One Murder More, page 14
As she got closer, Maren could hear music coming from Ray’s car. Brass and woodwinds punctuated Hernaldo Zúñiga’s sultry voice singing Insoportablemente bella—unbearably beautiful. She found herself thinking back, hard-pressed to put a label on her past with Ray Fernandez. Not an affair, but certainly more than a flirtation. Whatever it was, the rich melody now filling the church parking lot had been the featured soundtrack.
The governor emerged from the driver’s seat, the music louder through the open door. He took Maren by the elbow to steer her toward the passenger side. “Let’s take a ride.”
“Where?” she asked.
He didn’t respond. It had been an assertion, not an offer. Still, she could refuse. Governor or no governor. Though most likely the destination wasn’t the purpose of their meeting. She assumed Ray wanted to speak with her inside the car because it would be private. That was fine with her—she hoped she might get her questions about what Ray had done that was “awful” with Tamara finally answered. In any case, she figured that unlike the fate of unwitting cats, curiosity wouldn’t kill her. At least, not with a witness. As the security guard moved the cones aside to let them pass, she gave him a hearty wave.
Governor Fernandez turned the music down. “How did your cell phone bill fare?”
“Fine.”
“The vote count?”
“Seven to four.”
“Ah, our Republican friends are not happy with you.”
Maren unwound her scarf and willed herself to be patient. At lunch with Garrick Chauncey, physical proximity had renewed her feelings for him. But she felt no latent attraction in Ray Fernandez’s presence. Far from it. In fact, she wanted out of the confined space. But Ray was the sitting governor. She would need his signature on her cell phone bill and likely many others. So being with him was, at least from a work perspective, a good thing.
“I think Republicans will see the merits when I have more time to present the evidence. Hands-free mobile use while driving is simply not safe. And Senator Joe Mathis, head of their caucus, is a reasonable man.” She looked out the window as she spoke. Nicknamed the “City of Trees,” Sacramento was reputed to have more trees per capita than any other city in the world, except perhaps Paris. The California capital had over one million trees by the latest count, and wasn’t stingy with variety—within a few blocks Maren saw maples, oaks, pine, and palm trees. She checked the side mirror to see whether a security detail followed. If so, she couldn’t make it out.
As the governor neared the end of I Street, the Tower Bridge with its two thick, H-shaped arches came into view. Only in Sacramento would a city allow its residents to vote on the bridge color, Maren reflected. Gilded gold had won, in keeping with the capital city’s status as the birthplace of the California gold rush.
Ray appeared relaxed as he tapped the beat to the music on the steering wheel, occasionally smiling at Maren as he changed lanes or came to a stop. The Mercedes revved impatiently as he downshifted and took the last exit before the bridge onto a side street leading down to the river. He pulled into a parking lot next to a deli and removed his seat belt, but made no move to get out, instead reaching for a briefcase in the small area behind his seat. He said nothing as he set it on his lap. The music continued to play, shifting from Zúñiga to Luis Miguel singing “No Sé Tú.”
That’s it? Maren thought. A trip from one parking lot to another?
She unfastened her seat belt and tried the controls to lower her window, then to open her door, but neither moved.
Fernandez looked up and, seeing her futile attempt, pushed a button on his door. “Now,” he said. “The window will open now.” He smiled broadly, as though he had given her a tremendous gift.
The fresh air coming off the river had a pleasant, earthy quality. A couple seated on the patio of the deli tossed pieces of bread from their sandwiches to a group of small gray songbirds with yellow markings. The birds chirped excitedly. Noel had once tried to teach Maren the difference between the lesser goldfinch, the western kingbird, and the yellow-rumped warbler, all native to the Sacramento River region. She decided on lesser goldfinch for this crowd, although not with certainty.
Ray Fernandez extracted a document from the briefcase. “I want to speak with you about something,” he said, watching her closely, his dark eyes serious. “It’s time for you to make your mark. To show the world what you can do.” He handed Maren the papers.
