A Circle of Wives (2 page)

“So?” Peter asks.

“So, what I’m saying is that this might be an actual
murder
. In Palo Alto.”

I couldn’t have picked a more tranquil town to play cops and robbers. Palo Alto is an upscale university town about thirty-five miles south of San Francisco. Peter likes to tease me by reading out loud at the breakfast table the “Weekly Crime Watch” section of the
Daily News.
East Palo Alto and Redwood City get their share of drug busts and even shootings, but here we mostly issue tickets for barking dogs—a Palo Alto canine has fallen afoul of the law if it barks for more than ten minutes—and pick up intoxicated homeless people, to whom we give a meal and a place to dry out before releasing them back onto the streets.

I pull my new Toyota—recently financed by my promotion money—into the Westin’s circular drive off El Camino, and park it in a no parking zone. When a doorman gestures to hurry me along I show him my badge and he, suddenly gracious, opens the door for me. I’m still not quite used to this—the deference shown to me as an officer of the law. Although sometimes, of course, I get the opposite reaction: impudence or scorn, especially given my small stature and the fact that I’m a very young-looking twenty-eight years old. At least, when wearing the uniform, people believed I was an officer. In street clothes, even when I show my badge, some people openly express their doubts about my authority. I’ve had both men and women reach out and pat my head when I’m in the middle of questioning or even issuing a warning. Mortifying.

The Westin has been open less than a year, and although situated right off campus, I’ve never had cause to visit it before. They’d hardly find many reasons to call in the police. Mostly the hotel is frequented by well-heeled Silicon Valley types. The lobby is full of them when I arrive, milling around with cups of Starbucks and carrying binders that say EQUIS RESEARCH in bright red block letters. A placard proclaims
High Tech Investments: A New Paradigm for Risk Assessments
. Just another chance for the haves to help themselves to more.

I look for stairs, but none are obvious so I do something I hate, which is to take an elevator to the second floor. Once I exit the elevator car, signs indicate that room 224 is to my right. Deep plush piled carpet. Elegant gold-leafed tables holding elaborate bouquets of flowers, implausibly fresh and blooming—so implausibly that I surreptitiously pinch off a bright red blossom. I bring the flower to my nose. Real. Incredibly sweet, almost nauseating. Then I turn the corner and bump into a crowd gathered in front of room 224. I drop the flower and kick it to the side, hoping no one notices. The two cops guarding the door, Mollie and Henry, wave me through. I recognize Jake, a slight, balding man in his forties, kneeling on the floor over the body of a heavyset man dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, newish-looking sneakers on his feet. The body is on its side. A violent red contusion mars the forehead, and blood is spattered across the man’s cotton top. Behind Jake, a woman armed with a large camera and with an official badge hanging around her neck is photographing the area around the body. Two men, also with badges, are carefully filing away plastic evidence bags. I assume that they, like Jake, are from Santa Clara County. They’ve got a CSI Crime Lab there. We don’t even have a photographer on our staff. At crime or accident scenes we use our phones to take photos.

One of the cops guarding the room is Mollie, a new hire—the officer who called me. The other is her more seasoned partner Henry. Mollie seems a bit ill, but is doing a valiant job keeping what appears to be the hotel manager—he’s wearing a suit and a name tag—and a couple of women, also wearing name tags, from getting inside the room. They are pressed up as close as they can get, though, trying to get a clear view of Jake and the body. A Latina woman in a housekeeper’s uniform is standing off by herself. I push past them.

“It looks like he hit his head on the corner of the dresser when he went down,” says Jake, throwing me a pair of rubber gloves. We’ve worked together just once before. Last month, in fact. A homeless man had stepped in front of a car on University Avenue, the only other death I’ve had to deal with since I’d made detective. Open-and-shut case.

“What caused him to fall?”

“That’s the question,” Jake says. “I’m thinking heart attack. This fella doesn’t seem like he hit the gym very often. Although he may have died from striking the dresser here. There’s a lot of blood, but head wounds tend to be bloody.”

“Any ID?”

Henry hands me a wallet. Even I can recognize that it’s damn fine leather, there’s a buttery sheen to it that my fake leather purse could never aspire to. I begin pulling out cards. “John Taylor,” I read off a Visa then find a driver’s license in the same name. The always-unflattering DMV photo made this John Taylor look tired and somewhat older than his sixty-two years. A reddish, corpulent face. Nice head of hair, though, for his age. I find a Stanford University Medical Center ID.

“He’s a quack,” I say. “John Taylor, of Stanford Hospitals and Clinics. A fat doctor. Go figure.”

“What makes you think he was a doctor? Lots of people work over at the hospital, he could be a nurse, a technician, an orderly . . .”

“Yeah, but how many of them can afford a room at the Westin? Besides, it states it right here on his ID:
Dr.
John Taylor.”

Jake is frowning.

“What is it?” I ask. I’ve been careful not to stare directly at the body. I’m not particularly squeamish about blood, but I haven’t been in the presence of too many dead people.

“I’m seeing other signs of trauma. Unless this guy was in a bar fight recently, he’s got some ’splaining to do. See?”

Jake shows me an ugly raised bruise on the upper right arm.

“Seems like someone pummeled him.”

“And here.” On the left shoulder, another bruise.

The manager tries to step forward at this point, but is pushed back by Mollie.

“Officer,” he says to me.

“Detective.”

“Detective, I should tell you that this man checked in under another name. As Jonathan Tinley.”

