The Big Exit (2 page)

C
AROLYN
D
UPUY STANDS IN HER BATHROOM, STARING DOWN AT A
capped syringe filled with clear fluid lying on the counter next to the sink. Blood doesn’t bother her, not even puddles
of it. The inside of a human body isn’t a problem either. But needles are. Having someone poke her with a syringe makes her
queasy. And it’s worse if she’s having her blood drawn. The sight of the dark burgundy liquid rising slowly in the nurse’s
syringe makes her want to retch.

This isn’t about that, though. Nothing’s coming out, it’s going in. All she has to do is pull the cap off the syringe, pinch
a little skin next her belly button, and jab the layer of fat between her fingers with the short needle. She’s done it two
nights in a row (the first night she’d had some help from a friend), but it isn’t getting any easier. For the first time in
her life, she wishes she weren’t as thin as she is. At forty, she’s not the stick she once was, but when she pinches the skin
between her fingers, what she gets doesn’t feel substantial enough—there isn’t enough meat there—and she’s worried that if
she doesn’t make the jab just right, she might come in at the wrong angle and that instead of getting buried in her skin,
the needle will end up poking out the other side.

She looks in the mirror and takes a deep breath. It’s just after nine and she’s already in her pajamas, a pink flannel set
that’s entirely—and absurdly—covered with lipstick-colored kisses. Her nieces gave her the pajamas for her last birthday,
and with her fine dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, she notes how girlish she looks. Her olive
skin and brown eyes have always lent her a Mediterranean appearance, and there’s something mildly and comfortably exotic about
her. She’s never been someone who’s had to put a lot of work into how she looks, and while she’s never considered herself
beautiful, she does think she’s naturally pretty and likes how her face is able show a range of expressions. So many women
are pretty—but pretty in a dull way. And she knows that men find it exciting that on the one hand she comes off as restrained
and sophisticated (or even downright aloof), she is also capable of exhibiting a more playful and combative side that tends
to be enhanced with a drink or two.

Yes, the years of failing to respect the sun have begun to take their toll. The moons under her eyes are present and accounted
for, the crow’s-feet impossible to miss. But for a fleeting instant, she believes her eternally optimistic, touch-me-and-I-breed
sister is right. Sure, on paper she’s forty, but all the exercise and good eating have to count for something. Maybe it’s
true. Maybe she really does have the reproductive system of a thirty-five-year-old.

Three months ago she was laid off from her job at Clark, Kirshner, and Dupuy. That’s what she’s been telling people anyway,
even though it’s not entirely accurate. Technically, you haven’t been laid off when you’re still on the company’s healthcare
plan and your name’s still on the company stationery. But her fellow partners at the firm strongly encouraged her to take
some time off.

“We’re not forcing you out, Carolyn,” Steve Clark insisted.

“Last I checked, Steve, ‘unpaid leave of absence’ was wussy for bye-bye. I didn’t know you spoke that language.”

He said he knew she was upset, but it was for her own good. She needed to get her shit together. Never mind that she’d become
completely unreliable, coming and going as she pleased. But you just couldn’t have criminal defense attorneys pulling DUIs.

“It doesn’t work, Carolyn,” he said. “You’re better than this.”

“I didn’t get a DUI.”

“You should have.”

He was right about that.

Now, three months later, here she is, still at home. The time off had only hardened her resolve to become a mom. She’d met
three times with a fertility doctor, done countless hours of research about
IVF on the Internet, and filed the requisite paperwork at the donor bank.

Fuck them
, she thinks.
Fuck them all
.

She reaches down and picks up the syringe from the counter, which she’s carefully sterilized with rubbing alcohol, not once,
but twice, and pulls the cap off, exposing the short needle. She holds the syringe upright and flicks it with her right index
finger until a few tiny air bubbles float to the top. Then she pushes up a little on the plunger until a drop of the Ganirelix
concoction appears at the tip of the needle.

Ten
, she says to herself. Ten eggs are all she’s asking for. Fifteen would be better, of course. But ten she can live with. Ten
will give her a decent shot at getting three to five quality embryos, maybe even a couple more if she’s lucky. That’s the
new math she’s mastering. Math for the reproductively challenged.

