Every Move She Makes (4 page)

she told her assistant. Ile bent over and eyed something in the vicinity
of the Ice Man's right ear.

"Find something?" I asked.

"Hard to say. It may indicate that a blow to the head caused his death."

She glanced up, saw the bag I was holding. "Those were tucked beneath
his wedding band, between the metal and his skin." I was intrigued. What
was so important about the seeds that he'd hide them? And from whom? His
murderer? Had they searched him, and then, unable to find the seeds,
killed him? Or had he known he was about to die, and so had hidden them
to help identify the Killer? Or had he been digging around in a bunch of
seeds, unaware they were caught in the concave interior of his ring? I
gathered the victim's clothing, belongings, and fingerprint cards at the
conclusion of the autopsy, or at least my part in it, to take back to
the PD to book into evidence. Pending toxicology tests, Dr. Mead-Scolari
had not determined the cause of death. I stepped out the morgue door,
looking at the seeds, only to hear the doctor calling me. She glanced
behind her, then motioned me away from the doors. "You have a moment?"

"Sure.

"I was wondering if you couldn't do me a favor?" She dug into her lab
coat pocket and removed a single key, which dangled from a ring. "Could
you give this to Sam?" She held it out, and I knew before I even read
the name on the key that it belonged to the Range Rover that Sam bought.

I gave her a hesitant smile.

"Look," she said, "I know you and Sam aren't close-"

"To say the least."

"But he is your partner. I was hoping you could convey to him that I
don't under any circumstances want the car."

"I'm not sure it's my place." Politically correct for find someone else.

She dropped the key back in her pocket. "You're right. I guess I thought
he might listen to you. Sort of a neutral third party. I just wasn't
sure how he'd react when I tried to give it back to him when I see him
tonight. "Hey, Doc?" A coroner's investigator poked his head out of the
doorway. "That FBI guy you been waitin' for?

He's on the line, now. Says he can't wait."

"Damn it," she said, glancing back at him before returning her attention
to me. "Look," she said with some urgency. "I want to talk to you about
this before it's too late. I'll call you later." Before I could utter a
word, she hurried into the morgue, leaving me standing alone on the
north terrace to contemplate her mercurial behavior. I returned to the
Hall, running into my ex at the entrance. Tall, blond, and cerebrally
handsome in a navy suit, he could have stepped from the cover of GQ. "I
called your office," he said. "They told me I'd find you down here." He
undoubtedly wanted to know what had happened to our failed Napa trip,
and at the moment, I wasn't sure I wanted to discuss Scolari. I'd
intentionally not told Reid.

Any harsh feelings Scolari held for Reid were reciprocated tenfold.

"How'd the autopsy go?" he asked.

Let me Guess. He died from a blow to the head."

"Doesn't it bother you that we discuss dead bodies like normal people
discuss the weather?" "No. How'd he die?" And he wonders why we
divorced. "Actually, I didn't stay that long. I came to get the
evidence." I tucked the large paper bag beneath my arm as we walked.

"Any leads?"

"Not yet." Reid opened the door for me. So far, no mention of Napa. I
was on a roll. "Sort of a strange case, though," I said, deciding to run
it by him. As a DA investigator, he was involved in a number of homicide
cases.

"The pathologist found some seeds tucked between his ring and finger."

"What sort of seeds?" "I'm not sure yet. There's a professor out at UC

Berkeley I've used before. I may take them out to him." The ground floor
of the Hall was its usual sea of people, all on their way somewhere, the
importance of their own agendas apparent in the speed with which they
walked.

We waded through them to the elevator.

"Up or down?" Reid asked. "Property." He pressed the Down button. "You
look pretty serious today." I attempted a snlile. "Sorry. Got a lot on
my mind.

What'd you need?" The doors opened. We stepped in.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go to lunch?" His invitation threw me,
and my first inclination was to decline. The elevator descended, opened,
and we stepped into the basement, toward the Property room. I stopped in
the doorway, looked at him. "Was there something you wanted to discuss?"

"Not really," he said. "I just haven't talked to you for a couple of
days. Well, not since Napa." He shoved his hands in his pants pockets,
his expression hopeful. He did not lack in the charm department. "Look,
Reid. I'm sorry about standing you up. it's just something I can't
discuss right now."

"I'm not asking you."

"Wait here while I book this. I'll get back to you in a sec." I moved
past him into the Property room, where I signed the log, my mind telling
me to steer clear, despite the maturity with which he seemed to be
handling this. Why was I even considering it? Had Scolari been here, he
would have sarcastically pointed out that we got divorced for a reason.

And he would have been right.

One of the clerks approached, smiled when he saw me.

"Hey, Martin," I said.

"Gillespie. Bringing me more stuff?" He handed me a property sheet, and
I filled it out, writing "seven seeds" for item number two. Under
"Description" I included "Found with item number one," which was the
wedding band. "How's Joey?" I asked while I wrote. His grandson had been
hospitalized with meningitis.

"You'd never guess he was sick." Martin bearded.

"My daughter's sending me pictures of his first haircut." I handed him
the property sheet and the evidence, which I marked with my initials,
the date, and the case number. "Call me when you get the pictures. I'd
like to see them." I signed out on the log book, then rejoined Reid, who
had been watching from the doorway. "About lunch," he said. "Pizza," I
replied, my stomach making the decision for me. It wasn't a date. He was
my ex. We walked the two blocks to Giovanni's Italian deli, talking
about nothing in particular, a refreshing change from our usual
conversations about cops and cases. The restaurant was dimly lit, with
dark paneling and smoked mirrors lining the walls. For a pizza parlor it
was upscale, serving more of a business clientele, which was reflected
in the higher prices and white tablecloths throughout. We sat in a
corner booth, where a busboy brought us water and fresh garlic bread.

