Authors: Virna DePaul
Simon ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “No. What upsets me is a request he’s made of you. I don’t want you to have to deal with more than you’ve already been forced to.”
“Has there—has there been another murder?” she asked, the dread in her voice apparent.
“What? No. God no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to think that. No one’s been hurt.”
Relief flooded her. “Then what is it?”
“After Davenport’s interviews, reporters have been calling the police chief. The mayor. And Stevens. They’ve set up a conference that starts in less than an hour.”
“To reply to Davenport’s claims?”
“In part. But also to take the bull by the horns, to use your turn of phrase. To discuss how the police are responding to public concerns about its ability to deal with the homeless and mentally ill. They’re going to go forward with the MHIT training, Nina. And Stevens wants you to head it up.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. But what does he want me to do?”
“He wants you to make a public statement at the press conference.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
D
E
M
ARCO STARED AT THE
elegantly dressed woman with long black hair and a thin waist raise herself on tiptoes on a rickety chair, trying to hang a plant on a hook. He’d met Anna Wong only recently, when he’d checked out various crisis clinics in the city to determine whether Cann and the second murder victim, now identified as Hastings, had both sought counseling at the same place. She’d been able to confirm that, indeed, both men had made appointments at her clinic, the Golden Gate Crisis Center.
At the time, she’d been professional and pulled together, not a hair out of place. Now, with her guard down, Anna Wong seemed infinitely more approachable. She finally got the plant hooked up, but had leaned too far forward. She wobbled as she tried to get her balance. Despite the serious nature of his visit, he couldn’t help noticing how fantastic she looked standing before him and that she possessed what was the most beautiful ass he’d ever seen.
And she was about to fall right on it.
Sure enough, her foot slipped on the chair and she squealed in alarm.
DeMarco grabbed her just as the chair teetered and slid out from under her.
Wow. She felt good. Smelled good.
“Whoa. Thank you!” the woman said.
As he gently deposited her on her feet, she turned to look at who had saved her. Her brows lifted in surprise. “Detective DeMarco. How nice to see you again. Um, did you want to talk to me about something?”
He realized she was standing on her own two feet, but his hands were still around her waist and his face was inches from hers. “Oh, sorry,” he said, lifting his hands off her body and holding them up in the air, palms facing her.
She took a step back. Her silk blouse was rumpled and one of the buttons had come undone, but he wasn’t about to call attention to that detail. Not when the gape gave him a glimpse of soft, rounded flesh behind the silk. She brushed her hands down, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in a tight-fitting skirt. Then she walked to her desk and sat down.
“So...what can I do for you? As I told you before, Mr. Cann and Mr. Hastings were both seen at this clinic, but I can’t disclose specifics about who they saw or what they talked about.”
Damn, but in addition to a smoking body, did she ever have fine eyes, too. Almond-shaped, hot-cocoa-chocolate-colored. Bottomless. And she was staring expectantly at him.
“Actually, I’m not here to talk about either of those men. I’m—uh—I’m actually not here in an official capacity.”
“Oh. Well, please. Have a seat and tell me why you are here.”
He cleared his throat. Suddenly felt like bolting from the room. But the steady way she stared at him, a slight smile of encouragement on her lips, caused his racing heart to slow and his nerves to settle.
“The reason I’m here is...” He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. Looked around the room. Then finally met her gaze again. “Well, this is a crisis center. And I’m in crisis. I need help.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
T
HE PRESS CONFERENCE
at the SFPD began at 4:00 p.m. sharp and was in full swing when Simon and Nina arrived at 4:15 just as Stevens had requested. “Given Davenport’s claims, I don’t want to give the press a chance to go after Nina, but I do want her to speak briefly about the MHIT training.”
“Commander,” a reporter spoke now, directing the crowd’s attention to Commander Stevens. Simon recognized the man as an investigative reporter on the evening news. He thrust a microphone in front of Stevens’s face. “Lester Davenport has filed suit against the city. This is the third lawsuit brought against the SFPD in as many weeks. Since the DOJ has jurisdiction over all law enforcement in California, can you respond to the sudden spate of lawsuits?”