With her left hand, she pinches the skin on her stomach and takes another deep breath.

“Don’t be a pussy, DP,” she says out loud, calling herself by her nickname. “This is nothing.”

This
is just a subcutaneous injection. Back in the day, this was the practice round, the confidence builder. You first injected
yourself with drugs that tricked your ovaries into producing several eggs instead of one. Then, after the extraction (which
required more drugs), you pumped yourself up with progesterone to make your womb cozy and “sticky” and primed to host an embryo
or two—or three. The only problem was the progesterone was mixed with sesame oil and you had to inject it intramuscularly
with a 1.5-inch needle. Just right for a horse.

She remembers her friend Susan, years ago, showing her the discolored marks on her butt and thighs. They looked like serious
insect bites. Her friend said that sometimes the oil would ooze out of the hole after her husband pulled the needle out. Often
she’d cry afterwards.

Carolyn almost cried listening to her. She could never imagine having to do IVF, no way. But now here she is.

What the fuck happened? Circumstances changed, that’s what the fuck happened. And so, fortunately, did the science. Now you
can get
all the progesterone you need through a suppository and not some big-ass needle. The hard part has been eliminated.
Now if they could just eliminate the easy part
, she thinks.

“You can do this,” she says aloud, reciting the mantra that has gotten her through the last three nights. “You can fucking
do this.”

But just as she’s about to make the jab, her cell phone, sitting on the counter on the opposite side of the sink, rings. In
the caller ID window, there is a number she doesn’t recognize. Her first impulse is to ignore it, but then she thinks better
of it, welcoming the intrusion.

She holds the syringe upright and puts the phone to her ear.

“Hello,” she says.

“Carolyn?”

“Yes.”

“This is Beth. Beth Hill. From the club. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

She knows who it is, but it doesn’t make sense that Beth Hill—the one she knows, the one who hates her—would be calling. Years
ago, as an assistant DA, she’d prosecuted Hill’s fiancé, Richie Forman, in a vehicular manslaughter case. She wonders how
she got her cell number.

“Oh, yes. How are you?”

“Not so good. Which is why I’m calling. My husband’s been murdered.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, Carolyn doesn’t know if she’s heard her correctly.

“Excuse me?”

“Someone killed my husband.”

“My God,” Carolyn says. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s just horrible. I don’t know what to do. The police are here and I think they suspect I had something to do with
it. They want to take me to the station house. I need to speak with someone.”

By someone, she doesn’t mean just anyone.

“You need an attorney?”

“Yes. I didn’t know who else to call. One of the detectives here gave me your cell-phone number. I know you have your own
firm now, that you defend people. I read about you and that doctor a few years back.”

For a second Carolyn can’t accept what’s happening. This has to
be a practical joke.
Someone’s punking me
, she thinks. But instead of calling out her caller, her first reflex is to brush her off.

“I’m sorry but I’m—”

Not with my firm anymore
. That’s what she wants to say. But at the last second some synapse trips and she realizes she’s about to do something incredibly
stupid. And just like that, checked-out Carolyn checks back in.

“When did this happen, Beth?”

“About two hours ago. I found him in the garage. There was blood everywhere. It was just horrible. I can’t believe it. It
doesn’t seem real. Now I just can’t think straight. I don’t know what to do. Please, I need to talk to someone.”

She can hear hysteria building in Beth’s voice. She wants to bring her back to the place she was before.

“Okay, Beth. Has anybody read you your rights?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know what to do. Whether I should go or not.”

“Don’t do anything. Don’t answer any questions. I’m coming right now. Just let the police know I’m coming. They won’t let
me through otherwise. Can you do that?”

She tells her where she lives, then starts to give her more detailed instructions on how to get there. But Carolyn cuts her
off, saying she knows the street.

“I’m sorry to call so late,” Beth says again, her voice quavering.

“It’s okay.” A beat, then: “Beth?”

“What?”

“Who was the detective who gave you my cell number?”

“The older guy. Madden. He knew Mark from the accident. He thinks I had something to do with this. And that Richie is involved.”

“Did he say that?”

“No. I can just tell from his questions. And see it in his eyes. Oh God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Beth, do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Take a deep breath. Try to remain calm. Count to five for me.”

