Murder on Potrero Hill (6 page)

“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 19
th
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.