way.” Unable to help myself, I glanced at the body in the water. “Poor Ikea.”
“The mayor’s chick?”
I nodded. “She was the guest of honor at the event I hosted last night.”
“Whoa. Sucks for you. But I heard she’s a real b—”
Sirens cut off the rest of his words. I spotted a black-and-white coming from the two-man satellite police department located in a corner of the former Exposition Building One, and another black-and-white headed down the winding exit from the Bay Bridge. A third siren seemed to be coming from my pocket. My cell phone.
I could just make out the “Happy Birthday to You” tune. My mother’s personalized ring. I hesitated, then answered it in case it was a real emergency.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Presley?”
I stuck a finger in my uncovered ear and strained to hear her over the incoming sirens. “Yes, Mom, it’s me,” I shouted. “Now’s not a good time to talk. Can I call you later?”
“Sweetie, you know I’d only call if it was important.”
“Okay, what do you need?”
“I need help. . . .”
“With what? Are you sick? Are you hurt?”
“No, I was watching one of those infomercials on Channel 58 and they showed this new miracle stuff, it’s like medicine, and it makes all your wrinkles just disappear without surgery, and you only have to make three easy payments, but you can only get it by dialing a special phone number, and I could only remember a couple of the numbers, three and seven, I think, so could you call for me and order some? I think Blue Cross will cover it. You know I’m going to need it for the mayor’s wedding—Sweetie, what’s that horrible noise? It sounds like—”
“Mom, I’m going to have to call you back, okay?”
“Okay, sweetie. I think there’s someone at the door. The bell’s ringing, or maybe it’s the phone—” The line went dead.
Poor Mom. When I told her I was taking on the mayor’s wedding, she assumed she’d be invited. In her day, she had not only held the best parties; she’d also been invited to them. In between, she’d also managed to raise a substantial amount of money for the arts, lead roundtable discussion groups, help build a stray animal shelter, and even host her own local TV show. Not to mention marry five husbands.
Now Alzheimer’s was stealing away the person she is, the person she would have been, but not who she was . Veronica Parker Valdez Uawithya Jefferson Heller still thought of herself as the Princess of Pacific Heights. I’d make it a point to stop by sometime today—if no more bodies turned up.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket as the two police cars pulled up on the street near the water’s edge. Duncan vigorously waved the officers over as if signaling a distressed ship at sea. The two local officers—Tony Cerletti and Amberly Finarelli—were well-known and well liked around the island. Amberly, tan, no makeup, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail, carried so much bulky equipment around her uniformed waist, she tended to walk like a penguin with her arms sticking out. On her feet she wore regulation black SWAT combat boots, more for the look than the necessity, I imagined.
Tony also wore the regulation uniform and shoes, but carried his gun, flashlight, radio, pepper spray, baton, and cuffs as if they were part of his physical makeup. He looked as comfortable in his duty gear as Amberly looked uncomfortable. Amazingly, they made a good team.
An officer from the other black-and-white stepped out wearing a suit, which fit his muscular form perfectly. Men in Black -style sunglasses, black high-gloss oxfords, and slicked-back black hair finished the look. This guy cared about his appearance. When he pulled off the dark glasses, his eyes were surprisingly blue.
The flash of his badge distracted me from his eyes.
“I’m Detective Luke Melvin, and this is Officer Carole Price,” he said, gesturing toward the uniformed officer who had exited the shotgun
“The mayor’s chick?”
I nodded. “She was the guest of honor at the event I hosted last night.”
“Whoa. Sucks for you. But I heard she’s a real b—”
Sirens cut off the rest of his words. I spotted a black-and-white coming from the two-man satellite police department located in a corner of the former Exposition Building One, and another black-and-white headed down the winding exit from the Bay Bridge. A third siren seemed to be coming from my pocket. My cell phone.
I could just make out the “Happy Birthday to You” tune. My mother’s personalized ring. I hesitated, then answered it in case it was a real emergency.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Presley?”
I stuck a finger in my uncovered ear and strained to hear her over the incoming sirens. “Yes, Mom, it’s me,” I shouted. “Now’s not a good time to talk. Can I call you later?”
“Sweetie, you know I’d only call if it was important.”
“Okay, what do you need?”
“I need help. . . .”
“With what? Are you sick? Are you hurt?”
“No, I was watching one of those infomercials on Channel 58 and they showed this new miracle stuff, it’s like medicine, and it makes all your wrinkles just disappear without surgery, and you only have to make three easy payments, but you can only get it by dialing a special phone number, and I could only remember a couple of the numbers, three and seven, I think, so could you call for me and order some? I think Blue Cross will cover it. You know I’m going to need it for the mayor’s wedding—Sweetie, what’s that horrible noise? It sounds like—”
“Mom, I’m going to have to call you back, okay?”
“Okay, sweetie. I think there’s someone at the door. The bell’s ringing, or maybe it’s the phone—” The line went dead.
Poor Mom. When I told her I was taking on the mayor’s wedding, she assumed she’d be invited. In her day, she had not only held the best parties; she’d also been invited to them. In between, she’d also managed to raise a substantial amount of money for the arts, lead roundtable discussion groups, help build a stray animal shelter, and even host her own local TV show. Not to mention marry five husbands.
Now Alzheimer’s was stealing away the person she is, the person she would have been, but not who she was . Veronica Parker Valdez Uawithya Jefferson Heller still thought of herself as the Princess of Pacific Heights. I’d make it a point to stop by sometime today—if no more bodies turned up.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket as the two police cars pulled up on the street near the water’s edge. Duncan vigorously waved the officers over as if signaling a distressed ship at sea. The two local officers—Tony Cerletti and Amberly Finarelli—were well-known and well liked around the island. Amberly, tan, no makeup, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail, carried so much bulky equipment around her uniformed waist, she tended to walk like a penguin with her arms sticking out. On her feet she wore regulation black SWAT combat boots, more for the look than the necessity, I imagined.
Tony also wore the regulation uniform and shoes, but carried his gun, flashlight, radio, pepper spray, baton, and cuffs as if they were part of his physical makeup. He looked as comfortable in his duty gear as Amberly looked uncomfortable. Amazingly, they made a good team.
An officer from the other black-and-white stepped out wearing a suit, which fit his muscular form perfectly. Men in Black -style sunglasses, black high-gloss oxfords, and slicked-back black hair finished the look. This guy cared about his appearance. When he pulled off the dark glasses, his eyes were surprisingly blue.
The flash of his badge distracted me from his eyes.
“I’m Detective Luke Melvin, and this is Officer Carole Price,” he said, gesturing toward the uniformed officer who had exited the shotgun
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