"You'll never guess who just walked in," Reid said, handing me the bread
basket. The scent of butter and roasted garlic filled the air. "Look in
the mirror. Sitting two booths behind you." I took a slice of bread,
still warm, as I glanced up into the bronzed glass. "Who?" Then I saw
exactly who he meant.

Nicholas Paolini.

Seeing him in person had a more profound effect than any of the numerous
phone threats I'd received since his arrest. Post-traumatic stress, I'm
sure the department shrink would tell me. I was well versed with the
term, being the victim of a shooting-something I blamed Paolini for.

Several months after his arrest and the ensuing phone threats, I was
shot while assisting in another drug bust in one of the buildings
Paolini owned. It was never proven that he'd been behind the threats or
the attempt on my life. And once he had posted bail, he had managed to
maintain his reputation as an upstanding, concerned citizen, while I'd
attempted to pick up the pieces of my life. For the several seconds that
I watched him in the mirror, I told myself that I was fine. And I was,
until he looked up, the reflection of his jet gaze locking with mine. At
forty-two, Paolini had dark hair and a Mediterranean complexion, giving
him an air of mystery that only added to his looks. I recalled having
been attracted to him during my assignment, something I'm sure he also
felt. The knowledge of his crimes, and my good sense, however, gave me
the advantage and kept me on the straight and narrow. I remember
wondering at his arrest if he felt that I'd betrayed him. After I was
shot, I was certain that he had. Not that it mattered now, I thought, as
he nodded and lifted his water glass in a mock toast. Sitting opposite
Paolini was a man of similar coloring, at least from the back. I
couldn't see his face and was curious as to his identity. "Who's that
with him?" I asked, ignoring Paolini completely.

"Antonio Foust."

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here." I dropped my gaze, turning my
attention back to Reid. Foust was reputed to be Paolini's hit man, the
suspected shooter in my case.

"You want to go somewhere else?"

"No. I'm fine." And I meant it. I was not going to let Paolini run my
life. I bit into the bread, focused on the delicate crunch, the melted
butter, not the man sitting behind me. Reid eyed me for a moment, as if
making sure I could handle the stress of being in the same room as
Paolini. "Where's Scolari?" he suddenly asked. "I've probably left him
half a dozen messages since Friday on the Soma Slasher cases."

"Called in sick."

"You say that like you think something else is up." Reid wasn't stupid.

I still didn't want to voice my concerns about Scolari, but he'd suspect
something if I brushed him off completely. "Have you ever known him to
call in sick?" "Maybe it's stress," he suggested. "Between his divorce
and the fifteen-hour days you've both been putting in working the
Slasher cases, who can blame him for calling in sick? Give him a couple
of days." "You're probably right," I said, though I wasn't convinced
this was something that would pass. Not after the strange conversation
I'd just had with Scolari's wife. Even so, I managed to guide the
subject to more neutral topics, Paolini not included. By the time we
finished our meal, he and Foust had already left. At precisely six that
evening, I paged Scolari from the office, and typed in a message about
the seeds as a ruse to check on him. I was curious as well as concerned.

How could I not be? Unable to shake the image of him committing suicide,
I told him I was coming over to discuss the case before he left to meet
his wife. I hoped he was at his apartment, and figured he'd have to come
back sometime to change. It was raining, and as I drove, my windshield
wipers kept beat to the steady downpour, like dual metronomes. About
halfway to Scolari's my pager went off. Certain it was from him, I
pulled it from my belt and read the message. HOMICIDE, SACPAMEN-RO

ST. RESPOND CODE -two.)?

I called dispatch and got the address. Right on the edge of Chinatown.

I pulled up to the scene about fifteen minutes later. Several marked
units had the roads blocked off, their emergency lights flashing blue
and red, their strobes making the raindrops appear frozen in place each
instant the white lights flashed. I put on a hooded raincoat I kept in
my trunk for just such occasions, and I parked my vehicle about a block
away, behind several radio cars and in front of a dark-colored sedan
with a smashed headlight on the driver's side. The antenna on top gave
it away as an undercover cop car. I didn't recognize the car as
belonging to anyone in Homicide. I showed my star to the officer on the
perimeter. I'd seen him around the Hall, but didn't know him. "Who's the
OIC?" I asked. "Majors," he said. He nodded toward a parking lot on the
corner, lit up with police cruiser spotlights. About half a dozen
uniformed officers, all wearing hooded yellow slickers, stood around a
dark-colored sports utility vehicle, boxy-looking and high off the
ground, the ever popular four-wheel drive. I owned a normal two-wheel
drive Honda sedan, opting for mileage over trends. I headed in that
direction. Lieutenant Majors I knew from my days on patrol. He ran the
Night Owls, the Night Investigation Unit. Their responsibility was to
start the preliminary investigation on any major crime that occurred at
night. It was supposed to save on overtime. Majors was about a head
shorter than the other officers, easy to pick out even with his back to
me. He stood near the rear of the vehicle. "What's up?" I asked when I
reached his side. "Hello to you, too, Gillespie," he said, shaking my
hand. "Actually, the reason we paged you is my guys are tied up on a
double homicide in the Mission district. You were it. Hope we didn't
interrupt anything?"