Every Move She Makes (6 page)

Inspector Scolari?" another reporter shouted. "Hasn't he been
investigating the Slasher cases? If he is the suspect, maybe his wife
found something in the autopsies." I never hated the press more than I
did in that one moment. I hurried into my car, then slammed the door,
shutting out the voices with the tam of my engine. I maneuvered out, in
my hurried attempt nearly smashing the other headlight of the car behind
mine. I had no desire to be filmed running over every cameraman and
reporter in sight, despite the overwhelming urge. I couldn't wait to get
home, and it was close to dawn when I stepped into my apartment. The
moment I did, the phone rang. I picked up. "Hello?" Silence. "Sam?" Dial
tone. I dropped it in the cradle. Stared at it. Rain drummed against the
roof. I was cold, wet. My partner's wife was dead ... I stripped down,
took a scalding shower, then buried myself in bed, too tired to cry or
do much of anything else but fall into a deep sleep, haunted by
fragmented dreams of strobe lights and dead bodies. Everyone needs a
vice, especially working Homicide, and mine happened to be caffeine. The
expensive kind. It helped that I lived in Berkeley, since there's a
coffeehouse on every corner and in every nook, which is how I spent my
mornings off. It was no different this Wednesday, though a bit later
than usual, as I sat down with the paper, my double latte, and a
jalapefio bagel. I took a bite, but the moment I read the headlines, I
tasted nothing.

PATHOLOGIST MURDERED. HOMICIDE INSPECTOR WANTED FOR QUESTIONING.

There was a photo of the officers setting up a tarp over the Range
Rover. Even now, it was hard to believe. Scolari's wife dead-murdered.

The article went on to say that her husband, my partner, was wanted for
questioning. They might as well have come out and said he did it. What
else was the reader to think when one of SFPD's own happened to be
A.W.O.L. in the face of his wife's death? Not to mention their pending
divorce. I hadn't finished the article when my pager went off report TO

MANAGEMENT CONTROL. CODENVO. I still thought of them by their older and
less-than politically-correct name, Internal Affairs, since that was
their main function. IA was not where I wanted to be this morning, but
Code Two meant now, so I got a bag for my bagel and dumped my latte into
a cup to go. Forty-five minutes later I deposited my breakfast on my
desk, then headed up to M wishing I'd had the presence of mind to drink
my latte, while somehow ignoring my roiling stomach. My brain was on a
different plateau, somewhere between numb and la la land. I could have
used the caffeine. When I stepped off the elevator, I thought I saw
Scolari turning the corner at the end of the hall. Not until I rounded
the corner myself did I realize it wasn't Scolari, but his former
partner, Ed Zimmerman. The two were similar in build, and with their
graying hair, from behind were often mistaken for each other. Zimmerman,
however, had a ruddy complexion that made him look as though his blood
pressure was about to boil over any minute. It usually was. He stood a
few doors down from M and after glancing in the direction of their
office, he stopped me. It was probably the first time he'd made any
attempt to contact me since I'd transferred into the division, his
displeasure at being replaced by a woman more than apparent. Never mind
that I was a damn good cop. A number of peers, including Zimmerman and
my partner, felt I was a political pawn, placed in my position as a
token by the mayor.

"Don't screw him over," Zimmerman told me, his voice low, menacing.

"Meaning what?" "Meaning if you know something, you keep your goddamn
mouth shut." I said nothing. His comment deserved no response. He moved
past me without another word, and I continued on toward IA. The door
opened as I approached, and I was greeted by Lieutenant Mike Torrance, a
man as enigmatic as the division he headed. Internal Affairs was to the
officers as the CIA was to the public. Everything was done on a
need-to-know basis. They needed to know, we didn't. "Inspector
Gillespie," he said, his brown gaze holding mine. I'd heard some of the
women in the department called him "Lieutenant Torrid" behind his back,
speculating on what he might be like in bed, and hoping to lure him to
theirs. Tall, sable-haired, and dangerously good looking, he was rumored
to be gay. I rarely kept up on office politics or bed mates, being
careful to date outside the PD. Aside from his looks, I couldn't figure
out what all the fuss was over the man. He never smiled-an IA thing, I
presumed. Torrance directed me to a chair that faced a long table. On
the opposite side were three chairs, two filled by IA inspectors.

Sergeant Mathis I recognized from last night, and Torrance whispered
something in his ear just before taking a seat beside him. The third
inspector was a woman, Sergeant Linda Perkins.

Usually in these interviews, one inspector did the
talking and the other took notes, depending on the severity of the case.

Torrance's presence alone told me they considered this severe. The
interview began. After I repeated the events of last night, they took
turns asking me what I knew about Scolari's whereabouts the past few
days.

I told them I had no idea where he was.

"When's the last time you saw him, Inspector? And where?" "Here," I
answered. "Last Friday night. We'd just finished the preliminary on a
new homicide." "Did he talk to you about his home life? Did he seem
Scolari's emotionless voice haunted me. "He mentioned that his wife
wanted a divorce."

"Did he seem upset?" Torrance repeated.

"Scolari didn't reveal his feelings to me." "Well then did you leave a
message on his answering machine to call you?"

