The Art of Detection (9 page)

“We’ll keep an eye out for it,” she told him, and hung up. Blunt object: head injury.
Shit.

She eyed the phone. If she called Lo-Tec and asked if he’d seen a black bird statue, he would insist on going out to the Gilbert house then and there, no matter how long his day had been. Or hers.

Instead, she phoned Chris Williams.

He answered on the fourth ring; a child was wailing in the background.

“Sorry, Chris, this is Kate. I hope I didn’t wake your”—was it a son? a daughter? Kate couldn’t remember the overheard conversation well enough—“kid?”

“Oh no, he’s working on a tooth, decided to give up sleep until he starts school. In three years. What’s up?”

Kate explained about the bird statue, asked if he remembered seeing it. “No, nothing of that sort. You going out to look for it tonight?” He tried to sound willing, but the lack of enthusiasm came through loud and clear.

“No, that’s why I’m calling you rather than Crime Scene. I just wanted to check if it rang a bell with you, but I’ll go out in the morning, and if necessary, call CSI out again.”

“Want me to meet you there?”

“That’s up to you.”

“What time?”

“Ten-thirty?”

“I’ll be there.”

Tight money was a harsh reality of policing, and it cost too much to have a microscopic search done on every site faintly related to a homicide—and in this case, it was only a possible homicide. If the body had been found inside the house, or if they had seen any indication that Gilbert had died there, a thorough search would have been justified, but neither had led them in that direction. However, a missing blunt object? That was another matter entirely.

THREE

S
unday morning dawned, the first sun of February spilling through the kitchen windows. Lee made waffles, the Sunday paper drifted in all directions, and Kate dared a leisurely third cup of coffee.

At 9:37, her phone rang.

“Martinelli, have you heard anything from Williams?”

Al’s voice was taut, and Kate felt her body go tight in response. “No, I was going to meet him at Gilbert’s house later this—”

“They’ve had an incident in Marin,” he interrupted.

“What kind?”

“Sounds like a church shooting in Tiburon, unknown number of people down, the shooter drove west, reports are into Muir Woods.”

“Is that part of the park?”

“Who knows? It’s near, everybody’ll be called in.”

“Shit.” Kate suddenly became aware that both Lee and Nora were staring at her. She gave Lee an apologetic smile and tipped her head at Nora; Lee instantly stood up and began urging the child toward the sink and its soap bubbles.

Kate turned away and carried the phone into the next room. Al was describing a brief report heard by Jani on the radio twenty minutes before and the difficulties in getting information. He ended, “But I thought I should give you the heads-up, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“I’ll phone Williams.”

“You want me to come up? I’ve got an interview with the ADA in the Broadlands case, Sunday was the only day he could fit it in, but I can cut it short.”

“No, it’s just a matter of looking for a blunt object the lawyer thought might be missing, and if it’s not there, letting Crime Scene in to do a more thorough search. I’ll call Williams, tell him not to worry, I’ll be there.”

“Fine. I’ll have my cell on, if you want me.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Will do. Hi to Lee.”

Kate hung up, envisioning the heartbreaking chaos up above the headlands at that moment. It was less likely for a Tiburon shooting to be gang-related than a similar incident in the city, but that didn’t mean the residents lacked guns.

She walked back out to the kitchen, where Lee and Nora were elbow-deep in suds. Nora stared up at her, emerald eyes dancing in glee. “Mamakay, you used a naughty word!”

“I did, love, I’m sorry. What’s my punishment?”

The gamine face screwed in thought, hands dripping suds on the towels spread across the chair she stood on. “You have to read me
two
stories tonight.”

Kate picked her up, suds and all, and hugged her into a squeal. “That’s no punishment, little monkey.”

“Was that Al?” Lee asked.

“Yep, he said hi to you, just wanted me to know that something’s come up in Marin, the guy from there might be tied up. Is there any local news, do you know?”

Kate found a channel eventually, showing the aftermath of disaster. Al had been right, there were bodies, three covered figures on the ground outside the church and God knew what within. The live feed was interrupted by loops showing ambulances driving away, weeping churchgoers, and men with blood on their white shirts.

