Dead Bolt (6 page)

And then I saw a familiar face in the crowd near the ambulance.

To my knowledge, Dad hadn’t set foot on a job site since I had taken over the management of Turner Construction two years ago.

I felt suddenly wary. My dad was in his midsixties, but he still had a decent form, wiry and strong. I had never seen him become violent, but if he felt threatened—or more to the point, if he felt his
daughter
was being threatened—he might lash out enough to do some damage. And the truth was that ever since my mom’s death, his behavior had been less than entirely predictable. Could he have—?

“I found the poor guy on the floor of his shop,” Dad said. “Looked like a bullet wound. Lots of blood, I’m sorry to say.”

A woman walked up to us, her head held high, her carriage elegant, as though she’d been trained to walk while balancing a fat book of etiquette on her head. Tall, solid, strong-looking. Regal.

“This is my daughter, Inspector,” said Dad. “She’s the general contractor on the job site across the street.”

“Good morning,” she said, flashing a shiny SFPD badge. “I’m homicide inspector Annette Crawford. You’re Melanie Turner? Your father tells me you knew the deceased.”

“Yes, I didn’t know him all that well, but as the neighbor.”

“And as a pain in your ass?”

“Excuse me?”

“Homeless fellow over there says you threatened the victim last night.”

Dad looked at me, eyebrows lifted. I felt the sting of a blush.

“I didn’t threaten him, exac—”

Inspector Crawford glanced at her notebook. “‘
Move it or I’ll run you over.
’ Something like that?”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“Um . . . okay. But I didn’t—”

“I’m not accusing you of homicide, Ms. Turner.” The inspector paused, and I would have sworn there was a silent “yet” at the end of that sentence. “Just trying to put together the sequence of last night’s events.”

“Yes,” I conceded. “We had words.”

“What time was this?”

“I had just left the job site for the day, so a little after five.”

“Tell me what happened, as precisely as you can.”

I tried to recall our talk. Mostly I remembered being annoyed.

“It was nothing new—we’d had the same conversation a thousand times before. He was complaining about the noise and the mess of the construction project. But I can assure you we’re in full compliance—”

“Nothing stood out to you about the conversation?” she interrupted, and I guessed homicide inspectors weren’t the same division as the noise police. “Anything different this time?”

“Only one thing: He told me he wanted to buy Cheshire House.”

“Is it for sale?”

I shook my head, feeling a sense of déjà vu. Last time I had encountered ghosts, at a once-palatial home on Vallejo Street, a mystery man showed up out of the blue, claiming he had purchased the house—though it wasn’t for sale. That had been a case of deliberate malfeasance, however. In this case . . . what could be the explanation? At least Emile Blunt hadn’t claimed he
was
buying the house, just the desire to do so. Heck, we all wanted to buy houses all the time, right? And considering how much he hated the construction process, Emile probably wanted to buy it simply to put an end to the noise. Still . . . it was hard to imagine he would have that kind of money stashed away in his broken-down upholstery shop.

“Blunt mentioned that he had spoken with Katenka Daley, one of the owners, and that she had told him she was unhappy,” I continued. “He thought therefore she might want to sell.”

“Does she?”

“I don’t really know. I’m sure her husband doesn’t, but . . .” I trailed off. If I told the inspector the whole truth, she’d think I was nuts. I glanced at my dad, who was still standing within earshot.

Inspector Crawford caught the look. She gave a subtle head-jerk toward a beige sedan and we walked over to stand by it, where we had a semblance of privacy.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“Try me.”

“Yesterday Katenka confided in me that there might be . . .” I trailed off, looking into the homicide inspector’s serious, no-nonsense, sherry-colored eyes. No way this woman would believe a word of it.

“Might be . . . what? Out with it.”

“There have been some odd events taking place on the job site recently. Katenka Daley expressed the belief they might be caused by . . . spirits. In the house.”

Crawford was silent for a full beat. “House spirits.”

I nodded.

