Hot Contact (11 page)

She couldn't, she realized. Did he really need to know? What would it accomplish? Nothing except cause unnecessary pain to a man already burdened with enough.

Chief spotted her. His tail thumped in greeting.

“There you are,” Mike said.

Joe turned his head. His eyes lit up.

Don't look at me like that, Joe, she thought.

Do look at me like that.

Her stomach swirled then settled. Her heart calmed. She smiled and stepped into the room. “Yes, here I am.”

J
oe scouted a parking spot while Arianna used her cell phone to call Doc when they got to their destination. Their flight to San Francisco was uneventful. She'd even taken the window seat, with no fuss about it—which worried him. He would have given up the aisle seat after he'd teased her about it a little.

“It's Arianna,” he heard her say into the phone. “We're in Zamora's neighborhood. Driving a blue Taurus. Do you see us?… Good. Is he still at home?… Great. What?…Okay, thanks. I'll call you when we're done here.”

Arianna pointed to an almost unnoticeable gray sedan pulling out. “We can take his parking spot.”

She'd been unusually quiet since she'd surprised him at his dad's facility yesterday. Even the movie, a Western he thought would completely distract her, hadn't roused any discussion. He questioned her about it but she shrugged it off. Still reeling from everything they'd learned, she told
him. Then she made love to him with a passion that felt almost desperate.

She amazed him. Fascinated him. Even when she tried to put a barrier between them, like not kissing him goodbye or hello, she intrigued him, because he wondered what her reasoning was. So many layers. Such a complicated woman. Tender and tough. Sweet and strong. She would never bore.

“I wonder what surprise we're in for this time,” she said, grabbing the door handle.

“Let's hope he answers the rest of our questions.”

“Careful what you wish for,” she said, then climbed out of the car.

Fred Zamora lived on the first floor of a two-story fourplex in an old San Francisco neighborhood, half a block away from his daughter and her family. The neighborhood teemed with Saturday morning activity. Walkers and joggers, with dogs and without. People shuffling home with grocery bags. Car exhaust got taken away in the same ocean breeze as the fog, the day promising to be clear and crisp. Autumn at its most beautiful, and so different from Southern California.

Joe noted Arianna's tension, but he doubted it was any greater than his.

She rang the bell. A few seconds later the door was opened by a man in his early sixties, with gunmetal gray hair and wary eyes. His belly hung over his belt.

“Mr. Zamora?” Arianna said.

“Yeah.”

“I'm Arianna Alvarado.”

He clenched the door, but he schooled his face quickly. “Anyone tell you that you look a bit like your mother?”

“Sometimes. This is Joe Vicente.”

“Mike's kid?”

Joe nodded as he extended his hand.

To Arianna, Fred said, “Been wondering when you would turn up. Heard you were a P.I. A good one. Figured you'd be asking questions one of these days. Come on in.”

The apartment was unremarkable. According to the file Sam put together, Fred had been divorced—his second—for many years, and the lack of a woman's touch was evident. Functional furniture and few accessories. Joe wondered how he spent his time. Did he work? Hang out at a bar?

Fred sat in what was obviously his television chair, as it was aimed at the screen and held a deep indentation from his body.

“How's your mother?” he asked Arianna.

“She's well, thank you.”

“That was some second marriage she managed.”

Arianna didn't respond. Joe heard resentment in his voice and wondered about it.

“I'd like to talk about my father,” she said.

“Shoot.”

“Would you tell me what happened that day?”

He crossed his arms. “We stopped for lunch. I went to get us sandwiches, and coffee for me. He was getting cigarettes and a soft drink. I heard shots. I put my head out the door but I didn't see anyone.”

“Not even people on the street?” Joe asked. It still seemed incredible that at noon in that neighborhood no one was out walking.

“A few cars,” Fred said with a shrug. “I wasn't sure where the shots came from, but Mateo didn't come out of the liquor store, which didn't seem right, so I headed there. I found him, already dead, and the clerk, shot up bad.”

