The Wharf. Carol Ericson
The ex-con told me Walker wanted to make my life a living hell, and the doll is his first shot.”
“He’s not going to have a second.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the taxi, which had just pulled up.
Somehow she believed it when he said it.
He opened the door of the taxi for her and she slid across the seat, giving the restaurant’s address to the driver.
It didn’t take him long to get there, speeding through the streets, dodging cable cars and buses and maneuvering around pedestrians. The taxi squealed to a stop in front of the restaurant, and Kacie insisted on paying.
“Tax write-off for me.”
Ryan took a detour to the men’s room, leaving Kacie to confront the unfriendly hostess, who acted as if she were guarding the gates of Fort Knox.
Kacie dug in her heels. “Our reservation is for 12:45, and I requested a specific table. I don’t think I should have to wait for that table.”
The hostess pursed her lips and tapped her pencil on her reservation book. “We have a very important person coming later, and he always likes that table.”
“Is there a problem with our reservation?” Ryan raised his brows at the hostess, his mouth turning up at one corner.
The hostess brightened up, flashing a set of white teeth and pulling back her angular shoulders. “Not at all, sir. I’ll seat you immediately.”
Her slim hips swaying in front of them, she led them to their table.
If Ryan thought that woman had any intention of kicking him out of the restaurant for dressing too casually, he hadn’t checked his reflection in the mirror.
Kacie pulled out her chair before Ryan could do it for her. He must have that effect on all women, not just her. She’d been silly to think his attention to her was anything more than his customary way of relating to women. Women loved him and he loved them back.
Good. She tugged on the lapels of her jacket. That made her job a lot easier.
Made lunch a lot easier, too. The hostess ensured that they had warm bread and cold water on their table in record time.
Kacie flicked open the menu, while munching on a piece of that bread drenched in olive oil.
“I’ve never been here before. Have you?” Ryan ran his finger down the sheet of daily specials.
“Once or twice. Everything’s good.”
“I think I’ll go with the fettuccine with clam sauce.”
“Excellent choice.” She dabbed her fingers on the napkin in her lap. “Do you want to get down to business?”
“Sure, but can we finish last night’s business first?”
Last night’s business when she’d been ready to turn down her sheets for him at the crook of his little finger?
“We had unfinished business?”
“The security guard. Did he ever get back to you? Did he ever talk to those teenage boys?”
“I didn’t hear from him, and there was a different clerk at the front desk this afternoon.”
A waiter approached their table and took their order. When he left, Kacie pulled out her mini-recorder.
“I hope you don’t mind if I tape our interview.”
“Nope.” He dug into the bread basket and dropped a piece on his plate. “You must have some fascinating recordings of Dan Walker.”
“I do. A lot of times, it wasn’t until I listened to the recording that I got to understand the man, as much as you can understand a sociopath. He’s very distracting to talk to—he’s such a good actor.”
“And I’m not.” He spread his arms. “What you see is what you get.”
A total hunk with a protective streak a mile wide and a smile that could melt the insides of the snootiest, skinniest restaurant hostess in North Beach.
Kacie cleared her throat and set up her recording device. “That’s good to know.”
As she placed her finger on the record button, Ryan put his hand over hers like a caress. “Can I ask you a question before we get started?”
When he touched her like that, he could ask her anything. She flicked his hand off hers and pressed Record. “Go ahead.”
He glanced down at the red light blinking on the recorder. “Why my father’s story? Why are you interested in writing a book about a twenty-year-old cold case?”
“Because it is a cold case. Your father, an SFPD homicide detective, was suspected of being the Phone Book Killer, a serial killer he was investigating himself, but nobody ever proved it.”
“A lot of people said he proved it when he jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge and the murders stopped.”
“Damning evidence, but there are so many more who believe he was set up, and now all four of the sons he left behind are in some type of law enforcement. It’s a great story.” She shrugged her shoulders, stiff from her lies.
“You can count my two older brothers among those who believe in our father’s innocence. They’ve recently stumbled across some new evidence and have agreed to give it to me to pass along to you.”
Her water sloshed as she set down her glass. “Sean and Eric know I’m writing a book about the case?”
“Yeah. They’re okay with it. I told them your angle is that someone set up Joseph Brody.”
They wouldn’t be okay with it if they knew her true purpose...and her true identity.
“Great.” A smile stretched her lips. “And I’d love to see that new evidence. What do you remember about that time?”
“Not much. I was young and confused, and then I lost my dad, who was a larger-than-life figure for me.” His green eyes darkened as he took a sip of water. “Do you still have both of your parents?”
“Y-yes.”
He splayed his hands on the white tablecloth in front of him. “It’s hard to explain the loss of a parent, especially at a young age. You can’t begin to understand the hole it leaves.”
Oh, but she could.
“You’re right.”
“And then I lost my mom.” He studied his fingernails. “She turned to prescription drugs and alcohol, and Sean had to take over the parenting duties.”
“Your mom passed away.” She knew the whole painful Brody story.
“Not until I was an adult, but it was still tough. So many wasted years.”
Their food arrived, and Kacie turned off the recorder. Ryan’s soulful eyes and sensitive mouth were going to make this a lot harder than she’d anticipated.
The smell of garlic and fresh clams wafted from Ryan’s plate, putting her chopped salad to shame. She dug into her rabbit food as he twirled his fork into his creamy pasta.
They ate in silence for a few minutes before he pointed his fork at her salad. “Is that all you’re having?”
“It’s a big salad.”
“It’s a salad.” He held his fork out to her, tightly wrapped in fettuccine, the savory steam curling beneath her nose. “Try some of this.”
She tapped her plate. “Put it here.”
“Then you’ll have to twirl it up again. Here.” He hunched forward, the fork centimeters from her lips.
She opened her mouth and he placed the fork against her tongue. She sealed her lips around the tines and sucked