few conclusions. One, he wasn’t going to let them control the situation any more. Two, he wasn’t going back in that cell. Three, he was going to have to figure out what happened to Zoë.

He’d been left alone last night, but if they succeeded in pinning this on him, he wouldn’t be granted that luxury. Jake knew what happened to men in prison and he wasn’t going to passively accept victimization.

He slung the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder and started walking down 7th toward Townsend. He needed to get to the flat and pray Zoë’s journal was where he hid it. Then he was packing a few things, finding any money they’d stashed around the place, and finally he was sneaking out again.

He would stop by Claire’s and ask her for help. He dreaded that, especially knowing what he did now, but he could think of no one else who had the capital to get him a lawyer, and after what he’d been through, he knew he needed one. Then he was going to find some place quiet and figure this thing out.

Whenever his thoughts touched on Zoë, he shied away from them. He didn’t want to think about her betrayal. He didn’t want to accept it, but he knew that eventually he’d have to face it, confront it. He dreaded that. It made everything about their life seem a lie.

He didn’t have the energy to walk back to Potrero Hill, but he didn’t want to waste money on a cab. As he looked around for a bus stop, he marked the Crown Victoria following him. He sighed. They might not have enough to hold him, but they weren’t giving up on convicting him.

Pulling out his tablet, he turned it on and punched in Muni bus stop. There was one a couple of blocks away. As he turned off his tablet, he realized he probably should be careful how he used it. He was certain the police knew exactly what he searched. He turned on Townsend and headed east.

The bus stop was crowded and he stood to the side of the enclosure with the other people on their way to work. How did someone go from being a working stiff to a suspect in a murder case within a few weeks? If he thought about it too much, he knew he would give up and they would have him. He’d never understood why people confessed to crimes they didn’t commit, but he was getting a better idea of it now. The way they hounded you, took away your life, made you think you’d do just about anything to end it. Not a few times last night he thought suicide was the only way out. Of course, it wasn’t real planning, just a random thought that popped into his mind, but he could see how people might feel that desperate.

The bus pulled up to the curb. Jake had a moment of panic. He had no bus pass and he knew Muni no longer took cash. The back door opened and people began climbing off as others began climbing on at the front door. As Jake looked through the windows, he could see it was standing room only.

Clutching his briefcase tightly against him, he reacted on instinct. He shoved into the people climbing off. A few muttered curses at him, but they were too concerned with getting off the bus to do anything else. He wedged himself against the stairwell and waited until everyone climbed down, then he moved up into the bus and grabbed a handhold as if he’d been there all along. An older black woman glared at him, but she didn’t say anything. Jake breathed a sigh of relief when the bus began moving again.

He couldn’t see out the back window to know if the Crown Victoria followed him, but he was sure they’d show up at his flat shortly after he arrived. Once he was wedged onto the bus, he found himself thinking about Zoë, despite his determination not to do so. She had lied to him. Not only had she kept the baby a secret, but the baby wasn’t his. When had she started an affair? Where had she met this man? Did she sleep with him in their bed?

He closed his eyes and tried to block the thought. He was so tired, the sway of the bus lulled him into a semi-sleeping state. Each time the bus lurched to a halt, he opened his eyes and checked the location, not wanting to miss his stop.

The sun was shining on Potrero Hill when he arrived. He hurried to his flat and slipped into the entrance hall without anyone seeing him. When he opened the door to his apartment, he was relieved to see the police hadn’t trashed it. He dumped the briefcase on the couch and dropped to his knees, reaching under the coffee table for Zoë’s journal. Pulling it out, he sat back on his heels and held it, staring at its red surface.

Had Zoë written about the affair in here? He felt such a conflict of emotions. Wanting to know warred with a sick anxiety that it might actually be in there. Forcing himself to set the journal on the briefcase, he went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, then he walked into the living room and looked out at the street. No Crown Victoria.

Returning to the kitchen, he pulled out the pot and poured whatever was brewed into a mug, then replaced it. Carrying the mug with him, he went into the bedroom and climbed over the strewn bedclothes and pillows to the bathroom.

He took a long hot shower, letting the water soothe away the anxiety, then he dressed in a sweatshirt, jeans and his hiking boots. Sipping the coffee, he moved into the bedroom and climbed onto the bed, pulling a pillow up with him. He fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke, the shadows across the ceiling told him it was early afternoon. A headache throbbed in his temples, so he went into the bathroom and took some aspirin. Returning to the bedroom, he riffled through the closet and found an empty backpack. He shoved the aspirin, his toothbrush and some toothpaste into it, then grabbed a change of clothes.

He went back into the living room, carrying the backpack and mug. He set the mug on a table, then reached for his briefcase, shoving both Zoë’s journal and the tablet into it. Then he searched the flat for money, but besides a jar of loose change, he found nothing. He shoved the jar into the backpack and zipped it up. Carrying it and the mug into the kitchen, he poured another cup of coffee and drank it standing by the sink. He wasn’t completely sure what he intended to do, but the first thing was to head over to Claire’s and ask her for help.

Turning off the pot and setting the mug in the sink, he walked into the living room and looked out the window. The Crown Victoria was in its customary place. He didn’t recognize the cops, but that didn’t matter. They would follow him wherever he went.

He grabbed his keys and left the flat. Hesitating, he tried to decide what to do next. Prince was barking at the other end of the corridor, so he knew Mrs. Parker would be coming out to take him for his walk. He didn’t want to see her and he didn’t want to go out the back door again. He was bound to be caught cutting through someone’s backyard.

When Prince’s barking grew louder, Jake made his decision, hurrying down the stairs and onto the street. He looked pointedly at the cops and they looked back, then he shouldered his backpack and began walking north.

He was tempted to ride the bus again, but he wanted to lose the police, so he passed his usual bus stops and continued on. After catching some sleep, he didn’t mind the walk and the sun shone down, bathing him with warmth. He turned east on 18th and glanced back to see the Crown Victoria following him. They would pull over in an open parking spot, allowing him to get a little ahead of them, then they’d pull out into traffic and catch up. He had to lose them, but he wasn’t sure how.

He knew there were a lot of businesses along 18th, so he waited until he was in the middle of them before he turned into an Italian restaurant. A hostess smiled at him as he entered and he could smell a mixture of garlic and oregano. His stomach growled and he realized he didn’t remember when he’d eaten last. The food served at the jail didn’t qualify.

“Just one?” she asked.

He glanced around the restaurant, wishing he could afford to eat here, but he only had about half-an-hour to put distance between himself and the police before they decided to look for him. “Sure,” he said, and she led him to a table by the window. He could see the Crown Victoria in the red zone in front of the restaurant.

“Do you have anything that isn’t by the window?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, leading him deeper into the restaurant. She held out his chair, but he hesitated before slipping into it.

“Actually, can you point me to the restroom?”

She smiled again as she set his menu down. “Right in back.” She pointed to an arched doorway beside a window that looked into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” said Jake, forcing himself to walk as normally as he could to the back, winding through all of the tables. The bathrooms were located about halfway down the hallway, but Jake moved past them to the back door. It had been propped open with a brick. That was just as well because he could see it was usually armed with an alarm.

He shoved it open a little, then peered into the alleyway behind the restaurant. A number of dumpsters lined the back wall and next door a busboy was smoking on the back stoop, his arms braced on his knees.

Jake slipped into the alley and started walking as quickly as he could. The busboy nodded at him, but no one else seemed to notice. He kept walking until he figured he was at least a few blocks from the restaurant, then he cut up a side alley to the street. When he stepped out into the street, he didn’t hesitate, but found the very next bus stop that was crowded with people just getting off work.

His heart was pounding rapidly as he waited. A giddy feeling of excitement moved through him. He wondered how long the cops would wait before they checked the restaurant for him. He pulled the same trick once the bus arrived of entering through the back, but this time he found a seat near the stairwell. He sank into it, realizing his legs were trembling, and immediately fished Zoë’s journal out. If he was brave enough to escape the police, he was brave enough to face whatever she revealed in her private thoughts.

December 26th

Jake gave me a redwood tree for Christmas. He said it was for the community garden and that we’d plant it to have a reminder of our love. As long as the tree grew, we would know someone in the world loved us.

I’ve received diamonds and electronics, televisions and earrings, but nothing compares to this. I can’t believe I found a man who understands it isn’t the monetary things in life, but the simple things.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I feel like I’ve found the very person I was meant to be with, meant to marry. Jake is that man. He accepts me for exactly who I am and no matter how many faults I have, no matter how many mistakes I make, I know that I have one person standing solidly and firmly rooted in my corner. Pun fully intended. Get it – tree, root.

Jake swallowed the lump in his throat and put his hand over his eyes, closing the journal and letting it settle on his briefcase. No matter how much he might want to pretend otherwise, there was no escaping this grief.

CHAPTER 9

Jake walked through the rose arbor and up to the mansion. He hesitated on the front step and drew a deep breath. Oh, God, he didn’t want to ask Claire for help. He would give anything if he didn’t have to do this. He didn’t even know if the police had contacted her with their suspicions or how she would respond to him. Would she lend him money to hire a lawyer?

When a car went down the road, he looked over his shoulder, searching for the Crown Victoria. He was becoming paranoid. If this continued much longer, he was going to wind up in a mental ward.

Steeling himself, he pressed the buzzer. Hopefully, Angelina or Juanita would answer it. He wished he could remember the maid’s name. He felt guilty that he didn’t know, but she kept to herself in parts of the house Jake had rarely seen. Claire liked to keep her help invisible. She pretended that she still did much of the work herself.

The door opened and Brandon, Zoë’s high school boyfriend, loomed in the entrance. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

Jake frowned, trying to look beyond his shoulders inside the house. “Is Claire here?” He felt confused. This idiot had been here twice when Jake happened by.

“I said you shouldn’t be here.”

“I heard you. The neighborhood heard you. Just exactly what are you doing here? Aren’t you one of the neighbors?”

“You’ve got some balls after what you’ve done,” Brandon said, moving a step onto the porch.

Jake backed up, frowning at him. “What? Where’s Claire?” He tried to look into the house again.

“You come here after what you did to Zoë.”

Jake went still. Of course the police had been here before him. “I didn’t hurt Zoë. Why do you think I’m out of jail? They have nothing on me. I want to see Claire.” He stepped back and looked at the upper windows. “Claire!”

“I want you to leave!”

Jake ignored him. “Claire! Claire!”

“I’m warning you, Ryder, you’d better leave.”

“Not until I see Claire. Claire!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, shut up, Jake!” hissed Claire, appearing in the doorway.

Jake dropped his eyes to her. Was she hiding in the entryway the whole time? He lowered his gaze further and saw she held her cell phone. “Did you call the police?”

“Of course I did. They’re on their way.”

Jake took a step closer to her, but Brandon moved to block him. “Claire, I didn’t hurt Zoë. You know I loved her. You know I wouldn’t have done anything to her.”

“I don’t know any such thing.”

“Claire, I need help. I need some money to hire a lawyer. The police are framing me for something I didn’t do.”

“That’s what they all say, Jake. No one in this country has ever committed a crime. They’ve all been framed. I’m sorry, but I’m not about to help a man who’s been accused of harming my daughter.”

“How could you think I’d do something like that?” He wished Brandon wasn’t listening to this conversation, running interference.

“People do a lot of terrible things to each other. I don’t know why you did it and I don’t want to know. I just want you to leave.”

“You know me, Claire, you know I wasn’t capable of that.”

Claire’s expression grew cold. “Do we ever really know anyone, Jake? Do we?”

Jake hesitated. She had a point. He hadn’t known his own wife was capable of cheating on him. He hadn’t known his whole marriage was a lie. All Zoë talked about in her journal was how much she loved him, how happy she was, but yet, she’d cheated. She lied and betrayed him, for what?

He started to ask Claire about the baby, but she lifted her phone as if she would dial again.

“They’re coming, Jake,” she said.

Jake stared in frustration at her, then at Brandon. In the entryway of the house, he could see the maid, watching him with large, anxious eyes. Oh, the police would love this. There must be something they could charge him with on this one.

“I didn’t hurt Zoë,” he repeated, then he turned and walked back toward the street.

*   *   *

Peyton scrunched up her nose as they entered the convalescent home. The smell of urine covered by disinfectant assailed them. A few residents were lined up in the entry hall, sitting in their wheelchairs, soaking up the late day sun. Down the hall, she could hear someone yelling, actually swearing up a blue streak.

She and Marco exchanged a look, then walked toward the reception desk. A woman with crooked teeth and an enormous bust sat at a desk. She smiled at them, her eyes lighting up when they landed on Marco.

“How can I help you?” she said, glancing at Peyton, but focusing on her partner.

“We called earlier. We’d like to see Dr. Albert Chang. He’s the attending for Blake Harper, right?”

“Yes,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Can I see your badges please?”

They both pulled them out and showed them to the woman. She reached for Marco’s wrist and angled it down, so she could see it better. Then she smiled up at him. “Can’t be too careful.”

Marco smiled back. “Dr. Chang?” he prompted.

She gave a girlish giggle and reached for the phone. “Dr. Chang, two police officers are here to see you about Dr. Harper?” She listened for a moment. “All right. Thank you.” She beamed up at Marco again. “He’ll be out shortly.”

“Thank you,” he answered.

“So, how long have you been a cop?” she asked, bracing her chin on her hand.

Peyton made a gagging motion beyond the receptionist’s line of sight; however, she knew Marco picked up on it by the slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“A little over six years.”

“Are you from a family of big, strong cops?” she asked.

Peyton moved away, looking at the photos displayed on the wall. Despite being a convalescent hospital, this place sported an impressive array of donors. She saw state senators and past mayors among the photos of contributors.

“Nope,” said Marco behind her. “I’m the only one.”

“How is that?” the receptionist laughed.

“I had three older brothers who all went to college, but I didn’t want to go that route. I chose the Academy instead.”

“Oh, are they all as handsome as you are?”

Marco gave a masculine chuckle. “Not even a bit.”

The receptionist peeled off into hysterical giggles.

Peyton glared over her shoulder at them. She started back toward the counter, but the inner door opened and a short, dark haired man stepped out. He wore glasses and a white lab coat. He held out his hand first to Peyton. His fingers were cool and delicate.

“Officer Brooks?” he said, “We talked on the phone.”

“Right. Dr. Chang?”

“Yes, yes.” He turned and shook hands with Marco, who had finally torn himself away from the receptionist.

“This is my partner, Marco D’Angelo.”

“Yes, yes. Won’t you come this way?” He motioned to the door and then led them to it. He moved at a rapid pace for all his short stature. He stopped at an office and pushed open the door. The placard on the outside bore his name. “Please, take a seat.” He indicated the two chairs before his desk, and bustled around the back, sinking into a large, leather chair that dwarfed him.

“Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Chang. We appreciate you taking the time.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, then held out his hand. “Can I see the warrant? I can’t discuss anything with you without it.”

Marco reached inside his leather jacket and drew it out, passing it over the desk to the doctor. Dr. Chang spent several minutes reading it, while Peyton and Marco waited. Peyton looked around the office, noting the many diplomas hung on the wall by the window, the expensive wood of his cabinets and book cases. A Newton’s cradle sat in the direct middle of the desk and impulsively Peyton started it moving.

At the first clack, the doctor glanced up, gave Peyton a firm look, then reached over and stopped the motion. Marco covered a smile with his hand and looked away. Peyton clasped her hands in her lap and tried not to fidget as the doctor finished inspecting the warrant.

“It seems to be in order. What can I do for you?”

Peyton started to speak, but the doctor interrupted her.

“I’d like to remind you discretion is expected here. I’m happy to help with your investigation, but I want the privacy of my patients maintained as much as possible.”

Peyton wasn’t sure how to answer that. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about his wealthy patients, but she did want his cooperation. Marco saved her.

“We’ll be extremely discreet, Dr. Chang.”

“Yes, yes, now what can I tell you?”

Marco glanced down at her. Peyton unclasped her hands and eased forward in the seat, reaching for her notebook. She flipped open the cover and glanced at the questions she’d jotted down. “How long ago was Blake Harper admitted?”

“Six months. He was comatose, unresponsive with a grim prognosis. He didn’t respond well to treatment in the hospital, so he was moved here.”

