Just Before Sunrise (28 page)

Garvin gave Sarah two choices: stay and find her own way back or come with him. He didn't explain or give her time to decide. She chose to go with him. He told the Linwoods she was tired and they needed to leave. No one argued with him. John seemed relieved to see his sister depart early and only mumbled a polite, awkward farewell. Cynthia was even less congenial, and they were able to get out of there in short order.

Sarah didn't ask what was wrong until they were on their way to Russian Hill. Garvin gave her a brief explanation. She pursed her lips, inhaling through her nose as she digested his words. "Do you think il was Vic?"

Garvin didn't answer. From the tone of her voice, he knew he didn't need to. Who else could have broken into Annie's apartment and smacked her dog on the head but Vic Denardo? He'd admitted to keeping an eye on her. He'd known she could lead him to Sarah.

But what had he expected to find in Annie's apartment? Directions? Annie herself?

Garvin focused on the task at hand and kept his mind from drifting into the swamp of possibilities, questions, fears. Get to Annie's. Help her with Otto. Everything else had to wait.

When they arrived on Russian Hill, he double-parked in front of Annie's building and left Sarah in the car with the engine running.

Annie must have heard him coming and was waiting in the doorway like a ghost. "I called a vet over on Ninth Avenue. She's waiting for us," she said, leading him into her bedroom.

Semiconscious on the floor, Otto looked even more massive. He managed to growl at Garvin. "Don't worry, he's too weak to bite." Annie knelt down at her big dog's head and stroked his chest. "If you can help me lift him—"

But Garvin had already squatted down and was working his hands, gingerly and carefully, under Otto's middle, his fur hot and damp with blood. He had a foul, musky smell. The big dog gave a low growl as Garvin lifted him. Annie, rising with them, continued to stroke Otto's massive neck and tell him he was a good dog.

Dog paws hanging down in front of him, Garvin grunted under the strain of one hundred and twenty pounds of wounded, cranky rottweiler. "He might be good, but he's not light."

"He doesn't weigh much more than I do."

"You," Garvin said, "would be more fun to carry."

Otto growled. Annie smiled weakly. They were, Garvin thought, a pair.

"Have you called the police yet?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I have to take care of Otto first."

She did have her priorities. She held doors for him and negotiated him through doorways and down the walk alongside her building as he breathed in musky dog odor, felt dog blood seeping into his suit.

When they reached the car, Sarah was still perched in the front seat, waiting nervously. Annie climbed in back first, then helped get Otto in on the seat with her, his head in her lap. In the harsh glare of the streetlights, Garvin could see how pale she was, tears shining high on her cheeks, as if none dared dribble down to her chin until she was ready to give in to her fear.

"Annie—" How could he reassure her? He didn't know if Otto would be all right. "Ninth Avenue. I think I know the place."

Her eyes widened on him. "He can't die, Garvin. I should never

"Don't start, Annie," he said gently. "It'll get you nowhere."

Sarah looked around at them both, her face grim and as pale as Annie's. "We should go."

Garvin drove as fast as he dared. At the vet's, he again parked illegally, again left Sarah to fend for herself. Annie had to help him get Otto out of the car, holding up his front half—head, shoulders, and legs—as she slid across the seat. Then Garvin scooped him up and carried him inside. His lower back, his legs, his arms all screamed in protest.

The vet, a strongly built woman in her forties, had him carry Otto to an examining room. "What happened?" she asked briskly.

Annie explained, and Garvin retreated back outside. "I'll drive you home," he told Sarah. "They'll probably know more by the time I get back."

Her vivid eyes fastened on him, determined to see whatever they had to see. "Is there hope?"

He threw the car into reverse, his jaw clenched. "Otto's a big dog. He can probably take a good knock on the head."

"I hope so. Rottweilers were bred to have thick skulls, and with their double layer of fur, it would take a crowbar—"

"Don't, Sarah," Garvin said softly. "Speculating won't get you anywhere."

When they got back up to her house, Garvin insisted on taking a look around for an intruder before he would let Sarah inside. Without protest, she quietly handed him her house keys and remained in the car. The drizzle had turned to a soft rain.

