12th of Never (Womens Murder Club 12) (12 page)

Yuki watched Lynnette Lagrande step down from the stand. She had recovered much of her poise. Looking neither left nor right, she walked up the aisle and back out through the front door of the courtroom.

Had the jury believed her?

All of them?

Honest to God, Yuki didn’t know.

CONKLIN AND I stood outside Tracey Pendleton’s front door. Her house was small and nearly identical to the surrounding cheap wooden houses, which had been built in the fifties.

School was out. Kids called out to each other as they biked along the patched asphalt on the poor residential street. Cars with loud radios and old mufflers sped past.

We had knocked on the door, peered through the dirty windows, and looked up and down to see if Pendleton’s Camaro was parked anywhere on Flora Street. It wasn’t.

It didn’t appear that the ME’s night-shift security guard was at home.

Conklin and I had our weapons out and were ready to execute the warrant that gave us the legal right to break down Pendleton’s door.

I stood back, looked under the cushion of the porch rocker, and found it just as Conklin kicked open the door.

“Oops,” I said, holding up the key.

Conklin called out, “Miss Pendleton, this is the police. Please come out with your hands over your head. We just want to talk to you.”

There was no response and no sound coming from the house at all.

The house had two and a half rooms—about four hundred square feet altogether—and I could see almost every inch of it from the doorway.

We were standing in the living room, which was furnished with a worn brown sofa and a sagging armchair. The TV was off, and the only movement was the upward spiral of dust motes in the dim ray of sunlight coming through the window.

Conklin went ahead of me and toed open the bedroom door. A moment later, he called, “Clear.”

I went ahead to the kitchenette, checked the broom closet, then called out to Conklin that the room was empty.

There was a pot of old food on the stove, one dirty dish, one glass in the sink. The refrigerator was empty, except for the bottle of vodka in the freezer. The garbage pail held two beer bottles and an empty can of Beefaroni.

Conklin came in and said, “Her suitcase is in the closet. I couldn’t find a weapon.”

He checked under the sink and found more vodka standing among the containers of Mr. Clean, Easy-Off, and Windex.

We went through the house again. There was no computer, no sign of pets. No purse. No keys. We searched the hamper, the cabinets, and drawers, but found nothing but the residue of a life lived on the night shift and boozy days spent passed out on a single bed.

Conklin used a dish towel to pick up the phone. He tapped the redial button, then let me hear the ringing. The call was answered by a recorded woman’s mechanical voice announcing the time and temperature.

Conklin said, “It’s like she checked the time, went to work, then vanished along with Faye Farmer’s body. Where’d she go? Who is she, anyway?”

I called the squad room.

“Lieutenant, we need a warrant to dump Pendleton’s phone records and see her bank activity. Yeah, there’s no sign she’s been home in the last twenty-four hours. There’s hardly any sign of life here at all.”

WE WERE SEATED at the polished stone conference table at Fenn & Tarbox. Brady, Conklin, and I sat along one side. Five lawyers and their thirteen-million-bucks-a-year client held down the swivel chairs across from us, the backs of their heads reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass was a wide waterfront view of the Ferry Building and the Bay Bridge, sparkling against a dusky sky.

We’d been introduced to the senior partner, the silver-haired George Fenn, who now took his place at the head of the table. I forgot the names of his younger associates because I was riveted by their client, Jeffrey Kennedy, superstar linebacker for the San Francisco 49ers and also the former reputed fiancé of the late celebrity designer Faye Farmer.

Fenn was friendly, even affable, when he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Sergeant Boxer. All good. I’m glad you’re working this case.”

Maybe he was glad that I was working the case. Or maybe the big-time lawyer was working
me
so that we didn’t bring his client down to the Hall for questioning.

Jeff Kennedy was twiddling his BlackBerry, giving me a chance to look him over without being rude about it. I’d seen him on TV, of course, and from high up in the bleachers. I’d watched him wrestle down tailbacks with his 4.4 speed, sack quarterbacks as though they were rag dolls, then shake off goal-line pileups like a cocker spaniel after a bath.

But now I was getting the up-close-and-personal view of this human tank.

