Matthew Griffin. He used to work out of the Mission district precinct, and he’d busted her two times for prostitution.
He recognized her at once. “Julia Rafael. What’re you doing here?”
She took out one of her agency business cards and extended it to him. “Working. A woman who lives in that building is my client.”
Surprisingly, he took a long look at the card. “I heard you went straight. That’s a good agency. McCone has always been somebody who takes a chance on people. How’s she doing since the shooting?”
“About the same. She’s aware, but can’t move or speak.”
“Jesus, what a shame.”
He didn’t know the half of it. Shar had given her the chance of a lifetime, had stood by her when she almost blew it. She owed her-and then some.
Julia let out a deep breath, asked, “Who’s the victim?”
“Woman named Haven Dietz.”
“Oh, no…”
“She your client?”
“Yes.”
He raised the tape. “That man over there in the black coat is Lt. Dave Morrison. Tell him what you know about this.”
She ducked under the tape, moved forward. Griffin said, “Julia?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you turned your life around.”
“Thank you. I am, too.”
Lt. Morrison knew nothing of her history and treated her as a professional. He glanced curiously at her scabbed-over nose and blackened eyes, but instead of commenting he listened to her account of the Haven Dietz case and then took her up to the apartment. It had been searched, Dietz’s belongings dumped from drawers and hurled around, and there were bloodstains on the carpet and a spatter pattern on the wall. Shot by an intruder, the lieutenant said.
Looking at the bloody wall made Julia gag, and Morrison gave her a concerned look.
Well, Shar would have gagged, too, maybe, but she wouldn’t’ve thrown up, and Julia wasn’t going to either.
She swallowed hard, asked, “Did she surprise a burglar?”
“On the surface it would appear that way. But experience tells me someone was looking for something specific.”
She said, “I had an appointment with Dietz for eight o’clock.” She checked her watch. “Right about now. I wanted to make it earlier, but she said she was having someone over for dinner. Any sign of that?”
“Nothing’s been cooked, and there’re no takeout containers. I’d say that kitchen hasn’t been used for anything other than microwaving and coffee-making in quite a while. We’ll check it out more thoroughly. You have any idea what the perp might’ve been looking for?”
Julia shook her head.
“Another theory I have is that her attacker returned to finish his job.”
“After a year?”
Morrison shrugged. “It was a vicious attack, indicating extreme anger or psychosis. In the minds of people like that… Well, for a lot of them, it’s never finished until the victim’s dead.”
“He used a knife last time. Would he have been likely to switch to a gun?”
“You can’t predict what people like that’ll do.”
Julia looked around the trashed apartment, blocking out the bloodstains. The furnishings were old and worn; there were no pictures or mementoes; it felt like the lair of an animal who had dug in and was waiting to die.
And now she had.
RAE KELLEHER
The Pro Terra Party. Founded in 2002 by environmentalists Cheryl Fitzgerald and Don Beckman. They’d had a falling-out in 2004, and Beckman quit the party; Fitzgerald left in 2006, for unspecified personal reasons. Since then Pro Terra had been run by a board of directors, of which Lee Summers, the dead woman’s father, was chairman. Their most notable political win had been Paul Janssen’s election to the state house of representatives in 2008.
Rae Googled Cheryl Fitzgerald. The woman had been flying below the search engine’s radar since she left the party and took an executive position with a Silicon Valley firm that developed alternative energy sources. Don Beckman had died of a heart attack in 2005. Rae went to one of the search engines the agency subscribed to for more information on Fitzgerald. She was still with Alternative Resources, whose office address was in Cupertino. Rae noted that down, then did a search for Lee Summers.
He had an impressive background: bachelor’s degree in prelaw from Stanford, law degree from Harvard. He’d made partner at one of San Francisco’s prestigious appeals firms in record time. His personal life was unblemished: he’d been married to his wife, Senta, for twenty-four years; was a regular churchgoer; was a member of two country clubs; served on the boards of various charities. Alicia had been the couple’s only child. Five years ago Summers had cut back on his legal practice to devote his energy to the Pro Terra Party, and had been instrumental in Representative Paul Janssen’s victory.
All squeaky-clean. Which made Rae uncomfortable. Everybody had something to hide. She certainly did.
Well, maybe that was specious reasoning. If she Googled herself, there would be no mention that in her teens she had been the primo slut of her hometown, Santa Maria. But the details of her very public affair with Ricky would be duly noted…
She moved on to another search engine and dug deeper.
Aha! In 2008 Lee Summers’s wife had filed for divorce, but withdrawn the petition two weeks later. Irreconcilable differences had apparently been reconciled. Or a compromise-given that he was involved in an intense political campaign-had been made. Just about the time Alicia had left home and become a prostitute here in the city.
Maybe that high-school counselor’s intuitions were wrong. Maybe Rae should rethink the abuse angle.
The phone rang. Rae grabbed it before the call could go to the office machine. Jane Koziol, the Acalanes High School counselor she’d just been thinking of.
“I’ve been in touch with Alicia’s mother, Senta Summers,” she said. “She’d like to talk with you. Would tomorrow afternoon at two be okay?”
“Of course.” Abuse, just as she’d suspected.
Koziol gave her directions to the Summerses’ house in the Lafayette hills and said she’d meet her there.
The timing was perfect. In the morning Rae could drive to Cupertino and appear at Cheryl Fitzgerald’s office first thing, when the woman’s and her gatekeepers’ guards were apt to be low, and go from there to Lafayette for the meeting with Mrs. Summers.
HY RIPINSKY
The file on the Teller investigation is gone,” Ted said to Hy.
“Shit.”
“I happen to know a very capable computer forensics expert who can retrieve it.”
“Mick? He’s been incommunicado since last night.”
“Derek’s almost as good as he is.” Ted was already on the phone, hitting the fast dial. “Hey, Derek, I need you
