3rd Degree (8 page)

“Do you know,” he said, raising his eyes, "that the power-ful multinational corporations now have an output larger than the GNP of ninety percent of the countries around the globe? They have supplanted governments as the system of social responsibility in our world.

“Why is it,” he laughed cynically, “we are so quick to rail against the moral outrage of apartheid when it threatens our racial sensibilities, but are so asleep to recognize it when it is economic. It is because we do not see it through the eyes of the subjugated. We see it through the culture of the power-ful. The corporation. On TV.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “but I'm here about four gruesome murders. People are dying.”

“Yes they are, Lieutenant. That's exactly my point.”

There was a part of me that would like to have grabbed Lemouz by the lapels and shaken him. Instead, I pulled out the photo of the au pair on Wendy Raymore's ID and a police artist's sketch of the woman videotaped walking into the Clift Hotel with George Bengosian. “Do you know either of these women, Professor?”

Lemouz almost started to laugh. “Why would I want to help you? It's the state who is the architect of this injustice, not these two women. Please tell me, who has committed the larger injustice? The two women suspects” - he threw the front page of the Chronicle across the desk at me - “or these sparkling examples of our system?”

I was staring at photos of Lightower and Bengosian.

“If these people are signaling the start of a war,” Lemouz laughed, “I say, let it unfold. What is the new phrase, Lieu-tenant?” He smiled. “The one Americans have embraced with all their moral imperative? Let's roll.”

I picked up the pictures, closed my pad, and placed it back in my bag. I stood up, feeling tired and soiled. I walked out on the Lance Hart Professor of Romance Languages before I blew him up.

I WAS STEAMING all the way back to the Hall thanks to Lemouz's sanctimonious rantings, plus my frustration that we weren't getting anywhere on these murders. I was still hot when I got to the office after six. I called Cindy and made a date to meet at Susie's. Maybe we could get something accom-plished over lobster quesadillas. I needed the girls on this.

As I hung up with Cindy, Warren Jacobi stepped into my office. “Yank Sing,” he said.

“Yank Sing?”

"It's a better bet than quesadillas. Dim sum. Women always open up with Chinese. You should know that, LT. While you're there, they say the chicken in salt and ginger caused the downfall of the Qin dynasty.

“Where you been?” He sat down. He had something for me. I knew that sly grin of his.

“Out wasting my time, in the People's Republic. You got something, other than the restaurant review?”

“We got a hit on the Wendy Raymore APB,” he said, grin-ning.

That got my juices flowing.

“A Safeway across the bay called in. Night clerk thought he recognized the face. There's a video on the way. He said she has red hair now and was wearing sunglasses. But she took them off for a second to count the cash, and he swears it's her.”

“Where across the bay, Warren?”

“Harmon Avenue in Oakland.” I drew a little mental map, and we both came to the same realization. “Near the McDonald's where little Caitlin was found.”

Geographically, it was starting to fit into place. “Get that photo to every storefront in the neighborhood.”

“Already done, LT.” Jacobi's eyes had that little sparkle they got when he was holding something back.

“There been a lot of calls,” I said, cocking my head at Warren. “What makes you think this one's real?”

He winked. “She was buying an asthma puffer.”

CINDY, CLAIRE, AND I had finished most of our Coronas and a plate of wings by the time Jill arrived. She hung her coat and came up warily to the booth, the nerves easy to read in her thin smile.

“So,” she said, dumping her briefcase, and tossed herself next to Claire, “who wants to be first to prod?”

“No dissection,” I said. “Wings... and here...” I tilted what was left of a beer into her glass.

We all raised our glasses, Jill a little hesitantly. We had this moment of quiet, everybody trying to figure out just what was right to say. How many times had we met together before? At first, four women with tough jobs who had come together just to pool our resources, solve a crime.

“To friends,” Claire said. “Ones who will be there for one another. That means for anything, Jill.”

“I'd better drink this,” Jill said, her eyes starting to grow moist, “before I run my nose in it.”

Jill drained about a third of the glass in a deep swallow. She drew a breath. “Okay, no reason to beat around the bush, right? You all know?”

Everyone nodded.

