Let Us Prey Page 6

  He smiled and shook his head. “Of course you have to ask. It is the logical question. But the answer is no, and for a very simple reason. Everything I own belonged to her already. You can’t steal what is already yours. I am not a millionaire, Detective. I am not even a multimillionaire. I am a billionaire. What more could she want in material terms?”

  He had a point. There was a tap on the door. Parks stepped in and Duffy told him to go and fetch Miss Tamara’s hairbrush and seal it in a plastic bag for us. Parks bowed, muttered something about “very good,” and left.

  Dehan had finished her beer. She placed it on the table next to her and sat forward. “What else can you tell us about the man who should have been Tamara’s date that night?”

  He gazed out the library window at the silent garden outside. “Geronimo dos Santos. A Jesuit priest. Very peculiar. A collector of ancient texts.” He gestured around him at the hundreds, probably thousands of tomes he had around him. “I have a noted library, Detective. Over the last couple of hundred years, various generations of Duffys have collected many rare and valuable books. He was interested in my collection. He came to tea a couple of times. I showed him my collection. We talked about this and that…”

  He shrugged. I made to stand.

  “I don’t think we need keep you any longer, Mr. Duffy. Thanks for the drink. You have been very helpful.”

  We all stood. He held out his hand and we shook. “If, by some miracle, you find her alive,” he said, looking us both in the eye by turns, “let me know, will you? Tell her she still has a home here.”

  We told him we would, and we left. The hairbrush was waiting for us on a small table in the hallway. Dehan picked it up and put it in her pocket, and we stepped out into the gentle sunshine.

  TEN

  We walked a couple of blocks through pretty, tree-lined streets to Chouquet’s, where we could sit outside and eat mussels and steaks. I figured we were not going to be in San Francisco much longer, so we should make the most of it. We sat on orange chairs in the sun and gave our orders to a smiling waitress in a long, black apron.

  Dehan gazed at me through her impenetrable aviators and said, “Do you know how I would define this case?”

  I smiled. “No, Dehan, I don’t.”

  “I would define it as a mindfuck.” I laughed and she raised her hand. “No, let me lay it out for you in synthesis.”

  “Okay.”

  “A Portuguese Jesuit named Geronimo—and we haven’t even got started yet—employs an actress to turn up unaccompanied at Hugh Duffy’s annual remembrance party for his dead fiancée. Geronimo dos Santos has auditioned and selected her with some subtle ingenuity. He has chosen a girl who is going to step, radiant, right into Sally-the-dead-fiancée’s shoes.”

  The waitress came out with our beers, and Dehan took a long pull before carrying on.

  “So at this point, we assume dos Santos and Tammy are co-conspirators planning to scam Duffy. But instead, Duffy and Tammy have a whirlwind romance, get engaged to be married, and Tammy promptly disappears, as does Geronimo dos Santos. Meanwhile…” She gave a small laugh and shook her head. “Tammy is on the phone begging her estranged husband in Friendly Acres to give her a divorce, either so she can marry the billionaire she is engaged to, or so she can marry her loser ex-boyfriend in the Bronx!”

  She stared at me, and I nodded. She continued.

  “Next thing, Tammy and Geronimo dos Santos disappear. Her loser boyfriend is found tortured and shot in the heart, there is blood on the floor that is probably hers, but there is no trace of her body, and the case goes cold. Until two years later, when an anonymous client employs a disreputable shamus to investigate the loser’s murder. I call that a mindfuck.”

  I had to agree. “And the only person with any credible motive for killing her is Peter, her husband. But if it was him, what the hell is with this whole circus?”

  We were quiet for a bit. Then she asked me, “Do you like him for it?”

  “Peter?”

  She nodded.

