Murder on Potrero Hill (21 page)

Walking back to the door, he pulled it open, then double checked the backpack to make sure it was wedged securely. Climbing down the stairs to the entrance of the third floor, he curled his fingers in the fire alarm handle and took a deep breath.
Please let this work
, he prayed. Then before he could think better of it, he pulled the handle.

The cacophony of the alarm made him jump and he covered his ears with his hands. When he heard the first doors open on the third floor, he ran up the stairs and huddled in the doorway, straddling his backpack.

People’s voices and the clomp of heels on the cement stairs marked their exit. He crouched where he was until he could hear them no more. It seemed to take forever with the shrieking of the alarm in his head and the pounding of his heart beneath his ribs, but finally he felt it was safe.

He knew he had a narrow window between their exit and the arrival of the fire department, so he ran down the stairs, gripping the handrail, and skidded on the cement as he landed on the second floor. He bumped his shoulder on the door as he turned the corner and raced for Goldman’s office. For a moment, he panicked that she would have locked the door, but it opened at the turn of the knob and he sprinted around her desk, searching the drawers for an indication of which one.

Grabbing the fourth drawer, he pulled it open, then began thumbing through the files at the front of the drawer for
Harper
. A new sound infiltrated his awareness. The sound of a siren. He searched faster and his fingers stumbled upon
Harper
, just as the fire engine pulled up before the building with a hiss of brakes.

He pulled the file out, clutched it against his chest, and kicked the drawer closed, then ran for the office door. He bolted for the stairs and raced up them, slamming into the roof door with his bruised shoulder and snatching his backpack as he jumped through.

He chose the furthest exhaust pipe and dropped behind it, hoping he couldn’t be seen from the doorway. Leaning his head back, he panted to regain his breath, fighting a hysterical laugh. Reaching up, he rubbed his bruised shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Holy crap, he’d done it. He had the file. Now he needed to wait until the firefighters left and the workers returned to their offices. Then he’d go back down the stairs as if he belonged there and onto the street.

Feeling his heart slow, he released his death grip on the file and laid it on his thighs, then he reached for the front cover.  The first document that greeted him read Divorce Application across the top. It was signed by Blake Harper and dated a week before he had his stroke. The second document was his will. Jake stared at it in amazement. It had been drafted two days before the stroke.

*   *   *

Peyton opened the door to Captain Defino’s office and stepped out into the squad room. Marco followed behind her, closing the door at his back. They didn’t talk as they began weaving their way through the desks.

The captain had made it clear. They had twenty-four hours to bring Ryder in or she was turning the case over to another set of inspectors. Claire Harper’s influence was far and wide. Even the mayor had put in a call on her behalf.

Peyton hated that part of police work. She hated the politics. No matter how much she might wish differently, there were citizens and then there were Citizens with a capital C. Claire Harper was a Citizen of the first order.

She came to a halt, giving Abe a pointed look. He sat in Marco’s chair, his feet propped on Marco’s desk, his long-fingered hands clasped on his belly. “Please tell me you’ve got something interesting,” she said.

Abe waggled his brows at her. “You are looking fine today,” he drawled.

“I know you aren’t talking to me,” she answered, sliding into her chair.

Marco stopped beside her desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nope, talking to that cool dish of Gelato next to you.”

“Did you get the files?” asked Marco with a scowl.

Abe dropped his feet to the floor. “You think I’d leave the sanctity of my lair if I hadn’t gotten them. Well, maybe to flirt with you, my
Angel’D.”

“Lair is right,” said Marco, quirking a brow.

Abe laughed.

Peyton flattened a palm on the desk. “Please, please tell me you have something. We’re running out of time.”

Abe gave her a slow smile. “Have I ever let you down, my soul sista?”

Peyton shook her head. “Not even once. What do you have?”

“So very much. Let’s start with Blake Harper. Medical records show that Blake has been suffering from exceptionally high blood pressure for many years. He was on medication for it; however, suddenly in September, he collapses at home. His wife calls an ambulance and describes the symptoms. Based on symptomology and his medical history, paramedics assume stroke and begin the appropriate course of action. Dr. Harper is given warfarin to mitigate the damage of the stroke, but he doesn’t respond and presents at the hospital with severe intracranial bleeding, presumed to be from a blocked artery that ruptured. He never regains consciousness. You know the rest.”

Peyton curled her hand into a fist, but she didn’t want to interrupt Abe.

“Now let’s talk about patient number 2. Annabelle Harper was twenty-three when she became pregnant with her first child. The pregnancy was completely normal, not even one mention of elevated blood pressure. She went into labor a week after her delivery date and although long, the birth was completely uneventful. A perfectly natural vaginal delivery of a baby girl, which she named Zoë. Mother and daughter were both given clean bills of health.”

“But she died two days later?”

“I’m getting to that. Because she was the wife of a prominent and well-respected surgeon, she wasn’t rushed out of the hospital as quickly as most women are. A day after delivery, she complained of stomach pain and a headache. They took her blood pressure and found it was a bit low. They assumed it was due to blood loss during the delivery and started her on a rigorous course of iron, but a day later she was dead.”

“From what?” asked
Marco.

Abe twirled one of his dreads. “A ruptured aneurysm. The cause of death was listed as complications of pregnancy, the grieving husband declined an autopsy, and Annabelle Harper was cremated before her daughter even left the hospital.”

“Wait. A ruptured aneurysm?” Peyton narrowed her eyes. “Tell me they did a blood test when she first complained of being sick?”

Abe shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s not indicated on the file. They assumed it was anemia and that’s the course of treatment they began.”