One of the women with him speaks. “I was the one who registered him. He paid cash, so I didn’t ask for ID.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her, then add, remembering my training, “and neither did he. There’s nothing wrong with staying at a hotel anonymously. Wanting privacy isn’t a crime.” When Peter and I go on our low-budget vacations, he delights in giving ludicrous names when we check into the Motel 6. Mr. and Mrs. Tiny Thumb. Rapunzel and Vice Chancellor Charming. He’s still a boy, really, that Peter.

“Depends on what he wanted the privacy for,” says Jake, still kneeling on the floor over the body. “And cash in a place like this?”

“How much do the rooms cost?” I ask.

“The rates fluctuate depending on demand, but mostly four hundred dollars plus a night,” says the manager. “We rarely have cash customers, so Emma actually remarked upon it to me when she ended her shift. Apparently, he pulled out four one-hundred-dollar bills.”

“How long was his stay with you?”

“Just last night.”

“Who found him?”

“Rosa,” says the manager, and points to the woman in uniform. “One of the maids. Our checkout time is 11
AM
. She knocked on the door at noon, and when she didn’t get an answer, let herself in.”

Jake makes a noise. I turn to him.

“Here’s something else. On the upper back.” He stretches the neck of the T-shirt to expose the man’s shoulder.

I lean over and squint where he is pointing. I can’t see anything. Jesus, this man has one hairy body. On the whole, I like furry men. But this is almost grotesque. Underneath the hair the skin is mottled red and white.

“It’s small, but it’s there,” says Jake. “A slight puncture. Like a hypodermic needle would make. Can’t you tell? The small hole with the raised flesh around it?”

I squint again, but shrug. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. And I’m going to need to do a more complete examination at the lab. We definitely need an autopsy on this one.”

“What does that mean?” calls the manager from outside the room. He has that look people get when they’re trying to appear concerned but they’re really eager for dirt of some kind. We both ignore him.

“Have we got a wrongful death here, Jake?” I ask.

The manager can’t contain his excitement, and lets out an
ohhh
. The news will be all over the hotel the minute we leave the premises.

“No, not definitely.” Jake rubs his thinning hair with a gloved hand. “Just that I’m not signing off on this right away.” He picks up his cell phone and begins dialing.

I feel at a loss. I walk over to Mollie, my fellow newbie. “I guess our first step is to notify next of kin.” Jake nods at me as he waits for his call to be picked up on the other end of the line. “Whoever it is—I assume a wife,” I gesture at the wedding ring on the man’s left hand. “They’ll have to do a positive ID of the body as well.”

Mollie isn’t happy.

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s you, dude,” I say. “And you,” I point at Henry. “Go to his house in Palo Alto. Hopefully someone will be home.”

Mollie leaves with Henry, and I close the door to the room before turning to Jake, who still has the phone pressed to his ear. The photographer continues to take photos of the room, even the parts that look innocuous to me, like the professionally made bed.

“I dunno,” Jake says, covering the mouthpiece. “I have a feeling about this one.”

So do I.

I think longingly of Peter waiting at home with a fresh pot of veggie chili, pull my notebook and pen out of my backpack and say, “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

2
San Francisco Chronicle

Prominent Stanford Doctor
Found Dead in Palo Alto Westin

May 12, 2013

PALO ALTO, CA—Dr. John Taylor, a prominent plastic surgeon and head of the Taylor Institute of Plastic Surgery, was found dead of a presumed heart attack in the Palo Alto Westin on El Camino Real on Saturday, May 11, 2013.

Colleagues expressed shock on hearing of the demise of Dr. Taylor, who specialized in helping children with facial deformities due to trauma or birth defects. “John Taylor will be sorely missed, both in his personal life, and for the advances he has made in reconstructive surgery,” said Dr. Mark Epstein, a partner at the Taylor Institute.

Dr. Taylor is survived by his wife of thirty-five years, Deborah Taylor (55) of Palo Alto, and three children: Charles (32), Evan (31), and Cynthia (27).

Preliminary reports have determined Taylor died of a heart attack, sources say.

3
MJ

I’VE ALWAYS HATED THE TEDIOUSNESS
of Mass. The empty words, spoken with such grandiose reverence. Try to figure out their meaning, though, and you come up empty. Slippery words spoken by slippery folks. I’ve had little affection for priests since our parish rector violated a good proportion of the altar boys entrusted to his care, including my little brother Thomas, now a sad and troubled man. The annual altar boys’ picnic back in the 1980s was a bacchanalian orgy that effectively polluted a generation of young men in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
Glorious Gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains
, my ass.
That dog won’t hunt,
as I used to say. Talk about a wasteland of the spirit—Gatlinburg was it.

I’m standing in church now, trying to find a place to sit. For John. John’s funeral Mass. I haven’t been in a church for many years, much less a Catholic one. All the back row pews are taken. I certainly remember that phenomenon, Catholics wanting to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their dubious priests. I’m forced to keep moving up the aisle to find a space to squeeze into.

I’m in a strange state. I’ve spent the two days since I read about John’s death in the newspaper wandering around the house in a kind of trance, fits of crying interspersed with those of absolute fury, and bottomless panic. I’d managed to call some friends, listened to their disbelief and outrage, but nothing really penetrated the numbness underlying all the emotional outbursts. I told my two sons, who despite being adults couldn’t refrain from rather hurtful told-you-sos. And my brother Thomas accepted the news with silence. John’s death effectively quenched a few of Thomas’s grand financial schemes. But everyone is pushing me to move past the shock, and the hurt, and to be practical. To
take
action
.

In particular, my friends are urging me to get a lawyer. Last night I went so far as to start reading Yelp reviews of local divorce attorneys. Surely that type of lawyer would have experience with property rights. I don’t know where else to turn. I doubt anyone would have any legal advice for my particular situation.

For what do you do when your husband not only turns up dead, but already married?