15th Affair (Women's Murder Club #15)(21)

Then I nodded to Conklin and he kicked open the door.

The foyer and front room floors were crisscrossed with bloody footprints. Conklin took a right toward the bedrooms and I followed the tracks to the left.

As I approached the kitchen, the hair at the back of my neck lifted like I’d been brushed by cold, dead fingers. What would I find at the intersection of all those small footprints? Was I walking into a room where a shooter had his gun braced and was ready to fire again?

I hugged the doorway, and with gun extended, I peered into the kitchen.

Shirley Chan was lying faceup on the floor between the counter and the refrigerator, her blood forming a wide red halo around her head. I stooped beside her and felt for a pulse that I knew I wouldn’t find. Her skin was still warm, and the smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.

I looked around. There was no brass on the floor and no sign of forced entry through the kitchen door. A bowl of milky Cheerios was on the table. A broken coffee mug and a puddle of coffee were at my feet, and a matching blue earthenware mug was on the counter near the coffeemaker.

I saw how this had gone down. Shirley Chan had been making coffee for another person. Maybe she’d turned to say something when she was shot through her forehead. This was no suicide, no accident, no holdup gone wrong. No shots had been wasted. Mrs. Chan had been killed by a pro.

I heard Conklin saying, “You’re OK now, Haley. Let’s go find Brett, OK?”

I left the kitchen and shook my head, indicating to my partner, Do not take her in there. I lifted my arms and Conklin handed Haley to me, saying, “You were in the closet, weren’t you, sweetie?”

“Haley,” I said as Conklin checked out the scene in the kitchen. “I’m a police officer. Did you see someone in the house this morning? Someone who didn’t belong here?”

I took my phone from my pocket, pulled up a photo of Ali Muller, and showed it to the five-year-old.

“Haley? Do you know this woman? Have you seen her?”

The child tightened her hold on me and sobbed hot tears into the crook between my neck and shoulder. Poor little girl.

What was her life going to be like now?





CHAPTER 33


FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER we’d parked in front of the Chan house, our car was hemmed in by cops, CSI, an ambulance, and the coroner’s van.

Six CSIs were processing the scene inside the house as Conklin and I met with Lieutenant Todd Traina of the Palo Alto Police Department.

Of course, Conklin and I wanted to work this crime. Not only had we been first on the scene, but we were also involved with Shirley, her murdered husband, and the mysterious wrinkle of a second dead Michael Chan, killed in the crash of WW 888.

Bottom line, we were thoroughly briefed and highly motivated.

But this hideous crime had happened in Palo Alto, not our turf. The best we could hope for was a free exchange of information between our department and the Palo Alto PD.

Conklin, Lieutenant Traina, and I stood under a tree on the parched grass between the sidewalk and the street, and we told the lieutenant how we’d happened upon a fresh murder scene in Professorville.

I said to the young lieutenant, “We wanted more time with Mrs. Chan. We hoped she might have remembered something that would help us with her husband’s murder. We knocked. Brett Chan answered the door.”

After describing the little boy’s heartbreaking appearance, I gave Lieutenant Traina my take on the crime scene.

“Looks to me like Mrs. Chan knew the shooter,” I said. “There was no forced entry and she was making coffee for two when she was shot in the forehead at close range. I saw no sign of a robbery—just a well-executed hit.”

Traina took notes and said, “Uh-huh. Please go on.”

Conklin said, “Haley, she’s five. She was eating her breakfast when a lady with ‘striped’ hair came in through the outside kitchen door. According to Haley, Mommy told her to get dressed for school. When she went back toward the kitchen, she heard ‘big bangs,’ so she ran to her room and hid.”

Traina asked, “Striped hair? What’s that mean to you?”

I said, “Like brown hair with blond streaks.”

“Hunh. Did she know this lady?”

“Never saw her before,” Conklin said.

“And the little boy? Brett?”

“He was in the shower when this went down,” I said.

I told Lieutenant Traina we would share information and he said he’d do the same, “Sure thing.”

We exchanged cards and were getting into our car as Child Protective Services arrived.

Why had Michael and Shirley Chan—two college professors—been targeted hits? And what, if anything, could this tell us about the dead man with Michael Chan’s name and address who’d been on WW 888 from Beijing?

Was there a connection?

Someone had to know.





CHAPTER 34


THE BEAUTIFUL AND expansive Stanford University campus is accessed by broad palm tree–lined avenues and dotted with hundreds of other varieties of trees. The handsome buildings are predominantly Mediterranean and Spanish-style sandstone with red-tile roofs. Just lovely.

We had an appointment with the history department chair, Michael Chan’s former boss, Eugene Levy. Levy was short, bearded, wearing thick eyeglasses. He got up from behind his desk, shook our hands, asked us to have seats, and closed his door.