Courting Disaster (2 page)

His waiter berated a woman who sat on a rough-hewn, backless wooden bench at the water's edge. His face was hard, his expression in
tense, and she was shaking her head, not looking at him, but staring out at the water as if it hurt to hear his words. Her feet were propped up on a railroad tie. A hooded rain parka, the cheap kind that was basically a sheet of heavy green plastic worn by slipping it over the head, covered her hair. The way she sat scrunched on the bench, the parka draped her body like a tent.

The waiter bent close, grabbed her shoulder, and said something straight into her face. She turned her head away from him and the hood slipped down. The waiter then straightened and strode away. She reached out her hand toward him, but he didn't turn back. She raised her chin, apparently struggling to hold her emotions in check.

She wasn't a beautiful woman. In truth, she seemed a bit plain, but something about her held Stan's gaze. Loose wisps of dark brown hair blew about her face. Her skin was pale and flawless, her nose high and rather long, almost Roman.

She must have sensed him staring at her, for she turned his way. She wore no makeup, making the contrast between her fair skin and dark eyes even starker. Her eyes were large, with nearly black brows winged at the temples. As she gazed at him curiously, what captivated him most were her high cheekbones and full, lush mouth.

Being caught staring, he had a choice of either brazening it out or averting his eyes from her altogether. For some reason, he didn't want to turn away, and so he grinned, giving a little shrug and lift of his eyebrows as if to say,
Okay, you caught me—a guy looking at a woman. So shoot me already.

She gave a small tremulous smile in return, then looked away.

How had he thought she wasn't beautiful? When she smiled, rather shyly it seemed, her face brightened. A long strand of hair blew across her mouth, and she brushed it back from her face.

She wants to be alone,
he thought. As much as he would have liked to say something to her, he couldn't bring himself to speak.

He headed toward the main street. He'd taken less than a dozen steps when he stopped. How much of an idiot was he? She was obviously hurting. That obnoxious waiter had been rotten to her about something, poor woman, upsetting her terribly, yet when she saw Stan, she'd smiled. Shouldn't he at least try to talk to her? Offer help? Consolation? Maybe he could cheer her up a bit.

He should give her a friendly hello and see how she responded. If she ignored him, okay, he'd understand. If she answered, who knew where it might lead?

With that thought, he hurried back to the wharf.

The bench was empty.

On sunny days, sunbathers and swimmers filled Aquatic Park, a public area with a broad lawn, concrete bleachers, and a small beach on the north shore near Fisherman's Wharf. On cold, windy, fog-filled days like this one, people strolled along that beach or walked out onto Municipal Pier, which circled and protected the shoreline, or simply sat on the bleachers watching the curious mix of humanity that made up the city. Always it seemed, day and night, the area attracted those seeking rest and relaxation.

But not today.

Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the beach. A crowd had gathered to watch the police at work. They all knew what had happened. Something like that couldn't be kept a secret in this busy part of the city, and especially not when the person who made the discovery stood in the middle of the crowd and talked about it, repeating his story over and over to newcomers as they approached to check out the commotion.

The bushy-haired, big-bellied fellow told how
he swam each morning in the cold salt water, convinced of its beneficial effects on the circulation, spiritual well-being, and blood cholesterol. He'd been standing in the water at mid-chest level when he saw something with a pinkish gray cast on the beach under the pier closest to Fisherman's Wharf. The tide was low and when the water ebbed, he could see the object clearly.

It was fairly large. At first he feared it was a shark, but he soon realized it was no fish—it had limbs. Curious, he waded toward it. As he neared, he told himself it was a mannequin, a department store dummy. Soon, though, he had to accept that it wasn't a mannequin at all, but a human. A male. And he looked very dead.

The man let out a small shriek. He knew he needed to contact the police. First, though, he pulled the body farther up onto the beach, afraid a big wave might come along, catch it in the under-tow, and suck it out to sea. He described to the mesmerized listeners how the shirt, shoes, and socks were gone—probably sucked off by the churning waves, how white and jellylike the skin appeared, and how distended the stomach.

