Every Move She Makes (38 page)

"Yes."

"You were, I believe, the lovely woman I saw on Nicholas Paolini's arm.

Basic black gown, ruby earrings."

"You have a good memory."

"Only when it comes to beautiful women." He scored points for that one,
but I didn't let it go to my head. "So tell me," he continued, "was your
presence that night as official as it is now? Or was it a date?" I
merely smiled.

He nodded in acquiescence. "Of course, you don't discuss your cases."

"Nor my private life."

"Touche." He smiled in return.

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Turnabout was fair play.

"And if I choose not to discuss my private life?"

"I'll indicate that in my report." "I hope you don't mind if I reserve the
right not to answer, should I incriminate myself."

"Are you aware of your wife's ... associations?"

"Please be specific."

"Her affairs', Coke addiction?

A look of weariness settled over him. He indicated I should take a seat.

Torrance, ever the chameleon, had long since faded into the background.

"Do you believe in the sanctity of marriage, Inspector?" He continued on
without waiting for my response, which was probably just as well. Having
been married to Reid, my answer would have been a resounding no. "My
wife has a number of faults, but I married her for better or for worse.

I have worked hard to keep our marriage intact, not always successfully.

I'm sure you realize that she is almost assuredly under the influence at
this very moment. I have tried everything. Narcotics Anonymous, Betty
Ford ... she will be fine for a while, but I can't watch her
twenty-four hours a day." "You have no idea where she gets her cocaine?"

He shrugged. "I doubt it matters. The night I met you, the rain forest
find-raiser, I believe that was where she was introduced to the drug."

"Paolini."

"Perhaps. I am well aware of the results of your operation that night,
as is anyone who reads the paper or watches the news. He was arrested
for dealing cocaine, and my wife, after associating with him closely on
that find-raiser, is now a coke addict." I silently conceded the point,
but let him continue. "Since then, things have been difficult. She is
not the woman I married. We sleep in separate rooms. She's had affairs-"

"Do you know with whom?" His smile did not reach his eyes. "Yes." I
waited. The printer droned on, the paper fed into it, spewed out the
other end. "Most recently ..." He covered his eyes as though the thought
hurt him, might make him cry. Was that how Scolari felt? "I'm sorry," he
said, looking up, his eyes glassy. He twisted the gold band on his
finger, and said, "Dexter Kermgard." The surprise I felt must have
shown on my face, because he said, "I know you must think me a fool for
letting the man continue working here." "Um, no, I could never presume
to tell you how to run your business." Now, there was a cliche if I ever
heard one.

"Kermgard was instrumental in building our business.

I'm sure you're well aware of the officers he hired for security. It was
he who introduced Nicholas Paolini to me and my wife. Unfortunately,
none of us knew of Paohni's, shall we say, underworld dealings? By then,
it was too late. But it was that very thing that sent our stocks
soaring. Had she not met Paolini and gotten caught up in this rain
forest thing, our scientists would never have made the discovery. Well,
that is history, water under the bridge." In that respect he was right.

I wanted to know if he knew about Patricia's affair. Nothing like
kicking a man when he was down. "Can you tell me about your wife's
relationship with Doctor Mead-Scolari?"

"They had the same interests. Rain forests."

"What sort of friends were they?"

"I suppose they were close."

"How close?" "Is there somewhere you're leading with this?" Bluntness
had its advantages. "Were you aware your wife was sleeping with the
doctor?" His hand gripped the arms of the chair. "That's ridiculous. Who
told you that?"

"My source is not relevant."

Evan stood, his chair rolled back, hit the desk behind him. "Inspector
Gillespie. I suggest you gather what you came for, then leave. Now, if
you don't mind, I'll return to the doctor's office. I trust your men
have done nothing illegal in my absence?" No, I've pretty much covered
that base myself "They're very trustworthy." I watched him weave through
the office, past chairs, desks, workstations.

"What do you think?" I asked Torrance once Hilliard was out of earshot.

"Other than your knack for bringing out the very best in people?"

"Just men."

"I'd say he had no idea his wife was sleeping with the doctor." He
nodded toward the printer. "I'm curious about these socalled other
documents."

"You think of a better way to get these files?"

"Another search warrant." "And risk the wait involved, chance they might
erase something? Like the doctor's name?" I scooted my chair over to the
printer, lifted the sheets in the finished tray, scanned the names. "You
realize that if you find anything of value, it goes out the window in a
court trial?" "Of course. But it's better to know and pretend you don't,
than to never know." "You don't think he led us here too easily?" Before
I could ponder that question, we were interrupted. "Excuse please?" came
a soft voice. The cleaning woman had crept up on us like a cat in the
night. I glanced at Torrance with a sort of and-you-call
yourself-a-bodyguard? look, before turning my attention to the cleaning
woman.