“As in ghosts.”

I nodded again.

She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then she rubbed her brow.

“Sometimes I hate my job,” she murmured. “Okay, owners of this place think they’re being haunted, which leads the deceased, the neighbor across the street who hates the construction noise, to think they’ll sell cheap. Did I get that right?”

I nodded.

“After your little run-in with the victim, what happened?”

“I drove over to Clay Street to pick up my stepson.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“My ex-husband’s wife, Valerie Burghart.” The idea of Valerie talking to the police about me didn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies. Still, I gave the inspector her contact information. “And my stepson, Caleb, of course. He’s in school. And then we went home. To Oakland. We had dinner with my dad and our friend Stan Tomassi.”

“Was your father home all night?”

“Yes, of course he was.” Though I had experienced a momentary twinge of doubt when I first saw Dad at the scene of the crime, I felt a flush of anger at the idea that the inspector might suspect him of something like this.

“You all had dinner together, but can you be sure he was in bed all night?”

“I’m a light sleeper. As is Stan Tomassi, whose bedroom is on the first floor. One of us would have heard him leave.”

“Your father tells me he owns several guns.”

A small arsenal, to be precise.
Please let all the guns be accounted for,
I thought. I nodded in answer to her question.

“All right,” Crawford said after eyeing me for another moment. A uniformed cop walked up and whispered something to her. She nodded and he left. “Anything else you can think of? Besides ghosts.”

“No, nothing.”

“Do you happen to have an employment address for your client, Jim Daley?”

“He works at Integrated Networking Systems. Their offices are downtown, on Sansome.”

While the inspector wrote down the name, I glanced over at Cheshire House. Katenka stood at the foot of the limestone steps, leaning against the front balustrade, holding Quinn awkwardly on her hip. The baby was not yet a year old, but he looked about half as big as she, as though Katenka were a child herself, babysitting a younger brother. She wore a long, crocheted sweater, but her gossamer dress blew in the chill wind, wrapping around her bare legs.

When I turned my attention back to Inspector Crawford, I noted her gaze had followed the direction of my own. I had the sense the woman didn’t miss much.

“We’re finding Ms. Daley less than cooperative,” she said.

“It could be a language problem. She’s from Russia.”

“Yeah, I figured that part out already. I’m a homicide inspector; I have a sixth sense about these things.”

It took me a second to realize Crawford was joking. I gave her a weak smile.

“If you think of anything else, you be sure to let me know.” She handed me her business card and headed back to the upholstery shop.

I squeezed through the crowd of onlookers to greet Katenka.

“How are you holding up?”

She shook her head.

I held my hands out in a silent offer to hold Quinn. She surrendered him and rubbed her upper arms as though her muscles were sore from his weight.

Quinn had his mother’s big hazel eyes, but his were unguarded, open to the wonders of the world. Reveling in his fresh infant scent and the warm weight in my arms, I bounced a little and made funny faces as he gurgled happily. I felt a palpable sense of relief, knowing he hadn’t been harmed in the night.

I could do without the crying and diapering, but babies sure are cute.

“So, no visits from ghosts last night?” I asked Katenka.

She shook her head. “I told you: with the amulets, we are safe.”

The scene unfolding before us was horrifying, but ultimately it had nothing to do with any of us—unless, of course, my father was actually accused of something. But I refused to entertain that thought at the moment. I had come this morning intending to talk some sense into the Daleys about the apparitions, and the project. “Did you talk to Jim about—”

“He is at work already. He went in early today.” There was alarm in her pretty eyes. “But, Mel, listen: The
police
say they need to speak with Jim.”

“It’s all right, Katenka; it’s just standard procedure.”

“You don’t understand.” Her voice dropped and she glanced around the crowd. “Emile came to the door. Jim told him to stop bothering us. He raised his voice.”

“When was this?”

“Last night.”

“Were—” The baby put his pudgy little hand on my mouth as though to silence me. I leaned my head back. “Were you with him?”

