Deadly Lies (19 page)

“Expecting what?” Alex asked.

“A raise. What do you think, you ass?”

“Oh, Mike, what wonderful news,” Becky stood and rounded the table to kiss Mike on the cheek and hug Emma around her shoulders.

“Congratulations,” Alex said warmly. “When is the baby due?”

“June,” Emma answered.

“How are you feeling?” Becky asked, her cheeks glowing with pleasure.

“Good. Tired.”

They spent the next half hour eating and talking about babies. Alex studied Jill over the rim of his glass. She remained quiet throughout the meal, her smile politely detached. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she disappointed that Emma’s news upstaged hers? Was all the talk about babies boring her? Something had certainly caused her to draw inward, but he wasn’t sure what.

After hugs and kisses all around, they left. Returning home, Alex followed Jill inside the house, helping her with her jacket. He hung it on a hook inside the door.

“You look lovely tonight,” he said, admiring her in the soft glow from the lamp.

“Thanks,” she said, turning away.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she answered, but he wasn’t convinced.

“You sure? You’ve been pretty quiet all evening.” Alex placed his hands on her shoulders and stepped close to her, planting a soft kiss on her fragrant hair.

“Not much to say, I guess.”

Drilling straight into the heart of the matter, he looked down into Jill’s face. “Great news about Emma and Mike.”

“Yeah.” Jill stepped back, breaking contact.

“That was heartfelt.”

“What do you want me to say? Emma and Mike have managed to procreate. Good for them. What an accomplishment.”

Alex’s mouth sagged into a slight frown.

“I get it. You feel upstaged. But their pregnancy is great news, and from my parents’ point of view—well, they’ve been waiting for ages for one of their kids to reproduce. I think Mom has been ready to be a grandma much longer than she’d admit.

“They’ll be waiting a whole hell of a lot longer for us to be making that announcement.” Jill’s answering smile was sardonic, her razor-sharp tone slicing into him.

Alex’s expression was guarded as he tried to gauge Jill’s hard expression. Was she just angry? He took a deep breath.

“Wouldn’t you like to have kids?”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “Maybe someday, but I’ve just gotten a very big promotion. The timing couldn’t be worse, not to mention the weight gain, the stretch marks, the breast feeding …” Jill rolled her eyes.

They’d never talked seriously about having kids. He assumed they both wanted kids, and when the time was right, well, they’d throw birth control away and get started. Maybe it was Thanksgiving. Maybe it was Emma and Mike’s news. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hit the snooze button on the biological clock.

“When do you think the timing might be right?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was thinking that maybe we shouldn’t wait too long.” He flashed a boyish smile at her, in hopes of lightening the mood. “You know I’ve heard that trying is half of the fun.”

Her expression soured, and she turned, stalking past him.

“Maybe you should have married perfect Abby. She’s got a kid, right?”

“Jill,” he called to her.

She stood framed in the doorway to the kitchen as she looked back at him.

“I need a drink,” she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

A
lex bent forward, both elbows planted on the cluttered surface of the desk. He reviewed the autopsy and forensics reports on Natalie Watson for the third time. His eyebrows pinched together as he focused in on the words, building a clear mental picture of the last few moments of the teenage girl’s life. The results of the autopsy held no big surprises. Death by strangulation. Sexual contact. No semen. Skin under her fingernails showed that she had put up a fight.

The toxicology screen was clean, but that was inconclusive. Many of the typical date-rape drugs were flushed out of the victim’s system quickly, and that’s what Alex thought had happened to Natalie. It would have been easy for Honeywell to slip something into her coffee, knocking her out cold for at least six hours. The drug would have worn off in time for her to be conscious for her struggle. The state of the body marked the time of death within eighteen hours of her disappearance. At least she hadn’t suffered long.

Forensics showed that the blood samples lifted from the floor of the Winthrop cabin did indeed match Natalie’s. They had a few hair samples from the couch; some matched Natalie’s, and some that proved a DNA match to the skin sample they had taken from the corpse.

