But he’d figure it out. He always did. This, he’d decided, would be his last case and then he’d retire. Put all the murder and mayhem, the brutal carnage and ugly side of life, behind him. Buy his brother-in-law’s cabin cruiser, and leave the damp and cold of San Francisco for some warmer climate, sail south, past LA and San Diego, and find some little village on the coast of Mexico where he could drink tequila, fish for sierra or snapper, or sea bass, even a yellowtail, and spend his nights staring at the stars.
“Inspector?”
He was jolted out of his reverie by a sharp male voice and turned to find a uniformed policeman approaching. Short, fit, twenty-something, all business. Officer Nowak.
“I think maybe you should talk to Ms. Marsh. She’s—”
“The sister of Mrs. Latham,” he said, nodding. He’d known she would show up because of the woman who’d called in the crime, a nearly hyperventilating housekeeper with whom he’d been connected, Dona Andalusia. The housekeeper had told him, “The missus’s sister in Oakland. Oh, my God. I didn’t know what to do. I called her, su hermana, one of her sisters, the one who lives close . . . Sarina . . . Sarina. I’m sorry, I don’t remember her last name. But I called her. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did fine,” he’d told her.
“I think she is coming to the house. To see—”
“That’s okay. I’ll talk to her, but she can’t go inside. No one can.”
“Sí, sí. I know. I know.”
“She can’t see her sister,” he’d warned. “Not yet.”
“Dios.” Something unintelligible in Spanish. He’d convinced her to stay at the crime scene so that she could speak with him. She had. A middle-aged, round-figured woman with apple cheeks and graying black hair tied back into a single long braid, she’d stood with a uniformed cop on the sidewalk in front of the house, inside the police barrier surrounding the Latham estate. She’d been wringing her hands, her brow furrowed, her big eyes dark with worry. He’d been introduced and Dona, nodding, gesturing wildly, had explained about finding the bodies.
Her story had never faltered: She’d come to the house as usual. When no one answered her knock, she’d let herself in with her own key and thought she was alone, even called out and received no answer. She’d started cleaning when she noticed the back door swinging open, and then, upon further inspection, the horrifying bedroom scenes. First she’d found “the missus” dead in her bed.
“It is horrible,” Dona had said. “Mal. Evil. The work of el diablo, the devil. She was dead. I know. I feel for a pulse but . . . nada . . . nothing.” Shaking her head, she’d swallowed hard before explaining that she’d peered into the second bedroom where she’d found “Mister Paul, oh . . . Dios mío, he was . . .” Dona had closed her eyes as if in so doing she could block out the mental image of Paul Latham’s body. “And then I run,” she said. “I run out of the house, to the neighbors and make the call to nine-one-one.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Who would do such a thing? Qué tipo de monstruo? I mean, what kind of monster?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what we intend to find out,” Paterno had assured her as she’d deftly sketched a sign of the cross over her chest. He’d given her his card, said he’d be calling, and had sent her off with a cop to take her to the station so she could give a complete statement.
So now he’d deal with the sister who lived nearby. He glanced at the cloud cover threatening rain, remembered that it was supposed to clear out by early afternoon, if the weatherman could be believed.
Following the deputy through the house to the front gate, Paterno saw a news van had double-parked on a side street, a reporter bustling out of the passenger side, a cameraman hefting a shoulder cam as he climbed from behind the wheel to eye the street.
Paterno ignored them for now as he followed Nowak to the front sidewalk, still cordoned off, where he found not one woman, but two, huddled together under a single umbrella though it wasn’t raining, and the resemblance between them suggested they were sisters. Both in their early forties, he guessed, and taller than average. The shorter one had brown hair pulled into a drooping ponytail; the taller, thinner woman, with a plaid scarf draped over her shoulders and hoop earrings, wore her blond hair cut straight at the shoulders. In heeled boots and a long trench coat, her large eyes suspicious, her glossy lips tight, she seemed to be more in control of her emotions, whereas the shorter, rounder woman in a jacket and jeans was an obvious wreck. Mascara ran, her lips trembled, her eyes were rimmed in red, and her ponytail seemed forgotten, threatening to fall out of its band. “Inspector Paterno?” she asked in a quavering voice. “I’m . . . I’m Sarina Marsh, Brindel’s sister, and this is—”
“Collette Foucher,” the second woman cut in. “Also Brindel Latham’s sister.” Collette’s words were clipped. “What happened here?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Was my sister murdered?” Foucher demanded.
He didn’t like the way she glared at him and the fact that there were newspeople hovering nearby. “We’re investigating.”
“Murder-suicide, I bet. That prick!” she hissed, her face contorting in disgust.
“You don’t know that!” Sarina said.
Collette shot her sister a dark look. “She was going to divorce him. Remember?”
“Yeah. But to kill . . .” Sarina shook her head, the wet ponytail slapping her shoulders. “I don’t—I won’t—believe it.”
“Believe it,” Collette advised. “Well, the murder part anyway. Paul is probably too much of a coward to kill himself. He was bad news. I told that to Brindel before she married him and now”—her voice cracked and her cool facade slipped a bit—“now . . .” She let out a tremulous sigh and her sister wrapped an arm around her taller sibling’s waist.
Sarina’s chin wobbled. “What about Ivy?”
Before he could answer, Collette said, “Ivy, if you don’t know, is Brindel’s daughter. Teenager and a handful, let me tell you. Sarina’s been trying to locate her, calling and texting, but Ivy’s not picking up or responding.” She dabbed a finger beneath her eyes, drying them without messing with her mascara.
Sniffing, Sarina said, “It’s not like her. Not to answer a text or return a call. I’ve texted about twenty times and called four.” She shrugged and blinked. “Nothing.” Frowning, she said, “I hope she’s okay.... I wonder—oh, God, I hope not—but if she’s been kidnapped?”
Collette’s lips pursed. “Whoever kidnapped that one would have a fight on his hands.” Then, realizing the conversation had strayed, she added, “We just need to know what’s going on here. Find out what happened to Brindel.”