  “So far, it’s the only thing that makes sense. The only theory that holds water, as of right now, is that dos Santos was planning to use Tammy in a scam. She was only meant to get close to Duffy, but as everybody keeps telling us, she was so radiant and luminous it went too far, too fast, and they were both swept off their feet.” I shrugged, thinking it through, gazing at the sidewalk but seeing the scenes playing themselves out in my mind’s eye. “She still has feelings for Steve, and before committing to Duffy, she decides to pay a flying visit to her old lover to see if he will reconsider.”

  The waitress came out with two steaming bowls of mussels and fresh cream. She set them down, and when she’d gone, I continued.

  “Thing is, Peter has had a bellyful. He follows her to New York, finds them together, and kills them. Like you said before, in all this miasma of people and weird situations, there is only one motive. The oldest motive on Earth.”

  We ate, not so much in silence, as in slurping. When I had finished off my bowl, I sat licking my fingers. “I don’t see we have anything left to do here in San Francisco.”

  She sat back and sipped her beer. “We know who she is, we know why she went to New York, at least in general terms, and we have a possible suspect. What are we going to do about him?”

  “Hank has to get back to us.”

  “On whether Peter has priors and whether he owns a gun.”

  I nodded. “Mm-hm. If we get a positive on those two, then we can ask for a court order to see if he used a credit card to buy a ticket to New York in June 2015.”

  “Makes sense. At least that’s solid ground.”

  I smiled. “Let me complicate things a little, then. Here’s a thought. How do you like Geronimo dos Santos for Baxter’s client?”

  She thought about it while the waitress took our plates away and delivered two peppered steaks. I asked for two more beers. Dehan leaned forward and picked up her knife. She pointed it at me like a fencing foil.

  “It’s got to be somebody, right?” I made a “that’s logical” face and cut into my steak. “Somebody who is looking for Tammy. I’m stating the obvious, but in this case, you kind of have to.”

  “I agree.”

  “So we know it’s not Duffy, because he didn’t know she was in New York. And we know it wasn’t Peter because… why?”

  I spoke with my mouth full. “Because if he killed her, why would he start an investigation? And if he didn’t—he’s moved on, he wants to get married—why would he look for her?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “So who does that leave?”

  I raised my eyebrows at her. “Geronimo dos Santos. So where does that lead us?”

  She stuck a forkful of steak into her mouth and spoke around it. “If he is looking for her, he either wants her, or he wants something she has.”

  “What’s the bet that Duffy lied? What’s the bet she took something from him?”

  “Something Geronimo sent her to get in the first place.”

  “Mm-hm. That’s my thinking.”

  She screwed up her face. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense. We are back to what Duffy himself said. Why steal something you already own?”

  I gave a small shrug. “Because what she really wanted was Stephen Springfellow. And she thought if she could take him some prize, something really valuable, he might take her back.”

  “That’s pathetic.”

  “I don’t know if Stanford has done a study on it yet—it might be considered politically incorrect—but you and I both know that there is a sad tendency among women to throw their lives away on losers. Nothing, it seems, is more attractive to a woman than a deadbeat, parasitical layabout. And if he beats her up occasionally, so much the better.”

  She stared at me for a bit. “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  She shook her head. “No. You’re probably right.”

  “So we should do some background research on dos Santos too, wh
en we get back, and run the DNA on the brush to match it with Tamara’s.”

  We ordered coffee and I called the captain to let him know we would be catching the next flight back. He told me if he was in my shoes, he’d invent reasons for staying. They had topped 95 degrees Fahrenheit, and the air-conditioning was still not fixed.

  We walked back to where I had left the car, at Alta Plaza Park, and drove back sedately toward the Hillsdale Inn. Neither of us seemed in an awful hurry to book the tickets back.

  In the end, Dehan made the reservations when we got back to the hotel. The flight was at six p.m, which meant we’d be getting in just before midnight. While she was down at reception printing the boarding passes, I phoned Hank to thank him for his help.

  “I was just about to call you, actually, Stone. I got an answer to your queries. Peter Gunthersen has owned a Colt .38 revolver for the last five years. He’s a member of the gun club. As to priors, there were a couple of domestic incidents, and he’s been in a couple of brawls, but nothing serious.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  Nothing serious, I thought, except maybe a double homicide.

