Every Move She Makes (9 page)

They don't really think your partner's that Slasher person, do they?"

"No. Of course not." I hated talking shop with my aunt, because she
tended to follow up the conversation with a lecture on safety.

"Somebody must think so."

"Read it to me," I said. With only a towel wrapped around me, I wasn't
about to go out and get my copy while Torrance was parked in my kitchen.

"Kevin, honey, get me the paper, please. It's on the kitchen table."

Since my aunt had near photographic memory, I assumed that retrieving
the newspaper wasn't the real reason she wanted my nephew out of the
room. "I was wondering if you could call Leslie," she said a second
later, referring to a friend of mine who worked the Domestic Violence
detail at SFPD. "I thought of the perfect birthday gift for Kevin's
fourteenth birthday. Forty-Niner tickets." Kevin was my late brother's
son. My father had wanted nothing to do with the child, because he never
forgave my brother Sean for overdosing. It was my spinster aunt who
stepped in, immediately taking custody of Kevin when the boy's mother, a
suspected dealer, skipped town for fear she'd be blamed for Sean's
overdose. MY aunt doted on the boy. Then again, so did I. I suppose we
tried in our own way to overcompensate for the loss of his parents.

Kevin's middle school coaches had long since learned to ignore my
presence in the stands, and I'm sure I mortified Kevin more often than
not with my cheering.

"You can get those tickets anywhere," I said.

"Yes. But not those wonderful box seats Leslie always manages to get.

She has connections. Quiet. Here he comes." I smiled at her warning, and
heard the rustle of the paper just before my aunt said, "Right here
beneath your photo, it says you're the investigating officer in Dr.

Meadscolari's murder. "Inspector Gillespie neither confirms nor denies
that the department suspects Sam Scolari is the Soma Slasher, nor would
she comment on the coincidence of the similarities of Dr. Mead-Scolari's
fatal injuries and those of the other victims killed by the Soma
Slasher." I wasn't aware your partner was married to a doctor." "She was
a pathologist. And don't pay any attention to what you read," I said,
knowing that this was only the beginning of what would surely turn into
a media frenzy, the sharks waiting for Scolari to step foot in the
water.

"I want you to promise me you'll be careful out there-"

"Promise. Hugs to Kevin. I'll see you soon." I hung up before she had a
chance to start in. Dressing in gray slacks and blazer, I went out to
find my copy of the Chronicle so that I could assess the damage to my
career and Scolari's life. When I walked into my kitchen, I fully
-expected to find Torrance sitting at my table, reading my paper. I
found Mathis instead. He was sorting through his briefcase. Several
inches shorter than Torrance, Mathis was a body builder, with broad
shoulders and a muscular torso accentuated by narrow hips. And while
Torrance's coloring was dark, his expression closed, Mathis was more the
golden Adonis, with a broken nose that saved him from being too pretty.

"Where's Torrance?" I figured that was more polite than "What the hell
are you doing in my apartment?" and would net me the same results. "He
had to leave early." That was all he said. I digested this while I went
out to get the paper. The landlady usually tossed it up for me when she
picked up hers first thing every morning. I couldn't find it anywhere.

Not under the steps, not in the ivy, not in the driveway.

When I returned to the kitchen, I stopped, looking at Mathis sorting
through his reports. Something seemed odd, but my brain wasn't totally
functioning. No caffeine.

"Lose something?" he asked.

"You see the paper when you came in?" "No," he said. "Maybe Torrance
grabbed it on his way out." I'd find it later. In the meantime, I had to
leave for work. I assumed Mathis and Torrance had changed places
sometime during the night. I also assumed he was leaving when I was. I
fished my keys from my purse and opened the kitchen door, waiting
expectantly for Mathis to rise from his seat at the kitchen table.

"Ready?" I finally asked. And that's when it struck me. He was sitting
there, doing paperwork like he owned the place. He wasn't leaving.

"Change of plans," he responded. "We thought it might be better to keep
someone posted inside your house in case Scolari breaks in again." I
gave him a smile that I hoped spoke volumes.

"You won't even know I'm here. Promise."

"I already know you're here. Why wasn't I included on this decision?" He
shrugged. "Talk to Torrance." Give IA an inch, they'll take a goddamn
mile. "Do me a favor, try not to burn dinner." Somehow I managed not to
slam the door in his face. Torrance outranked him, so I couldn't very
well take my anger out on Mathis. But I could on Torrance, and by the
time I paid the toll on the Bay Bridge, I was fuming. I punched in his
office number on my cellular. His secretary answered, advising me,
"Lieutenant Torrance will be coming in late, if at all." He'd already
put in a full twelve hours playing bodyguard. Once in my office, I
poured myself a cup of coffee, disguising it with as much creamer as I
could stir in without turning it into nondairy mud. It would do in a
pinch. I called Leslie's extension. She wasn't at her desk, so I left a
message about the Forty-Niner tickets on her voice mail. I hung up as
the secretary poked her head in the doorway. "Andrews wants to see you,
As I walked into the lieutenant's office. The door was open, the
morning paper on his desk. Behind him, football trophies glinted under
the fluorescent lights. I hated being called in here. "What is this-" he
asked softly, a bad sign. The hotter his temper, the quieter his voice.