“What was your diagnosis? What brought about the coma?”

“Massive stroke. His brain scans are dark.”

Peyton shook her head. “Dark?”

Dr. Chang steepled his fingers. “When you scan a healthy brain, it lights up like a Christmas tree. Damaged brains can show dark areas where the damage has occurred. Nearly all of Blake Harper’s brain is dark.”

“Meaning what?”

“For all intents and purposes, Blake Harper is dead. His brain is no longer functioning.”

“How is he alive?”

“He’s not, not really.”

“I get that,” said Peyton, trying hard not to get annoyed. “What’s keeping his body alive?”

Dr. Chang spread out his hands, palms up. “We are.”

“You mean life support?” offered Marco.

“Yes, yes.”

Peyton looked at her notebook to gather her thoughts. “Did you communicate this to the family? Did they know there was no hope of recovery?”

“I communicate it on a regular basis, but it does no good. His daughter and wife cannot accept that he is gone. Whenever I suggest we remove him from life-support, they get emotional, so I ask who does it hurt to keep him going?”

Blake, thought Peyton, but she didn’t voice it out loud. Damn, Jake had been right again. What the hell was going on in this family?

“Besides, it won’t be long now anyway. There is only so much modern medicine can do to keep the inevitable at bay.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean? He’s dying?”

“He has an infection and we just can’t get it under control. Soon his entire system will fail.”

“Infection? Pneumonia?”

“Ah,” said Dr. Chang in approval, “very good. Yes, a lot of patients do develop pneumonia. It is usually the cause of death on death certificates, but it isn’t the real reason people die. No, Blake Harper doesn’t have pneumonia. Well, not yet.”

Peyton looked at Marco in confusion. He gave her a confused look in return. “Wait. You said Blake had an infection.”

“Yes, yes. Around the shunt…well, beyond the shunt now. It happens. No matter how hard we try, no matter how clean we try to be, we can’t avoid all of the bacteria getting in.”

Peyton scratched her forehead. For a man who claimed to want discretion, he was a fountain of information, not all of it helpful. “You know Dr. Harper’s daughter died recently, right?”

“Yes, yes, terribly sad. She was delightful.”

“She visit here regularly?”

“Quite often. Not so much lately, but she still came regularly. Some of these people get no visitors at all. It’s quite sad.”

“When you say she didn’t come much lately, what do you mean?”

He considered her question. “I don’t know. You have to check at reception. Everyone signs in when they visit, but I don’t remember seeing her much for the last couple of months. At first, she and her mother were very active in Dr. Harper’s treatment, but lately, I’ve just dealt with her mother.”

“Is Dr. Harper on many medications?”

“Not so much as at first. An antibiotic for the infection, pain medication on a regular schedule, but beyond the feeding tube, IV, and respirator, all other interventions have been stopped.”

“With Claire Harper’s approval?”

“She ordered the feeding tube and IV. She demanded the antibiotic, but there was no indication that any other medication would do any good.”

Peyton closed her notebook. “What about warfarin? Is he on that?”

“Warfarin?” Dr. Chang’s brows knit, then he opened his eyes wide. “Oh, stroke medication. Yes, yes, I see. No, he’s not on warfarin.”

“Was he ever?”

Dr. Chang spread his hands again. “Perhaps when he first arrived at the hospital, but by the time he was moved here, it wasn’t indicated.”

“Because there was no brain activity?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Just to be sure I have this right, there was never any time here at your facility that Dr. Harper was given warfarin for any reason.”

“Of course not. As I said, it wasn’t indicated. Warfarin would have only hastened his death.”

Marco and Peyton exchanged a look. “Why?” she asked. “You said yourself it’s a stroke medication.”

“Do you know what a shunt is, Officer?”

“I think I do. It’s too remove excess fluid, right?”

“Yes, yes. A stroke is caused by a blocked artery, but when the blockage is so great, the artery fails, you now have bleeding where there should never be blood. Blake Harper has a shunt because his brain is bleeding into his cranial cavity.”

Peyton didn’t move. She stared at Dr. Chang, trying to process what she’d heard. The doctor waited a moment, then reached for the warrant and folded it, passing it across the desk to Marco. Marco took it, but he didn’t put it back in his coat pocket.

Dr. Chang pointedly looked at his watch. “Is there anything else, Officers? I have patients I need to see.”

Peyton shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. “No, thank you, Dr. Chang.” She held out her hand and he shook it. “If we think of something else, can we call you?”

“Yes, yes, please do.” He reached for a business card in a metal holder beside the Newton’s cradle. “Take this.”

Peyton accepted it and put it in her notebook, then she put the notebook in her pocket and followed the doctor to the door.

“You can show yourselves out, yes?”

“Yes,” said Peyton, resisting the urge to add another yes. The doctor disappeared down the hall and through a different door. Peyton followed Marco into the lobby again.

“Hold on,” said Marco and he strode up to the desk, flashing his million dollar smile. “Dr. Chang said you have a record of all people who visit. Could you look up someone for me on a specific date?”

“Sure,” she said, reaching for a large book sitting on the counter next to her. “What date?”

Marco gave the day of Zoë’s death and waited while the receptionist searched through the pages. She located the date, then smiled up at him. “Who are you looking for specifically?”

“Zoë Ryder.”

Peyton wandered over to the counter as the receptionist dragged her finger down the page. “No, no Zoë Ryder,” she said, looking up. Peyton leaned over and looked herself. She didn’t see a Z anywhere on the page.

“Try Claire Harper,” she said.

The receptionist made another swipe with her finger. “No, no Claire Harper either.”

Peyton looked up at Marco and shook her head. “What the hell is going on?”

“Someone is telling us lies. I think it’s time we paid a visit to the Queen Bee.”

Peyton’s phone rang. She dragged it out of her pocket and pressed it to her ear. “Brooks?”

“Hey, Brooks, this is Smith. Just got a call from dispatch that Ryder is at Claire Harper’s house making a scene. You know how these uptight Pacific Heights people are. Captain wants you and D’Angelo to check it out.”

“How did Ryder get to the Harper place?”

“He went into an Italian restaurant for food and never came out. We’ve been looking all over for the bastard when we got the call. Want us to meet you at the Harper place?”

“No, you find Ryder. By the time we get over there, I’ll bet he’s gone.”

“Got it.”

“And Smith?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t lose him this time. He’s got you twice now.”

“That wasn’t me. The last time it was Holmes he burned.”

“Whatever. Just find him, okay?”

“You got it.”

Peyton disconnected the call and replaced the phone in her jacket pocket.

“Well, that was convenient.”

“Oh, yeah, Jake is just being all kinds of cooperative now.”

Marco passed the receptionist his business card. “Thank you for your help. Call if you remember anything.”

She clutched the card to her massive bosom. “I will,” she called after him as he headed toward the door.

Peyton followed behind him. “I’ll bet she’ll remember your pretty blue eyes, Marco Baby,” she said as they exited the building.

“Don’t they all, Brooks, don’t they all.”

*   *   *

Jake rode the bus to Outer Richmond and got off on Geary. He found a little deli and went inside. It wasn’t as crowded this late in the evening and he was grateful for that. He was becoming a little afraid that the police would put out a bulletin about him. He waited in line and ordered a turkey sandwich and a glass of iced tea.

Taking both to an armchair by the window, he settled the backpack in the chair next to him and sat down. He watched the traffic go by as he wolfed down the sandwich. Nothing had ever tasted as good to him. Funny how much better food was when you were really, painfully hungry.

He sipped at the iced tea as he reached for Zoë’s journal again. So far it hadn’t told him much. It was a pleasant chronicle of their first three years together, but nothing led him to answers he desperately needed. He skimmed through the pages until he came to a date he recognized – the date her father had his stroke.

September 23rd

I have no words to express the sadness I feel tonight or actually, it’s more like tomorrow. It’s 2:00AM and I can’t sleep. Jake is out cold. I can hear him snoring in the bedroom, but every time I close my eyes, I see my father lying in that bed with tubes and wires attached to him.

The doctors don’t have much hope. They’re going to run a brain scan tomorrow, but they’re already talking to Mom and me about removing him from life support. Can’t they just let us adjust to the devastation? Do they have to push us to make decisions we can’t even fathom right now?

I can hardly write this down. It just doesn’t seem real. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and it’ll all be a bad dream.

September 29th

No change in Dad’s condition. It’s been more than a week. The doctors are saying the brain scans show little to no activity. Still, Mom and I won’t allow them to unhook him. I’ve read many stories of people who were thought brain dead, who miraculous recovered. I’m not giving up hope.

We got them to insert a feeding tube, so he’s getting nourishment, and they agreed to begin pain medication on a regular basis. He doesn’t indicate he’s in pain, but I can’t stand the thought that he might be.

What scares me most is they want to move him from the hospital to a convalescent home. I can’t stand the thought of that. I want Mom to take him home, but she says she can’t take care of him. I know they have enough money for her to hire help, but she panics whenever I suggest it. I don’t know what I’ll do if they move him.

October 4th

They moved Dad to the convalescent hospital. It’s the nicest one I’ve seen, but it’s still a horrible place to be. I can’t stand seeing him in that place. I can’t stand seeing him lying in that bed. He’s lost so much weight already. It’s like he’s shrinking before my eyes. My powerful father reduced to a shell of what he once was.

His latest doctor, Dr. Chang, began pestering Mom and me about removing him from life support. He did his own brain scan and says there is very little activity. He said it would be a mercy to let him go.

Oh, God help me, I wonder if he’s right. Are we doing the wrong thing by keeping him alive? How do you make that decision?

When I approached it with Mom, she flew into a rage and began sobbing. I dropped it immediately. I guess there isn’t a choice as long as she is so vehemently opposed to it.

Jake lowered the journal and sat looking out the window. The lights on the cars washed over his face as they raced down the street. So, Zoë had considered letting Blake go? She’d never mentioned it to him, but that was probably because of Claire’s reaction.

He wished that she had confided in him. He could have helped her, at least he could have comforted her and supported her in her decision not to fight Claire. As it was, he’d made things worse. He’d commented often enough that he thought it was cruel to keep Blake alive. He thought he was doing the right thing, but obviously, he’d just been rubbing salt into the wound.

He covered his eyes and allowed the wave of sadness to sweep over him. What kind of a husband gives his wife a hard time when she’s going through something like this? No wonder she’d turned to someone else.

Reaching for the iced tea, he gulped it down. The chill of it drove some of the panic away and he felt calmer. Picking up the journal again, he continued reading.

October 10th

Received a letter today from Dad’s attorney. Honestly, I didn’t know Dad had a lawyer. It was addressed to me, which I thought was odd, since Mom must be Dad’s beneficiary. I also don’t understand why I received it now. Dad has stabilized and although there is no progress, he doesn’t seem to be declining either.

The letter asked me to contact the lawyer, a Mr. Neal Goldman, Esq. He said he has some information that my father wanted me to have in the event of his demise. My father isn’t dead. Why is this man contacting me now and what information could he have that my father gave him?

I want to ask Jake, but he and I are going through a rough spot. He won’t go see Dad anymore and he disapproves of Mom and my decision. I wish I could explain it to him, but every time I talk about Dad, I’m so overwhelmed with guilt and sadness I start crying. I’m sure Jake is sick of having a weepy, depressed wife all of the time.

Jake marked his spot and closed the journal, leaning his head back with a weary sigh. His chest ached. He couldn’t read any more. Not tonight. Oh, God, Zoë, how had they gotten so far away from each other that she didn’t feel comfortable confiding in him?

He hesitated and sat staring at the cover of the journal. Neal Goldman, Esq. Neal Goldman. He dug his phone out of his pocket and started to thumb it on, but stopped. The police would be able to trace him here if he used it, but he needed to check the text message he’d received awhile ago. He was certain the man’s name was Neal Goldman. The man who had never answered his call. He struggled with himself for a moment more, then he let out a heavy sigh and put the phone back into his pocket. He couldn’t risk it. Not yet.

He slipped the journal into the backpack and rose to his feet, moving toward the counter. He needed to find a cheap motel for the night, so he could get some real sleep. If he didn’t get a full night, he wasn’t going to be able to help himself any more.

CHAPTER 10

Peyton pulled the Charger up in front of the stately mansion. She leaned over and looked at it. Her little home on 19th could fit inside of it about three times. She shook her head in amusement as she marked the lights angled to highlight its white columns as if it were a star parading in the spotlight.

“Hot damn, being a gastro-whatever sure pays well,” she said.

Marco was studying it as well. “I guess so. Definitely not a cop’s house.”

They both laughed, then climbed out of the car.

“What did the Queen Bee do again before she married Dr. Harper?” asked Marco.

Peyton reached for the gate in the rose arbor. “She was a nurse. I think I’ve read where all these doctors keep something going on the side with their nurses.”

“That’s a stereotype, Brooks. Like cops being fiends for donuts.”

Peyton shrugged. “Whatever. I can’t say I mind donuts myself.”

“You like anything that’s got sugar in it.”

Peyton jogged up the steps. “That’s why I’m so damn sweet.”

“Tell that to your boyfriend,” he responded and took two long strides to the door. He knocked loudly a couple of times.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said, leaning back to take in the façade of the house. “Definitely in the wrong business.”

“You keep on with your lawyer and you might get one of these in your stocking one Christmas.”

Peyton stuck her tongue out at him.

The door opened and a man in his late twenties looked out. He had massive shoulders and was over six feet tall. He had the arched brows, narrow nose, and thin lips of white aristocracy – a frat boy down to his polo shirt, khaki pants, and penny loafers.

“Officers, nice of you to show up,” he said.

Peyton bit her inner lip as she reached for her badge. All cocky aggression and condescension. Oh, she hated him already. She and Marco flipped open their badges at the same time. “Inspector Brooks and D’Angelo.”

“Come in.” He stepped back and motioned them inside.

Marco let Peyton go first. The entrance hall was tiled in marble with a huge staircase rising to the right. To the left was a door that opened onto a parlor. Peyton marked the blond woman rising from one of the chairs at the same time she caught motion at the far end of the hall. A short, dark haired woman, probably Hispanic, was watching them, but she disappeared as soon as she caught Peyton’s eye.

“Police officers,” said the man as the blond woman bustled up to them. “Brooks and D’Angeles.”

“D’Angelo,” Peyton corrected, turning to the woman. “Are you Claire Harper?”

She was dressed in a silk blouse and a pencil skirt with black pumps. Her blond hair was pulled up in pearl combs and her face was made up impeccably. She pressed a hand to her chest where a large diamond sparkled in the light from the chandelier.

“Yes. Why did it take you so long to get here? I was terrified.”

Peyton started to say something, but the man interrupted. “I was here the whole time. He wasn’t getting inside, Claire.”

Claire touched his arm. “I know. I felt so much better that you were here.”

Peyton exchanged a look with Marco before she turned to the man. “Exactly who are you?” she asked, meaning her tone to be sharp.

He narrowed his eyes in affront and Claire straightened like a bird dog on alert.

“This is my dear neighbor, Brandon Dixon. He and my darling Zoë were sweethearts in high school.”

Peyton reached for her notebook and a pen. She jotted his name on a clean page.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the parlor, Officer?” Claire said, motioning behind her.

Peyton closed the notebook and followed the woman into the room. She took the seat Claire indicated in front of the windows, but Marco wandered around the room as he always did, looking at the paintings and the furnishings. Claire perched on the very edge of her chair and patted the seat next to her for Brandon.

Peyton frowned at that. Now that they were here, why exactly was he staying?

“Can I get you anything to drink?” offered Zoë’s mother.

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, I must insist. You look positively exhausted.”

Peyton lifted a hand to touch her wild mane. It was dutifully pulled back in a ponytail, but some curls always escaped. With her ass-kicker boots, jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket, she guessed she didn’t look like she belonged in Pacific Heights.

“Juanita!” Claire shouted. “Juanita, ven aqui, por favor!”

Marco had wandered to the piano, but he turned and gave Peyton a quizzical look. Peyton glanced down to hide her amusement.

“So, Mrs. Harper, can you tell me what happened earlier?”

