Double Take (3 page)

Dyer cleared his throat again. “Okay, so she came out to visit. Then what?”

“The day she got here, she called my cell, told me she was in, and I told her where I kept a spare key. She let herself into my apartment. That’s the—the last time I spoke to her.”

Dyer calmly picked up the folder he had earlier tossed on the desk. “Your cell phone shows no calls from Am— Ms. Dettlinger’s phone.”

“I don’t know where she called me from. It wasn’t important. I couldn’t wait to get home to see her, that’s all I was thinking.”

Dyer clenched his jaw. “Then what?”

“I picked up a box of See’s at the airport and cabbed it home to my apartment. And then…” He shook his head, too choked up to continue, and buried his gaze somewhere on the desk in front of him.

“What happened when you got to your apartment?”

“She was on the ground, in the kitchen. Blood was— There was blood on the floor. I felt—” Tears flowed down his cheek. He took a breath and his voice rose an octave. “I felt for a pulse, but there wasn’t any. I grabbed her, held her close, talked to her, hoping she wasn’t— I didn’t want to believe she was dead.”

“How’d you pay for the See’s?”

Gilbarco looked up. “What?”

“The See’s, how did you pay for it? Credit card, cash—”

“Credit card. It was a big box.” He wiped away the tears with a hand. “I needed all my cash for a cab.”

“Where’d you buy it?”

“A See’s kiosk. In the airport.”

“What time was that?”

Gilbarco’s bloodshot eyes searched the ceiling. “The plane got in around four-thirty and it took forever to taxi to the gate. I got into the terminal about a quarter to five and, I don’t know, got to See’s about five.”

Dyer consulted the case file again. The coroner estimated that Amy had been killed between five and six PM. But there was no credit card statement in the folder. He turned to the one-way glass and looked into the mirrored surface. He knew Burden was behind it; he hoped the inspector was on the phone, ordering up Gilbarco’s charge statement.

“What credit card did you use?”

“Mastercard. Citibank Mastercard.”

Dyer chewed at his lower lip. If the See’s charge was on Gilbarco’s statement, he was alibied. Dyer cleared his mind, skimmed the inspector’s report. “So you left the airport a little after five and caught a cab?”

“After I got my bag from the carousel. Took them forever.”

Dyer again consulted the file. The inspector’s timeline, which did not include Gilbarco’s stop at baggage claim, demonstrated that he had enough time to get home by taxi and kill Amy. But if he had to wait for his bag to come off the plane, then catch a cab and get home during rush hour….

Dyer felt his face flushing with anger.
Focus. Be thorough. Back to basics
. “No one at the airport remembers you buying the See’s.”

“SFO was packed. You know what airports are like.” His lips quivered, and then he blabbered, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. If I’d been home, if I hadn’t checked the bag, she’d still be alive. Amy would be alive….” He wept openly, and his attorney wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“How about a few minutes, Detective. You think you can give him a break here?”

Dyer dropped the folder onto the table and walked out.

BURDEN WAS HANGING UP the observation room phone when Dyer stormed in.

“This ain’t our guy.”

Burden opened his mouth to speak, then looked over at the one-way glass. Gilbarco was bawling.

“Burden. There’s no credit card statement in the file.”

Burden seemed preoccupied for a moment as he stared at the window. Behind it, the lawyer comforted his client. “Citi Premier Mastercard, covered by the warrant,” he finally said. “They’re faxing it over.”

“Well that’s just fucking great. This guy’s been in custody for what, three days? That means Amy’s killer is still out there. Chances of us finding him just went through the goddamn floor.”

Burden swung his gaze over to Dyer. “Now hold on just a minute. This case is only a few days old and we’ve made an arrest. Things are moving pretty damn quickly.”

“Good for you, you’ve made an arrest. But it’s the
wrong
arrest because this ain’t our guy. Whoever killed Amy is still out there!”

“Take some time and calm yourself. I know you’re in pain here. But we’re on the same side, remember?”

Dyer ran a damp hand through his hair and began pacing the small room. He kicked a metal chair and it caromed off the far wall. Fists clenched, he said, “I wanna see the crime scene.”