She smiled shyly. "You are police?"

"Yes."

"We talk?"

"Okay." I waved to a chair. She refused my offer, but I stayed seated
for the simple fact I'd tower over her if I stood. "What can I do for
you?" "My son is working here," she said, her face beaming with pride.

"He bring me here from China. He is important. Work in lab. He is making
very good money, but I take this job to be near him." She nodded, and I
smiled, hoping to imply that I agreed with her about her son. "He is
very upset when the doctor die. She is very great woman, he say."

"Really?" I said, wondering if there was a point. I didn't want to be
rude, but I figured I had about five minutes to get what I was looking
for before Hilliard figured out that "other documents" was about as
questionable as one could get. I scanned the list of names, attempting
to appear interested in the woman at the same time. "She do great things
someday. She ask him about things I do not understand. Cancer?" "Yes
..." I said, running my finger down the printout that was alphabetized
by last names. H, i, J, K, King, Kendall, Larrimore, Lynch, Marvin ...

"The night she die, I see her. I see her every night in her office. She
very nice to me." Her words caught me off guard, and I learned two
things in that moment. One, the name Mead-Scolari was not on this
payroll list. Two, never overlook diminutive cleaning women who are
trying to tell you something.

"You saw her that night?"

She nodded. "Every night, I clean her office, while she work. But not
that night. I come, but Mrs. Hilliard is there, and she make me go," she
said, noddiiig her head with emphasis. "They argue, argue."

"Did you hear about what?"

"I tried not to. My son, he would be very displeased. He say his job
important, and to not make Mrs. Hilliard mad. He say she is different,
but I tell him I want to be near him. I stay." ""She was mad at
the doctor. Very, very mad. She tell the doctor not to tell anyone what
she find in her book and her computer. She tell the doctor it will ruin
everything."

"What will ruin everything?"

"The seeds." The cleaning lady's statement, delivered in her tiny voice,
about knocked me from my chair.

"Seeds?" I repeated.

She nodded. "What seeds?" With a shrug she said, "That is all I hear." I
wrote down her name and phone number. After thanking her, I collected my
employment records, and with Torrance at my heels flew back to the room.

Searching the doctor's office seemed more important than ever. Somehow I
had to discover what was so damn important about those seven pokeweed
seeds. Biding my time and biting my tongue were difficult during the
meticulous, and therefore slow, search through the papers and belongings
of the doctor. I wanted to ask about the seeds, but didn't want to
reveal their importance. Dex stood in the corner, the silent observer of
all the activity around him, which included constant swearing on
Markowsids part while he tried to gain access to Patricia's main files.

The computer was a linked PC, having its own hard drive but still
connected to other computers in the building. We'd boxed most of the
papers and books. "How much longer?" I asked Rocky.

He rubbed the back of his neck in contemplation.

"Hard to say."

"Can't we take it with us?"

"No!" Josephine cried. She stood over him, her hand on the computer. "I
will not allow you to remove this from the premises." "You don't have a
choice," I said. While the employment records were questionable, and
even tainted considering the bit of white lying it took to get them, we
were within our full rights to take the computer. "This falls under the
scope of the doctor's personal records and files," I said. "If we can't
gain access to it here, we'll take it with us." "Evan," she said. He
didn't answer her, his expression closed, and I wondered if he was
thinking about my accusations that his wife had slept with a woman. She
frantically turned to Kertngard. "Oh, for God's sake, Dexter!

Do something."

"They have a warrant, Mrs. Hilliard."

"They want to take the PC. Tell them why they can't."

"It contains materials, documents that are classified," Dex answered.

"Classified?" I echoed somewhat sardonically. "Are we working for the
government now?" "Classified to the pharmaceutical business," Dex said
calmly. "If some of these projects were to get out, if other companies
were to learn of them, we could lose millions." I found Dex's use of the
word "we" interesting, especially in light of Hilliard's revelation
about his wife's affair with Dex.

"Millions?" I said.

Hilliard answered. "The attempt has already been made. Which is why my
wife Is taking precautions." "Being as we aren't a pharmaceutical
company, I wouldn't worry too much," I said. "We have no interest in new
recipes for aspirin." Hilliard nodded and said, "My wife tends to get
emotionally involved." Josephine refused to let go of the monitor. "This
has nothing to do with emotions, Evan-" Hilliard took her by the
shoulders and gently pulled her away. Her fingers slid across the top of
the monitor, grabbing like a lifeline the Holistic Herbs paperback that
I'd left on it.