She hit the speakerphone button and laid the phone down on the sink.

“I’m okay,” she hears Beth’s voice kick in over the speaker.

Readying herself, Carolyn pinches the skin on her stomach.

“Just count. Slowly.”

“One … two … three …”

On five, she makes a quick jab with the needle, stabbing her skin. When the needle’s set, she exhales hard as she pushes the
plunger down gradually, slowly injecting herself.

After a few seconds of silence, Beth gets concerned. “Carolyn? You still there?”

“Yeah,” she says. Her hand trembles slightly as she removes the needle and caps it for disposal. “I’m on my way.”

T
HE OLDER GUY’S FULL NAME IS
H
ANK
M
ADDEN
. D
ETECTIVE
S
ERGEANT
Hank Madden, tall and thin, with a neatly trimmed moustache and a head of receding gray hair that he’s recently taken to
cropping very short, stands in the kitchen just down the hall from the family room, where Beth Hill is talking on the phone.
It’s not Beth’s kitchen, but her neighbors’, and Madden has his eye on the family-room door, which is only open a crack, making
it hard to see anything. All he catches are fleeting glimpses of Beth as she paces back and forth in front of the small opening.

“Lululemon.”

Madden looks over. Jeff Billings, the junior detective on their small four-person team has made himself right at home and
poured himself a glass of water from a fancy ceramic carafe that’s sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen. He’s
standing there with his thumbs in his belt loops, striking what his fellow officers mockingly refer to as his “cowboy” pose.
Billings should have been in the movies; he has the look for it, the strong jaw, small nose, bright blue eyes, and longish
straight hair he keeps thoughtfully unkempt. He’s also short. Five-seven tops, and he’s always trying to make up for his lack
of stature with some sort of macho pose.

“What?”

“The outfit she’s wearing,” Billings says. “It’s Lululemon.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Lot of blood in that garage, Hank. Hard to picture a Lululemon hottie like her doing that kind of damage on her own. I’m
just sayin’.”

He’s right. It is hard to picture. But Madden isn’t thinking about
that. He’s going over in his mind exactly what he said to Hill just before she asked for a lawyer. He doesn’t think he pressured
her. A few years ago he’d been shocked to learn that she’d married Mark McGregor. As much as he now wanted to ask her how
that happened, he held back, inquiring simply how long she’d been married. He mentioned the accident, but only in passing,
remarking that he didn’t recognize her right away because she’d changed her hair since the trial.

At this early juncture all he wanted her to do was tell him what she’d seen and heard, and when. She seemed genuinely distraught.
He gave her that. But as soon as he mentioned the possibility of her coming down to the station house, she grew agitated.
He didn’t push her; it was more of a gentle prodding. He just said it was important for them to get everything down—record
everything—as soon as possible, while it was fresh in her mind.

For some reason she wasn’t buying it. She said, “You think I had something to do with this, don’t you?”

The truth was he didn’t know what to think. If a Belle Haven
cholo
with an attitude and a couple of priors got stabbed multiple times, the easy money was on Drug Deal Gone Bad or Guy Who Stuck
His Dick in the Wrong Place. But when a hotshot Internet entrepreneur with a $5 million spread and a bumpy past bought it
like this, there weren’t any favorites to bet.

He didn’t tell her that, though. He just shook his head and said, “I’m not sure what gives you that impression.”

She nodded, appearing to accept his response. But after mulling it over for a few seconds, she put her hand to her forehead
and sat down on the couch. She appeared to be dizzy.

“I’m sorry. I’m just having trouble thinking straight. My head’s spinning. Maybe it would be best if I speak to someone.”

“Do you want to speak to a counselor? We have people we can put you in touch with.”

“Do you know Carolyn Dupuy?” she asked. “I know she has her own practice now.”

He glanced over at Billings, who flashed a wary return look. They both thought she was looking for psychological, not legal
assistance.

“I know her well,” he said.

“Do you have a number where I can reach her?”

Now, thanks to his munificence, Beth Hill is on the phone talking to Carolyn Dupuy. Looking at the family-room door, Madden
thinks,
Lawyering up after thirty minutes of questioning. You think that’s so smart? What kind of message do you think that sends?

