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“Autopsy’s today. Pushed up,” he told her. “Because of public interest.”
“Fast.”
“Uh-huh.” He was eating a breakfast sandwich—egg, ham, and gooey cheese tucked into a croissant. He washed it all down with coffee doctored with cream and sugar while she worked on a skinny latte, the foam artistically formed to look like the Golden Gate Bridge.
She asked, “Can we get a tox screen ASAP?”
He sent her a look with a quick shake of his head. “Takes time.”
“I know, but I sure would like to know what was in her bloodstream.” She tapped the table, wishing she could push the investigation faster.
“We will. And we’ll get a prelim, at least for alcohol.”
Not good enough, but she had to curb her impatience, which was always a challenge. “Anything from King County?”
“Not yet. They’re sending pictures and reports, have got a laptop, are checking her social media platforms, Facebook and Snapchat or whatever, but they haven’t found her phone yet. Probably had it on her.
“They did locate a cell phone bill—she had no landline—and so they’ve contacted the phone company. We should have records within the week. Maybe sooner. Find out who she’s been in communication with.” He was talking to Settler, but his gaze was still taking in the restaurant, especially the door as it opened and shut, letting in customers who rubbed their hands from the cold and surveyed the glass case of pastries as they inched their way across the tiled floor to the barista.
Martinez had been shot once, while a beat cop. On the scene of a convenience store robbery, he’d taken a bullet to the gut and spent a week in the hospital, along with several weeks’ recovery. Luckily, he’d only lost part of his spleen, along with a lot of blood. He, along with almost everyone on the force, was always on the lookout for danger.
“I hope they put a rush on everything,” she said as she sipped from her cup, hot milky coffee warming her from the inside out. “I’ll push them.”
“Every case is a rush.”
“I know. But . . . I have a friend who transferred up there. I’ll see what she can do. I’d like to find out if Upgarde bought the clothes and wigs online. Maybe there’s a credit or debit card receipt that will lead us in the right direction.”
“Anyone can pick up that junk—celebrity paraphernalia—online. Craigslist, eBay, whatever.”
“Yeah, but they don’t usually put the ‘junk’ on and leap from nineteen floors up.”
“Okay. See what your friend can dig up ASAP,” Martinez said, but it was just an automatic response. Martinez believed that the more you pushed people, the more they pushed back, and in some cases, she supposed, that was true. But not in this one. Her friend and ex-partner, Rosamie Ugali, would do what she could.
She let it drop and said, “I talked to Detective Davis from the Las Vegas P.D. She worked the Didi Storm missing person case with a partner who has long since retired.”
“You still think Storm’s connected?”
“The daughter nearly convinced me yesterday. And come on, she registered under D. Storm.”
“Well, there is that.”
“Yeah, there is that.” She was certain there was a connection. “Obviously, she was using Didi Storm as her alter ego, at least for the time she was in the hotel. She was pretty meticulous about keeping up the Didi image by dressing in her things, down to the signature fingernail, so she knew this woman inside and out. And here’s the thing. Not a lot of people did. Not twenty years ago, and certainly not now. But the daughter’s right. There’s a new book and a Didi Storm fan club online. I checked the Facebook thing and Twitter feed last night. Her ‘fans’ are all talking about the fact that Karen Upgarde was dressed like her. Why would anyone care? The woman was a second-rate impersonator at best, and it’s been twenty years.”
“But there was the mystery of her disappearance.”
“Again, a generation ago. So, yeah, I definitely think the suicide has something to do with Didi Storm. I just don’t know what. When we get into Upgarde’s computer and phone, maybe we’ll get some answers.” She told Martinez about her conversation with Davis, about the explosion, the unidentified man in the burnt car, and the twin babies. He nodded, finishing his breakfast and wiping his mouth, brushing off a few crumbs that had stuck in his dark goatee.
“So why here? Why would Upgarde choose San Francisco and not Las Vegas to make her splash? Because the daughter’s here?” Martinez asked.
Settler finished her latte. “I’ll ask Remmi what she thinks. Come on, let’s go.” She pushed her chair back, bussed the table, and Martinez followed suit.
They planned to interview the hotel employees again and walk through the room Upgarde, as D. Storm, had rented, figure out who had occupied the rooms on the same floor, check on the security tapes from the cameras, and make certain they had been sent to the department.
Already they’d asked the public for anyone with film, digital images, or video of the leap. The request had been made through the Public Information Officer. Settler believed there would be dozens, if not hundreds, of images submitted. She only hoped that the public would send the police the pictures rather than try to sell them to the tabloids or whatever questionable online news source would pay, but she’d learned not to underestimate a person’s greed.
* * *
ln the kitchen of Greta’s big house, Remmi heated a bagel in the toaster oven, while Greta sipped coffee. “Remember, the Christmas lights are supposed to go up today.”
