If Walls Could Talk (9 page)

“We’re investigating all possibilities, including suicide.”

“But Kenneth couldn’t have—”

“Look, lady, we’re looking into it, okay? Just because your ass is on the line doesn’t mean I’m declarin’ it a crime if it wasn’t one, get me? Anything else you want to add to your previous statement?”

Again I hesitated. I should tell Inspector Lehner about seeing something behind the wall. But it was probably nothing, some unimportant little bit of the house’s history. There must be some other kind of explanation for what happened to Kenneth. Besides, there was something about the inspector that seemed . . . impatient. Uninterested.
Off
.

As that thought crossed my mind, I saw someone standing in a second-story window, gesturing. When I looked up, he disappeared, but when I focused on the inspector in front of me, I could still see him in my peripheral vision.

It wasn’t a cop or other crime scene investigator.

It was Kenneth Kostow.

I
took a deep breath and tried to ignore the apparition.

“Matt Addax would like me to carry on with the renovation work,” I said. “Is that possible, or is this considered a crime scene?”

“We’re processing it now. Gotta tell you, place is a mess. We got blood, prints everywhere. Still, it should be released soon. I’ll let you know.” Lehner looked off in the distance. “I gotta be straight with you, Ms. Turner. This is a sensitive investigation.”

“Sensitive?”

“Things like this don’t happen in this neighborhood. Bring everybody’s property values down. We don’t want to upset anyone unnecessarily. I’d appreciate you speaking only to me about it, otherwise keeping mum. And that includes talking to the neighbors or anyone else.”

“Does ‘sensitive’ mean you’re not going to investigate it as a murder?”

“Look, lady, our shift caught three homicides this week. We held your friend Addax mostly because of the accusation from the deceased, but the investigation is still going on until we press charges or decide to drop the case. Okay?”

“But if Cal-OSHA is here, does that mean you think it was an accident? Isn’t that what Kenneth told the officer originally?”

Cold eyes flickered over me. “You know anything more about this whole mess, you tell me—and only me. Otherwise you keep out of it, get me?”

He didn’t wait for my answer before climbing into his beige Ford sedan and taking off.

I remained where I was, rooted to the spot.

My loyalties were at war. If it was an accident, Matt would be off the hook. But if Turner Construction was really listed on the permit papers, that could mean we were in big trouble.

And on top of everything else, I kept seeing Kenneth’s ghostly visage in the second-story window. Every time I looked at him directly, he disappeared, but when I looked away I could see a wavering visual of him out of the corner of my eye. It was incredibly frustrating—in addition to being creepy. I couldn’t help but think of seeing Kenneth standing in front of me, injured but still alive, in that blood-soaked den yesterday.

I did the math. According to what Matt’s lawyer had told me, Kenneth had already died at the hospital by the time I had “seen” him here at the house.

And now he was standing in the window, looking down at me. Gesturing. I could almost feel his yearning, as though he wanted—
needed
—to tell me something.

I tried to shake it off, closing my eyes and turning my face to the warm sunshine. Weren’t ghosts supposed to come out at night? They didn’t appear in broad daylight, did they? But assuming I wasn’t seeing Kenneth’s ghost . . . was I having some sort of breakdown?

“Sorry I’m late.”

The man approaching looked to be of Indian or Pakistani origin, with dark hair and eyes, but his accent was native Californian. He wore khaki chinos, a pale blue polo shirt, and shiny brown leather loafers.

It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. I imagined it was the effect of the clipboard still cradled in the crook of my arm. When you hold a clipboard, people tend to assume you’re in charge, or at the very least know what’s going on.

“I—” I began.

“Is Kostow inside?”

“You were supposed to meet Kenneth Kostow?” I asked.

The man glanced down at a huge, expensive-looking gold watch encircling his slender wrist. “Ten minutes ago. I’m Philip Singh. What’s with the cop cars?”