Claire placed her hand over her heart again. Give the woman a diva award. “Jake showed up here, demanding to talk to me. I was so afraid. I don’t know what I would have done if Brandon hadn’t stopped him. He just kept shouting and shouting.”

Peyton stored part of that away to come back to later. “What was he shouting?”

“He wanted money for a lawyer. Can you believe that? He asked me for money for a lawyer.” She shook her head in disbelief, then she shifted in the seat. “Where is that maid? Juanita…” She stopped as the little woman appeared in the doorway. “Oh, there you are. Bring us some tea, por favor.  El tea-o.”

Peyton’s eyes widened in shock at Claire’s words. Juanita was studying both her and Marco with wide frightened eyes, but when Peyton’s attention shifted to her, she disappeared again. Peyton sat staring at the empty doorway.

“Language barrier,” said Claire with a strange laugh.

Peyton blinked, then shifted back to Claire. “No doubt,” she said. “Okay, um, he asked you for money for a lawyer?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “It hurt me to turn him away. We were once very close, but…” She let the last trail away.

“When you refused, what did he do?”

“He wouldn’t give up. Brandon had to threaten him and I had already called the police.” She rested her hand on Brandon’s arm again. He patted it.

“Did you see where he went?”

“No, after I was sure he went out the gate, I locked the doors and waited for you.”

Peyton looked down at her notes. “Let’s go back. You said Brandon stopped him when he first came to the door.”

“Right.”

“I answered the door,” offered Brandon.

Peyton nodded at him, then turned her attention back to Claire. “What was Brandon doing here? Didn’t you say he was a neighbor?”

Claire had shifted to see what Marco was doing. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting down, Officer D’Angelo?”

Marco looked over his shoulder. “I’ve been sitting all day, ma’am. I’d like to stretch my legs if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself,” said Claire, turning back to Peyton, but Peyton could tell by her pinched lips, she wasn’t pleased with his answer. “What did you ask?”

“Why did Brandon open the door? Was he here for a specific reason?”

“Brandon has been a rock for me since Zoë died…well, since Blake got sick. He takes care of small chores for me.”

“Chores? Things Juanita doesn’t do?”

Claire’s finely drawn brows knit. “Of course. Yard work. Heavy lifting.”

“Yard work?” said Peyton with a forced smile. “You don’t have a gardener, Mrs. Harper?”

“Well yes, but…” She clamped her mouth shut.

“You told me on the phone that you knew about Zoë’s pregnancy, right?”

“What does that have to do with Jake showing up here tonight?”

Peyton shrugged. “I just have a few questions I’ve been meaning to ask you. Since we’re already here, I thought I might get it out of the way.”

“Fine. Yes, I knew Zoë was pregnant.”

“Even though she didn’t tell her husband?”

Claire made a scoffing sound. “Daughters tell their mothers things they tell no one else, Officer Brooks. You should know that. Besides, she and Jake weren’t getting along very well.”

Peyton ignored the comment about mothers. In her family, that axiom didn’t exactly work. She certainly hadn’t told her mother about Devan. “Yes, you said that before. What do you mean?”

“You know, fighting and such.”

Juanita appeared with a tray. She brought it into the room and placed it on the table. Peyton marked that the teacups clattered as she set it down. She was shaking. Peyton offered her a warm smile as she rose, but she didn’t return it, backing away from the table as if it were hot.

“I’ll pour,” said Claire, waving her away.

The maid retreated. Peyton leaned back to watch her go. What was that all about?

Claire reached for the teapot and began pouring.

“What did they fight about?”

“He didn’t approve of us keeping Blake on life support. He thought it was a waste of money.” She held out a teacup to Peyton.

Peyton set down her notebook and accepted it. “That’s what he said – waste of money?”

Claire lifted another cup and shifted around to hand it to Marco. Marco accepted the tiny cup in his huge hands. Peyton wanted to laugh at the ridiculous sight. “Yes, he was always going on about money.” She handed a third cup to Brandon, then leaned forward. “I think he saw all of this and he wanted his share.”

Peyton set her cup on the coffee table. “That seems like a relatively silly reason not to tell your husband you’re pregnant. Did you encourage her to tell him?”

Claire paused in the act of pouring her own tea. “Of course I did. I begged her to tell him, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Zoë was head-strong. She always did things her way. Didn’t she?” she said to Brandon.

He nodded and sipped his tea.

“Just like med school. Blake tried so hard to get her to go, but she liked working in that horrible coffee shop for minimum wage.”

“A lot of people think it’s honest work.”

Claire made a scoffing sound. “Believe me. I’ve done honest work and there’s nothing to be said for it.”

Peyton’s brows rose. She resisted the impulse to comment. She closed the notebook and replaced it in her pocket. Her gaze lifted and met Marco’s. By his slight nod, he knew where she was going next. They’d likely get no more cooperation after Peyton broached her next topic, but she had to see Claire’s reaction.

“Could it be that Zoë didn’t want to tell Jake about the pregnancy because she knew it wasn’t his?”

A teacup clattered against a saucer, but it wasn’t Claire’s. Peyton’s attention shifted to Brandon. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. When Claire shot him a look, he closed his mouth, then leaned forward and placed his cup on the table. He didn’t rise for a moment, just sat with his hands between his knees, staring at the cup.

“What a particularly horrible thing to say about my daughter, Officer Brooks. I’m shocked you would slander her reputation that way.”

“Oh, it’s not slander, Mrs. Harper. Our M.E. typed the baby’s blood. Both Zoë and Jake are O, while the baby was B. There’s no way for Jake to be its father.”

Claire set down her cup and rose swiftly to her feet. “I’d like to know what you are doing to catch my daughter’s murderer. I’m not interested in such defamous allegations about her.”

Peyton rose also and offered her a smile. “I’m sorry to upset you, Mrs. Harper. I do have one last question.”

Claire smoothed her skirt. “Go on.”

“We saw Dr. Chang today.”

“My husband’s doctor?”

“Yes. Jake told us you and Zoë had been to see Blake the day Zoë died.”

“Yes, we go often.”

“Really? Well, when we checked with the receptionist, she said neither one of you were there that day.”

Claire’s face shifted – grew grim and cold. “I am a donor to that hospital, Officer Brooks. I don’t have to sign in when I visit. Everyone knows me on sight.”

“I see. Is the same true for Zoë?”

“When she’s with me.”

Peyton nodded, then turned to go. Marco was already in the entrance hall. She took a few deliberate steps, then turned back. “Dr. Chang also mentioned that Dr. Harper has very little brain activity and hasn’t for a long time. I’m just curious why you won’t let him go in peace.”

Claire’s mouth opened and her hands gripped the sides of her skirt. Brandon glanced up at her from his chair. “How dare you ask me something so personal! My husband is still alive and I have no intention of hastening his death any time soon. What a horrible question to ask! Be assured I’ll be contacting your supervisor over this visit. I am utterly appalled by the way you’ve handled my complaint.”

Peyton couldn’t resist a smile as she reached into her pocket for a business card. “Feel free to call anyone you choose, Mrs. Harper. My captain’s name is Katherine Defino.” She held out the card. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to receive your call.”

Without waiting for a response, she met Marco in the entrance hall. A coat tree to the right of the door caught her attention. A fur jacket of some kind hung from a hook and over it was a green Coach handbag.

Peyton reached out and touched the textured leather. “Beautiful bag, Mrs. Harper,” she said.

“Please leave, Officer Brooks,” said the woman, coming up behind her.

Peyton followed Marco onto the porch just as the door slammed behind them.

Marco arched a brow. “That went well.”

“It did indeed. For my part, I learned a little Spanish and some English I wasn’t aware of.”

“If we stay around much more, I’m sure you’ll learn a host of words you’ve never heard before.”

Peyton laughed, but a motion in the corner of the drive caught her eye. “Wait for me at the car,” she said, passing him the keys.

He nodded and went down the walk. Peyton descended the stairs and crossed the drive to a little fenced-in area, housing the garbage cans.

Juanita was hiding between them. “Please no, I have papers. I show you.”

Peyton halted. “I’m not with the INS. I’m with the San Francisco Police Department.” She glanced up at the house, but she didn’t see anyone in the windows. “I’m here about Zoë Ryder.”

The little woman nodded, quickly.

“Tell me, Juanita. Is Brandon here a lot?”

“Sí. A lot.” She kept looking at the house. “No quiero hablar, por favor.”

“Okay,” said Peyton. She reached for another business card. “If you do decide you want to talk, here’s my number.”

The maid took the card.

Peyton started to walk away, but shifted back around. “What work does Brandon do around here?”

Juanita’s eyes rose to the upper story windows and then she looked down, hunching her shoulders.

Peyton followed her gaze. “What’s up there, Juanita? On the second floor?”

“Dormitorios.”

Bedrooms.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

*   *   *

Peyton lifted the beer and took a sip. The pounding of the bass from the sound system on the dance floor echoed in her skull, but she tried to tune it out. Marco lounged in the booth across from her. Every so often a young, scantily clad woman would stroll past, giving him a once-over and a smile. He returned each one with a lazy wink.

“You got something in your eye,” said Peyton, pointing with the neck of her beer bottle.

He laughed and peeled away part of the label on his own beer. “Jealous, Brooks. You’ve got to do something about that.”

Abe slid into the booth, carefully setting a frothy pink drink on the table.

Peyton and Marco both frowned at it.

“What the hell is that?” Marco asked.

“This is a Flaming Pink Flamingo.”

Marco opened his mouth, but didn’t respond.

“Flaming is right,” said Peyton.

Abe gave her a saucy smile and sipped at his pink concoction.

“What’s in it?” asked Marco with a skeptical look.

“Vodka, triple sec, and grenadine, Marco, my sweet. Want a sip?”

Marco shook his head. “I’ll pass.” He picked up his beer and took another sip.

“What makes it foam?” asked Peyton.

Marco gave her a horrified look and a massive smile bloomed across Abe’s face. Before he could respond, Peyton leaned forward and clasped his hand.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, closing her eyes briefly. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked.”

Abe chuckled and took another pull on his straw. His gaze swiveled back to Marco. “I see you’re getting all kinds of attention, my Angel’D.”

Marco gave a careless shrug.

Abe shifted back to Peyton. “The music is right awful, you know?”

“I know.”

“I know a great bar on Castro…”

“Oh, no,” said Marco, leaning forward. “No bars on Castro.”

Abe giggled and sipped at his drink some more. “So tell me. How’s the Potrero Hill case going?”

Peyton slumped against the cracked red upholstery of the booth. “No motive, no weapon, and now no suspect.”

Abe gave her an elegant frown. “No suspect? I thought it was the husband.”

“It’s still the husband, but he’s on the lam now.”

“Oh,” said Abe, his brows climbing nearly to his hairline. “That’s not good.”

“No, not good at all.”

“Defino know?” asked Abe, glancing between the two of them.

“She knows,” answered Marco, tearing at his label again.

“Has Dwight Boyd talked to you, Abe?” wondered Peyton.

“My boss?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

Abe shrugged his shoulders, making his dreads bounce. “He mentioned how he’d like to put this one away, so we can release the body.”

“Mentioned? As in strongly?” asked Peyton.

“As in, we need this to be over, so we can release the body before the mayor calls.”

“That’s pretty much what Devan said too,” remarked Peyton.

Abe leaned forward, holding his drink in both hands. “So dish about the dreamy D.A.” He cast a glance at Marco. “Don’t worry, Angel baby, D.A. Dreamy is apparently taken.”

“I’m so relieved,” said Marco with an ironic smile.

“There’s nothing to dish.”

“How can there be nothing to dish? He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in San Francisco…who is straight, that is, and he’s all kinds of things we like – handsome, rich, powerful, rich.”

Peyton laughed. “He’s a great guy.”

Abe gave Marco a theatrical look. “A great guy? Aphrodite smite this one, she needs some serious help. You don’t lead off a dish with he’s a great guy, Peyton. Tell me how the sex was.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on!” said Marco, lifting his hands. “I do not want to hear this.”

Peyton picked up her beer and pressed it to her lips, laughing at Marco’s reaction.

Abe slid his Flaming Pink Flamingo over to him with one long finger. “Drink this and loosen up, Angel, our little girl has a boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” both Peyton and Marco said at the same time.

*   *   *

Jake woke the next morning disoriented and confused. The room with its 70s décor didn’t seem familiar until his thoughts came into focus. He rolled to a sitting position and braced his head in his hands. He couldn’t keep staying in flea bag motels like this. Even this one had cost him more than he could afford, although they’d accepted his cash without demanding a name. Sort of explained the kind of clientele they usually got.

He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the bathroom, turning on the shower. While he waited for the water to heat, he leaned on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and a week of no shaving had left a sorry, patchy beard on his jaw. He scratched it and wished he’d remembered to pack a razor.

Reaching for the toothbrush, he brushed his teeth, then climbed in the shower. The hot water felt so good, he lingered until it began to get cold. So much for cheap motels. Climbing out, he toweled off, then changed into his only other clean clothes.

He repacked his backpack, then hesitated, staring at Zoë’s journal where it lay on his nightstand. Picking it up, he shoved it in the backpack and walked to the door. Pulling it open, he stared out at the parking lot, watching traffic buzz by on the street.

He didn’t see a Crown Victoria waiting for him, so he shouldered the backpack and began walking down Geary toward the ocean. He found a fifties themed diner and went inside.

“Take a seat anywhere, baby,” said the waitress, a woman in her early fifties.

He picked a table by the window, so he could watch the street, and settled the backpack by his feet. She came over carrying a menu and a coffee pot. Reaching for the mug on the table, she turned it over and filled it.

“Long night?” she commented, giving him a look over her glasses.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for the mug. The steam bathed his face as he took a sip. Motor oil might have more flavor, but it was hot and caffeinated.

She moved away to another customer as Jake opened the menu. Last night he’d fallen asleep almost immediately, but he’d had nightmares the entire time. Not Zoë in the ambulance. This time it was his own nightmares of climbing fences and running down alleyways, constantly looking over his shoulder.

He chose something off the menu and closed it, picking up his mug again. He sipped at the coffee until she returned.

“What’ll it be, baby?”

“I’ll have a Denver omelet with the country fries.”

“Sour dough or wheat toast.”

“Sour dough.”

She bustled away. Jake glanced around the restaurant, but except for an older man at the counter and a middle aged couple in a booth, he was alone. He reached for the backpack and unzipped it, pulling out Zoë’s journal.

Taking another sip of coffee to brace himself, he opened it to the point where he was last night.

November 16th

Received another letter from Mr. Goldman about my father’s request. He wants me to come see him, says he has important information to give me. I don’t know why this is so hard for me. Why can’t I just make a decision?

Because my father isn’t dead yet and I can’t stand the thought of hearing his final wishes when I know he’s still alive. I asked Mom if she’d heard from Mr. Goldman, but she said she hadn’t. She acted so surprised that he would contact me instead of her.

Jake and I are to the point where we don’t discuss my father at all. I’m dreading this time of year more than I can tell you. Thanksgiving is a week away, then Christmas, but my father won’t be here to celebrate with us.

December 20th

Jake wants to go away for Christmas. He says he wants to get my thoughts off my father, but I can’t stand the thought of leaving. What if he dies while I’m gone? I would never forgive myself, except what if this is the only way to preserve my marriage?

I feel like I’m growing away from Jake. There’s so much I want to say to him, but I can’t. He doesn’t understand why I’m so upset. I know he thinks I’m insensitive. He lost both of his parents and he dealt with it.

I don’t know why, but I’ve always been closer to my father. And now Mom is acting strange. It’s not like she and I have ever been able to talk, but whenever I try to broach certain topics, she flies into a rage. It’s like all of the most important relationships around me are disintegrating and I can’t stop it.

The waitress appeared and set Jake’s plate in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said, distracted.

She filled his coffee again. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few.”

He nodded, reaching for his napkin and a fork. He began shoveling the food in as he continued reading Zoë’s journal. He’d had no idea how isolated she’d felt and he couldn’t help the guilt that washed over him whenever he read about it. What an ass he’d been.

January 3rd

I received a call from Mr. Goldman today. He said he had a horrible time finding my number, but he’d finally tracked me down. I apologized for not responding sooner and tried to explain to him why I hadn’t answered his letters. He said it was important I come in and see the information my father left me.