In fact, he expounded on this with more authority than any coroner San Francisco Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield had ever heard. She tried to ignore the know-it-all, but couldn't. The loud, authoritative voice kept breaking her concentration.

Rebecca was in her thirties, single, and so physically fit most of the other Homicide inspectors looked weak and flaccid in comparison. She wore black slacks and a black-leather jacket over a cream-colored turtleneck. Her shoulder bag had a
special compartment where she kept her service revolver secure under a Velcro band, but easy to pull out if needed. She wore little makeup and her shoulder-length blond hair was held back in a barrette at the nape of her neck. She managed to look competent and professional—although that may have been as much because of the square-shouldered, long-legged way she walked and her take-charge, brook-no-nonsense demeanor than anything else.

She was the only female Homicide inspector on the force.

Her irritation grew as speculation about the death bounced back and forth between members of the crowd. One person opined that a shark had killed the victim. Since more and more sharks were spotted in the ocean off San Francisco Bay, why not inside the bay as well? Another said it was the work of the devil.

Rebecca caught the eye of her partner, Bill Never-Take-a-Chance Sutter, on the road to retirement and more interested in the scenery along the way than in any of their cases. As a result, Rebecca handled on her own just about everything the “team” got. Loyal, she defended her partner even though she'd love to wring his lazy neck.

She was sure he'd immediately come along with her on this case, rather than waiting an hour or two, simply because of its location. Sutter loved the beach, despite the day's chilling breeze. He often said he might retire to one, if he could find beachfront property cheap enough. Rebecca suggested Tierra del Fuego off the southern tip of South America.

The two detectives surveyed the scene and waited for the CSI to complete their work. The ME had already come and gone. She'd be doing an autopsy, no doubt about it.

The fog thickened, making the air colder and damper, but it didn't deter the crowd from continuing to offer strident opinions, each more outrageous than the last, and to argue with each other about them.

Rebecca could stand no more. Coming face-to-face with death brought out strong feelings in people, and the way things were going, she was going to be faced with another homicide if they didn't disperse. She marched into the crowd. “Go home, everyone. There's nothing more here for you to see.”

“You got no right to tell us to leave,” one pontificator yelled. “What happened here is an abomination! What's wrong with the police? People getting killed on a public beach! Why can't you keep us safe?”

Rebecca just stared, hard, at the man. He swallowed the rest of his words and faded away. The others soon followed, and the beach grew quiet except for an occasional foghorn or the clang of a cable car bell at the nearby end-of-the-line turntable.

Once the crowd left, she pushed aside the sheet that covered the body and crouched down. The deceased was a white male, probably in his late thirties, early forties, with a mustache, beard, and long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Something about him seemed eerily familiar.

She asked her partner, but Sutter had no idea. He was busy studying the sand—looking for evidence, he said. The fact that the CSI team was there doing the same thing didn't faze him.

Once back in Homicide, she'd ask Paavo Smith, who was clearly the best inspector on the force. Not to mention the best-looking. All right, she might be a cop, but she was also a woman—healthy, single, and unattached. Unfortunately, Paavo was engaged to someone else. Of course, if his love life ever went south…

She turned back to the victim. Wearing rubber gloves, she lifted his shoulder to inspect a small entry wound in the man's back. It had created a large exit wound on his chest. The CSI would do what it could to canvass the area for the bullet, but she didn't give them much of a chance for success.

Standing again, she covered the body. This was actually a very clever setting for a crime. Most of the evidence had been washed out to sea.

 

Angie buttoned her MaxMara cherry-red jacket and leaned into the sudden harsh wind as she made her way toward the marbled grandeur of the Fairmont Hotel high atop Nob Hill. The wind whipped her hair from one side to the other, and the fog stripped away the curl and turned it to frizz. Bursting through the hotel's heavy front doors, she took a deep breath, ready to readjust her jacket and attempt to smooth her hair, when a voice called, “Angie!”

Startled, she turned to find herself face-to-face with her nemesis.