"Give them the code," Hilliard said.

She started crying, shook her head, hugged the book to her chest like a
mother would a baby.

Hilliard drew her from the room. "I'll talk to her," he said.

"The book." I held out my hand. They hesitated by the door. He looked at
her, brushed the tears from her eyes. "Josie?" Sobbing, she handed him
the book, and he gave it to me. "Pack it up," I told Markowski, tossing
the paperback into a box filled with other books. It was seven o'clock.

High time we left. I wanted dinner, and caffeine, though not in that
order. It took us about ten minutes to gather up the last few items,
then carry everything to the cars. On our way out we passed a door,
ajar. I heard Evan speaking to his wife.

"What was Patricia really doing here?" he asked.

I paused, but Evan saw me. f le closed the door, preventing me from
hearing anything further, and so I moved on. The easy part was done. Now
we had to sort through everything at the office, attempt to determine
what if anything had value to our case. My money was on the computer.

Why else would Josephine guard it like a lioness watching over her cub?

We turned the conference room into our headquarters, dumping the boxes
onto the long table. Each of us, excluding Rocky, took a box and started
wading through the material. After picking up another sheet that
described the process of cell division, I was beginning to think that
Rocky had the easy job, trying to come up with a way to get into the
doctor's computer files. Before he disappeared with the computer, he
told me he'd found some documents among Patricia's things that had to do
with the company's finances. "They're in the red," he said. "Apparently,
they need this merger, big time." Which meant the money motive was
making its way back to the top. At 0200 hours we were on our second pot
of coffee, down to the last box, and still no one had found anything of
significance. "What do you make of all this?" Bettencourt asked, leaning
back in the chair, propping his feet on the table. His question was
directed to the room in general, so I didn't have to answer him. I
didn't want him here, and thought of everything I had told him through
the course of this investigation. What had he passed on to Skyler? I
wanted to believe that the kiss I'd witnessed between Reid and Beth
Skyler outside the judge's chambers was innocent, unrelated to this
case. Shipley poured Torrance some coffee, then emptied the pot into his
own Styrofoam cup. "You mean, other than the doctor could've been a
brain surgeon but decided to earn her living cutting up dead bodies?" He
dumped some creamer in, then stirred it. "I'd say she was doing
something with all this, but God only knows what." "Cancer research," I
said. The day finally caught up with me, and I took a seat at the table,
unable to stand a second longer. "You figured that out from this?"

Shipley asked, holding up a sheet of paper that might as well have been
written in Greek. Maybe it was.

"Mary told me."

"And she knew because ... "Because Patricia told her." Shipley looked at
the sheet with a renewed interest that passed quickly enough the moment
he apparently figured it still wouldn't make sense to him. "I'll take
your word on it." He dug out the employment records from the box.

"Whatre you planning on doing with this?"

"I was looking to see if the doctor was listed on there."

"You think Scolari's on here?" Shipley asked. "Patricia?" I clarified.

"Not under M. Didn't get to check under S. I was interrupted.,, "Here's
Markowski. His wife must've bled him dry in his divorce for him to take
a second job. Shit, half the department worked for Hilliard
Pharmaceutical at one time or another." He chuckled, turning the pages.

"S, Scolari. Sam. No Patricia. How long you figure they leave the names
on here? Didn't think Sam still worked there." "Who knows. You guys want
more coffee?" I asked, eyeing the empty pot. Considering the layoffs, I
wasn't sure I wanted anyone to dwell on the employment list, not until I
had a chance to mull it over myself Shipley, however, had other ideas,
and started from

the first page. "No, thanks," he said. "This is too good.

Didn't know some of these guys-" "Let me see that." Reid reached over,
tried to take the papers from Shipley. "Not a chance," Shipley said,
backing away. He scanned the names on the first sheet. "Did you know
Charlie Adkins works there? Least he did before the chief put the nix on
it." He flipped through more pages. "Ho, Bettencourt. Needed a little
cash, did you?"

"None of your god damned business," Reid said.

Torrance and I exchanged glances. I had no idea Reid had joined the
ranks of Hilliard, and I was surprised by his almost violent reaction.

"What are you doing for them?" I asked, curious if he was merely worried
about someone thinking his finances were in disarray. Which they were.

"Same as everyone else you know there," he replied.

