Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

“Hang on. Hang on,” I said, mousing rapidly. “You said Jose Provencio?”

“Yes.”

“Jose Manuel Provencio?”

“...yes.”

“He’s still there?”

“I’m looking right at him.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

“You’re telling me he never took care of it.”

“Who didn’t.”

“Samuel Afton. Mr. Provencio’s stepson. He assured me he would handle it. He said he worked out a deal with you guys.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about that. I know that my idiot nephew is telling me this guy’s been here since the summer. I respect what you do but I’m at my limit.”

“You and me both,” I said. “Give me five minutes, okay? I’ll call you back.”

Samuel Afton’s phone went straight to voicemail. I left a message asking him to get in touch immediately, then phoned Cucinelli.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “If I don’t hear from him by the end of the day it’s going to county indigent.”

He grumbled but agreed. “As long as we finish with it today.”

“Five o’clock. You have my word.”

I put down the phone.

“Yo,” Zaragoza said, hanging over the partition. “We’re up.”

I reached for my vest.

He laughed. “No, dude. Lunch run.”

In the car, he said, “You okay?”

“Me? Fine. Why.”

“You look kinda tired.”

I’d been up late several nights in a row with the Zhao file. Even after forcing myself to roll over and turn off the bedside lamp, I’d lie on my back, listening to cars bottoming out in the potholes along Grand Avenue, wondering whether to call Tatiana and what to say.

The question wasn’t if Julian Triplett was dangerous. I’d seen the carnage. I’d read the autopsy protocol. Donna Zhao had been stabbed twenty-nine times.

The question, rather, was, if the huge guy I’d seen outside Rennert’s house was in fact Julian Triplett, or whether he was some other huge guy, and I was caught up in an equally huge mindfuck of a coincidence, victim of my own imagination.

Say it was him. What did I hope to accomplish by warning Tatiana? What did I expect her to do? Run out and get a gun? Like a dancer, Berkeley born and bred, would arm herself. Even if she did, she was more likely to end up shooting herself by accident.

By making her aware of a threat, I was in a sense creating that threat, which in my mind created a responsibility for me — to ensure that no harm came to her. Was I going to sit outside her house, a one-man neighborhood watch? For how long?

I was also concerned about feeding her suspicions. There was no evidence her father’s death was anything but natural, and I had no proof of Triplett’s ill intent. I had no proof he knew she existed. He hadn’t come to her address.

I considered other explanations for his presence outside the house. The best I could come up with was that he’d read the obituary and dropped by to gloat.

“Insomnia,” I said to Zaragoza.

“You try melatonin? I have some in my desk.”

“No, thanks.”

“I meant to ask you. Sunday. Priscilla’s making...” He paused, scratching his chin.

“Food?” I suggested.

“Let’s hope.”

“Yeah, man. Thanks.”

“Thank her. Her idea.”

That raised my antennae. “No unmarried cousins, please.”

“ One time,” he said.

“Once was enough.”

“Telling you, dude, you fucked up. Iris is a quality chick.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Leaving In-N-Out Burger with my arms full of greasy bags, I felt my pocket buzz and hurried to dump the food in the backseat of the Explorer. Too late: I’d missed the call. I was expecting a voicemail from Samuel Afton.

Tatiana. No message.

I squirmed around the whole ride back, abandoning Zaragoza to distribute lunch while I escaped to the intake bay to call her.

“Hey,” she said.

“Is everything all right?” I said.

“Uh, fine,” she said. “Are you all right?”

Unlike me, she sounded calm, if a trifle perplexed. Nobody tapping on her window. Nobody crouched in the bushes. Only my unexplained urgency to trouble her.

“No no. I’m...” I let the adrenaline seep away. “Busy day. What’s up?”

“I wanted to let you know, I’m going to be heading out of town for a bit. In case you need to reach me about something.”

The best of news. Safer for her, at least in the short term. Mixed with my relief, though, was a stab of regret. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

“Tahoe. My dad has a house there. Had. I need to start dealing with it.”

“Are you leaving soon?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “I found someone to cover my classes for the next few weeks. Figured I might as well get it over with.”

“Right,” I said. “Would you be up for something before you go?”

“Up for...”

Smooth, Clay.

“Dinner,” I said.

A beat. “You mean tonight?”

“That sounds like our only option. Unless you’ll do breakfast at three a.m.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was planning on getting an early start.”

“Sure.”

“I mean,” she said. “It depends.”

“On?”

“You said you needed to figure things out.”

“I know I did.”

“And. Have you?”

I said, “I’d like to see you.”

Longer pause.

She said, “Sorry, tonight’s not going to work. I’m wiped.”

Steeerike!

“But,” she said, “I could leave Monday instead.”

Before going home I tried Samuel Afton one final time. In my voicemail I informed him that the county was moving to cremate his stepfather as an indigent. I gave Cucinelli the green light, packed up, and headed down to the lockers. Zaragoza was already there, lethargically stowing his gear.

“Yo,” I said, “I have to bail on Sunday night. Something came up.”

He took my flakery in stride, shrugging and starting to compose a text.

“Tell Priscilla thanks and I’m sorry,” I said.

He clucked his tongue. “I’m telling Iris she doesn’t need to come after all.”

Tatiana stepped from her apartment in jeans and a sleeveless top that fell straight and sheer, emphasizing her leanness. Black hair fanned over her shoulders. She’d put on a touch of makeup. Hoop earrings. She said, “How do you feel about Mexican?”

“Some of my best friends are Mexican,” I said.

We set off walking.

“You look beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“Too strong?”

“No such thing,” she said.

She’d picked out not a restaurant, but a food truck, one of a dozen circled in the parking lot outside the North Berkeley BART station. A couple hundred people milled around under string lights, eating off paper plates. Unattended kids ran in giddy loops to the backing of a zydeco band. A banner behind the stage read OFF THE GRID.

“You are free to partake wherever and whatever you want,” she said. “But I strongly recommend the tacos al pastor from Red Rooster.”

“Done.”

We got food and beer and found a pair of unclaimed plastic chairs.

“I think they do one of these around Lake Merritt,” she said.

“Saturdays,” I said. “I’m working.”

“Poor you.” She held out her lengua for me to try. When I declined, she reached over, forking a piece of pork off my plate. “I only offered so you’d give me some of yours.”

“You could’ve gotten your own.”

“Then we couldn’t share.”

“We aren’t actually sharing,” I said. “You’re just stealing politely.”

“Right, but this way I feel justified.”