T. Parker: Cold Pursuit

Forensic specialists Bob Harley and Erik Fiore stepped down into the room, toting their bags of tricks. Behind them was the Team Three sergeant Mark Hatter and Detective Barbara Givens.

"Jesus," said Givens.

"Woah," said Harley. "Reminds me of that guy- what, Appleby or something? With the pipe."

Erik whistled low, the sound falling off at the end like something going over a cliff. "Cool aquaria."

Sergeant Hatter said nothing. He was in charge of Homicide Team Three by rank, but McMichael was up for lead on this one, purely a matter of rotation and chance. Wheel of fortune, thought McMichael- whose fortune?

Harley set down his forensic case and brought out a digital still camera, which he looped around his neck, and a Polaroid, which he checked for film.

McMichael told Erik to shoot the video, then start the measurements and sketches. "Get the club first," he said. "Then fish it out of the blood. I want Polaroids of those firewood bundles, close up as you can get. Barbara, do a quick-and-dirty theft check on the rest of the house- see if anything obvious has been lifted. Look for forced entry."

"Got it."

"Then take a look at the VW Beetle out there, but don't go into it yet. After that, I'd like you to handle the press and media. Tell them what we know."

A moment later the medical examiner's team quietly entered. Then Hector Paz, McMichael's closest partner within the team, barreled in behind them like a wrecking ball.

McMichael nodded to Paz and backed away from what used to be Pete Braga and was now San Diego PD case #03-114-M. He checked the trophy wall where the fishing equipment was displayed and found the empty hook between a large gaff and a fighting belt.

"Shoot this hook, Bob."

"There's nothing on it."

"Looks like a good place to hang a club."

The nurse was young, dirty blonde and tall. She turned from a dining room window when McMichael and Paz walked in: hair up in a loose nest, a blood-smeared cream turtleneck, a blood-smeared fuchsia cardigan, bloody jeans and short-heeled black boots. McMichael studied her as he approached- blood on her face, neck and hands. Her eyes were very dark brown.

"I'm Detective Tom McMichael. This is Hector Paz."

"I want to wash up."

He looked down at her boots and saw the dark drops in relief against the leather. "Do you mind if we take a few pictures of you first?"

"I mind."

The nurse stared at Paz with a sullen blankness.

"What's your name?" asked McMichael.

"Sally Rainwater."

"What's in the pockets?" asked Paz.

Sally Rainwater looked down and extracted one black leather glove from each of the cardigan's side pockets.

"You can just set them on the table," said McMichael. "And the cardigan, too, if you don't mind."

She dropped the gloves on the dining table, then unbuttoned the sweater. She dropped it on the table, too, and fixed her dark brown eyes on him. Her pupils looked normal and her eyes were primitively wild, set off by her face and the blood.

"You can wash up," said McMichael. "I'm going to have a female investigator accompany you."

She strode out and McMichael nodded to Traynor. "Get Barbara."

Hector watched them go. "You going to ask her for the boots?"

"I will."

Hector looked at McMichael with his typical expression of suspicion and latent good humor. "She'll clean up nicely."

"I think so."

McMichael then briefed Paz on what Sterling had told him. Paz was a stocky, muscular man about McMichael's age. Like McMichael, he was only three years in Homicide. They were placed on Team Three because of different temperaments. Tom McMichael was tall and quiet and sometimes sly, Hector Paz bullish and aggressive. The homicide captain called them Calm and Heckle. The Team Three case cancellation rate was highest in the unit.

McMichael pulled out two of the dining set chairs, then turned the chandelier lights over the table all the way up. He took the bay view for himself, not for the scenery but to make the nurse look at him while she talked. He used a pen to nudge her gloves a little closer to where she would sit. The blood on them gave off a duller reflection than the leather and left a faint smudge on the cherrywood lacquer.

"Just hover," said McMichael. "Break in when you want to."

"I can hover. Should we Mirandize her?"

"Let's wait. It looked like transfer blood on her. No mist or droplets, except on her boots."

"Except on her boots."

Five minutes later Sally Rainwater walked back in. Barbara looked in at McMichael, shrugged with an undecided arch of eyebrows, then headed back down the hall.

McMichael was writing in a small notebook, which he closed and placed on the table next to his tape recorder. Hector stood in front of a bronze sculpture of a leaping tuna that dominated one corner of the room.

"Please sit down," said McMichael.

She looked at the ready chair, the gloves, then at him. Her face and hands were clean now, her hair in a strict ponytail. No jewelry, no ring. Her clothes were the same blood-splattered mess. She turned the chair toward the picture window and sat so she wouldn't be facing either of them, so all McMichael could see was profile. He studied the high curve of forehead, straight small nose, her good chin and lips.

"You don't mind talking to us, do you, Ms. Rainwater?"

"I'll talk."

"Thank you. I'm going to tape-record this."

She said nothing as McMichael flipped the tape over and turned the machine on. He had her spell her name and give her home address and phone number.

"Tell me what you saw tonight."

"I went out at about nine-twenty for firewood. I came back a few minutes after ten. I went into the fish room and saw Pete dangling over the side of his chair. The sliding door was open and the wind was coming in. Someone was running across the sand toward the bay. He jumped the wall and disappeared. I saw Pete's head and the blood and the Fish Whack'r and called nine-one-one, then tried to bring him back. I couldn't."

Sally Rainwater turned and looked at him, then back to the bay. Hector faced them now, leaning against the picture window.

"Fish Whack'r?" he asked.

"That's what the club is called," she said.

"Describe the person you saw," said McMichael.

"Black running suit, and a dark cap pulled down. It could have been a man or a woman, but it ran like a man. Average build and height. He blended in with the darkness, just jumped the wall and disappeared."

"Just disappeared," said Paz.

McMichael looked at him, then out to where the sand blew across the beach.

Hector found a light switch and hit the outside floodlights. All three of them watched as the wind softened the scores of footprints going all directions in the public sand. McMichael thought of beachcombers, joggers, walkers, swimmers, kayakers, paddleboarders, you name it. Even in winter, San Diegans loved their beaches.

"Was Pete dead when you found him?"

"Yes. I did CPR anyway, until the cops and paramedics got here."

"Did you kill him?" asked Hector.

"No," she said quietly.

McMichael watched her and let the seconds stretch. "Did you move him?"

"Yes." Her voice was soft but clear and, McMichael thought, a little distant now. "He was hanging over the left side when I walked in. I wrestled him up straight and he slid down like that. I figured that was as good a place as any, so I started the CPR."

"But nothing."

"Nothing but blood all over me."

"What work did you do here?"

"I'm a registered nursing aid, but for Pete, most of what I did was just domestic. Cooking, laundry, light cleaning. Some shopping. Sometimes I'd drive him."

"Where?" asked McMichael.

"Errands. He liked to ride."

"How come he didn't go with you for the firewood?" asked Hector.