Kate opened her phone, punched in the number Williams had given her, and said to the prompt of his recording, “Hey Chris, that looks like a hell of a mess you’ve got up there. Don’t worry about coming down today, I’ll take care of everything. Give me a ring on my cell phone when you get a chance.”

Territoriality was a touchy part of policing, and when the boundaries were not distinct, such as in this case, it was best to recognize that early and often. She would need to get statements from the Park residents, with or without the Park investigator, but it was best to make him feel like he remained in the loop.

She got dressed and drove to the Gilbert house, breaking the seal and walking through the deserted rooms, ending up in the upstairs study. The shelf to the immediate left of the door held a nest of awards, including a clear Lucite globe with an inscription so ornate it was illegible, a miniature bronze bust of some heavily jowled man, and a plaque marking Ten Years Service to the Strand Diners. Among them was a dustless oval, about five inches across. Just the size of a ten-inch statue’s base.

She got down on her knees and shone her flashlight under the desk, then into the narrow gap between wall and filing cabinet. There, at the farthest reaches, the beam caught on some small, shiny black object perhaps an inch across. It looked very like a piece of broken porcelain.

She took out her phone and called the Operations Center, finding that, as she had thought, Lo-Tec was still on call.

He and Maria arrived within half an hour. Lo-Tec looked deeply affronted, as if Kate had accused him of missing something vital.

“Yesterday, we had no reason to believe we were looking at a crime scene,” she told him. “But the lawyer had time to think about it, and he phoned to ask if we’d found this thing. That makes it a different matter.”

She made it sound as if the lawyer had called her that morning, rather than the night before, and took them upstairs to show them what she had found. Then, because she would only be in their way, she left them to it.

Normally she would have waited until Al was there to interview the neighbors—either that or left it to the local beat cops to do a door-to-door. But she had to wait around while Crime Scene worked, and she might as well be of use. And as it turned out, Sunday proved to be a pretty good day to meet the neighbors, with about two-thirds of them answering their doorbells (none of which had knobs saying
Pull
). Although only two of them knew the resident of 927 by name, every one of them knew him by sight. Moreover, they knew both Philip Gilberts.

The woman next door to Gilbert, on the right as Kate came down the Gilbert steps, was a whip-slim, black-haired woman whose every gesture shouted
dancer,
although when she came to the door she was dressed in baggy sweats with grass stains and bore the powerful aroma of new-cut lawn. Kate displayed her badge, gave the woman her name, received that of Naomi de la Veaga in return, and asked her about the man who lived next door.

“You mean Raffles?”

“Did he tell you that was his name?” What kind of a nickname was
Raffles
? Did Gilbert go around the neighborhood selling tickets for prizes?

“Oh no, his name’s Gilbert. His last name, his first is Peter, I think? Or maybe Philip? Anyway, my husband and I call him Raffles, just to ourselves, of course. You know the books about the gentleman thief, dressed to the nines one day and in disguise the next? Raffles the Cracksman, by what’s-his-name, Arthur Conan Doyle’s brother-in-law or something? Anyway, that’s Mr. Gilbert. Nice guy, but a little odd even for San Francisco.”

Kate had never heard of Raffles, but she had no intention of pausing for a literature lesson. “You’re not saying he’s a thief?”

“Oh, God no, nothing of the sort. Just that he looks like, oh, never mind, it’s really a stupid name. Forget I said anything.” Her face had gone pink, making her look as adorable as Nora.

“How long have you known him?”

“I wouldn’t say I know him, but I first met him a couple weeks after we’d moved in, when UPS changed drivers and left us a package meant for him. This was about, oh, eighteen months ago. When I got home and found the box on my doorstep, I took it over and asked if it was his, and it was. I gave it to him, we introduced ourselves, did one of those ‘We must have you over for coffee one day’ things, although somehow we haven’t done it yet, probably never will. But I wave at him when I see him, say hi when he goes by, both of him.”

“I’m sorry?” Did she mean that Gilbert had a twin?

