Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (3 page)

Schwartzman drove slowly, something that infuriated everyone else on the road. Along Van Ness, cars honked and sped by. Someone shouted, “Get a driver, Miss Daisy!” A minute or so passed, and there was no one behind her.

She turned the heat down, cracked the window.
Your house is secure.
After the delivery of the flowers, the building had added cameras to every entrance. Four new guards patrolled the floors and stairwells, while a second front desk clerk had been added so that the lobby was never unmanned.
More than secure. It’s practically fortified.
Schwartzman experienced the slightest release of pressure.

She took a right on Jackson. A car turned in behind her. This was a crowded city. Not the suburbs of Greenville. There was always a car behind her. She eyed her tail as the car followed her through one stop sign then another.

Okay,
she told herself.
Turn.

She took a left.

The car followed.

She cranked the air to cold and glanced back, but the headlights were too bright to see the driver. The shadows made it look as though someone was in the passenger seat, as well. She studied the rearview mirror, trying to make out the features of the driver. She would know Spencer’s rounded jaw, his tight mouth. She nearly swerved into a parked car. As she jerked the wheel back to the left, a scream caught in her throat.

“Get a grip,” she said aloud.

In the six months since she moved to San Francisco for the ME job, she’d felt safe. There was no indication that Spencer was trying to contact her or that he even knew where she was.

Not until the phone call to the morgue, when he told Schwartzman that her mother was in the hospital.

Then the delivery of the yellow flowers.

In the years she’d lived in Seattle for medical school, Spencer had never once shown his face.

At least not that she could prove.

Somehow, despite that, he had shadowed her all that time. Notes in her locker in the hospital. Typewritten, of course. Vague.

Good luck on the orals.

You handled the patient in 3107 like a pro.

All signed YSG. Your Southern Gentleman. A joke from a lighter time in their marriage. Never documented.

Two notes might appear in a single week, or months might pass in silence. She never knew what to expect. Or when.

Once she was at a bar with a group of med school students. Halfway into the night, her server stopped at the table to announce that her husband was on the line and he needed to speak with her urgently. When she denied the possibility, the server had pressed. “You are Annabelle Schwartzman?” She had been forced to take his call. Even though it lasted only seconds, the sound of his low, satisfied chuckle still plagued her nightmares. Later she’d discovered that he had tracked her by her credit card.

She’d come home from school one night to find a bar of her favorite honeysuckle soap, made locally in Greenville, sitting on her pillow, wrapped in a little yellow bow.

She had bagged it and taken it to an attorney in Seattle, one who specialized in domestic abuse cases. He’d helped her hire a private investigator to investigate Spencer. The experience had cost thousands of dollars that she didn’t have. To pay, she’d taken an orderly job at another hospital in Seattle, worked her days off for three months.

The investigator hadn’t turned up a single thing to demonstrate that Spencer was anything other than an upstanding citizen and successful businessman.

The attorney told her to drop it. “You can never prove anything with a man like that,” he told her. “It’ll only make it worse for you.”

She never asked what he’d meant by, “a man like that.” She already knew. Ruthless, dangerous. Unrelenting. Since she’d left South Carolina, Spencer had never taken the threats further than notes and phone calls.

This wasn’t notes and phone calls. This was murder. Spencer’s involvement in this would mean an incredible escalation.

It had to be a coincidence. She was safe here.

There are people everywhere in this city. You are not alone.

To confirm her theory, she drove slowly and scanned the street. There. A couple walking with a large dog. Something wolf-like. A husky. But that car was still behind her. She slowed almost to a stop. Let the car pass her or make a move. Surely the driver wouldn’t wait. Why didn’t he honk?

The car remained close on her tail. She revved the engine and sped to the end of the block. Turned right and followed the street down two blocks until the final turn, which took her to her apartment’s garage. The car followed. She didn’t turn into her garage. No. She wouldn’t lead them there.

Instead she waited until the car was right behind her and picked up her cell phone. She unlocked the screen and found Hal’s mobile number. Holding her finger over the “Call” button, she shifted into park and pulled hard on the emergency brake.

But what could Hal do? At best he was ten or fifteen minutes away.

This would be over by then. She cracked the car door and stepped into the street. Courage gathered like a storm cloud. She felt the cool sensation of sweat on her upper lip as her blood was shunted from her body’s viscera to the extremities in preparation for fight or flight. She made her way to the strange car.

The window went down. A man. Unfamiliar.

“Why are you following me?” she asked.

Large hands splayed above the wheel. “Was I too close?”

“What do you want?” she demanded, glancing at the phone to see the reassurance of Hal’s number on the screen.

A woman leaned across. “He doesn’t want to admit we’re lost,” she said, laying a hand on the man’s forearm. “Give her the address, Peter. Maybe she can tell us where it is.”