“Stay here,” he tells Billings. “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her go anywhere. And call me when Carolyn shows.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see if Lyons has anything for us.”

“Great. So I just gotta stand here?”

“Sit if you want,” he says, walking out. “Just don’t eat their food.”

Madden is more than twenty-five years Billings’s senior. In law-enforcement years, he’s ancient, a relic at sixty-two. After
his promotion to detective sergeant last year, he retired the gold wire-framed, oversized glasses that his colleagues liked
to suggest could be carbon-dated back to somewhere between the Disco and New Wave eras. They’ve been replaced by a more stylish
half-rim, gunmetal variety that helps make him look a little younger. When he’s stationary, he can pass for someone in his
early to midfifties. But he’s got a limp, so when he moves, people perceive him differently. He looks older, he thinks.

On his right foot he wears a thick-soled orthopedic shoe. As a young boy he’d contracted polio, one of the last known cases
in the United States, the result of which was a drop foot. His handicap was the topic of a few local newspaper articles over
the years, and more recently, after he’d shot and killed a deranged college student who’d gravely wounded a classmate, his
medical history and revelations of childhood sexual abuse were played out in the national media.

His minor act of heroism—if it could even be called that—has come to define him, and now part of him regrets not bowing out
shortly after the shooting, when his retirement package became fully vested.

The painful irony is that for all the attention and honors bestowed upon him for his bravado, he’s ended up feeling like a
coward for not walking away when he should have. His reticence (or was it ambivalence?) has created problems for him at home.
His wife feels that if he wants to continue working, he should retire, take the monthly pension
that’s due to him, and pick up some consulting work on the side. They can then use the extra money he makes above and beyond
his current salary to help support her family in Nicaragua. He agrees, it makes a lot of sense, but he just isn’t the type
of guy who sees himself hustling for consulting or private-eye gigs, which means he’ll be stuck at home having his wife hassle
him about getting extra work so they can send more money to her relatives. And he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t.

“You’re always complaining about the politics, the silly problems,” she keeps reminding him. “Why do you stay? For what?”

For this
, he thinks, as he exits the neighbors’ home and is greeted by a barrage of flashing red, blue, and white lights. With the
help of the fire department and the Atherton police, they’ve closed off the end of the block and set up a wide perimeter.
The line extends around the neighboring houses, designated part of the crime scene because the killer could have entered and
exited the property from any direction and left trace evidence yards away from the body. From the MPPD, all four on-duty patrol
officers, plus three detectives are at the scene, along with half the fire department and two ambulances. And more folks are
on the way. While they haven’t had a murder in Menlo Park in over a year, one thing Madden can count on: whenever there is
a killing, it’s all hands on deck; everyone wants a piece of the action.

The victim’s house is on a street called Robert S Drive, a cul-de-sac lined with very pricey homes. A block to the north,
on the other side of Valparaiso, is the even wealthier enclave of Atherton, where plenty of properties fetch $5 million and
higher. But Menlo Park’s Robert S rivals Atherton in terms of affluence and exclusivity. For years the same families lived
on the block and turnover was rare. But the Great Recession reached even this moneyed patch and Madden had heard that a couple
of homes had gone up for sale in the last few years. This must have been one of them.

The McGregor-Hill property, like some of the neighboring homes, has a gate that controls access to the driveway. Madden has
ordered that it be kept shut and that no one be allowed through the door to the right of the driveway without his approval.
Passing through the little checkpoint at the door, he reminds the officer at the gate, a freckled, red-haired guy named John
Frawley, to keep off his radio. The longer they can keep the media away, the better.

The McGregor-Hill home has a bit of French country flair to it, with a stucco exterior, small balconies on the upper-floor
windows, and a high-pitched gray slate roof. Even at nighttime, Madden can see the property is heavily landscaped. He hadn’t
really considered the house’s size before, but now he guesses it’s probably a good six to seven thousand square feet, and
that doesn’t include the detached three-car garage (with a second-floor guest room), where they’d found the body.

