credentials and political connections. Soon he rose to assistant director, then was tapped by the port commission to look into the demolition or renovation of aging piers. A year ago, the new mayor-a boyhood friend-had hired him as his chief administrative aide.
Jim Yatz was said to be brilliant, politically savvy, and fiercely loyal to the mayor and his administration.
“He’s also said to be devious and ruthless if the occasion warrants it,” D’Angelo finished.
Craig tapped his pencil on the table, glanced at Mick, who was making a note. “Any personal stuff on Yatz?” he asked.
“Unmarried, dates a lot of beautiful women. Owns a house in the Marina. Entertains lavishly. No,” Diane said to Craig’s inquiring look, “he’s never entertained me. Jim and I… well, that goes back a long way.”
“To what?”
She shifted her position in her chair, curled a lock of her hair around her index finger-a nervous habit that Craig had previously noted. “He and I… we dated when he was in DC and I was in New York. Long-distance relationship, and it didn’t work out.”
“But he didn’t react negatively when we brought you in on the case. In fact, he gave you a strong reference when you applied to work here.”
“Jim and I have made our peace. I was the wrong woman for him, but he knew I was the right woman for the job.” She frowned. “But it turns out I wasn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if I’d done the job properly, Sharon wouldn’t have gotten shot.”
“Then let’s do the job properly now. You’re something of an SF insider. Tell Mick and me what you know about our complicated city government.”
RAE KELLEHER
The Summerses’ house was up a long, badly paved driveway in the Lafayette hills. Rae maneuvered the low-slung Z4 around the worst of the potholes, but still the undercarriage scraped a couple of times.
She parked her car next to a Subaru station wagon in front of the garage and looked up at the house: murky green clapboard made murkier by the shade of the oaks that towered over it; two stories, probably with a third built down the hillside behind. A pretty setting, but a trifle gloomy for her taste.
As she got out of the car a white minivan pulled up behind her, and a slender woman with wavy light brown hair got out and approached her. “Ms. Kelleher? I’m Jane Koziol.” They shook hands, and Koziol motioned Rae toward the front door. “Senta’s in a pretty bad way, which is why I suggested I meet you here. She wants to hear firsthand about how you found out Alicia was a murder victim. But I’m going to ask you: please spare her the gorier details.”
“I didn’t bring my file or any crime scene pictures, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not into gore myself.”
“Good.” Koziol rang the doorbell. Its summons was answered immediately by a tall woman with unkempt dark hair that fell to her shoulders; she was wearing a pair of rumpled blue sweats, and the skin around her eyes was red and puffy, her face drawn with sorrow.
Senta Summers greeted them and took them into a living room overlooking an oak grove on the slope below. She asked them to be seated, offered refreshments, which they both declined, then sat tentatively on the edge of the sofa, as if poised for flight.
“You want to know how I found out what happened to your daughter,” Rae said.
“Yes. And I want to thank you. The not knowing is what’s been so unbearable.”
Rae could understand that; the Little Savages weren’t even her own children, but if one of them disappeared, she’d’ve spent many a sleepless night.
Rae provided her with a brief summary of her investigation. “The credit really should go to the Bay Area Victims’ Advocates,” she added. “They never give up, even when the police do. If you don’t mind, would you tell me about Alicia, so I can close out my file properly?”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Senta made a helpless gesture with both hands.
“What kind of child was she?”
After a long pause, Senta said, “She was a feisty baby who grew into a very willful young adult. At first that seemed a good quality, since she put it to use achieving things: good grades, science fair prizes, an excellent summer job as a counselor at a kayaking camp. She loved to take photographs. That’s one of hers over the mantel.”
Rae looked where she pointed. A wide-angle view of the sun glinting through the branches of an oak tree. Not professional-quality, but it showed promise.
“She was beautiful and loving,” Senta added. “But then it all changed in her senior year.”
Alicia, her mother said, had become withdrawn and her grades fell off. She lost her interests, didn’t see her friends, and finally began staying away from home for days. “I tried to control her, but she did whatever she wanted. Her father was no help; he told me to back off and give her some space. Then, on July ninth of the year she graduated, she left home for good.” Senta Summers paused, shook her head as if to clear it. “All this time I’ve been hoping she’d come back someday, and now I know she never will.”
Jane Koziol took a packet of Kleenex from her purse and passed Senta a tissue.
Rae asked, “Did you file a missing person report?”
“After the requisite seventy-two hours.”
“Your husband is politically connected-couldn’t he have requested the police look into Alicia’s disappearance sooner?”
“My husband prides himself on operating strictly within the law and asks no favors.” The words were full of venom.
“What about a private investigator? Did you consider employing one?”
“I wanted to, but Lee said no.”
“Why?”
“He was working on an important political campaign, and he was afraid word would get out that we couldn’t control our own daughter.” Senta’s voice was even more bitter.
Time to hit her with the big questions. “Is that why you filed for divorce?”
If she was surprised by Rae’s knowledge, she didn’t show it. “Among other things. But Lee persuaded me to withdraw the petition in exchange for certain concessions.”
“Which were…?”
“I don’t see as that’s relevant to my daughter’s murder, Ms. Kelleher.”
Rae glanced at Koziol, then said to Senta, “The things you mention about Alicia-drop in grades, loss of friends and interests-are often signs of depression. And depression in teenagers can often be caused by sexual abuse. Did you ever suspect-?”
“No!” The answer was prompt and loud. “There was nothing like that between Lee and Alicia.”
Denial? Or…?
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. Lee hasn’t been able to… perform for over ten years. Prostate problems.”
“Abuse isn’t necessarily defined by penetration.”
Senta shook her head emphatically. “There was nothing like that. The truth is, Lee was indifferent to our daughter. Oh, he tolerated her, but only because she was pretty and smart and he could show her off to his political associates. He simply didn’t acknowledge her, unless the occasion suited his needs.
“I ask you, do you see him here today? He wasn’t here yesterday when I got the news. I waited up till nearly one o’clock to tell him. Then he pretended grief-he’s a very good pretender-and gave me a sedative and held me in bed. But at four-thirty in the morning I heard him talking on the phone. And he left at seven, telling me I should arrange for her exhumation from wherever the city buried her so she can be interred in the family plot. Oh, yes, and