After Winthrop, the trail grew cold, and Alex was certain that Honeywell had left town soon after burying Natalie on the hillside. Curling his hand into a tight fist, Alex pressed his fingers against his
lips and continued to think about Honeywell. Kayla Miller was still missing. He was convinced Honeywell had fled to California, and he wondered if Kayla was another of his victims.

The Medford police said the waitress working with Kayla the night she disappeared saw a guy who looked like Honeywell in the café but couldn’t be sure it was him. She swore he left before the café closed. Without more to go on, finding Honeywell was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. How long could the bastard hide?

“Alex?”

Swinging around in his chair, Alex saw the smiling face of Kris Thompson, with Jackson lumbering in behind. He noticed that Kris and Jackson carried matching cups of coffee. Leaning back, Alex allowed himself to hope for some good news. “What have you got?”

“A ping on Honeywell’s bank account.”

“Tell me,” Alex said, glancing past Kris to a sober-faced Jackson.

“The hit comes from an ATM machine in San Jose, California.”

“Son of a bitch must be hurting for cash.”

“Let’s get the tape from the ATM camera and see if we’ve got a clear picture of Honeywell mugging for the camera,” Alex said.

“Already under way, Boss. I’m having them upload the footage to our secure server. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” Kris’s smile was radiant, and Alex nodded in approval.

“Great work.” After the long dry spell since finding Natalie’s body, the welcome lead had him smiling for the first time in days.

Less than two hours later, the trio was huddled around Kris’s computer, examining the black-and-white video stream. Instead of seeing the face of Jerry Honeywell captured by the video from the ATM’s security camera, they saw a skinny guy, early twenties, wearing a white T-shirt and a leather vest bearing what looked to be gang insignia.

“Get some hard copies. Face. Vest. Let’s nail down the gang affiliation.”

Jackson nodded at Alex.

“I’ve got a buddy in the SFPD. Luka Petrovich. We used to work Vice together back in the day. Bet he knows how to track down this son of a bitch. He’s got some pretty persuasive interrogation tactics.”

The two locked eyes. The timing was perfect. At Jill’s goading, Alex had agreed to present at the Major City Chiefs’ Conference in San Francisco. Maybe he could do a little legwork on the case while he was there.

“Let’s give him a call.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

A
fter giving his address to the crème de la crème of the American law-enforcement community, Alex left the Major City Chiefs’ Conference and made a beeline for the Hall of Justice, home of San Francisco’s homicide squad. He found himself escorted back through the winding maze of industrial-mint hallways, which opened up to the homicide’s bull pen.

“He’s over there.” The sergeant pointed a gnarled finger toward the back corner of the room.

“Thanks,” Alex said.

Detective Luka Petrovich was slumped in a chair behind his desk, facing away from Alex as he approached. A thin woman was perched on the edge of the detective’s desk, arms folded, face stern, looking like a librarian scolding a student. Her thick red hair was pulled severely back from her face, further emphasizing her disapproving glare. Slowing, Alex hung back, still within earshot.

“So how did the suspect end up breaking his nose?” she asked, eyes narrowed as she focused on the detective. Her thick orange eyebrows formed a straight line over her hazel eyes, and she impatiently awaited the answer.

“He tripped and hit the table.” Broad shoulders shrugged beneath a wrinkled white shirt, and Alex discerned a thick Russian accent.

“That’s not what he said.” Eyebrows lowering further, the woman glowered.

“You could check camera,” Petrovich suggested in a helpful tone, as if she hadn’t thought of that already.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes cast fiery arrows at the detective. “Why yes, I could have, if the video hadn’t failed.”

“Really?” Head tilted to one side, the detective continued. “Well, station in Vallejo is not well maintained. Budget shortages.” He shook his head in what appeared to be mock wonder. “What can you do?” His accent made his
w’
s sound more like
v
’s. Based on the look on the woman’s face, she remained unconvinced.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion, Detective Petrovich. If I get one more complaint about you, I’m going to recommend a thorough investigation into your conduct.” Her voice trailed off then as she glanced at Alex.

“Detective Petrovich? I’m Alex Shannon, Seattle PD. We spoke on the phone.”