“We’re looking for Macondray Lane. It’s supposed to be close to Leavenworth and Green. We’re just driving through and staying with some friends tonight.”

Relief swept through her limbs, leaving her knees weak. “It’s there,” she said, pulling herself together and pointing to her own apartment building. “Turn left at the corner and go down a block. Get a parking pass from the night watchman. Or you might find parking on the street.”

“See, Peter,” the woman told him. “I knew we were close. We’re down from Chico on our way to Santa Barbara. For a wedding . . .”

Schwartzman didn’t wait to hear the rest of the explanation. Her parasympathetic nervous system now back in control, her empty stomach ached, leaving her nauseous and exhausted. She returned to her car. With the doors locked and her seat belt fastened, she could breathe again.

The couple drove up beside her. Too close. Their proximity gave her a jolt. The woman waved at her.

Schwartzman waited until they turned at the corner and followed her directions exactly as she’d instructed. She made an illegal U-turn and crossed through the alley to the parking garage.

Using her key card, she entered the garage’s secure door and waved at the night watchman.

Everything was how it always was.

Only it wasn’t. Or it didn’t feel that way. Was she crazy to think that Spencer was behind Victoria Stein’s death? Was it insane to think he wasn’t?

Notes, gifts, inconvenient calls, those had been disturbing, creepy. When she’d received a certified letter saying that he had filed a lawsuit against her for breaking their marriage contract, she spent $500 in legal fees to determine that he had no case. Amazingly, even in South Carolina, a woman was free to leave her husband. Not that it mattered for Schwartzman. Whether or not the law allowed it, Spencer did not.

The continuous ruses and ploys were frustrating, a constant reminder that she was never quite free.

She had to believe it was all in an effort to get her back to South Carolina. She couldn’t imagine where else he expected the antics to lead.

But murder changed everything.

The flowers, the similar-looking victim, the fact that the woman was from Spartanburg. The necklace. The stakes were so much higher, which meant something had changed. What would motivate him to murder?

Unless this has nothing to do with Spencer.

She didn’t believe that for a second.

4

San Francisco, California

Standing in Victoria Stein’s living room, Hal pulled off the latex gloves and tucked them in his back pocket to dispose of later. He carried his own supply of gloves in his car. The Crime Scene Unit never had anything bigger than large, and he had hands that could cradle a basketball as if it was an Easter egg.

He idly scratched the back of his hand. Dr. Schwartzman was usually tough to read, but it was plain as day that this victim gave her a helluva scare.

And why wouldn’t it? The victim might have been her sister, holding that bunch of yellow flowers after Schwartzman got similar ones from her ex.

Then that necklace—how in the hell could they explain the necklace? He’d seen plenty of crosses in his day but never anything like that. And they weren’t just similar. The two necklaces were identical.

Schwartzman had realized it immediately. She’d gone totally pale, her eyes hollow. He had never seen her like that.

No. He had. Once before when he came into the morgue after her ex had called to say that her mother was in the hospital. Only she wasn’t. Schwartzman’s mother was fine. The bastard was just jerking her chain, some sort of sick prank. Hal wanted to nail that guy for what he had put Schwartzman through. But this—a murder. If he was behind that, then that changed the game totally.

“We need to get ahead of the questions about her on this one.”

“I can’t see how anyone would peg her as a suspect,” Hal said. But Hailey was right. The question of Schwartzman’s connection was inevitable.

“No,” Hailey said. “But we’ll need to look at every angle.”

They had to anticipate that the questions would come back to her. And it was better to have answers before the questions got asked. “I’m going to do some digging into her ex. You know his name?”

“She doesn’t talk about her past. I didn’t even know there was a husband until dinner tonight. First name is Spencer, not that it’s helpful.”

“We’ll need a timeline of events. If he’s behind this, there must be some reason why he’s chosen now. She got the flowers—what—a week ago?”

“Maybe two now.”

There could be some significance to the dates. They needed to know more. Hailey had drawn the conclusion that Spencer was involved, but it was still a leap. The necklace, yellow flowers, a similar victim from a nearby town.

But murder?

Murder wasn’t stalking. It was a huge escalation. Hal had seen Schwartzman that day in the morgue, when she thought her mother was in the hospital. She was so frail, so broken—not at all like the woman he had come to know in their work together. It raised every hair on his body, brought out every protective instinct.

He needed to understand everything that possibly connected that victim to her. They needed to talk to Schwartzman.

“Inspector Harris?” A patrol officer stuck his head into the living room from the main hallway. “They’ve got the neighbor out here if you want to talk to her.”

“Thanks. I would.” He turned to Hailey. “You want to join?”

“I was going to check in with Roger.” She glanced at her phone. “Actually, Dave has an early flight back east tomorrow. I was going to drop by on my way home. I could come back in an hour or so.”