"Working security." I wasn't sure how the DA's office handled it when
their investigators wanted extra work, but every cop at SFPD who wanted
a second job had to get clearance through the chiefs office, allegedly
to prevent unethical situations or conflict of interest--such as
investigating a homicide at Hilliard Pharmaceutical while being employed
there. "Didn't you say you were working an embezzlement case at
Hilliard? I'd think you'd have brought this up before now." "Jesus,
Kate," he said, jumping to his feet. His chair tipped precariously. "And
you wonder why we got divorced?

He stormed from the room.

Actually, not at all.

"What's with him?" Shipley asked.

That I did wonder about. Torrance watched the door, a thoughtful look
upon his face. "I think we need to address this issue of Bettencourt
working an embezzlement case while employed by Hilliard Pharmaceutical."

Shiplev gave a low whistle. "I'm not hearing this. Pretend I'm not
here." Ignoring him, I said, "I have no idea if the dates coincide, or
how involved he is. I do wonder about the money."

"Money?" This from Torrance.

Shipley no longer pretended disinterest.

"Have you noticed the new car?"

"They make loans," Shipley pointed out. "For some people. Not for Reid.

His credit was a mess when we married, it was worse after our divorce."

"Inheritance?" Shipley asked.

"No." Shipley nodded toward the employment records. "A second job,
apparently."

"Or selling a news story," Torrance suggested.

"A news story?" Shipley looked from Torrance to me.

"What're you talking about?"

"About Beth Skyler," I said. "He's been on somewhat intimate terms with
her, and the night of Patricia's murder, Skyler was there asking
questions that someone had to have fed her."

"The son of a bitch."

"The question is, is he doing it for money or sex' " The conference
room door swung open and Rocky entered, carrying the computer with him.

"Well, I've done what I can," he said, looking anything but the bearer
of glad tidings.

"This is one of those good news, bad news things,

isn't it?" I asked.

"Sorry. Every file's been erased." That night, or rather early that
morning, I lay in the still dark of the hotel room, thinking about the
computer. Moonlight spilled through the window, lighting the carpet
below with its soft glow.

Erased. Rocky's voice echoed in my head. I'd been unable to sleep.

I'd managed to pin all my hopes on that box of modern technology. I
wondered who had deleted the files.

Evan Hilliard had accessed the computer in accounting.

Could he have done it? I hadn't paid that much attention to the keys he
pressed. Didn't think he had time, though I suppose it was possible. And
what about Reid, the way he reacted when I pulled him from the computer,
and later when we learned he was employed at Hilliard Pharmaceutical?

He'd never mentioned it before, which I found curious though not all
that unusual. It wasn't as if Reid and I had spent hours going over each
facet of our private lives since our divorce. At the moment, it didn't
really matter. Whatever had been on the hard drive was now gone, a
forgotten bit of memory never to be seen again.

Or was I mistaken?

about computers, but I knew someone who did.

Rising, I switched on the light, dug for my phone book in my purse. My
childhood sweetheart worked for the Department of Justice. Bill Moore
and I kept in touch over the years, mostly by phone. I was very happy
for him, he was very happy for me, but our lives never meshed. City
girl, country boy, we drifted apart. He'd married, had a wife, two kids,
did the dad routine, made big bucks working for Microsoft. Then, when I
thought he'd forgotten his country roots, he gave up the job to work as
a computer expert at DOJ, all so he could live in the foothills of
Sacramento and raise horses. Big loss for Microsoft, major boon to law
enforcement. "What are you doing?" Torrance asked from his bed, his eyes
closed against the lamplight. "Calling a friend of mmine who works at
DOJ. This guy makes Rocky's computer skills look like mine." I found the
number and picked up the phone. Torrance glanced at the clock. "You do
realize its three-twenty?" I dropped the phone in the cradle. Bill
wouldn't mind. His wife might. "Damn." "At least wait till seven," he
said, rolling over so his back was to the light-and to me. His pajamas,
flannel, had a sharp crease in them, and I wondered if he wore them
strictly for my benefit. Putting my phone book aside, I turned out the
light, nestled beneath the covers, and stared out the window into what
was left of the night. "What do you normally wear to bed?" I asked,
regretting my impulsive question the moment it left my mouth. "Nothing."

I took a deep breath. I'd always wondered what it meant to be sexually
frustrated. Now I knew. Naturally, Torrance was dressed by the time I
opened my eyes. He was not, however, reading the paper, but watching me
from his chair at the table. I sat up, rubbing my neck. "Here," he said,
handing me a latte delivered from room service. It was warm, though not
as warm as I liked it. "We need to get moving. Big day."