“But if his girlfriend was inside the motel room, who was the woman pounding on the door?”
“Maybe they made up before Bronsey arrived.”
“Did Lauren say anything else about Rhiannon?” Gregg asked.
“Yeah. Supposedly, she worked with Kyle at Lycaon and lives in Saratoga. Also, she drives some sort of dark blue Acura sedan,” I replied.
“Marvelous.” Gregg’s tone was vinegary. “That’s another car that might have been the one observed fleeing the scene. We’ll run vehicles registered to her through DMV to get the plate number.”
“And there’s a lot more background information to the story, but it can wait until we get down there.”
“Which answers my question of whether you guys are done for the day.”
“That’s your call. But if you find Rhiannon at her condo, you might need our help with the interview, especially when it comes to questions about her relationship with Kyle.”
“That’s true. Head south and I’ll call when we have an address.”
“And we’ll need to meet someplace so we can follow you there. We don’t have a GPS unit in this thing. Any luck at Kyle’s apartment?”
“No. The Santa Clara Sheriff’s detectives were here yesterday, because we found an R and I of all the stuff they seized,” said Gregg, referring to the Receipt and Inventory form that cops were obligated by law to leave after serving a search warrant. “But they weren’t the only ones to search this place.”
“How can you tell?”
“The apartment is so trashed it looks as if every rock band in the world has been staying here. The furniture is slashed, every piece of his clothing is cut up, and the word
die
is spelled out on the living room carpet with liquid drain cleaner.”
“The cops didn’t do that.”
“No. Whoever was searching wanted to send Kyle a message of what they were going to do to him.”
“So, how long before you clear there?”
“Give us an hour. We want to talk to some of his neighbors.”
“That’s about how long it will take us to drive down from the city. One other thing: We’re going to want some Saratoga uniformed cops there if Lauren
is
right about Rhiannon being the reincarnation of Bonnie Parker,” I said, referring to the female half of one of America’s most famous and murderous crime duos.
“Just in case we find her and
Clyde
Vandenbosch. I’m on it.”
I disconnected from the call and headed over to Nineteenth Avenue, where I turned south. If there was another route, I’d have taken it and not just because of the maniacal traffic. The freeway goes directly past one of my least favorite places in the world. I started to brood and Ash rubbed my arm, knowing why I’d become tense and silent. As we passed through the modern day necropolis of Colma, a tiny town that existed to house San Francisco’s dead, I barely glanced to my left at the Cypress Lawn Cemetery. I was doing my best to ignore the fact that my parents were there under the yellowish-green grass. My most fervent wish at that moment was that I could forget them, bury them as deeply in my memory as they were in the ground.
My dad was an alcoholic defense attorney who’d never gotten over the disappointment of his son becoming a “dumb cop” and not following him into the lucrative family trade of putting felons back on the street. And he was the more lovable one of the pair now moldering in the ground. Mom was like the boxer Muhammad Ali in his prime. She could hurt you with her hands and her mouth. When I was seven years old she broke my nose with a vicious right jab and then sneeringly warned me that if I told anyone how it actually happened, she’d really give me something to cry about. I know it sounds terrible, but the nicest thing my parents ever did for me was to die in a drunken car crash before Ash could meet them. They’d have despised her for being a “hillbilly” and not “high class” like they were.
Then my blond angel came to the rescue by deftly reminding me of how good my life was now. Ash said, “How does it feel to know that you’re going to walk your daughter down the aisle?”
“Happy, scared, old. How about you? How are you with the news?” I replied, my spirits beginning to lift a little.
“Don’t you dare tell Colin this, but I like him. I think he’s a good man and he obviously loves Heather.” There was a pause before she added in a slightly scandalized tone, “We saw
that
in the Cask and Cleavage.”
I chuckled at the memory of Ash’s shocked reaction to Heather and Colin’s torrid embrace in the bar. “God, I thought your eyes were going to pop out.”
Ash giggled, too, and said, “Don’t laugh. And Lord, if my mama ever finds out about that tattoo, she’ll take an electric sander to Colin’s arm.”
“Considering your dad is a lay deacon at the church, I don’t think he’ll be real pleased about it either.”
“I know. Daddy would give her his best sander.”
“So, note to self: Regardless of the weather, Colin wears a long-sleeved shirt when he comes to visit.”
