The One That Got Away (12 page)

Greening grabbed a couple more items from the appetizer plates before saying, “I spoke to a couple of your friends today.”

Friends? She didn’t know she had any of those.

“Dr. Jarocki and Officer Martinez.”

Did a shrink and a cop count as friends? If that was the best she could do, she was in trouble.

“What did Dr. Jarocki say?”

“Not a lot, due to patient confidentiality. I told him about last night.”

That was good. She had meant to call him but hadn’t been up to the task.

“Cockteaser,” someone yelled outside.

Neither Zoë nor Greening took any notice until a fist struck the window close to Zoë’s head. She jumped in her seat.

On the other side of the window was that jerk, Rick Sobona, the high-flying ad exec. A purple bruise stained him under his eyes and stretched to the bottom of his nose where she had punched him. He jabbed a finger at her.

“Cockteaser,” he yelled again.

Zoë shook her head.

“What the hell?” Greening said.

Sobona glared at Zoë, waiting for her to acknowledge him. When she said nothing, he stormed into the restaurant. The hostess raised her hands and blocked his path, but he brushed her aside.

He loomed over Zoë, standing directly against her table. Her skin prickled at the invasion of her personal space. Since Greening was there, she fought the impulse to smash him in the balls with her fist. She had a straight shot, but Greening had already seen her assault someone tonight.

“I can’t believe you’re back here after you played me last night,” he said. “I see you’re up to your old tricks, eh, cockteaser?”

“Watch the mouth, pal.”

“What did she promise you? Whatever it is, don’t believe it. She gets off on flirting and playing the game, but it’s all show. When the show’s over, she does this.” He pointed to the damage her single blow had done.

Zoë felt Greening staring at her.

Greening stood and faced Sobona. “OK, you’ve said your piece. Now it’s time to go.”

Sobona snorted a derisive laugh. “We are far from finished. We’re sorting this shit out now.”

Greening reached into his jacket and produced his badge. “No, we’re finished here, unless you want to make it much worse for yourself.”

Sobona rolled his eyes and clapped his hands dramatically. “Fantastic. A cop. So that’s how you get away with it—police protection. You’re a piece of work.”

He couldn’t have injected any more contempt into his voice if he tried. If his intention was to shame her, it had worked. She wanted to disappear.

The hostess returned with the chef and two waiters. They crowded around Sobona.

“Sir, you are not a customer here. Please leave.”

“This bitch nearly broke my nose and thumb last night.”

“That isn’t any of our concern. It’s time to go.”

One of the waiters, a broad-shouldered guy, placed a hand on Sobona’s arm just to reinforce the chef’s point.

Sobona raised his hands in surrender, dislodging the waiter’s hand. “OK, OK. I’m going. I know when I’m being screwed over.”

The waiter ushered Sobona to the door, in case he changed his mind about leaving. Greening remained on his feet, no doubt in case his cop powers were needed.

“Sir, you are not welcome here in the future,” the chef said.

“I wouldn’t waste my time with this place. Your food stinks.” Sobona couldn’t resist leaving without pounding the window one last time and screaming, “Bitch.”

The chef moved to the center of the restaurant with hands raised. “Sorry for the commotion, folks. We’re not impervious to the occasional drunk making trouble. I hope it hasn’t spoiled anyone’s enjoyment.”

He got a round of applause on his way back to the kitchen.

Greening retook his seat. “Never a dull moment in your life.”

The hostess came over to Zoë and Greening. “I’m so sorry about that. Are you guys OK? Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Zoë said. “I’m really embarrassed.”

The hostess placed a hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t be. Whatever you did, he deserved it.”

“I think we’ll take the check,” Greening said.

As the hostess returned to her station, Greening leaned in. “And you said no one here would remember you. Would you like to amend your statement, Ms. Sutton?”

From across the street, Marshall Beck watched Zoë take the man’s double-barreled outburst. He had quite a temper on him, which was something Beck didn’t like. Emotional displays in public disgusted him.

As much as Beck wanted nothing to do with the man, there was a story here that might give him an edge against Zoë. Targeting someone was all about research. The more you knew, the more likely you’d have the upper hand.

Tracking Zoë proved to be a straightforward affair now that he knew where she lived. One of the advantages of working at Urban Paws was he was allowed to set his own hours. Instead of going in this morning, he’d staked out Zoë’s apartment building. He’d waited until she’d left and followed her to the Golden Gate Mall. He’d determined the shift she worked by making the pretense of applying for a security guard’s position. He’d gone into work and left early in order to catch Zoë on her way home. She was tough to follow on that motorcycle of hers in the rush-hour crush. She took plenty of risks cutting in and out of traffic. It had forced him to drive in the carpool lane, just to keep up. He’d thought he’d lost her until he’d spotted her bike outside the self-defense studio. She was quite the GI Jane now. He put that down to his influence. Now his tracking skills had brought him here. He’d followed Zoë and that cop who’d seen her off from the Hall of Justice the night before. The irate man provided yet another wrinkle to this evening’s surveillance effort.

This is going to be very easy
, Beck thought. He crossed the street, putting him on a collision course with the angry man. Still cursing and muttering to himself, the guy was totally unaware of Beck zeroing in on him. Beck’s casual demeanor was more to disguise his actions from everyone else on the street than for his target.

Beck strode straight at the guy. The man was looking at him, but his rage blinded him to what was directly in front of him. Beck removed his cell phone and pretended to be reading texts as he walked. He positioned himself so he and the man struck shoulders. The impact knocked Beck’s cell from his grasp, sending it skittering across the sidewalk.

“Look where the fuck you’re going,” the man barked.

Zoë’s irate man was a good six inches shorter than Beck. He popped up onto his toes in order to put his face in Beck’s. The guy might have anger on his side, but Beck had size, strength, and skill on his. He could break this man where he stood, if he wanted.