“Of course,” he said. “We at the DOJ take our jobs seriously, as does the SFPD. Like you, we are always concerned about the well-being of any person accused of a crime. In America, people are innocent until proven guilty. At no point during the arrest, trial or incarceration should anyone be treated unfairly.”
“What about the way SFPD has been treating the mentally ill?” the reporter pressed. “We’re hearing more and more about how SFPD officers are mishandling calls when someone is suicidal or delusional. How more police brutality shows up in incidents of arrests with a mentally ill person than an arrest of citizens without compromised mental health.”
“Although I cannot comment on any ongoing lawsuits,” Stevens stated, “I can say that we have an ongoing study being performed to evaluate the actions police make when undertaking an arrest. We’ve been working with a psychiatrist, an impartial observer, to determine if the SFPD needs specialized training in how to effectively communicate with the mentally ill.”
“Is this the same psychiatrist that Davenport has alleged is having an affair with one of your officers?”
“Davenport has made several claims, all of which are false. Dr. Whitaker helped us save a child, and there’s plenty of press coverage on that. I believe you wrote an article about it yourself, Artie. As to whether she’s dating one of my officers, her personal life isn’t at issue here. She’s an independent contractor, not a city employee, and she’s extremely good at her job. We’re lucky to be working with her.”
As soon as the direction of the conversation had turned toward Nina and Davenport’s claims against her, Simon had stiffened up.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. She met Stevens’s gaze and nodded, telling him that she was ready to speak.
“Now, Dr. Whitaker is here and has agreed to briefly speak with the press. She is here only to talk about the new program she’s advocating. Keep your questions limited to that or we’ll be forced to end the press conference early.”
Nina glanced at Simon, smiled reassuringly and stepped forward, directly in front of the microphone. As she looked into the small gathering of reporters, she thought,
Lord, I’d rather be anywhere else than here—heck, getting a Brazilian wax would be less tortuous than staring at this crowd of rabble-rousing reporters.
But Commander Stevens had set the stage, and she needed to take action.
“Here goes nothing,” she murmured under her breath and leaned closer to the microphone. The first thing she did was explain how she’d been instrumental to the Mental Health Intervention Team becoming established with the Charleston P.D. She ran through the main objectives of the program and the successes they’d encountered since the program began. “Now,” she continued, “as a psychiatrist working with the SF Memorial Hospital Mental Health Division, I independently approached Commander Stevens about my desire to start a similar program here. He was very open to the idea of the program, and suggested I shadow one of his detectives in order to gather detailed information about how officers were handling encounters with the mentally ill, which would enable me to make subsequent recommendations. My observations have led me to believe that the SFPD does indeed have the basic skills to both successfully recognize when individuals are symptomatic and to handle these calls with respect and finesse. However, basic skills can always be built upon. As such, I am recommending that the MHIT program be adopted and Commander Stevens, the police chief and the mayor, have given me the green light. Over the next year...” Nina detailed what would be coming next.
A couple of reporters asked legitimate questions about the MHIT program, but then one asked, “Is the detective that you shadowed the one that you are now romantically involved with?”
Stevens raised a hand. “And that’s the end of Dr. Whitaker’s interview.” Commander Stevens placed a hand on her elbow and moved her away from the microphone, glaring at the impertinent reporter as he did so. “If you have any other questions, ladies and gentlemen, you can direct them to me.”
Grateful for his intervention, Nina wound her way back to the edge of the crowd where Simon stood waiting for her. He immediately steered her outside and toward the gated parking lot, where he’d earlier left his car.
“You okay?” Simon asked grimly.
“Yes,” she said. “Speaking to reporters isn’t my favorite thing to do, but I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve had to explain the program to the press before. It was a good use of my time.”
“Well, I’m sure Stevens is grateful. And I know you’re taking the high road by saying you’re used to dealing with reporters, but given how they’ve dug into your personal past before—well, you know that might happen again, don’t you?”