My gloomy cloud was lifted and we continued to chat about the engagement and everything it entailed as we drove southward. As we passed Lake San Andreas, I wondered how many of our fellow motorists realized that the Serra Freeway was located right next to a ticking time bomb: the San Andreas Fault. We were approaching the off-ramp for Palo Alto and Kyle’s alma mater, Stanford, when Gregg called. I don’t like to talk on the phone while driving, so Ash took the call. She disconnected a minute later.
“Gregg says they’re leaving Redwood City now,” said Ash.
“So, we’re going to get there first.”
“That’s what I told him. He said to take the West Valley Freeway, get off at Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road, and wait there.”
“In the off-ramp intersection? That sounds dangerous.”
“I think he meant to find someplace off the road and park, darling,” Ash said patiently. “And as long as you’ve used the word dangerous, how’s this for news: Apparently, Rhiannon also bought a gun the same day Kyle did and from the same shop.”
“Don’t tell me, a twenty-two caliber revolver,” I said.
“That’s right. Gregg said it was a Taurus.”
“Yeah, it’s a Brazilian gun-maker.”
“And he said it was a magnum.”
“Which means the revolver is designed to be easier to handle when you’re using hot ammunition like magnum loads or hollow-points.”
“So, she probably didn’t get it for target shooting, because those kinds of bullets are expensive.”
“You’re right. Look who’s turning into a first-class investigator.”
It was just past four o’clock when we arrived at the outskirts of the San Jose metropolitan area. Remember the old Burt Bacharach song about San Jose and how much nicer it was than Los Angeles? Those lyrics may have contained a kernel of truth back in the mid-1960s, but the fact is, with the exception of a little less graffiti on the freeway signs, most of San Jose looks exactly like LA.
However, Saratoga is the exception. The upscale, pretty town is on the southwest edge of the urban sprawl and built on the brown foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains. We got off the freeway at Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road and I pulled into a restaurant parking lot. Then I called Gregg to tell him where we were. He and Aafedt arrived about twenty minutes later and we got out of our vehicles to stretch our legs.
Gregg said, “Saratoga PD is sending us a couple of units and a sergeant. They ought to be here soon.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He pointed to the southwest toward the mountains. “That-a-way. Otero lives on Burgoyne Street in a neighborhood near some winery. We’ll follow the Saratoga units in.”
“So, what else did Lauren have to say?” Aafedt asked.
Ash and I then took turns summarizing our interview with Lauren. We were finishing our tale when the three Saratoga police cruisers rolled into the parking lot. The cops got out of their cars and the Saratoga patrol sergeant told Gregg that he’d sent a patrol unit to do a drive-through of the condo complex to see if either the Acura or Kyle’s Toyota was there. Less than a minute later, the sergeant’s portable radio squawked. It was the scout officer calling to report that she’d just driven past Rhiannon’s residence. She’d found the Acura parked in the condo’s driveway, but there was no sign of the Prius. The sergeant acknowledged the information and told the officer to pull back and await our arrival.
Everyone tried to look cool and stoic, but you could feel the excitement beginning to build. We assembled in a huddle around Gregg as he briefed the Saratoga officers on the nature of the investigation and how he wanted to approach the condo, since it looked as if Rhiannon was there. It was a rude shock when I realized the sergeant wanted to keep Ash and me far away from the condo.
But Gregg pointed at Ash and me and said, “That man was my partner in the homicide bureau longer than you’ve been a cop and his wife helped arrest an armed ADW suspect this morning. So either they’re coming along or you and your troops can go Ten-Eight and we’ll handle this alone.”
That ended the discussion. A few minutes later, we were at the rear of a caravan of police vehicles headed toward the Albion-on-the-Hill gated community. Gregg stopped briefly to talk to the security guard, who then waved us all into the complex. In keeping with its name, the builders had tried to give the homes and neighborhood what they imagined was an English look. The narrow streets were paved with faux cobblestones and the two-storied townhouses were vaguely reminiscent of the famous Royal Crescent in Bath. Yet there was an elusive air of theme park to the place. The development was so self-consciously out-of-place in the arid California foothills that I half-expected to see a sign pointing in the direction of The Merrie Olde England Roller Coaster.