It wasn't that she hated Nona Farraday, not even
that she was jealous of her…well, maybe just a little of her tall, slim, blond, patrician good looks and her job as restaurant reviewer for
Haute Cuisine
magazine. The fact that she made Angie feel like the product of short, dumpy peasant stock with a do-nothing, going-nowhere job (when she even had a job) wasn't pleasant. That's all.

“Hello, Nona,” she said through gritted teeth as the two air-kissed. “What a surprise to see you here!”

Nona flicked back her long silky hair. She looked stunning, not a thread out of place, while Angie felt as if she'd just gone ten rounds with an eggbeater. “I had lunch with a
Gourmet
magazine editor,” Nona said. “He's only in the city two days, but found time for me…of course.”

Angie's gritted teeth started to grind, her smile more forced. “Of course,” she repeated. “I won't keep you.”

“Lunch is over, though I do have to get back to the office. Deadlines, you know. But what are
you
doing here?” Nona's lashes fluttered.

“Oh, I'm just…um…”

Nona's eyes suddenly bored into her. “This doesn't have anything to do with your engagement party, does it?”

Angie feigned shock. “My mother is handling the whole thing.”

“Right.” Nona folded her arms. “Your mother's invitations were so
darling
telling us how she wanted to keep
everything
except the time and date of the party a surprise to you. She won't even let the guests know where the party will be held until the day before! It's such a…cute idea.”

“Cute? Well, yes….” Actually, Angie had another word for it, but she wasn't about to let Nona know how much her mother's “surprise” irritated her. It was her engagement party, for pity's sake! She had a right to know the details of it.

“I can understand why your mother is doing it this way,” Nona said smugly.

Angie's lips stretched into a fake smile. “You do?”

“If your mother told us, you'd find out for sure. Then you wouldn't be surprised.” Nona began to chuckle.

Angie joined in, but her strained laughter was even more fake than her smile.

“Lots of people will come just to see if Serefina can pull it off.” The more Nona talked about it, the harder she laughed. Angie, on the other hand, no longer even pretended amusement. She fumed.

Her laughter over, Nona's gaze traveled over the lobby's high ceilings, the dark mahogany and red velvet furniture. “You don't think she'd…No, of course not. No way!”

“What are you talking about?” Angie asked, pouncing on the implication.

“I'm wondering if you're here because you found out she was planning on using one of the banquet halls in the Fairmont. Someplace like…oh, the Crown Room, for instance.” Nona shuddered. “She wouldn't do that to you.”

“What do you mean?” As a matter of fact, Angie's first choice for her party would have been the Crown Room. Reached by an outside glass elevator to the top floor, it was elegant, romantic, and offered a panorama of the entire city. “It's a beautiful space,” she said, hoping her voice didn't
sound as thin and hysterical to Nona's ear as it did to her own.

Nona gave her a piteous look. “True…”

Angie waited, then couldn't stand the suspense. “But?”

After a long, anguished sigh, as if she were a martyr being tortured by an Inquisitor, Nona said, “It's just that the last engagement parties I went to were
all
either at the Top of the Mark or the Fairmont's Crown Room. I thought your party would be more original than that.”

“They were?” Angie wracked her brain. She hadn't been invited to any engagement parties in the Fairmont. The Mark Hopkins, yes. Who did Nona know that hadn't invited Angie? Who was stiffing her? She swallowed.

“Don't you remember?” Nona's eyes went wide with surprise, then softened with sympathy. “Oh…you weren't there, were you?”

Angie bristled. What an actress! “I remember now,” she cried jovially. She, too, could act. “I had other plans. Sometimes it's difficult to juggle one's social calendar.”

“Isn't that the truth? Speaking of which, I've got to run,” Nona said. “Take care. And if your party is at the Crown Room, I'm sure it'll be lovely. They have
lots
of experience.”

As Angie marched toward the special elevator to the top of the hotel, she wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the ends of her wind-tossed hair had singed from the hot steam pouring from her ears.