She read the heading: Children’s Medical Services: Assistant Director, Environmental Safety and Injury Prevention. Responsible for liaison activities between Congress and the White House. Direct report staff of 11. Start date . . .
The next few pages provided a detailed job description for a high-level position in Washington, DC. An immediate vacancy, to be filled within ninety days.
Maren looked up, trying to read from Raymond Fernandez’s face what this was about.
His eyes were lit up, his broad, mustached mouth barely containing a smile.
But she could see only a man who she didn’t know. Maybe never knew, despite what had happened between them. Perhaps the last music he played, “No Sé Tú”—”I don’t know about you”—should be their new theme song.
“Es su destino,” he said at last. “A position worthy of you. I have secured your interview. They—”
Ray Fernandez stopped speaking abruptly.
He frowned as his phone, seated in a hands-free stand on the console, vibrated.
He eyed the Caller ID—a number, no name—then lifted the phone with one hand as he opened his door with the other. He closed the door behind him and walked several feet from the car, leaving Maren with her unexplained destiny.
For a moment, she felt insulted, set aside as she had been so many times by him long ago. Still, he was now governor of the most populous state in the union, and Maren figured there were at least a hundred, maybe a thousand things more important to the highest-elected official of the state than a conversation with her.
She looked again at the position announcement.
I don’t want a new job . . . not even a big, important new job . . . not even a high-paying, big, important new job. Maren tried out those statements, and wondered if they were true. Or if they would be true if anyone other than Raymond Fernandez had approached her with this opportunity. And then there was the unanswerable question of whether she would still have her current job if Ecobabe’s cell phone bill followed the household hazardous waste bill into legislative oblivion.
One thing she did know was that she was hungry. The clock on the dashboard, analog with silver hands imitative of days gone by, showed 2:30 pm. She’d missed lunch.
Ray was still on the phone, gesturing emphatically. He had walked farther away from the car so she couldn’t hear, but she was sure from his wide-open mouth that he was yelling. Her stomach growled uncomfortably. She remembered he used to keep mints in the glove compartment of his car, reliably there whenever they met. She looked again through the window. He seemed no closer to finishing his call. She pushed the button on the glove box. The small, hatch-like door fell open. There was a manual for the Mercedes, a spare phone charger, as well as a soft leather pouch, probably containing registration and insurance. Maybe in the back?
She lifted out the pouch and the manual, revealing the sought-after tin of mints. Next to it was a small white hairbrush, travel size, trailing several broken strands of beautiful, silky red-orange hair. Maren acted without thinking, picking up her satchel from the car floor, opening it, and reaching for the brush. She didn’t hear him return.
“Sometimes I wish we could travel back those fifteen years,” Fernandez said, his hand on the driver’s door, his face inscrutable, the ever-present smile gone.
Maren passed over the brush and picked up the mints instead, and then closed the compartment quickly. She fiddled with the mint container to open it, not trusting herself to look at him, what her face might reveal.
“You found them. May I?” Ray Fernandez reached for a mint, his large hand brushing against hers. His knuckles were cold.
CHAPTER 19
Maren begged off from drinks scheduled that night with Alec. He graciously said they should try another time. She asked if he’d received Caleb’s invitation to tour Saniplaz the next day. He said not that he was aware of, but it was possible. There was so much going on. He said he would check with his scheduler.
“Your scheduler, not your docketeer?” Maren had asked.
They’d laughed together at Caleb’s odd turn of phrase.
Afterward, she felt the conversation had gone okay, although she couldn’t tell whether he had perceived her last-minute cancellation as a rejection. The truth was she needed something easier—someone easier—this evening. So she’d asked Noel to come over instead.
Still, it turned out “easy” just wasn’t on the agenda.
“I don’t see why that matters,” Maren protested.
“Two to six percent of the US population equals six to eighteen million people,” Noel said. “And that’s only those who come by it naturally, through a mutation of the MC1R gene on their chromosome sixteen. That number doesn’t account for the many who dye their hair.”
