on.”
“Kirkwood,”
Sam repeated to herself out loud, shaking her head.
When
Kirkwood answered, Sam explained why she was calling.
“I’ve
got that right here,” Kirkwood said. “Was going to call you, but Jack forgot to
leave your number.”
“That’s
fine. Tell me what you’ve got.”
“Haber
and Nakahara are still with the department here. No complaints about them.
Nakahara was working that night, but Haber was off.”
Sam
made notes.
“Of
course, Detective Sergeant Lewis is a captain now,” Kirkwood continued. “Wyatt
is with S.F.P.D. and Jack made a note that he put a call into their captain
about that night. I haven’t heard back. Monterra is up in Sacto at D.O.J.
headquarters. Is that where you are, too?”
“No,
I’m in San Francisco. Could you follow up on Wyatt today?”
“Sure
will.” Kirkwood paused, and she could hear the rustling of paper. “I also got
the list of crime scene folks you faxed yesterday. None of those names are
familiar, so I’m going to have to do some work on finding them.”
“What
about Cole, Bradley, and Sansome?” Sam asked.
“Bradley
works private security now—a company called Westley. Jack has written that he
works in the Bank of America building in San Francisco.” He paused. “Also, he
was in L.A. from Friday until Monday morning.”
“What
about the others?”
Kirkwood
was silent.
“Hello?”
“Yeah,
I don’t know about them. I’ll have to call Jack and ask.”
Sam
told him to call her later in the day with a status on the other people.
Frustrated, she sank her head into her hands, remembering how she used to love
solving cases. It was like a life-size jigsaw puzzle, and once you got it all
together the killer was right there in the center. It wasn’t always that way,
though. In fact, most of the time she was scrounging for the smallest piece to
try to fit in the puzzle, but at least she’d had the contacts back then to get
things done.
She
couldn’t have gone back to homicide. The middle-of-the-night calls were bad,
but mostly it was the death that had started to wear on her. In homicide, it
was all death. At least in her job now, once in a while there was life.
Although lately it seemed that was becoming less and less true.
As
she thought about the current case again, it seemed she didn’t even have enough
pieces to get started, and she itched to find another link.
The
fact that there was pressure from every direction on this one didn’t make it
any easier. Corona wanted answers, the D.A., the undersheriff—all of them
waiting for her to hand them the killer. Every one of them depending on her.
Her
thoughts shifted to Derek and Rob. She remembered when they were little boys
and she had understood them. Now she dreaded dealing with Rob’s outrageous
behavior and Derek’s isolation. And tonight she was having dinner with
Nick—just the two of them.
If
she still drank, Sam imagined she’d have a drink right now. As it was, the back
of her throat felt dry and scratchy, itching for the cold, dry taste of beer.
She hadn’t had a drink since the day the boys came to her. And she still missed
it every single day.
She
longed to push the feeling away, but it couldn’t be banished. Instead, she
leaned back and imagined the bitter taste of beer until it was almost painful
to swallow the emptiness in her throat.
Chapter
Nine
Whitney
Allen smoothed her pink ruffled dress and then leaned down to straighten her
white socks. The dress had been almost brand-new when her mother bought it for
her. “For twenty dollars, this isn’t a school dress, you hear? It’s for church
and maybe a party, and that’s it.” But Whitney hardly ever went to parties
where she could wear the dress, and wearing it made her feel like a princess.
Whitney swore she’d be extra careful in it today. She was just going down the
street to see Molly. Molly’s mom had died, so Whitney wanted to look nice.
She
puckered her face like her mom did when she was
“Kirkwood,”
Sam repeated to herself out loud, shaking her head.
When
Kirkwood answered, Sam explained why she was calling.
“I’ve
got that right here,” Kirkwood said. “Was going to call you, but Jack forgot to
leave your number.”
“That’s
fine. Tell me what you’ve got.”
“Haber
and Nakahara are still with the department here. No complaints about them.
Nakahara was working that night, but Haber was off.”
Sam
made notes.
“Of
course, Detective Sergeant Lewis is a captain now,” Kirkwood continued. “Wyatt
is with S.F.P.D. and Jack made a note that he put a call into their captain
about that night. I haven’t heard back. Monterra is up in Sacto at D.O.J.
headquarters. Is that where you are, too?”
“No,
I’m in San Francisco. Could you follow up on Wyatt today?”
“Sure
will.” Kirkwood paused, and she could hear the rustling of paper. “I also got
the list of crime scene folks you faxed yesterday. None of those names are
familiar, so I’m going to have to do some work on finding them.”
“What
about Cole, Bradley, and Sansome?” Sam asked.
“Bradley
works private security now—a company called Westley. Jack has written that he
works in the Bank of America building in San Francisco.” He paused. “Also, he
was in L.A. from Friday until Monday morning.”
“What
about the others?”
Kirkwood
was silent.
“Hello?”
“Yeah,
I don’t know about them. I’ll have to call Jack and ask.”
Sam
told him to call her later in the day with a status on the other people.
Frustrated, she sank her head into her hands, remembering how she used to love
solving cases. It was like a life-size jigsaw puzzle, and once you got it all
together the killer was right there in the center. It wasn’t always that way,
though. In fact, most of the time she was scrounging for the smallest piece to
try to fit in the puzzle, but at least she’d had the contacts back then to get
things done.
She
couldn’t have gone back to homicide. The middle-of-the-night calls were bad,
but mostly it was the death that had started to wear on her. In homicide, it
was all death. At least in her job now, once in a while there was life.
Although lately it seemed that was becoming less and less true.
As
she thought about the current case again, it seemed she didn’t even have enough
pieces to get started, and she itched to find another link.
The
fact that there was pressure from every direction on this one didn’t make it
any easier. Corona wanted answers, the D.A., the undersheriff—all of them
waiting for her to hand them the killer. Every one of them depending on her.
Her
thoughts shifted to Derek and Rob. She remembered when they were little boys
and she had understood them. Now she dreaded dealing with Rob’s outrageous
behavior and Derek’s isolation. And tonight she was having dinner with
Nick—just the two of them.
If
she still drank, Sam imagined she’d have a drink right now. As it was, the back
of her throat felt dry and scratchy, itching for the cold, dry taste of beer.
She hadn’t had a drink since the day the boys came to her. And she still missed
it every single day.
She
longed to push the feeling away, but it couldn’t be banished. Instead, she
leaned back and imagined the bitter taste of beer until it was almost painful
to swallow the emptiness in her throat.
Chapter
Nine
Whitney
Allen smoothed her pink ruffled dress and then leaned down to straighten her
white socks. The dress had been almost brand-new when her mother bought it for
her. “For twenty dollars, this isn’t a school dress, you hear? It’s for church
and maybe a party, and that’s it.” But Whitney hardly ever went to parties
where she could wear the dress, and wearing it made her feel like a princess.
Whitney swore she’d be extra careful in it today. She was just going down the
street to see Molly. Molly’s mom had died, so Whitney wanted to look nice.
She
puckered her face like her mom did when she was
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