A Killing in China Basin - Kirk Russell [14]
‘But not tonight?’
‘Definitely not tonight.’
He refilled her glass but not his own. When the sandwiches were ready they ate, and Raveneau realized what was causing her nervousness after they were sitting near each other on the couch and the sandwich plates were back in the kitchen. She turned toward him as the first rain pattered on to the deck boards and blew against the slider.
‘Rain,’ she said, her mouth just inches from his, and then it just kind of unfolded and he tasted the cold, sweet champagne on her lips and tongue. They moved into the bedroom while in the front room Gillian Welch sang a faraway song about a hickory wind. The feeling of being with a woman again almost overwhelmed him. It’s funny how you think you know something so well and all the while, every day, you’re forgetting what it was.
TEN
It rained steadily during the night and left the asphalt roofing and wooden deck dark-colored, and the leaves of the lemons clean, shiny, and wet in the dawn. Celeste was asleep when Raveneau made coffee and stood at the brick parapet looking out at the city, thinking about where he and la Rosa were at with the China Basin killing.
As the sun rose he made more coffee and read back through the case notes, then heard Celeste moving around. When she walked out she was dressed and already late to a Saturday appointment at a winery in Santa Cruz.
She had just driven away when Lieutenant Becker called, his voice weighed by the message.
‘Ted Whitacre is dead. A caretaker found him this morning. The Burlingame police are there and want to call it suicide. I need you to go there, Ben, and represent us. Tell them this is a joint investigation. Make that clear to the detective in charge. His name is Ed Choy. I’ll text you his number. Call him on your way down. I’m doing the same with the chief there in Burlingame.’
‘Have you called Charles Bates?’
‘He’s on his way.’
When Raveneau arrived, Whitacre’s body was already gone and the Burlingame detective, Ed Choy, was sitting at Whitacre’s kitchen table, typing on a laptop. As Choy started to explain, Raveneau realized Burlingame must have waited several hours before calling them.
‘The caretaker found him lying on his back in bed with a gunshot wound to the head. She didn’t touch anything and called us from her cell phone. We found a gun registered to him lying on the bed and recovered a bullet buried in the headboard. We’ll see if we get a match. Were you aware he was terminally ill with cancer?’
Raveneau stared at Choy. He should have called them as soon as he knew Whitacre was on the SF homicide detail. Raveneau looked back at the headboard spattered with blood and fragments of brain. Bed was stripped, sheets taken as evidence.
‘His doctor gave him very bad news Wednesday.’
‘Did you call the doctor before you called us?’
This time Choy was the one who didn’t answer and Raveneau walked outside. He walked the house exterior looking for signs of forced entry and didn’t see any. Choy made an assumption about suicide early on after interviewing the caretaker and talking to Whitacre’s doctor, so didn’t dust anything in the room before removing the body. Basically, he decided it was a suicide, took some photos, and cleaned up.
‘It’s not my first suicide,’ Choy said.
‘I’m sure it’s not. You have photos, right?’
‘I’ll show you.’
In the kitchen Choy pulled down the shades then projected photos on to Whitacre’s white-painted kitchen wall. Whitacre was on his back, mouth open, and gun close to his left hand.
‘I think he reached into the nightstand drawer with his left hand, pulled out the gun, and then put it in his mouth,’ Choy said, and then conducted a PowerPoint slideshow.
‘Autopsy is next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. What do you see?’
‘Did you find a suicide note?’
‘No note, and I understand he was your colleague, but Inspector Whitacre killed himself. His hope was gone. He saw no other choices.’ Choy gestured toward the hallway and bedroom. ‘He had no one to stop him.