Sponge that sugar off the table. The smell of the sponge. The thing had to be three months old. He should toss it but they didn't have another one. Where did sponges come from anyway? He couldn't remember ever having bought a sponge in his entire life.
And then, oh yeah, the coffee, the water boiling now, and he still hadn't ground up the beans. He really should grind up a bunch all at once so he wouldn't have to do it every morning, but Flo liked the fresh-ground, and he wanted her to have…
At least he and Flo, this morning, that was a good wake-up. He'd just keep cheerful another few minutes, maybe a half hour, and so would she, and then that would be another morning, and if they just kept that up…
CHAPTER FOUR
Christina's seven-year-old Toyota hadn't started and when it finally did, the windshield wipers refused to function. So she walked down the hill from USF, past St Mary's Hospital. She was planning to cut through the panhandle of Golden Gate Park on this rainy Ash Wednesday; the short-cut would get her to work on time.
But she didn't count on San Francisco's seemingly endless capacity to provide local color. This morning's entry was a substantial coven of half-clad Druids conducting some sort of tree-worshiping ceremony, chanting and clapping and having themselves a hell of a good time.
Christina broke right trying to skirt them, but a tiny, thick woman of uncertain though recent vintage latched on to her. A shawl covered the woman's shoulders, she'd woven flowers into her hair, and she wore a long leather skirt, but her breasts were completely exposed. When it became clear that Christina wasn't about to join them, was in fact going to work, she segued smoothly from missionary high priestess to spare-change artist.
In any event, by the time Christina got to Haight Street, where the Rape Crisis Counseling Center maintained its office, she was soaking wet and twenty minutes late for her appointment.
Her boss was a single, attractive, thirty-five-year-old smart-mouthed pistol named Samantha Duncan whose industrial-strength convictions on the ongoing battle of the sexes served her well in her role here – counseling women who had been raped.
Her genuine compassion for these victims was unfortunately matched by her impatience with the healing process for the women, the legal process in identifying and punishing their attackers, and the administrative reality of having to depend on part-time volunteers to keep the Center functioning.
When Christina had first interviewed for the work, Sam had impressed her with her humor and passion. Then she had laid out the ground rules in no uncertain terms. 'I know this job doesn't pay anything,' she'd said, 'but I need my volunteers to believe and to act like it's a job. I need you here when you say you're going to be here. I'm not very good with excuses.'
Up until today, Christina had been punctual and dependable. Sam had a fire, a presence, and Christina admired the hell out of her and wanted to please her. She also wanted to prove that she wasn't a dilettante – this was her own very real commitment as well.
Many of the barriers had been broken already; Sam and Christina had gone out for coffee together two or three times, outside of work, talking issues and politics. Christina thought they were close to real friendship.
But Sam had a hair trigger regarding her volunteers, always ready to see signs of their lack of commitment in the work, and based on that, to bail out of personal involvements with her staff.
And this morning, as Christina shook the water off herself, it was clear that their tentative relationship had suffered a major setback.
Sam didn't exactly greet Christina with a smile. 'Oh, here she is now. Christina, this is Sergeant Glitsky. He's with the police, investigating… well,' Sam sighed, 'you know about that. I'll let him tell you. Sergeant, nice to have met you.' Sam didn't favor Christina with so much as a glance before she disappeared back into her office.
But she couldn't worry about Sam, not now, and she turned her attention to the man in front of her.
This guy Glitsky was in some kind of trouble, Christina thought. He appeared, even at a casual first glance, to be under incredible pressure, in the grip of some strong emotion he was struggling to keep under control. She noticed his fingers clenching and unclenching before he reached out and shook her hand. A surprise, it was a gentle handshake, his touch softer than she would have imagined.
The half-smile he gave her didn't soften his looks any, though. 'I'm investigating the murder of Tania Willows, and Sam was telling me you had talked to her?'
Christina nodded.
Tentative, embarrassed and unsure, Tania Willows had been their most recent tragedy. Nineteen years old, just out to San Francisco from Fargo, North Dakota, she had come to the Center three times. She was being raped, she thought. She meant she thought it was technically rape. She didn't have a relationship with the guy, who was older. She was confused because she knew her assailant – he didn't jump out and attack her from behind some bush. So she wasn't sure if it was really rape.
He'd started coming by her apartment, gradually getting more aggressive, and then he'd force himself on her – she was sure of that – but she also seemed almost certain that it wasn't like he was going to hurt her or anything like that.
He never even hit her, though there was this sense of fear, that if she didn't… Maybe she had somehow been at fault, leading him on – did Christina know what she meant? How it could be? Sending the wrong signals.
But she definitely felt forced, was forced – she had kept telling him no and he wouldn't stop – but otherwise Tania didn't think the person was like a criminal or anything, and really all she wanted was for him to leave her alone now. She didn't want to get him in trouble, maybe she shouldn't even be here…
And then four days ago, Tania's murder had been all over the news. She'd been raped in her apartment, tied and taped to her bed, gagged and strangled.
The Center had called the police at that time.
Christina found she had to clear her throat. Glitsky was asking her something, which she didn't catch. 'I'm sorry…?'
He showed no sign that he was bothered by having to repeat the question. 'I was just wondering how much she might have told you about the man.'
Christina was sitting on the front edge of the ragged couch, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair, still wet from the rain, hung in front of her face. 'Almost nothing,' she said. 'She knew him. He lived near her, maybe in her apartment building. She definitely felt that if she moved she could get away from him, but she couldn't afford to move.'
Glitsky nodded. 'And she didn't want to press charges.'
'I'd hoped we were getting to there, but no, not by – not in time.'
'And no names, not an initial, a nickname…?'
She shook her head. 'No, nothing, I don't think. I wish… I'm sorry.'
'Did you take any notes I might look at? Maybe there was something.
'I know I took some. I'll go check. It wouldn't have been much, but maybe…' The Sergeant's face had clouded – he was staring blankly out through the fogged glass, out into the desultory traffic on Haight. 'Can I get you anything?' she asked. 'Cup of coffee or something?'
Glitsky didn't answer.
She touched his arm. 'Sergeant?'
Back with her. 'Sure. Sorry. Just thinking.'
'Are you all right?'
Suddenly the face wasn't terrifying at all. What she saw was sadness. Tm a little distracted,' he said. 'My wife's sick.' Then: 'Some tea would be nice, thanks.'
It still wasn't noon.
Christina was just tired, she told herself. After all, with the party, she'd been awake until nearly two last night, then had her nightly argument with Joe. This morning, then, her ashes and the long, strangely emotional breakfast with Mark Dooher, her car not starting, the neo-hippie woman in the park, Sam's disapproval.