Tell No Lies (32 page)

“I’m not leaving unless I hear you’re okay. So you’re gonna need to say something now. Or I’m coming in there.”

At last a faint voice floated through the door. “Go away,” it said.

Chapter 50

Designated “The Original Cold Day Restaurant” on its plates and mugs, Tadich Grill is the oldest eating establishment in the state. It predates Coit Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge and does its best to conjure the past, from the dangling Art Deco light fixtures and brass accents to the brash, white-jacketed staff. Daniel found Dooley toward the end of a sailboat-length handmade mahogany bar that had survived the move from Clay Street a half century ago. She stuck out among the lawyers and financial consultants sitting shoulder to shoulder. Even more professionals lined the walls, flicking lint off their dark pinstripes as they waited for stools to free up.

She’d held a chair for him, a midday miracle effected no doubt by her flinty cop demeanor. On the starched napery before her sat the trademark bowl of lemon wedges and half loaf of sourdough, as well as sand dabs, oysters, and bowls of clam chowder
and
cioppino. She slurped at a half shell and said, “Couldn’t make up my mind. Plus, I eat when I’m stressed.” She made a have-at-it gesture toward the array of plates.

He shook his head, his appetite having gone missing since he’d seen the printed face of Francisca Olvera. “You’re more stressed than before?” he asked.

“Uh, have you watched the news? The Tearmaker: bigger than Bundy. Anderson Cooper and Brian Williams, top billing on Drudge. Jon Stewart even riffed on it.”

“Where are you with the case?”

“To start with the physical evidence,” Dooley said, “the shiny new old coins are still baffling. Did he work for the mint? Is he OCD? We’re looking into acids, coin collector’s gear, but we don’t even have a strong working hypothesis.” She spooned some clam chowder into her mouth. “Molly Clarke is stable, moved, and hidden. We’ve tracked down and relocated other workers involved with the medical trial, key hospital staff have raised their security—”

“The
girl,
” he prompted.

“We are looking into everything we can find on that kid. Which ain’t much. O’Malley and Rawlins zeroed in on a couple of clinics that treated her, found the place she died. They’re running down staff from four years ago, but there’s a lot of turnover, and those they’ve found don’t remember particulars. A lot of sick kids between then and now, unfortunately. The father is still unknown, and the mother—Viviana Olvera—fell off the fucking radar, probably to help plan
this.
But it’s a huge break. Thanks to you. And your wife. How’s she doing in the face of…?”

The smell of mesquite wafted over from the grill. Daniel said, “She’s been happier.”

“Because of your mother’s involvement?”

“And mine. In going to my mother.”

Dooley stopped chewing. Or at least slowed. “You never told her.”

“No.”

After a respectful pause, Dooley tore a hunk of sourdough from the loaf and swiped it through the remnants of clam chowder. “There’s a long list of people we need to protect here. Anyone who had anything to do with Francisca Olvera getting bumped from that study. And your mom? She’s the one who pulled the strings.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Get her out of town. We haven’t received the next death threat yet.” Her gaze was focused, intense. “Could be anyone.”

“I’ve got group tonight. I’ll check my mailbox.”

“We already took the liberty. Nothing in there from yesterday or today.”

He said, “So we wait?”

“Wait,” she said. “And look over our shoulders.”

*   *   *

The wing chair enfolded Evelyn like a cloak, the library air redolent of leather-bound books and smoldering birch from the fireplace. She glared out at Daniel. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”

“You made the call, Mom. You got Cris into the study. Which means you’re a potential target, too.”

A dismissive flare of the hand. “Oh, honey. Getting victimized—that’s for
other
people.”

“Mom. I’ve seen this guy. Up close. Believe me: You don’t want to be up here on a cliff in a house with three hundred windows.”

She studied him for a few moments, then said, “James?”

An instant later he was in the doorway.

“Pack us,” she said. “We’re going to the Fairmont.”

James eased back out of view.

“Mom, this is serious. You need to leave the city.”

“What’s the killer gonna do?” she said. “Storm the penthouse at the Fairmont?”