“No, I stay with Quinn. But then Jim followed Emile to the upholstery store.”

“Did you tell this to the police?”

“The
police
? You are crazy.”

She looked shocked, and it dawned on me: Katenka was Russian. I had lived in enough different countries and environments to know that not everyone grows up with the concept of Officer Friendly. In a lot of the world the corrupt and violent local police force was about the last organization you would turn to for help.

“Katenka, you need to be honest with the officers. The inspector’s no fool; she’ll probably figure it out anyway, and if you don’t tell her first, it will seem suspicious. Since Jim didn’t do anything, he doesn’t have anything to be afraid of.” I hoped.

She shook her head and took little Quinn back.

“Did you speak to Jim about the renovation project last night?”

“No. I was going to, but Jim was busy with baby; then Emile came to the door. And he was upset, so I wait.”

I nodded, unsure how to proceed. “So, shall I continue the job? If your home really is haunted, the ghosts will remain whether or not I do the renovation. Don’t you think it’s best, for you and Jim and the baby, to get rid of the ghosts?”

She sighed. “Maybe.”

“Still, it would be great if you could move out in the interim . . .” I had to try, one more time. The idea of the baby in this house with a possible paranormal presence made me very nervous. “Just for a couple of days? If you don’t have anywhere else to go, maybe you and the baby could come stay at my house, even if Jim won’t.”

“I tell you already, this is not possible. Jim will never agree to it.”

“Will you at least think about it?” I handed her my card and wrote my home address on the back. “I’m meeting with someone today at lunch that might be able to help. She knows a lot about ghosts and spirits and houses.”

“She will chase the ghosts from the house?”

“I’m not sure if she knows how, but I’ll bet she can give me some names, at least.”

Katenka looked doubtful. “There is too much to be afraid of. I go call Jim, warn him of the police.”

She went into her house, using the basement-floor access door to the left of the main stairs.

I wondered if I should pass on what she’d said to the police. I’d had a less than satisfying interaction with a cop myself not too long ago. But I got no such vibe of incompetence or self-interest from Inspector Annette Crawford.

Still, since they knew his place of employment, the police would find Jim easily enough, and Katenka’s knee-jerk secrecy would be a moot point. And I
really
didn’t want to be in the position of tattling on my clients. My very well-to-do clients, who provided me and mine with a living.

“Poor bastard.” Dad’s voice interrupted my thoughts. He had come to stand next to me, watching the commotion with his arms folded over his chest.

“What are you doing here, Dad?”

“Last night you mentioned I might be able to talk to your neighbor, man-to-man.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Speaking of shooting . . . you left your guns at home, right?”

“You think I shot an unarmed man?”

“No, of course not, it’s just . . . the inspector seemed suspicious.”

“That’s her job. She has to consider us all suspects until she starts ruling people out. It’ll all get sorted down the line.” My dad had a lot of faith in authorities, and believed that “the truth will out.” I wished I shared his confidence.

We fell silent for a moment, watching as grim crime-scene personnel unloaded bags of equipment and carried them into the upholstery shop.

“You’ve taken on a lot, sweetie,” Dad said, his voice serious, low. “The business, all that and more . . . I want you to know that I know it.”

My throat swelled, robbing me of speech.

Here was the sensitive New Age version of my father. Theoretically, I appreciated his newfound soft underbelly. But where was the cantankerous, emotionally distant former marine I had known, loved, and railed against my whole life?

When my mother passed away, Dad, who had remained unflappable through two tours of Vietnam, fell apart. And I mean he totally lost it, was unable to function without his trusted partner in business, love, and life. As much as I wanted to run away to Paris and hide in some obscure Left Bank garret after my divorce, I couldn’t bring myself to abandon him, or the construction business he’d built up over the past thirty years, or his cadre of loyal employees. So I moved back home and took the reins for “a couple of months.” Months had turned into years, and since then Dad had made no mention of my stewardship of his business, much less of his making a move to come back to work.