Murder on Potrero Hill (18 page)

Peyton reached out and touched the textured leather. “Beautiful bag, Mrs. Harper,” she said.

“Please leave, Officer Brooks,” said the woman, coming up behind her.

Peyton followed Marco onto the porch just as the door slammed behind them.

Marco arched a brow. “That went well.”

“It did indeed. For my part, I learned a little Spanish and some English I wasn’t aware of.”

“If we stay around much more, I’m sure you’ll learn a host of words you’ve never heard before.”

Peyton laughed, but a motion in the corner of the drive caught her eye. “Wait for me at the car,” she said, passing him the keys.

He nodded and went down the walk. Peyton descended the stairs and crossed the drive to a little fenced-in area, housing the garbage cans.

Juanita was hiding between them. “Please no, I have papers. I show you.”

Peyton halted. “I’m not with the INS. I’m with the San Francisco Police Department.” She glanced up at the house, but she didn’t see anyone in the windows. “I’m here about Zoë Ryder.”

The little woman nodded, quickly.

“Tell me, Juanita. Is Brandon here a lot?”

“
Sí. A lot.” She kept looking at the house. “No quiero hablar, por favor.”

“Okay,” said Peyton. She reached for another business card. “If you do decide you want to talk, here’s my number.”

The maid took the card.

Peyton started to walk away, but shifted back around. “What work does Brandon do around here?”

Juanita’s eyes rose to the upper story windows and then she looked down, hunching her shoulders.

Peyton followed her gaze. “What’s up there, Juanita? On the second floor?”

“Dormitorios.”

Bedrooms.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

*   *   *

Peyton lifted the beer and took a sip. The pounding of the bass from the sound system on the dance floor echoed in her skull, but she tried to tune it out. Marco lounged in the booth across from her. Every so often a young, scantily clad woman would stroll past, giving him
a once-over and a smile. He returned each one with a lazy wink.

“You got something in your eye,” said Peyton, pointing with the neck of her beer bottle.

He laughed and peeled away part of the label on his own beer. “Jealous, Brooks. You’ve got to do something about that.”

Abe slid into the booth, carefully setting a frothy pink drink on the table.

Peyton and Marco both frowned at it.

“What the hell is that?” Marco asked.

“This is a Flaming Pink Flamingo.”

Marco opened his mouth, but didn’t respond.

“Flaming is right,” said Peyton.

Abe gave her a saucy smile and sipped at his pink concoction.

“What’s in it?” asked Marco with a skeptical look.

“Vodka, triple sec, and grenadine, Marco, my sweet. Want a sip?”

Marco shook his head. “I’ll pass.” He picked up his beer and took another sip.

“What makes it foam?” asked Peyton.

Marco gave her a horrified look and a massive smile bloomed across Abe’s face. Before he could respond, Peyton leaned forward and clasped his hand.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, closing her eyes briefly. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked.”

Abe chuckled and took another pull on his straw. His gaze swiveled back to Marco. “I see you’re getting all kinds of attention, my Angel’D.”

Marco gave a careless shrug.

Abe shifted back to Peyton. “The music is right awful, you know?”

“I know.”

“I know a great bar on Castro…”

“Oh, no,” said Marco, leaning forward. “No bars on Castro.”

Abe giggled and sipped at his drink some more. “So tell me. How’s the Potrero Hill case going?”

Peyton slumped against the cracked red upholstery of the booth. “No motive, no weapon, and now no suspect.”

Abe gave her an elegant frown. “No suspect? I thought it was the husband.”

“It’s still the husband, but he’s on the lam now.”

“Oh,” said Abe, his brows climbing nearly to his hairline. “That’s not good.”

“No, not good at all.”

“Defino know?” asked Abe, glancing between the two of them.

“She knows,” answered Marco, tearing at his label again.

“Has Dwight Boyd talked to you, Abe?” wondered Peyton.

“My boss?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

Abe shrugged his shoulders, making his dreads bounce. “He mentioned how he’d like to put this one away, so we can release the body.”

“Mentioned? As in strongly?” asked Peyton.

“As in, we need this to be over, so we can release the body before the mayor calls.”

“That’s pretty much what Devan said too,” remarked Peyton.

Abe leaned forward, holding his drink in both hands. “So dish about the dreamy D.A.” He cast a glance at Marco. “Don’t worry, Angel baby, D.A. Dreamy is apparently taken.”

“I’m so relieved,” said Marco with an ironic smile.

“There’s nothing to dish.”

“How can there be nothing to dish? He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in San Francisco…who is straight, that is, and he’s all kinds of things we like – handsome, rich, powerful, rich.”

Peyton laughed. “He’s a great guy.”

Abe gave Marco a theatrical look. “A great guy? Aphrodite smite this one, she needs some serious help. You don’t lead off a dish with he’s a great guy, Peyton. Tell me how the sex was.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on!” said Marco, lifting his hands. “I do not want to hear this.”

Peyton picked up her beer and pressed it to her lips, laughing at Marco’s reaction.

Abe slid his Flaming Pink Flamingo over to him with one long finger. “Drink this and loosen up, Angel, our little girl has a boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” both Peyton and Marco said at the same time.