Hailey was in a new relationship, and things seemed to be going well. Hal was glad. It had been a tough couple of years for her. She’d lost her husband, John, and was raising two girls.

Dave was the kind of guy Hal would have chosen for her. Solid, kind. Not like John.

Hal had the sense that this case was going to take over their lives. Best for her to get time with Dave now. “Go,” he told her. “I’ll check in with Roger after I talk to the neighbor.”

“And Schwartzman?”

He had been thinking the same. “I’ll call her, see if we can meet at the station.”

“Or we could go to her.”

She wasn’t a suspect. She was a victim. A colleague.

A friend.

“Good call.”

“You’re okay handling the neighbor?”

Hal had nowhere to be. He felt the rush of a new case, the surge of energy.

“Absolutely,” he said, rubbing the tops of his hands against his jeans. The gloves always made him itch.

“Thanks, Hal.”

“Anytime.”

She pointed to his hand, where he was scratching. “I keep telling you, you need the latex-free ones.”

Hal stopped scratching. “I know, but I’ve got a whole box of these.”

Hailey shrugged. “Suit yourself, but you might not have any skin left by the time you’ve gone through that box.” She gave him a playful nudge, and the two of them walked back through the apartment and out to the landing.

Each floor had only two apartments. Both front doors were on the west side of the landing. Victoria Stein’s door faced north, and the neighbor’s faced south. Between them a large potted fern obscured the direct view of one apartment door from the other. Even with the plant, if the neighbor had been coming in or out at the same time as the killer, she might be able to make an ID.

As Hailey headed for the elevator, Hal approached a woman standing with one of the patrol officers.

She wore pajama bottoms featuring gingerbread men and light-blue, fuzzy slippers that had seen a lot of miles. On top it appeared she had on multiple layers of sweaters. A tan one was visible under a black one with a belt that tied in the front. In her hands, she gripped a mug.

The officer stepped back and motioned to Hal. “Ms. Fletcher, this is Inspector Harris.”

“Good evening, ma’am.” He guessed she was between thirty and forty, but the older he got the less he trusted his ability to judge a woman’s age accurately.

“I’ve got a cold,” she said without offering to shake. She was composed, her expression concerned. Her eyes remained on him; she didn’t fidget.

Nothing about her stood out as suspicious.

“No worries, ma’am. I would like to ask you a few questions about Ms. Stein if I could.”

She pulled the mug a little closer. “We could—” She motioned to her door. “We could sit down in there.”

“That would be great.” One rule of investigation was always agree to an offer to access the inside of someone’s house. People were more comfortable in their own homes, which made them share more. Plus it was harder for them to get up and leave. “Officer, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in Ms. Fletcher’s apartment.”

Even from the entry, Fletcher’s apartment felt much more lived in than the victim’s had. Along the front hallway were large framed images of the Golden Gate Bridge in different seasons. In the bottom-right corner of each one was the same looped signature. He paused to study one with snow on the bridge. The last time it had snowed in the Bay Area was the early 1970s. “Is this Photoshopped?”

“No. That’s snow on the bridge.” She leaned confidently against the wall, the mug drawn in close. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

“When—”

“February 5, 1976.”

He eyed her. She was too young to have taken the picture. “You didn’t take this.”

“No. My mother was an amateur photographer. A lot of my images were hers. It was her passion, and over the years it’s sort of become a hobby of mine.”

“It’s an amazing shot.”

“Thank you.”

The living room walls were covered with photographs. Most were landmarks he recognized from the Bay Area—Fort Ord, the Presidio, and the Palace of Fine Arts, but he also saw the Eiffel Tower, Stonehenge, and one of a giant redwood. A couple of the images captured churches too old to be in this country.

These were not photographs of just local sites—her mother had traveled extensively. The images were blown up and hung in identical custom frames. It suggested substantial wealth.

“What do you do for work, Ms. Fletcher?”

“Call me Carol. I work for an online gaming company. Project management, but I do a little of everything.”

He scanned the room and saw a computer sitting on the dining room table. Stacks of papers. The furniture was sleek, all sharp angles in a way that looked both uncomfortable and expensive. A large blown glass statue stood on a high pedestal behind the couch. A thin line was visible where the pinnacle had broken off and been glued again. A deep gouge marred the side of the lacquered coffee table, about the right height for a vacuum cleaner.

Money but not old money.

Old money, Hal always noticed, meant everything was just so. The appearance of flawlessness mattered as much as—or more than—what was being displayed. “So, you work from home?”

“I’ve got a proper office in the back, but I work out here, too, sometimes for a change of scenery.”

The best witnesses tended to be people who were around without much to do. They paid attention to who came and went.

