Capital Crimes (2 page)

Glynnis’ blood cells were in steady retreat and there were no new donors to be found.

Stem cells would have saved Glynnis, Davida was convinced of that. How different would things have been for the Grayson family if the scientific community had been funded righteously?

Two and a half years ago, Davida had been heartened when the people voted in an initiative funding a state stem-cell institute. But years later, she was disillusioned and angry: all the institute had accomplished was creating a board of directors and issuing a namby-pamby mission statement.

“Science works gradually” was the excuse. Davida wasn’t buying it. People like Alice had the answer, but Alice hadn’t even been consulted by the new board—Davida’s repeated requests notwithstanding.

She decided she’d waited long enough. Buttressed by a battalion of scientists, doctors, clergy, humanists and genetic sufferers, she went to war every day in Sacramento, laboring to convince her
less-enlightened
colleagues that a less grandiose but more efficient legislative approach was the answer.

And got precious little for her efforts.

It wasn’t that the stodgy pols really cared about aborted fetuses, because she’d learned that few pols cared about anything other than getting reelected. Though they screamed a good case. Six months into her struggle, she was convinced it was
Davida
they were rejecting. Because of who she
was.

Day after day of wearing out her vocal cords, making deals she really didn’t want to make, wasting hours on mind-numbing meetings. Now eggs in her face, on her blouse…right there on the capitol steps, the humiliation.

What a mess—there was a metaphor for you.

Mother’s voice snapped her back to the here and now. Prattling on about dangers lurking around every corner.

According to Lucille, Davida was a major target of every white-supremacist hate group in California, not to mention Bible Belt prolifers, hypermacho antigay farmers from the San Joaquin Valley, and, of course, misogynists of every stripe and gender.

She recalled Mother’s first words after the election results were tallied and Davida’s supporters broke into raised-fist cheers in the social hall of the old Finnish church.

Be careful, dear. Don’t get cocky and think because you can get elected here that you’re really popular.

Mother was being her typical negative self, but there was some truth to her admonitions. Davida knew she’d made many enemies, many of whom she had never met.

“Don’t worry, Mother, I’m fine.”

“On top of that, you work too hard.”

“That’s what a public servant does, Mother.”

“If you’re going to keep such long hours, you should at least be compensated for your efforts. Like in the corporate world. With your experience, you could write your own—”

“I don’t care about money, Mother.”

“That, my dear, is because you’ve never been without it.”

“True, Mother. Fortunate people go into public service to pay back. Stop worrying about me.”

Lucille Grayson’s look was injured. And frightened. She’d lost one daughter. Survival could be a burden, thought Davida. But she tried to be compassionate. “No one wants to hurt me. I’m too insignificant.”

“That’s not what I saw on TV.”

“They’ll have an arrest soon. Whoever did it wasn’t clever. Probably imbeciles from the White Tower Radicals.”

“They may not be clever, Davida, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”

“I’ll be especially careful, Mother.” Davida took a bite, put down the fork and wiped her mouth. “It’s been lovely, but I have piles of paperwork and it’s past nine. I have to get back to the office.”

Mother sighed. “All right. Go ahead. I have to pack up myself.”

“You’re not staying overnight?”

“No, I have a meeting tomorrow morning with my accountant back home.”

“Who’s driving you, Hector?”

“Guillermo.”

“He’s a good guy.” Davida stood up and helped her mother to her feet. “Do you need any help packing?”

“No, not at all.” Lucille kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Let me give you a ride to your office.”

“It’s a beautiful night, Mother. Not too cold and not too foggy. I think I’ll walk.”

“Walk?”

“It’s not late.”

“It’s dark, Davida.”

“I know everyone en route and as far as I know, none of them plans to egg me. You be careful yourself. I don’t like you going home so late. I wish you’d sleep here overnight.”

Not inviting Mother to her own apartment; there were limits.

Lucille said, “Sacramento is only an hour away.”

Davida smiled. “Not the way Guillermo drives.”

“A shorter journey means less opportunity for problems, dear. You have your business, I have mine.”

“Fair enough.” After bidding good-bye to Mother’s friends, Davida accompanied the old woman out of the dining room and helped her up the staircase to her room. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Mother. And I’ll tell Minette you said hello.”

“But I didn’t.”

“In domestic matters, honesty isn’t always the best policy.”

2

W
alking through the stillness of Berkeley’s business district, a thin fog veiling street signs and darkened storefronts and tickling her nose, Davida jammed her hands into her pockets and enjoyed the solitude. Then the silence got to her and she shifted to Shattuck Avenue, the core of the Gourmet Ghetto. The cafés that lined the street teemed with life. As much a concept as a place, the ghetto featured an architectural mix, like Berkeley itself, that refused to conform to anything resembling a standard. Fussy Victorian morphed to Arts and Crafts California bungalow to Deco to Fifties Dingbat. There were a few nods to the contemporary, but permits were hard to come by and developers often gave up.

Though she’d never admit it to anyone, Davida had long come to realize that Berkeley, like any other small, affluent town, had its own conservative core—change was threatening unless it toed the party line. In this case, the party was hers and she loved the controlled heterogeneity.

Walking with her head down, she trudged up Shattuck, breathing in lungfuls of foggy, saline air. Ducking into her office, she checked the messages on her cell. There were dozens of them but the only one that interested her was from Don. Once upon a time, she had known his number by heart. A lifetime ago.

She hit the green call button. His wife answered.

“Hi Jill, it’s Davi—”

“I’ll get Don for you.”

“Thank you.” Their typical conversation. Five words from Jill Newell was a discourse. The woman just couldn’t get past her husband’s old high school romance. Davida thought Jill’s pettiness astounding after all these years. Especially considering who
Davida
was. But forget logic; Jill simply hated her.