He mentioned that Dad had changed his will about a week before he had his stroke and I needed to know what was in it. He said he couldn’t talk about it over the phone, it was too important. Why would Dad change his will?

Mr. Goldman wouldn’t give me any more information, just urged me to come down. When I told him I really couldn’t stand the thought of seeing my father’s will before he was dead, he said something really strange. He said I needed to look at my birth certificate and then I might be willing to come see him.

My birth certificate? I’ve gone through all of my papers and I realize I don’t have a copy of it. I have a passport, which I’ve used from the time I can remember, but I don’t remember if I’ve ever seen a copy of my birth certificate.

Jake flipped the page, but it was blank. He flipped a few more and still nothing. She had just stopped writing. He lowered the journal and sat staring at its red cover. Why hadn’t she written anymore? Why hadn’t she continued to chronicle the most important part of this experience?

He pushed the rest of his breakfast away and ran a hand over the beard on his chin. What could be wrong with her birth certificate?

“All done?” said the waitress, reaching for his plate.

He nodded without looking at her.

She set the check in front of him. “More coffee?”

He glanced up. “Yes, please.” He needed a little more time to think.

She filled his mug. “I’ll take that when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” he muttered as she walked away.

He looked out the window and watched the traffic for a few minutes. The fog was breaking up and sunlight was shining down. A few people meandered down the sidewalk and a young man turned into the diner.

Jake could view her birth certificate himself because he had her social security number and her birthdate, but it would mean going on-line. The minute he turned on his tablet, the police would know where he was. He had no doubt they could track him by it.

He had to know. He had to find out what Mr. Goldman meant. He reached into his backpack and pulled out his tablet. He set it on the table before him, then searched through his backpack for a pen and paper. He didn’t have one.

Pushing back his chair, he went to the counter where the waitress was taking the young man’s order. “Can I borrow a pen and some paper?”

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a pen, handing it to him. Then she tore off one of her order sheets and passed that to him as well. He went back to his table, then sat staring at the tablet a moment longer. How long did he have before they could dispatch someone here?

He didn’t have any choice. He’d get on, hopefully find what he needed quickly, then log off again. Turning on the tablet, he pulled up a search engine, located the proper government agency and found the birth certificates. He opened another window on the tablet and looked up Zoë’s personal information, punching it into the form. While he waited for the tablet to think, he stared out the window, expecting to see a bunch of police cars screech to a halt outside the restaurant like in the movies.

When he looked back, he saw Zoë’s name. Using his index finger, he tapped it. A form opened up across the screen with the official seal of California across the top. He glanced down the form, then stopped.

His heart slammed against his ribs and he scanned it again, coming to a stop at the same place. What the hell! He read it a third time, but nothing changed. It just didn’t make sense. This couldn’t be right.

“Can I get you anything else?” asked the waitress.

Jake jumped and looked up at her. She was giving him a frank stare, then looked down at the check. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. She took it and the check, walking away. Jake glanced back at the form, reading it a fourth time.

He grabbed the paper and jotted a name on it, then closed the file, but before he turned off the tablet he hesitated. Pulling up the search engine again, he typed in Neal Goldman, Esq. He located his office on Scott Street and wrote it next to the name on his paper. Then he folded the paper and put it in his pocket, leaving the pen on the table.

As he reached for the tablet, he hesitated. He knew the cops had to have mapped his location by now. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. Pulling up the memo function on the tablet, he typed a note to them and then looked up as the waitress brought him his change.

“Here you are, baby,” she said.

He pulled out a bigger than normal tip and held it out to her. “I have a favor to ask you.”

She took the tip, her brows lowering in a frown. “Yeah?”

He held the tablet out to her as well. “When the cops show up here in a few minutes, give this to them, please.”

“Cops?”

“Yeah. Please, it’s important.”

She took the tablet and gave him a scowl. “What’s this about?”

He grabbed Zoë’s journal and picked up the backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. “Please. Just give it to them. It’s more important than you can imagine.”

“I don’t want to get involved in no crime,” she said.

“You aren’t. I just need them to have some information and I can’t give it to them myself. Please?”

Her frown deepened and she took a step back from the table. “Okay, but I don’t want to get involved.”

“Thank you,” he said, easing around her. “I am forever in your debt.”

She made a grunt, but didn’t respond. Jake hurried to the door and slipped outside. He didn’t know if she would do what he asked, but it didn’t matter. He had very little time to get out of the Richmond District before they arrived.

CHAPTER 11

“What did I tell you about Claire Harper, Brooks?” came the voice on the other end of the line.

Peyton closed her eyes briefly and then looked out at the traffic on 19th Avenue. She glanced at Marco in the driver’s seat. “Hey, Captain. How are you this lovely, sunshiny San Francisco morning?”

“Cut the shit, Brooks. This morning I’ve talked with Claire Harper for forty-five minutes about your interview last night. And then…and then I received a call from Dwight Boyd. You remember who he is, Brooks?”

“The Chief M.E.”

“The Chief M.E.,” repeated the captain. “You think we might need his cooperation in the future, Brooks, do you?”

“Yes, but Captain…”

“Did you ask Claire Harper why she hasn’t pulled the plug on her husband? Just tell me that, Brooks. Tell me you didn’t ask a grieving mother why she doesn’t pull the plug on her comatose husband!”

Marco glanced over and gave her a concerned look.

Peyton shrugged. “It was relevant, Captain.”

“Relevant? How?”

“We’re working on that.”

We’re? mouthed Marco.

Peyton ignored him.

“You’d better be working on it, Brooks. You’d better damn well be working on it. And before you approach Claire Harper again, you’d better clue me in. You hear me? You’d better damn well clue me in.”

“You got it, Captain. You’ll be clued the minute we get something.”

“I’m not joking, Brooks.”

“I know that, Captain.”

Defino hung up before Peyton could say goodbye. She lowered the phone.

“You got any ass left?” said Marco.

“Funny. You’re a regular comedian. I didn’t see you backing me up.”

“You’re a big girl, you can take it. So, Captain heard from the Queen Bee, eh?”

“And Boyd. You know, I’ve been thinking…” She was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. “Hold on.” She thumbed it on and lifted it to her ear. “Brooks?”

“Hey, we got a ping on Ryder.” She recognized Stan Neumann’s voice.

“Sorry. A ping?”

“He turned on his tablet and he was on long enough for us to pick up a location.”

Peyton reached for her notebook and pen. “Give it to me.”

Stan read her the address.

“What is it?”

“Some diner or something.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Peyton dropped the phone into her pocket. “You’re gonna need to turn around. Stan picked up a location for Ryder through his tablet.” She held the address out to him.

Marco slipped the Charger into the left lane and hit the lights. “Let’s hope we get there before the bastard leaves.”

Peyton nodded and braced herself against the center console and the door as Marco flipped a U-turn.

“You were saying something about you thinking?” prompted Marco.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you later. Let’s just see if we can catch Ryder.”

They fell silent as Marco whipped through the traffic. Peyton squinted, hating this part of it. She liked driving herself when they had to hit the lights. With every swerve and brake, she was sure Marco was going to plow them into the other cars. And people did such stupid things when they heard a siren. Instead of just stopping where they were, they would swerve out of traffic no matter how dangerous it was. She was amazed more people weren’t hurt when police responded to a call.

After a heart stopping few minutes of white-knuckle driving, they pulled up in front of the diner. Peyton climbed out of the Charger and reached the door before Marco had finished putting the car in park. He met her at the entrance, but Peyton could see they were already too late.

A few construction guys were sitting at the counter. Two women were in a booth, talking and sipping coffee, and a kid with a backpack sat in the far corner. A waitress with glasses looked up as they entered, but there was no sign of Ryder.

Peyton reached for her badge and approached the counter, showing it to the waitress. She looked at it, then bent down and retrieved something from under the counter, passing it over the cash register to her.

“I don’t want no trouble,” she said.

Peyton held the tablet up for Marco to see, then she looked at the waitress. “Can you describe the man who gave this to you?”

“Medium height. Brown hair parted on the side. Bit of a beard. White.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“Took off up Geary toward the ocean. Don’t know where he went after that.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Nope. Just asked me to give it to the cops when they showed up.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Marco nodded at the door. “Let’s see if we can catch him.”

Peyton stepped back, carrying the tablet with her. “Thank you,” she said.

The waitress shrugged.

Peyton followed Marco from the diner and waited while he opened the car, then she slipped into the passenger seat. Marco dropped into the driver’s seat and started the car, then wheeled out into traffic again, headed west on Geary. He didn’t turn on the lights or his siren. He obviously didn’t want to alert Jake if he was still around.

On impulse, Peyton slid her fingers across the tablet’s dark surface. It sprang to life with a chime of bells. A note appeared on the screen and she read it. Check Zoë’s birth certificate. It wasn’t signed, but she knew who wrote it.

Looking up, she glanced at the people wandering up and down Geary. “Go back to the precinct,” she said. “I’m sure he’s gone.”

Marco shot a glance at her. “You don’t think we should look?”

She held up the tablet for him to see.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t know, but let’s go look up her birth certificate.”

“Whatever you say,” he answered, moving into the left turn lane to make another U-turn. “What do you suppose we’re gonna find there?”

“With this case, who the hell knows? It’ll probably say she’s an alien.”

“Oh, like the gardener’s kid or something?”

“No, not like the gardener’s kid or something. Like a space alien.”

“Yeah, that makes a lot of sense,” sneered Marco.

“It was a joke, D’Angelo. Jeez, you work with a guy as long as I have and you’d think a sense of humor would rub off on him.”

“Seems to me you’ve got to have something first before it becomes contagious.”

“Just drive,” she snarled and began thumbing through the files Jake had on the tablet.

“Better not let your boyfriend see your lovely morning personality, Brooks,” he muttered.

Peyton glared at him. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said.

*   *   *

Jake sank into the last seat at the back of the bus and slid over to make room for the skinny kid with the long hair and sandals.  It alarmed him to think how adept he was at riding the bus for free. No one had even once tried to stop him.

He placed the backpack on his lap and unzipped it, pulling out Zoë’s journal. He wanted to flip through it again and make sure she hadn’t written anything else after the entry about the birth certificate. He leaned back in the seat and started at the first page. He turned each one, rubbing them between his thumb and first two fingers to make sure none of them stuck together.

He came to the last entry and did the same thing for the blank pages. When he got to the end, he hesitated. Taped to the back cover was a scrap of paper. It wasn’t just stuck there with a few strips. Zoë had meticulously taped its entire surface.

Jake lowered the backpack between his feet and braced the journal on his lap, then he carefully began peeling off the tape. The young man next to him looked down and watched him, but Jake only half noticed he was there.

Once he had gotten a few strips undone, he could wedge his thumb beneath the note and pry it up. Closing the journal, he dumped it in the backpack, then gently pulled apart the edges of the note until he had a full piece of paper. Laying it across his thighs, he smoothed it out, staring at Zoë’s handwriting without reading it. The letter was addressed to him.

He became aware that the young man was watching him. Angling his body toward the window, he hunched over the note, so that no one else could see it.

Jake,

Oh, God, I don’t know how to write this or if I’ll ever be able to give it to you. Before I begin, you must know I love you. I know I haven’t been the best wife, but you have always been there for me, patient and loving, even when I pushed you away.

And I know I’ve been pushing you away a lot more lately. I’m so ashamed, I can’t even look you in the eye. I never expected this to happen and I would give anything if it hadn’t. I didn’t mean it, but I’m sure that won’t be any comfort at all.

I betrayed our marriage and I betrayed your trust. Oh, God, how can I ever say this to you in person? You have the right to know the truth, but I can’t bear the pain I know I’ll see, the shock and disappointment. I don’t think I can bear having you look at me like I’m tainted in some way.

How do you explain what I don’t even understand? I received some shocking news, so I went home to find out the truth. Dad was apparently filing for divorce before his stroke and if that wasn’t enough, I found out something even more devastating. Something I can’t even write here.

Mom wasn’t at the house, but Brandon was. I was pretty hysterical, crying and everything, so he offered me a drink.

I swear I only had the one drink, but the next thing I knew it was many hours later and I woke up in bed with Brandon.  Oh, God, Jake, I’m so sorry. I would give anything to take it back. I don’t even remember what happened. I must have passed out or blacked out or something.

Please, please believe that I would never have consciously betrayed our marital vows. I would never have cheated on you, not for anything in the world. I pray that you will be able to forgive me. I pray that you won’t give up on us, but I know that this will be such a shock, such a horrible, nightmare of a shock. I am filled with such guilt and shame. Every time you touch me, I feel as if I’m betraying you all over again.

And because of this, I know I will never be able to give you this letter. I just can’t destroy what we have. I know that is horribly selfish of me, but I can’t. May God have mercy on me.

Zoë

Jake curled the letter into his fist and closed his eyes, hunching his shoulders. He didn’t think he was capable of feeling any more pain, any more anguish, but he was. The guilt she carried with her up until the moment she died. The pain she must have been hiding. And he’d never done anything to help her, to find out why.

“Dude,” came a voice beside him and a hand closed on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Jake realized his face was wet and he rubbed the tears away with the back of his fist. “Yeah,” he said, but his voice was strained. “Yeah, I’m okay. Where are we?”

“Divisadero and Pacific Avenue.”

“Thanks.” He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, then he smoothed her letter out on his thighs again. He reached for her journal, folded it in half, and placed it inside, then he returned them both to the backpack.

If he ever saw Brandon Dixon again, that son-of-a-bitch was dead.

*   *   *

Peyton set the tablet on the desk and sank into her desk chair, pressing the button on her desktop to boot it up. Marco took a seat across from her, swiveling to study the white board.

Maria wandered over to them and leaned a hip on Marco’s desk. “Hey, Marco baby,” she said, “Captain wants an update on the case as soon as you get a moment.”

Peyton frowned at her as she typed her password into the keyboard.

“We’re working on something right now, Maria,” said Marco, “but as soon as we find out, we’ll check in with her.”

“Hey, Maria,” Peyton said. “I could use a cup of coffee. No cream, but at least a tablespoon of sugar.”

Maria sneered at Peyton. “Captain was pissed this morning,” she said. “Talking about taking your badge.”

Peyton smiled. “I’d also like a donut, chocolate if we got it.”

“Kiss my ass,” hissed Maria, walking away.

Peyton caught the shaking of Marco’s head before she focused on the screen. She typed in the California Department of Public Health website address. “Hey, look through the file and see if we have Zoë’s social.”

Marco swiveled around and reached for the file. He thumbed a few pages, then called out the numbers for her. Peyton typed them into the birth certificate form. She reached for a pencil as she waited for the website to think, drumming the eraser on her desk blotter.

“You see Devan last night after we went for drinks?” asked Marco, leaning back in his chair and hooking his hands behind his head.

“Nope. I went home and took Pickles for a walk. Devan offered to come over, but I needed a night alone. What’d you do after we left the bar?”

“I had a pizza and a couple of beers with my brother, Vinnie, then went home.”

Peyton gave him a smile. She’d rarely seen a family as close as the D’Angelos were. They all lived within blocks of each other and regularly went to Mom and Dad’s for Sunday dinner. She envied it.

Peyton wished things were different with her mom, but what could she do? She didn’t like her mom’s new boyfriend and she wasn’t going to quit her job. She called her at least once a week, but the conversations were stilted. Still she called. She needed to check in at least that often and make sure everything was all right.

Zoë’s name came up on the screen and Peyton scrolled the mouse over to it. She clicked on the link and a birth certificate unfolded before her. She scanned it quickly, reading Zoë’s given name, date of birth, hospital name, delivery doctor, then her parents.

Peyton’s eyes widened and she leaned closer to the screen. “Come here,” she said to Marco.

He swiveled around the desk and looked over her shoulder. “What am I looking for?”

Peyton pointed. “Check out her parents.”

Marco squinted, then leaned back and let out a low whistle. “What the hell?”

Peyton scrolled through the form, then came back to Zoë’s parents. “Who the hell is Annabelle Harper?”

“Obviously, Zoë Harper’s birth mother.”