“It’s okay. No matter what happens, I don’t have any regrets about what’s happened between us, Simon. In fact, you’re the one bright spot that’s been keeping me going.”
He looked at her and grinned. “I feel the same way, Doc. How about we head home and I brighten your day a little bit more?”
“That sounds heavenly,” she said with a smile.
He stepped up to his car, bent to unlock the passenger-side door, then froze. “Hold on.” Simon held out his arm and gently nudged her back.
“What’s wrong?” She gasped as she noticed the glass glinting on the ground. Someone had broken the passenger window of his car.
“Great,” he murmured. “Just one more thing to deal with.”
“You’re in a secure parking lot next to the police department. Why would someone—”
“Probably someone drunk or hopped up on drugs. Let’s go back and I’ll call it in.” He stooped slightly and peeked into the car, as if checking to see whether anything inside had been disturbed. “I don’t want to touch—” He’d been in the middle of rising when he froze. And stayed frozen.
“Simon?” Nina asked hesitantly. “Is something wrong?”
His rib cage enlarged and his shoulders widened, as if he was drawing in a deep, deep breath.
Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good. “Stay back,” he ordered Nina.
Instead, she took a step forward and placed her hands on the backside of his hips. “Is it another dead cat?” she asked in a whisper.
“I told you to stay back,” he said harshly.
“You don’t control me, Simon,” she snapped back.
“That isn’t what this is about,” he said, turning and trying to nudge her away from the car.
“Then what is it about? Why won’t you let me see what’s in the car?”
He turned then, and slid his hands down her shoulders to touch the tips of her fingers. “I don’t want you to see what’s inside because I’m trying to protect you.”
She shook her head wearily. “My cat’s been killed and mutilated. There’s someone murdering mentally ill men and it might be because of me. I think we’re well beyond protecting me now.”
Gently, Simon placed a kiss on her forehead. “Maybe you’re right. And you’ll need to know this anyway. I just wish—” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t change reality. But I’m sorry, Nina. And I’m here for you. Remember that.”
He stepped away from the car to allow Nina to take a look.
She hunched down, the way he had, and took in the interior. Then let out a cry.
The doll. Rachel’s doll. Hanging from the rearview window by a small slip of rope tied into a noose around her neck. Attached to the doll was a photograph of a dead, naked man with the initials
BD
carved into his skin and a note. Nina fought back the urge to gag but forced herself to look closer at the note.
It read, “Life’s a bitch and then you die. Like my BD.”
* * *
A
FTER DISCOVERING THE
doll planted in his car, Simon hustled Nina into SIG and explained the situation to Jase, who arranged for the evidence techs to process the scene. Meanwhile, Simon got Nina some coffee and took her to an empty office so they could talk.
“Tell me about the doll, Nina.”
Nina wrapped her hands around the coffee mug in front of her. She’d been quiet since they’d found the doll. Quiet but calm. Steady. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting and he watched her now, wary, regretting that he was having to push this but knowing he had no other choice.
“The doll belonged to my sister, Rachel, before she died.”
“You had it in your purse. I saw it the day we met and your bag spilled.”
“I—I’d recently taken it out. I left it in my office. I was planning on donating it. Maybe giving it to the kids’ ward.”
Simon jammed his hands into his hair. “You’re sure it was at your office and not your house? Because I assumed that’s how Davenport...”
She shook her head. “No. It was in my office. I’m positive.”
“So how the hell did Davenport or anyone else get it? The door past the receptionist is normally locked. I tried it myself.”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell you that.”
“All right. Let’s work on something else—how someone could know about the doll’s significance to you. You say it belonged to your sister, but she killed herself twenty years ago. Did you ever talk to Davenport about it?”
“Rachel died when I was sixteen years old. Suicide. She slit her wrists in the bath. But I never told Davenport that. Of course I didn’t. Why would I?”
“There was some press on it, but very little. I had to go digging for it. I suppose he could have found out about it, if he was doing research on you, but the doll...how would he make any connection with that doll?”