Sarah's house had an eerie feel in the dark, the panorama of lights sweeping out before him not helping. Neither did the canvases, dozens of them. They kept drawing his eye, forcing questions he didn't want to ask. Concentrating on his task, he checked the bedroom, the bathroom, corners. Nothing seemed out of place.

Sarah needed help getting from the car. In spite of her gnarled joints, there was a strength to her that surprised him. But the evening had taken its toll. She moved slowly, with obvious pain, her face gray and perspiration glistening on her upper lip. Once inside, she collapsed into her rattan chair with the chintz cushions.

"If you want, I can stay for a while," Garvin said.

She shook her head. "I'll be fine."

"If you need me—"

"I won't." She focused on him with some effort. "Tell Annie I'm sorry."

"What happened tonight isn't your fault."

She shut her eyes, sank back into her cushions. "Just tell her."

Seeing she wanted to be alone—basically had dismissed him— Garvin nodded and went.

Annie was waiting for him in front of the vet's. She climbed into the front seat almost before he'd come to a stop. Her eyes didn't meet his. "He should be okay," she said. "The vet stitched him up and gave him a shot. She wants to keep him overnight, maybe a little longer." She paused, her lips pressed together. "He was lucky."

Garvin touched her arm. "Annie. Look at me."

It took a few seconds, but when he didn't remove his hand, didn't drive her back to Russian Hill, finally she acquiesced. Her eyes were huge, set against her pale cheeks and the dark smudges under her lashes and at the corners from where her makeup had run. She'd been crying. That was why she hadn't looked at him. She hadn't wanted him to know.

He wiped a tear stain with his thumb. "It's been a hell of a day, Annie. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

His words to Sarah, spoken back to him. Maybe they were all trying to place blame—accept blame—where there was none. Maybe it made them feel a sense of control where they had none.

"I'm okay," she said.

"Why the hell should you be okay? Your apartment was broken into, your dog nearly killed—"

"I don't have any other choice." Her voice was stiff, but not harsh. "I have to be okay. Now I need to call the police. Can we go?"

He leaned over and kissed her gently. "We can go."

Annie agreed to spend the night at Garvin's house. Under the circumstances, it made the most sense. With her bedroom window broken, her apartment wasn't a serious option. Sarah's wasn't an option at all. Without a full explanation, for which Annie was too tired and confused, Zoe's wasn't an option, either. And she didn't even consider a hotel.

She explained all this to Garvin in a clinical fashion as he drove up the winding roads to his house. He listened skeptically, because that was his nature, and with no indication he believed one word she said. But she gave him credit for not telling her she was kidding herself.

Which, of course, she was. She'd agreed to spend the night at his house because she wanted to be with him. It was that simple, and that devastating.

And she suspected he knew the truth.

The minute they arrived at his house, she called the vet from the telephone in the kitchen while Garvin got out a bottle of brandy. The assistant on duty said Otto was sleeping comfortably.

Annie sank into a chair at a round table in the breakfast nook. French doors opened out onto the far end of the deck that spanned the length of the house, the San Francisco skyline lit up across the dark bay. The kitchen was airy and functional, done in a dark wood. Garvin got down two glasses and filled them. He'd pulled off his suit coat and ripped off his tie, but there were stains on his white shirt from where he'd carried Otto.

He brought the brandy to the table, pushed a glass in front of her, and raised his. "To Otto."

Annie's eyes brimmed with tears. "To Otto," she said, and they clinked glasses.

Garvin remained on his feet. The brandy was smooth, just a sip enough to steady the nerves. The house was virtually silent, restful. She tried to let the quiet, the sense of space around her, ease her preoccupation with the events of the day. Images skittered through her mind. Snippets of conversation. Threats. Fears. She kept seeing herself coming upon Otto, thinking he was dead and it was all her fault, and now she was truly alone.

"Crying over a dog." She cleared her throat, sipped more brandy. "Gran would be disgusted."

"Would she be?"

"Gran wasn't one for self-pity, and she had a pragmatic attitude toward animals."

Garvin smiled. "Reminds me of my grandmother on my mother's side. She remembers wringing a chicken's neck in the morning and having him for dinner that evening. She grew up in the country, obviously. But Otto's a pet—"

"He's still a dog."

