Night work (38 page)

"Barely. And she didn't know I was going to call, she
wouldn't have had any reason to wait around at home."
Unlikely did not make an alibi, and they all knew that, but Kate had
done what she could. "Have you talked with Roz, or Maj?"

"I had another agent take their preliminary statements. Maj
Freiling was not cooperative, and Reverend Hall seemed more interested
in making a speech. My colleague decided to suspend the interviews for
the time being, thinking that if a second attempt has similar results,
we can bring them in for questioning."

"I'd be very careful about that," Kate warned him.
"Roz Hall is a woman of considerable influence--I
wouldn't try to mess with her unless you've got a warrant
in your hand. Which I don't think you're going to get, at
this point. And dragging in Maj, who is seven months' pregnant,
could be even worse. You could find yourself knee-deep in
lawsuits."

Marcowitz might not have heard her, for all the reaction he showed.
"There is one thing I had hoped you might help us with,
Inspector, until you went incommunicado on us. Statements must be taken
from the residents of the women's shelter run by Diana Lomax, and
she strongly requested that you be the one to take them, having been
there before."

"I'd be happy to."

"I will accompany you."

"That's not necessary."

"Yes," he said. "It is."

"The women in there are very uncomfortable when men invade
their private space," she objected. "It really would be
best if---"

"I will go with you."

"Don't you at least have a woman agent you can send instead?" she suggested, trying not to plead.

"They are busy, I am not, and you need backup. Either I go
with you, or Inspector Hawkin and I will do it ourselves."

"Two men, yeah, that'd be great. Okay, but you have to
let me do the talking, and if Diana Lomax refuses, then we wait for one
of your women agents. When do you want to go?"

"Now."

"Right now? I--" Kate stopped, and shrugged.
"Okay. Just let me make a couple of calls first. Five
minutes?"

Only one call proved necessary, since Lee was home so Kate didn't have to hunt down Jon.

"Hi, babe," she said. "I thought you guys'd
be out shopping," that having been the plan when Kate left the
house that morning.

"Finished early, we got some gorgeous little artichokes that I'm fixing right now."

"Hell. Will they be okay cold?"

"You're going to be late," Lee said in
resignation. "Well, if you get a chance, give me a call later,
let me know when you'll be getting in."

"I'll try, but don't wait up for me. Things may drag on."

"You astonish me," Lee said sarcastically.

"I try. Enjoy the artichokes. Love you."

"Me too you."

They hung up together and Kate looked up to see Marcowitz standing iron-spined ten feet away, having heard every word.

"Shall we go?" he said.

Kate responded by taking her holstered gun from her desk drawer,
putting on gun and jacket, and following him to the elevator and the
parking lot. He was driving.

Marcowitz did not ask for directions, and did not need them. He
drove with watchful confidence, although as far as Kate knew he had
only been in San Francisco a couple of months. She considered asking
the Man in Black a question about his background, then decided against
it, and sat in silence.

He pulled up near the shelter, put on the parking brake, and then said something that had Kate open-mouthed in astonishment.

"Before we go in," he told her, "I just wanted you
to know that my mother was beaten to death by her boyfriend when I was
twelve. Just in case you don't think I'm sympathetic to the
women who come to a shelter."

Without waiting for a response, he got out of the car and started walking toward the group home. Kate scrambled to follow.

"I'm sorry," she said inadequately when she had caught up with him.

"I didn't tell you that as a play for sympathy,"
he said stiffly. "Merely so you know where I'm coming from
on this." And he turned and pressed his finger on the doorbell,
then stepped back so that her face would be first at the door.

The shelter was bustling; that was apparent even on the wrong side
of the sturdy door, with the children inside working off a day shut up
in classrooms, their voices raised and bodies racing. One of them
answered the bell, and Kate leaned forward to speak to the small face,
only to have the door slammed on her nose. The sounds of an altercation
arose from inside, which after a minute Kate decided was an older child
giving the younger door-opener hell for a lack of caution.

She and the FBI agent waited as the shouts moved off and relative
silence fell, and Marcowitz was putting out his hand to ring the bell
again when a single adult set of footsteps approached. The locks
clattered and Diana Lomax stood before them, thunderclouds of
disapproval on her brow.