“Telephone, telegraph, tele-Boxer.” Jill threw a wink my way.

“If you're in pain, we're all in pain,” Claire said. “It would be the same for you if the roles were reversed.”

“I know it would.” Jill nodded. “So I guess what happens next is that you guys tell me I don't exactly fit the profile of the typical battered spouse.”

“I think the only thing that's next,” I said, wetting my lips, “is for you to tell us how you feel.”

“Yeah.” She drew a tight breath. “First, I'm not battered. We fight. Steve's a bully. He's never hit me with a fist. He's never struck my face.”

Cindy moved to object, but Claire held her back.

“I know that doesn't exonerate him, or justify anything. I just wanted you to know.” She bit her bottom lip. “I guess I can't describe how I feel. I've tried enough of these cases to know the range of emotions. Mostly, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed to admit that this is me.”

“How long has it been going on?” Claire asked.

Jill leaned back and smiled. “You want the truthful an-swer to that question, or the one I've been telling myself the past few months? The truthful one is, from before we were married.”

I felt myself clench my teeth.

“It was always something. What I would wear, something I would buy for the house that didn't fit his style. Steve's very big on telling me I'm stupid.”

“Stupid?” Claire gasped. “You run intellectual rings around him.”

“Steve's not dumb,” Jill said. “He just doesn't see a lot of possibilities. At first, he would just squeeze me, like here, in the shoulders. Always pretend that it was inadvertent. Once or twice he threw things when he had a fit. My purse. Once, I remember” - she started to laugh - “it was this slab of Asiago cheese.”

“Why?” Cindy shook her head, incredulous. “Why would he do these things to you?”

“Because I paid a bill late. Because I splurged on a pair of shoes when we were starting out and low on funds.” She shrugged. “Because he could.”

“This has been going on since we've known you?” I said, stunned.

Jill swallowed. “Guess I've been holding out on you guys, huh?” The waitress had brought some quesadillas and there was a Shania Twain song in the background. “It's like you're bribing me.” She dipped a quesadilla in some guacamole and laughed. “New interrogation method. `Yes, I know where Osama bin Laden is hiding, but please, another one of those little cheesy things if you would....'”

We laughed. Jill always knew how to make us laugh.

“It's never the big things,” Jill said. "It's always something trivial. The big things, I truly feel we really are partners in life. We've been through a lot together. But the small things...I accept a date for dinner with people he doesn't like. I forget to tell the housekeeper to take in his shirts. He

makes me feel like I'm a stupid child. Ordinary."

“You're anything but ordinary,” Claire said.

Jill dabbed at her eyes and smiled. “My cheerleaders...I could shoot the son of a bitch and you'd be praising my aim.”

“We've already been discussing that option,” Cindy said.

“You know I've actually thought about it.” Jill shook her head. “About who would try my case. Hey, I think I've let things get a little melodramatic.”

I asked, “How would you counsel a woman who came to you with the same predicament? Jill the prosecutor now. Not Jill the wife. What would you say?”

“I'd tell her I'd slap a suit on him so fast, it would be stick-ing to his ass the next time he took a shit,” she said, and laughed.

One by one, we all laughed, too.

“You say you need a little more time,” I said to Jill. “We're not here to make you change your life today. But I know you. You're staying around because you feel it's your responsibility to make this work. I want your promise, Jill. He doesn't even have to close his fist. If there's one more incident, I'll come and pack your things myself. My place, Claire's place, Cindy's... Well, forget Cindy's... it's a dump. But you've got choices, hon. I want you to promise, the next time he even threatens you, you're gone.”

There was a sheen on Jill's face, a glimmer in those sharp blue eyes. Something made me think I had never seen her look prettier. Her bangs curled a little over her eyes.

“I promise,” she finally said, blushing behind a smile.

“This is for real,” Cindy pressed her.

Jill raised her palm. “The Highland Park Brownies, swear on your sister and never betray; otherwise, your face will break out with huge zits, oath.”

“That sounds sufficient,” Claire said.

Jill took our hands in the middle of the table. “I love you guys,” she said.

“We love you, Jill.”

“Now, can we goddamn order,” she said. “I feel like I just took the law boards again. I'm starved.”