Peyton minimized the screen and pulled up a new one. She typed Annabelle Harper into the search engine, but nothing came up. She clicked back into the Department of Public Health and punched Marriage Certificates. She typed in Blake Harper’s name because she didn’t know what Annabelle Harper’s maiden name might have been. Two entries came up for Blake Harper. Peyton clicked the first and studied the form that appeared on the screen.

“Give me Zoë’s date of birth.”

Marco snagged the folder off his desk and read off Zoë’s birthdate.

“They were married two years before Zoë was born,” said Peyton.

“What about a divorce settlement?”

Peyton pulled up the Department of Public Heath again and clicked Divorce Records. She typed in Blake’s name.

The computer thought.

Peyton chewed on her lower lip, then turned to Marco. “I wasn’t kidding about the coffee. Do you want some?”

“Sure.”

She pushed away from the desk and walked into the break room. Grabbing two mugs, she set them on the counter and reached for the coffee pot, filling them. Marco liked his black, but she grabbed the sugar and spooned a heaping tablespoon into her mug. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Marco didn’t see, she dumped in a second spoonful and stirred it.

Stopping with the spoon still in the mug, she studied the swirling coffee. She could see her dad in her memory – barrel-chested with short cropped black hair. He wore a mustache and a soul patch just beneath his lower lip.

Always look at the obvious, Sweetness. He would touch her on the nose with the tip of his index finger.

Sweetness, his homage to his favorite running-back, Walter Payton.  He’d tricked Alice into naming his daughter after the legend by changing the a to an e. No matter how old she’d been, Peyton always melted when he called her Sweetness.

Always look at the obvious, then when you’ve done that, look at the unexpected.

Look at the unexpected. She tossed the spoon into the sink and carried the mugs to their desks. Marco accepted his and shook his head. “I tried Annabelle’s name too, but I can’t find any record of a divorce.”

“That’s because there wasn’t one.” She took a sip of coffee as she sank into her seat. She clicked on the home page and hovered over the last choice on the left side. Death Certificates. She had to search by Annabelle’s name, since she knew they wouldn’t have her social security number in their file.

The cursor turned from an arrow into a wheel, spinning around, then the screen shifted and a list of Annabelles appeared. Marco sucked in a breath, but she ignored him, clicking on Annabelle Harper. Peyton realized her heart was pounding as she waited for the death certificate file to load.

As it spread across the screen, Marco set his coffee down hard on the desk.

There before them was the death record of a woman they didn’t know existed ten minutes before.

“What’s the date?” asked Marco.

Peyton searched for it, then she snagged their file on Zoë and scanned the first page with her index finger. “Two days after Zoë was born.”

“You’re sure?”

Peyton nodded, chewing on her lower lip.

“Cause of death?”

Peyton searched for that, then swiveled her chair to face Marco. “Complications from child birth.”

“What does that mean?”

Peyton shook her head. “We need a warrant for her medical records.”

“I’ll get on it.” He swiveled his chair back to his side and reached for his phone.

“I’ll call Abe and let him know he should expect it.”

Marco keyed in the number and put the phone to his ear. “You know, Brooks…” He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “We should probably get Blake Harper’s medical records while we’re at it.”

Peyton hesitated. Do you know what a shunt is, Officer? I think I do. It’s too remove excess fluid, right? Blake Harper has a shunt because his brain is bleeding into his cranial cavity.

“On it,” she said, grabbing her phone out of her pocket. She felt a surge of adrenaline. This was the part of an investigation that she loved – when it all started to coalesce.

CHAPTER 12

Jake got off the bus at the juncture of Divisadero and Green. He wanted to be far enough away from the lawyer’s office before he made the call. He watched the bus pull away, then reached for his cell phone. He hadn’t turned it on since he slipped the police in the Italian restaurant. He didn’t know how long he could talk before they found his location through GPS, but he was afraid it might be instantaneous.

He closed his eyes and tried to decide if this was the best option. Then he thought of the letter from Zoë and knew there wasn’t a decision to make. She deserved better than she’d gotten from him. He couldn’t make it up to her now, but he could try to settle a score.

He dug in the bottom of the backpack and found Peyton’s card. With a deep breath, he turned on the phone, then quickly dialed her number. It rang at least five times. Jake almost hung up. His stomach hurt and he felt like he might be sick.

Then he heard her voice. “Brooks?”

“Hey, Mighty Mouse.” He tried to sound confident, but he felt a flush of anxiety race through him.

“Jake? Where the hell are you? We need you to come in. A lot of cops are looking for you. You’ve got our asses in a sling and the captain is chewing us out at regular intervals. Claire Harper has been screaming to every available ear. They’re going to turn up the heat on you now. It was right stupid to go to her house and ask her for money.”

“Listen. I need you to know something…”

“Where are you? Tell me that first and we can talk.”

“I’m not going to tell you where I am.”

“We can protect you, Jake. I’m not kidding you. Claire is demanding we bring you in. You really scared her the other day and someone might get hurt if you don’t turn yourself in.”

“Please just listen to me for a moment…”

“We checked out the birth certificate like you asked. I’d like to share that information with you. We found out something more than you did.”

“Wait. What?”

“Come in and I’ll tell you everything. Just tell me where you are and I’ll send a squad car over. You must be tired and hungry. I can get you something to eat, a shower maybe…”

Jake lowered the phone. He wanted to know what information they’d found, but it could be a trick. She always sounded genuine and kind, but he’d seen her turn in an instant. Then he realized what she was doing. She was stalling so that a squad car could get to his location.

He lifted the phone to his ear again. “Just shut up for a minute, all right?”

She went quiet.

“Zoë had a journal and at the back of it was a letter for me. If you do a blood test on Brandon Dixon, I’ll bet you find out his blood is B. Sometime in late January, Zoë went to see her mother, but she wasn’t home. That bastard Brandon was. He offered her a drink and she didn’t remember anything else after that until she woke up in bed with him.”

Peyton didn’t respond for a few moments, then he heard her exhale. “Zoë had a journal? I need to see that journal, Jake.”

“No, the journal is mine. It’s all I have left of Zoë, but you’ve got to test Brandon’s blood. I’m sure he’s the father. He forced her, Peyton, he must have drugged her and forced her to sleep with him.”

“Okay, Jake, I’ll look into it, but I still need you to come in. Please, Jake, I don’t want you to get hurt. You need to turn yourself in now and let me handle this.”

“You won’t handle anything once you have me. I know that. Claire is putting pressure on you to finish this case and it’ll be too tempting just to pin it on me, but if you can’t find me, you might keep looking. That’s all I’ve got, Peyton. That’s all I can do to force your hands.”

“Jake, please listen to me…”

“No. Just get Brandon’s blood, Mighty Mouse, please. And tell Adonis I said hi.” He disconnected the call, then glanced around the street. Walking to the curb, he located a storm drain and tossed the phone into it.

When he stood up again, he found an old woman watching him. He turned away and headed up Divisadero to the north. At the corner of Union, he turned left and began running west until he reached Broderick, then another left at Washington so he was headed east until he found Scott Street.

He leaned on the street sign for Scott and reached into his pocket for the order form where he’d written Goldman’s address. He fought to catch his breath as he unfolded the scrap of paper. Walking down Scott, he searched the addresses and deliberately calmed his breathing. He didn’t think he’d get much information out of the lawyer, but he had to try. It would be better if he didn’t look like he was running from the police.

When he found the address, he had a momentary feeling of panic. What if the police had already been here? What if they had someone waiting inside for him? He drew a deep breath and held it, then deliberately exhaled as slowly as he could.

If they were waiting for him, he would give himself up, but he had to risk it. He had to know what Goldman wanted to tell Zoë about the changes to her father’s will. At least if he were caught here, they might get a warrant for any files Goldman had about the Harpers.

The address belonged to a three story Victorian with gingerbread shingles and cream colored paint. A number of stairs led to a wooden door with a glass panel in the center of it. He climbed the stairs and carefully opened the door. Thankfully there was no bell on it, nothing to alert the occupants of his arrival. The entry opened into a small room with dark paneled walls and a few arm chairs. Between the arm chairs were tables sporting an array of magazines.

To the right of the door was a board, listing the businesses in the building and their suite addresses. He ran his finger over a couple of marriage counselors, a number of lawyers, and a title company. Goldman’s name was in the middle, Suite 2B.

Beyond the entrance was a hallway that branched left and right. He glanced down both ends and marked the suite numbers on the doors closest to him. He chose the right corridor and began walking down it, feeling a bit unnerved in the quiet. A stairwell opened on the hallway about halfway down and he turned into it, taking the stairs to the second floor.

He exited the stairwell and turned right. He found Suite 2B. The words Neal Goldman, Esq., were etched into the frosted glass in antique gold lettering. He could see a few dark forms through the frosting on the door, but little else. Glancing down the hallway, he reached for the knob and turned it, stepping into a brightly lit office.

Plants lined each side of it, partnered with a number of wing-backed armchairs in red leather. A receptionist desk dominated the center of the room and a young woman of Middle Eastern ethnicity sat behind it.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, giving him a quizzical look. She rose and crossed around the desk. “Are you looking for someone?”

Jake frowned at her. What a strange question to ask. “Uh, yeah.” He looked around again. Another frosted door bisected the middle of the wall behind her desk and to the left were rows of file cabinets.

“Sir?”

Jake forced a smile for her. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I have an appointment with Mr. Goldman to go over my will.”

Her face fell immediately. In fact, it was such a stunning change, Jake wasn’t sure he interpreted it right. He expected her to hurry back to her desk and grab her phone, dialing the police or maybe scream. Screaming would be really bad and he wasn’t exactly sure how he’d respond. She obviously knew about him from the police and hadn’t really thought he’d show up here.

He glanced over his shoulder at the door. Was it too late to escape?

She didn’t scream. Instead, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr…”

Jake’s gaze snapped back to her. “Huh?”

“Mr.?” she prompted again.

Jake looked around and his eyes fell on the greenery in every corner. “Plant. Uh, Robert Plant.” He winced when he realized what he’d just done.

She lifted her brows and studied him. “Robert Plant?”

“Yeah, parents huge Led Zeppelin fans,” he offered lamely.

“Okay,” she said, giving him a strange look. “I must have missed your appointment in the computer. I’ve been trying to contact all of Mr. Goldman’s clients. When did you make it? I don’t know how I could have missed it.”

“Oh, I didn’t make it with you. I ran into Mr. Goldman at a charity dinner and asked him if he’d do my will.” He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, prepared to run for the door. Did lawyers attend charity dinners? He thought they did, but he wasn’t sure.

“Yes, of course, for the Shriners?”

Jake latched on to that. “Right. Right, the Shriners.”

Her face fell again and she briefly closed her eyes. “Mr. Goldman was always doing things like that. Making appointments, then forgetting to tell me.”

Jake keyed in to something she said. “Wait. Was?”

She met his gaze. “I’m sorry. Didn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry, Mr. Plant. Of course you didn’t know or you wouldn’t have shown up for your appointment.”

Jake shook his head in confusion.

“Mr. Goldman died about a week ago.”

Jake stared at her, stunned. He couldn’t formulate a thought. He raised a hand and ran it across his beard. Why couldn’t he think? Why couldn’t he grasp what she’d just said? “I’m sorry?”

“Mr. Goldman is dead, Mr. Plant. I’m so sorry.” She hurried back to her desk. “I can recommend a number of other lawyers to you.”

“Wait. Dead? Are you sure?”

She looked up at him. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m sorry. I thought I’d contacted all of his clients. I obviously missed you.”

Jake ran his hand across the back of his neck, applying pressure to get himself to think. “Wait. How?”

“How did he die?”

“Yes, what happened to him?”

She straightened and looked down. “He was hit by a car. It was late and he was leaving the office. He liked to walk to Divisadero and pick up a taxi. He lived down the Peninsula. The driver must have been drunk because he didn’t even stop.”

Jake felt the blood drain from his head.

“Are you all right?” she asked, crossing around the desk again and grasping his arm. “Sit down.”

He did so and let his head hang, his fingers closing on the backpack.

“I’ll get you some water.” She hurried off.

Jake waited for the white noise to clear out of his head, then he sat back, until she appeared in front of him, holding out a glass of water. He took it and drank, draining it, then handed it back to her.

“Better?” she said, giving him a worried smile.

“Yes, it was just a shock.”

“I know. I can’t believe it myself. I’m just tying up loose ends, then we’re shutting down the office, his wife and I. He didn’t have any partners and I was his only paralegal. I have a list of lawyers who are qualified to take his clients. Can I give it to you?”

“Sure,” he said and watched her go back to her desk. While she searched for the paper, his eyes focused on the file cabinets. Blake Harper’s will had to be inside, but how was he going to get it before everything was turned over to someone else?

She found the paper and brought it back to him. He took it and folded it in half, shoving it into the backpack. Then he rose to his feet. His legs supported him and he was grateful for that.

“Thank you. I appreciate how kind you’ve been.”

She waved away his thanks. “Don’t mention it. I’m just sorry I hadn’t contacted you before.”

“Not your fault,” he said. “Well, I guess I’d better go.”

She smiled.

“Good luck,” he said, walking to the door.

“Good luck to you, Mr. Plant,” she answered as he opened it and stepped into the hallway.

Jake shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Now what? How was he going to get that file? He could contact Peyton again and see if she would subpoena it, but he wasn’t sure she would see a connection.

No, he had to get it himself. He started wandering down the hallway toward the stairs, sifting through the plans that popped into his head. He could come back here tonight and break in. If he timed it right, he could be in and out before the police arrived. And if he got caught, at least, he could hand the file to them himself. Curiosity would make them want to read it, right?

He could also find out when the paralegal left for lunch and sneak inside. She probably didn’t lock the door, but if she did, he could break through the frosted glass before anyone would know.  Or maybe there was a fire escape in the back he could climb. A broken window into Goldman’s office wouldn’t be discovered as quickly as a broken front door.

His steps faltered as he moved into the stairwell. Right before him was a red box labeled fire alarm.

Then there was a third option. A plan formulated quickly and he climbed the stairwell all the way to the top. A door opened onto the roof and he propped it with his backpack in case it had an automatic lock if the fire alarm was activated. Stepping onto the small rooftop, he marked a number of ventilation pipes, which offered scant cover to hide until things settled down.

Walking back to the door, he pulled it open, then double checked the backpack to make sure it was wedged securely. Climbing down the stairs to the entrance of the third floor, he curled his fingers in the fire alarm handle and took a deep breath. Please let this work, he prayed. Then before he could think better of it, he pulled the handle.

The cacophony of the alarm made him jump and he covered his ears with his hands. When he heard the first doors open on the third floor, he ran up the stairs and huddled in the doorway, straddling his backpack.

People’s voices and the clomp of heels on the cement stairs marked their exit. He crouched where he was until he could hear them no more. It seemed to take forever with the shrieking of the alarm in his head and the pounding of his heart beneath his ribs, but finally he felt it was safe.

He knew he had a narrow window between their exit and the arrival of the fire department, so he ran down the stairs, gripping the handrail, and skidded on the cement as he landed on the second floor. He bumped his shoulder on the door as he turned the corner and raced for Goldman’s office. For a moment, he panicked that she would have locked the door, but it opened at the turn of the knob and he sprinted around her desk, searching the drawers for an indication of which one.

Grabbing the fourth drawer, he pulled it open, then began thumbing through the files at the front of the drawer for Harper. A new sound infiltrated his awareness. The sound of a siren. He searched faster and his fingers stumbled upon Harper, just as the fire engine pulled up before the building with a hiss of brakes.

He pulled the file out, clutched it against his chest, and kicked the drawer closed, then ran for the office door. He bolted for the stairs and raced up them, slamming into the roof door with his bruised shoulder and snatching his backpack as he jumped through.

He chose the furthest exhaust pipe and dropped behind it, hoping he couldn’t be seen from the doorway. Leaning his head back, he panted to regain his breath, fighting a hysterical laugh. Reaching up, he rubbed his bruised shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Holy crap, he’d done it. He had the file. Now he needed to wait until the firefighters left and the workers returned to their offices. Then he’d go back down the stairs as if he belonged there and onto the street.

