Murder on Potrero Hill (20 page)

“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
Sweetnes
s
.

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 alar
m
.

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.