Kennedy was strikingly handsome, with a strong jawline, an off-center nose, gray eyes, and plenty of dark hair. He hadn’t shaved and his clothing was rumpled, as though he hadn’t cleaned up in a day or two. Even though the air-conditioning was blowing, Jeff Kennedy was sweating.

George Fenn said, “Just so you know, we’re taping this meeting. Standard procedure.”

Brady said, “Mr. Fenn, this isn’t a deposition. We just want Mr. Kennedy to tell us about Ms. Farmer.”

“Of course,” Fenn said. “But still, we always tape for the protection of our clients.”

Brady flipped his hand as if to say, “Fine,” and then asked Kennedy, “When did you last see Ms. Farmer?”

Brady was a first-class interrogator. It was going to be a pleasure to watch him question the man who was quite possibly the last person to see Faye Farmer alive.

KENNEDY PUT HIS BlackBerry on the table and said to Brady, “Last night. Well, it started in the afternoon. We had a party. Me and Faye. A bunch of our friends came over. Different people at different times drifted in and out.”

He spoke haltingly. Was he remembering the event? Had he been coached? Or was he in shock? Brady asked for the names of his friends and Kennedy listed six ballplayers and eight women, including Faye Farmer.

“What was the occasion?” Brady asked.

“No occasion. Just hanging out. Drinking. Watching videos of old games. And then Faye got worked up about nothing. She’d do that if she wasn’t getting enough attention. Or if I was getting too much. I told her to chill, and she told me to eff myself.”

His cheek muscles twitched. His hands clenched on the table, as if he were having a bad dream or an angry thought.

“You’re saying you fought,” Brady said.

“I ran after her,” said Kennedy, “but she drove off. The next thing I know, it’s morning and a friend is calling to say, ‘Turn on the TV.’”

Kennedy shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

Brady said, “Which was it this time? She didn’t get enough attention? Or you got too much?”

“There was an extra girl. Friend of one of the other girls. She was showing a little too much skin. Kept flouncing around me. Touched me a few times.”

Kennedy named the girl and the girl’s friend, and then Brady asked, “Did you see or speak to Faye after she left your house?”

“No. I didn’t call her. I was still pissed that she went all diva in front of my guys. If only I’d stopped her. Taken her for a walk or a smoke or something. What the hell am I supposed to do with myself now? We were supposed to get married.”

Conklin asked Kennedy what time Faye left the party, and Kennedy said he didn’t know.

“It was late,” he said. “I’d had a few. Now I gotta live with the fact that we had a fight and I never saw her again. Christ. We were in love. We were really in love.”

Tears fell from Kennedy’s eyes. He used his forearm to dry his face. Fenn put a hand on his back, said, “Take it easy, Jeff.”

Brady said, “Mr. Kennedy, do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt your fiancée?”

“You cannot know what people think about people they see on TV,” said Kennedy. “People are crazy. They stalk celebrities. Sometimes they shoot them. But do I know any specific person who hated Faye enough to kill her? No. And now I have a couple of questions for you.”

I looked up from my notepad. Kennedy had his massive forearms on the table and was leaning in, looking menacing. “Where is Faye’s body? How could someone have stolen her out of the ME’s office? How are you going to find her killer if you don’t have her body?”

“Forensics is processing her car,” I said. “Do you own a gun, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Hell, no. Are you seriously asking me that?”

I said, “Does the name Tracey Pendleton mean anything to you?”

“Who?”

I repeated the security guard’s name. Kennedy grunted, “Never heard of him.” Then he shot up from his seat and, crying, stumbled out of the conference room.

Fenn was saying, “He’s understandably upset.”

Kennedy seemed appropriately devastated and clueless. But I wasn’t buying that his breakdown meant that he was innocent. He had graduated from Stanford with honors. He was 230 pounds of muscle and he’d had a fight with his girlfriend.

Kennedy was a smart jock with a cultivated violent streak.

That could be a lethal combination.

I OPENED THE front door to our apartment at just about 8:00 p.m. I was desperate to hold our baby, have a bath, a glass of wine, and a bowl of pasta with red sauce. I wanted to get out of my clothes and hug my husband and sleep until morning, not necessarily all at the same time.