The garage isn’t right next to the house, but a bit behind it and off to the side. Down at the end of the driveway, standing
in front of a twelve-foot-wide blue privacy shield that’s been erected in front of the entrance to the garage, he sees Greg
Lyons looking down at his Black-Berry, tapping out a message with latex gloves on his hands. He’s in his late thirties, a
fit-looking guy who wears his longish blond hair in a ponytail.

Madden always marvels that if you were to see Lyons sitting at a coffee shop your first thought would be that he’s some sort
of artist, a guise perpetuated by his smoking habit. You’d never guess he was the San Mateo County chief deputy coroner in
charge of the Investigations and Pathology unit.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Minimum Wage Madden himself,” Lyons greets him in his navy blue windbreaker with the Coroner’s Office
logo on the front. “Looks like you folks caught yourself a big one. The hits, they just keep coming, don’t they?”

“Apparently so,” Madden says, feeling his face redden.

The new nickname comes courtesy of an article written about him in the
Almanac
, a small local paper, about his decision not to retire. Under the state and city’s “3 at 50” pension formula for public safety
employees, cops who were hired before 2010 could retire as early as age fifty and receive 3 percent of their highest annual
salary for each year they’d worked for the city, up to thirty years. That meant Madden was eligible to retire and collect
90 percent of his current salary for the rest of his life. The article’s headline asked, W
HY
I
S
T
HIS
M
AN
W
ORKING
F
OR
M
INIMUM
W
AGE
W
HEN
H
E
D
OESN’T
N
EED
T
O
?

It was a good question, one he should never have agreed to answer. He ended up sounding like a Boy Scout, gushing how he was
grateful to have been given the opportunity to serve his city in the
capacity he had, even though earlier in his career some people thought his handicap might be a liability. “I happen to love
my job,” he told the reporter, “I worked hard to get here, and I’m not ready to retire, even if many of my peers have left
the force. So, call me stupid but I’m happy to work for minimum wage to give back a little to the community that’s given me
so much.”

After Billings saw the article, he told Madden he hoped he was running for office or that someone had slipped him some Prozac,
because that was just about the goddamn hokiest thing he’d ever heard. “Christ, man, I know you think this is Mayberry, but
Andy Griffith wouldn’t have read that if it was in the script.”

As a kid, they’d called him Chester after that character on
Gun-smoke
who had a limp. Now he’s Minimum Wage. Not exactly an improvement. Looking at Lyons now, Madden wonders whether he’s taking
a jab at him or just giving him a little good-natured ribbing.

“Well, one thing’s clear,” he hears a woman’s voice say from behind the screen. “Guy had good taste in his vehicles. That
this year’s model, Mr. Lee?”

“Last,” says Vincent Lee, the diminutive crime-scene photographer.

Madden walks past Lyons and looks behind the screen. Lydia Ramirez, one of Lyons’s investigators, wearing orange goggles,
is examining something on the pavement just outside the garage, he can’t tell what exactly, near the front wheel of a metallic
blue BMW M6, as Lee snaps pictures of the spot. Ramirez is short and muscular, a workout fiend. She’s generally quiet and
brooding but has a passion for restoring sports cars from the eighties.

Mark McGregor’s body is positioned exactly as it was when Madden saw it earlier. It’s lying in the middle of the garage next
to a black Porsche Cayenne parked on the right. What’s interesting is that both the M6 and the wife’s Mercedes SUV are parked
outside. Inside, the garage is neatly in order, with tools and gardening items either put away in drawers or hung on the wall.
He makes a mental note to ask Hill about whether they usually left the cars parked outside the garage or pulled them in.

McGregor’s body is mostly on its stomach, though the right arm is tucked awkwardly underneath so the chest and torso aren’t
completely flush with the cement floor. However, his head—or rather the
right side of his face—is pressed against the floor, resting in a pool of blood that’s six or seven feet in diameter and stretches
all the way to the wall of the garage. His nose and cheekbone appear to have taken the brunt of one blow and a huge gash is
open on the right lower portion of the neck just above the clavicle. Three additional deep gashes—one on each side of his
upper back, the third about eight inches down on the right side—are plainly visible.

What a goddamn mess
, Madden thinks again. However, the clinical giddiness he felt when he initially encountered the body is gone, replaced by
a more uncomfortable feeling he can’t quite pinpoint.