Now she came into her office, fresh from her lunch with the mayor's press secretary, a bit of a coup in itself, her brain considering the slant to take on Leland Crawford's first weeks in office, to cast him in the best possible light. She wasn't overly concerned with her objectivity, which so many other news outlets had long ago proven to be a spurious virtue when it came to reporting. Besides, she was a columnist now-not just a reporter. She was all about opinion, nuance, point of view.
Marrenas knew that newspapers were about wielding influence and molding public opinion, and the point was that Leland Crawford had accepted a great deal of the Curtlees' campaign money and now, even at the very beginning of his administration, was showing signs that he knew which side his bread was buttered on. He could be a crucial ally in the political wars that were always on the horizon in San Francisco. A flattering column by her on his first weeks could go a long way toward setting his inclinations toward them into concrete. Maybe she could contrast Crawford's own bold agenda and no-nonsense activism with Wes Farrell's fairly abysmal continuing performance to date.
That might really shake things up.
Her phone was ringing as she came through the door and she reached over her cluttered desk to pick it up, chirping her name in her trademark response.
"Sheila. Cliff… Something's come up. You got a minute?… Good. I'll be right down."
She went behind her desk, opened her drawer, and took out her hand mirror, checking to make sure that every little thing about her face and hair was as it should be. She needn't have worried. At forty-three years old, she possibly looked better than she had at thirty. Certainly she'd grown into her style, which was professional and cultured. She'd tamed the wild mane of frizzy black hair she'd had ten years ago with soft curls now, settling about her shoulders. And her face had never been a problem. Her olive-tinted skin was not simply clear, but luminous, small pored, and glowing. Her smile, under the sultry coals that were her eyes, was genuine and generous after the braces had come off at last about six years ago.
She was more than comfortable with her looks, and now as she put the mirror back in her drawer, she allowed herself a small smile, thinking that it was almost a shame that she wasn't inclined to consolidate her position here at the paper by seducing Cliff, who clearly had always found her attractive. Her taste, though, truth be told, ran much more to Theresa, but-she asked herself-what would be the point of seducing the second in command?
"Ahh, here you are. Looking even more lovely than usual, I might add."
"Oh, stop, you flatterer." But she was smiling as she stood and came around the desk, offering first one cheek to Cliff, then the other one, kissing the air on either side. By long custom, when Cliff came down to her office to visit, they sat on either end of the leather couch that ran along under the window with the view down onto Castro Street.
"So how'd the lunch with the mayor go?" Cliff asked by way of warm-up.
"His press secretary," she corrected him, "but it went very well. She's very quotable. I got some good stuff. You'll see." She shifted, facing him on the couch, tucking one leg up under her. "But you've got something hotter."
"Not so much hot as in sexy," he said, "as hot as in urgent. It's Ro and the police again."
A small bubble of laughter shook her. "You've got to be kidding me. You'd think after last week they would have learned."
"I don't know if they're capable of learning."
"I don't, either. Was this Glitsky again?"
"No, although with Glitsky running homicide, it's obvious where the orders came from. This is an inspector named Bracco."
Marrenas nodded. "Darrel. I know who he is. What did he do?"
"Well, maybe we should thank him, actually, since he's giving us this story. But he came up to Tristan Denardi's office today to ask Ro some questions. Tristan didn't want to let that happen under any circumstances, but on reflection I thought since you weren't available, it might be a good idea if Tristan and Ro went ahead so long as Theresa and I came along to represent our interests."
Her eyebrows went up in surprise. "Go on."
Cliff, sitting sideways on the couch, leaned in toward her. "Anyway, Glitsky, it turns out, is working on another murder, just some random murder across the city out in the Sunset. Although Glitsky naturally thinks maybe it isn't really random. He thinks Ro's got something to do with this one, too, and he had Bracco ask for the meet today to get Ro's alibi for the time of the murder."
"This other murder, you mean?"
"Yes, and I know. It's bizarre."
"So what's the possible connection to Ro?"
"You'll love this. You remember that difficult jury foreman at Ro's trial?"
"Michael Durbin." Suddenly she snapped her fingers. "That's who it was!" she said, her eyes flashing.
"Who?"
"This guy outside the courtroom last week who wouldn't give me the time of day. It was Durbin. I knew I'd seen him before."
"At Ro's arraignment? Why was he there?"
"I have no idea." She shook her head. "So, what are you saying? Somebody killed him?"
"No. Somebody killed his wife. And then burned down the house around her."
Marrenas took in a quick breath and let it out in a rush. "That's not very nice."
"No. But the point is that the police apparently somehow think, by some tortuous logic, that Ro had something to do with it. In fact, it's so obscure that I can't believe anyone really thinks it, but it seems like it's going to be the next point of attack on Ro. And this in spite of the fact, as Ro told Bracco this morning, and Theresa and I backed him up because it was true, that he was sleeping at home at the time that this murder occurred." Lowering his voice, Cliff went on, "And here's the thing, Sheila. He was sleeping in his room. This was last Friday. I remember distinctly and so does Theresa. He came down and had breakfast with us at around nine or nine thirty and I promise you on my word of honor that he hadn't been out killing some woman in the Sunset an hour before, and then setting her house on fire. That just didn't happen."
Sheila picked up his thread. "But the cops still came to question him?"
"Right. And you want to hear another one? That DA investigator who got shot yesterday out in the Fillmore?"
"Yes?"
"Evidently that was Ro, too. If you ask Bracco or Glitsky."
Marrenas nodded admiringly. "Wow. Ro's been busy."
"Hasn't he? Isn't this just totally outrageous? In fact, he had lunch yesterday with Tristan Denardi at Tadich's, the two of them talking about their legal strategy, then he and Ez went to the planetarium together. They did not stop and kill a DA investigator on the way." He let out a deep sigh. "This is long past amusing, I must tell you."
Marrenas got up, stretched her back, showing off the merchandise, and walked across her office. When she turned around, she asked, "So what do you want to do?"
Cliff came forward to the last few inches of the couch's seat. "Well, the story itself, the cops suspecting Ro for every murder committed since he's gotten out of jail, that's got to get out. But more particularly, there's got to be another story around this Durbin murder, and one that doesn't have squat all to do with Ro, since it's absolutely definite that he didn't kill her. Or anybody else.
"Now we've got public opinion largely on our side, I think, especially after your last couple of brilliant articles on police brutality. It would be interesting to illustrate how badly the police can get off course when they've got a preconceived idea and they're out to get an innocent man. Do you think you could do some looking around and write that story?"
"With my eyes closed, sir. With my eyes closed." "Are you and Mommy mad at each other?" Rachel asked.
They had parked at the airport in the hourly lot, and now they were walking out to the terminal. Treya had wanted Abe to just drop them off at the curb by the departures lane, but he had overruled her and said he wanted to be with them all for as long as he could. To which Treya's response had been silence.