Every Move She Makes, page 2
"I'm Dexter Kermgard," he said. "Chief security officer for the lab."
"Dex?" Dex Kermgard, a regular in my father's late night poker games, used to be an officer, before circumstances and opportunity led him to the more lucrative job at Hilliard Pharmaceutical. He gave me a searching look. "Son of a gun. Kate ' Gillespie. How are you?"
"Fine," I said.
"Haven't seen you since-well, forever." Since my brother's funeral. Dex had left SFPD under a cloud about twelve years ago, right after my brother died. He'd killed a man in a narcotics-related offense, and his use of deadly force as well as some missing drug money had been brought under scrutiny. I hear you made Homicide," he said. He reached into his left coat pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He held the pack out in silent offer; I shook my head. "So, how do you like it"'
"Not bad. You remember my partner, Sam Scolari?" Their gazes locked. Dex broke contact to light a cigarette. "We go way back," he said on the exhale. Scolari stared, the vein in his temple pulsing again.
. Although Dex had been absolved of any wrongdoing, his reputation as an officer had suffered-there were still those in the department who believed him guilty. Scolari, apparently, was one of them. For a moment I thought Scolari intended to ignore Dex's outstretched hand.
Finally he gave it a gruff shake.
"You better be taking good care of this girl, here," Dexter said, seemingly unfazed by Scolari's reaction. And then, as if he suddenly realized the significance of our presence, he tensed. "Anything I should be worried about?" "Hopefully not," I said. "At the moment, we can't release any details-but if possible, we would like to get inside the warehouse. Have a look around." After Dexter tossed his cigarette into the gutter, he unlocked the door to let us in. "It's used primarily to store old research files. They're scanned into the computer banks, then boxed up and sent here." Row upon row of metal shelves revealed just what he said. File boxes. Thousands of them. The place smelled of dust, but even so, appeared sterile. Fluorescent lights overhead and the cement floor painted white below made it seem as though we'd stepped into a different world from that on the other side of the wall. We walked down one aisle toward the back, past neatly stacked boxes, each dated and labeled with unpronounceable compounds. I suspected the company gave them those convoluted names to keep the public in the dark as to why one simple prescription for the newest antibiotic could possibly cost twenty-five dollars a pill. Dex gave us a running narrative, probably to avoid direct conversation with Scolari, who was pointedly not making eye contact with him. "I don't know who occupied the place before Hilliard Pharmaceutical," Dex said, looking back at me over his shoulder as he led us to that end of the building, "but I understand it was built in the forties, and was retrofitted in the sixties with cinder block separating this side from the other. The electrical on this side has all been reworked, and is self-contained, if that's what you're wondering. Since we were using it to store files, we had a sprinkler system installed, and the lights put in ..." Personally I found the file boxes more fascinating, especially as I began to recognize a few of the brand names I read on some of the labels. Some had color names. Project Yellow, and Red. Others were more scientific sounding, such as Vir-unex, the plant derivative that was supposedly the promising cure for some cancers.
There must have been three dozen file boxes on this drug alone.
Scolari wandered about, looking for any hint of the power cord. False ceiling panels impeded our visual inspection, and we couldn't tell if the cord made it to this side of the building. I looked around and saw a ladder on wheels. It reminded me of something you'd use to board an airplane with, only on a smaller scale. "How about this?" I asked. I wheeled it toward them, and the cardboard lid of a file box fell to the floor. I picked up the top, but the file box it belonged to, labeled "Project Green," was just out of reach. "I'll put it back later," Dex told me, so I set it against the bottom row of shelves, out of the way.
Scolari climbed to the top platform of the ladder. He lifted a ceiling panel, then shined his flashlight, eventually discovering the power source. "Got a mouse condo sittin' on top of it," he called down. "Looks like it's been here forever." He climbed down while Dex related more of the building's history. Hilliard Pharmaceutical bought the warehouse after the earthquake of '89 damaged their storage facility. They leased out the other half, which had had two tenants since then, most recently an export business-undoubtedly Paolini's front. After Dex locked up, he took my hand in his, shaking it warmly. "It was good to see you again, Kate. Give my regards to your aunt." "I will." Scolari took my spiral notebook from me, scrawling something in it as though taking copious notes of our visit. He managed a curt nod when Dex left, never looking up from the paper. The moment Dex got into his car, Scolari quit writing.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"Don't like the guy. He was a bad cop."