Obviously, Ash shared my assessment of the place. She said, “Who in the name of God would want to live on the movie set for
Mary Poppins
?”
I gestured toward the homes. “Hey, the sign out in front says that the new units are priced to sell in the low eight-hundreds. We could always sell our home in the Shenandoah Valley and move back here.”
“Bite your tongue.”
Burgoyne Street was the second left. There was almost no one out on the street, just a woman trimming her rose bushes and a young guy walking his shih tzu down the sidewalk. Both stared as the caravan of cop cars slowly rolled down the street. Then all the cars began to pull over to the side of the road. There was a dark blue Acura in a driveway about forty yards ahead, which meant we’d arrived at Rhiannon’s house.
We parked and watched as two cops jogged around to the rear of the condo, while Gregg and Aafedt led the other two officers to the residence. We couldn’t see the front door from our position, but I thought it was a good sign that we hadn’t heard any gunfire. Finally, one of the uniformed cops emerged from the condo and signaled us by holding up his right hand and showing four fingers. The home was secure and we could come in.
As Ash and I approached the townhouse, we paused to look through the windows of the Acura, but didn’t see anything noteworthy. Meanwhile, the Saratoga cops were returning to their patrol cars. We continued on to the house, and as I entered the living room, I saw Rhiannon. She wore jeans and a San Jose Sharks jersey and was leaning with her back against the breakfast bar in what looked like inordinately casual conversation with Gregg and Aafedt. Rhiannon glanced over at us as we came in.
I said, “Hi, Rhiannon, remember me?”
“No. Should I know you?” She scrunched her face up in an effort to make it appear as if she were trying to remember.
“We’ve never formally met, but I saw you watching Lauren Vandenbosch yesterday at the teddy bear show in Sonoma.”
Sixteen
“I’m afraid you’re mistaking me for someone else.” Rhiannon gave me a chilly smile, which accessorized perfectly with her living room.
It was a cold enclosure of eggshell white and burnished metal that reminded me of a lobby in an upscale attorney’s office. The walls were decorated with a trio of black-and-white Ansel Adams photos of inhospitable snowy mountain crags, each inside a silver aluminum frame; there was an ivory leather-upholstered Danish-style sofa that looked about as enticing a spot to relax as a Hindu fakir’s bed of nails, and in front of the couch stood a contemporary glass and steel coffee table that only lacked a stack of old issues of
Smithsonian
and
New Yorker
magazines to complete the image of a waiting room.
I said, “No, I’m absolutely certain it was you. And you’ve overplayed your cool card.”
“What are you talking about?” Rhiannon asked.
“You should have reacted when I mentioned your boyfriend’s mother.”
“Like I just told the detective. I had a brief—thank God—relationship with Kyle. That doesn’t make him my boyfriend.”
“Thanks for the clarification. But that doesn’t change the fact that you were at the teddy bear show yesterday.”
“So what if I was there? It was a nice day trip up to Sonoma. I didn’t know that Oedipus’s mom was going to be there.”
I gestured at the stark room. “Funny, you don’t seem like a teddy bear sort of person.”
“Funny, you don’t look like a mind-reader.”
“I’m not. That must be the reason I can’t figure out why you’d lie to me,” I said.
Rhiannon made a
T
with her hands. “Time out. Before I say another word, I want to know who
you
are and what this is all about.”
Gregg said, “Mr. Lyon is a retired homicide inspector and he and his wife, Ashleigh, are now civilian consultants for the San Francisco Police Department. And as far as what this is all about, I told you. We’re investigating a murder.”
“And I’ve already said that I don’t know anything about any murder.”
“Just like you told Inspector Lyon that you weren’t at the teddy bear show.”
Rhiannon gave him a scornful smile. “You need to listen more closely. I never denied being at that silly show. I just said he’d mistaken me for someone else.”
It was apparent to me that Rhiannon was not only extremely intelligent but that she also wanted us to understand that we were her mental inferiors, which we probably were. I also suspected that the word splitting was being deliberately employed as a weapon in a mental war of attrition. She was deliberately trying to provoke us, hoping we’d become irked and focus on scoring verbal points against her, instead of getting to the crux of the interview, because she didn’t want to tell us anything meaningful. So, rather than engage in a courtly semantic duel with Ms. d’Artagnan, I elected to disrupt her composure by verbally hitting her below the belt.