Page 26 of The 24th Hour

Our task force had interviewed him for days at a time after Holly’s death and he wanted to be questioned more. Anything he could do, he would do. We’d double-teamed him every time we’d gone to the Frickes’ home. He had a solid alibi for the time of Holly’s death and swore that Jamie hadn’t and couldn’t have killed her. He hadn’t had any clues, leads, hunches about who would have hated Holly or even who could have killed her just to hurt Jamie, who’d been embraced by the 1 percent but widely disliked by regular folk. Theft had been part of Holly’s case; neither the very pricey jewelry that she’d been wearing nor her car had turned up. Jamie’s watch, wedding ring, and new Jaguar had also been stolen and disappeared.

Had they both been killed for personal property?

People had been killed for much less. But I just didn’t believe it.

I looked at the impeccably attired Arthur Bevaqua as water dripped from my hair and soaked my jacket. Alvarez introduced herself and Arthur welcomed us both.

He said, “Step in. Give me a second. I’ll get towels.”

Alvarez and I took off our shoes and jackets, accepted slippers and towels for our hair, and Arthur told us that he’d set up a light lunch in the solarium.

“Patty insisted,” he said of the cook, Patty Delaney.

“Please join us, Arthur.”

“I think I will,” he said.

He walked us through the high-ceilinged rooms hung with what to my eye looked to be millions of dollars in museum-grade art, including a few old masters featuring rearing horses on gory battlefields. Victorian furniture looked quite at home and Oriental rugs softened and enlivened the stone floors. We followed him through an arched entrance at the western end of the ground floor and entered an enormous solarium with a rounded thirty-foot-high glass-paned ceiling.

Arthur showed us to a wrought-iron table set with linens and silver, surrounded by tall potted palms and hanging succulents. Beyond the glass walls was a stupendous view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and San Francisco Bay. Arthur pulled out chairs for us, saying, “I’ll be right back.”

He left and I said to Alvarez, “Train your instincts on him.”

CHAPTER 30

ARTHUR RETURNED WITH an ice bucket filled with bottles of sparkling water. He pulled up a chair and joined us as a subdued Patty brought out aromatic bowls of chili—vegetarian for Arthur, with ground, grass-fed beef for us girls—and a basket of warm sourdough rolls. I introduced Patty to Alvarez, offered our condolences, and said we’d catch up with her later.

I was grateful for the lunch, but I was distressed, picturing Jamie Fricke’s crime scene washing away in the downpour. That, and knowing I was going to have to question Arthur Bevaqua and the staff again, reopening old wounds.

After the blond, thirtysomething cook had left the solarium, Arthur said, “Sergeant Boxer. Yesterday, I was with Mr. Jamie in his office straightening up, when he got a call on his cell. He told me that he had to leave but he’d be right back.”

“Do you know who called him?”

“He didn’t say. I got a feeling he’d been expecting the call. And of course, he took his phone with him.”

The phone that’s now in SFPD’s property room,I thought, then asked, “What did you hear him say?”

“He said, ‘Seriously? Yes. I’ll meet you there in five.’ He told me to have Rafe bring his car around. I watched Mr. Jamie get into the Jag and drive off. I never saw him alive again.”

I said, “What’s Rafe’s last name?”

“Talbot.”

“Where is he now?”

“He has an apartment over the garage.”

Chi and Cappy had interviewed him twice before and found nothing suspicious about him. Their notes mentioned that he had a Kimber handgun and it was registered. Rafe’s number was likely in Cappy’s notebook, but I took it for mine. To my right, Alvarez asked Bevaqua, “How did Jamie seem to you? Scared? Excited? Pissed off?”

“Excited,” Arthur said. “And there’s this.”

Arthur pulled a sheaf of papers, folded lengthwise, from his inside jacket pocket and handed the sheaf to me. It was a document printout, a work in progress, and it was out of order. A quick look showed me that some lines had been struck out and other lines written in the margins with a ballpoint pen. The new lines had been initialed and dated.

But it was the title on the first page that chilled me.

Alvarez saw the look on my face and tugged the papers out of my hand. I watched her expression and saw that she was as stunned as I. This might be the clue of clues, the piece I’d never seen before that could unravel the mystery of the Fricke murders.

Centered on the top line of the front page were the words “Last Will and Testament of James R. Fricke III.”

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