"You can't form an attachment to a dog?"

"You can, but it's a dog attachment, not a people attachment. Gran wouldn't have me falling apart over a dog getting hit on the head."

"But this is Otto," Garvin said. "He's all you have left of your old life. He's a living, breathing connection to your past."

Annie scowled. "When did you get to be a shrink?"

He was unperturbed. "I've noticed you get gruff whenever I strike a nerve. Drink your brandy."

"I am." She took another sip, having already duly noted it wasn't rotgut brandy. Emotions swirled around her, through her. She made no attempt to sort them out. Having Garvin hovering over her only added to the mix. "I wonder if he saw who hit him."

"Otto?"

"Yes, Otto. He's a very intelligent dog, at least about things like that. If he saw or even smelled who hit him, he'll remember— unless his wound has scrambled his memory."

"Annie, I don't think we need Otto to tell us who hit him."

She shivered, not even the brandy stopping the sudden cool feel of the night air. She set her glass down on the table. Although she hadn't eaten dinner, she wasn't hungry. The vet had made her down a couple of candy bars.

"You think it was Denardo," she said.

It wasn't a question. Garvin had told as much to the police. They'd taken their statements, checked out her apartment, dusted for prints, talked to the upstairs neighbors, who hadn't seen or heard anything, and suggested they would speak to Sarah Linwood first thing in the morning. They weren't resistant to the idea that the break-in was related to the five-year-old Linwood murders, just cautious about signing on. In their view, someone could simply be after a fivethousand-dollar painting whose purchase was highly publicized. Garvin had pointed out the thieves could get a more reliable five grand stealing silver, but the police had an answer for that too. Would-be thieves might not know the painting was worthless, or it could have a certain cachet because of its association with the Linwoods and scandal. They weren't claiming a theory, only that without hard evidence, theoretically anything was possible.

Annie swung up to her feet, feeling just a little dizzy. "If I'm to pick up Otto in the morning before work, I should get to bed. Where's the guest room?"

She could feel Garvin's eyes on her. "Downstairs."

The master bedroom, she'd noted on her first visit, was on the main floor down from the living room, the upper floor of the hillside house. At least downstairs she'd be away from temptation.

"There are two." He leaned against the doorway into the dining room, one long leg bent as he continued to watch her. "Take your pick. The beds in both should be made up."

"Thanks."

"I can walk down with you—"

"No."
She gave him what had to be an unconvincing smile. "I can manage."

Just the tiniest glint of humor came into his eyes, tugged at the corners of his mouth. "As you wish."

She went past him into the dining room and out across the thick carpet to the entry, where she'd dropped the grocery bag she'd thrown a few things into before leaving her apartment. Even with moving west, she hadn't yet replaced her luggage; instead, she'd relied on boxes and trash bags. Hugging the bag to her chest, she started for the stairs. She was aware of the silence, the darkness, the space around her. No cottage on the bay was this; no little semilegal San Francisco apartment. Garvin had followed her out into the living room, his eyes on her. Or maybe they weren't, she thought. Maybe she was getting ahead of herself, thinking he wanted to go down to the guest room with her. Amazing what a glass of brandy and a bad day could do to a woman's mind.

But her attempt at humor fell flat, and she looked around at him. "I appreciate your help, Garvin." She said his name easily now, liked the feel of it. "Thank you for carrying Otto."

"You're welcome."

"It's a nasty business, carrying a wounded rottweiler."

He shrugged. "So long as I came away with all body parts, I'm a happy man."

"Well, it was above and beyond the call of duty."

"No, it wasn't."

Her breath caught, and she nodded. "Well, thank you."

He smiled. "Good night, Annie."

She chose the bedroom directly beneath the living room. It had its own door out to a lower deck, and it was big and airy and spotless—but also impersonal. It had a connect-the-dots feel with its queen-size bed cover made up in natural cotton, the handmade cherry dresser and night table, the brown pottery lamps, as if Garvin hadn't put—couldn't put—himself into his surroundings. A large framed photograph of a sailboat at sunrise hung above an unused stone fireplace. She could have been in a hotel room instead of someone's house. Yet Annie welcomed the sterile comfort of the room. She didn't need reminders of where she was and who was on the floor above her.