“What did you do when you arrived home?”
“WatchedCSI.”
“Specific title?”
“I don’t have a clue. A rerun.”
“Witnesses?”
“Nope. By myself.”
The way Troy grinned reminded Megan of a guy who’d tried to date rape her in college after lacing her soda with booze. She’d caught onto his plan in the nick of time.
“Look, Inspector”—Troy held out his hands, palms up—“I’m sorry she died, but I never met the woman.”
“Do you mind if I fingerprint you?”
“Right now? We’re pretty booked.”
“Fine. Come to the precinct tomorrow.” Megan handed him a card. No debate. “Be prepared to give hair samples, as well.”
At five thirty,as the night turned a dusky gray, Megan arrived at the Marina Racquet and Surf Club. Taylor Simmons had asked to meet at the club because, with all the sorrow in the past week, he had needed a workout. Light from old-style street lamps lining the boardwalk reflected on the water. Graceful sloops swayed to and fro, and seagulls shrieked as they dove into the bay for dinner. On any other day, Megan would have taken a moment to drink in the calming ambience, but today she needed to stick to her schedule. She trotted up the stairs to the racquet club.
Upon entering, she felt like she’d boarded an elegant yacht. The floors were teak. Waist-high polished brass railings were mounted everywhere, not for balance but for aesthetic value. Photographs of ocean storms graced the white walls.
An athletic man in shorts, muscle shirt, and Nikes, stepped out of a glass-enclosed room. He was carrying a racquet and towel. Perspiration bathed his face and forearms. “Officer Hanrahan, I’m Taylor Simmons.”
“Inspector Sergeant Hanrahan,” she stated.
“My apologies.” Simmons wiped off the sweat, face first. “I hope you don’t think it insensitive of me to be exercising on the heels of my wife’s death, but the tension”—he inhaled sharply—"has been unbearable. My little girl misses her mother so much.”
“May we sit?” Megan refused to be disarmed by him.
“Yes. Please.” Simmons led the way to a juice bar, which was as sleek as the rest of the club. He took two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the bartender, set them on a tableby the bay window. After they sat, he pushed one to Megan and drank his in one long pull.
Megan studied the devoted father and wondered what could have driven his wife to suicide. “Sir, it’s out of my jurisdiction, but I have to ask. Do you believe your wife’s death had any relation to Kayla Macintyre’s murder?”
Simmons’s eyes widened. “If I’m not mistaken, my wife killed herself before Kayla died.”
“Yes, sir, but perhaps she confided something to you about Kayla?”
“All I knew was Kayla helped service my wife’s computers. Sara didn’t leave a suicide note, though she left a voicemail. A very terse voicemail.” He pressed his lips together as if working hard to control his sorrow. “Redwood City PD has my full report.”
“Was she ill?”
“My wife was in perfect health, but she suffered from mild depression. She’d been diagnosed with social anxiety disorder. She felt like everyone was judging her. She had a prescription for Prozac. For the past month, she’d repeatedly avoided our daughter.” Simmons ran his long fingers down the length of the juice glass. “I think she was afraid of hurting her.”
“Did Sara ever strike your child?”
“Never.”
“What about injuring herself, you know, cutting her wrists or anything like that?”
Simmons shook his head.
Megan’s frustration grew. Either she linked his wife’s death to Kayla Macintyre’s or she had to move on. “Sara was a bioethicist. What’s that?”
“Professional suicide, she used to say.” His muted laugh held an undertone of grief. “She liked to blow the whistle on unethicalscience-based companies. For example, she had a hand in the shutdown of a pediatric hospital in San Carlos.”