And if Fletcher worked from home, then maybe she’d seen or heard something that could be useful. Hal motioned to the couch. “Mind if I sit?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Hal moved a square pillow decorated with geometric shapes in black and brown off to the side and sank into the corner of the couch. It was narrow with a short back that hit him well below the shoulder blades, but the cushions were firm, and the fabric felt expensive. He crossed one foot over the other knee but found the couch was too low to make it comfortable, so he replaced his foot on the rug and balanced his notebook on his knees. At his height, it was unusual to find someone else’s furniture comfortable. Almost always, things were too small.

This was especially true of women who lived alone.

Hal flipped open his notebook. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost fifteen years.”

Hal made a note. “That’s a long time. Mind if I ask how old you are, Ms. Fletcher? Sorry, Carol.”

She smiled. “Thirty-four.”

He had guessed about right. He did the math and was surprised. “So you’ve lived here since you were nineteen.”

“My dad bought it for me after my mom died. It was kind of a consolation prize, I guess. He left when I was three, so when she died, he bought me this place.”

Hal let a beat pass in a moment of deference to her mother’s death, then poised his pen to write. “When did Ms. Stein move in?”

“About four months ago, I think. After the new year.”

“Do you know what she did for work?”

“I think she said she worked at a bank.” She paused. “I can’t even think which one now. It wasn’t Wells Fargo, I know. Anyway, the bank moved her out here to start some new division. I don’t know exactly what it was.”

Although he sensed the answer, Hal asked, “How well did you know her?”

“I’d been over there once or twice for a glass of wine. Mostly we just watched out for each other’s places. She checked in on my cat when I was away for a week in March, and I took care of her plants when she was gone a couple of times for work.”

“Do you have a key to her apartment?” he asked.

“Not at the moment. She always gave me one when she was traveling or if she needed me to let someone in.”

There were no signs of forced entry. Whoever had gotten into the apartment had a key. “When was the last time you let someone into her apartment?”

“There was a plumber here sometime in February. I think that was the last time.”

“Did Ms. Stein have many visitors?”

“Not that I saw, but we keep pretty different hours.”

“You work at night?” he asked.

“Mornings actually,” she corrected. “I’m up about four, and I usually work until two or three in the afternoon. After that, I do errands and meet with friends. I’m usually in bed by seven or eight.”

Four until two was a ten-hour day. So, not a trust fund baby. Unusual hours, too. “Really,” he commented. “Doesn’t quite fit the online gaming stereotype I had in mind.”

“I hear that a lot,” she said. “But most of the issues with gaming happen in the early hours of the morning—when people have been playing for long stretches.”

“It’s past your bedtime, then.”

“I woke up when Victoria’s sister buzzed me. Then when she found her sister—well, I couldn’t sleep after that.” Her gaze settled on the wall.

“So you didn’t have company last night?”

“I rarely have people here. My boyfriend is long-distance, and I am not a big entertainer.”

He wondered about the expensive furniture. It didn’t really seem to suit her. Perhaps the place had been decorated this way when she moved in. Perhaps it was her father’s style. “I hear you.” Hal didn’t entertain either but mostly because his place was about the size of Ms. Fletcher’s galley kitchen. “Any indication that Victoria Stein was worried about something?”

Fletcher pursed her lips and shook her head. “No. Things were going well for her, and I haven’t seen anyone around.”

“Did you happen to know that all the security cameras in the building were out last night?”

“No, but it’s not that unusual,” she said with a sigh. “The building is working with a totally antiquated system. It probably goes down a few times a month.”

Hal made a note. Even with surveillance down a few times a month, he didn’t like the coincidence of the timing. “Is the building managed by an outside company?”

“No. The building employs about five front desk guys. They work some rotation. All of them are part-time, I’m pretty sure. But the guys have all been here awhile. The newest one is the tall redhead. Liam is his name, I think. But no one’s here after three. That’s why Victoria wanted me to let her sister in.”

“So the sister buzzed you?”

“Yes, Terri is her name. She was driving up from Los Angeles. She lives down there somewhere. When she arrived, she buzzed, and I let her into the building.”

“But you didn’t have a key to Victoria’s unit?” Hal asked, skimming his notes.

“No,” Fletcher confirmed. “Terri had her own key. I just let her into the building. I was getting back in bed when I heard the screaming. Terri had gone into the bedroom and found her sister.” She covered her mouth. “It was awful.”

“I’m sure,” Hal said. “Let me know if you need a moment.”

Fletcher looked down at her tea and shook her head.

“When was Victoria supposed to be home?”

“Not until tomorrow, I think. She was supposed to have training up in Sacramento and be back around midday.”

Her attention settled into the carpet again. He knew the look from experience. She was recalling the body. People unaccustomed to death often reacted this way—the distant, unfocused gaze, arms crossed, body closed. He’d probably gotten as much as he could.