Feeling his heart slow, he released his death grip on the file and laid it on his thighs, then he reached for the front cover.  The first document that greeted him read Divorce Application across the top. It was signed by Blake Harper and dated a week before he had his stroke. The second document was his will. Jake stared at it in amazement. It had been drafted two days before the stroke.

*   *   *

Peyton opened the door to Captain Defino’s office and stepped out into the squad room. Marco followed behind her, closing the door at his back. They didn’t talk as they began weaving their way through the desks.

The captain had made it clear. They had twenty-four hours to bring Ryder in or she was turning the case over to another set of inspectors. Claire Harper’s influence was far and wide. Even the mayor had put in a call on her behalf.

Peyton hated that part of police work. She hated the politics. No matter how much she might wish differently, there were citizens and then there were Citizens with a capital C. Claire Harper was a Citizen of the first order.

She came to a halt, giving Abe a pointed look. He sat in Marco’s chair, his feet propped on Marco’s desk, his long-fingered hands clasped on his belly. “Please tell me you’ve got something interesting,” she said.

Abe waggled his brows at her. “You are looking fine today,” he drawled.

“I know you aren’t talking to me,” she answered, sliding into her chair.

Marco stopped beside her desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nope, talking to that cool dish of Gelato next to you.”

“Did you get the files?” asked Marco with a scowl.

Abe dropped his feet to the floor. “You think I’d leave the sanctity of my lair if I hadn’t gotten them. Well, maybe to flirt with you, my Angel’D.”

“Lair is right,” said Marco, quirking a brow.

Abe laughed.

Peyton flattened a palm on the desk. “Please, please tell me you have something. We’re running out of time.”

Abe gave her a slow smile. “Have I ever let you down, my soul sista?”

Peyton shook her head. “Not even once. What do you have?”

“So very much. Let’s start with Blake Harper. Medical records show that Blake has been suffering from exceptionally high blood pressure for many years. He was on medication for it; however, suddenly in September, he collapses at home. His wife calls an ambulance and describes the symptoms. Based on symptomology and his medical history, paramedics assume stroke and begin the appropriate course of action. Dr. Harper is given warfarin to mitigate the damage of the stroke, but he doesn’t respond and presents at the hospital with severe intracranial bleeding, presumed to be from a blocked artery that ruptured. He never regains consciousness. You know the rest.”

Peyton curled her hand into a fist, but she didn’t want to interrupt Abe.

“Now let’s talk about patient number 2. Annabelle Harper was twenty-three when she became pregnant with her first child. The pregnancy was completely normal, not even one mention of elevated blood pressure. She went into labor a week after her delivery date and although long, the birth was completely uneventful. A perfectly natural vaginal delivery of a baby girl, which she named Zoë. Mother and daughter were both given clean bills of health.”

“But she died two days later?”

“I’m getting to that. Because she was the wife of a prominent and well-respected surgeon, she wasn’t rushed out of the hospital as quickly as most women are. A day after delivery, she complained of stomach pain and a headache. They took her blood pressure and found it was a bit low. They assumed it was due to blood loss during the delivery and started her on a rigorous course of iron, but a day later she was dead.”

“From what?” asked Marco.

Abe twirled one of his dreads. “A ruptured aneurysm. The cause of death was listed as complications of pregnancy, the grieving husband declined an autopsy, and Annabelle Harper was cremated before her daughter even left the hospital.”

“Wait. A ruptured aneurysm?” Peyton narrowed her eyes. “Tell me they did a blood test when she first complained of being sick?”

Abe shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s not indicated on the file. They assumed it was anemia and that’s the course of treatment they began.”

“How did they get around the autopsy?”

“Because Blake Harper was a surgeon. I’m guessing she had the baby in his hospital,” answered Marco.

“Smart and beautiful,” said Abe, giving him a wink.

Peyton rubbed her eyes with her fists. “Doesn’t it seem like there are an awful lot of coincidences in these deaths?”

“Genetic weakness,” said Abe with a shrug.

Peyton lowered her hands. “Genetic weakness? Was Annabelle Harper related to Blake somehow?”

“Likely not.”

“Then how genetic weakness?”

“Playing the devil’s advocate.”

Peyton gave him a severe look. “My dad always said there are no coincidences.”

“A lot of dads say that,” remarked Marco. “Especially when you try to explain why the car has a new dent after you’ve driven it.”

Abe held out his hands, palms up, then he rose to his feet and leaned on the desk, his dreads swinging forward. “Want to know something else interesting?”

Peyton met his mischievous look. “I’m thinking I really do.”

“Oh, you really, really do. Guess who was Annabelle Harper’s attending nurse?”

Peyton leaned back in her chair. “I’ll bet I don’t have to guess.”

“I’ll bet you don’t either.” He rose to his full height and gave Marco a lurid stare, then walked away, waving over his shoulder at them.

Peyton swiveled toward her partner, but just as she was going to speak, her phone rang.

*   *   *

Jake stepped over the legs of a homeless man, stretched out on the sidewalk, and entered the bar on 7th Street. It was close to a BART station and multiple light rail stops. The place was crowded and the pounding bass vibrated in his head. A number of scantily clad bodies writhed and bumped against each other on the dance floor.

He pushed through the gyrating couples and approached the bar. A mirror over the counter allowed him to see back to the door. He settled on a stool and pulled the backpack around in front of him. A trio of young college age girls sat next to him, leaning close and laughing at the people dancing. The one next to him was a bottle blond with a skirt that barely covered her ass and a camisole that showed off an impressive display of cleavage.

The bartender came over and placed a napkin in front of Jake. He wore a silk collared shirt that was unbuttoned down to his navel. Tattoos lined his arms like sleeves. He had spiky blond hair and multiple piercings all over his face.

Jake sighed, looking at him. Somehow time had passed him by. He wasn’t a lot older than the bartender, but he felt it.

“What can I get ya?”

“Beer,” said Jake, reaching for his wallet.

“Draft.”

Jake eyed the glasses on either side of him as the pulsing red and yellow lights strobed in the mirror behind the bar. “Bottle. Whatever’s cold.”

The bartender nodded and walked down the counter. Jake swiveled on his stool and watched the dancers for a moment, then he tried to hear what the girls next to him were saying. He didn’t feel like talking, but he couldn’t believe how isolated he was feeling.

He’d never been much for bars, but tonight he needed people around him. He was becoming afraid of his own thoughts. The few hours of sleep he’d snatched didn’t help. His dreams were so frantic and alarming, he hated to succumb to them.

The bartender plunked the beer down in front of him and Jake reached for his wallet. The money inside was going rapidly. He couldn’t afford to pay for another motel, even one as bad as last night’s, so he was hoping he could steal a few hours of sleep, riding around on BART tonight before anyone noticed.

He paid for the beer and lifted it, taking a long drink. It tasted so good, he closed his eyes and savored it. Turning back to the bar, he fingered a gouge in the wood and tried to decide what he should do next. He needed to get Goldman’s file to Peyton. He wasn’t sure how Blake’s will worked in the greater scheme of things, but she might. She wasn’t operating on little sleep, scraps of food, and paranoia the way he was. She might be better able to see the whole picture, something that was eluding him.

He took another swallow of beer, momentarily distracted by the opening of the door. He watched the latest group arrive, five young men with baggy pants and hooded sweatshirts. They immediately moved toward the stairs that Jake assumed led to a basement dance floor. He dismissed them and drank his beer.

Next to him, the blond reached into her purse for her phone. It was fluorescent pink with a large screen that flashed with a text message. She spent a few seconds typing into the phone and giggling with her friends. They all shot him a look, rolled their eyes, and huddled together to snicker. Jake looked away, finishing off his beer.

The bartender moved over to him. “Want another?”

Jake shook his head. “No thanks.”

With a shrug, he shifted to the next customer.

A man and two women took the seats on Jake’s right. It was so crowded at the bar that the man’s shoulder bumped into Jake. Jake moved his stool closer to the blond girl. She gave him an arch look and went back to tapping into her phone.

Jake ran a hand over his face and came to the conclusion that this was a bad idea. The people in this bar were out for a good time tonight. They were engaged in frivolities, while he was fighting for his life. He didn’t belong here. The door opened and he looked up again, watching a couple stumble through, groping each other. Beside him the blond set her phone down on the bar.

Jake’s attention snapped to it as the girl turned her back and started pointing out people on the dance floor to her two friends. Jake leaned forward and marked where the bartender was. He’d moved to the end of the counter to blend some drinks. The trio on his right were huddled close, trying to have a conversation over the pounding of the bass.

Jake pushed his stool back. Casually, he laid his hand over the phone and rose, leaning on the bar as he did so. Curling his fingers around the boxy device, he slid it into his pocket and stepped away from the bar. He felt as if all eyes were watching him as he crossed the dance floor and headed toward the door, but no one even marked his passage.

He weaved between the people and pressed the lever in the door, shoving it open. Then he was outside in the fog and the night, stepping over the same homeless man as he made his way to the Civic Center BART Station.

Once he had the station in sight, he stopped and reached into his back pocket for Peyton’s number. He prayed the girl didn’t have a security code on the phone, or if she did, she hadn’t activated it. He pressed his thumb to the screen and the phone flashed neon across his face. He released his held breath and quickly punched Peyton’s number into it.

It rang twice before she picked up. “Brooks?”

“Mighty Mouse, listen. I don’t have much time.”

“Jake, where the hell are you?” Her voice got distant, then came back louder. “What the hell number are you calling from?”

Jake held the pink phone out and shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Listen. I have something I need to give you. It’s really important.”

“Fine. Let me come pick you up.”

“No, I need to think this through. I need to get some sleep. I’m not dealing with you or any other cops until I have some time to think.”

“I can get you a bed, Jake, a full meal. Come in. It’s really important. You can’t keep running like this.”

“Look,” he snapped, surprised by his own anger, “I’m really on edge. I can’t deal with you tonight. I’m not going to walk into a trap because I haven’t thought this through. This is my life on the line, so we’re doing this my way. Got that.”

“Okay. What exactly does that mean?”

“I have some really important information for you and I want to give it to you, but you’re not taking me in. I’ll meet you tomorrow at 6:00AM, before rush hour and everything. I’ll give you this information, then I’m walking away. You’ve got to come by yourself or I leave.”

“They won’t let me come by myself, Jake. You know that. This isn’t the movies.”

“You come by yourself or forget it. Look, Peyton, I think I’ve got something pretty big, but I just can’t figure out how it all fits together. I really need you to look at this, but I don’t trust you. You’ve got to agree just to meet me by yourself. You know I won’t hurt you. I know you know that.”

Peyton was quiet on the other end of the line. Jake watched a couple dressed in black formal wear hurry toward the BART station. He almost forgot what he was doing as he watched them, he was so damn tired.

“Peyton, look, I don’t have to meet you. I can just have someone deliver Blake’s will, but I want to talk to you. I want to know what you’ve found out. An equal trade. Information for information. Please.”

“Blake’s will?”

“Yeah. It’s not like any will I’ve ever seen. Look, I’m exhausted, so maybe I’m misreading things, but I really think this is important.”

“Where?”

“Where?” repeated Jake.

“Where do you want to meet?”

“The grocery store on La Playa.”

Peyton didn’t immediately answer. “That’s pretty remote, Jake,” she finally said.

“That’s the idea. I’ll be able to see if you come alone. The minute I see Adonis, Peyton, I’m gone.”

“You’re asking a lot. This information you have had better be worth it, Ryder.” Here was the forceful police officer, commanding obedience. Jake marveled at how quickly she could change personalities.

“I think it is, but like I said, I can’t piece together the whole picture yet. That’s why I want the information you have. I know you have the missing parts I need.”

“All right. I’ll be there at 6:00AM.”

“By yourself?”

“By myself, but I promise you this, Jake Ryder, you try anything and I’ll shoot your ass. You’ve been a bucket of trouble for me and I’m fed up, Jake. You’ll be lucky if I don’t shoot you on principle.”

Jake gave a grim laugh. “I’d tell you I feel the same about you, but I don’t want to add threatening a police officer to my list of crimes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He disconnected the call before she could respond, then crossed the street. Bending down, he dropped the phone into a homeless woman’s lap and walked into the BART station.

CHAPTER 13

Marco stopped the Charger two blocks down the street from the market on La Playa. He put the car in park and shifted to face Peyton. She ignored him as she adjusted the straps on her flak jacket and fixed her radio. She knew what he was going to say. He’d been saying it since they left the precinct.

“Brooks?”

“I know, Marco, I know. If he tries anything, shoot him.”

Marco let out his breath in exasperation. “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say that we’ll be surrounding the back of that store. Take your time walking down there, so we can get into position.”

“Got it.” She loosened her gun in her holster. She didn’t like wearing it around her waist, but with the flak jacket, she couldn’t use her shoulder strap. She was still quick with the waist holster though, besides the fact that she was fairly certain Jake wasn’t armed.

“Brooks?” said Marco again, leaning closer to her.

She looked up at the tone in his voice.

“Be careful.”

Her eyes widened. “Now you’re scaring me. He’s not dangerous, D’Angelo.”

“He’s cornered and exhausted. He’s dangerous.”

“Then I’ll shoot him.”

Marco gave her a smile. “You do that.”

She smiled back and climbed out of the Charger. The sun was just peaking over the edge of the city as she started walking toward the market. She did as Marco asked and took it easy, giving him and the rest of their backup time to get into position.

Defino had agreed to the plan only if there was sufficient fire power in place. Peyton didn’t think they needed it. She suspected Jake was ready to come in and he’d just surrender once she got there, but you never knew. Marco was right. The man was tired, hungry, and desperate. Still, they couldn’t pass up this opportunity. She wanted to bring Jake in before he got hurt and with an APB out on him, the odds of him getting shot by some yahoo rookie went up.

She could see the market up ahead. Only three cars occupied spaces in the parking lot and the neon lights were on across the front of the building, but she didn’t see Jake. She rested her hand on the butt of her gun and scanned the area.

He’d told her he had Blake’s will. How he got it, she wasn’t sure, but she did want to see what it said. She thought she had a fairly detailed picture of what had happened, but there were too many holes still. She wished he’d turn over Zoë’s journal. She’d been kicking herself about that one. How had they missed the journal? Hopefully, he’d have it on him when she arrested him, but she was afraid he might have stashed it somewhere.

She turned into the driveway of the market and began crossing the parking lot. She still couldn’t see Jake, but she marked a few more cars parked along the side of the building. At the end of the parking lot farthest from her was a little A-frame building, sporting a sign saying French Roast Coffee. A drive-thru lane wrapped around the back of it and another two cars were parked in front of it.

She scanned the front of the market, then moved toward the coffee stand. As she did so, a figure stepped out from under the eaves and moved toward her. Peyton could feel her heart pick up pace as he came to a halt a half-dozen yards away.

“You came?”

He had a scraggly beard and his hair was mussed. His jeans and jacket were dirt stained, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and he held a folder in one hand. The other hand was empty, held loose by his side. She could see his wedding ring in the circle of light from the parking lot lamps.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah, sleeping on BART’ll do that to a person.”

“I can get you a meal, a shower, and clean clothes. I can also get you a bed.”

“And a wall of metal bars to complement it. No thank you.”

Her fingers drummed on the butt of the gun. “Jake, you’re gonna get hurt if you stay out here. Come in and we’ll get this thing cleared up.”

He held out the folder. With his other hand, he wiped at a smudge on his right cheek. “This has Blake’s will inside. I’ve never seen anything like it, but I think it explains why Zoë is dead.”

She didn’t move to take it. She wanted him to come closer. With her shorter legs, she wasn’t sure she could outrun him if he bolted and she didn’t really want to shoot him. “Okay, I’ll read it. In fact, come in and we’ll read it together.”

He gave a bark of bitter laughter. “You really must think I’m stupid. I already told you, I’m not turning myself in.”

He set the folder on the ground at his feet and took a step back. “The lawyer is dead, you know.”

Peyton frowned at the change in subject. “The lawyer?”

“Neal Goldman. Blake Harper’s lawyer. He’s dead.”

Peyton shook her head. “Dead? How?”

“He was hit by a car about a week ago. Hit and run. Driver never even tried to brake.”

