The Dirty Secrets Club (7 page)

"Maybe."

Jo thought she heard the policewoman tapping a pencil against her desk. "You need anything else before you get to drawing?"

Yes. Tang—is that your last name, favorite breakfast drink, or emblem of your biting personality? "Not right now. Thank you, Lieutenant."

Tang hung up without saying you're welcome. In her notebook, next to the woman's name, Jo drew a smiley face with a tongue sticking out.

She also drew a circle around Angelika Meyer's name. Harding's young passenger was key. If Meyer regained consciousness, she might be able to tell them what had happened inside the BMW. Might tell Jo what it was so damned vital to stop.

Forty-eight hours and counting down. With the information she was likely to gather in that time, she might as well ask a Ouija board for help.

With a clatter, Tina set a plate with her muffin and cheese panini on the table. "Your calories."

"Excellent. Thanks."

In the sun flowing through the windows, Tina's curls glowed copper, giving the impression that her head was on fire. She sat down and leaned toward Jo.

"I ran into Mike Sadowski—from your high school class? He's aching to go out with you."

"You think everybody's aching to go out with me. Barry Bonds. The archbishop. The cable car driver on the Rice-A-Roni box."

"Your ubercoffee turned out extra-acidic, didn't it?" She picked at Jo's muffin. "You busy tonight? I've got plans and it would be more fun if you came along."

"What's his name?"

"Girls' night out. It's cultural. Aerobic. Healthy." Tina smiled. "It's girly. None of that nature grunge, rock climbing shtick you do."

Jo tapped her fingers on the table. "Does it involve my Chi, or dancing with a pole?"

"No. Pinky swear." Tina's eyes were wide with innocence. "Come on."

Jo softened. "What time? Group's at seven."

"After that." Tina became pensive. "How's it going?"

"Good." She shrugged, and smiled. "It gets my mind off psychological autopsies."

"Only you would work with a bereavement group to get your mind off death."

"Tuesdays with
Mori."

Tina laughed, but the pensive expression remained. It contained an ever-near melancholy concern for her. Jo hated that look. She wanted people to stop worrying about her. She glanced away, focusing instead on her computer screen.

Lieutenant Tang had sent the list of news articles. One caught her eye.

Boat Fire "Deliberately Set"?

It was an article about the dead fashion designer, Maki. His sailboat had been spotted in flames off the coast. Rescuers had
found
his body aboard, along with that of his lover. File photos
showed
them: Maki, a shaven-headed East Asian in his forties, snapped by paparazzi. Disco-ball smile, a top dog's bearing. His lover, William fillets, was pale, Caucasian, with a pinched mouth. The second fiddle. No cause of death had been disclosed. The article speculated that drugs were involved, or a fatal lovers' argument. Because the boat
_was
found adrift outside city limits, federal authorities were involved in the investigation.

Assistant U.S. Attorney Callie Harding says no decision has been made whether to open a criminal investigation.

Hell. Tang had said there must be a link between Harding's crash and Maki's death. And here was a link, a big fat one. Harding had been involved with investigating the burning boat. Jo continued to scroll through the article. She stopped.
A team from the 129th Air Rescue Wing at Moffett Field was scrambled to the scene, but found the two men aboard already dead. A spokesman for the Air National Guard declined to comment.

Tina continued talking. "And what would be so bad about going on a date? Friendship, that's all I'm suggesting. Jo, it's been two years. You're doing so great, but you don't have to do it all by yourself. Can you see that?"

She did. She saw who she needed to talk to. His name was there in the police department's notes: the pararescue jumper who had been on duty that night with the 129th Rescue Wing. Gabriel Quintana. Tina tossed a sugar packet at her. "I'll pick you up from UCSF."
Quintana.
She felt a zing in her fingertips. She looked up. "Sorry.
What?"

"You're buzzing like a bee caught in a jar.
I
'll pick you up tonight.

Eight?"

Unless this case
I
'm working on turns into a monster." Tina stood up. "Monster case, ooh. Am I going to see you on

television?"

Yeah, walking through a blood-drenched crime scene with a flashlight, wearing tight jeans and a low-cut blouse."

And packing heat. Promise me you'll be strapped. And you'll whip off your sunglasses and vow to wreak justice. Please?"

"Absolutely. When pigs fly in formation and battle Godzilla." She was smiling, but felt it fade. "I need to talk to the 129th Rescue Wing."

"Tell 'em hey, and a big thumbs-up." Tina stopped. "Wait—"

"Yeah." She shut her computer. "Maybe I'll take a flak jacket."

Worry creased Tina's face. Jo gathered her things, kissed her sister good-bye, and headed out into the bracing sunshine. She knew a flak jacket wouldn't shield her. Kevlar only protects the heart against bullets, not grief.

O
utside the coffeehouse, the sky had a silvery shine. She put on her shades. She turned and saw, lumbering along the sidewalk
toward
her, Ferd Bismuth.

"Shoot," she said.

Bismuth straightened and began to strut. She had no time for a long conversation, but it was too late to turn tail and bolt. He'd seen her.

He waved. "Greetings, neighbor."

Ferd was he who lived behind the crap-covered cupids and twitching curtains in the faux mansion next door to Jo's house. He wasn't obese, but walked like he was, weight back as though to balance a stomach, hands held away from his sides as if propped on pillows of fat. He was knock-kneed and his clothes were generously sized. His hair was lustrous with Brylcreem. He looked ready for his photo at NASA Mission Control, circa
1969.

He trundled toward her, smiling. "I must have just missed you at the cable car stop."