Beck raised his hands. “Sorry, sir, it was just an accident. We just bumped into each other. No harm, no foul.”

“Wrong. There is harm. There is foul.”

Beck furrowed his brow in mock intrigue. “Are you OK? I mean we just bumped. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’d be a lot better if assholes like you watched where they were going.”

“OK. Sorry. Not trying to pick a fight. Just wanted to make sure you’re fine.”

A woman picked up Beck’s phone and held it out to him. “Here’s your phone.” She glared at the irate man. “I think it’s broken.”

Beck examined his phone. The screen was cracked. In the scheme of things, it was a small price to pay.

The man stared at the damage, mouth open to hurl more insults, then all the tension went out of his body. “Hey, fuck it, I’m really sorry. I’m not pissed at you. I’m angry at someone else.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the restaurant where Zoë and the cop still sat.

Beck pointed at the man’s bruised face. “It looks like someone got angry with you.”

He touched his swollen and bruised nose. “Yes. Hence my mood. Let’s just agree that I’m the dick here. I’ll pay for the phone. It’s the least I can do under the circumstances.”

Beck knew in that moment that he had this guy.

“Don’t sweat the phone. I got suckered into buying one of those insurance plans where they replace it with the next-generation phone for free. So, you actually did me a favor.”

The man laughed. “At least I did something right tonight.”

“Look, if you want to make it up to me, buy me a drink.”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll buy you two drinks.”

Beck put out his hand. “Brad Ellis.”

The other man shook his hand. “Rick Sobona.”

They walked half a dozen blocks to Poison, a bar that Sobona had claimed, “You’ll love.”

It wasn’t a place Beck could love. It was much too brash. Backlights behind the bar placed a heavenly glow on the expensive brand-name liquors, as if they possessed magical powers. Poison didn’t have bartenders. It had mixologists. The way people whooped and high-fived when the mixologists made a cocktail smacked of the desperation of trying too hard to have fun.

“Great place, right?” Sobona said.

“Very cool,” Beck lied.

Sobona cut through the people lining the bar in front of them. He flagged down Nick, one of the mixologists, who was sporting a prohibition look with gelled-down hair and a pencil moustache.

“What’s your poison, gents?” Nick asked.

Beck guessed that was the marketing slogan for these guys.

“This man is a cocktail genius. Give me that thing you gave me over the weekend.”

“That would be a John Gotti,” Nick said.

Beck rarely drank. He never possessed a hunger for it, so he drank only when social niceties required him to do so. Like now.

“Sounds like something I need to try,” Beck said.

Nick rapped the bar. “Two Gottis coming up.”

While Nick put on a show, making the cocktails, working a couple of shakers at the same time, Beck and Sobona shared small talk: where they lived, worked, hung out, and so on. Beck had to lie about the more social aspects of his life. His main social activity was teaching irresponsible people a lesson. This forced him to steal from conversations he’d had with his more gregarious coworkers.

Nick finished his performance and set the two drinks down in front of them. Beck asked for a water chaser and sipped the drink. It was a clash of sweet and sour. He assumed that was the point of a John Gotti.

“So, can I ask you a personal question?” Beck asked.

“Sure. We’re pals now.”

“Why the attitude on the street?”

Sobona frowned and shook his head. “I had just run into some bitch who pissed me off.”

Beck didn’t like the word
bitch
when used as a slur. He didn’t like name-calling in general. People might deserve a derogatory epithet, but it showed the mudslinger in just as bad a light. If people were bad, the appropriate reaction was to teach them a lesson. Insults were for children. Retribution was for adults.

“She did this to my face last night,” Sobona said, indicating his bruises. “I tried calling her on it, but she had some cop with her to cover her ass.”

Beck had to give Sobona props for admitting Zoë had done that to him. Most guys wouldn’t have admitted to taking a beating from a woman. Maybe Sobona wasn’t the blowhard Beck thought him to be.

“This bitch”—the word tasted as sour on his tongue as the John Gotti—“tell me all about her.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zoë found a message from David Jarocki on her answering machine when she got home from her awkward dinner/interrogation with Inspector Ryan Greening. “Zoë, I had a police officer here, asking questions about an incident involving you. Could you drop by my office sometime tomorrow? I have appointments during the day, but I can see you anytime after 7:00 p.m. Come by whatever time works for you. Hope you’re well.”

She felt like she was being summoned to the principal’s office. She could try ducking Jarocki’s message, but he’d only track her down at work. He’d done it before.

After a low-key day at the mall, where customers behaved themselves and Lara Finz hadn’t reported her for the assault, she arrived at his office at seven thirty. She found the psychologist alone at his desk, writing up patient notes. At least, she guessed as much, because he switched his computer monitor off the second she walked in.

“Thanks for coming in. Take a seat.”

She took the sofa, and he switched from his desk chair to his armchair.

He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “The police came by yesterday and asked me about you. Naturally, I told them nothing, but they told me about the incident at Pier 25. I watched it on the web.”

“Not my finest hour.”

“That’s not important. I was concerned about you after I watched it. How are you doing? Want to tell me about it?”

The answer was no, but this far down the road in her therapy, Jarocki didn’t take no for an answer. “I was out at a bar. I caught the news about a murder. Something about it told me it was very similar to my abduction. I went to the scene to get some answers, but the police gave me the runaround. That wasn’t acceptable, so I ran through their cordon.”

“What made you think this murder was connected to you and Holli?”

She shook her head. “Instinct and the circumstances. The fact that this woman had been suspended naked and whipped. It just spoke to me. It sounded just like what had happened to Holli. I had to know if this woman was killed by the same attacker. If it is the same guy, I have information that will help them catch this person. I can make a difference.”