They argued for a few minutes, but she was resolute as ever, and soon enough Daniel found himself in the quartz driveway leaning against his car, watching James supervise a raft of attendants wielding hatboxes and matching luggage. The town car departed, and James ran back to the garage, and moments later there Evelyn was in the backseat of her ridiculous 1938 Bugatti coupe with its Batmobile aerodynamics and magisterial snail-shell wheel wells. It pulled even with Daniel, reducing the smart car to a tricycle.

“I’d imagine Chiquita was upset at last night’s nonrevelation,” Evelyn said over a slab of tinted window.

“Cristina. And yes.”

“Well. Thank you for seeing me to the room. I’m sure you’d rather not, but your sense of duty is admirable.”

He followed her across the city to the peak of Nob Hill, where he left his car with the fifty-dollar valet and rushed into the mob of waiting hotel staff. He was recognized by the manager and ushered into the elevator with Evelyn and the penthouse staff, which included a butler, a trio of housekeepers, a massage therapist, and a chef, and then they were riding up to the most expensive hotel suite in the United States.

Occupying the entire span of the eighth floor, the penthouse featured respective bedrooms in purple, cream, and peach, and a living room so large it dwarfed the grand piano. JFK had stayed here, as had Tony Bennett. Daniel recalled his mother once complaining that she’d been unable to secure a weekend due to a booking by King Hussein of Jordan. Or had it been Gorbachev?

The staff acquainted Evelyn with recent upgrades, taking notes on clipboards, making wine selections, adjusting thermostats in various rooms. Daniel grew impatient, exhausted by the pomp and spectacle. They passed through the vast dining room with its silver-and-black chinoiserie wall covering, the chandelier and sconces glimmering with thousands of bits of Czech crystal. The lofty rotunda of the library featured gold-leafed constellations against an azure sky, and they’d added a secret passageway behind the books of the second story. No, Mrs. Brasher would not be needing use of the Ferrari California. Yes, roast suckling lamb would be ideal, as long as it was boned, at 8:00
P.M.

As the butler set out the Tiffany china and the housekeepers arranged fresh-cut flowers in Chinese porcelain vases, Evelyn retired to the nearest bedroom.

Daniel found her sitting on the bed, framed by an immense David Hockney. Spread on the duvet beside her was a hotel spa robe, Evelyn’s initials freshly stitched at the breast.

“Well,” he said tightly, “I’m gonna get back to my day, then.”

“So soon?”

He paused at the door. Struggled to keep the hostility from his voice. “I’ve got work.”

“You won’t stay for dinner?”

“I’m assuming you’ll be well looked after in my absence.”

“But, honey.” She gave a wry smirk and flung an arm across her forehead in mock Lichtensteinian despair. “It’s all just so
inconvenient.
”

Chapter 51

Cris trudged downstairs, her face drawn and gray. She still wore Daniel’s button-up shirt, but the cuffed sleeves had fallen to cover her hands.

Leo sat at the counter, gun resting near his hand about three inches from his pinkie, a placement he had calculated punctiliously, no doubt, as the ideal distance for a grab-and-aim.

She crossed to the sink and vomited neatly two, three times. Leo rose, handed her a dish towel, and returned to his stool. Wiping her mouth, she ran the water and the disposal, then filled a glass and sipped it. She turned to face Leo.

He said nothing.

Frustrated, she clicked on the small countertop TV and flipped until a news reporter appeared outside a nondescript house, her dark hair whipped by the wind.

“—
proving baffled by the so-called Tearmaker killer, who has struck seemingly without regard for demographic or geography, including here at the Noe Valley residence of Kyle Lane. An SFPD spokesperson announced that they are working hard to uncover some method to the madness
—”

She pointed the remote again, and the screen blinked to blank. Another sip of water. She looked at Leo.

Leo looked straight ahead.

Cris said, “Well?”

He spread his hands flat on the marble, as if examining a manicure. “When I was a child in the seventies, Syrian army special forces entered my country. They supported Sunni militias. Unleashed them. My entire family was tortured and killed. My mother and sister, raped and murdered. My father, dishonored and shot. Two brothers. Seven cousins. Three aunts, an uncle.”

Cris’s throat bobbed. She set down the glass. Her hand had moved instinctively to her belly. After a moment she nodded for him to continue.

