40
MARIA T. SOLIS-MARTINEZ already loved her new job. She also knew that even though she was hardworking, diligent, and smart, she was extremely lucky to have it, simply because in today’s world, professional jobs with good pay and pension plans were incredibly hard to come by.
For a Hispanic single woman, she felt, this was especially true. It wasn’t just the men’s network that permeated the workforce. In her everyday life, even working out of her apartment in the Mission District, she always made it a point to dress professionally when she went out, and she was not unaware of the nasty looks and derogatory comments she got from her own people, both legal and undocumented. Not to all, but to far too many of them, she was a sellout, a traitor, even a snob. When, really, all she wanted to do was live a normal American life someday—own a nice apartment (or even a house!), get married to a good man, have children, and pursue a career that rewarded her brains and satisfied her ambitions.
Given all that and the fact that she was now on track, she felt she had to work harder than everybody else, put in longer hours, keep her nose clean, and it would all come about. She had worked hard as a cop in L.A. and would work hard as a DA investigator. It was a good life, and now that she’d managed to come to the attention of the district attorney himself, she was positioned for the next step in her steady advancement, whatever that would be.
Frank Dobbins had given her some paperwork jobs that she could do on her computer at home while she waited for Luther Jones’s phone call on the special assignment. She was currently working four cases: a murder case from six years ago, reopened due to new DNA evidence; the mysterious disappearance of $248,000 over the past two years from the city attorney’s general fund; a fraudulent environmental reporting claim against a large commercial construction company supposedly clearing a site by Candlestick Park for a proposed development project; and Luther Jones. Tomorrow morning, she was going to bring in Luther and hit a home run in her first big-league at bat.
Career aside, she loved where she lived. Even though she’d put in twelve hours of work today, by the time she shut down her computer at close to nine o’clock, her heart lifted as she walked out her front door into the fragrant evening. The afternoon wind had abated to a fitful breeze, and the smells—coffee, salt water, rotting flowers, gasoline—made her feel alive, part of something important and even beautiful.
It didn’t take her five minutes to get to Hog & Rocks, a great restaurant two blocks down the street from her home. She lucked into a seat at the bar and ordered one of their signature Manhattans and then chose, from the “ham and oysters” menu, six Hog Island Sweetwaters and some outrageously great Iberian ham.
A handsome thirtysomething hipster in a plaid jacket hit on her a little bit. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and she contemplated the possibilities for a few minutes. After all, it wasn’t every day that she ran across a straight guy in San Francisco who evinced interest in her, but—a plaid coat, really?—she politely steered the conversation around to her (nonexistent) boyfriend, whom she’d be leaving to meet any minute.
Another Manhattan later, she paid her bill and picked her way out through the milling indoor crowd. On the sidewalk at the front door, the last knot of diners awaited their turn. This was, she thought, why you lived in the city. Ten o’clock, and life still buzzing all around you. The place wouldn’t shut down until well after midnight, and though she wasn’t in the mood to take advantage of the nightlife now, it was wonderful to know that it was there almost anytime the mood struck.
Two blocks up, she stopped to fish out her keys at the door that opened into her apartment’s lobby. She’d just gotten them out of her purse when a guy who must have been walking behind her came to a stop a couple of steps back.
“Maria?”
The breeze had faded away, and the night had become still. There was plenty of light from the lobby and the streetlamps. She could hear salsa music from another bar a block back and around the corner, where she’d passed a group of partiers. Even with her police training and a well-tuned awareness of the specific dangers for a woman walking alone at night, she was relaxed after the Manhattans and lulled by the nearby foot traffic. It never occurred to her to be afraid.
She turned around.
The second good-looking guy of the night. Maybe, she thought, she should take the hint and see where it went. She smiled at him. “Yes? Do I know you?”
Too late, she saw his hand start up. She may have registered the flash of metal reflecting some of the ambient light for the half second it took for the gun to be in her face.
She never heard the shot.