n their pricey suite at the Mark Hopkins, with its billion-dollar nightscape of Nob Hill and Union Square. The view embraced the Transamerica Pyramid and skyscrapers of the Financial District, San Francisco Bay, and the western span of the Bay Bridge, reaching to Treasure Island.
I’ve lived in San Francisco my whole life, and I’ve rarely seen the city from a vantage point like this.
I stared out at the lights while Conklin told the Richardsons that we needed an uninterrupted hour with Avis. He said it would be easier on Avis if we talked to her here rather than down at the Hall. And he said that being with her alone might produce more truth-telling than talking with her while her parents were present.
Sonja Richardson said, “I don’t think she has anything left to tell,” but both parents agreed to let us talk to Avis alone.
Now the parents were having “light dining” upstairs at Top of the Mark, and Avis was in the kitchenette, looking at me over her shoulder with fierce antipathy.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” she groused. She opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of dip, then rummaged in the cupboard and put her hand on a bag of chips. “I told you everything I know.”
“Come over here and sit down, Avis,” Conklin said.
She looked surprised at the tone Conklin had taken with her, which was actually mild compared with the images I was having of grabbing her by the scruff of her neck and throwing her against a wall.
Avis took a defiant minute to gather her snack, along with a bottle of soda, and bring it into the sitting area, where she spread everything out on the coffee table.
“Tell us about your English teacher,” I said.
“Mr. Ritter?”
“You’ve got more than one English teacher?”
“Mr. Ritter is okay. Not my favorite, but I get good grades in English. I have a talent for writing.”
“Is Jordan Ritter the father of your child?”
“That’s insane! I hardly know him.”
I was sitting in a chair at her level, my hands clasped, my elbows resting on my knees. I leaned over the coffee table and said to the teenager, “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“What?”
“I said, Do you think I’m stupid?”
“What difference does it make who the father is anyway?”
I said, “That’s it. Avis, stand up. Inspector Conklin, cuff her. Avis Richardson, you’re under arrest for conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and child endangerment. If we find his body, we’ll change that charge to murder.”
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” she said as the cuffs closed around her wrists. “My baby’s not dead. He’s not dead.”
“Tell us about it at the station. Let’s go,” I said.
“Here. I’ll talk here,” she said.
I nodded to Rich and he took off the cuffs. The girl threw herself back onto the couch, and then she started telling a version of the story that I hadn’t heard before. I didn’t know if she was telling the truth.
But truly, her story was taking a turn for the weird.
Chapter 60
“IF YOU TELL ME A FIB,” I said to Avis Richardson, “or a half-truth or even an exaggeration — if you tell me any kind of lie at all — I will know it. And when that happens, you’re going to jail.”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” she said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Start talking,” I said.
“You’re right about Jordan. He is the father of my baby. He has great genes.”