She had to calibrate her response. With Ferd, pleasantries were a Minefield. She hefted her satchel higher on her shoulder to give the 'impression that she urgently needed to get somewhere. Which she did, but need and urgency never deterred Ferd. She could have been

fire and he wouldn't be dissuaded from talking to her. For that Matter, he could have been on fire.

Weather
should be a harmless topic. "Beautiful to see the sun-
^shi
ne, isn
't
it?"

His smile shrank. "Should I have applied sunscreen? With it being October, I thought I was safe." He glanced at his arms as if cancerous freckles were even now incubating.

She took a step. "Factor twenty, that's always good. But don't hide from the sun—it gives you vitamin D. And it cheers you up."

"Vitamin D? You mean—wait, no, Jo, don't go. Are you saying I could get rickets?"

She'd blown it. Never give 'em an opening—hadn't she learned anything from testifying in court? Don't ever give an open-ended answer, much less a suggestion, that a lawyer can crucify you with on cross-examination. But here she'd gone and given Ferd a bunch of nails and a
Physicians' Desk Reference
to hammer them in with.

He was the worst hypochondriac she'd ever met.

"Vitamin D? You mean with the rain and fog we don't get enough?" He looked at his knees. "Am I at serious risk? I don't want my bones to soften."

"You're not going to get rickets, I promise. Have a great day. I'm running behind."

"One thing."

She backed away. "I have to talk to the Air National Guard. If I don't, they'll send commandos."

"This won't take a sec."

He inhaled and blew out a gust. Please, God, don't let him think he has high-altitude pulmonary edema.

"I'm—well, I'm . . ." He wiped his palms against the thighs of his chinos. "I'm having a Halloween party tomorrow night."

Did her face show panic? "That's fine; the noise won't bother ntf. Thanks for letting me know." She backed up another step.

"Some guys are coming—I mean, people from the firm."

The firm was Compurama, the computer store where he
worked
He wasn't a rich man. He was a house sitter for the owners of the mansion, who were away in Italy for nine months. She never saw him without his Compurama name tag on his shirt.

"I was—it's . . . well, you're invited to the party. Costume optional, but most people are coming as their World of Warcraft avatars."

He glanced furtively at her chest. She presumed World of Warcraft contained a sexy elf in a ragged deerskin bikini. Then he seemed to realize that she didn't play the online sword 'n' sorcery game. His eyes filled with shining desperation.

He stuck out his hands in a
no worries
gesture. "But that's totally up to you."

"Thanks. I may have to work."

"No problem. Just let me know."

And he smiled so innocently, like a baby harp seal, that she felt guilty. She caved.

"I'll try. How about if I stop by? With dip?"

"Splendid."

She began walking backward, giving him a small wave. He returned it, head tilted, and grabbed the door to go into Java Jones. She spun around.

"One question," he said.

"I have to go . . ." But if she did, when she came home he would be watching for her from his balcony. She turned back around.

He touched his nose. "My septum."

"A deviated septum cannot cause tuberculosis. Really. I know for sure."

To hear Ferd tell it, his deviated septum had variously been the culprit behind his snoring, halitosis, poor posture, and recurrent anxiety.

With planning the party, it's been acting up." He put his finger
^{tlps to}
his cheeks. "I get this pressure. What if it triggers a panic at
^tac
k and my whole sinus system seizes up?"

'Ask your doctor, Ferd." "But-"

You know my rule. I don't treat friends."

"Just this once—"

I don't prescribe for them, either."

The
DIRTY SECRETS CLUB 53

"This isn't about prescription decongestants."

"Good."

"You wouldn't be prescribing drugs. It's a whole different approach to anxiety management. Nature's way. It would be an emotional support prescription."

Not hug therapy again. She watched for his arms to shoot toward her. Please, not that. "Ferd, your own doctor needs to handle it. I have to jet." I

His brow creased. "Okay." I

She waved good-bye. His face softened again into baby-seal affection. She suspected that as she walked away, his eyes were on her rear end.

Ten
feet around the corner, she got out her cell phone. She found the number for Gregory Harding. She paused a moment before making the call.

Harding was Callie's ex-husband, but still close enough that he'd' been the one they called to identify her body. Jo gazed at the sky and straightened her shoulders before she dialed. It was answered on the second ring. "Yes?" "Mr. Harding?" She introduced herself and explained that she was a forensic psychiatrist consulting for the police department. "I'm

sorry for your loss."

"Wasn't my loss, it was hers. Why are you calling?" Tick. There was resentment in that answer. "I'd like to talk to you Is there some time today we could meet?"

He paused. "The cops want to make Callie out to be a head case-'

is that what this is about?" I

"No, sir. It's about gathering evidence to accurately explain hfl

death." II

There was a longer pause. "I have an office in Palo Alto. There's j coffee place by Borders on University. I'll be there in two hours."

She checked her watch. "Fine." "Be on time." He clicked off.

Perry Ames sat alone at a table. The sun was garish, the day breezy. Plenty of people would be outside, but he sat indoors by himself, with
_a
Scrabble
board set up, watching the television on the wall.

Three dead in the crash, the news was reporting. No names yet, but he knew Callie Harding was one of them. A passenger was injured. He needed to know who that passenger was. He set Scrabble tiles on the rack. Two men walked by, talking. They stared at the game board and at him. He'd take them on if they were willing. He could arrange a killer game. Take bets, run it big, like the poker game. An executive game, sure—people would be even less suspicious of Scrabble nerds than they were of high rollers playing Texas Hold 'em in a downtown hotel suite. And Scrabble players would be even easier to intimidate if they took a long line of credit,