love, and unselfishly proud of his talented young wife. They were laughing as though the world had revealed its secrets, and was beautiful.
At nine, Amy Tang phoned. “Tasia’s autopsy is this morning. Medical and psychiatric records might be with you this afternoon, but full tox and blood work will take days. Her next of kin will meet with you at ten A.M.—her sister, Vienna Hicks.”
Jo wrote down Hicks’s phone number. “Did you know that police sources are talking to the press about me?”
“As I told you, this is a cheap thrill ride, not the Pirates of the Caribbean. But I’ll remind people to keep their mouths shut.”
Jo looked again at the photo of Tasia and Robert McFarland, young and in love. She didn’t know how Tasia had gotten from there to writing, But Robby T is not the One / All that’s needed is the gun . She wondered if Tasia’s sister could tell her.
12
S HORTLY BEFORE TEN, JO DROVE DOWNTOWN. THE STREETS OF THE Financial District were packed with cars and delivery trucks. The sidewalks bustled. The sun flashed from skyscraper windows, and wind funneled between the buildings. Jo pushed through a door into a coffeehouse where silverware clattered and the staff wore facial piercings and protest buttons pinned to berets. Vienna Hicks waved from a table against the windows.
Jo worked her way through the crowded room. Hicks stood and clasped her hand. “Dr. Beckett. I’m Vienna.”
Vienna Hicks stood six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds. Her ash-blue suit was impeccable. Her red hair looked like a runaway fire.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Jo said.
“I was downtown on business. I’m a paralegal at Waymire and Fong. They’re handling Tasia’s estate, and they’ll tackle any lawsuits that get filed against it.”
She sat again, solidly. Her physique looked too grand for the tiny table. She had the forceful gaze of a grizzly bear. She eyed Jo up and down, and didn’t look dazzled.
“Psychiatrist. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re running on empty, aren’t they?” she said.
“The police?”
“They don’t know how to label Tasia’s death.”
“The police are searching for an explanation. I’m here to help them find it.”
Vienna tapped manicured nails on the table, patently skeptical. “This place is stifling. Let’s walk.”
She stood and headed for the door, parting the crowd around the counter like an ocean liner. Jo hustled after her. Outside, Vienna threw a crimson scarf around her neck and strode along the sidewalk toward the Embarcadero Center. The scarf whipped in the wind like a crusader’s banner.
“You want a label? The media gave Tasia enough of them to carpet the streets at a ticker-tape parade.” She put on a pair of oversize sunglasses. They barely contained the force of her gaze.
“Starlet. Mouseketeer. Pop tart,” she said. “Loser, reality show contestant, drug addict.”
She headed toward the waterfront. “A-list dropout. Fame whore. Presidential reject.” She glanced at Jo. “Manic-depressive.”
“Was that officially diagnosed?”
“By a board-certified psychiatrist. Rapid-cycling Type One bipolar disorder.”
Vienna’s cat’s-cream skin was nearly luminous in the sunlight. Her red hair flew about her head in the wind.
“You want to know if she killed herself? Fully possible. Her major depressive episodes were deeper than a bomb crater.”
“When did she begin showing signs of the disorder?” Jo said.
“Her teens. It became obvious in her early twenties. During her marriage.”
“Was it a factor in her divorce?”
Vienna’s jaw cranked down. “You’d have to ask him.”
Him being the man who got 67 million votes in the most recent election, whose face graced the cover of every news magazine on the rack, and whose voice echoed from the television every ten minutes, day and night. Piece of cake.
“You don’t speak to Robert McFarland, I take it,” Jo said.
“I don’t even speak of him. And I never
At nine, Amy Tang phoned. “Tasia’s autopsy is this morning. Medical and psychiatric records might be with you this afternoon, but full tox and blood work will take days. Her next of kin will meet with you at ten A.M.—her sister, Vienna Hicks.”
Jo wrote down Hicks’s phone number. “Did you know that police sources are talking to the press about me?”
“As I told you, this is a cheap thrill ride, not the Pirates of the Caribbean. But I’ll remind people to keep their mouths shut.”
Jo looked again at the photo of Tasia and Robert McFarland, young and in love. She didn’t know how Tasia had gotten from there to writing, But Robby T is not the One / All that’s needed is the gun . She wondered if Tasia’s sister could tell her.
12
S HORTLY BEFORE TEN, JO DROVE DOWNTOWN. THE STREETS OF THE Financial District were packed with cars and delivery trucks. The sidewalks bustled. The sun flashed from skyscraper windows, and wind funneled between the buildings. Jo pushed through a door into a coffeehouse where silverware clattered and the staff wore facial piercings and protest buttons pinned to berets. Vienna Hicks waved from a table against the windows.
Jo worked her way through the crowded room. Hicks stood and clasped her hand. “Dr. Beckett. I’m Vienna.”
Vienna Hicks stood six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds. Her ash-blue suit was impeccable. Her red hair looked like a runaway fire.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Jo said.
“I was downtown on business. I’m a paralegal at Waymire and Fong. They’re handling Tasia’s estate, and they’ll tackle any lawsuits that get filed against it.”
She sat again, solidly. Her physique looked too grand for the tiny table. She had the forceful gaze of a grizzly bear. She eyed Jo up and down, and didn’t look dazzled.
“Psychiatrist. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re running on empty, aren’t they?” she said.
“The police?”
“They don’t know how to label Tasia’s death.”
“The police are searching for an explanation. I’m here to help them find it.”
Vienna tapped manicured nails on the table, patently skeptical. “This place is stifling. Let’s walk.”
She stood and headed for the door, parting the crowd around the counter like an ocean liner. Jo hustled after her. Outside, Vienna threw a crimson scarf around her neck and strode along the sidewalk toward the Embarcadero Center. The scarf whipped in the wind like a crusader’s banner.
“You want a label? The media gave Tasia enough of them to carpet the streets at a ticker-tape parade.” She put on a pair of oversize sunglasses. They barely contained the force of her gaze.
“Starlet. Mouseketeer. Pop tart,” she said. “Loser, reality show contestant, drug addict.”
She headed toward the waterfront. “A-list dropout. Fame whore. Presidential reject.” She glanced at Jo. “Manic-depressive.”
“Was that officially diagnosed?”
“By a board-certified psychiatrist. Rapid-cycling Type One bipolar disorder.”
Vienna’s cat’s-cream skin was nearly luminous in the sunlight. Her red hair flew about her head in the wind.
“You want to know if she killed herself? Fully possible. Her major depressive episodes were deeper than a bomb crater.”
“When did she begin showing signs of the disorder?” Jo said.
“Her teens. It became obvious in her early twenties. During her marriage.”
“Was it a factor in her divorce?”
Vienna’s jaw cranked down. “You’d have to ask him.”
Him being the man who got 67 million votes in the most recent election, whose face graced the cover of every news magazine on the rack, and whose voice echoed from the television every ten minutes, day and night. Piece of cake.
“You don’t speak to Robert McFarland, I take it,” Jo said.
“I don’t even speak of him. And I never
Similar Books
