The Wharf (22 page)

“I wouldn’t say you in particular, but it’s been building. Started with Sean’s case. You know, our own fingerprint guy was the Alphabet Killer.”

“Yeah, I knew that.”

“Then your other brother Eric was out here looking into another set of murders. Nothing to do with your father’s case, but he was snooping around in Records, too.”

“Speaking of snooping around in Records, Kacie and I just went down there to look up the files on Dad’s partner.”

“Stillwell?”

“No, the one before that. Rigoletto.”

“Killed in the line of duty.”

“That’s the one.”

“Why are you looking into that, Brody?”

“That incident occurred about six months before everything started going downhill for my father.”

“And you think they’re related?”

“You can’t deny it’s a coincidence. Two partners dead within six months of each other.”

“It happens, Brody. Maybe not in the small town of Crestview, but in the big city it’s not uncommon. Lotta stress here.”

“That’s bull. Stress maybe, but death? Even for a big department like San Francisco’s, deaths on the job aren’t that common. I know that was before your time, but did you ever hear anything about it?”

“Detective Joseph Rigoletto’s picture is hanging on the wall at the station, but I don’t know much more about it. I think his widow’s still alive and living in the city. Marie knew her.”

“Who didn’t Marie know?” Kacie balled up the paper from her sandwich and tossed it onto her tray.

“That’s the point.” Curtis made a gun with his fingers. “She knows too much and maybe that’s why she took off.”

“Will you help me look her up?”

“Do you mean, will I use the department’s resources to locate her for you? Sure. You’re my partner’s brother. When’s he coming back to work, anyway?”

“When he’s good and ready.”

Back at the station, it didn’t take Curtis long to locate Joe Rigoletto’s widow. He jotted down her address on a pink message slip and slid it across the desk to Ryan. “You didn’t get this from me.”

They drove south out of the city to Mrs. Rigoletto’s home in the suburbs.

When they pulled to the curb across the street from the neat house, Kacie put a hand on his arm. “Do you think we should burst in on her unannounced? She’s elderly, isn’t she? Wasn’t Rigoletto older than your father?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to give Mrs. Rigoletto a chance to suddenly head out of town on a much-needed vacation.”

“Okay, I’ll follow your lead.”

Ryan knocked on the door. He could tell they were being looked over from the vantage point of the peephole.

He flipped out his badge and held it up. “Mrs. Rigoletto? I’m Chief Ryan Brody. I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

The dead bolt clicked and he blew out a breath.

When the door swung open, he raised his eyebrows. Either Mrs. Rigoletto had aged incredibly well, or Rigoletto had married a much younger woman.

“Mrs. Rigoletto?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “No, I’m her daughter, Rebecca Leeds.”

“I’m Ryan Brody. This is Kacie Manning. We’d like to ask your mother a few questions about your father’s incident.”

“Brody...?” Rebecca grasped the doorjamb. “I know who you are. Do you really think delving into my father’s death is going to help your father?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t you ever wonder how it came about that the two partners were both dead within six months of each other?”

“I was in my late twenties when it happened. Dad’s death destroyed Mom, and then when your father committed suicide, she fell apart even more.”

“Happened to a lot of people.”

“I’d met your dad once or twice. He was a great guy. My father always sang his praises. Said he could retire with ease, knowing detectives like Joey Brody were taking his place.”

“Does your mother remember much about your father’s murder? I tried to find the case file, but I couldn’t locate it.”

“Does she remember much about my father’s murder?” Rebecca widened the door and ushered them into the house. “Follow me.”

They trailed after her into an airy, open kitchen where a woman with bright red hair sat at a table with a pair of scissors and magazines spread before her.

“Ma, this is Ryan Brody, Joey Brody’s son. Do you remember Joey Brody?”

Mrs. Rigoletto turned a pair of faded blue eyes on him and arched one eyebrow. “Is he the plumber? Because that faucet is still leaking. Or is it a bunker?”

“Is what a bunker?” Rebecca shrugged at Ryan.

“The thing that’s leaking.”

“It’s called a faucet, Ma. You were right the first time. Faucet.”

“Are you the plumber?”

Rebecca rubbed her mother’s back. “No, I’m Rebecca, your daughter.”

“Tell the plumber to fix the bunker.”