I called out, “Helloooo. Sergeant Mommy is home.”

Martha careened around the corner, jumped up against me, and would’ve knocked me down but for my baby weight keeping me anchored.

Girly laughter came from the living room.

What was this?

I followed Martha around the bend and saw that the Women’s Murder Club was loosely arrayed around the room. Claire danced Julie on her thighs and held her up for me to see. Couldn’t help but notice that the baby had a pink gift bow stuck to the top of her head.

“Heyyy,” Claire said. “Look who I’ve got.”

“Heyyy,” I said back. “Give her to me.”

I grinned at my baby and at the same time noted Claire’s slurred greeting and lazy laughter, the open bottles of wine and empty glasses on the coffee table. A party had started without me.

Joe was on his feet and coming toward me with open arms. He kissed me and asked, “What can I get you?”

I tipped my chin toward Claire, said, “I want what she’s having.”

Yuki’s laughter is one of the most adorable sounds I’ve ever heard. If laughter were a flower, Yuki’s laugh would have to be called merry bells.

Julie was laughing, too, as Claire flew her over to me. I said, “Hang on a sec.”

I removed my jacket and gun, then took Julie into my arms. And still she didn’t cry.

“Aren’t you the little party girl?” I said.

I sat down, kicked off my shoes, and smooched my pretty baby as Cindy brought over cheese and crackers and Joe put a glass of Merlot on the lamp table.

“So,” Cindy said, sitting so close to me on the sofa she was almost in my lap. “How was your first day back at work?”

My reporter girlfriend was interviewing
me
. We all just cracked up, Cindy saying, “What?
What?
”

I said, “It was a long twelve hours.”

“We brought presents,” said Yuki.

Gifts were on the coffee table and Joe took Julie so that I could open the sixteen-flavor margarita kit from Yuki, a stack of Monster Proof pajamas from Cindy, and a pair of Giants tickets from Claire. Front-row seats!

My postpartum party was great, but after I slugged down my wine, I began to fade.

Claire clapped her hands and said, “Time to go, girlfriends. Lindsay, we’re making Morales an honorary member of the club, summer pass only. Come with us to Susie’s?”

“Me? Thanks, but I’m a dead mom walking.”

Everyone laughed and I hugged them good-bye at the door, shouting after them, “Claire, let Cindy drive.” I took Julie back from Joe, and what do you know? As soon as the girls were gone, Party Girl started to cry.

“Aww, sweetie.”

I sank into Joe’s armchair and patted Julie’s back as Joe cooked dinner and then put the baby to bed.

He kissed me, sweaty as I was, and he said, “Why don’t you hit the rain box?”

When I returned from my shower smelling like lavender, wearing blue pj’s, barefoot, and with my hair up in a ponytail, linguine marinara was on the table and Louie Armstrong was on the Bose.

“Tell me about your day,” said my wonderful Joe.

AFTER THE MEETING at Fenn & Tarbox, Rich Conklin had stood on Battery Street with Brady and Lindsay, their collars up against a misty rain.

Brady had said what they’d all been thinking—that if Kennedy had motive and a gun, he could have gotten into the car with Faye Farmer, shot her, then walked home. He would never have been missed at his free-floating party.

If
he had a motive.
If
he had a gun.

They still had no idea how Faye Farmer’s body had left the morgue and if the theft had anything to do with her murder.

The three had parted, driving away in separate cars.

There was almost no traffic downtown, and Rich drove from the Embarcadero Center through North Beach and Pacific Heights without catching a single light. From the Richmond he crossed the Panhandle on his way to the apartment he shared with Cindy on Kirkham.

As he drove, he thought about Jeff Kennedy’s story about his last fight with Faye Farmer, and understood how frustrated the man had been with the woman he loved.

He and Cindy had also been fighting. He said she was inconsiderate. She said that
he
was. He thought she’d changed. She shrugged, said, “Maybe I have.”

He wanted comfort and affection when he came home. And maybe some good sex once in a while.

She said, “I’m busy,” and “I’m tired.”

Rich grabbed his cell from the passenger seat, speed-dialed Cindy, and when she didn’t answer their home phone, he called her cell.