  ELEVEN

  The next couple of days were hot, humid, and slow. The air-con was still not fixed. We dropped the hairbrush off at the lab and asked Frank nicely if he would prioritize it. He said he would, along with the fifteen other priorities he had going. We talked to the captain and laid out the case so far for him. He had a mildly incredulous squint on his face throughout most of it. In the end, he agreed to seek a court order to view Peter Gunthersen’s credit card and bank account details for the months of May and June 2015. He would also talk to the San Mateo PD about getting a warrant to run a ballistics test on Peter’s .38.

  Then all we could do was wait. Wait, perspire, and look for Geronimo dos Santos. But he was not easy to find.

  A couple of days rolled by. I tried the Jesuits, but they were politely vague and gently unhelpful, suggesting I try various different departments and archives, usually in writing, and managing to convey a feeling that my pursuit was not a very hopeful one.

  Dehan searched on Google and found a Brazilian mixed martial arts fighter who didn’t look much like a Jesuit collector of rare tomes.

  I called Bernie at the bureau.

  “Hey, Stone, long time. You only call me when you need something. You’re not the only man in my life, you know?”

  “Honey, don’t talk like that. You know it makes me sad.”

  He gave a fat laugh and rounded it off with, “What do you want, Stone?”

  “A Jesuit priest, a collector of rare books, probably Portuguese or Spanish, name of dos Santos, Geronimo. Ring any bells?”

  He made a long “pfffff” sound. “Off the top of my head, ol’ buddy, not the slightest chime. I can have a snoop around, get back to you if any flags pop up.”

  “Appreciate it, Bernie.”

  “You owe me.”

  “I know. I’ll buy you something nice. Frilly.”

  He gave another fat laugh, and I hung up. Dehan was watching me.

  “You really do need a woman in your life.”

  “I already have a woman in my life. You think I need another one?”

  My phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Frank. I put him on speaker.

  “What have you got, Frank?”

  “Okay, the hairbrush.”

  “Good, what?”

  “Not a match.”

  I stared at Dehan.

  “The blood on the carpet and the hair on the brush are not from the same person.” He waited. I was silent, trying to process the implications. He went on. “I don’t know why the blood from the floor was not processed back in 2015, but it wasn’t. It is clearly not Springfellow’s. We ran it through CODIS and we got a hit.”

  “You did? Who?”

  “Ernesto Sanchez, a member of the Sureños gang.” Dehan and I were still staring at each other. I heard Frank say, “Stone? You still there?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Frank. That’s…”

  “Clearly not what you expected.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Sorry!”

  He hung up.

  “Mindfuck is right, Dehan.”

  She was already on the computer, checking the database. “I remember Ernesto Sanchez. He was a real asshole. He lived a couple of streets from me. He had an older brother, Alfonso, another asshole. They used to hang out and be assholes together. If I remember rightly…” She stopped talking and stared at the screen. “Yeah, Alfonso is in jail, Attica, upstate. He’s halfway through a two-year sentence.”

  “What about Ernesto?”

  She shook her head. “He’s been off the radar for a while.” She got up and went and stuck her head out the door. She looked around a bit and suddenly bellowed, “Hey, Chavez! Come here!”

  She came back to the desk, and after a moment a uniformed cop walked into the detectives’ room. He looked as though he was trying not to look pissed.

  “Yes, Detective.”

  “You patrol Garrison Avenue, Bryants Hill Gardens, Seneca…” She made a “and so on” gesture with her hand. “Right?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “You know the Sanchez boys, Alfonso and Ernesto?”

  He frowned. “Yeah. Alfonso’s inside.”

  I said, “What about Ernesto? You seen him around?”

  He pulled a face. “Now you mention it… I ain’t seen him for a while.”

  “How long, would you say?”

  Chavez looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Detectives, I couldn’t say.”

