Read Online Looking for Yesterday by Marcia Muller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marcia Muller
Tags: Suspense
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with while in our custody.”
“Which evidence?”
“The documents showing she had been licensed to own a Glock 19 had been expunged from the state records.”
“Who could have done that?”
“Well, that’s a good question. The dealer—Ralph Levinson here in the city—had a record of the sale and application for registration on file, but Sacramento had nothing.”
“Maybe the application was never filed.”
“Levinson says otherwise. Of course, he could be lying.”
“Why would he?”
Fast shrugged. “He didn’t file the papers and didn’t want to be caught out as negligent. Or someone paid him to.”
“Who?”
“The case involved people in high places. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I’ve spoken with Caro’s brother and sister; they’re in touch with her, but her parents are not.”
“Those parents are one cold couple. Although they were defense witnesses, their testimony on the stand was almost hostile. Could be they thought she was guilty, but were doing whatever they felt parents should do—badly. From their testimony it was apparent that they cared more for Amelia Bettencourt than their own daughter. I’ll be interested to see how they behave now that she’s dead.”
“They’re in Cabo San Lucas. I don’t know if anyone’s contacted them, but I wouldn’t count on it. They didn’t leave a number, and the surviving daughter and son seem indifferent to them.”
“Lovely family.” Fast’s eyes became shadowed. “You know, I had a family once. Wife Cynthia and daughter Diane. It was smashed to hell when Diane died of a drug overdose and Cynthia left me. She couldn’t live with a cop who wouldn’t acknowledge that his own daughter was in trouble and take steps to prevent it. If I were the Warrick father, I’d be holding the rest of my family close right now.”
I thought of my big extended family: those related by blood, by adoption, and by friendship. Although many of us were separated by long distances, I held them close every day of my life.
8:57 p.m.
I put in an hour at the office, finishing up the loose ends of my day. Then, mindful of Ted’s admonishment, I ate a big seafood salad at Palomino, a favorite restaurant on the Embarcadero, across from shabby, doomed Pier 24½. Seeing the pier darkened and deserted made me nostalgic; the name of the restaurant made me think of Sidekick, Hy’s Palomino horse stabled on our ranch in the high desert. And that made me miss King, my roan horse. I’d always hated horses until, on one fateful visit, King and I had bonded. I hadn’t known what I’d been missing.
The salad and a glass of chardonnay energized me. I didn’t want to go home just yet. The winter darkness when I came out of the restaurant made me think: what was Caro Warrick’s apartment like after dark?
Places are different at night: Some things that stand out during the day are softened or erased entirely. Others become palpable, crying out for notice. When I bought my house here in the city, I insisted on seeing it before and after nightfall. It was the dark viewing that cinched the deal—the place had been and still was enveloping, not remotely threatening.
I headed for the Outer Sunset.
The light from the upper part of the house—Mrs. Cleary’s—bathed the pathway to the garage apartment. When I got out of my car, I thought I saw a figure standing in the shadow of a yew tree next door. I took several seconds locking the car, pretending to fumble with the keys, while I acclimated to my surroundings. Something definitely felt wrong. I turned, putting my hands up to my eyes as I would a camera and pretending to search for an address. Nothing. The person was gone, or maybe had never been there—a figment of my overactive imagination.
Still the sense of wrongness persisted.
I went along the walkway toward the garage apartment. Wind rattled the leaves of the ivy on the fence, promising a colder turn to the weather. Over the rustling I heard what
“Which evidence?”
“The documents showing she had been licensed to own a Glock 19 had been expunged from the state records.”
“Who could have done that?”
“Well, that’s a good question. The dealer—Ralph Levinson here in the city—had a record of the sale and application for registration on file, but Sacramento had nothing.”
“Maybe the application was never filed.”
“Levinson says otherwise. Of course, he could be lying.”
“Why would he?”
Fast shrugged. “He didn’t file the papers and didn’t want to be caught out as negligent. Or someone paid him to.”
“Who?”
“The case involved people in high places. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I’ve spoken with Caro’s brother and sister; they’re in touch with her, but her parents are not.”
“Those parents are one cold couple. Although they were defense witnesses, their testimony on the stand was almost hostile. Could be they thought she was guilty, but were doing whatever they felt parents should do—badly. From their testimony it was apparent that they cared more for Amelia Bettencourt than their own daughter. I’ll be interested to see how they behave now that she’s dead.”
“They’re in Cabo San Lucas. I don’t know if anyone’s contacted them, but I wouldn’t count on it. They didn’t leave a number, and the surviving daughter and son seem indifferent to them.”
“Lovely family.” Fast’s eyes became shadowed. “You know, I had a family once. Wife Cynthia and daughter Diane. It was smashed to hell when Diane died of a drug overdose and Cynthia left me. She couldn’t live with a cop who wouldn’t acknowledge that his own daughter was in trouble and take steps to prevent it. If I were the Warrick father, I’d be holding the rest of my family close right now.”
I thought of my big extended family: those related by blood, by adoption, and by friendship. Although many of us were separated by long distances, I held them close every day of my life.
8:57 p.m.
I put in an hour at the office, finishing up the loose ends of my day. Then, mindful of Ted’s admonishment, I ate a big seafood salad at Palomino, a favorite restaurant on the Embarcadero, across from shabby, doomed Pier 24½. Seeing the pier darkened and deserted made me nostalgic; the name of the restaurant made me think of Sidekick, Hy’s Palomino horse stabled on our ranch in the high desert. And that made me miss King, my roan horse. I’d always hated horses until, on one fateful visit, King and I had bonded. I hadn’t known what I’d been missing.
The salad and a glass of chardonnay energized me. I didn’t want to go home just yet. The winter darkness when I came out of the restaurant made me think: what was Caro Warrick’s apartment like after dark?
Places are different at night: Some things that stand out during the day are softened or erased entirely. Others become palpable, crying out for notice. When I bought my house here in the city, I insisted on seeing it before and after nightfall. It was the dark viewing that cinched the deal—the place had been and still was enveloping, not remotely threatening.
I headed for the Outer Sunset.
The light from the upper part of the house—Mrs. Cleary’s—bathed the pathway to the garage apartment. When I got out of my car, I thought I saw a figure standing in the shadow of a yew tree next door. I took several seconds locking the car, pretending to fumble with the keys, while I acclimated to my surroundings. Something definitely felt wrong. I turned, putting my hands up to my eyes as I would a camera and pretending to search for an address. Nothing. The person was gone, or maybe had never been there—a figment of my overactive imagination.
Still the sense of wrongness persisted.
I went along the walkway toward the garage apartment. Wind rattled the leaves of the ivy on the fence, promising a colder turn to the weather. Over the rustling I heard what
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