“This is the passenger manifest,” she said. “I’m looking, you know, to see if I can find the name of that little boy and maybe three people I’ve got here who still had wallets in their pockets. And I see this name, Michael Chan. I’m thinking, there’s probably a lot of people named Michael Chan.”
I stared at Claire, and I really didn’t understand what she was saying. Michael Chan had been chilling in this morgue since he was murdered in the Four Seasons Hotel three days ago.
But Claire was saying something different. She was tapping the passenger list where a name had been highlighted in yellow.
“Look at this, Linds,” she said. “Chan. Michael. Professorville, Palo Alto. This is your victim from the hotel shooting, am I right? He couldn’t have been on that plane. He’s here—in a drawer with his name and number on a toe tag. I double-and triple-checked. It’s him.”
My mouth was open. I tried to clear the smoke from my head and absorb the highlighted name on the passenger list. Who was this Michael Chan? Our dead man had been identified by his widow. Even with two shots in his face, he was a match for his DMV picture.
Claire’s incredulity mirrored mine.
“Where is this Michael Chan right now?” I asked, stabbing the highlighted name.
“Metropolitan Hospital,” she said. “He was sent to Metro’s morgue.”
CHAPTER 29
METROPOLITAN HOSPITAL IS a huge general hospital with a lab and morgue that occupies the entire basement level.
At 6:30 p.m., Metropolitan’s parking lot was nearly impassable. Claire carefully maneuvered her car up and down the aisles of hastily parked vehicles. There were no open spots, not for cops or doctors or patients. Meanwhile, Metro’s overextended director of pathology was waiting for us inside.
Claire said, “I’ll call Dr. Marshall, let her know what’s happened to us.”
She took out her phone and I used the moment to call Mrs. Rose—only to find that my phone battery was dead and that I’d left my charger in the squad car.
Claire was saying, “Fine. We’ll park on Valencia. Blue Chevy Tahoe.”
We left the hospital lot, parked on Valencia in the no parking zone in front of an auto repair shop. We didn’t have to wait long. A fantastically fit glossy-haired woman wearing a green leather coat over bloody blue scrubs knocked on Claire’s window.
We got out and I was introduced to Dr. Pamela Marshall. Right after that, we had an ad hoc meeting across the hood of Claire’s car.
“Busy night,” Marshall said, “following the most hellacious day ever.”
“I’ll second that,” Claire said. “Look. We just want to walk back to the morgue with you, get a quick look at Mr. Chan, and get out of your way.”
“Here’s the thing, Dr. Washburn,” said Marshall. “We’ve got sixty bodies and counting. I’ve got Jane and John Does in double digits. You’re lucky Mr. Chan had ID. I gotta be honest with you, I wish I had known and saved you the trip. I couldn’t show you Chan’s body right now if you offered me a million bucks and a house in Cannes.”
“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.