Peyton’s eyes fell to the folder. What the hell was going on? The body count was piling up. “Jake, I need Zoë’s journal. It’s evidence.”

“It’s not evidence. It’s mine. It’s her personal thoughts, the last things I have from her. I’m not giving you that.”

“Jake, please. This is ridiculous. You’re going to get yourself killed. There’s an APB out on you now and eventually you’re going to run into a cop who will shoot first. I don’t want it to end like that.”

“I know what’s going on, Peyton. They just want this case ended, put away. It doesn’t matter what really happened. Your captain just wants Claire Harper off her back.” He gave a grimace of disgust. “You think I don’t know the influence that woman has. You think I don’t know the power she wields. I’m not going to be a pawn or a sacrifice.”

When he took another step back, Peyton knew he wasn’t going to be persuaded by her caring, rational routine. Her eyes narrowed on him and she straightened her shoulders. “You can’t possibly believe I’m going to let you leave.” She curled her fingers around the gun grip. “And you don’t really believe I’m here alone, do you?”

He gave a frantic look around the parking lot, but it appeared to be just the two of them. The sun rose over the top of the buildings and slashed across his face, highlighting the hollows of his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. She knew he was exhausted and not thinking right. She didn’t want him to do something stupid.

“I told you to come alone.” He took another step back toward the two cars. He had shifted to a half crouch, his hands out to either side. Just by the posture of his body, she knew he was about to bolt.

She let out a frustrated breath and then made a decision, whipping the gun out of its holster and leveling it on him. He went still, staring down the barrel of it. She could see the whites of his eyes clear around the iris. “Don’t make me do this, Jake. Don’t make me shoot you,” she warned.

He held his hands out, palms facing her, showing her they were empty. She gnawed on her lower lip, but her hand never wavered.

“I don’t have a choice, Peyton. I didn’t kill her. You know I didn’t.”

She went back to pleading. He never seemed to respond to her intimidating cop routine. “Come back with me, Jake. There’s a lot we need to go over.”

He shook his head, his chest heaving. “You think I did it. You think I wanted her dead.”

“Look, we can talk about this. We can sit down, grab some coffee, and talk this out. I don’t want to shoot you, Jake, but I can’t let you go.”

He closed his eyes and opened them again. “I don’t have any other choice, Peyton. I’m not letting you take me back. I can’t do anything in there.” He lifted his hands to his shoulders as if he might surrender. Peyton dared to hope. “Listen, I know you don’t believe I did it. I know it. Help me. Help me find out the truth, Peyton.”

She had to bring him in for his own safety until they could finish this thing. Knowing Blake’s lawyer was dead only solidified this need. Jake was in real danger. “I know the truth. It’s the same truth that’s been there all along, Jake.”

“I didn’t kill her, Peyton. I loved her.”

“Love makes people do real stupid things sometimes, Jake.”

“Not that. Not that way. Please, Peyton, I know you believe me. Maybe you have doubt, but some part of you knows I’m telling the truth.”

“Then give me a show of good faith. Come with me, Jake.”

He moved closer to her. She wasn’t sure why, but instinctively she tightened her finger on the trigger. Forcing herself to exhale, she eased her grip, but he caught her initial motion and came to an abrupt halt.

“Peyton, I can’t go back with you. I can’t let you take me in. I’ll be no good in there.”

“If you let me take you back, I promise to continue the investigation. I promise to keep looking.”

He shook his head. “You might promise, but it means nothing. They’ll move you to another case. This one will be closed, finished. All they want is a body to blame. They don’t care about the truth, but I thought you were different. I thought you really cared.”

“I do care. I don’t want to shoot you. Please, please don’t make me. I promise I’ll stay on the case, even if I have to work it on my off-hours.” The longer this went on, the greater the risk that something bad might happen. Marco was only going to wait so long, and Jake couldn’t keep up this standoff without taking some sort of action.

His face twisted into such misery, such desperation. “They just want a body. It doesn’t matter whose. If you bring me in, they’ll have what they want and the truth won’t matter.” He glanced around the parking lot.

“Don’t run, Jake. I will shoot you. I won’t have any choice.”

“I didn’t kill anyone, Peyton. Why won’t you believe me?” he shouted at her.

She wanted to reassure him, but she had to bring him in. She had no other choice. Defino demanded it and so did his safety. “The evidence is pretty substantial, Jake.”

“What evidence? You have nothing. You know the case is riddled with holes.”

“Jake, please. Come back with me and we’ll talk about it.”

He slid his foot back a half step. She steadied the gun with her free hand.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to find out the truth. I have to know. I’m sorry.”

“Jake, don’t…” she warned, moving forward with him.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed.

“Jake, please…”

He hesitated. His chest was heaving. “I’m sorry.”

Oh, God, please don’t do this, Jake, she prayed, but she held the gun steady. She knew he was trying to get between the cars and complicate any shot she had, but he didn’t understand how accurate she was.

“Jake!” she shouted, moving another step closer as he retreated a pace. “Jake, don’t!”

He lowered his arms.

“Jake!”

He took another step.

“Jake! I will shoot!” She stepped to the left, trying to cut him off. “Jake!” Please, please don’t.

He gave her a wounded, anguished look and then started to turn.

Peyton squeezed the trigger. The bullet whistled from the barrel and the gun recoiled in her hands. Not a foot from him, the tire on one of the cars began to whistle as the air escaped in a rush. Jake ducked, covering his head with his hands.

“The next one goes in your knee, Ryder!” she said angrily. Damn him to hell if he made her shoot him.

“You shot at me,” he said, staring at her incredulously.

She could hear running feet behind her and knew the cavalry was coming. “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head!” she shouted.

“You shot at me!” he repeated, staring at the now flat tire.

“Get on your knees!” she shouted, moving closer to him, the gun leveled at his head.

He glanced at her, then slowly lowered himself, placing his hands behind his head. A uniformed cop sprinted past her and knocked him onto his belly, straddling him as he reached for his cuffs. Peyton lowered the gun, releasing her held breath. Suddenly Marco was beside her.

“You okay?” he said, gripping her shoulder.

As she put her gun into her holster, she realized her hand was shaking. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” He turned her, so she had to look up at him.

“Yeah.” She pushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “I hate that.”

“I know.”

“Defino is gonna love this,” she said, pointing at the car.

“Better that than a body, I’m thinking.”

She reached for a business card in her pocket and sidestepped Jake, placing it on the car’s windshield below the wiper, then she turned and leaned over Jake. “I promise you I won’t stop working this case.”

He didn’t answer, but slowly, he closed his eyes. Two uniformed officers pulled him to his feet and began walking him toward the market where their patrol cars waited. Peyton watched them go, then she shifted her attention to Marco.

He’d retrieved the folder Jake had dropped on the asphalt and he was reading the will. She moved toward him, still feeling shaky and unnerved. She hated firing her gun. She hated pointing a weapon at a living person and she dreaded the day she’d be forced to take a life.

Her father had always told her that every cop feared that, but knew it was inevitable. One day she would draw her gun and shoot. That was the job, that was the responsibility, and that was the burden. She leaned against Marco’s arm and drew a deep breath.

“Anything good?” she said, looking up at him.

He met her gaze and gave her a tight smile. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He held up two papers. One read Divorce Application and the other read Last Will and Testament.

Peyton narrowed her eyes. “Now isn’t that interesting.”

Marco gave her a nod. “And just wait until you read it.”

Peyton shifted and looked in the direction Jake disappeared. She replayed something he said over in her mind. “Marco?”

“Yep.”

“Where are Cho and Simons?”

“I’ll call and find out. Why?”

“I think our cases are connected.”

*   *   *

“A car, Brooks, you shot a car?” said Smith as they entered the precinct. “Did it resist arrest?”

The rookie, Bartlet, smirked, but when Peyton glared at him, he dropped his eyes.

“I shot a tire. Maybe you’d like me to shoot something round and spongy on you,” she said, going toe to toe with him.

Marco made a chuckling sound. “That would certainly deflate him.”

Smith gave them a condescending laugh in return. “Very funny.”

“Brooks!”

Peyton closed her eyes briefly, then turned around. “Captain?”

Defino stopped before her and looked her up and down. “You okay?”

Peyton felt her shoulders lower. “Yeah. Thank you. Is Ryder in booking?”

“No, we processed him and he’s cooling his heels in an interrogation room. We got him some food.”

“Good.” She glanced over her shoulder. “We were just going to talk to Simons and Cho.”

“I want to hear this,” Defino said and led the way across the squad room.

Simons and Cho’s desks occupied a corner of the squad room near the stairwell. As Defino approached, both Simons and Cho rose and moved to meet her. Bill Simons was a bear of a man with huge blunt fingers and a barrel-chest. His hair was thinning, wisps of light brown combed back from his brow, showing the pink of his scalp. Nathan Cho was small and quick with a head of thick black hair and a round, open face.

“Brooks and D’Angelo might have something for you,” offered Defino.

“We’ll take anything we can get,” said Simons. His voice rumbled from deep in his chest.

“I need to ask you some questions first,” said Peyton. “Mind if we sit.” She motioned to the chairs. Simons grabbed one and swung it around for her. Peyton sank into it. She was still a little shaken from the confrontation, she realized. Marco offered a chair to the captain and grabbed one himself, straddling the back of it. Simons slumped into his desk chair and Cho perched on the edge of his desk, clasping his hands on his bent knee.

“What’s up?” said Cho, pointing his chin at Peyton.

“Your lawyer? What was his name?”

“Neal Goldman,” answered Simons without hesitation.

Peyton shared a look with Marco. “He get run over by a car?”

“That’s the one.”

“Can you tell me what you’ve got so far?”

Simons leaned forward with a grunt and grabbed a folder, opening it. He picked up a sheet of paper and glanced over it quickly. “He was hit around 8:00PM on March 29th, while walking near Washington. Killed him on impact. Knocked the poor bastard out of his shoes.”

“No skid marks,” said Cho. “Didn’t even try to brake. Hit him and never slowed down.”

Peyton blew out air. “Any suspects?”

“No. Found the car at Seal Rock with the imprint of the body on the front bumper and a shattered windshield. Dusted for fingerprints. Found some hairs and sent them to the lab for DNA testing, but you know how long that takes,” said Simons.

“License plates?” asked Marco.

“Yeah,” answered Cho. “We ran them. The car was reported stolen at 6:00PM that same day.”

“What kind of a car?” asked Peyton.

“Benz. Latest model. The family said they’d only had it a few months.”

“Who did it belong to?”

Simons picked up his notes and read them. “Young. Registered to Henry A. Young.”

“You said you dusted for fingerprints?”

“Yep.”

“Get anything?”

“Matched both Youngs, husband and wife,” answered Simons. “No others.”

Peyton chewed on her lip, thinking.

“Where do these Youngs live?” asked Marco.

Simons studied the paper, then lowered it. “Pacific Heights.”

CHAPTER 14

Peyton climbed the stairs and studied the double doors for a moment. Reaching up, she shifted her gun in its holster and touched the link on her radio. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and exhaled. In and out, centering herself.

Opening her eyes again, she lifted her hand and knocked, twice, loudly. She resisted the impulse to touch the radio again and rocked on her booted heels. She could hear movement behind the door, then the door was pulled open and Brandon Dixon loomed in the entrance.

She gave him a grim smile. “We seem to meet here a lot,” she said.

He frowned at her. “Officer Brooks, right?”

“Right. Mind if I come in?”

Claire appeared in the entrance behind him. It was 8:00PM and she wore heels, a linen skirt, and a silk blouse. Her red lipstick was a slash of color across her face. “Tell me you have that murderer in custody, Officer Brooks.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She moved closer to Brandon as if she would step inside the house, but he didn’t back away. “Do you mind if I come in, Mrs. Harper?”

Claire nodded at Brandon and he backed up a few steps. As Peyton entered the house, she saw Juanita watching from the hallway. She gave her a smile, but the maid didn’t acknowledge her gesture.

Claire clasped her hands before her. “Do you have Jake in custody, Officer Brooks?”

Peyton glanced around the entry, marking the coats on the rack and the green Coach handbag. She turned back to Claire. “Actually, it’s Inspector Brooks, Mrs. Harper. And yes, we have Jake in custody.”

Claire pressed a hand to her heart and exhaled. “Thank goodness.”

Brandon, however, didn’t seem relaxed. He loomed beside Peyton, staring down at her.

“Well, thank you for coming out here personally. I appreciate it, Inspector Brooks.” Claire tipped her head back and looked down her perfect nose. “And I accept your apology for the way you treated me the last time you were here.”

“Apology?” Peyton smiled, slowly. “Certainly. However, I do have a few last questions.”

“Questions? You said you had Jake in custody.”

“We do, but I’m certain you’d like us to get a conviction, Mrs. Harper, right?”

“Of course. He murdered my daughter.”

“Right.” Peyton kept her smile in place. “Do you mind?” She pointed to the parlor. “It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

Claire glanced toward the parlor, then shrugged and moved toward the doorway. “I’ll do everything I can to end this miserable experience.”

She led them into the room. Brandon didn’t take a seat, but stood leaning against the wooden door jam. Peyton took the same seat she had on her last visit, her back to the windows. As she settled on the striped cushion, she adjusted her gun in the holster.

Claire perched on the edge, her back ramrod straight. She is the very definition of what people mean by a stick up your wahoo, thought Peyton.

“Can we get this over with, Officer Brooks? I have funeral arrangements to finish now that this is settled.”

“Inspector Brooks,” Peyton repeated.

“Inspector,” said Claire, fighting for patience. She drew a breath, then forced a tight smile. “Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee, tea, soda?”

Peyton’s smile returned. “Oh, I won’t be drinking anything, Mrs. Harper. Thank you.”

“So what do you need to know?”

Peyton shifted her attention to Brandon. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

He glanced at Claire, then his eyes moved back to Peyton. “I’d prefer to stand.”

“Of course.” Peyton turned her gaze on Claire. “Did you know Zoë had a journal, Mrs. Harper?”

“A journal? No, I didn’t. Did she mention the problems in her marriage? Did she say she was afraid of Jake?”

“Actually, no, she talked about how much she loved him. How dedicated he was as a husband. She did mention you and…” Peyton’s eyes snapped to Brandon. “Her ex-boyfriend.”

Claire gripped the arms of the chair. “I want that journal, Officer Brooks. It is the last words of my daughter, and it’s private. It belongs to me.”

“It’s evidence now, Mrs. Harper, so that isn’t possible.”

“I will call Captain Defino, Officer Brooks. You should be aware of that.”

“I don’t think you’ll be calling her, Mrs. Harper. You see, my dad was a cop…”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” snapped Claire, her polished façade slipping.

Peyton smiled. “He always said a case was like a stool, built on three legs. The first is your suspect, the second your evidence, and the third your motive.” She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “I’ve had the devil’s own time figuring out the motive, Mrs. Harper, but nothing’s worked out. Until we found Zoë’s journal, or rather, Jake found it.”

Claire slowly licked her upper lip, but she didn’t speak. Brandon was no longer leaning against the door jam.

“You aren’t Zoë’s mother, Mrs. Harper. That was our first break.”

“I raised Zoë from the time she was an infant. I am her mother in every other way.”

“You and Dr. Harper worked in the same hospital, right?”

“Yes.”

“Were you having an affair?”

“No. He and Annabelle had just married a few years before, but when she died, he was so lost. You know men and babies. He had no idea what to do. I helped him get back on his feet, and I took care of Zoë. We fell in love.”

“Then what happened? Why did he have divorce papers drawn up?”

Claire closed her eyes and looked away. “All these years I’ve supported him, attended political events, served on the boards of two hospitals, hosted parties, and raised his child.” She looked back. “Men and their mid-life crises.”

“What was her name?”

Claire’s eyes grew cold. “Ashley. Nursing student. Twenty-one years old. She was younger than his daughter. Isn’t that sick, Officer Brooks? Younger than his daughter.”

Peyton turned her attention to Brandon. “Not only did he draw up divorce papers, but he cut you out of his will. Was he getting suspicious about Annabelle?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peyton glanced at her. “You don’t know what I’m talking about? You mean the will or Annabelle?”

“I know about the will.”