Don came on the line. “Congresswoman Grayson.”

“Detective Newell. What’s the word?”

“Actually, I do have some news. We got a couple of eyewitnesses on your egg throwers. Couple of moron brothers, Brent and Ray Nutterly. We paid them a visit at their trailer, which conveniently reeked of weed. They’re spending the night in the slammer courtesy of SPD. We may be able to send them up for six months to a year for what they did to you, but they aren’t going to do any hard time.”

“Tell the DA to go for the max.” Davida Grayson, brand-new convert to tough sentencing.

“Absolutely,” said Don. “Everyone from the chief on down is pissed at them for making us look bad. Toss the capital police into the equation and they’re definitely not winning any popularity contests.”

He lowered his voice. “Davy, I don’t have to tell you this but you know there are others waiting in the wings who are a lot more malicious than those two assholes. Think about hiring a bodyguard.”

“Not a chance.”

“Just until you get further along on your bill. All that walking around—”

“Exactly. I need mobility and accessibility. Thanks for your concern, Don. Now I have another favor. My mom’s due to come home in about an hour, hour and a half. She’s been looking a little feeble and refuses to have anyone live with her. Guillermo will drop her off but at this hour, I don’t like her being conspicuous. Could you send a squad car past her house just to make sure she’s okay?”

“Not a problem. When are you going to be in the neighborhood? I’ve been thinking about a barbecue.”

“Sounds great, Don, but you know how swamped I’ve been.”

“I know.”

“Say hello to Jill and the kids for me.”

“Didn’t Jill answer the phone?”

“She didn’t seem too loquacious.”

There was a pause before he answered. “That’s Jill.”

After the phone rang three times, Minette picked up the receiver. She was finishing up the last of her bourbon and the smoky aftertaste lingered on her palate. Just as cigarettes had lingered back in the Good Old Nicotine Days.

She stretched on the sofa and caressed her body. Tonight, she had on a lacy red uplift bra, matching thong, and thigh-high stockings purchased at Good Vibrations. She’d looked forward all day to peeling them off in front of her partner. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

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.”

3

T
he 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.

Amanda was medium-sized, slim, thirty-eight, delicately beautiful with honey-colored hair layered short and enormous brown eyes. She had on a charcoal pantsuit that didn’t show the dirt. Armani Couture, but tailored to look run-of-the-mill.

The scene was gruesome and bloody with crimson spray all over the desk and the walls. Not at all the kind of murder that Amanda was used to seeing. When BPD dealt with homicides, they were usually drug killings confined to the dark alleys of the West Berkeley region, brutal but ultimately mundane crimes that often germinated in Oakland.

Amanda studied the body again. Someone had been
serious.
When she looked closely, she could see shotgun pellets embedded in flesh. Brushing honey-colored locks from her eyes, she turned to Will. “This is nauseating.”

“Lots of spray…a couple of partial shoeprints.” Barnes pointed to several spots. “If the past is any predictor of the future, someone somewhere is dumping bloody clothing. But the idiots always think twice about tossing the shoes.”

“Who called the murder in?”

“Jerome Melchior—Davida’s chief aide. I’ve got him stowed away in a cruiser, drinking coffee, hoping we can steady his nerves. I’d like to interview him while his memory is fresh, get him away from the magpies before the press conference.”

Barnes checked his watch. “We’ve only got about an hour, Mandy. Ready to hustle?”

“Go interview him, I’ll take over here. Then, while I’m working the microphones with the brass, you can have a look around and we’ll compare notes.”

“You got it.” His perfectly organized partner. After a year they synched well, like a nicely tuned clock. Will hadn’t been thrilled to work with someone who’d married into a hundred million bucks, had heard the ice-queen dilettante chatter, figured how could it be otherwise. But Amanda worked as hard as anyone. Harder. Maybe those lottery winners who claimed they’d never quit their day jobs were righteous.

She smoothed the jacket of one of those designer pantsuits with gloved hands, took another look at Davida and shook her head. “You ever have any dealings with her, Will?”

“Not professionally.” Barnes sighed. “She’s a Sacramento girl. I knew her.”

“Well?”

Barnes shook his head. “Her older sister, Glynnis, was a couple of years younger than me. She died when Davida was a kid. My brother, Jack, knew Davida in high school. They ran in different circles, but I know when she came out in her senior year, it had a big impact on Jack.” He turned to face her. “What about you and Larry? You guys go to parties with pols.”

“Good deduction, Detective Barnes. Yeah, I’ve run into her a few times but no extended conversations. She came across as a reasonable person. Not pro-police but not as antagonistic as some of the others we’ve had. When she talked, though, she got animated. I guess that was passion about what she believed in.”

“If you’re passionately
for
something, chances are there’s somebody that’s passionately
against
the same thing.”

“The stem-cell deal, that egging last week,” said Amanda. “Wonder if SPD has anything on that.”

“I still know people over there. I’ll check.”

“Maybe we should visit the capital,” Amanda suggested. “Scope out her enemies and her friends.”

“At the capital, they can be one and the same. Sure, good idea, but I think hobnobbing with those in the know is more up your alley, Mandy.”

“What’s your forte, compadre?”

“Talking to
her
folk.”

Amanda knew he meant the gay and lesbian community. Of all the contacts that a detective might cultivate, she couldn’t have thought of a more odd combination than Will and gays. But he got info from them like no one else could. Perhaps they trusted him because he was the last person in the world to be condescending or patronizing. “Sure you don’t want to take on the Gray Suits, Willie? It was originally your territory.”

“My territory, but never my people.”