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anaged to survive her cruel captor. Once the trauma of her ordeal had ebbed a bit, she’d decided she’d become a cop, and she’d devoured every true-crime book she could get her hands on. She’d never wavered from that goal, and after college and a master’s degree, she’d been hired by the San Francisco Police Department.
The traffic light turned green, and she stepped on the gas, narrowly missing a jogger who’d run against the light. She and the car next to her slammed on their brakes just in time.
“Holy cats!” Martinez braced himself on the dash as their seat belts tightened.
“Lucky idiot,” she muttered, carefully touching the gas again. As she turned into the parking structure for the department, Martinez said, “It’s your turn,” reminding her of the ongoing deal they had about catching a late lunch. Whenever a case called for unexpectedly long hours, one of them picked up sandwiches from their favorite deli. He was right; tonight, it was her turn. “Roast beef with extra horseradish, and don’t let them forget I need a pickle. Sometimes they forget.”
“Really? In this rain? You expect me to go out?”
“Really. Yeah.”
She parked, then tossed him the keys. “Coffee?”
“Two sugars.”
“I know. I got it. You just take care of the car.”
As he checked in the city’s Ford, she walked the two blocks through the increasing rainfall to Sammy’s Deli, where she picked up the two sandwiches and heard a little of the local gossip from the small tables crammed near the windows. As she waited for her order, she heard bits of conversation—a couple of women talking about their teenage daughters, two men discussing the San Francisco Giants’ future, and a group of four discussing the leaper at the Montmort Tower, though she didn’t hear Didi Storm’s name.
By the time she’d returned to the police station, her raincoat was shedding water, and the white sack holding their lunch was starting to fall apart. She hung her raincoat on the hall tree near her desk.
Water dripped onto the floor, and she caught a glance from one of the senior detectives, Ted Vance, ten years older than she and always ready to impart his great wisdom from years of experience on the job. He also was a neatnik who frowned on any sort of lapse in protocol or etiquette and wasn’t afraid to show his displeasure. The tiny pool of water collecting on the floor was sure to get under his skin.
“Are you going to deal with that?” he asked, looking at her over the tops of half-glasses.
“Yeah.”
“Someone could slip.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” She tried and failed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but really, she didn’t need a father figure nor anyone looking over her shoulder and pointing out her faults.
“You’re welcome.” Vance smiled, and his dark eyes glinted. He knew he’d gotten to her. “Again.”
She sent him a brittle smile in return. She didn’t need this. She was already testy from the long day and lack of food. She dropped one sack and a cup of coffee onto Martinez’s desk, then settled into her own chair and dived into a turkey on sourdough. As she ate, she checked her e-mails, and looked for any report on the leaper, whom she still thought of as Jane Doe.
She wasn’t buying into the quick ID as Didi Storm, despite the hotel clerk, the registration, and the wig with her name scribbled inside. There was also a suicide angle to consider. It seemed that way from all of the witness accounts, but it was too early to make that call. The police department was looking at footage of the last seconds of the woman’s life. It appeared as if she’d been alone in her room, had stepped onto the ledge, and, after waiting until a crowd had gathered, stepped into the thick San Francisco night, plummeting to her death before the rescue workers could storm the room and the surrounding rooms or create any kind of safety device, such as a giant air mattress, on the ground below. Still, Settler wasn’t convinced of the obvious conclusion. She had to make sure that Jane Doe/Didi Storm hadn’t somehow been helped along in her decision to take a flying leap to her death.
She’d called the Las Vegas Police Department and found that the detective who had been in charge of the missing person case involving Didi Storm had left the force five years earlier. Settler had been told that his partner, Senior Detective Lucretia Davis, would call her back. Davis had been the junior partner on the case, so Settler had left her number, turned to her lunch, and had just finished half her sandwich when she spied Demetrius Brown, a beat cop, walking along the short aisle between the cubicles to her desk. A step behind him, also heading her way, was a woman who looked to be in her early thirties. Around five-six, with brown hair scraped into a ponytail, and green eyes that seemed to take in the entire room at once, she wore slim jeans, boots, a thick sweater, and a jacket with the belt unbuckled. She was tense, lips compressed, and kept up with Brown, who was tall and lanky, with the long stride of the pro baseball player he’d once been.
Her gaze found Dani’s before they were introduced, and her expression said that she meant business.
“You’ve got a visitor,” Brown said, motioning to the woman at his side. “Ms. Storm.” To the woman, he said, “Detective Settler. She’s the one you’re looking for.” His gaze slid back to Dani, eyebrows arching almost imperceptibly, a silent warning that all might not be as it seemed, silently conveying that this woman might not be a straight shooter.
Ms. Storm? Dani looked the woman over curiously.
He went on, “Ms. Storm claims she might be the daughter of our Jane Doe from yesterday.”
Ms. Storm clarified, “The apparent suicide victim. I’m Remmi Storm. My mother is . . . Didi Storm.”
CHAPTER 13
“We don’t have an ID on the victim yet,” Settler admitted, but she was all ears. If Remmi Storm, slim and confident even in these circumstances, had information on the leaper, all the better.
“I figured that when he,” Remmi hitched her chin toward Brown, “called her Jane Doe. Maybe I can help with that. I was there. I saw it happen.” Remmi paled a bit. “But as I said, I think . . . I think she might be my mother.”
“You were there?” Dani asked, more interested. “To visit her?”
“No. That’s the weird part—well, one of the weird parts of it. It was totally random.”
