The Nitrogen Murder(87)

Robin Kirsch’s behavior was still a little hard to understand. It was obvious now that she was still working for Valley Med, not as an EMT but as part of Julia’s scam, and that was probably what had set her off when Dana appeared to be—make that was—snooping in her closet. But how was she involved? As far as Dana knew, Robin didn’t have access to meds, unless one of the companies she did home consulting for was a pharmacy. Robin had never told them specifically what she was consulting about.

Another thing that didn’t make sense was that Patel ID in Robin’s closet. The cops had suggested that Dana herself dropped it there; maybe they were right. She did have a bunch of them in her pockets, and she’d been tense while she was rummaging through Robin’s new clothes, that much was for sure.

Dana wondered if Tom Stewart was also involved. Part of her wished he was, but she knew that was only because she wanted to make a trade—let him be guilty and not Tanisha.

Dana was due at the PD in the morning, along with Elaine and Matt and Gloria. So, by this time tomorrow, the police could have everything they needed to arrest all the perps. Everyone who wasn’t dead. She heard herself sound like Jerry Orbach/Lenny Briscoe on the original (still her favorite) Law & Order. She pictured Julia Strega and Howard Christopher in dull gray jumpsuits sitting at Rikers (so what if this was California, not New York City) with Sam Waterston/Jack McCoy and a model-thin lawyer from his office, offering them a deal.

Dana brushed cracker crumbs from her shorts. She’d been in them more than twenty-four hours, except for a brief stint in Tanisha’s T-shirt. She remembered her father saying he’d acted cowardly, but Dana felt she was the wimp in the family, hiding out wherever they’d take her in. Matt would be anything but proud of her. Look at what Gloria had accomplished by her courage and willingness to take risks. If Dana had been braver, she might have been able to help.

Wouldn’t it be cool if she had more to bring to the table at the PD tomorrow?

Something concrete.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

But the first thing she needed to do was get a good night’s sleep in her own bed. How brave did she have to be to do that?



Dana unlocked the front door, ready to jump back if anything or anyone lashed out at her. It’s pretty sad when you’re scared to enter your own house, she thought, but there’d been too many creepy scenes lately, too many creepy places. Her Dad’s empty house in Kensington; Patel’s huge house in the Claremont district. She hadn’t entered Patel’s home, but her cop friend, J. J., had described the scene as bizarre, with the blood soaking into an Oriental carpet, making a surreal pattern. That was before he realized he was talking to the victim’s daughter.

Dana pushed open the front door and took a deep breath.

No sounds, no lights, except the little Washington Monument night-light in the hallway. Jen had brought it back from a trip she took to D.C., to gain an appreciation for our national treasures, she’d said in her totally white-bread way.

She knew Jen was with Wes. Robin was either asleep or out. On Friday night, most likely the latter.

Dana put her ear to Robin’s bedroom door. Not a sound.

Jen’s door was open a crack and Dana pushed it a little more, until she got a look at Jen’s empty bed, neatly made up with a quilt from her mom. No surprise that it was a bright, cheerful flower pattern. Dana wondered what it would be like to have a mom who quilted. Her mom had spent most of her time at tennis and fitness, and ended up marrying her personal trainer.

Dana walked around the empty house, flipping light switches, her arms outstretched, doing twists from the waist. It was good to be home. She felt her body relax, warming to the idea that home was safe again.

The dining room table was messy as usual with mail, newspapers, and a pile of books for Jen’s summer class project on a French artist. Dana studied a painting in a huge, propped-open art history book. It was of a young girl reading, holding a book up, her elbow resting on the arm of a chair. Who holds a book that way to read? Dana wondered. And who could write a whole paper on one painting?

Dana leaned over to pick up some papers that had fallen to the floor. Junk mail, mostly. She shook her head and pictured Jen and Robin deliberately tossing their catalogs and local ads on the floor around the wastebasket.

One loose piece of paper didn’t fit the profile of a credit card offer or a special rate for a magazine subscription. The red-and-white Valley Medical Ambulance Company letterhead stood out—an original this time, not a copy like Gloria had found behind her dad’s kitchen bulletin board.

Dana scanned the page, a spreadsheet. It looked like part of a tax form or a memo about finances. The totals and itemizations were of no interest to Dana—she already knew Julia’s books were fraudulent. But the signature at the bottom was news. The document was PREPARED BY ROBIN KIRSCH.