"He was cleared."
"Was he?" With that, Scolari returned my notebook. Without another word, he headed to his car, leaving me to wonder what had crawled under his skin. At the Hall, Scolari and I interviewed the two boys, but learned nothing more than what we were told at the scene. Their parents arrived about twenty minutes later, and we released the kids with a stern warning about trespassing on private property. "Whoever stuck that freezer in there knew that power cord had juice," I said after they left. Scolari didn't answer. He took his mug and poured himself a cup of day-old coffee. I found his quiet as unsettling as the thought that Paolini might be involved in this latest homicide. It was well after eight Pm. Outside, the wind had died, allowing the fog to slip in. I wanted nothing to do with Paolini, except to see him in jail. I'd settled that part of my life. "Let's see if we can get a lead on the last two tenants," I said, "make a connection to the deceased." Scolari grunted something sounding like a response.
He swallowed the sludge he'd poured, then sat to type his daily report.
We were alone in the office, and after finishing my own report, I felt compelled to say something. We'd just viewed a corpse together.
Sometimes we tended to forget how much the dead really affected us. I thought about the car he'd bought.
"What'd you end up getting? For your wife?" I asked, pulling on my coat.
"Range Rover. Dark green. Might as well have bought her a Ford Pinto for all it worked. She told me I should've donated the money to the Save the Rain Forest Foundation. She's gone all environmental these days." He eyed the empty coffeepot. Several seconds of silence were broken when a police siren wailed outside our window, fading in the distance. Finally he said, "She still wants a divorce."
"So what'd you do?"
"Gave her the damn key and left." He didn't look at me. Didn't even move. There wasn't much I could say or offer. I didn't know him well enough. I gathered the report from the printer, put it in the lieutenant's in-basket, then headed for the door. "See you tomorrow," I said.
"Yeah." He was still staring at the coffeepot when I left for home.
The fog was heavy, even in Berkeley, where I lived. I loved the Berkeley hills, the trees, the vine-covered houses, the deer that wandered down from the eucalyptus groves and the valley beyond. I rented a small apartment with a minuscule view of the bay, if I stood just so to the left of my bedroom window. It was situated on the second story of a house built in the 1920s, accessed by a mossy brick walk along the north side that led to stairs at the rear. It was set on the hillside, so the backyard was nearly nonexistent, filled with ivy and trees, giving an illusion of privacy from the houses on each side and directly below.
Tonight there was no view as I looked out my window. Muffled wet gray obscured all traces of life on earth, and I thought of my partner, and how I'd left him there, alone, watching the coffeepot. I'd assisted in suicide cases while working on the Hostage Negotiation Team. I don't know why I hadn't seen it earlier, but Scolari had that same lost look, his voice devoid of all emotion. I called his desk, his cell phone, and the apartment he'd been staying at ever since his wife kicked him out.
No answer. I left messages on his voice mail and his answering machine, telling him to contact me the moment he came in. Finally I paged him, typing "URGENT" at the end of my computer message to call me immediately at home. I slept fitfully that night, dreaming of Scolari holding a gun to his mouth. The vision of a bloodied corpse was so vivid that I awoke with a start. My alarm clock went off simultaneously, five-thirty, and I had no idea if it was the alarm or my dream that had sent my heart drilling through my chest. I pictured the headline: SFPD HOMICIDE
INSPECTOR COMMITS SUICIDE, and knew I couldn't leave for Napa until I assured myself that Scolari was okay. I showered, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and headed back to the city. I should have stuck around the office last night, talked to him. Halfway there, I realized I'd forgotten to let Reid know I wasn't coming. I dialed my car phone and called his cellular. "Bettencourt," he answered. I heard a woman's voice in the background, thought it sounded familiar.
"Are you with someone?"