MAYBE IT WAS BECAUSE I didn't sleep, tossing the whole night because this SOB - who was always the first to dash away when one of his buddies had the urge to go golfing, and pretended to be this fawning, adoring husband in public - was hurting one of the sharpest girls in the city, someone I loved.

Whatever it was, the thought of Steve gnawed at me for most of the next morning, until I could no longer sit there, fielding calls, pretending to keep my mind on the case.

I grabbed my purse. “If Tracchio's looking for me, tell him I'll be back in an hour.”

Ten minutes later I pulled my car in front of 160 Beale, one of those glass skyscrapers off of lower Market filled with accountants and law partners, where Steve's office was.

All the way up to the thirty-second floor I was steaming, nearly hyperventilating. I pushed through the doors of Northstar Partnerships; a pretty receptionist behind a desk

smiled at me.

“Steve Bernhardt,” I said, dropping my shield in her face.

I didn't wait for her to call, but headed straight into the corner office I'd once visited with Jill. Steve was rocking back in his chair, in a lime green Lacoste shirt and khakis, on the phone. Without so much as breaking his tone, he winked and pointed me into a chair. I got your wink, pal.

I waited through the remainder of some business conver-sation, my anger growing as he peppered his call with over-used tech clich‚s like “Sounds like you're trying to boil the ocean on that one, buddy.”

Finally he signed off and spun around in his chair. “Lind-say,” he said, eyeing me, as though he wasn't sure what was going on.

“Cut the crap, Steve, you know why I'm here.”

“No, I don't.” He shook his head, then sort of shifted his expression. “Is everything all right with Jill?”

“You know, I'm doing my best not to lunge across this desk and cram that phone right down your throat. Jill told us, Steve. We know.”

He shrugged, innocently, crossing a pair of Bass Weejuns in front of my face. “Know what?”

“I saw the bruises. Jill told us what's been going on.”

“Oh” - he rocked back and arched his eyebrows - “Jill did say she was going out with the gang last night.” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, I'd love to sit and take you through some of our personal shit, but I've got a twelve-thirty down the hall....”

I leaned my face across the desk. “Listen to me. Listen closely. I'm here to tell you it stops. Today. You lay another hand on her... she breaks a nail that she doesn't want to discuss... she even comes into the office with a frown on her face, I'll get your name on an assault charge. You under-stand me, Steve?”

His expression never changed. He twirled the end of his short curly hair and chuckled, “Gee, Lindsay, everyone always said you were a ball buster, I just had no idea.... Jill has no right to bring you into this. I know this doesn't hold much weight with you full-time career types, with a dog and all... but we're in a marriage. Whatever goes on, it's between us.”

“No longer.” I glared at him. “Battery's a felony, Steve. I bust people like you.”

“Jill would never testify against me,” he said, then frowned. “Jeez, look at the time.... If you don't mind, Lindsay, they're expecting me down the hall.”

I got up. I didn't know how he could act this way. We were talking about Jill. “I want to put this in a way you'll under-stand,” I said. “You put one more mark on her, and the last thing you'll have to worry about will be Jill testifying. You go out for a run, you're in the garage late after work, you hear a noise that makes you jump...You'd better jump, Steve.”

I went to the door, barely taking my eyes off of him. Steve sat there, rocking, somewhere between speechless and inflamed. “Now, how's that for boiling the ocean, Steve?”

CINDY THOMAS SAT at her desk at the Chronicle, not quite feeling herself. She twisted the cap on her Fruitopia organic apricot juice and took a sip. Then Cindy opened the paper and scanned the front page. One of her bylines was in the right-hand column. Bold headlines: SECOND CEO MURDER HAS POLICE RE-EXAMINING THE FIRST.

She flipped on her computer to check her e-mail. The hunk in the bulging tank top and construction belt who acted as her screen saver came to life. Cindy clicked Internet Explorer and her e-mail came up.

Twelve new.

She noticed one from Aaron, whom she had split with four months ago. Having Pumpkinseed Smith at a recital at the church, 8:00 P.M., May 22. Can you make it? Pumpkinseed Smith was one of the best horn players around! You bet I'll