Page 47 of The 24th Hour
Chi’s notes included a crisp professional photo of the Bergen sisters at a Hollywood award after-party. It had been taken no more than two years before. Rae wore a thigh-high gauzy white dress and Holly was standing beside her in asleek gold catsuit with a low neckline. Chi had attached Rae’s thin arrest record as a photo file. She had been caught and released with a few ounces of marijuana when she was in high school. She’d later been pulled over for speeding several times and cited once for having an open glass of vodka in her car.
I found other photos of Rae Bergen: party and award show photos where Rae was with A-list movie stars, looking happy and beautiful in every shot. The only exception was one that had been taken at Holly’s funeral. Rae’s mascara had run below her lashes, her black dress clung to her thighs, and her hair was unruly. She was still beautiful but resembled a rose that had been caught in a late snow.
If there’d been a clue in Holly’s “murder book,” Chi and Cappy would have found it. Still, the last photo in the book seemed promising: a party photo of a number of well-turned-out guests posed on the Frickes’ back lawn. Chi had listed the guests, typed their names on a separate sheet.
I spent some time learning the names of people I hadn’t met or who hadn’t yet come up in the investigation of Holly’s death. For the same reason Patty had said that we should check out the mourners at Holly’s funeral, I felt I might see someone in this shot who might take us off square one.
I was still scrutinizing the photo when Alvarez appeared in the doorway. She looked distressed.
I asked, “You spoke to Brady?”
“Lindsay, Rae told Brady she’s not coming to San Francisco unless he has a warrant. She has nothing to say about Jamie’s death. She just wants to be left alone. The end.”
“You have her number?”
“I sure do.” Alvarez wrote it down on my notepad.
When Alvarez had left the room, I made some calls. Cindy, Claire, Yuki. I needed to schedule a Women’s Murder Club dinner at Susie’s with bottomless pitchers of beer.
But first, I wanted to talk to another of Jamie’s recent lovers. I needed to speak with Rae Bergen. She hadn’t been interviewed. She was Holly’s sister and had had an intimate relationship with Jamie. A nexus. A possible doer. And for sure a real source of information.
I rang her number three times. No answer. Left my number each time. No callback.
CHAPTER 60
IT WAS JUST about quitting time. Claire Washburn was in the autopsy suite with her assistant, Bunny Ellis. Also present was the shot, cut, and stitched-up body of James Fricke III lying on a stainless-steel table, covered in a blue drape. Mostly covered. His right arm lay over the drape, the hand loosely wrapped in gauze.
What about Fricke’s knuckles?Was the answer right there? Claire whispered, “Please, God.”
A tag lettered with the deceased’s name and the number of his drawer hung by a string from his right big toe. Bunny tucked the hem of the drape around the body and wheeled the table through the swinging doors to the storage area.
Claire called out, “After you stow him, Bunny, please stick around until Loomis picks up Mr. Fricke’s effects. The carton is under the reception desk.”
“The swabs need to be processed immediately,” Bunny said.
“Right,” Claire said. “Warp speed.”
Bunny laughed. “You’ve only told me six times.”
“And now, seven,” said Claire. “You understand, right, Bunny? If I have to stop his funeral, I’d like to be correct.”
“I totally get it,” said Bunny. “I’ll make sure Loomis gets it, too.”
“They’re usually a little early, so stay where you can hear the buzzer. I have a couple of things to do in my office but if I’m needed, come get me.”
Inside her office, Claire skimmed the death certificate and the three copies.Cause of death, five .40-caliber rounds. Manner of death, homicide.She signed and dated them all.
She turned on the light box behind her desk and put up Fricke’s X-rays, which she’d already reviewed at least a half dozen times. Had she overlooked something? Did the five matching shots in the same locations on both Holly and Jamie’s bodies mean something to their killer, and if so, what? Was this the mark of a serial killer just getting started in Pacific Heights or was this personal?
She studied the X-rays, animated the murder in her mind. The shooter had taken the first shot to Fricke’s back and the bullet had lodged in the fourth rib, grazing his spine. Theorizing now, Claire pictured Fricke spinning around reflexively—a reaction to the shot. She could imagine him seeing the shooter and throwing a punch to his face. Then Jamie Fricke had dropped to his knees. The shooter put a second round in Fricke’s heart, then his groin, his liver. And as Fricke rolled onto his side or back, he shot Fricke in the forehead. The coup de grâce. The bullet was still in Fricke’s head when she’d gone in after it. The head shot killed him, but Fricke wouldn’t have survived the others.
Claire placed one copy of Jamie Fricke’s X-rays into alarge envelope that she would have hand-delivered to Jackson Brady in the morning. She slipped the second set of files into another large envelope, this one addressed to Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk. Dr. G., the night shift ME for the last fifteen years, specialized in trace evidence. She left the envelope on his desk.
She filed the original of Jamie Fricke’s films and paperwork in her open case file drawer, right next to Holly Fricke’s. Then Claire stripped off her gown, cap, and gloves, put it all in the trash.
Earlier, Claire and Lindsay had commiserated about the lack of visual evidence in Holly’s death. No witnesses. No security camera footage. There was one known witness in Jamie’s murder: Dan Fields, the neighbor who’d seen the shooter. His view was partial, seen from three stories overhead with some obstruction from trees and the corner of the building next door. Fields had not seen the shooter’s face. He’d said that the killer was wearing black, and he’d seen no identification on the clothing. And he hadn’t seen if the victim had punched out at the shooter. Fields had been shocked by the killing and didn’t move until after the shooter drove off in Jamie’s black Jaguar. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Claire changed from her rubber-soled shoes to street shoes and was ready to go.