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“Thanks, boss. We’re on it.”
I got out of there before he changed his mind.
CHAPTER 7
I RETURNED TO my desk to brief my team, but my phone kept ringing. I couldn’t chase down a single thought without interruption.
I said to my partners, “Let’s move.”
Interview Two was empty. I turned off all the mics and we three took seats at the table. By now, Marty’s clothes and gun were at the lab, but Rich put my father’s phone and wallet on the table.
He opened the wallet and spread out the contents. Alvarez made notes. I felt uncomfortable about invading my dead father’s privacy—which underscored Brady’s concerns that I couldn’t be neutral—but I got past it.
Rich snapped credit cards down on the table like playing cards, read the numbers to Alvarez, and I counted the cash. Marty hadn’t been killed for his money. There was seven hundred thirty dollars in large bills on his person when he died and an old betting slip on a horse that had lost weeks before.
Rich put a short stack of business cards in front of me. I dealt them out. There was one card each for JR’s Aces High Dry Cleaners, Sasha’s Hair Salon, Center BMW, and Bay Street 24/7 pharmacy, plus a dozen business cards for Spinogatti Private Investigations with my father’s name listed as partner.
I grabbed my phone and googled Spinogatti Private Investigations, then read the reviews. They averaged 4.2 stars. Not too bad. I opened our internal PI database. Yes, they were licensed and there were no black marks on their record.
I dialed the number, got Leo Spinogatti on the line, introduced myself. His voice was raspy and heartsick. He said he’d been expecting my call.
Told me he was sorry. That he and Marty were close. My dad had been following my career, Spinogatti said. I thanked him, without letting it soften me. I had no idea how Marty had felt about his business partner.
“I’d like to stop over,” I said.
“How about tomorrow afternoon?”
“Gotta move fast on this,” I said. “We’d need to come over now.”
After hanging up, I asked Alvarez, “Are you up for this?”
“Yes to the max, Sarge.”
Before the meeting broke up, I assigned Conklin to finding Marty’s car, getting it to the lab. I asked Alvarez to check in with the ME before we took off, to find out when Claire would have Marty’s autopsy report.
Now that my phone was on, I scrolled through the calls I had dodged during our meeting. One stood out like a blinking neon sign. My sister, Cat, had called. I pressed redial, listened to the ring tone and theplease leave a message. I didn’t know what kind of message to leave. So I simply said, “Cat, please call me when you get this.”
I thought about calling Joe but didn’t know what to tell him, either. I texted him instead, letting him know I had a new case and would probably miss dinner.
Minutes later, I met up with Alvarez at the carpool in front of the Hall.
“Claire says she’ll call you at the end of the day. Do you want to drive?”
“Not really. You?”
She jingled the keys and we got into the unmarked car.
CHAPTER 8
SPINOGATTI PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS was located at 802 23rd Street in San Francisco’s Dogpatch neighborhood. The two-story, dun-colored stucco building was wedged between a shoe repair shop and a house that had survived the 1906 earthquake. I pressed the bell. An answering buzz sounded, and I said my name.
“Ground floor, rear,” said a woman’s voice. The door lock clicked open, and Alvarez and I entered a dim hallway that led to my late father’s place of business.
The waiting room at the end of the corridor was dark and empty except for the gooseneck lamp throwing a circle of light over the red-haired receptionist at her computer. Across from her, the few pieces of furniture were Art Deco, reminiscent ofTwin PeaksandCasablanca. A pair of torchère lamps bracketed a red velvet sofa and matching armchair. On the walls hung framed movie posters of famous actors in PI roles: Bogart, Falk, Penn, Eastwood, Dunaway.
The receptionist looked up at me and said, “I’m Marge Spinogatti, Leo’s wife. You’re Lindsay, aren’t you? This news about Marty comes as such a shock. I’m so sorry.”
I thanked her before I tuned her out. My feelings were rocketing back and forth between inexplicable sorrow, numbness, and an urgent need to cut past the niceties and get down to business. Marty Boxer had been alive when I thought he was dead. But now he’d been murdered. Why? By whom?