"Hello, Ms. Lomax," Kate said. "This is agent
Marcowitz of the FBI. Sorry, but we need to ask the residents some
questions."

"This is not a good time."

"It won't take long." I hope, Kate added under her breath.

"All right, if you absolutely have to. But the agent can wait outside."

"I'm afraid that won't do," Marcowitz said,
firmly but without the body language of the affronted male, remaining
behind Kate instead of pushing forward and crowding his targeted foe
with raised shoulders. Kate couldn't help giving him points for
his reasonableness, and even Diana Lomax seemed to think again.

"Okay," she said finally. "But you'll have
to stay in my office. I won't have you intruding on the privacy
of the residents."

"Fine," he said, and she then let them in, locking the
front door behind them before leading them down the hall to the office.
Before Kate went through the door, she glanced ahead into the kitchen,
source of a rich fragrance of Italian herbs, and spotted Crystal
Navarro standing before a huge bowl of lettuce and tomatoes, looking in
alarm at their passing. Kate raised her hand as a greeting, and
followed Lomax and agent Marcowitz through the door marked office.

"May I ask what this is about?" Lomax demanded as soon
as the door was shut. Marcowitz took his time in perching on the arm of
the sofa, where he crossed his arms in a display of authority that Kate
knew from experience left his right hand just inches from the butt of
his gun, and met Lomax's angry gaze.

"Three nights ago while she was here for dinner, Emily
Larsen's wallet disappeared from her purse." He paused for
reaction, of which there was none. "Yesterday the identification
taken from that wallet was used in the commission of a crime."

Lomax waited, then asked, "Is that all?"

"It's enough to tie this shelter to three murders and one attempted murder."

Lomax stood without moving for a long moment, then reached for the
phone on the desk (Marcowitz's hand twitched, but he did not draw
his gun). She dialed seven digits, and said to whoever answered,
"Inspector Martinelli is in my office with evidence that links
the shelter to a series of murders. I think Carla should be
here." She waited for the response, said "Thanks,"
and then hung up.

She did not seem very upset, concerned rather than worried. She left
her hand on the telephone for a minute as she stared unseeing into
space, then gave herself a shake and walked around the desk to sit in
her chair. Had she pulled open a drawer and reached inside, Kate knew
that the agent would have drawn on her, but she merely played with a
pen that lay on top of the desk and chewed at her lip. Kate shifted on
her feet near the door, and Lomax's eyes immediately came up.

"I don't know if I need a lawyer or not while I'm
talking to you, but Carla will want to be here, just in case. Do you
two want a cup of coffee or something while we're waiting?"

Before Marcowitz could refuse, Kate said, "That'd be nice."

"Crystal's in the kitchen, she'll show you where
the cups are. I have to ask you not to question her, however."

"Nothing more urgent than where to find the milk," Kate
agreed with a smile. No reason not to keep this friendly. Marcowitz
might doubt, but Kate knew, as surely that the sun was going down
outside the house, that Diana Lomax would not produce a gun--or
cause others to produce theirs--in a house filled with her women
and children. Marcowitz was safe on his own, and in the few minutes
they had before Carla Lomax arrived with her legal objections, Kate
might nose something out. Ignoring her temporary partner's glare
and keeping her voice and stance as casual as she could, she said,
"Marcowitz, you want anything?"

"No."

"Okay." Kate paused at the door to ask Diana, again with
great care to be offhand, "You mind if I take a look around? I
didn't really get a chance to see it the other day."

To her surprise, Lomax nodded. "Sure, look around. Not in the
residents' rooms, though. Not without a warrant."

If they'd had enough evidence to back up a warrant, the FBI
man wouldn't be sitting on the arm of the sofa. A missing wallet
would only made a judge laugh. But being given permission to roam
opened the place up--not to a full search, perhaps, but to a close
scrutiny. She ducked out of the room and did actually go into the
kitchen for coffee, keeping one eye on the hallway the whole time so
she could see if the office door opened, but it did not, and Kate
nonchalantly thanked Crystal before going back up the hall to look into
the other three rooms that opened off it.

Leaving the kitchen, the office was the first room on her left. She
turned to the door directly across the hall from it, marked training,
and found behind it a tiny windowless room with two long folding
tables, two computers (one so old she wondered if it was compatible to
anything at all), and an electric typewriter. If this was the
shelter's sole job training, she decided, it was a miracle that
any of the residents found employment.

