The Touch of a Woman (2 page)

As they left, she returned the polite smiles of two middle-aged men, appreciating the fact that, even as she and her friend neared the half-century mark, they still turned heads.

“Our time always goes by so fast, Roxie. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Mom wants me to come to Palm Springs, but I don’t think I can stand being with Arthur all day. He’ll have Fox News blaring in the background.”

“Ugh. I don’t blame you. Jonathan’s started watching that crap too. We make him go to his room and close the door.”

“Amazing. You and Bruce are about the most liberal rich people I know. I can’t imagine how that nonsense crept into his head in the first place.”

Their liberal roots had been planted as students at Cal-Berkeley in the early nineteen-eighties. The rich part came much later through Bruce’s work as an investment planner. Still, they were hardly rich by Bay Area standards, not with all the dot-com billionaires buying up San Francisco’s real estate.

Ellis donned her sunglasses as they stepped outside. “Come to the City. I’m doing a big turkey. We can hide in the kitchen and drink wine.”

“Now you’re talking. Let me look at my calendar and make sure I don’t have a call to Mumbai or something. They don’t celebrate the Pilgrims, you know.”

Walking through the parking lot arm in arm, they reached Ellis’s car first, a black Lexus SUV.

“Is this new?”

“You know how Bruce is about buying cars, whether we need one or not. I’d just gotten used to which button did what on the Escalade.”

“Hard to begrudge a husband who spoils you like that.” They shared a final hug, and as Roxanne walked away, she shouted over her shoulder, “If there were more Bruces in the world, I might have gotten married too.”

Roxanne was already married—to her job. Yet another reason Ellis couldn’t handle having such an ambitious career. Bruce wasn’t perfect, but he’d always supported everything she did job-wise, including her decision to turn the sitting room in their master suite into a home office. She was happy with her life just the way it was.

As the driver’s seat hummed to her programmed position, she lowered the mirror on her visor to check her appearance. No wonder the men had smiled. Like Roxanne, she wore her years well. Though she had to work at it—facials, waxing, moisturizers…whatever it took to keep her skin looking young. She’d been blessed with thick dark hair, which Antoine had tinted with auburn highlights and cut in a long bob that curled into a point below her chin. She still was a woman men noticed.

With a touch to her steering console, she activated her phone. “Call Bruce.” He’d like hearing that Roxanne was considering joining them for Thanksgiving. As regional manager for investment giant Kerner-Swift, he found her expertise on the world market for technology invaluable.

Four rings, then voice mail. Probably in a meeting.

The ride home was gorgeous along Interstate 280. Hills and meadows on both sides, green from the autumn rain. The Crystal Springs Reservoir sparkling in the sun, the San Francisco International Airport peeking through the trees from Millbrae. As far as she was concerned, the Peninsula was the most beautiful place on earth—except for the traffic, which was building as she approached the City.

Another button on her wheel turned on the AM radio, set to a local news channel with traffic reports every ten minutes.

“…dozens of emergency vehicles swarming the area. No other traffic is being allowed in at this time.”

Jolted by the urgency in the announcer’s tone, she turned up the volume.

“If you’re just joining us, police are on the scene of what they’re calling an office shooting in the Financial District. Witnesses report hearing shots inside the Transamerica Pyramid, but it’s unclear at this time exactly which floors are involved. Tenants of the Pyramid include Merrill Lynch, URS Corporation, Kerner-Swift…”

In a panic, she redialed Bruce, only to get his voice mail again. “Bruce, I’m just hearing the news. Call me the second you get this. I mean it!”

Traffic had slowed to a crawl, pinning her on the freeway more than half a mile before an exit that could take her close to downtown.

The City had suffered this horror before, twenty-some years ago when Gian Ferri had killed eight people at the Pettit-Martin law firm. She and Bruce had been vacationing with their toddler twins at his mother’s house in Napa, and she’d felt no guilt at all for being grateful it was someone else and not Kerner-Swift.

The bulletins came quickly. Conflicting reports of casualties. Still nothing on the specific location inside the building.

