Jonathan Kellerman - Capital Crimes

The thought of stripping made her horny. She whispered an enticing hello into the receiver.

Davida said, “Hi, honey.”

“Hel-lo.” Minette hoped she didn’t sound as drunk as she felt. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Ooh, that sounds good was the answer over the line. Then the pause Minette hated. “I’ve got some pressing paperwork tonight, Min. It’s going to take some time for me to go through all of it.”

“How long is some time? A minute, an hour, a day, a week?”

“More than a minute and less than a week.”

Minette did not laugh. Davida tried to keep her patience. She knew Min had been drinking because she was slurring her words, but now was not the right time to get into it. “I’ve got a committee hearing on the bill in two days, the wording needs to be perfect or some yahoo’s going to jump on it.”

“Another committee?”

“And two more after that, but things will ease up, soon, I promise.”

“No, they won’t,” said Minette. “You’ll find some other cause to rob all your time.”

Davida tried to change the subject. “Did you finalize the Tecate reservation?”

“Yes- why? Do I have to cancel it?”

“No, no. The entire week is engraved into my BlackBerry. I can’t wait.”

“Me, neither.” But Minette couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm. Davida had aborted their spa vacation at Rancho La Puerta twice before. “When are you coming home?”

“I’ll try to make it before one, but don’t wait up.”

Meaning she wasn’t coming home. Minette sighed. Stroked a lace bra cup. Hooked a thumb inside. “Don’t work so hard, baby.”

“Thanks for being so understanding, honey. I love you.”

Minette’s I love you, too, was cut short by the click.

Pouting, she hung up. Nine thirty-five, and she looked and felt every bit as sexy.

The evening was still very much alive. She pressed a memorized set of numbers into her cell phone, then hit the send button. When the caller answered, Minette tried to steady her voice. “As expected, she’s coming home very late tonight if at all. What are your plans?”

“Well, I guess I’m coming over to your place.”

“How long will that take?”

“Give me an hour to make excuses.”

“I’ll see you then. Oh, and pick up a bottle of Knob Creek,” Minette said. “We’re out of joy juice.”

The call came in at eight twenty-two AM, just enough time to interrupt Will Barnes’s treadmill torture. Every day, he blasted his joints into oblivion with the faint hope that the mindless machine would increase his life expectancy. Will’s father and grandfather had died of heart disease in their early sixties. Will’s cardiologist said his ticker looked great, but the unspoken message got through: take special care.

He slowed the pace, said, “Barnes.”

The Loo said, “Davida Grayson was found dead in her office.”

Barnes was so stunned that he almost tripped. Hopping off the machine, he wrapped a towel around his thick, sweaty neck. “What the hell happened?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to figure out. I’ll meet you at the crime scene. Amanda is also on her way. Lucky for you, you’ve got a pard who knows how to work the media, because this is going to be high profile. Cap has scheduled a press conference at eleven. Town hall meeting will be at seven tonight. We need a quick close, Will, before the community goes haywire.”

“Can I put my pants on first?”

“Sure. You can even do it one leg at a time.”

William Tecumseh Barnes was a wide-shouldered guy with a football-flattened nose and soft blue eyes. Prone to a beer gut and a double chin, he sometimes reckoned himself over the hill. But women liked those baby blues and he had his own hair, most of it still brown with a dusting of pewter at the temples. He’d gone from high school halfback to the army to law enforcement, spending fifteen years at Sacramento PD, ten as a homicide detective, until family matters brought him to the Bay Area.

Will’s only sibling, Jack, was a gay man who made a living out of being a gay man. Jack had moved from Sacramento to San Francisco at sixteen and by twenty had been a “well-known activist,” a fanatical in-your-face kind of guy who’d managed to offend everyone.

Will knew the abrasiveness went beyond idealism; he’d spent half his youth cleaning up Jack’s messes. But family was family, even if Will hadn’t ever really understood his brother.

When Jack was murdered, their parents were long gone and Will faced his grief alone. As the case grew cold, he knew what he had to do. Recently divorced with no kids or baggage keeping him in the capital, he requested a temporary leave of absence. That turned into two years as he searched for his brother’s killer. Bit by bit, as he probed into Jack’s death, he came to know Jack’s life. Jack’s friends grew to trust him, confided in him, related snippets that came together like the squares of a patchwork quilt. In the end, Jack’s death turned out to be one of those stupid homicides: an argument with the wrong person.

When it was time to return to Sacramento, Will discovered that he loved the beauty of the Bay Area, and had grown to respect- albeit in a begrudging way- the political diversity. He applied to Berkeley PD because a detective position had just opened and because chasing down his brother’s killer had left him drained and exhausted and it seemed like a cushy, small-town job.

Not this morning, with Davida Grayson a vic.

Will showered and shaved and locked up his piece of California real estate- a two-bedroom, one-bath, eight-hundred-square-foot bungalow. When Will plunked down a thirty-five-thousand-dollar deposit on it fifteen years ago, it had been a dump. Now his mess was fixed up and prettified and damn if it wasn’t the best investment he had ever made.

The area around Grayson’s district office on Shattuck was roped off with yellow tape. All the magpies were in place: local TV, radio, the papers. Barnes spied Laura Novacente from the Berkeley Crier and gave her a wave. They’d dated a couple of years ago and though it had ended, it had not ended badly. Laura weaved and elbowed herself through the throng and sidled up to him, making sure to give a little hip-to-hip contact.

“What’s going on, Willie?”

“You tell me, Laura.” Barnes looked around for Amanda Isis. His partner lived in San Francisco, in a twenty-three-room Pacific Heights mansion overlooking everything. It would take her at least another half hour to make it over the bridge. “You got here before I did, lady.”

“You don’t listen to your own scanners?”

“Not at eight in the morning, I don’t.”

“I heard she was shot in the head.”

“Then you heard more than I did.”

“Give me something, Willie.”

He sized Laura up with a swift sweep of the baby blues. Ten years younger than him, with long gray hair that flew in the wind like the mane of a galloping horse. Still that trim figure; he wondered why the two of them had gone south. “Captain’s arranged some kind of press conference- ”

“I thought we were friends.”

He loved the urgency in her voice. Had heard it many times before in a different context. “Your number is still lodged in my brain, Laura. If I find out anything, I’ll give you a ring, maybe we can meet.”

“The usual place?”

“I’m a creature of habit, Laura.”

Davida was slumped over her desk, face cradled in the crook of her arms as if she’d been napping away her last moments on earth. Detective Amanda Isis preferred to think that the transition from a temporary sleep to a permanent had been painless. The nape of Davida’s neck was blown wide open, pellets hitting with enough force to shred her spinal cord. Just about decapitated.