“The man has, like, two personalities. Not that he’s bonkers or talks to the lampposts or anything, it’s just that most of the time he looks like anyone else, comes out of his door in clothes that could have come from the Gap, says hi, gets into his car, drives away. But other times he looks like something out of a Fred Astaire movie, black suit, top hat, cane—I even saw him in spats once. When he’s dressed like that, he even talks formally—‘Good afternoon’ instead of ‘Hi’—and he always walks instead of driving. I’m not sure where he goes, but my husband spotted him once waiting for the cable car down on Hyde. The tourists must have thought he was part of the show. Nice guy, I’ll really have to ask him for coffee. Maybe I should ask you first, though, what’s he done?”

“He’s died,” Kate said bluntly, then softened it to, “He was found dead over the weekend. Can you tell me if he had any regular visitors?”

“Dead? Oh, the poor man! How did he die?”

“We’re still investigating the cause of death. His visitors?”

“Right. Well, he had costume parties from time to time—every three or four months. Small groups, in the evening, and they were always quiet and left by eleven. Other than that, I think he may have run some kind of business out of his home. People would drop in during the day, usually in the mornings, but they never stayed for long.” She gave Kate a sharp look, and explained, “It isn’t that I sit and spy on the neighbors, but I’m working on my master’s and my desk is in the upstairs window, so I spend more time staring out at the street than I might otherwise. A lot of the houses are only occupied during the evenings, but like I said, Raff—I mean, Mr. Gilbert tended to have people during the day. I figured out early that it was to do with business because he’d usually shake their hands as they left, and they were often carrying things. Then a few weeks ago one of the other neighbors went around with a petition complaining that the street wasn’t zoned for a business. I didn’t sign it, his parties never bothered me, actually I thought they were kind of fun. And unlike some of the people around here, he never sat out in the backyard drinking beer and playing loud music. I hope he wasn’t lonely. I suppose it was thoughtless of me not to invite him over.”

“Which of your neighbors circulated the petition?” Kate asked, alert for conflict.

“Oh, I don’t really remember,” the dancer said vaguely, her face going bright pink again. Embarrassment at ratting on a neighbor, Kate decided, not fear of reprisal. She let it go, retrieving her original question.

“What about Gilbert’s other visitors, outside the parties—were any of them regular?”

“Not really. There’s a guy with a really nice black BMW, he shows up every couple of weeks, and the people who come to his dinner parties show up sometimes. Other than them, the only regular is Nika, the cleaning woman.”

“Would you by any chance know her full name?”

“It’s something Russian, I think. But I have her phone number; you want that?”

“Thank you, that would be helpful.”

“Sure, come on in, I’ll get it for you. Shut the door, would you?”

Kate followed the woman’s nice muscular backside through the house into a bright, modern kitchen overlooking the back garden. Naomi picked up a well-used address book from a shelf near the wall phone, copied down a phone number on a bright orange Post-it, and peeled it off to give to Kate. “Like I said, I can’t remember her last name, it starts with a K, but her first name is Nika. She cleans for me once a month—I saw her going in and out from next door and asked Raffles—sorry, Mr. Gilbert—if he’d recommend her, he did and gave me her number. She’s been really great.”

Kate pressed the number into her notebook. “When did you last see Mr. Gilbert?”

“Oh gee, I don’t know. It’s been a few days anyway.”

“Did you see him last weekend, do you remember? Saturday maybe? It was clear, though Sunday it was raining pretty hard. You might have noticed him Saturday, in the garden or washing the car or something?”

“Saturday. Yeah, you’re right, I was outside for a while then, but I can’t say I remember seeing him.”

“What about hearing him moving around, playing music, on the phone? The windows might have been open, did you get the impression that he was home?”

The woman shook her head slowly. “I just don’t remember, sorry. His car was here, down the block a ways—in fact,” she said, suddenly animated, “his car hasn’t moved in a long time. God, isn’t that awful? Like those people that die in their homes and nobody finds them for weeks.”

Kate moved to rein in the dancer’s imagination. “Was it unusual for his car to remain in one place for days on end?”

“Well, not really. I mean, it would stay put for two or three days, but usually not more than that. Parking on the streets like he and I both do, you kind of notice how far the neighbors—those who don’t rent a garage—have to park from their houses. It sort of makes you feel better when you find yourself hiking two blocks with a load of groceries.”