Luka rolled back in his chair and stood, extending a hand, an easy smile crossing his face—one that was strictly at odds with the scowl sported by the woman facing him.

“This is Detective Shelia Holmes. Internal Affairs.”

Alex tried not to let the surprise he felt register on his face when he shook her hand. Ignoring Alex, she cast a disapproving glance toward Petrovich before stalking away, her thick heels clacked on the floor.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt.” They both watched her leave.

“Redheads hate me,” he said, with an impish smile. “She’ll be back. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Good, let’s go.” Luka stood and grabbed his jacket. The Russian accent was now more subtle, and Alex suppressed a grin. Was playing the rube a tactic Petrovich used often to deflect uncomfortable questions? If so, it was a good one.

As Luka headed toward the exit, Alex shot him a quizzical look and glanced over toward the break room in an unspoken question.

“We could stay here, I guess,” Luka said in his accented English, “but I wouldn’t want to kill you on your first day in San Francisco.”

Luka sped through the roller-coaster city streets. Winding their way through the Tenderloin district, Alex briefed Luka on the case. The car came to an abrupt halt outside a little bakery on Russian Hill. Alex could hear the bells from Saints Peter and Paul Church tolling the hour, its twin towers reaching up into the blue sky. Several tables lined the sidewalk in front of the large plate-glass windows. Coffee-drinking patrons huddled around their steaming cups, cigarette smoke swirling into the brisk morning air.

An old man occupied the seat closest to the door, squinting against the stream of acrid smoke. He traded nods with Luka. The detective clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past. “Hey, Pops.”

Just as Luka opened the door, a pretty woman, dressed in business attire, strode past. Alex caught the look that passed between the two. Mutual admiration. He couldn’t help but notice that the San Francisco detective turned his share of female heads with his Slavic good looks and movie-star smile.

“So what will you have?” Luka asked as they reached the counter.

“Coffee, nothing fancy,” Alex said, and he glanced around the bakery. The smell of bread and pastries filled the air, and his stomach rumbled in response. A woman emerged from the back. She called out in Russian over her shoulder and finished tying the apron around her narrow waist. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back into a loose bun. Dark, almond-shaped eyes dominated her face. The smile on her lips froze as she shifted her gaze from Alex to Luka. Her expression hardened, and she placed her hands on her hips.

“Good morning, Sasha,” Luka said with a lopsided smile. “Two coffees and two chocolate-almond croissants, and some Liru compote.”

The woman stood staring at him for a long moment, as if she hadn’t quite heard what he had said. Her eyes bore into the detective before she gave a quick nod. Without a word she deposited the coffee
mugs and the pastries on the counter. Elegant fingers poked the cash-register keys as she rang up the sale.

Luka handed a coffee to Alex and gestured toward a small table in the corner. He fished a wad of cash out of his pocket, flattened out a couple of rumpled bills, and gave them to the cashier. “Thank you.”

Balancing the plates of pastries and the coffee mug in his large hands, Luka took the stool across from Alex.

“Best pastries in San Francisco,” Luka said as he pushed a plate across the table.

“She likes you.” Alex nodded toward the counter. The cashier still stood glaring at Luka’s broad shoulders.

“We have some history,” the San Francisco detective shrugged.

“You don’t say?” Alex took a sip of his coffee and glanced back at the woman.

“She’s my ex-wife.”

Alex tried not to spit the hot coffee out of his mouth. Luka’s full lips twitched at the corners, and he glanced past Alex and out the window. Alex cleared his throat as he set the cup down in its saucer. “You’re right about the coffee. It’s great.”

“This is my father’s bakery.”

“And your ex-wife works here?”

“They still consider her family.” Luka’s shrug was slow.

Alex dipped a corner of the pastry in the compote as he watched Sasha stalk into the kitchen. The door swung closed behind her.

Wadding the croissant into his mouth, Alex closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, appreciating the contrast between the light buttery texture of the pastry and the rich, bright berry compliment.

“What’s the jam? I’ve never heard of Liru compote. Is it a Russian native dish?”

“It’s just a mix of regular berries. ‘Liru’ is the name of the person who invented the recipe,” Luka explained.