“This wasn’t dyed, “ Maren said, as she set down a large teak bowl brimming with fresh salad greens tossed with avocado slices, cherry tomatoes, and chopped walnuts. “And it was a particular color of red, a deep red-orange. That has to change the math.”
Noel tore off a piece of French bread and served himself some salad. “Assuming you’re right and we could define the subset of people who have exactly that color of red, yes, it increases the odds the hair belongs to Tamara. But didn’t she work for the governor? Aren’t there other explanations for the brush being in his car?”
The timer rang for the quinoa and black bean casserole. Maren went to the kitchen, followed by Camper, who recognized the tinny-sounding bell as an indication something edible was forthcoming.
“No, there are not,” Maren said.
She looked for an oven mitt, slamming a few drawers in the process, and finally opting to use a thick, plum-colored dish towel to pull the hot dish from the oven.
She hadn’t been able to wait to share with Noel what she’d learned while riding in Ray’s car, and she didn’t see why he had to be so stubborn about it.
“Your assumption is Tamara Barnes and the governor were having an affair, which led to them both being in his car coming to or from their assignations,” Noel said. “In the process, you believe Tamara forgot her brush, which Ray Fernandez then stowed in the glove compartment to return to her at a later date?”
Maren set the steaming glass casserole on a hot pad next to the salad. Strong onion and garlic smells were offset by the sweet odor of the chopped mango sprinkled on top. Camper took up his station under the table in case someone got sloppy.
“Sort of,” Maren said, as she spooned each of them an ample portion into individual blue ceramic bowls. “The details aren’t important. Tamara said she and the governor had done something awful. That must be the affair. Suppose Tamara was going to tell Ray’s wife, Martha, so Ray killed Tamara to keep her quiet? Or Martha found out, so she killed Tamara. Or—”
“Maren, stop. Details are always important. Without them, you may be engaging in false causality. It’s like the single knife strike in the Hopkins and Barnes cases. With inadequate data—”
Maren cut him off. “I still think there’s something to that. The police just aren’t looking because they have Sean.” She overfilled Noel’s bowl. Beans and quinoa scattered onto the table.
“There might be,” Noel said. “But what you do know isn’t enough. It’s the same here. Even if the hair on the brush belongs to Tamara, and even if she and Raymond Fernandez were having an affair, you need to be sure all variables have been examined before coming to a conclusion. Didn’t you say the governor has an alibi?”
“Yes. But I’ve been thinking about that, too.” Maren set down her fork and pushed her plate aside. “Ray’s alibi is that he was on a conference call at the time of the murder. People can do all kinds of things while participating on a conference call if there’s not a video feed. Check their e-mails, eat dinner, for all I know they have sex while they’re supposedly paying attention to a group of unseen people on the other end of the line.” Maren picked up her fork, but rather than returning to the meal pointed it at Noel for emphasis. “I definitely could have killed someone on a conference call while other people were happy listening to themselves talk.”
WHEN NOEL HAD GONE, Maren left Lana a detailed message about the hairbrush in Ray Fernandez’s glove box. She also asked whether Sean had gotten his mental health evaluation yet. Then her thoughts returned to her brother. The subtext of his statements at dinner seemed to have been an assertion that she was incapable of objectively assessing information regarding Tamara’s murder because she had such a strong preconceived belief that Sean was innocent.
Not true, she thought, I’m checking everything.
She recalled how thoroughly she’d searched the studio for the missing knife, allowing for the terrible possibility that Sean might be the killer. She felt guilty even having entertained the idea, picturing how distressed Sean had been that night when he came over, when he couldn’t stand still, couldn’t sit down, wouldn’t even eat one of her shortbread cookies.
But then it came to her. A sick, cold feeling, a foreboding that she might find out in the worst possible way that Noel was right, that she had been blind to the obvious if it meant Sean was guilty. I have to go to the bathroom. She could hear Sean saying it the night of Tamara’s death. It was the only time, other than in the studio, that he’d been out of her sight. And the missing key to her house? What if Sean had taken the key from the flowerpot because he planned to—strike that, he needed to—come back into her house when she wasn’t there?
