20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(8)

“This is the worst,” she said. “Cause of death could be overdose, smoke inhalation, gunshot, all of the above, or none of the above. I doubt I’m going to ID even one of those bodies.”

Yuki said to me, “Arson is suspected, but it could have been a crack pipe falling onto a pile of newspapers, everyone too whacked out to notice.”

Claire got up from her desk, saying, “Be right back.”

I asked Yuki how her case was going, and she said, “This defendant, Clay Warren. When I was working with Zac, I would have been fighting to get this kid released. I would have argued that he was a victim of circumstance. He didn’t know about the drugs. I’d have gotten him to give up the puke who left him literally holding the bag. Now I’m gonna send him to prison for the rest of his dumb-ass life. Talk about cognitive dissonance,” Yuki said.

She asked about Julie, and I told her that Joe and I were exhausted last night, but Julie didn’t want to sleep. At all. “We compromised, let Julie and Martha into our bed, and our snoring finally knocked them out. Next thing I hear, ‘Mommy! I’m gonna be late for school.’”

Yuki was laughing when Claire came back and reseated herself her chair. She took a swig of coffee, sighed deeply.

I asked, “You okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “I splashed cold water on my face. I want to sign off on these fire victims before I go home tonight. So tell me. You went to the French Laundry?”

Claire’s receptionist knocked, poked his head in, and said, “Sorry to interrupt. Sergeant, Inspector Conklin just called. He said he needs you to come upstairs.”

We broke up our little party and hugged Claire good-bye. Yuki and I power walked up the long breezeway that connects the medical examiner’s office to the Hall of Justice.

An elevator was waiting and we boarded it, Yuki getting out on three. I exited on the fourth floor and found my partner at the entrance to the squad room, putting on his jacket.

“Good. You’re here, Boxer,” Rich Conklin said. “Double homicide in Saint Francis Wood. We’re catching.”





CHAPTER 14





CONKLIN AND I jogged down the fire stairs and through the lobby to the main exit on Bryant.

He briefed me as we checked out a squad car.

“The victims are Paul and Ramona Baron.”

“The record producer?”

“That’s the one.”

I pictured Baron. Dark haired. Midforties. Small guy with a Vegas personality. The picture in my mind was of him recently celebrating a movie deal with a big crowd at the club Monroe.

Rich was telling me, “Their housekeeper, Gretchen Linder, found their bodies when she came to work about a half hour ago. The wife was still breathing, then she died while Linder was calling it in. She’s at the scene now.”

Conklin got behind the wheel, and while I buckled up and flipped on the sirens, he floored it, the car shooting away from the curb. I held on to the armrest as we sped southwest toward Saint Francis Wood, an affluent old-money enclave, one of those neighborhoods where nothing much ever happened—until it did.

Apart from a few expletives when jackass drivers failed to give way, Conklin and I didn’t speak again until we arrived at the murder house.

Three patrol cars were in front of a beautiful old home, about four thousand square feet taking up a double-corner lot. The lawn was mown, shrubbery shorn. The property was as tidy as a freshly made bed.

We parked between the CSI van and an ambulance, got out of the car.

I spent a moment taking in the big picture: the multimillion-dollar old homes as far as I could see, ancient trees lining the street. There were two cars parked in the Barons’ driveway, a late-model Mercedes and an Audi, both gleaming. A well-used Honda was parked at the curb along with the three black-and-whites, CSI’s van, and an ambulance. Incongruent crackles and screeching of car radios, dogs barking, horns honking, underscored that shit had happened.

CSIs waited at their vehicle for a go-ahead. Uniforms taped off the walkway to the house and set up a secondary perimeter, kept traffic moving. The front door of the house at 181 San Anselmo Avenue opened, and Charles Clapper, the CSI director, stepped out and waved us in.

Conklin and I started up the walk—but were stopped by high-pitched screams. Two young children, a girl of about four and a boy of maybe six, both in pajamas, tore out of the backyard and crossed the lawn toward the street. Conklin and I captured them, while a pretty woman in a pink, bloodstained tunic over jeans called out, “Christopher. DeeDee. Come to Gretchen right now.”

DeeDee had wrapped herself around my knees. I picked up the little girl and she hugged my neck, hard. Rich held on to her bawling bigger brother until their nanny, also crying, disentangled them and gathered them to her.

Conklin introduced the nanny, Gretchen Linder, who was distraught. Very.

“We’re not allowed—that man told us to sit outside and wait. This is—oh, my God. Their parents. These poor kids. I saw Ramona die. I saw … I’m in charge of them. I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Should I take them to my place?”

It was kind of her to want to take the children home. But that wouldn’t happen.

Richie said, “We need to take your statement. See that gray Ford next to the ambulance? What do you say I take you all to the police station? We’ll figure out what’s best for the kids, short term. And you can help us figure out what happened here.”