"I thought he might need someone to talk to."

"And did he get back to you?"

"No."

"Is there anything else you wish to add, Inspector?" I recalled my
conversation with Patricia at the autopsy. My guess was they already had
a copy of that tape, and knew very well what I had learned. "Dr.

Meadscolari had mentioned that Sam was going to meet her last night to
discuss their divorce. I gathered that she was concerned about his
unstable emotional state." Torrance and the other two investigators
stood. "Thank you, Inspector," he told me. "We'll be in touch if there's
anything further." As I left I heard Torrance say,
"Lunch?" "Yeah," Sergeant Mathis returned. "But you gotta drive. My cars
out at the Corp yard getting the headlight fixed. Someone backed into me
last night." My throat felt parched. When I got back to my desk, I
downed my cold latte, then dumped the bagel in the trash. I couldn't
help feeling like I'd thrown my partner to the wolves, even though I did
nothing but tell the truth. Zimmerman's warning not to screw Scolari
over echoed in my subconscious. What if they hadn't discovered the tape
of the autopsy? Unlikely as it seemed, it was possible. I looked around
the vacant office. While my coworkers weren't as blatant in their
distrust of me as Zimmerman was, the undercurrent was there just the
same, had been ever since our very liberal mayor insisted that SFPD

would have its first female homicide inspector for the millennium, and
that I should be the one-all because I arrested Nicholas Paolini. Would
my fellow officers in Homicide support me? I didn't want to know. Or
rather, I never wanted to be in such a predicament that I'd have to find
out. Knowing my lieutenant would be in shortly, if he wasn't here
already, I decided to leave. With IA involved, the place would be
crawling with investigators shortly, each being assigned a different
task. I didn't leave soon enough. Andrews strode in with the team
trailing behind him, two from IA, as well as Reid, bearing a search
warrant to access Scolari's desk, locker, and voice mail. Andrews stood
watching over the investigators, presumably to protect Scolari's
interests, but I knew as well as anyone else that in a case such as
this, the only interests being looked after were those of the department
and the city. In this age of multimillion dollar lawsuits, when you
crossed the blue line and got caught, you were offered for sacrifice-the
more blood, the better.

Excuse us, Gillespie," the lieutenant ordered.

I grabbed my purse and left without a word, catching the look in my
ex-husband's eye. A man on the hunt.

Outside in the parking lot, I ran into Zimmerman.

He stood between me and my car. I tried to move around him, but like a
cobra on the attack, his hand struck out, grabbed me. My shoulder still
hurt from my gunshot wound, which had never quite healed right, but I'd
be damned if I let him know. "Unless you're interested in a full body
cast," I said through gritted teeth, "you can remove your hand from my
arm." We stood there, eye to eye, for an eternal second, the challenge
clear. His normally red face took on a purplish hue. Finally he let go.

"I just want to know where Sam is."

"What makes you think I know?"

"You're his partner. He respects you." "Since when?" I asked, but he
didn't answer. I pushed past him to my car. Opening the door, I threw in
my purse before facing him. "I'll tell you the same thing I told them. I
haven't seen Scolari since last Friday night, nor do I have any idea
where he's at."

"He didn't do it."

"Then he better show up and start explaining." I got into my car,
slammed the door, and sped off. I didn't like Zimmerman, and his
feelings were more than clear about me. I'd probably have a bruise on my
arm where he'd grabbed me, and my shoulder felt stiff. A half hour
later, my arm still hurt, and I rubbed it as I picked my way carefully
across the moss-covered walk to the back stairs of my apartment. My
landlord's gargantuan orange tabby had parked himself on the bottom
stair, and I scooped him up, all eighteen plus pounds, scratching him
under the chin just to feel him purr. I let him go at my door. "Sorry,
Dinky. No milk today," I said, careful not to let him in. Besides being
overweight, Dinky was spoiled. I often harbored him in my own apartment
for his company, but if he didn't get his bowl of milk first, he'd meow
up a storm. After tossing my keys on the counter, then stashing my purse
in the cupboard, I turned, only to run into the cat. "How'd you get in?"

He meowed for milk and hopped up onto the kitchen counter, landing
quietly on the white hexagonal tiles, where he rubbed his back on the
empty dish rack. It was then I noticed the kitchen window open, the
yellow curtains floating with the breeze. A mockingbird's song drifted
in from the branches outside. I continued talking with the cat, keeping
my voice light. I'd checked that window before I'd left. I was almost
phobic about doors and windows. "You want some milk?" I reached into the
cupboard, and into my purse. My fingers grasped the rubber grips of my
Smith and Wesson. I pulled it out. "I don't know if I have any." I moved
through the kitchen, silent as the feline. Long shadows filled the
living room. The mockingbird's song stopped. My heart pounded against my
ribs like a Stryker saw.

"I'm not armed." I spun toward the low voice. Kept my gun pointed.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. "Scolari?"

He remained seated, in my favorite overstuffed arm chair.

I didn't lower my weapon. I didn't ask how he got in. "What are you
doing here?" He raised both hands palms out. They shook slightly, and I
saw a bandage on his left index finger. "I just need to know what's
going on."