LEAVING BURDEN TO FOLLOW UP with the credit card statement, Dyer took the inspector’s unmarked car and a Google Maps printout to Gilbarco’s apartment on Steiner Street. On another day, he might’ve marveled at the sharply inclined roads and the view of fog-socked Alcatraz in the distance against the Bay. Today, he saw only blind anger. Anger at Amy for having an affair, anger at Gilbarco for participating. Anger at whoever killed her. It was like an abscess in the root of his tooth: a deep ache that no painkiller would be able to touch.

Now he stood in front of Gilbarco’s apartment, yellow police tape stretched across the entry and around the doorframe. The seal was unbroken—no one had compromised the crime scene—but that wasn’t what had caught Dyer’s attention. It was the cork wreath hanging inches from his face, identical to the one Amy had bought in New York. For
him
.

He bit down hard, clenching, fighting to keep things from boiling over. He stabbed at the police tape with the key, then shoved it into the lock and entered the apartment. A large picture window stared at him from across the room, the high-rent view of Fisherman’s Wharf wasted on him. Still, as he stood frozen in the doorway, the panorama looked like pictures he’d seen before, on postcards at the airport. The mood of the room seemed familiar, like an outward reflection of his innermost thoughts: dark and shadow-ridden, gloom spilling forth from every corner. He stepped in and let the door swing closed behind him.

It was cold.

A shiver shuddered his torso. He walked stiffly through the hallway, instinctively knowing which way to turn to get to the kitchen, and coming upon the marked area on the wood floor where Amy’s body had fallen, blood still congealed on the surface.

Dyer sat in one of the chairs and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. He felt the bulge of a cigarette pack in his pocket. He pulled out a Marlboro, thought about not lighting it—this did not smell like a smoker’s home—and said, “Hell with it.” He lit it and puffed long and hard. Blew out a cloud and watched it trail off, dissipating into the subdued, murky shadows.

He sat there a long moment, then pulled out his cell phone and wallet. Rooted out his Mastercard and dialed customer service. He worked his way through the prompts, which automatically accessed his balance and payment due dates, before finally reaching a live person. After exchanging inane pleasantries with the representative, he got to why he had called.

“Hypothetically, if I bought a box of chocolates from a See’s kiosk at SFO, how would it appear on my statement? An airport charge, under a franchisee name, or as ‘See’s’?”

“I don’t see any charges for See’s on your account,” she said, “but there is a charge from San Francisco International listed.”

“No, I’m not talking about my account—wait, a charge from SFO? What date?”

“December eighth. It’s listed as 360 Burritos, SFO.”

Dyer stood up, the Marlboro dangling from his lips. “Are you sure? SFO?”

“Yes, sir.”

A beep told Dyer there was another call coming through. He looked at his phone’s display: it was Russo.

“Hang a minute, will you?” he asked the representative. He then flashed over to the other call. “Loo, how goes it?”

“You’re the one with a bum foot. How
you
doin’?”

“Coming along. I can walk without the crutches, so I can’t complain.”

“You home?”

“Let me call you back, okay? I’m on the other line.” Russo agreed, and he clicked back to the woman. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out in the stainless steel sink. “Sorry,” he said to the rep.

“While I was on hold, sir, I found another SFO-related purchase. There’s a charge for your United tickets, leaving Dallas and arriving San Francisco on the eighth. That goes with the food purchase at SFO on the same date. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Dyer closed his phone and felt for the chair, settled himself into it. Something wasn’t right. He sat there, his gaze falling on Amy’s bloodstain, and tears welled up in his eyes. She was gone. Dead. He’d been in cop mode while questioning Gilbarco, and it hadn’t hit him until this moment, alone in the apartment, staring at her blood.

A tension headache was squeezing his temples. He stood up, pulled open the far cabinet and removed a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. He unscrewed the cap and put the bourbon to his lips, felt the burn as the alcohol hit his throat.

Time passed. Half an hour or an hour, he wasn’t sure. He was on the floor, curled in a ball, the bottle in his left hand, drained empty. He pushed himself to his knees, saw Amy’s blood, and remembered why he was there. He got to his feet, wandered around the apartment, using the walls for stability.

He found himself in Gilbarco’s bedroom, his gaze fixed on the bed. He hurled the empty Jim Beam bottle at the wall above the queen mattress, and it smashed with a crunch against the cream-painted plaster. He was breathing deeply, his chest heaving, as he turned and grabbed the upholstered wood chair and flung it across the room. It bounced off the dresser and landed against the bed.

