you ever think about a thing like that? He just shook his head and changed the subject.”
“Did it ever come up again?”
“No,” Casement said. “Christ, that couldn’t be it, could it? What’s going on with him now?”
“Let’s hope not.”
“But if it is, why now all of a sudden?”
“There’d have to be some kind of provocation,” I said. “Even people who’ve thought about suicide over a long period of time don’t suddenly decide to do away with themselves.”
“You mean something has to push them into it.”
“A trigger, yes.”
“What would do it?”
“Severe shock, emotional upheaval.”
“Something he saw? Like when he was a kid?”
“Why do you say that?”
Casement said, “A few weeks ago, right around the time he started acting weird, I stopped by their house and he was even quieter than usual. I asked him what was wrong. He said, ‘I saw something, Drew.’ I asked him what’d he seen. He wouldn’t say. All he’d say was ‘I wish to God I’d gone straight home that night.’ ”
“Those were his exact words?”
“Near as I can remember.”
“He give you any idea which night he meant?”
“No.”
“Or where he was or had been that night?”
“Uh-uh. Just closed right up again.”
“But you’re sure the conversation took place a few weeks ago? Late March, early April?”
“Had to’ve been right around the first of April.”
“Was his wife there at the time?”
“Not in the room with us, no.”
“Did you say anything to her about what he’d said?”
“I meant to, but I didn’t. Didn’t seem all that important, went right out of my mind.”
“And he didn’t bring it up again?”
“I’d remember if he had.”
11
TAMARA
Horace called the office again at one thirty.
“Tamara, listen to me, please. I didn’t sleep much last night, haven’t been able to stop thinking about how we left things yesterday. I can’t stand the idea of you hating me, after everything we had together. Can’t we-”
That was as far as she let him get before she banged his ear.
She thought about putting the answering machine on in case he called back. Didn’t do it. Didn’t want to hear his voice again. Damn the man! He’d gone and hooked up with Mary from Rochester, he was through with Tamara from San Francisco and she was through with him, why couldn’t he just leave her be so she could get on with her life?
Until his call, some numbness had started to set in. Hadn’t been an easy morning with Bill hanging in the office, giving her the kind of looks Pop used to-you couldn’t keep anything from that man, not for long. Word! What she needed today wasn’t paternal understanding, what she needed was to be left alone. Better after he went on out. Not as much trouble concentrating, able to throw herself deep enough into her work to keep her mind off Horace and the sorry state of her love life. Everything was humming along on the professional side-they’d have to hire another investigator if their caseload got much heavier-and then all of a sudden the personal side turns to shit. And wasn’t that always the way with her? Get one part straightened out and running smooth, and bang, something else screws up. Like she was cursed or something. Like somebody somewhere kept making voodoo Tamara dolls and sticking pins in them.
The phone didn’t ring again.
Yeah, but Horace wouldn’t give up. Fool would call again, here or at the apartment, and keep on trying to punk her. She knew him so well
… that side of him anyway. Stubborn. Once he got an idea in his head, you couldn’t yank it out with a pair of pliers. And the idea now was to get her to say okay, sure, I forgive you, big guy, let’s be friends, and then he’d feel better about himself and what he’d done and go on doing the nasty with his Mary from Rochester with a clear conscience. Well, it wasn’t gonna happen. No way. She’d keep right on banging his ear until he let her be, no matter how long it took.
Now she was restless. She paced around her office and the anteroom, stared out through the windows at South Park, paced some more. Lord, she wished she’d gone through with her plan last night, made the club scene and picked up some guy and humped the night away. Sexual frustration was part of her problem, no question about that. But she hadn’t been able to do it. Got all the way over to the Mission, drove around looking for a parking place, and the next thing she knew she was on her way back home. Hadn’t even thought about it, just drove back to the apartment and dragged that ice cream cake out of the freezer and ate half of it in about two minutes flat. And then she’d gone into the bathroom and puked it up like some bulimic teenager.
Too soon after the Dear Tamara call, that was one reason she’d blown off the club crawl. A knee-jerk reaction to sudden trouble wasn’t like her; she’d outgrown the impulsive behavior that’d gotten her messed up more than once when she was younger. Another reason was that maybe she’d outgrown casual sex, too. As much as she wanted to get laid, she didn’t really want it to be with some stranger who didn’t have a clue who she was or care any more about her than she would about him. Being with one man for so long had changed her outlook, turned her into the same sort Bill was and Jake had been when his second wife was alive. Monogamous. Wanting more than just an orgasm out of a sexual relationship-needing closeness and caring and understanding and some mutual respect.
Like she’d had once with Horace.
Like he was having with Mary from Rochester.
Then go find somebody else, girl. Easy as pie, right? Put an ad in the newspaper, sign up with an Internet dating service, join a church group. Mr. Right’s out there someplace, just waiting for Ms. Right to come along. Can’t take more than a few weeks, a few months, a few years at the outside.
Got a better idea, she thought. Go out tonight after work and buy some new batteries for that vibrator of yours. May not be the perfect solution, but at least Mr. V’s an old and caring friend and besides, you won’t have to talk to him afterward or look him in the eye when you wake up in the morning.
Behind her, the phone bell went off. Fax line this time; the bell made a different sound. She stayed by the window, watching a group of young kids playing on the swings and slides on the little playground below, until the transmission was finished. Then she went over and gathered up the half-dozen sheets from the tray. SFPD computer printouts on the Erin Dumont rape-murder, no cover note.
She’d just finished going over them at her desk when the phone rang again, main line. Boss man checking in.
“Jack Logan came through,” she told him. “Homicide inspectors’ reports and coroner’s report, both.”
“I figured he would. Anything that didn’t get into the media?”
“Plenty. Erin Dumont wasn’t attacked and killed where her body was found. No forensic evidence at the site or on her clothing. Lacerations and a few fibers on her buttocks and legs consistent with rough upholstery material, like a car seat.”
“Forced into a car and driven somewhere else.”
“Or got in willingly with a guy she knew. Question is, why didn’t he leave the body where he did her? Had to be pretty isolated, wherever that was. Why risk bringing it back and dumping it near where he picked her up?”
“Good point,” he said. “If the vicinity of Thirtieth and Fulton is where he picked her up.”