Peyton nodded slowly. “I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t pull the plug. It seemed so heartless to keep him alive, but you had to have him alive, didn’t you? If he died, you wouldn’t get any of his money, his house.” She motioned around the room. From the corner of her eyes, she could see Brandon edging toward the door. She focused on him again. “Ironically, Zoë would have been safe, if it wasn’t for Brandon.”

Claire frowned and glanced at him as well. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Really? Did you know Zoë felt that he raped her? She came here to get answers from you and he was waiting for her. He gave her a drink and she passed out. When she woke up, she was in bed with him. She had absolutely no memory of what happened.”

Claire swallowed convulsively, but didn’t speak.

Peyton looked up at Brandon. “Did you know Zoë was carrying your child? She died with your baby in her belly.”

Brandon’s chest heaved and he looked at Claire frantically, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Such a shame because that was the trick of Blake’s will. He didn’t leave the money to Zoë, he left it to her future children. If you hadn’t gotten her pregnant, she’d still be alive. And if you had protected her, you’d potentially have access to the Harpers’ substantial holdings.”

“Claire?” he begged.

Still she wouldn’t look at him, but slowly she closed her eyes.

Brandon’s jaw worked. “Claire, you promised me…”

“What did she promise?” asked Peyton.

He gave her a frantic look, then turned his eyes on Claire. Peyton could see the confusion and fear on his face. “Claire, you promised it would be all right.”

Peyton glanced at Claire, but she still had her eyes closed, her hands clawed around the chair.

“Claire!” he shouted, taking a step toward her.

Peyton reached for her gun and his eyes shifted to it. She could see his pupils were dilated and his breathing was erratic.

Claire opened her eyes and looked at Peyton. “Are you suggesting Brandon killed my daughter?”

Brandon’s mouth worked again, but no sound came out. He stared at the back of Claire’s head, then looked down at Peyton’s gun. Finally he bolted, running toward the back of the house.

Claire jumped to her feet and turned toward the door. “Brandon!”

Calmly Peyton rose and pressed the button on the radio, speaking into her shoulder. “You have incoming,” she said.

Static crackled on the line, then Marco’s voice answered, “On it.”

Claire took a step toward the hallway. “Brandon!”

“Sit down, Mrs. Harper!” said Peyton in her most forceful tone.

Claire blinked at her in disbelief, but didn’t move.

“I said, sit the hell down!”

Claire sank into her seat, gripping the arms of her chair again.

*   *   *

Peyton’s voice crackled across the radio. “You have incoming.”

Marco nodded at Cho and motioned toward the house rising across the yard, then he pressed his radio button. “On it,” he said, reaching for his gun.

He pulled it out of its holster and moved away from the redwood tree standing at the back of the yard. He heard the French door slam open as he angled around the pool for a better shot. Cho, Simons and Smith fanned out to the right of him, blocking all access to the sides and back of the yard. Marco knew at least that many officers lined the front yard as well.

Brandon bolted from the house. Marco could see the other officers leveling their guns from the corner of his eye and he did the same, bracing it with his free hand.

“Halt!” he shouted.

Brandon skidded on the travertine tiles and immediately threw his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot!”

Marco and the other officers closed in on him. When Cho was close enough, he holstered his gun and grabbed Brandon’s left arm, shoving him to his knees, while he reached for his cuffs.

Marco holstered his own gun. “Coming out to do some gardening?” he asked.

Brandon looked up at him, his eyes wide and circled in white. “I want a deal.”

Marco shared a look with Simons. “Deal?”

“I’ll tell you everything, but I want a deal.”

Marco and the other officers laughed.

“We haven’t even read you your rights, scumbag,” said Cho.

“I don’t care. I want a deal. And a lawyer. I want a lawyer.”

Marco leaned closer to him. “You’re gonna need a lawyer, ass-wipe.”

*   *   *

Peyton took her seat again, watching Claire closely. “It must have felt like such a betrayal when Brandon slept with Zoë.”

Claire glanced up at her. Peyton could see the lines in her face as her make-up cracked.

“First your husband had an affair, then your boy-toy. You must have wanted to kill both of them when you found out.”

“I raised Zoë from the time she was a baby. I loved her like my own.”

“Until she stood between you and the life you’d stolen for yourself. I mean, let’s be real, Claire. You worked for this. You fought for your doctor and you got him. Then you raised his kid, advanced his career, and played dutiful wife for nearly 30 years. How does everyone repay you?”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, Officer Brooks. Zoë’s journal is hearsay without her testimony to back it up and I am a very well respected member of this community. Besides, you already have her murderer in custody.”

Peyton leaned forward. “All those years and he asks for a divorce. You committed murder to get him. You killed Annabelle in the very hospital where he worked. Then you took care of his newborn baby when he was too weak to do so himself. You raised her as your own and when she was out on her own, he has an affair on you with a twenty-one year old. As you said, she was younger than his daughter. To get even, you begin your own affair. Zoë wouldn’t care. She’d dropped Brandon for Jake, so you weren’t hurting anyone there and Brandon was willing. Why the hell not? He knew of Blake’s vast estate.”

“Brandon is wealthy himself.”

Peyton shook her head. “No, Brandon’s parents are wealthy, but because Brandon is a slacker, they cut him off, trying to force him to do something with his life. They also weren’t too thrilled with him having an affair with a woman old enough to be his mother.” Peyton gave Claire a grimace. “See, it cuts both ways, Claire.”

“You forget yourself, Officer Brooks.”

“It’s Inspector,” Peyton said with asperity. “But back to my story. It’s just getting good, isn’t it? Somehow you find out about the will.”

“A woman knows what her husband is doing.”

“Of course. So you find out that Blake has cut you from the will, but surprise, surprise, he hasn’t left the money to Zoë. Here’s where I’m a little fuzzy, so feel free to fill in the details. California is a community property state. You would have had legal right to half of his holdings no matter what his will said.”

“He made me sign off on the will. He forced me to give up my rights.”

Peyton gave her a bewildered look. “Did he suspect your involvement with Annabelle’s death? Did he threaten to go to the police with his suspicion? Is that why you had to poison him, Claire? I’m just uncertain why he left the money to her future children. I can only speculate he was trying to protect Zoë until he could get you out of their lives.”

“Speculate is right. This is quite the fantasy you’ve concocted. I feel the need to inform you that I will demand your badge for this stunt.”

“So, once you learned of the will, you had to get rid of Blake. But you couldn’t let him die. That must have been tricky, wasn’t it? How did you know the dose that would destroy his mind, but not kill him?” Peyton tapped a finger against her chin. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a registered nurse, aren’t you, Claire?”

“You are bordering on disrespect now, Officer Brooks.”

“When the doctor wanted to take him off life support, you played the grieving wife who couldn’t face the loss of her husband, but damned if Zoë didn’t start questioning you. That had to feel like betrayal. How could she question your decisions? You raised her.”

Claire looked away.

“Still, you could hold her off by playing into her guilt over her father. And the tension it caused in her marriage only helped the situation. Until Brandon raped her and she got pregnant. Now Blake’s will had to loom large in your mind, a constant reminder of all that you would lose. I’m sure it was hard to kill the child you raised from a baby, but she betrayed you first with her ex-boyfriend and then by keeping the baby. Zoë had to die.”

Claire’s eyes whipped back to Peyton’s face. “Enough. I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Neal Goldman was collateral damage, I suspect. It was a rather desperate move, but you had to stall people looking into that will, especially with Blake failing as quickly as he was. I’m guessing Brandon did that one. It’s a little too personal, a little too dirty. You operate more sneakily, don’t you, Claire? You don’t really like to get your hands dirty.”

Claire met Peyton’s look with cold ferocity. “Not only will I have your badge, Officer Brooks, but I will drive you out of this city. There will be no where you can go. No one who will serve you, no one who will accept your business. I will destroy you.”

Peyton slowly clapped her hands. “That was brilliant, Claire. A truly bitch-on-wheels performance.”

Claire’s eyes bulged. “You have nothing. You have no evidence. You have no murder weapon. You have no proof.”

At that moment, Peyton heard the front door open and she glanced over her shoulder to see Cho and Simons appear in the parlor entrance. “Inspector Cho?” she said, “Would you bring me Mrs. Harper’s lovely green handbag? It’s hanging on the coat rack in the entrance.”

He disappeared and Claire sat forward. “You have no right to touch my personal belongings!”

“You’re right,” said Peyton, “which is why we got a warrant for everything in this house.”

Cho entered the room and handed Peyton the bag. Behind him Simons and Marco loomed in the doorway.

“You know the funny thing about women,” said Peyton, opening the clasp on the bag.

Claire’s back was ramrod straight, her hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes showed white around the iris.

“They keep everything they think is most important in their purses, conveniently vulnerable to thieves and police.” She fixed her gaze on Claire. “That is why I never carry one.” Turning the bag over, she dumped the contents onto the tray table – hairbrushes, compacts, lipstick tubes, wallet, and on the very top, a prescription bottle.

Peyton’s dark eyes rose from the contents of the bag to fix on Marco’s Queen Bee. “Claire Harper, you have the right to remain silent.” She reached for the cuffs on her belt and circled around the table. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” She grabbed Claire under the arm and forced her to her feet.

“I want to call my lawyer.”

Peyton slapped the first cuff on her right wrist. “You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning.”

“I want to call my lawyer now!”

Peyton slapped the cuffs on her other wrist and looked at her over her silk clad shoulder. “You might want to pay particular attention to the next part of your rights, Claire. You see, just before we came over here today, we got a call from Dr. Chang at the convalescent hospital. Blake died around 5:00PM, effectively cutting you off from all of his funds.”

Claire struggled to turn around. “What?”

Peyton smiled again. “If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at the government’s expense.” She gave her a wink and shoved her forward. “But maybe you can ask your son-in-law for help.”

EPILOGUE

Peyton wandered through the old tombstones, ornate stone monoliths of a by-gone era. Cypress trees with their bent trunks and umbrella shaped tops dotted the landscape, growing between the graves, and flowers lay strewn over the lawn, brought by grieving relatives. The sky was over-cast, dark black clouds rolling in from the ocean, casting a pall over the weathered grey of the tombstones. She marked the scattered families, huddling in coats as they paid their respects, then hurrying to cars parked along the twisting cemetery road to escape the chill.

She tucked her hands into her leather jacket and kicked at a pinecone. It rolled away, coming to rest against a great stone mausoleum with its beautifully carved frescos and ornately scrolled family name. Climbing up between two of the stone buildings, she could hear bagpipes in the distance and saw the huddle of people in black standing around a freshly dug grave.

She walked toward them, but stopped far enough away that she could hear, but not intrude. A minister in an ornately embroidered robe was reading from the Bible and everyone had their heads bowed, their hands clasped before them.

She leaned against a tree and sighed. Her hair tickled her neck where it lay on her shoulders, unbound from the ponytail she always wore. It was a wild mane of untamed black curls, but it was the last bit of vanity she permitted herself.

The minister finished his reading and made a motion toward the grave. Peyton could see the coffin sitting on a metal frame supported by fabric straps. It gleamed white in the bleak foggy air. Spread across its top was a blanket of red roses.

The bagpipes began their mournful wail as two men removed the roses and set them on the ground, then began turning the crank. The coffin slowly lowered into the grave, disappearing over the lip of dirt. The mourners waited until the crank stopped, then a man rose, moving toward the blanket of roses. He selected one and held it a moment, looking into the grave. Then he tossed the rose onto the coffin and stepped back. Others came forward and did the same, but as soon as they tossed their roses, they circled around to him and gave him lingering hugs.

Peyton looked down, cuffing the dirt with the toe of her boot. Closing her eyes, she let the notes of the bagpipes seep into her. Amazing Grace. She could not hear that song without getting a lump in her throat.

When she looked up again, the mourners were gradually moving toward their cars as the notes of the bagpipes drifted over the cemetery. Peyton waited until they were almost all dispersed before moving toward the grave.

The man and a woman were the only ones left and they stood looking into the grave. The woman had her arm through the man’s and was leaning into him, speaking softly. Peyton stopped at the edge of the mound of dirt and waited.

They turned together and the man looked up, meeting Peyton’s eye. Jake had shaved and cut his hair. He wore a black suit and a long black raincoat. The woman beside him gave Peyton a startled look, but she didn’t release her hold on Jake’s arm. By the color of her hair and the shape of her eyes, Peyton figured they were related.

Jake moved toward her, guiding the woman over the uneven ground. “Inspector Brooks, this is my sister Faith.”

Peyton smiled, but the woman gave Jake a surprised look.

“Jake?” she said worriedly, but he patted her hand.

“I’m just here to pay my respects,” said Peyton quickly.

The woman breathed a sigh of relief, but she didn’t release her brother.

“It’s all right, Faith. I’ll just be a moment. You can go to the car.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She released him, but she gave Peyton another suspicious look.

“It was nice to meet you,” said Peyton.

She didn’t answer, just nodded.

As she walked away, she looked back over her shoulder a few times, but Peyton dismissed her and turned back to Jake.

“You look better,” she said.

He gave her a grim smile. “Thanks. Shave helps.” He rubbed a hand along his chin. “Why are you here, Mighty Mouse?” He looked around the cemetery. “Where’s Adonis?”

“At a birthday party for one of a hundred nephews.” She rocked on her heels. “I’m here to tell you I’m sorry.”

Jake’s brows lifted in surprise. “You’re sorry. Wow, that’s pretty amazing.”

She heard the note of sarcasm in his voice. “I know we can’t make it up to you, but I just wanted you to know, I regret what happened to you.”

Jake looked away, staring up into the branches of the tree. “Nope, it doesn’t begin to make it up, but…” He looked down at her again. “But it helps. Thank you.”

She kicked at a tree root, pushing her hair behind her ear. “What are you going to do? Are you going home to Nebraska?”

He glanced over his shoulder where his sister was climbing into a car. “For a little while, but I don’t think I’ll stay. I’ve gotten used to the City. Besides I want to know what happens with Claire and Brandon’s trials. I need to see that through.”

Peyton nodded. “We talked with your boss, Andrews. He said he’d give you your job back, if you want it?”

Jake looked away. “I’m not going back there, but I’m glad my accounts aren’t frozen anymore.”

Peyton gave him a grim smile. “Yeah, again, I’m sorry. Look, if you need anything…”

Jake gave her an incredulous look. “I won’t be calling you, Mighty Mouse, trust me.”

Peyton laughed and he laughed with her.

“Fair enough, but know the offer is there.”

“Thanks.” He jerked his head toward the car. “I’ve got to go. People are going back to Potrero Hill for a wake.”

Peyton nodded. “I understand.” She held out her hand. “Good luck, Jake Ryder. I wish you all the best.”

He hesitated a moment, staring at her hand, then gradually he raised his and clasped it. “Good luck to you, Inspector Brooks. Tell Adonis I said hi.” He released her and turned away.

Peyton stayed under the tree watching him.

When he got a few yards beyond her, he hesitated and turned back. “By the way, I love the hair,” he called, then he continued walking.

Peyton laughed and lifted a hand to smooth her curls.

Above her the sun suddenly burst through the cloud cover as the bagpipes continued their mournful wail.

Now that you’ve finished, visit ML Hamilton at her website: authormlhamilton.com for more information on the Peyton Brooks’ mysteries and her other contemporary fiction novel, Ravensong.

Then check out her fantasy series, The World of Samar, at worldofsamar.com.

All ML Hamilton titles available at Amazon in Kindle and paperback formats.

The Complete Peyton Brooks’ Mysteries Collection:

Murder on Potrero Hill Volume 1

Murder in the Tenderloin Volume 2

Murder on Russian Hill Volume 3

Coming Soon:

Murder on Alcatraz Volume 4

The Complete World of Samar Collection:

Emerald Volume 1

The Heirs of Eldon Volume 2

The Star of Eldon Volume 3

Coming Soon:

The Spirit of Eldon Volume 4

Table of Contents

- Murder on Potrero Hill

- Thank you as always, Mom and Dad, for being part of my editing team and pushing me to get this one ri...

- “So wise so young, they say do never live long.”

- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- EPILOGUE

- Now that you’ve finished, visit ML Hamilton at her website: authormlhamilton.com for more information...