*   *   *

Jake woke the next morning disoriented and confused. The room with its 70s décor didn’t seem familiar until his thoughts came into focus. He rolled to a sitting position and braced his head in his hands. He couldn’t keep staying in flea bag motels like this. Even this one had cost him more than he could afford, although they’d accepted his cash without demanding a name. Sort of explained the kind of clientele they usually got.

He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the bathroom, turning on the shower. While he waited for the water to heat, he leaned on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and a week of no shaving had left a sorry, patchy beard on his jaw. He scratched it and wished he’d remembered to pack a razor.

Reaching for the toothbrush, he brushed his teeth, then climbed in the shower. The hot water felt so good, he lingered until it began to get cold. So much for cheap motels. Climbing out, he toweled off, then changed into his only other clean clothes.

He repacked his backpack, then hesitated, staring at Zoë’s journal where it lay on his nightstand. Picking it up, he shoved it in the backpack and walked to the door. Pulling it open, he stared out at the parking lot, watching traffic buzz by on the street.

He didn’t see a Crown Victoria waiting for him, so he shouldered the backpack and began walking down Geary toward the ocean. He found a fifties themed diner and went inside.

“Take a seat anywhere, baby,” said the waitress, a woman in her early fifties.

He picked a table by the window, so he could watch the street, and settled the backpack by his feet. She came over carrying a menu and a coffee pot. Reaching for the mug on the table, she turned it over and filled it.

“Long night?” she commented, giving him a look over her glasses.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for the mug. The steam bathed his face as he took a sip. Motor oil might have more flavor, but it was hot and caffeinated.

She moved away to another customer as Jake opened the menu. Last night he’d fallen asleep almost immediately, but he’d had nightmares the entire time. Not Zoë in the ambulance. This time it was his own nightmares of climbing fences and running down alleyways, constantly looking over his shoulder.

He chose something off the menu and closed it, picking up his mug again. He sipped at the coffee until she returned.

“What’ll it be, baby?”

“I’ll have a Denver omelet with the country fries.”

“Sour dough or wheat toast.”

“Sour dough.”

She bustled away. Jake glanced around the restaurant, but except for an older man at the counter and a middle aged couple in a booth, he was alone. He reached for the backpack and unzipped it, pulling out Zoë’s journal.

Taking another sip of coffee to brace himself, he opened it to the point where he was last night.

November 16
th

Received another letter from Mr. Goldman about my father’s request. He wants me to come see him, says he has important information to give me. I don’t know why this is so hard for me. Why can’t I just make a decision?

Because my father isn’t dead yet and I can’t stand the thought of hearing his final wishes when I know he’s still alive. I asked Mom if she’d heard from Mr. Goldman, but she said she hadn’t. She acted so surprised that he would contact me instead of her.

Jake and I are to the point where we don’t discuss my father at all. I’m dreading this time of year more than I can tell you. Thanksgiving is a week away, then Christmas, but my father won’t be here to celebrate with us.

December 20
th

Jake wants to go away for Christmas. He says he wants to get my thoughts off my father, but I can’t stand the thought of leaving. What if he dies while I’m gone? I would never forgive myself, except what if this is the only way to preserve my marriage?

I feel like I’m growing away from Jake. There’s so much I want to say to him, but I can’t. He doesn’t understand why I’m so upset. I know he thinks I’m insensitive. He lost both of his parents and he dealt with it.

I don’t know why, but I’ve always been closer to my father. And now Mom is acting strange. It’s not like she and I have ever been able to talk, but whenever I try to broach certain topics, she flies into a rage. It’s like all of the most important relationships around me are disintegrating and I can’t stop it.

The waitress appeared and set Jake’s plate in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said, distracted.

She filled his coffee again. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few.”

He nodded, reaching for his napkin and a fork. He began shoveling the food in as he continued reading Zoë’s journal. He’d had no idea how isolated she’d felt and he couldn’t help the guilt that washed over him whenever he read about it. What an ass he’d been.

January 3
rd

I received a call from Mr. Goldman today. He said he had a horrible time finding my number, but he’d finally tracked me down. I apologized for not responding sooner and tried to explain to him why I hadn’t answered his letters. He said it was important I come in and see the information my father left me.

He mentioned that Dad had changed his will about a week before he had his stroke and I needed to know what was in it. He said he couldn’t talk about it over the phone, it was too important. Why would Dad change his will?

Mr. Goldman wouldn’t give me any more information, just urged me to come down. When I told him I really couldn’t stand the thought of seeing my father’s will before he was dead, he said something really strange. He said I needed to look at my birth certificate and then I might be willing to come see him.

My birth certificate? I’ve gone through all of my papers and I realize I don’t have a copy of it. I have a passport, which I’ve used from the time I can remember, but I don’t remember if I’ve ever seen a copy of my birth certificate.

Jake flipped the page, but it was blank. He flipped a few more and still nothing. She had just stopped writing. He lowered the journal and sat staring at its red cover. Why hadn’t she written anymore? Why hadn’t she continued to chronicle the most important part of this experience?

He pushed the rest of his breakfast away and ran a hand over the beard on his chin. What could be wrong with her birth certificate?

“All done?” said the waitress, reaching for his plate.

He nodded without looking at her.

She set the check in front of him. “More coffee?”

He glanced up. “Yes, please.” He needed a little more time to think.

She filled his mug. “I’ll take that when you’re ready.”