Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Varga looked up. “Thought you might be showing up.”

“You thought right.” Paterno nodded toward the microscope. “You working on the ballistics for the Latham case?”

“Got ’em right here.” Gus rolled his stool backward and stood. Wincing, he straightened and rubbed his lower back. “Damned sciatica. Gives me fits.” He motioned toward the microscope. “Striations on the bullets don’t match. Take a look for yourself.”

“You can just tell me.”

Tanaka walked around the counter and checked out the bullet through the microscope.

“Pretty simple. Two weapons,” Gus said. “And I checked with the GSR guys—point blank range.”

Tanaka said, “Two shooters.”

“Or one guy using two different .380s,” said Gus.

“He’d have to be Superman to have pulled it off,” Tanaka argued. “The neighbors only heard what they thought was one shot and the bodies were rooms apart.”

Gus pulled at his lower lip and nodded, coming more slowly to the same conclusion. “Sounds about right, I guess. And both were shot at close range. GSR indicates point blank, each time.”

Paterno nodded.

“Any trace?” Tanaka asked, still looking through the lens of the microscope.

“Still working on it. Quite a few hairs we’re trying to match to others found in brushes in the home. We’ll check for DNA of course, but that’ll take a little while. And don’t tell me you don’t have a little while,” he added, slapping the air as if to brush away a bothersome gnat. “I’ve heard it a million times. We can only work so fast.”

“Has to be faster than it used to be,” Tanaka said, no longer bent over the microscope. “Everyone does it. Finding out their ancestry, connecting to someone famous in history or whatever.”

Gus just stared at her over the tops of his half-glasses.

Paterno asked, “Anything else?”

“The knife you brought in? Fingerprints match those found on a brush and the desk and bedpost in the daughter’s room.”

“Ivy had the knife?” Tanaka said.

“We don’t have the daughter’s fingerprints on file. Nothing to compare them to. But, since the same prints were all over the house, primarily in her quarters, her bathroom and bedroom, we’re assuming they’re hers. Thumbprint on the knife identical to one on her hairbrush.”

“So she was there that night,” Tanaka said, biting on the corner of her lip. “Dropped the knife when she left.” She glanced at Paterno. “I checked with the housekeeper, who swears all of the kitchenware was accounted for the day before. She knows because Dr. Latham was one of those anal individuals who was big on ‘everything in its place,’ and since he was known to have a temper, everyone in the house complied. Dona Andalusia is about ninety percent certain that knife was in the block on the counter. Just as it was every night. The way I figure it, she was either a victim and ran, or part of the attack, then ran.”

“Part of the attack?” Varga glanced from one detective to the other.

Tanaka said, “I know. It seems unlikely. A long shot. But it’s a possibility.”

Varga gave a crisp nod. “I’ve been in the business long enough not to rule anything out.”

So had Paterno, but he just didn’t see Brindel Latham’s daughter being a part of putting the muzzle of a gun to her mother’s head as she slept and pulling the trigger.

“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Tanaka reminded him as they left the lab and walked outside to the wet January day where the wind was cutting, the drizzle having become rain. Tanaka threw up the hood of her jacket and Paterno dragged his beat-up Giants cap from the pocket of his raincoat and squared it on his head. They were going to interview the attorney for the Latham estate, find out who had the most to gain with the deaths of Brindel and Paul Latham, who, it seemed, had been headed for divorce, according to Brindel’s sisters.

In the parking garage, they settled into a cruiser with Tanaka at the wheel. She always insisted on driving, called him an “old man” because of his caution, and so he usually white-knuckled it as she sped through the steep city streets, dodging other traffic and cable cars while avoiding bikes and pedestrians and somehow obeying the traffic signals—well, for the most part. Today was no exception, and by the time they’d parked in a space that wasn’t quite legal and were taking the elevator to the offices of Casey and Casey, Attorneys at Law, Paterno’s nerves were a little rattled. Ten minutes later, after waiting at the front desk of the offices, they were ushered into the office of Armand Casey, a senior and founding partner of the firm.

Tall, lean, not quite fifty, with what Paterno assumed was a perpetual tan, Armand waved them into the two chairs next to his desk. The room, a corner office with two glass walls and a view of the Transamerica Pyramid, also had room for his massive desk, glossy credenza, and in the corner, two club chairs and a small table. “Terrible,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk where two computer monitors glowed. “What happened to Paul and his wife. Senseless. Just mind numbing.” He forced a smile, but seemed genuinely bothered. “Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Paterno said.

“Good. Good.” He seemed thoughtful, then looked up quickly. “Would either of you like coffee? Or water?”

“I’m good,” Paterno said, but when Tanaka hesitated, Casey punched a button on his in-house phone and asked “Tom” to bring them each water. Almost before he’d hung up, three glasses of water, with ice-cubes and slices of lemon, along with a clear pitcher filled to the brim, were set on the desk by a sandy-haired kid in a suit who looked to be somewhere around twenty-five.