“Wish you’d known what?” asked Claire.
“Chan was in line to be autopsied,” Marshall said, “but someone moved his gurney somewhere. He’s been temporarily misplaced.”
I said “Dr. Marshall. You’re saying you lost Chan?”
“Misplaced. He’ll turn up. Don’t worry about that, and I’ll call you when he does. I’ve got to get back,” she said. “I’ll call you. Good night, ladies.”
“Wait,” I called after her. “I need to see his ID.”
Dr. Marshall kept walking.
Claire said, “If she doesn’t have his body, she doesn’t have his ID, either. His personal effects would be on his person.”
I didn’t want to believe this. Chan’s body and his ID had been misplaced? Was this for real?
“I don’t like this,” I said to Claire.
“Lindsay, nothing makes sense today. Go home. Marshall will call us in the morning.”
Yeah? What if she doesn’t?
CHAPTER 30
ALI MULLER PARKED her rented Lexus on Waverley Street in the Professorville section of Palo Alto. It was early morning and the lights were on in the sage-green house with the name Chan on the mailbox.
Ali fluffed her bangs, reapplied her lipstick, and put her makeup kit away. She took another moment to admire the cute house, the beagle digging in the flower beds, the trike on the walkway, lacy curtains in the windows. It was the very picture of a middle-class home in a middle-class neighborhood.
The American ideal.
She looked for security cameras on the Chan house and the ones across the street. When she was sure there were no cameras, no eyes, no traffic passing by, she got out of the car and locked it up.
Instead of going to the front door, she went to the side of the house and opened the little chain-link gate between the wall and the tall boundary-line hedge. As she expected, there was a short flight of stairs leading up to a door with panes from top to midpoint.
Ali walked up the steps and peered through the glass. Shirley Chan was unloading the dishwasher, putting dishes away. One of the children was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook eating cereal. It was the younger one, a girl.
Ali turned the doorknob and gave the door a little shove. It opened and she stepped inside.
Shirley Chan looked up, startled, trying to put it together.
Why was this woman in her house?
“Hey,” she said. “Are you a reporter? Because you have a lot of nerve. Get out of here now. Or I’ll call the police.”
“Shirley, don’t worry, I’m not with the press. I swear.”
“What is it? What do you want?”
“Calm down, please, please. I’m Ali Muller. I knew your husband, and I’m so sorry to hear about his death. We were working on a project together. Michael may have spoken of me. He told me that if anything ever happened to him, to give you this letter.”
Shirley Chan told her daughter to go get dressed. The little girl complained that the dog was still outside and Shirley said, “I’ll bring him in in a minute. Now, scoot.”
“Have a seat,” she said to the composed and well-dressed woman in her kitchen. “I only have a few minutes, but tell me how you like your coffee, and please—let me have
that letter.”
“Yes, of course,” said Ali Muller. She put her bag on the floor and bent to open the closure.
Shirley went to the coffeemaker. “How do you like your coffee?” she asked again.