"Yeah, room service and the morning news. Where are you?" "Still in the city. Something came up. Sorry I didn't make it there last night, but I'm going to have to cancel. Do me a favor. Let the hotel know, so I won't have to pay for tonight's room." There was a hesitation. "Yeah,"
he said tersely. "Don't worry about it. I know these things happen. I'll see you Monday." Surprised by his mature response, despite the tone that said he was annoyed, I was glad he wasn't going to wait around. It gave me the freedom to check up on Scolari without feeling guilty for standing Reid up. At Scolari's apartment, the Saturday newspaper was on his front step. When he didn't answer his door, I got the manager to let me in. "Sam?" I called, tossing the newspaper onto his couch. His apartment was in the redlight district-so much for him being on the wagon-and wherever I looked, there were empty beer bottles and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. On the TV, on the coffee table next to a half-eaten dinner of fried chicken, on the kitchen counter next to a sink full of dirty dishes, in the bathroom on the edge of the mildewed tub, and on a nightstand next to his rumpled bed. My heart thudded when I saw the lump on the floor beneath the comforter.
I must have stared at it for several seconds before finally lifting it, certain I'd find Scolari, thankful to see it was only pillows, no body. I scrawled out a note, taped it to his TV, then locked the door after me, fully intending to give him hell for drinking again.
After I left there, I checked a few of the bars he used to frequent before he gave up drinking. I fully expected to find him at Murphy's Law, despite that it was only midmorning. The bartender, named Murphy, was an ex-cop; the patrons, for the most part, current cops. On the wall of the dimly lit bar was a poster listing the various things that could run amok according to the proverbial Murphy's Law. Years ago some officer whose investigation had gotten screwed up had scrawled one of his own right on the wall below the poster. "If your case hinges on a pertinent piece of evidence, you can guarantee that the property clerk will lose it when you're due to testify in court." Apparently the clerk in question had written one of his own below that. "If Property can't find the evidence, you can guarantee the officer booked it under the wrong case number." The tradition continued, and there were at least thirty or more additions, all pertaining to "what could go wrong, will go wrong" in police work. No one at the bar, however, had seen Scolari.
I was at a dead end, and didn't know where to turn. Scolari didn't call that night or Sunday either, and Monday, I was definitely worried when I came to work. Gypsy, the division secretary, looked up from her typing long enough to hand me a manila folder on a new case. In her mid-forties, she was tall, redheaded, and had a figure more lethal than the weapons we carried. She was the real boss, regardless of our supervisor's tide. "Scolati called in sick, so the lieutenant wants you to get back on the Slasher cases ASAP." After my weekend from hell, I wasn't sure what to think about her news, delivered so matter-of-factly.
File in hand, I wandered to my desk and sat down. My phone rang. I answered it, thinking more about Scolari than who was on the other end.
"You're dead, Gillespie." I sat upright at the muffled voice. "Who is this?"
"Testify, and you're dead."
"Testify to what?" I asked, even though I knew. I wanted to keep him talking, hoped to hear something that would tell me who was making the call, or where it was made from. "Hello?" I prodded. There was merely silence. I hung up, wondering if it was a coincidence that the threats had started up again, now that I was involved in et another case with a connection to Paolini. He stood to lose a lot when his drug case came up for appeal; namely, three million dollars in assets that were seized along with several pounds of cocaine taken from his Nob Hill home in a search. He blamed me directly because I had posed as the sister of a man, a fellow Narcotics officer, interested in buying a large quantity of cocaine. We'd clicked, Paolini and I. I'd been able to slip past his defenses and gain his trust. I phoned the DA's office to let them know of this latest threat. They had their own investigators working the case-my ex was one of them-but I knew better than to expect miracles. Forcing the matter to the back of my mind, I opened the file folder. I read the report Gypsy gave me, a basic drunk-in-public arrest, wondering how it had found its way to Homicide, until I read the drunk's statement to the officer. He said he'd witnessed a murder of a woman about a year ago, but couldn't remember where the body was. The MO he'd described matched that of five other female murder victims-all were found with their throats slashed. The press had dubbed the suspect the Soma Slasher, because the murders occurred in the Soma district, short for South of Market Street. The victims were all brunettes, but their common link seemed to stop there. The), ran the gamut from businesswoman to housewife, and even included a prostitute I'd known during my days in Vice. I interviewed my alleged witness when he came out of the drunk tank, but his memory was even worse now that his blood alcohol content was reaching normal levels. More important, the victim he described, if there was one-his facts became more skewed the longer we spoke happened to be blond. "I-want him loose," I told the jailer. There was nothing more he could offer. In the meantime I decided to stop by Scolari's apartment again. If he was sick, he wasn't staying at home. My note was still taped to his TV. I returned to work, spoke with our boss, Lieutenant Harry Andrews. Andrews, a former college quarterback, had opted for a career in law enforcement instead of pro football. There were those who said he had been promoted because he was black. After working for him, I knew otherwise. I told him about my fears and the unusual condition of Scolari's apartment. "This is beyond falling off the wagon," I finished.