“How did they get around the autopsy?”

“Because Blake Harper was a surgeon. I’m guessing she had the baby in his hospital,” answered Marco.

“Smart and beautiful,” said Abe, giving him a wink.

Peyton rubbed her eyes with her fists. “Doesn’t it seem like there are an awful lot of coincidences in these deaths?”

“Genetic weakness,” said Abe with a shrug.

Peyton lowered her hands. “Genetic weakness? Was Annabelle Harper related to Blake somehow?”

“Likely not.”

“Then how genetic weakness?”

“Playing the devil’s advocate.”

Peyton gave him a severe look. “My dad always said there are no coincidences.”

“A lot of dads say that,” remarked Marco. “Especially when you try to explain why the car has a new dent after you’ve driven it.”

Abe held out his hands, palms up, then he rose to his feet and leaned on the desk, his dreads swinging forward. “Want to know something else interesting?”

Peyton met his mischievous look. “I’m thinking I
really
do.”

“Oh, you
really, really
do. Guess who was Annabelle Harper’s attending nurse?”

Peyton leaned back in her chair. “I’ll bet I don’t have to guess.”

“I’ll bet you don’t either.” He rose to his full height and gave Marco a lurid stare, then walked away, waving over his shoulder at them.

Peyton swiveled toward her partner, but just as she was going to speak, her phone rang.

*   *   *

Jake stepped over the legs of a homeless man, stretched out on the sidewalk, and entered the bar on 7
th
Street. It was close to a BART station and multiple light rail stops. The place was crowded and the pounding bass vibrated in his head. A number of scantily clad bodies writhed and bumped against each other on the dance floor.

He pushed through the gyrating couples and approached the bar. A mirror over the counter allowed him to see back to the door. He settled on a stool and pulled the backpack around in front of him. A trio of young college age girls sat next to him, leaning close and laughing at the people dancing. The one next to him was a bottle blond with a skirt that barely covered her ass and a camisole that showed off an impressive display of cleavage.

The bartender came over and placed a napkin in front of Jake. He wore a silk collared shirt that was unbuttoned down to his navel. Tattoos lined his arms like sleeves. He had spiky blond hair and multiple piercings all over his face.

Jake sighed, looking at him. Somehow time had passed him by. He wasn’t a lot older than the bartender, but he felt it.

“What can I get ya?”

“Beer,” said Jake, reaching for his wallet.

“Draft.”

Jake eyed the glasses on either side of him as the pulsing red and yellow lights strobed in the mirror behind the bar. “Bottle. Whatever’s
cold.”

The bartender nodded and walked down the counter. Jake swiveled on his stool and watched the dancers for a moment, then he tried to hear what the girls next to him were saying. He didn’t feel like talking, but he couldn’t believe how isolated he was feeling.

He’d never been much for bars, but tonight he needed people around him. He was becoming afraid of his own thoughts. The few hours of sleep he’d snatched didn’t help. His dreams were so frantic and alarming, he hated to succumb to them.

The bartender plunked the beer down in front of him and Jake reached for his wallet. The money inside was going rapidly. He couldn’t afford to pay for another motel, even one as bad as last night’s, so he was hoping he could steal a few hours of sleep, riding around on BART tonight before anyone noticed.

He paid for the beer and lifted it, taking a long drink. It tasted so good, he closed his eyes and savored it. Turning back to the bar, he fingered a gouge in the wood and tried to decide what he should do next. He needed to get Goldman’s file to Peyton. He wasn’t sure how Blake’s will worked in the greater scheme of things, but she might. She wasn’t operating on little sleep, scraps of food, and paranoia the way he was. She might be better able to see the whole picture, something that was eluding him.

He took another swallow of beer, momentarily distracted by the opening of the door. He watched the latest group arrive, five young men with baggy pants and hooded sweatshirts. They immediately moved toward the stairs that Jake assumed led to a basement dance floor. He dismissed them and drank his beer.

Next to him, the blond reached into her purse for her phone. It was fluorescent pink with a large screen that flashed with a text message. She spent a few seconds typing into the phone and giggling with her friends. They all shot him a look, rolled their eyes, and huddled together to snicker. Jake looked away, finishing off his beer.

The bartender moved over to him. “Want another?”

Jake shook his head. “No thanks.”

With a shrug, he shifted to the next customer.

A man and two women took the seats on Jake’s right. It was so crowded at the bar that the man’s shoulder bumped into Jake. Jake moved his stool closer to the blond girl. She gave him an arch look and went back to tapping into her phone.

Jake ran a hand over his face and came to the conclusion that this was a bad idea. The people in this bar were out for a good time tonight. They were engaged in frivolities, while he was fighting for his life. He didn’t belong here. The door opened and he looked up again, watching a couple stumble through, groping each other. Beside him the blond set her phone down on the bar.

Jake’s attention snapped to it as the girl turned her back and started pointing out people on the dance floor to her two friends. Jake leaned forward and marked where the bartender was. He’d moved to the end of the counter to blend some drinks. The trio on his right were huddled close, trying to have a conversation over the pounding of the bass.

Jake pushed his stool back. Casually, he laid his hand over the phone and rose, leaning on the bar as he did so. Curling his fingers around the boxy device, he slid it into his pocket and stepped away from the bar. He felt as if all eyes were watching him as he crossed the dance floor and headed toward the door, but no one even marked his passage.

He weaved between the people and pressed the lever in the door, shoving it open. Then he was outside in the fog and the night, stepping over the same homeless man as he made his way to the Civic Center BART Station.