Part 19 (1/2)

”You do things first, you ask permission later, that's how he was. An' nothin' wrong with that, you ask me.”

”You feel the same way about Len Turner?”

The name alone cast a shadow over Rand's face.

”You got a problem with him?” Hunt asked.

Rand shrugged. ”Don't hate him. Different breed of cat, that's all.”

”How do you mean?”

”Well, I mean, like Dominic, he one of us, one of the people.”

”And Turner's not?”

This brought a tolerant smile. ”You go have a word with the man. You find out soon enough.”

”I already have, and I will again. And I believe you.” He turned to where Rand had glanced and finally saw Turner with a small knot of other mourners in somber conversation. ”You know those other people over there with him too?”

”Some. That big, good-looking woman behind Ellen, talkin' to him now, that Lorraine Hess, Dominic's number two. Next to her is Al Carter.”

”Dominic's driver.”

Rand nodded. ”One of 'em. Then the couple holdin' hands, that's Jimi and Lola Sanchez, from over at Mission Street.”

”Those are a lot of my reward people,” Hunt said. ”I'm going to mosey over there and say h.e.l.lo. Good talking to you, Cecil.” He'd gone two steps when he stopped and turned. ”Oh, and as soon as I know anything on the reward, I'll get back to you.”

Rand showed some teeth. ”I be waitin' by the phone.”

When he got close to the Turner group, Hunt hung back for a minute to listen. As opposed to the scathing CityTalk column, the death of Nancy Neshek hadn't made it into this morning's newspaper. But still, from radio, television, phone calls, and the Internet, word had obviously gotten out, and now this core group of nonprofit professionals was discussing her death.

Hunt waited for a lull in the flow of the conversation, then stepped in. ”Excuse me for interrupting,” he said, ”but I thought I'd come by and introduce myself.”

Turner took over and made the introductions all around, and when he'd finished, Hunt said, ”I couldn't help overhearing what you were talking about.”

”Nancy can't really be dead,” Hess said. ”I can't believe that. It can't be true.”

”I'm sorry, ma'am,” Hunt replied, ”but it's an absolute fact.”

Turner asked Hunt, ”You think this is connected to Dominic?”

”How could it be?” Hess asked the group at large. ”How could any of this even be happening?”

Carter, calm but firm, put a hand on Hess's arm. ”Lorraine. Think about it. How could it not be connected to Dominic?”

”n.o.body knows about that one way or the other,” Hunt said. ”Cause of death was the same. Blunt force trauma to the head. Beyond that it's all conjecture.”

”So you're saying someone killed her?” Turner asked.

Hunt nodded. ”Without a doubt.”

”Lorraine's right. This is unbelievable.” Jaime Sanchez put his arm around his wife and drew her in closer to himself. He looked to Hunt for an answer. ”Do you have any idea what this is all about?”

”No,” Hunt said. ”The timing suggests a connection with Mr. Como's death. Plus, Ms. Neshek called my offices on Monday night with a question about the reward.”

”What was the question?” Turner asked.

”She never got to ask it. She wanted to talk to me in person, but never got to it.”

”And this is why we're paying you?” Len Turner asked. ”This and the Chronicle story this morning?”

The question was so unexpected and so hostile that for a moment it stopped Hunt in his tracks. But not for too long. ”I knew nothing about the CityTalk column until it came out this morning. And even if I had known about it, I would not have been able to stop it. Jeff Elliot writes what he wants. We are doing what you're paying us to do, Mr. Turner. We're following up leads as quickly and efficiently as we can.”

Turner was fuming. ”Well, I trust, Mr. Hunt, that you'll also do the other thing that we're paying you for, which is to keep us well-informed of the progress of your investigation. That seems to have become a problem.”

Lorraine Hess interrupted. ”So you're saying these murders were about the money? They had to be about the money.”

”Not at all,” Hunt said. ”I don't know what they're about, though I do believe they're connected.”

”Nancy and Dominic ran very different operations, Mr. Hunt,” Turner said. ”You've admitted that any connection between them was conjecture. Don't you have anything specific to report to us in the way of progress?”

”No, sir, I'm afraid I don't. We've had lots of phone calls and several interviews, although I don't believe the police are close to an arrest yet. On either case.”

”But poor Nancy.” Tears had overflowed onto Hess's cheeks. ”And you're saying the police haven't found anything at her house either? Nothing at all? I mean, this isn't a situation like Dominic, found four days later floating in the lagoon. There must be something.”

”I don't know,” Hunt said. ”They only discovered the body last night. I'm sure they haven't gotten through sifting everything they got. Something may turn up.”

”This just seems so hard to imagine,” Jimi Sanchez said. ”Nancy and Dominic were the last people you'd ever-”

But he was interrupted by what sounded to Hunt like a strangled cry right behind him.

Turning, Hunt was still only a few feet from Ellen Como, who was standing now as if transfixed, her hand extended outward, her eyes focused on a spot somewhere in the back of the room. Following her line of vision, Hunt didn't at first notice anything unusual, the large crowd mostly milling in front of one of the brochure- and pledge-card tables, until he heard Ellen's voice again. ”How dare that s.l.u.t show her face in here!” And then raising her voice even further, speaking to no one and to everyone, Ellen Como went on, ”Put her out! Put her out on the street where she belongs! Get her out of here now! Now! Do you hear me?”

The suddenly silent crowd seemed to separate and open a corridor through the room and Hunt, standing right beside Lorraine Hess, found himself looking at a very attractive young woman in a plain black dress that hinted at an exquisite body beneath it. She was standing perfectly still with one hand held over her heart. Her eyes were wide in surprise at being thrust into the spotlight by this unexpected reaction, and this, if anything, made her, if possible, even more luminous.

On the other side of Hunt, Al Carter spoke in a matter-of-fact tone-”I'll get her”-and moved at the same time to escort the young woman, who Hunt immediately knew had to be Alicia Thorpe, out of the room.

The exterior of the 2006 Lincoln Town Car was spotless and shone with a high gloss. The black leather seats, likewise, might as well have been brand-new. The trunk contained a spare tire, but no tire iron or any other tools or debris. It looked as though it had been vacuumed within the past day. All the nonleather internal soft surfaces-dashboard, steering wheel-had recently been wiped down with Armor All, which, as all cops and many miscreants know, does not readily yield fingerprints. Russo and Juhle stood by while the crime scene personnel lifted the front rugs on both sides and found nothing under them. The CSI team had also already shone their flashlights and used their whisk brooms under the nonremovable front seats. The entire exercise had so far yielded one paper clip, nearly hermetically wedged into the seat-belt connector on the driver's side.

The police impound garage doubled as a maintenance shed for city-issued cars, and looked very much like the service area of any gas station. Russo, on her knees, her own flashlight in hand, watched while crime scene personnel now felt around under the pa.s.senger-side track that allowed the seat to move forward and backward. The technician, in her surgical gloves, worked something back and forth gently until it came loose from its perch under the seat. The woman straightened up, cricking her back, held up for their inspection an unopened condom in its wrapper.

”Eureka,” Russo said. ”Getting warm now.”

”Oh, yeah.” Juhle's enthusiasm less than genuine. ”That ought to break the case wide open.”

”You wait.”