“Was that your patrol area?” Joe asked.

Fred looked from Joe to Arianna, hesitance in his eyes.

“I already know my father was having an affair with the clerk,” she said.

He heaved a sigh. “The store was out of our zone, but we weren't breaking any rules. You could leave the area when you were out of service, like for lunch.”

“Did you go there often?” Arianna asked.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“I mean,” she said, “how long had my father been seeing her?”

“Oh. I don't remember exactly. A few weeks.”

“You approved?” Joe asked.

“Hell, no. My first wife divorced me because I cheated. I kept telling him it wasn't worth it. But he was my partner.”

Joe understood that. Partners stood up for each other. Covered each other. Sometimes lied for each other.

“What'd you do when you got on scene?” Joe asked.

“Determined that Mateo was beyond my help, then kept pressure on the woman's wounds until the medics could take over. A whole lot of patrol units got there in a hurry and combed the neighborhood. No one knew anything about the shooting or the possible shooters.”

He was too calm, Joe thought. He would've been panicking at Mateo's condition. He made it sound like Mateo was any other victim, which wasn't true. “Or they knew something but weren't talking,” Joe said.

“I always figured as much. Except it was a cop who was shot. We could usually get someone to break down and tell, one way or another. Snitches in every neighborhood.”

“Except this one, apparently.”

Fred shrugged again. “Apparently.”

“My father's service revolver was missing.”

“I noticed that right off.”

“Got any ideas about that?” Joe asked.

“I figured the shooters grabbed it.”

“Why would they take the time to do that?”

“Free gun. A better one than the Saturday Night Specials they were using.”

“I would think they'd want to get out of there in a hurry.”

“You asked. I'm speculating. What else could've happened?”

“You could've taken it,” Joe said.

Fred slouched in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Why would I do that?”

“Good question.”

Arianna leaned forward. “Do you know how it happened to turn up in Joe's father's possession?”

Joe didn't react to her lie. If she could get more information out of Zamora by fudging the truth about knowing who that weapon belonged to, Joe wasn't going to split hairs over it.

“That would be a question for Mike,” Fred said, looking at Joe.

“My father has Alzheimer's.”

“Oh, yeah. I'd heard that. I'm real sorry.” He sat a little taller. “Look, why are you pushing this? The guy who killed your father is dead. Justice was served. What more do you want?”

“I didn't know until day before yesterday that justice had been served,” Arianna said. “I have a need to know what happened.”

“Open and shut. You already know the details.”

“No. If that was all there was to it, I would've been told before now.”

Joe hadn't thought about it like that. She was right, though. So what was missing?

“My theory,” Fred said, “is that some pal of the shooter had a beef with him and shot him with the gun stolen from your father.”

“How would it end up in Mike Vicente's possession?”

“Are you sure it's Mateo's gun?”

“Yes.”

Joe watched her state the bald-faced lie, knowing what she was after. If Fred knew that the serial number on the gun in his dad's safe had been filed off, he also knew they couldn't positively identify the weapon as Mateo's—and that Arianna was bluffing. In fact, if Fred mentioned the serial number at all, he implicated himself.

And Joe's father.

“You positively ID'd it?” was all Fred asked.

“We did,” Arianna said.

“I don't have an answer for that.”

“Liar.” Arianna's jaw clenched. “You know. You're just not telling.”

“What does it matter? Really? What does it matter? Nothing changes.”

“I think you saw the killer at the scene,” she said. “I think you knew who he was and didn't tell anyone. I think you took my father's gun yourself and sought out the killer and shot him yourself.”

“If I'd shot the guy, I would've used a weapon that the P.D. didn't already have a ballistics report on.”

Arianna stood. “We're wasting our time.” She headed out of the room.

Joe followed.

“Wait,” Fred said, loud enough to stop her. He ambled up to her. “I loved Mateo like a brother. He was a good cop and a good guy. Always bragging about you. Saved
my butt a couple of times. You heard the saying about letting sleeping dogs lie? You need to do that. Nothing you find out can bring him back.” He looked at Joe. “Convince her.”

