Страница 31 из 60
When it was my turn to talk to them, they jotted down my information and promised to do everything they could to find out what had happened. As we spoke, it occurred to me that some of the stores on Shakespeare Lane had security cameras, so I mentioned it. I was happy to hear them say they’d already begun collecting the tapes and might be able to piece together a likely scenario from the evidence.
I wanted Gabriel’s assailant found.
I stared at my hands, where no trace of Gabriel’s blood remained. It was disturbing, to say the least, that within the span of one week, three people I knew had been attacked. One was dead. Did anything co
I brushed the thought aside. There was no way they were co
One way or another, I was determined to find out why the people I knew were being targeted for murder.
Chapter 12
Outside the hospital, I said good-bye to Derek. He had heard from Gunther, who was insisting on exploring more wineries. Derek muttered something about conducting a more thorough vetting of clients next time; then he took off to join the demanding Gunther and head to points north.
Alice and I followed Mom back to Dharma for di
Sunday morning back in the city, I threw on jeans, a turtleneck, te
The park was a block-long patch of green grass with picnic tables and a small playground at one end. The green was an island surrounded by small storefront businesses, shops, restaurants, and Victorian-style apartments. Like many San Francisco neighborhoods, South Park was a mix of chic and charm with a hint of scruffiness around the edges. During the day, people strolled the sidewalks and parents pushed their kids on the swings. At night, the homeless skulked in with their bags and blankets and took over the park for their sleeping quarters.
My personal choice for best Sunday brunch was a little French bistro at the far end of the green, where I always ordered French toast with a slice of succulent Niman Ranch ham, lots of syrup and butter, and café au lait.
I sat outside, where the air was cold but the sun was shining. The Chronicle was spread across my table so I could read the latest news as I ate my breakfast and zoned out on the background hum of political discussions, French jazz, and children screaming for joy on the nearby swings.
Back home, the rest of the day passed in a quiet blur except for one highlight: a long Sunday-afternoon phone conversation with Derek. At times I felt like a teenager, smiling and sighing at what he said. Despite having seen him the day before, we had a lot to catch up on.
When I was young and received a phone call from a boy, there would always be those long lapses while we both searched desperately for something to say. There was none of that with Derek. It seemed as though we’d never run out of things to talk about. When we finally ended the call, I felt as though I’d spent an hour on a quiet tropical island of calm. Well, calm except for that little spark of sexual tension that ran through the conversation and caused my nerves to quiver nonstop.
Monday morning, I was pouring my first cup of coffee when I remembered I had a funeral to attend. Dismayed, I raced to get ready, dressed in my best black suit, grabbed my coat and headed out for Colma.
I didn’t berate myself too badly for forgetting Layla’s funeral. I’d had plenty of distractions over the weekend. I pumped up KFOG and drove onto the freeway. The drive was relatively painless since I was going against all the traffic streaming into the city.
Colma is a suburb south of San Francisco, located just beyond Daly City, and is where most San Franciscans go to be buried. It’s a pretty little town, but is known far and wide as the necropolis of San Francisco.
Essentially, a necropolis was exactly what Colma was established as. It all started back in 1900, when the geographically minuscule city of San Francisco began ru
Nowadays, there are so many cemeteries in Colma that even the Chamber of Commerce admits that the dead outnumber the living. The citizens seem to take their reputation in stride since their official town motto is “It’s good to be alive in Colma.”
I followed directions to Holy Cross Mortuary and found the chapel where they were holding Layla’s memorial service. It was a good turnout, with close to three hundred people gathered in the modern glass-walled hall. Layla would be pleased at the turnout, I thought.
The sun poured in, lending the proceedings a natural lightness that Layla might not have earned were she still alive. I didn’t mean that to be harsh. It’s just that there were a lot more grins and handshakes and business being attended to than any tearful mourning of the dead.
Derek saw me drive up and park, so he left his men to deal with Gunther and he and I walked in together. I was grateful for that. As we took our seats, I glanced around and saw Inspectors Lee and Jaglom standing on the sidelines.
The service was blessedly short, with no sniffling, no sad moans emitted in moments of remembrance. Layla had no family except her niece, so other than Naomi, I didn’t see one person raise a tissue to wipe away a tear. Even the singing, which usually got to me no matter who was being memorialized, didn’t elicit any outward signs of grief. That is, until the small choir began to sing “You Are So Beautiful.” That’s when Tom Hardesty choked up audibly and had to pull the handkerchief from his pocket. He was sitting two rows in front of me, and I saw his wife, Cynthia, elbow him. He flinched and straightened up immediately.
There was no graveside service, thanks be to Buddha.
Naomi had arranged for the after-service gathering to be held at BABA. By the time I got there it was two o’clock and the bar had a line three deep, snaking across the upper gallery. I noticed (because I notice these things) that the vigilant bartenders had set up several large trays of glasses already filled with white or red wine for the masses to grab as they passed. Grateful for their attention to detail, I obliged, taking a glass of red that turned out to be surprisingly good.
When I saw Naomi near the north hall entrance, deep in conversation with fellow staffers Karalee and Marky, I couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. She had changed her outfit in between the service and the wake and was now dressed to kill. She should pardon the expression.
It was a little creepy, seeing her in a spandex top and skintight black pants with stiletto heels. She looked like the Mini-Me version of Layla, right down—or up—to her hairdo, which was piled high on top of her head and spilled over in a sexy cascade.
Despite Naomi’s eerie similarity to her aunt, I had to give her kudos. She’d pulled this party together and the place was jumping with two open bars and rows of tables filled with hearty appetizers, finger foods, and desserts. The BABA board members seemed to be impressed and I’m sure that made Naomi happy.