Well. This was awkward. Other than when my mother passed away, I had never been in the position to inform people of someone’s death.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mel Turner. I—”

“I’m the buyer.” He sounded impatient, as though I should have recognized his name. He looked past me and back over his shoulder as though searching for someone else to consult. He was out of luck. The uniformed officer I had spoken to earlier had disappeared inside; we were the only ones on the sidewalk.

“Are you working with Kostow on this?” Philip Singh struck me as the type of man who did not usually have to ask twice. “I’m running late today. Why don’t we start the walk-through without him?”

“I’m sorry; you’re the buyer of what, exactly?”

“The house.”

“
This
house?”

He looked at me as though I were an insect. An annoying insect.

“I don’t believe the house is for sale,” I said, suddenly weary of the conversation and his attitude. “And even if it were, you’d have to contact the owner directly. Matthew Addax. He’s . . . indisposed at the moment, but I’m sure he’ll be available soon.”

Singh’s expression shifted ever so slightly, from distracted to angry.

“Look, all the details have been worked out,” he said. “I was supposed to meet Kostow today to finalize the agreement.”

I blew out a frustrated breath. “If you want to give me something on paper, I’ll pass it on to the owner when I see him next,” I said while trying to brush past him. “That’s the best I can do.”

He stepped in front of me. “You’re not trying to cut me out, are you? Where the hell’s Kostow—”

“Is there a problem here?”

We both turned to see a man descending the steps with the grim, determined air of an avenging angel. A pissed-off avenging angel.

Graham Donovan, in the flesh . . . and in a Cal-OSHA work shirt, faded jeans, and work boots. A clipboard in one hand, battered brown leather briefcase in the other.

“Graham,” I breathed.

“Mel.” He acknowledged me with a quick nod before setting his briefcase down and offering his hand to Singh. “How’s it going?”

“Um, okay . . .” He was taking in the uniform.

“I’m Graham Donovan, Cal-OSHA inspector and, at least for the immediate future, manager of this particular accident scene. Is there something I can help you with?”

The man looked down at Graham’s hand, aghast, then back to me. “Accident scene?”

I nodded.

“What is this? First the lien, now this? You guys can’t cut me out—”

“The lady said she was done talking to you.” Graham stepped forward so that he was standing just a little too close to the man, staring him down.

“But—”

“I have some anti-harassment pamphlets in the truck if you need some clarification. The State of California takes this sort of thing seriously.”

Philip Singh’s furious gaze dropped back to mine.

“This isn’t the end of this,” he hissed before turning on his heel and stalking off.

Graham and I watched as the man climbed into his late-model Lexus and slammed the door with an expensive-sounding
thunk
.

“What was all that about?” Graham asked in a quiet voice.

“He said he was buying the house.”

“
This
house?”

I nodded.

“It’s for sale?”

“Not that I know of.”

Our eyes met, and anything else I was going to say fled my mind.

The decade that had passed since our last encounter amounted to more than ten years. It was a lifetime.

A few specks of silver shone in his dark brown hair, there were signs of crow’s-feet at the corners of his long-lashed brown eyes, and a small white scar bisected one eyebrow. But Graham Donovan looked great. Really great. Better than I remembered, even. I glanced down at today’s boring outfit and wished I looked half as good.

If only I’d thought to dress provocatively for this particular homicide investigation.

“You’re with Cal-OSHA?” I finally managed.

“Obviously.”

Graham used to dream of owning and operating his own business specializing in “green” construction. How had he wound up working as a glorified bureaucrat?

My dad always referred to OSHA as “a protective coating made by half-baking a mixture of fine print, red tape, split hairs, and baloney—all applied at random with a shotgun.” None of that sounded anything like what I knew of Graham Donovan. But then, my own dreams of becoming a world-class anthropologist had seeped away while I attended to real life as well. . . . Still, I was doing my best to blame that on my ex-husband.

“I was sorry to see Turner Construction come up on our radar,” Graham said. “Your dad’s always run a clean site.”

“It’s not my dad’s site; it’s mine.”

“So I hear.”