At the risk of missing an update, she placed a third call, this time to the main number at Kerner-Swift. That too went to voice mail.

“Of course,” she said aloud. “They’ve probably evacuated the whole building.”

“The scene here is still tense, Marty. I’m calling from behind a police barricade that’s been set up on Jackson Street. What I can tell you is that heavily armed SWAT teams entered the building about ninety minutes ago. They’ve been clearing floors and evacuating the occupants through the emergency exits. I spoke moments ago with one of the workers who says she was trapped in her office for over an hour. She reported hearing sporadic bursts of gunfire…”

The sound of sirens in the background drowned out the reporter’s words.

“Tamara, did the woman you spoke with indicate which floor the shots were coming from? I know our listeners are anxious about loved ones who work in the Pyramid.”

“Excuse me, Marty…we’re just seeing several emergency medical teams rush inside the building. That would seem to indicate the shooting has stopped.”

“Goddammit! What floor?” Ellis screamed and pounded her steering wheel.

She was midway through another call to Bruce when she had a horrible thought: What if he’d been hiding from the shooter and his ringing cell phone had given his position away?

“Marty, police are now confirming that at least six people have been killed, but that number may go higher. Also, they’re saying the shooter is reportedly among the dead. No word yet on whether he was killed by police or took his own life. SWAT teams continue to sweep the building in search of victims and people who may have been hiding throughout this horrifying episode.”

Her hands shook so hard she could barely hold the wheel. Somehow she made it to the freeway exit and raced through the Mission District to Market Street. Too much traffic. A jog up Gough and she could take California all the way downtown.

With the assurance the shooting was over, she dialed again, and nearly cried with relief when the call connected after only two rings. “Bruce? Thank God! I’ve been listening to the news. Were you anywhere near the shooting?”

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, unfamiliar. “This is Sergeant Lynn McLeod of the San Francisco Police Department. To whom am I speaking?”

“Uh-oh.” The last thing Summer Winslow expected to see in her quiet apartment complex on a Sunday night was flashing blue lights. With above-average rents, River Woods was an enclave of young families saving for the down payment on their first home, white-collar professionals just starting out, and established singles like herself, stuck between relationships and not ready to commit to another mortgage.

So which of her neighbors also represented the criminal element?

Courtney Meyer stopped her car near the gate. “I’ll let you out here if that’s okay. I don’t want to get mixed up in that.”

“I hear you,” Summer said. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Thanks for the movie. Next time it’s my treat.”

She hobbled across the parking lot, careful not to put weight on her pinky toe, which she’d broken two weeks earlier in a game of Twister with her friends. The sidewalk in front of the adjacent building was blocked by the ramp of a moving truck. She noted dismally that her new neighbors, the ones unloading the truck, were young, early twenties. That likely would mean friends, parties, cars and noise.

The Sacramento Police Department cruiser was parked behind her car, but it was the sight of the familiar Jeep Cherokee in a nearby guest space that set her on edge. What did Rita hope to accomplish by showing up uninvited? She couldn’t possibly think she’d be welcome, not after their last confrontation.

Cringing at the obnoxious flashing lights, she continued gingerly toward her door. As she passed Rita’s car, she anticipated the face-off.

No, you can’t come in. No, I don’t want to talk.

A police officer intercepted her, shining a flashlight into her face. “Excuse me, are you Summer Winslow?”

She looked away to avoid the glare and only then noticed Rita sitting in the backseat of the cruiser.
Shit.
So that’s why he was here. What had she done? “I am.”

“And do you know Rita Finnegan?”

For an instant, she considered saying no. “I’m afraid so. What has she done?”

The muffled sound of Rita yelling interrupted his reply. Clearly she was under the mistaken impression they could hear her plainly through the rolled-up windows of the cruiser.

Summer knew in an instant she was drunk. Her wavy red hair had come loose from its tie and was hanging around her face, streaked with mascara from her tears.

The stone-faced officer drew her away from the car, ostensibly to get out of Rita’s earshot. “We got a complaint from one of your neighbors that she was banging on your door and yelling. Some pretty bad language, apparently. She told me she lived here and lost her key. Your neighbor didn’t think that was right.”