“I’ve done a lot of things for a long time now,” Leo said in his same clipped, even voice. “But I will never for the life of me understand what you rich, safe people fight about.”

Chapter 52

The group members were there waiting, arrayed in the chairs as Daniel entered the room. A thin current of air from the cracked window met him in the threshold, cooling the nervous sweat at his hairline and throat. Despite the usual protections in place around Metro South, he was on edge.

One of these six was likely a relative of a little girl in whose death he’d had a hand.

He sensed the weight of the stares on him and rehearsed again the opening words he’d planned. Turning, he closed the door behind him.

That’s when he saw the tin of Skoal dipping tobacco in the trash can in the corner.

The green circular label—
LONG CUT WINTERGREEN
—was pronounced against the liner bag. The sight locked him up. Brought him back to the death match in the restaurant storage room, the knife tip inches from his eye, the sickly-sweet tobacco breath pushed through the perforations in the black mask, washing across his face.

He set a hand against the closed door. His mouth moved before he could consider the words. “Whose Skoal is this?”

Puzzled silence emanated from behind him.

He turned. “There’s a tin of dipping tobacco in the trash. Whose is it? Anyone here dip?”

“No, Dad,” X said, leaning back in her chair nearest the door.

“We got POs busting into our houses at all hours, searching us in front of our
families.
” Big Mac shot a glare at Daniel. Was it accusatory? “Now we gotta get cavity-checked for fucking tobacco?”

“Cavity-checked,” Daniel said, meeting Big Mac’s glare, “might be overstating it.”

“Why you care anyways?” A-Dre asked.

“I want to know who’s using stimulants during session.” A feeble explanation, which he regretted the instant it left his lips.

They all shook their heads or stared at the ceiling, annoyed.

“Looks like no one,” Martin said.

“So someone else came in here to … what? Use the trash can?”

“What’s your problem, Counselor?” Big Mac asked.

“My problem is that I ask for
honesty.
” All his pent-up rage steaming out. “And
someone
in here isn’t being honest with me.”

The members looked a bit shocked by his quick anger.

“Honesty,” X repeated, with a pointed glare.

Excellent. Thirty seconds into session and he’d alienated the room further.

He made a mental note to ask Dooley to check the tin for fingerprints, collected himself, and took his place on a hard metal chair.

Before he could say anything, Lil rubbed her bare arms and asked, “Is anyone else cold?” and Fang muttered, “Here we … ah, ah, go again.”

Daniel blinked a few times, trying to get his head in the game. The face of Francisca Olvera was branded into his brain, and he looked for a match in the features of the members around him. He saw her in every one of their eyes—the pressure of the situation distorting his perspective.

The expressions ranged from aloof to hostile. Last session had after all featured a fight and the revelation of Daniel’s impending departure. Fighting through distraction, he said, “I owe you an apology.”

So far, so good.

He drew out the pause, studying the faces to see if anyone was reading something else into the apology. Something more intense, involving a girl who’d died nearly four years ago. But the reactions were tentative, unreadable.

Big Mac hunched in the chair opposite, bringing into view a nasty bruise swelling the back of his hand. Another trash-can mash-up? Or an injury sustained in the restaurant brawl? He was wearing a mustard Carhartt jacket and—of course—generic black work boots. Daniel thought about the undercover cops posted around the building, Dooley teed up on
CALL
on the iPhone in his pocket. How long would it take them to crash the room if the situation combusted?

He had zoned out, he realized, looking at those boots, and he reeled himself back to the room. “I should have brought up earlier that I’ll be leaving,” he said. “I’m sorry that you found out the way you did. It was unnecessarily jarring, and I should have handled it better. But I will see you through this transition and make myself available to you for no cost at my private practice after I leave.”

“For how long?” A-Dre said.

“As long as it takes.”

Lil nodded first, and then a few of the faces softened.

But not Big Mac’s. “You got something to answer about,” he said.

Daniel felt his mouth go dry. “What?”

The hand strengthener had made a reappearance, Big Mac clutching it in his bruised fist like a security blanket or a badge of honor—
clank-clank.
“What happened last night?”