“Damn it, Amy! Why’d you have to do this? Why wasn’t I good enough for you?”

Dyer dropped to his knees and cried, buried his face in the down comforter and wept some more. Finally, he made his way back to the kitchen—and saw the bloodstain again.

Amy.

In that moment, an image filled his mind: Amy falling backwards, arms flailing the air, the sickening
thunk!
as her head smashed into the Viking range…the death stare as she slinked limply to the floor, the blood from the scalp laceration pooling right there, where it was now—a dried, congealed mass.

The credit card. The eighth was four days ago. The day Amy was killed. Had he left the conference in Dallas and flown to San Francisco? Why didn’t he remember doing that?

Why did Russo tell him that Amy had gone into witness protection? How could both be true?

He pulled out his phone, tried his best to compose himself, and dialed Russo. He answered on the third ring.

“Ben, you had me worried. Cruz just stopped by your place, and he said you weren’t answering your door. I thought you were home, that you were—”

“Loo, did I kill her? Give it to me straight, did I kill her?”

“Who?”

“Amy. Did I kill her?”

Russo took a moment to answer. “I told you, Ben, she went into WITSEC, she had to leave—”

“I know what you told me. I’m standing in David Gilbarco’s apartment in ’Frisco, I’m lookin’ at her blood, Loo, and…I, I know this place somehow. Like I been here before. I know where things are. I— There’s a charge on my Mastercard, Dallas to SFO on the eighth—”

“Ben, Ben, listen to me. You listenin’?”

“I killed her, Loo. Did I kill her?”

“Ben, please—”

“Oh, god, no…” Dyer pulled his SIG backup pistol from inside his jacket and pressed the cold housing against his temple. “How could you lie to me like that?”

“Ben, I know what it looks like, but it ain’t that way. You hear? Come home and I’ll get straight with ya. You do that for me?”

Just then, Dyer heard a noise behind him.

“What the fuck?”

It was Burden’s voice, in the kitchen entryway.

Dyer didn’t turn. Instead, he pulled the trigger.

THE PISTOL RECOILED AND SLAMMED him hard in the temple, but he was still alive.

Russo yelled at him through the phone.

Burden grabbed the gun and wrestled him to the ground.

And Dyer let it all happen. Because three inches from his nose was Amy’s blood. Dried and crusted. Glazed over and cracked, like his sanity.

“WHO IS THIS?” BURDEN YELLED into the phone.

“NYPD Lieutenant Carmine Russo, who the hell’s this?”

“Inspector Lance Burden, SFPD. This your boy I have here?”

“It is, Inspector, thanks for helping out.”

“I think I deserve more than ‘thanks for helping out.’ I just saw your detective put a goddamn gun to his head and pull the trigger. You mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Detective Dyer’s in a bad way. His fiancé’s dead, he’s on medication, he’s takin’ it tough. Check with Captain Torrez, he’ll explain it. Meantime, handle Dyer with kid gloves. He ain’t well, you hear me?

“No shit.”

Russo ignored the dig. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

RUSSO DROVE THE RENTAL ALONG THE WINDING road to the top of Twin Peaks, the second highest point in the city. Below them, at the base of the mountain, stood the San Francisco Police Department Academy, where Dyer spent the night under the reluctant and watchful eye of Lance Burden.

Muscular gusts of wind blew mercilessly into the face of Carmine Russo and Oliver Henry, who leaned against their rental car in the scenic overlook’s parking lot.

Moments later, after Russo had consulted his watch for the fourth time, an unmarked Ford Taurus drove toward them and swung into a slot a few dozen feet away. The front doors opened and two men stepped out: SFPD Captain Harmon Torrez, and, Russo surmised, Inspector Lance Burden.

Russo cursed under his breath. He had hoped for an uneventful handoff: no questions asked and no third parties. That was the agreement he’d had with Torrez. Apparently, things weren’t done in San Francisco the way they were done in New York.

Russo took custody of Dyer, who was handcuffed behind his back, even though he’d been heavily sedated per a prescription Henry had called in to a nearby pharmacy. He passed Dyer to Henry, who steadied the detective while Russo unlocked the restraints.

“You didn’t need the cuffs,” Russo said.

Torrez snorted. “I don’t think you’re in a position to criticize, Carmine.”