She jumped up and went to the small bathroom off the hall. Camper growled, alarmed.
Maren started with the shelves above the toilet, pulling everything down, the basket of soaps, the stacks of towels. She combed through the drawers of the vanity. She breathed more easily when each conquered space had nothing to hide. No knife. No weapon. Until she lifted up the small trash can, the kind with a foot pedal and closed top to keep Camper out. Underneath was a neatly folded white plastic bag. It was lumpy, there was definitely something inside.
Maren’s face flushed, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes.
It can’t be.
She sat cross-legged and said a silent prayer before lifting the bag and spilling its contents. A heart-shaped locket on a gold chain clanked as it fell on the tiled floor, followed by the thud of a small black photo album.
The necklace was almost certainly the one Tamara Barnes was wearing on the last day of her life when she came into Senator Rickman’s office. Maren had noticed it then because Tamara kept gripping the locket. The delicate chain was tangled. Maren picked it up gingerly.
She felt odd, as though Tamara were next to her, watching.
As she worked carefully to undo the knots, she noticed the initials “BC” engraved on the back of the heart.
BC? Perhaps it isn’t Tamara’s after all?
Maren felt for the tiny clasp on the heart and opened it. The place for a miniature photo was empty. Instead, the locket contained a lock of Tamara’s hair, Maren was sure of it. It also made her more certain than ever that the brush in Raymond’s car also belonged to Tamara. The tint and texture were identical.
Maren laid the necklace on top of the emptied plastic bag and turned her attention to the photo album. Inside were nearly twenty black-and-white photos of Tamara Barnes as a young child. The translucent, freckled skin, deep-green eyes, pert nose—she was unmistakable, even then. The photos were candid, of birthdays, on Santa’s lap, toddling at the beach. They started with what looked like birth photos and stopped when she was no more than three or four years old. In the last one, she wore a zip-front sweater with a kitten in a basket on the pocket. There was never anyone else in the frame. Some of the pictures appeared to have been cropped to keep it that way.
Faced with photos of Tamara as a laughing, growing child, Maren thought again of finding the young woman’s lifeless body that night in the capitol building. It made the loss that much bigger and that much harder to put to rest in her mind.
CHAPTER 20
Maren stowed her overnight bag in the black Beetle’s trunk, slid into the driver’s seat, and put the top down. At 2:00 p.m. the temperature was in the high sixties, the sky clear and cloudless. She was looking forward to the two-hour drive south to San Jose. True, an insider tour of the Saniplaz plant wasn’t a luxury weekend at a spa, but Maren was happy to be taking an extended drive. She was a road trip girl from way back. She tied a colorful scarf around her hair, slipped on her sunglasses, and backed down the driveway.
Camper stood on his hind legs in the living room, front legs propped on the windowsill so he could peer out and watch Maren’s traitorous departure. But Maren knew all would be forgiven when Jenna showed up to pet-sit and spoil the always-hungry dog with his favorite peanut butter treats.
Although the Dionne Warwick song suggested otherwise, there were several routes to San Jose from Sacramento. It was hard to go wrong as long as Maren pointed her car south. Veering west toward the coast would take her through Richmond past Berkeley, but the weekend getaway traffic would likely be bad on a Friday afternoon, even this early. She could take Interstate 680, which the GPS program tagged as the quickest. But 680 passed through numerous populous towns en route—Pleasant Hill, Walnut Creek—again raising the Friday traffic question. In the end, Maren settled on Interstate 5, an uninteresting strip of concrete that traversed most of the state north to south, but which had the distinct advantage of avoiding basically everything—human or man-made—that might slow it down.
She tried, but couldn’t get clear reception on the radio. Too many dead zones. She found herself thinking again about the photo album and the necklace Sean had left in her bathroom.