I told myself it was okay. Nothing to worry about. But when he didn't
look at the newspaper, just at me, my throat tightened. I was an
emotional person, and hiding that particular vulnerability from those
around me did not come easy, especially when taken to task by those I
respected and admired. I'm sure there was something Freudian about the
whole thing, but when it came down to it, I'd rather face a man with a
gun. Now was not the time to bring up the suspected press leak. Not
without proof. He had every right to be upset that I spoke to Beth
Sk-yler, and bringing up my unverified suspicions about that leak would
make it appear as though I was trying to focus his attention elsewhere.

"I blew it. I should have kept my mouth shut."

"We have a Press Officer, Gillespie. Let him do his job. You
understand?" This last was said so softly, I had to strain to hear him,
which was precisely why he did it.

"Yes, Sir."

"I understand that before all this went down, Scolaii was about to
canvass the Twin Palms Motel for potential witnesses in the drug ODS.

You need a partner. Call Zimmerman."

"What?"

"He's experienced. I'll have him temporarily reassigned to Homicide," he
said, speaking at a normal level noxv. His abrupt change stunned me, but
I tried not to let it show. "They're hounding the Press Officer for info
on the drug ODS," he said, referring to the report the department
intended to release on the rash of fatal overdoses Narcotics and
Homicide were jointly investigating. "Apparently one of the last victims
was a nephew of Councilman Yearwood. Get me something solid by tomorrow
at four. I've got a press conference scheduled for then. You will not be
in shouting distance of a microphone. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"And I want an update on the Slasher cases." His phone rang. He picked
it up, thereby signaling the end of our conversation. Which was just as
well. The Twin Palms Motel was one of the buildings owned by Paobni-the
building where I had been shot. Scolari was supposed to have already
canvassed it. He knew how I felt about that place. And now I had to take
Zimmerman', The irony as well as the prospect of being partnered with
someone who blamed me for losing his position wasn't the least bit
amusing. Reluctantly I telephoned Z'm's office down in Property. He
wasn't there, and I left a message on his voice mail for him to contact
me. Hanging up the phone, I glanced at my case file. Twelve unsolved
homicides, not including the drug ODS or the Slasher cases. Those were
on Scolari's desk, since he'd been the primary investigator. I knew I'd
have to read the reports again to see if I could turn up something
Scolari had missed. I'd do that while I waited for Zimmerman to return
my call. I found the reports stacked on Scolari's desk beneath the
clutter left by the special homicide team, who'd rifled through
everything, looking for something that might indicate Scolari had killed
his wife. Scolari had worked Homicide for eight years. He'd been a cop
for twenty-five. I couldn't imagine he'd be stupid enough to leave
anything incriminatory behind. I glanced up at the poster taped on the
file cabinet by his phone. Two vultures sat in a twisted, bare-limbed
tree. The caption read, "Our day begins when yours ends." The Homicide
detail's motto. Scolari loved working Homicide. Had it finally gotten to
him? Had he finally snapped? My chair backed up to his. My desk was just
as cluttered, even without help. Sinking into Scolari's chair, I cleared
a space on his desk, started deciphering his notes on the drug cases.

After an hour of straight reading, I had yet to turn up a clue on any of
them, though not for lack of trying. There just weren't any witnesses to
be found. I pulled out the first Slasher case, not looking forward to
reviewing something that Scolari and I had been over several dozen times
already. In frustration I stared at the phone, wondering why the hell
Zimmerman was taking so long in getting back to me. Although I wasn't
looking forward to going to the Twin Palms, I wanted to get it over
with. Felix Shipley and Rocky Markowski strolled in, laughing. They were
partners, their desks were on the opposite side of the room from mine
and Scolari's. Markowski slapped Shipley's back. "Hell, wouldn't you do
the same if you found out that your wife was ... " He saw me and
stopped, his smile fading as he ran his fingers along his mustache.

Another reminder that I would never be one of the guys. I returned to my
work, ignoring them both, almost grateful when Reid wandered in.

He dropped today's Chronicle on my desk. "You have guests?"

I stared at the newspaper, then at him. "Excuse me?"

"This is your paper. I came by to give it to you this morning, but you
had someone over. I heard you talking." I didn't care for this side of
Reid. Aside from my job getting in the way, his possessiveness was one
of the major reasons our marriage ended as quickly as it did. Had I
actually entertained the idea of spending an entire weekend in Napa with
him? I bit my tongue for the simple reason that I was aware of just how
many sets of ears now listened intently for my response. At the moment,
I didn't feel "It was anyone's business that. IA was camped out in my
apartment, and I certainly didn't owe my ex-husband any explanation.

"Hey, Gillespie," came a sarcastic male voice. "You called?" I slid my
chair back to see a red-faced Zimmerman leering at me from the
secretary's office. He wasn't wearing a jacket, and his shoulder holster
neatly framed the sweat stains beneath his armpits. He approached, his
hand resting on the knife case on his belt. "Heard we're gonna be
partners." I chose to ignore him. Reid gave me that
I-told-you-you-shouldn't-be-in-law-enforcement look, then started to say
something more about the paper. I dropped it in the trash, thereby
ending that conversation. Reid looked ready to protest, apparently
thought better of it, and left without a word.