Oh, the temptation. If she told the truth—that Rita was her ex and was stalking her—then he might haul her to jail for the night, which would serve her right. As much as that would have pleased her, she couldn’t let it go that far. Rita worked as an auditor for the State of California, and an arrest could get her in a lot of trouble.

Still, a part of her wondered if it would take something as drastic as getting arrested for Rita to finally see herself as Summer did. After fifteen years of sobriety, she’d convinced herself her drinking was under control.
It’s about moderation, Summer.
Except moderate drinkers didn’t get rip-roaring drunk at least once a month, and they didn’t end up in the back of police cars.

“Let me make this easy for you,” the officer said, dropping the businesslike tone in favor of a folksy cadence. “It’s obvious your friend’s been drinking. Now I didn’t actually see her drive so I can’t charge her with DUI, but I can’t take a chance of her getting back behind the wheel tonight. If you’re willing to take responsibility, I’ll release her to you. But
do not
let her drive.”

She didn’t want to be responsible for Rita. That’s why she’d walked away after twenty-one years together. Caught between a rock and a hard place, she persuaded him to let her make a call. She’d put Rita’s fate in the hands of their mutual friend, Queenie Sullivan. If Queenie thought she needed a night in jail, so be it.

“Jesus,” Queenie said, echoing Summer’s frustration. “I had no idea she’d end up at your place. She was over here late this afternoon. Sam told me she smelled alcohol on her breath, but she wasn’t drunk.” It was clear she didn’t want to be dragged into this.

“She’s plastered now and sitting in the back of a police car. Apparently she’s been outside my apartment screaming at me for the last half hour. I was at the movies with Courtney. She must have seen my car and figured I wasn’t answering the door. No wonder my neighbors called the cops.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

Queenie and her wife, Sam Lotti, were probably the only ones who cared enough about Rita to consider the consequences. “I need you to come over here and drive her home. I’ll follow and bring you back.”

“Why can’t you take her?”

Limping along the sidewalk as she paced, Summer held up a finger to let the impatient-looking officer know she’d only be another minute. “You know I can’t be around her when she’s like this. Not anymore. I’ve had it. There’s no point in talking to her. She’s too drunk to be rational. Besides, that’s what she wants—to talk to me—and if she gets it this time, she’ll do it again.”

Queenie groaned, but Summer knew she agreed with her. They all knew Rita too well.

“Man, I wish you guys could work this out. It’s getting to be such a drag.”

Summer decided not to push back on that one. She was well aware how inconvenient it was for their friends to arrange parties and get-togethers, always having to be careful not to invite both of them. The only way they’d ever “work it out” would be for Rita to get professional help. Even then, the best anyone could hope for civility. Their romance was over.

“Look, my only other option is to let the police take her away. I’m okay with that if you are.”

After a string of muttered expletives, Queenie agreed to the deal.

As Summer waited for the officer to escort the stumbling Rita from the patrol car to the passenger seat of her Jeep, she strolled along the sidewalk to get another look at the moving van next door. A woman walked out of the apartment, apparently to retrieve something from her car, a black luxury SUV. From the golden-hued lights in the parking lot, she appeared to be older…Summer’s age, perhaps. Maybe this was her new neighbor, not the youngsters. Either way, it made for a lousy first impression to have a police car in the apartment complex.

The whole episode was embarrassing as hell. Which of her neighbors had called it in? Rita had a foul mouth, especially when she was drinking, so it must have been quite a show.

The woman, only twenty feet away, glanced in her direction to find her staring, and momentarily froze.

“Sorry about this,” Summer said. If only she could add that it wouldn’t happen again. Unfortunately, Rita was too unpredictable to guarantee it.

She returned to the Jeep, where the officer met her with the keys. “Hold onto these, and hide them from her when you get her home. You can call her in the morning and tell her where they are.”

“Wait, you’re not leaving her with me,” she pleaded. “Can’t you wait until my friend gets here?”

He shook his head. “She just threw up in the back of my cruiser. I need to get it cleaned out before it sinks into the upholstery.”