  Dehan said, “More than a year?”

  He nodded. “I’d say so.”

  “More than two?”

  He danced his head from side to side. “Maybe a couple of years.”

  I reached for my phone. “Thanks, Chavez. That’s great.”

  He left, looking uncertain.

  “Dehan, we want an APB on Ernesto Sanchez. I want to know if he is dead or alive. If he’s alive, I want to talk to him.”

  “I’m on it!”

  “Meantime, I am going to call Attica.”

  She grinned. “Road trip!”

  I arranged a meeting with Alfonso Sanchez for the following day at twelve noon, which meant setting out at six or six thirty a.m. I hung up and looked at my watch. It was only five, but I was beat. Dehan stretched and cracked her vertebrae over the back of her chair, then went to stand in front of the fan with her arms held out.

  I said, “We’ve got an early start. Up at five. You want to stay over?”

  She yawned and gave me the thumbs-up.

  We stopped at Kmart on the way and bought some groceries. Dehan led the way, talking over her shoulder as I followed. “I thought maybe spaghetti? It’s easy, but it’s filling. What do you think? Or maybe baked potatoes, but it takes at least an hour. I think spaghetti. You got any preference?”

  I smiled but didn’t bother answering because she’d already put the ingredients in the basket and was walking toward the wine section.

  “I don’t normally drink wine midweek, Stone, but spaghetti without wine? It’s like oysters without champagne, burger without beer. It’s not right, is it?”

  “No.”

  “They say the man should choose the wine. I don’t see why. Women can’t choose wine? Plus, you’re just standing there like Friday on Monday. I like this one.”

  She chose a wine.

  “Like Friday on Monday?”

  “My dad used to say it. What does Friday do on Monday?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Exactly. I also need a toothbrush and shampoo.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave them in your bathroom.” I followed her back toward the checkout. “Most men, you start leaving your toothbrush and your shampoo at their house, they freak out.”

  When we got to my house, she went to the kitchen and started unpacking. I said, “You want a drink?”

  “What you got there?”

/>   “Beer, whiskey, martini, gin…”

  She opened the fridge. “I found the beer.”

  She cracked it and drank from the bottle. I poured myself a whiskey. She had started chopping onions on a wooden board. I wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the fridge, watching her.

  “So, Stone, for real. What’s the deal with you and women?”

  I was surprised and let my face show it, but she was staring at the onions she was chopping and didn’t see me. After a moment, I shrugged.

  “There is no deal…”

  “That’s kind of my point.”

  “It’s like I told you before. I was married. It didn’t work out. And as you know yourself, this job kind of gets in the way.”

  She made a face. “For me it wasn’t the job. I just never met a guy who wasn’t a jerk.”

  I smiled. “Maybe it’s the same for me. I never met a woman who wasn’t a jerk.”

  She threw the onions into the olive oil, followed by garlic and red peppers, then added some fresh thyme. It smelled good.

  “But,” she said and paused a moment, grinding black pepper into the meat, “don’t you ever miss having somebody? Like, you know, even just a companion. Hell! The sex! Don’t you miss the sex?”

  “This is very personal, Dehan.”

  “Do you mind?”

  I shook my head, “No. No, I don’t mind.” I thought about it. “I guess the answer is, if I stop and think about it, yes, of course I do. But—” I laughed. “Thankfully I have a job that doesn’t give me much time to think about it.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything. She stirred the onions, then dropped in the meat and started breaking it up with the wooden spatula. I watched her a moment, then said, “Why do you ask, Carmen?”

  She danced her head around a bit.

  “We work together. We see into other people’s lives and tragedies probably more intimately than anybody else in their lives.” She paused, shrugged, and made a face. “You know a lot about me. More than anybody else alive, or dead! But I don’t know a lot about you.”

  I stared into my whiskey. “Maybe there isn’t much to know.”

  “Open the tins of tomatoes for me, would you? And just grind some black pepper into them.”