Rebecca turned the page of one of the magazines. “These are pretty dresses. Cut these out, Ma.”

The scissors began to slice through the glossy pages, and Ryan shook his head at Kacie, whose wide eyes glimmered with tears.

Rebecca stepped away from her mother and pulled out a couple of stools at the kitchen island. “My mom can’t remember what a faucet is. She’s not going to remember what happened twenty years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Rebecca.”

“Yeah, life’s a bitch and then you get Alzheimer’s or...worse. Why are you looking into this now?”

Ryan straddled a stool. “Kacie’s writing a book about my father. When I discovered his partner, your father, had been killed in a shoot-out six months before everything came down on my dad, I figured we needed to look into it more.”

“You’re brave, digging into all that old stuff. I like to pack it up and put it away.” She glanced at her mother. “In some ways, the memory loss is a blessing.”

Kacie asked, “What do you remember about that time, Rebecca?”

“It was an ambush. They were anxious to interview a drug dealer about a couple of murders on his turf. A snitch dimed him off, and your father and mine went out to an abandoned warehouse in the Tenderloin to track him down. They didn’t even make it to the door. My father was gunned down in the street and yours took cover behind their car and returned fire, calling it in.”

“Did the police ever make an arrest in the case?”

“Oh yeah.” She folded her hands on the counter. “Turns out it was the snitch.”

Kacie tilted her head. “Why’d he do it?”

“I don’t know. Making points on the street? Maybe someone blew his cover and he had to prove himself. He didn’t share his motives with us.” Rebecca’s knuckles turned white. “I only saw him once. He pled out and we went to the courthouse for his sentencing. He had dead eyes. No emotion whatsoever.”

Ryan clasped the back of his neck. It was a rare snitch who turned on his benefactors. “Is he still in the joint?”

“He died in there several years ago—shanked. What goes around comes around.”

Another death in a long line of them.
Another dead end.

Tapping the counter, Ryan said, “Sorry to bother you, Rebecca. Thanks for the info.”

She came around the counter and swept scraps of paper from the kitchen table into her hand. “Maybe you should just let it go, Ryan. Nobody who knew Joey Brody believed for one minute he was the Phone Book Killer.”

“He did jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“That he did.”

Mrs. Rigoletto dropped her scissors. “Joey Brody didn’t jump off the bridge.”

Rebecca crouched beside her mother. “Do you remember Joey Brody, Ma?”

“Is he the plumber?” Her restless, blue-veined hands hovered above her paper-doll cutouts.

Rebecca heaved a sigh, plucked up the scissors and shrugged at Ryan. “I’ll call the plumber.”

Ryan knelt before Mrs. Rigoletto, who was happily brandishing her scissors again, and placed a hand on her knee. “You take care, Mrs. Rigoletto.”

Her face crumpled for a moment, and the blue eyes seemed to focus on his face. “Joey Brody never jumped from that bridge.”

Ryan squeezed her knee. “Goodbye.”

When they got to the front door, Rebecca waved a hand in the direction of her mother. “Sorry about all that.”

“Is she ever lucid?” Kacie stepped onto the porch ahead of him.

“Occasionally. She goes in and out. More out these days.”

Kacie took her hand. “Well, bless you for taking care of her.”

“Oh, I’m no saint.” Rebecca laughed. “There’s a passel of Rigolettos, and we all take turns. We have a caregiver, too.”

“Then you’re all saints. Thanks for your time.”

Ryan waved and turned toward the street. “That’s gotta be tough. At least my mom recognized us even when she was in a drug-induced haze.”

When they got to the car, Kacie pulled out a pad of paper and started jotting down notes.

“Are you putting down what she told us?”

“Every little bit helps. Detective Joe Rigoletto will have a place in this story, even if it doesn’t lead us to the truth.”

“It doesn’t seem as if anything is leading us to the truth.”

They drove back into the city, and as always, Ryan caught glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge as he maneuvered the car through the city streets, cresting the hills. If those barriers on the bridge could talk...

He parked his rental car in the lot below the hotel, and they took the elevator up to the lobby.

As they ambled across the carpet, the hotel clerk, Michael, called to Kacie. “Ms. Manning?”

She pivoted on the carpet and mumbled to Ryan, “Are they going to compensate me for my near-abduction by giving me the hotel?”