“Actually, it really isn’t mine, either. I—”

“Let me stop you right there. You might want to consult with a lawyer before talking to me. I’m obligated to turn over any and all evidence to the SFPD.”

“I wasn’t involved in any of this, Graham. Not at all.”

“Says here you did the original presale inspection.”

“Um . . . okay, that’s true.”

“Are you a licensed home inspector in the state of California?”

“Not exactly. I did it as a personal favor.”

“Why didn’t the prospective owners hire a licensed inspector?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did your inspection satisfy the mortgage requirements?”

“I assume so. They were able to buy the building.”

“And why is your name on the building permit?”

“I have no idea.”

His mouth set in a hard line and there was a cynical look in his eye—familiar to me despite the years that had intervened.

“Look, Mel—” When he spoke, the words seem to cost him a great effort. “I tried to get off this case when I saw that Turner Construction was involved, but we’re shorthanded at the moment and this was supposed to be a quick handover to the SFPD. But let me be clear: I’m not your buddy, much less your knight in shining armor. Any . . . ‘connection’ I have with your family will have no bearing on this investigation. Is that clear?”

“As a bell.”

“You might try to explain it to your father.”

“I’m sure he understands.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. He called me last night, said you were talking about taking over this remodel. He asked me to talk you out of it.”

“He did?”

“Little does he know I’m the last man to talk you out of anything.”

His eyes fixed on me, and just that easily I was twenty-eight again.

One week before my wedding to Daniel, Graham had taken me for a drive through the lush gardens of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. Perhaps spurred on by the drama of a sudden rainstorm, he staged a kind of romantic intervention, running down the list of reasons why I shouldn’t marry Daniel: He was too old for me, he only wanted me because I was young and talented, he would derail my budding career. Graham declared that Daniel was incapable of being faithful to any woman, perhaps incapable of love. He also insinuated that I was being swayed, in part, by Daniel’s money and globe-trotting lifestyle—and the huge diamond ring he had given me—which blinded me to the kind of man he was deep down.

Graham’s unprecedented emotional outburst was followed by a kiss that started out oh-so-sweet but soon turned wild and out of control, the memory of which still made something flutter deep in the pit of my stomach. Afterward I refused to return his phone calls, and a week later I was married to Daniel, as planned, in a lavish ceremony at the Palace Hotel.

Though Graham had stayed in touch with my dad, I hadn’t laid eyes on him since that day. I imagined he still despised himself for having said what he did . . . just as I resented him for having been right.

Graham cleared his throat.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother. I was out of town, or I would have come to the memorial service.” There was a slight softening of his expression. “She was a remarkable woman.”

“She was. Thank you.”

“You’ve had a rough couple of years.”

Tears stung the backs of my eyes. The frank sympathy in Graham’s deep voice was enough to push me over the edge.
Terrific
. I’m in the man’s company for all of ten minutes and I’m ready to fall apart.

I shrugged. “A lot of people go through a lot worse.”

He just nodded, eyes still on me. I looked around at anything but him.

Unfortunately, I saw Kenneth again. He now stood, plain as day, right behind Graham. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, but as before, when I looked directly at him he disappeared.

“What is it?” Graham asked.

I shook my head and tried for nonchalance.“Nothing.”

Graham looked over his shoulder, where my gaze kept fixating.

There were faint lines in the cement sidewalk and a barely noticeable indentation in the wall.

“Good call,” Graham said. “Looks like that used to be an entrance. Were you planning on restoring the original floor plan?”

“I don’t have what you’d call ‘fixed plans’ at this point,” I managed to say. “I haven’t even seen the blueprints. I need to talk with the architect.”

I swallowed, hard. Maybe I really
was
losing it. Truth was, I had felt displaced for the past two years, and recent events certainly hadn’t helped, much less this current blast from the past. Just two weeks ago, on what would have been my mother’s sixty-seventh birthday, my sisters and I had scattered her ashes over her favorite lake. I hadn’t been myself since.