“I don’t know. Jani worries.”
“Send her an e-mail, or fax.” This too had been done before, to let Jani know where he was without waking her.
“Yeah, I guess I could. Thanks.”
He followed her across town to the silent house on Russian Hill, joined her in a sandwich and some unfocused and low-voiced conversation in the kitchen, and then they both fell into their beds for the luxury of five unbroken hours of sleep.
The two detectives dressed with care in the morning, checking shirt-fronts for old stains and hair for stray tufts. They walked into a room which held one lieutenant, one captain, one secretary, Detectives Boyle and Kitagawa from Homicide and Deaver from the LOPD task force, a large pot of fresh coffee, a plate of doughnuts, and an unknown figure whose reputation preceded him, the local FBI agent Benjamin Marcowitz. He was known as Marc to his very few friends, Benny to his numerous enemies, and the Man in Black to most of the people who worked with and for him, both for his habitual choice of dark suit and for his resemblance to a slimmer, younger Tommy Lee Jones in the movie of that name.
Kate had never seen an FBI agent who more precisely resembled thecaricaturestraight- faced,straitlaced,clean-cut malein thesuit.
All he needed was a coil of wire emerging from his ear to complete the picture. Marcowitz’s handshake was the least expressive touch of flesh she had ever experienced: It might have been a leather glove filled with sand.
Despite first impressions, however, he was not as bad as he might have been. At this point, he made clear, he was prepared to run a more or less parallel operation, concentrating on the national search for similar killings and on providing manpower, backup, and coordination for the SFPD. He was, in a word, altogether too reasonable, and the locals eyed him warily.
To Kate’s astonishment, a brief smile appeared on his face, then vanished. “In the past,” he told the room, “the Bureau has generated a lot of ill will by its tendency to take over cases that might be better handled by the local police departments. We’re actually better used in assistance, on regional cases. I don’t want to get grabby, and I’ll do my best to give you anything we come up with. I hope that works the other way, as well.”
Eyebrows were raised at this innovation of an FBI running interference instead of carrying the ball, but it was a nice thought.
In a short time, decisions were made and responsibilities divided up. Having three teams of detectives related to this one case meant tying up practically the entire SFPD homicide detail, and once the tasers brought in the Ladies task force as well, it was clearly time to sort things out. Kitagawa had taken the Laxman Mehta call, but Pramilla’s death— which was Boyle’s case—was clearly a consideration, and over them all was the possible link with Al and Kate’s serial. At the end of the meeting it had been agreed that, in order to streamline matters, Al and Kate would be the primaries on this one, with Kitagawa and Boyle feeding them information so as not to do everything twice and with Marcowitz kept up-to-date so that, if the time came for the feds to take what he called “a more active role,” there would be no delay. The FBI, in the meantime, would turn its mighty mind to the problem of the Ladies, although whether it would give them what it found was anyone’s guess. Kitagawa, on the other hand, was the very essence of cooperation, having printed off multiple copies of his notes from the night before (typically enough, typed neatly and thoroughly legible), including the brief preliminary interview with Peter Mehta. Laxman’s rooms on the upper floor had been sealed off for them, and for the crime scene team, if necessary.
The morning was fairly thoroughly gone by the time Kate and Al drove off through a light rain to interview Peter Mehta. Speaking over the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the blowing defogger, Al said, “You’ve met Mehta; how do you want to handle him?”
“He’s definitely a man’s man. You’d better start on the questions, I’ll jump in when it’s time to make him uncomfortable.”
“Thought of anything else I should know?” They had spent a couple of hours, not only that morning but the night before, reviewing what Kate knew of the case and its chronology. She thought about what she had already told him, and what she had not.
“Did I mention the thought that there could have been something between Peter and Pramilla? Not that I have anything concrete, just my naturally suspicious mind. She was very pretty and he’s very full of himself. At the very least, he found her attractive.”
“Jealous of Laxman, you think?”
“Who in turn may have picked up on it, and bashed his wife. Just something to keep in mind. Of course, there’s also the fact that Laxman resented his wife’s talking to men on one of her outings. It was the cause of one of his beatings. It could have led to him doing her in.”
“Which would make it very likely that Laxman was one of our Ladies’ serials. Was there anyone in particular that she was ‘talking to’?”
“It’s on my list of things to find out. I thought I’d give Amanda Bonner a call later today.”
“What about Mehta’s wife, Rani? Did you get the sense that she suspected something between her husband and her sister-in-law?”
“She’s a puzzle. Far too much of a wife-and-mother for me to get much out of her, and her English isn’t good enough to get much subtlety out of it. If there was something—
“Really?”
“Ironic, isn’t it? So much for the solidarity of the oppressed.”
When they arrived at the Mehta house, they discovered that it would have been redundant to park a uniformed at the curb: The place was awash with media. They had to push their way through to the two uniforms who were trying to keep the reporters out of the rosebushes. Three women in rain parkas carrying hand-lettered signs reading children are NOT FOR MARRYING walked back and forth in front of the next-door neighbor’s house, which was as close as they could get to their target. Al mounted the front steps and, before pushing the doorbell, asked the uniformed how it was going.
“Oh, fine sir. It was a little crazy about an hour ago when he came out to talk to the reporters, but some of ‘em left after that. Wish it would rain harder.”
“You mean Mehta? He made a statement?”
“Yes sir. Right here on the steps. I had some job keeping them from following him inside afterward.”
“What did he say?”
“That he and his family were being ‘hounded,” that was his word, by a bunch of women who had no understanding of Hindu customs or sensitivities. That was more or less what he said.“
Hawkin glanced at Kate grimly. “Did he name names?”
“Not directly. Although he had a quiet word with one or two of the reporters, I didn’t hear what he told them.”
“I guess there’s nothing we can do about it now. Anything you need out here?”
“We’re going to be going off in a while, they’ll send replacements.”
“Okay. Well, thanks.” He rang the bell and, after the peephole darkened momentarily and the locks were slid noisily back, they stepped into the besieged Mehta house and followed Peter Mehta into his study.
Kate introduced Al Hawkin, and then as they had agreed, she sat down and faded into the background. “Mr. Mehta,” Al began. “Could you please tell us what happened last night?”
“What do you mean, ”what happened‘? My brother was killed, is what happened. Foully murdered and his body left in a—a corrupt and disgusting place, and his murderer walks the streets of San Francisco with impunity.“
Kate suppressed a tug of amusement at Mehta’s flowery language. She was well aware that many of the city’s ethnic minorities tended more toward histrionics when confronted with tragedy than did the Anglo-Saxons (she herself, after all, came from an Italian family), although she was mildly surprised at the dramatic response of Peter Mehta, who previously had seemed as American as they came. Apparently his American skin was thin in places. He was on his feet now, pacing the carpeted floor of his study, his hands playing restlessly over his lapels, buttons, the backs of furniture, and each other.
“Sir,” Al was saying patiently, “we need to question everyone who came in contact with your brother last
