Page 59 of Accidental Murder
“If you don’t leave,” Eve taunted, “I’ll never speak to you again. Go!”
Kayla knew her friend well enough to believe her threat wasn’t idle. She darted to Leavenworth.
A Christmas parade of musicians was streaming in the direction of California Street despite the rain. Revelers marching alongside were carrying battery-lit torches and umbrellas. She hustled to join them.
To blend in, she nabbed a glittery Santa hat off a guy who was tying his shoe. She tucked her hair beneath it and snaked into the middle of the pack.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Kayla keptpace with the parade, but she couldn’t stop worrying about Eve. Capable, dependable, feisty Eve. She shouldn’t have left her.
A reveler bumped into her, forcing her to forge ahead or get poked with an umbrella. She marched on while mulling over what she’d learned from Eve. Were the three accidental deaths and Sara’s connected? She wondered if she should confide everything to Hanrahan, including her identity. Would the notated appointments with Fred, Phyllis, and Mary in the missing datebook make the inspector take her seriously? She considered contacting the families of the clients who had died and questioning them about the incidents, but what would she ask?Are you sure your daughter’s drowning was an accident?Did your wife tell you she revealed a secret to me?Did your husband know Sara Simmons?
Sara. Had she truly committed suicide? She’d left her husband a voicemail. Had someone coerced her to lie?
When the front of the pack passed the Intercontinental Mark Hopkins Hotel and swerved down Powell Street in the direction of the theater district, Kayla spied a black Jeep idling at the corner. A guy with the face of a fighter, his musclesbulging beneath a short-sleeved polo-style shirt, stood outside the driver’s side, an umbrella in one hand, binoculars in the other. He didn’t look like a typical spectator. He wasn’t dressed for extended time outdoors. She lowered her chin and pressed on. If she didn’t diverge from the group, he might not notice her.
But he did. Muscles—the quickest nickname she could come up with—pointed in her direction and shouted something to the other person in the car. The passenger door opened, and a guy in commando-style clothing and baseball hat exited. He was large. Dennis’s size.
Was it him?
She broke from the pack and bolted down California Street. She glanced over her shoulder. Muscles and G.I. Joe were tearing after her. Her knees hurt and her chest ached, but she didn’t slow.
Ahead, a pair of Asian women emerged on the sidewalk. They’d come from a Christmas tree lot and were carrying a huge fir tree. Traffic was heavy on the street. Kayla couldn’t dodge the women or the cars. Instead, she did as she would have on a motorcycle. She dropped to one side and slid feet first under the tree. Beyond the women, she scrambled to a stand, struggling on the wet pavement to gain purchase. She was bruised, but the thickness of the jeans had protected her from shredding the skin on her hip.
After running another block, she dared to look back. Her pursuers, unable to duplicate her drop-and-slide maneuver, barreled headlong into the women with the Christmas tree. The ladies screamed obscenities.
Clang-clangrang out. A cable car was on its way toward Kayla. Ignoring the local law banning people from jumping on a cable car while in motion, she gauged the distance between herself and the vehicle.Arrest me, she thought as she ran alongside.
Passengers covered with rain ponchos extended their arms to help her aboard.
Unwilling to risk pulling someone’s arm out by the socket, she sprang on unaided and grabbed a pole. It was slick. Her hand slipped. But she held on.
The momentum kicked her feet out from under her. She flew like a banner for a few seconds. Her backpack slewed before righting itself. Tightening her core muscles, she whipped her legs into a pike position. With one thrust, she landed in the lap of an elderly man dressed as Santa.
“What do you want for Christmas, young lady?” he joked.
“To get to the front. Can you help me?”
Santa nudged the man next to him. “Give the kid a hand.”
One by one the passengers guided Kayla forward until she reached a safe spot near the conductor. He scowled at her. She didn’t have time to apologize. Her pursuers had also jumped onboard. Muscles disregarded the cries of disgruntled riders and made his way along the outer rim of the cable car. G.I. Joe slogged through the center.
Kayla peered ahead. At the platform located at the base of California Street, a crowd was ready to board the next leg of the route. Beyond them was the HyattHotel. She yelped with joy. The hotel was hosting the Policemen’s Ball. The place would be crawling with cops. Megan Hanrahan and Dennis Wald might even be in attendance, unless, of course, Dennis was the guy who had been sitting in the passenger seat of the Town Car.
Pushing the notion aside, she tossed her Santa hat to a cherub-faced girl, flew from the cable car, and hit the ground running. Before darting inside the hotel, she took one last look. The throng of people clamoring to get on the cable car were swarming the platform, blocking her pursuers’ exit.
Kayla jogged up the hotel’s exterior escalator, bypassing patrons with luggage. She entered the atrium-style lobby. Hugepotted plants adorned the open space. A decorated Christmas tree towered in the center. She veered left to the concierge, who had a phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. A long line of customers waited for the woman’s assistance. Kayla skirted the customers. “Excuse me, ma’am. Policeman’s Ball?”
The concierge pointed to the left. “Bayside Banquet Room, mezzanine.” She eyed Kayla’s backpack. “Not allowed.”
Kayla ran to the escalator, jogged up one flight, and peered over the railing. Muscles and G.I. Joe rushed into the atrium.
Following the strains of upbeat music, Kayla sprinted in the direction of the banquet hall. An officer manning a metal detector stood by the opened doors. Kayla wasn’t armed. She wouldn’t set off an alarm. But she didn’t have an invitation, and she was dripping wet. Backpack or no backpack, she wouldn’t make it through. She peeked down the hall and an idea came to her. A waiter in a white serving jacket exited a room and crossed the hall to a swinging door. In college, she had worked as a waitress.
She breezed to the room the waiter had exited. Aprons and serving jackets were folded on shelves. She shrugged off her backpack, threw on a jacket, fluffed her rain-drenched hair and, acting like she belonged, crossed the hall to the kitchen. A staff member watched her but didn’t stop her.
She turned left into the banquet room, which was filled with San Francisco’s finest. At least four uniformed policemen stood guard at each of the doors.
