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“Gun it,” he suggested, eyeing the GPS road map as he scrabbled in his pocket for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped. “Lights and siren. But stay off the 280. Looks like it’s clogged. At least, according to my app.”
She considered turning on the lights, then just hit the gas. Her cell phone rang, illuminating the interior.
“Got it,” Martinez said. He hit the speaker button, and a woman’s voice came through.
“This is Jennifer Reliant,” she said. “I’m sorry, I can’t meet with you today. Sick kid, but I heard you wanted information on the contract between my client, Gertrude Crenshaw, and Stumptown Press. You know I can’t give out that information, of course.”
It didn’t matter. They were getting the contract from the Portland lawyer for the publishing company. Still, Settler didn’t like letting the agent off the hook; the whole mailbox/answering service “office” seemed a little flaky. “If you can’t come down to the station, an officer can come and take your statement.”
“If he’s not afraid of the flu,” she said a little huffily.
“Ms. Reliant, the officers of the San Francisco Police Department aren’t afraid of much.”
“Fine. Let me know!” And she ended the call.
“I take it she’s not happy?” Martinez asked.
“Probably not ever, unless I miss my guess.”
They headed due north. The storm was coming in, rolling off the Pacific and across the peninsula. She caught glimpses of the black waters of the bay whipped to a froth, rippling with white caps.
Finally, Settler got out of traffic and turned up the steep incline to the house where Remmi Storm resided. She parked a little too close to a mailbox, risking the wrath of the owner and the USPS, although it was past normal delivery hours. Some of the houses lining the street were decked out with holiday wreaths on their doors, a few with Christmas lights glowing.
“It’s not even Thanksgiving,” Martinez complained, eyeing a van that advertised Kris Kringle’s Christmas Lights, which was parked near the Emerson house, a huge manor dominating the hill.
“Getting a head start,” she said automatically, though her thoughts were deep on the case. She couldn’t care less what time of year it was. In tandem, they climbed the wide front steps of the home. Christmas lights were already strung along the rail.
Martinez rang the bell.
For a second, no one answered, then she heard sounds from within. Moments later, the door was opened by a small Asian woman in a tunic over yoga pants. Her black hair was twisted onto her head, and she held the door only open a crack. Settler gave her name, introduced Martinez, and showed their IDs, which the woman studied intently before handing them back. “We’d like to speak with Remmi Storm,” Settler said.
“She’s not here.” She was still eyeing them warily.
“But she lives here,” Settler clarified, and the woman nodded. “When do you expect her back?”
“Soon.”
“Jade? Who is it?” a female voice demanded over a humming sound.
“The police,” Jade called back over her shoulder. Moments later, an elderly woman seated in a motorized wheelchair came into view.
“The police? Here? Oh, dear.” Wearing a cable-knit sweater and gray slacks and earrings that glittered beneath her short, coiffed hair, she looked up at the detectives inquisitively, without the intensity of Jade. A cat in varying hues of black and orange sat comfortably on her lap.
Settler made introductions, complete with flashing their IDs again. The woman studied their wallets as if they were long-lost, ancient scrolls that contained the secrets of the ages. Finally, she seemed satisfied that the badges were genuine and handed them back. “You’re here on official business, I take it.”
Martinez nodded. “Yes.”
“I was afraid of this,” she said on a sigh. “Well, come in, come in, and close the door behind you; you’re letting in the cold.” Waving them inside with one hand, she deftly turned her chair around.
“Wait.” Settler felt a hand on her arm, and Martinez said, “She’s here.”
Sure enough, a car was pulling into an open spot on the street.
Remmi Storm was at the wheel, Noah Scott in the passenger seat.
Settler waited until the two dashed through the rain and up the porch stairs. Remmi was already looking up, recognizing the officers and taking in their grim expressions.
“You’re here with bad news,” she guessed as she reached the porch. “We already know about Ned.”
