“Oops,” I said, holding up the key.
Conklin called out, “Miss Pendleton, this is the police. Please come out with your hands over your head. We just want to talk to you.”
There was no response and no sound coming from the house at all.
The house had two and a half rooms—about four hundred square feet altogether—and I could see almost every inch of it from the doorway.
We were standing in the living room, which was furnished with a worn brown sofa and a sagging armchair. The TV was off, and the only movement was the upward spiral of dust motes in the dim ray of sunlight coming through the window.
Conklin went ahead of me and toed open the bedroom door. A moment later, he called, “Clear.”
I went ahead to the kitchenette, checked the broom closet, then called out to Conklin that the room was empty.
There was a pot of old food on the stove, one dirty dish, one glass in the sink. The refrigerator was empty, except for the bottle of vodka in the freezer. The garbage pail held two beer bottles and an empty can of Beefaroni.
Conklin came in and said, “Her suitcase is in the closet. I couldn’t find a weapon.”
He checked under the sink and found more vodka standing among the containers of Mr. Clean, Easy-Off, and Windex.
We went through the house again. There was no computer, no sign of pets. No purse. No keys. We searched the hamper, the cabinets, and drawers, but found nothing but the residue of a life lived on the night shift and boozy days spent passed out on a single bed.
Conklin used a dish towel to pick up the phone. He tapped the redial button, then let me hear the ringing. The call was answered by a recorded woman’s mechanical voice announcing the time and temperature.
Conklin said, “It’s like she checked the time, went to work, then vanished along with
Faye Farmer’s body. Where’d she go? Who is she, anyway?”
I called the squad room.
“Lieutenant, we need a warrant to dump Pendleton’s phone records and see her bank activity. Yeah, there’s no sign she’s been home in the last twenty-four hours. There’s hardly any sign of life here at all.”
Chapter 39
WE WERE SEATED at the polished stone conference table at Fenn & Tarbox. Brady, Conklin, and I sat along one side. Five lawyers and their thirteen-million-bucks-a-year client held down the swivel chairs across from us, the backs of their heads reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass was a wide waterfront view of the Ferry Building and the Bay Bridge, sparkling against a dusky sky.
We’d been introduced to the senior partner, the silver-haired George Fenn, who now took his place at the head of the table. I forgot the names of his younger associates because I was riveted by their client, Jeffrey Kennedy, superstar linebacker for the San Francisco 49ers and also the former reputed fiancé of the late celebrity designer Faye Farmer.
Fenn was friendly, even affable, when he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Sergeant Boxer. All good. I’m glad you’re working this case.”
Maybe he was glad that I was working the case. Or maybe the big-time lawyer was working me so that we didn’t bring his client down to the Hall for questioning.
Jeff Kennedy was twiddling his BlackBerry, giving me a chance to look him over without being rude about it. I’d seen him on TV, of course, and from high up in the bleachers. I’d watched him wrestle down tailbacks with his 4.4 speed, sack quarterbacks as though they were rag dolls, then shake off goal-line pileups like a cocker spaniel after a bath.
But now I was getting the up-close-and-personal view of this human tank.
Kennedy was strikingly handsome, with a strong jawline, an off-center nose, gray eyes, and plenty of dark hair. He hadn’t shaved and his clothing was rumpled, as though he hadn’t cleaned up in a day or two. Even though the air-conditioning was blowing, Jeff Kennedy was sweating.
George Fenn said, “Just so you know, we’re taping this meeting. Standard procedure.”
Brady said, “Mr. Fenn, this isn’t a deposition. We just want Mr. Kennedy to tell us about Ms. Farmer.”
“Of course,” Fenn said. “But still, we always tape for the protection of our clients.”
Brady flipped his hand as if to say, “Fine,” and then asked Kennedy, “When did you last see Ms. Farmer?”
Brady was a first-class interrogator. It was going to be a pleasure to watch him question the man who was quite possibly the last person to see Faye Farmer alive.
Chapter 40