HE WOKE AT four a.m., his phone vibrating on the bedside table, the screen lit up with Nagata’s name. He got his arm out from beneath Lucy’s neck, swung his legs onto the floor, and went for the door, phone in hand. Behind him, Lucy rolled over. He shut the door and answered the phone in the hallway, his voice barely a whisper.
“This is Inspector Cain,” he said. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”
“How soon can you get to the mayor’s house?”
He looked at his watch, struggling to read it in the dark. “Thirty minutes. I can get there in thirty minutes.”
“Fifteen,” Nagata said. “Ten would be better.”
“Make it ten, then. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. Face to face. And bring your scene bag.”
“Shit.”
“That’s right,” Nagata said. “A whole world of it.”
“Dr. Levy’s on her way?”
“With a van full of crime scene techs.”
“Fischer knows?”
“Not yet. Get dressed and get up here. I’ve been calling you for half an hour.”
Cain drove north toward the Presidio, the city motionless beneath a heavy blanket of fog. He turned on his low beams and his wipers. When he got to Sea Cliff Avenue, he parked in front of the mayor’s house and looked around to see who else was there. Nagata’s car was in the driveway, and there was a white van from the medical examiner’s office next to it. Behind that, there was an ambulance. There were only two patrol cars on the street, and he guessed they’d been here all along, keeping watch on the house. There were no news vans yet, which meant that so far the department had managed to keep radio silence. There was a light coming from the back window of the ambulance, and that was the only light from any of the vehicles. No sirens, no rooftop flashers.
He got out of the car and went around to the trunk for the scene bag. It was so still and quiet that he could hear the surf breaking on the rocks beneath Castelli’s house. When the foghorn sounded, it felt like he was standing right above it on the bridge. The note was low and bone-shaking, and then at the end, the silence was empty.
“That was fast,” Nagata said. She came around the half-open gate and stood next to him on the sidewalk while he used a penlight to check the contents of his bag. “I didn’t really think you’d be here in ten minutes.”
“I was close.”
“I thought you lived in Daly City?”
“I was at my girlfriend’s place.”
It was too dark on the street to know if Nagata reacted to that at all. He stood, shouldering the scene bag’s nylon strap.
“I’ve kept everyone out,” Nagata said. “I haven’t even been in the room yet.”
“What’s in it?”
“Castelli.”
“What happened?”
“Mona Castelli called 911 at three a.m.,” Nagata said. They slipped through the opening in the gate, then came off the driveway and went along the wet path through the herb garden to reach the front door. “She’d just gotten home.”
“Where was she until three?”
“Down in Monterey. Charity fundraiser at the aquarium. It went until midnight, then she stayed another hour talking to Meredith Miles.”
“Who’s that?”
“An actress. Or a singer. I forget which. I’ve got a list, everyone she talked to.”
“She drove there?” Cain asked.
The last he’d seen her, Mona Castelli couldn’t have driven down the block to the liquor store successfully. Getting to Monterey, and back again, was out of the question.
“She went in a car, but she wasn’t driving. She used a limo service.”
“Was she sober when you got here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are we talking a little tipsy, or light-on-fire drunk?”
“Somewhere in between, maybe,” Nagata said. “She sounded like someone who’d been at a party till one in the morning, then maybe had another couple in the limo on the ride home.”
They’d been standing at the front door. Now Nagata took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. She slipped them on, then pulled plastic covers over her shoes. Cain set down his scene bag and did the same.
“When did the limo pick her up?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“What’d she tell 911?” he asked.
Nagata pushed the door open and stepped into the house. There were lights in a few of the wall sconces, and farther back, the kitchen was well lit. But the entry hall was dark enough to hide anything. Cain flicked on his light and looked around. There was a wooden table next to the door. He saw a set of keys, a patent leather clutch. A half-finished martini.
“She said she went upstairs,” Nagata said. “She thought he’d be in bed, but he wasn’t. His study was locked, and he didn’t answer when she tapped on the door. She knew where he kept the spare key, so she got it. She found him behind his desk—she said it looked like he shot himself.”
“Where’s she now?”
“You saw the ambulance?”
Cain nodded.
“She’s in the back. They gave her a sedative.”
“Not too much, I hope.”