The next room, behind the sign meeting room, was much larger.
Although it, too, had no outside windows, since the building was
attached to neighbors on both sides, it did have a piece of stained
glass set into the end wall that separated it from the entrance foyer.
The pseudo-window, combined with several airy watercolor prints on the
pale green walls, added to the impression of space, and the
room's random assortment of love seats, armchairs, backless
hassocks, and a couple of wooden rocking chairs were arranged against
the walls in a wide circle around an oval braided rug that reminded
Kate of her grandmother. Kate didn't need the disproportionate
number of tissue boxes to tell her this was the room used for group
therapy. It was functional but comforting, the color and prints on the
wall so similar to those in Roz's church offices that they might
have been chosen at the same time.

Kate went back out into the hallway, checked the office door to be
sure it was still closed and silent, glanced into the entrance
vestibule with its hodgepodge of outdoor clothing, children's
equipment, message board, and stairs leading up to the bedrooms, then
reached for the fourth doorknob, the room adjoining the office. She
turned the knob, and stepped into the shelter's chapel.

This was no ordinary chapel, however, with an altar at one end and
pews all in a row. This one looked more like a teenager's
bedroom, had the teenager been tidy and interested in religion and
spirituality instead of handsome actors and rock bands.

The wall to Kate's right represented more or less the Roman
Catholic faith. Its central figure was the Virgin Mother rather than a
bleeding Christ, but the steadily burning candles in tall amber glasses
were those of Kate's childhood, and the inspirational pictures
pinned up all around the Virgin were those she remembered from Sunday
school and from the edges of her mother's dresser mirror.
Sayings, scraps of prayer, and biblical quotations fluttered gently in
the air rising off the candles, and on the floor at the Virgin's
feet stood a large pottery bowl spilling over with small pieces of
paper, folded or crumpled into thumbnail-sized wads. Feeling far more
guilty than any police investigator should, she glanced at the empty
doorway before reaching for one of the scraps.
Thank you Mother for Rebecca's math grade,
she read, and on another,
Please help me get the job in your Son's name we pray.
She put them back and stood up to study more closely the offerings and exhortations around the Virgin. The simple name
Mary,
written on a three-inch-square yellow Post-it and heavily decorated
with an elaborate green vine with purple and lavender flowers, had been
stuck to the wall over the Virgin's halo like a miniature
illuminated manuscript. Other Post-its, torn-off squares of typing
paper, and wide-lined sheets from children's schoolbooks had
quotes ranging from reassurance that
God notes the sparrow's fall
to the command (which reminded Kate of her recent discussions with Roz,
and which seemed remarkably inappropriate in a shelter for battered
women)
If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.
Around the bowl of prayer-wads, offerings had been laid, many of them
floral and either wilted or artificial. They were interspersed with
coins, a cross-stitched bookmark, and a string of lumpish beads made of
the bright oven-baked plasticine that Kate recognized from Jon's
experiment with Christmas ornaments. It was all sweet and rather
pathetic, and Kate turned away to see what else the room contained.

Four backless benches of polished oak had been arranged in an open
square in the center of the room, facing the four walls. The Virgin
Mary's shrine wall was to the right of the door; the wall with
the door in it bore only a plain wooden cross with a tall candle in
front, dignified and simple to the point of starkness. The left-hand
wall, across the room from the Virgin, was mounted with a deep wooden
shelf about six feet wide, roughly three feet off the floor. On the
shelf was propped a painting done on cheap canvas-board, a crudely done
landscape of hills, trees, and river, with an angel flying in the
clouds over it. The angel did not appear aerodynamic nor the landscape
very probable, but there were half a dozen other pictures leaning
against the wall to choose from, and Kate put her empty cup down on one
of the benches and went to flip through them. They included an
intricate mandala, a Star of David, the enlarged photograph of a
tropical island, and three framed prints: a Berthe Morisot mother and
child, an old-fashioned painting of children splashing in a river, and
a famous Eva Vaughn study of three children, the original of which Kate
had actually seen in the artist's studio. She greeted it like a
friend and thought about putting it up in place of the nonaerodynamic
angel, but resisted the temptation.