“I'm looking for answers, too. And my father is still alive.”

“Let sleeping dogs lie.”

Arianna yanked open the front door. It was as much anger as he'd seen her display since they'd met.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” she said once they were in the car.

“Not entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it's apparent there's a conspiracy of some kind.”

“A conspiracy of silence,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Maybe he has a point, Arianna. Maybe we should give it up.”
Maybe I don't want to know how my father was involved in this.

“Not yet.”

“If you find out that Zamora did the killing, would you turn him in?” he asked.

“I don't know. Would you?” Her eyes looked bleak.

He didn't answer.

“You're a cop,” she said. “You uphold the law.”

“What I think about this case doesn't matter. No D.A. would want it. No cop would want to deal with it. Not twenty-five years after the fact. Not for a cop killer.”

She was quiet for a moment, then, “You really think I should stop looking?”

“I won't tell you what to do,” he said. It would be useless to try, anyway.

“And you would be content not knowing your father's part in it?”

“Content isn't the word I would use, but I would be willing to let it go. Dad can't tell us anything, and he can't be punished.”

After a minute she pulled out her cell phone and dialed. “It's Arianna. We're done. Where can we meet you?”

Joe waited until she'd written down the directions Doc gave her for where to meet, then he leaned across the console and gave her a hug. She resisted for a few seconds, then she buried her face against his neck and let out a long, shaky breath.

“That was a bad interrogation,” she said, relaxing against him.

“He's a pro. You couldn't have broken him no matter what you said. You did fine.”

She pulled away. He brushed her hair back, glad he had come with her, even though she would've managed fine without him. Her honesty was refreshing, her intelligence a magnet that pulled him in, her passion more than a little addictive. He knew it wasn't to his benefit to tell her to give up the inquiry, since she would probably move back to her apartment when they were done, but he couldn't keep her with a lie. For her sake he thought she should give it up. What was done was done.

“Let's go meet Doc,” she said.

“I'll drop you off then come back and get you.”

“You can stay. I'd like your opinion, too. If you don't mind.”

“You don't think it'll bother him?”

“I doubt very much he's going to come work for us. He's a lone wolf, that's for sure. So, you might as well meet him, too. This will be as casual a job interview as I've ever conducted.”

He pulled away from the curb and turned left at the first
stop sign, following her directions. “If you don't think he's the right person for the job, why are you bothering?”

“Because we need someone in San Francisco, preferably three someones. Doc's not only good, he brings a client list, and I gather it's the kind of client we usually deal with, not just skip traces or spousal infidelities. I think his rates are higher than ours.”

He gave the car some gas to climb one of San Francisco's famous hilly streets and enjoyed the ride. “So he doesn't need you, but you need him. That puts him in the driver's seat.”

“It sure does.”

He pictured a face-off between Arianna and Doc. “This ought to be entertaining,” he said, smiling at her, then glad to see her smile in return.

“You can keep score.”

“Or referee. Too bad I left my black-and-white striped shirt at home.”

She laughed, and he relaxed at last.

 

Arianna let her eyes adjust to the dark interior of the charming Italian restaurant. Soon she saw a lone man at a table near the kitchen, his back to the wall. That wouldn't make Joe happy, she thought. Cops always wanted to sit with their backs to the wall and facing the room. She did, too.

She walked to the table, feeling Joe's presence behind her.

“Doc?” she said.

He stood, shook hands with them, then settled into his seat. “I waited for you to order.”

He had light brown eyes with more than a hint of gold, Arianna noticed. Olive skin, black hair, not really handsome but appealing in a rough-around-the-edges way.

She realized he was waiting for her to speak. “I'm not really hungry.”

“I am,” Joe said, picking up a menu. “What do you recommend?”

“The artichoke ravioli,” Doc said. “Or spaghetti and meatballs. The best in the city.”

Arianna decided it would be rude not to eat, so she ordered angel hair pasta with basil and fresh tomatoes.