"I agree," he said. "Do you know where else he might be?"
"No, Sir." "I'll look into it, Gillespie." I left, knowing he would do his best, but still I worried about Scolari committing suicide.
I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe I should have done more, sooner.
On Tuesday morning Scolari again called in sick. The Osecretary assured me she had spoken to him personally, so I convinced myself that any thoughts of him committing suicide were strictly in my mind, not his.
With Scolari gone, however, I was the one who had to pick up the evidence from our frozen homicide victim's autopsy at the morgue, located directly behind the Hall of justice. I half suspected Scolari had called in sick to avoid running into his wife. Not only was Dr.
Patricia Mead-Scolari present, but she was doing the autopsy herself.
She was a handsome woman in her fifties with short gray hair. Her commanding presence had nothing to do with the way she wielded the Stryker saw to cut into the chest cavity of my latest John Doe, or the Ice Man, as I'd dubbed him. Send me to any murder scene, I'm usually fine as long as the body is fresh. Autopsies are a different story. I hate the morgue, the refrigerated stench of death that can't be masked by any amount of antiseptic deodorizers. The smell lingers in the crevices of the drain and grout in the tiled floor, in the green paint on the walls, in the chilled air of the refrigerated drawers that store the bodies, even on the stainless steel of the gurneys and white porcelain of the autopsy tables. The memory of those smells assaulted my nostrils for hours after I left, even more so than the visual impact of watching the autopsies themselves-whicii, thanks to Cal-OSHA, California's Occupational Safety and Health Administration watchdogs, we rarely had to do anymore because of all the protective gear they require us to wear. "'which is why I stayed in the doorway. I didn't want to put on a respirator, another Cal-OSHA requirement. I merely wanted to collect my evidence. "Have you heard from Sam?" I asked the doctor. "I hear he's been pretty sick." She barely paused in her examination of the victim's heart and lungs, making notes as to their size, weight, and condition to her assistant, a short, wiry man with curly red hair, who wrote down everything even though a tape recorder also picked up the doctor's observations. She rattled off a few more details for her report, finished examining the remainder of the victim's organs before cutting into his skullcap. She finally answered over the whir of the saw, but I couldn't hear. "What?" I called out precisely at the moment the saw shut off. My question echoed across the room. "I said we're supposed to meet at seven tonight for dinner. Finalize things." This was uttered with the same matter-of-factness with which she peeled away the scalp and face from the victim's skull. She adjusted her protective goggles with the back of her hand and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her green surgeon's jacket before turning her attention back to the macabre procedure of removing his brain. Thawed out, the Ice Man seemed to be a normal looking Caucasian subject, unremarkable in appearance for some slight freezer burn, a now misplaced face, and the fact he was lying naked on a porcelain table that reminded me of a three-inch-deep bathtub. They say dead men tell no tales. Perhaps not to the ordinary person, but the doctor could coax a story out of any corpse. She was as much a detective when it comes to dead bodies as we are when it comes to crime scenes. While she was busy weighing the Ice Man's gray matter, I turned my attention to the items found on his person once he had been brought to a normal level of refrigeration. His tan slacks, light blue shirt, and brown oxfords no coat, no wallet) were marked and ready to be booked into evidence. There was also a wide gold wedding band in a clear plastic bag, along with something else. Seven very small brownish-green seeds. "What are these from?" I asked, holding up the bag. "Look here,"