“They should.”

When they reached the counter, Ryan asked, “How’s your employee? The one who got cracked over the head?”

“He’s doing fine, but he’s spooked.”

“I heard he couldn’t identify his assailant.”

“The guy was wearing a ski mask when he approached him, but he looked at the video and ID’d the guy from his clothing. Hopefully, they can get him from that.”

“I’m glad he’s okay.” Kacie tapped the counter. “Is that why you called me over?”

“No. Actually, someone left you a note at the front desk.”

Ryan’s pulse picked up. “Who? Did you see him?”

“I wasn’t working at the time. We left a message on the phone in your room, but I saw your name on the note and when I noticed you come in I thought I’d save you a trip up to your room and back down here.”

“I appreciate it. Do you have the note?”

He stepped back from the counter. “I have the envelope right here.” He slapped the white envelope on the counter.

“Thanks.” Kacie swept the envelope from the polished wood. She carried it to the collection of love seats where they’d opened the package containing the doll not more than a week before.

She sank to the edge of one of the seats and ripped the envelope open with one finger. She shook out the single piece of paper and gasped.

“What is it?” His fingers itched to snatch it from her hand.

“This may be the lead we’re looking for.”

“Kacie, what is it?”

She waved the paper at him. “Someone’s finally willing to talk, someone who may know the truth.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He plucked the note from her fingertips and the words danced before his eyes.
I know the truth and I’m ready to tell all.

Ryan crumpled the paper in his fist and slammed it against his knee—not at all the reaction she was expecting from him.

“Did you read the rest of it? He wants to meet with me. He left a number.”

“Who is this, another Duke Bannister? You’re not meeting with this person.”

“I’m going to call him, Ryan. This is how I get a lot of my leads.”

“A lot of your leads end up putting you in harm’s way.”

She worked the crumpled paper from his fist and smoothed it out on her knee. “It’s a phone number. It can’t hurt to call.”

“Let’s take this upstairs.”

Ryan kept a firm hand on her back as they went up to her room, as if he could protect her that way from the person who’d written her the note.

Who
had
written the note? Could it have been Rebecca Leeds, having had a change of heart? No, they’d just left her place. Marie Giardano?

As soon as her room door closed, she reached for her cell phone.

“Wait.” Ryan put out a hand. “Call on Speaker. And there’s no way you’re meeting this person alone, if that’s what he’s asking. And we’re calling the police this time.”

“Okay, okay.” She would have agreed to any of his terms at that point. They needed some fresh information, a fresh point of view.

With shaky fingers, she tapped in the number from the note.

A gruff voice answered after the first ring. “Kacie?”

Her heart skipped a beat. Did he have her phone number, too? “Yes. How’d you know that?”

“You’re the only one who has this number, Kacie. Do you want the truth? You and Brody?”

Her gaze shifted to Ryan’s narrowed eyes. “Yes, of course. You mean the truth about Joey Brody and the real Phone Book Killer, right?”

“That’s right, sweetheart.”

She hunched her shoulders. “What is it? What is the truth? Tell me now.”

He laughed and coughed at the same time. “It ain’t that simple. I want to meet you.”

Ryan shook his head back and forth so vigorously a lock of dark hair fell over his eye.

“I’ll meet you, but you have to satisfy some conditions.”

“I’m the one with the 411. Why are you calling the shots? You remind me of someone.”

“Let me guess—your sister?”

“I ain’t got no sister.”

“Good. I’m not meeting you alone.”

“Bring Brody with you. Is that what you want? He deserves the truth, too.”

Ryan’s jaw tensed and a muscle jumped in his throat.

“I will bring him. When and where?”

“No time like the present. Meet me down at the wharf at eleven tonight.”

“I met someone else at the wharf earlier this week. It didn’t end so well.”

“Duke? He was an amateur.”

“You knew him?”

“I know his kind. In over his head.”

“And you’re not?”

“I never spent a day in prison, sweetheart.”

“Congratulations. Where are we meeting on the wharf? At the busy end. Someplace public.”

“No. What I have to say to you and Brody is private. I’m lettin’ you bring your big, strong man with you. That should be good enough. And do I have to tell you no cops? Calling the cops will only hurt you.”