Not exactly knowing why, he killed another half hour walking through the parking garage at Portola Hospital, but there wasn't one old green car. So, feeling like an idiot, he sat in his car and wrote some notes to jog his memory tomorrow-check the Rent-A-Wrecks, don't forget the call-ins to H &R from citizens interested in the reward from the supervisor's fund (ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction, et cetera).
Finally, on his way home after a piroshki gut-bomb he bought at a place on Nineteenth Avenue, he decided to head back up to Seacliff, to Markham's house. Start, as Glitsky said, with the family. Look at the cars parked outside. After all, he reminded himself wryly, he was the car police.
"Can I help you?"
Bracco straightened up abruptly and shone his flashlight across the hood of the white Toyota he was examining. It was the last one of what had been twenty-three cars parked on Markham's block. The beam revealed a man of above-average height, who brought a hand up against the glare, and spoke again in a harsh, strained voice. "What the hell are you doing?"
Bracco noted with alarm that he was reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand. "Freeze. Police." It was all he could think to say. "Don't move." Bracco didn't know whether he ought to flash his badge or draw the gun from his shoulder holster. He decided on the latter and leveled it at the figure. "I'm coming around this car." His blood was racing. "Don't move one muscle," he repeated.
"I'm not moving."
"Okay, now slowly, the hand in your jacket, take it out where I can see it."
"This is ridiculous." But the man complied.
Bracco patted the jacket, reached inside and removed a cell phone, then backed away a step.
"Look, I'm a doctor," the man said. "A patient of mine who lives here died today. So I come out after paying my condolences and somebody's at my car with a flashlight. I was just going to use the cell to call the police myself."
After a moment, Bracco handed the phone back to the doctor, and put his gun back where it belonged. If he'd felt like an idiot before walking the parking lot at the hospital, now he was mortified, although he wasn't going to show it. "Could I see some identification, please?"
The man turned to look toward the house for a moment, then came back to the inspector. "I don't see…" he began. "I'm…" Finally he sighed and reached for his wallet. "My name is Dr. Eric Kensing," he said. "I was the ICU supervisor today at Portola Hospital."
"Where Mr. Markham died?"
"Right. He was my…boss, I guess. Why are the police out here now?"
Bracco found himself coming out with the truth. "I'm looking for the hit-and-run vehicle."
Kensing blew out impatiently. "Could I please have my wallet back?" He slipped it into his pocket, then suddenly asked, "You're not saying you really think somebody Tim knew hit him on purpose, then came here to visit the family?"
"No. But we'd be pretty stupid not to look, wouldn't we?"
"It sounds a little far-fetched to me, but if that's what you guys do…" He let the thought go unfinished. "Listen, are we done? I'd like to go now. My car didn't hit him. You see any sign that I hit him? You want to check again and make sure? I interrupted you in the middle of it."
Something about the man's tone-a mixture of arrogance and impatience-struck Bracco. He knew that people reacted to cops in all kinds of different ways. Every once in a while, though, he believed that the reaction revealed something unusual, perhaps a consciousness of guilt. Kensing was reaching for the door handle, but Bracco suddenly and instinctively wanted to keep him for a few more words.
"You say Mr. Markham was your boss? I didn't realize he was a doctor."
Kensing straightened up at the car door and sighed again. "He wasn't. He ran the company I work for. Parnassus Health."
"So you knew him well, did you?"
A pause. "Not really." He shifted his gaze back over Bracco's shoulder again. "Now if we're done here…"
"What's in the house?" Bracco asked.
"What do you mean? Nothing."
"You keep looking back at it."
"Do I?" He shrugged. "I wasn't aware of it. I suppose I'm worried about them. It's been a real tragedy. They're devastated in there."
Bracco was picking up an off note that might have been fatigue but might be something else. He could turn his questions into an interrogation of sorts if he could manage to keep the right tone. "I thought you said you didn't know him well."
"I didn't."
"Yet you're worried about his family?"
"Do you have some problem with that? Last time I checked, it wasn't a crime to care about a victim's family." Kensing swiped a hand across his forehead, cast a quick look up and down the street. "Look, Officer, are we going somewhere with this that I'm missing?"
Bracco didn't answer. Instead, he asked a question of his own. "So, you didn't have any strong feelings about him?"
The doctor cocked his head to one side. "What do you mean? As a boss?"
"Any way."
This time, the doctor paused for a long moment. "What's your name, Officer, if you don't mind? I like to know who I'm speaking with."
"Bracco. Sergeant Inspector Darrel Bracco. Homicide."
As soon as Bracco said it, he knew it was a mistake. Kensing nearly jumped at the word. "Homicide?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you're investigating Tim's death? Why? Does somebody think he was murdered?"
"Not necessarily. A hit and run that results in death is a homicide. This is just routine."
"Routine. Checking the cars coming to his house?"
"Right. And you just called him Tim."
"Does that mean something? His name was Tim."
"You didn't know him very well, and yet you called him by his first name?"
Kensing was silent, shaking his head. Finally, he let out a long breath. "Look, Inspector, I don't know what I'm supposed to say. The man died in my unit today, while he was under my care. I've known him for fifteen years, and I came by here to pay further condolences to his wife and family. It's almost ten o'clock and I've been up since six this morning and I'm the walking dead right now. I don't see where calling the man by his first name has any meaning, and if you don't mind, I've got an early call again tomorrow. I'd be happy to talk to you at the hospital if you want to make an appointment."
Bracco realized that maybe he'd pushed his spontaneous interrogation too far. Everything Kensing said, tone or no tone, made perfect sense. There was no real point in harassing this probably decent doctor who had, in fact, voluntarily opened the door to another interview tomorrow. The inspector knew he'd overreached.
"You're right. But I may call you in the next few days."
"That'd be fine," Kensing said. "I'm not going anywhere."
They both stood in the street for another beat; then Bracco told him good night and turned for the house. Glitsky had told him it started with the family, and maybe he'd find something inside, get some valuable first impressions. But he hadn't gone two steps when he heard Kensing's voice again. "You're not thinking about going up to the house, are you?"
He stopped and turned. "I thought I might."
The doctor hesitated, seemed to be considering whether to say anything. Finally, he spoke up. "Well, you'll do what you're going to do, Inspector, but you might want to consider giving them a break tonight and coming back tomorrow. They've had a bad day. They're wrung out. I guarantee none of them drove your hit-and-run car. What are you going to ask them that can't wait?"
Bracco had had a long day himself. He looked back at the house, still lit up. It struck him that his need to find something, anything, to do with Tim Markham's death, and thereby prove his worth to Glitsky, was pushing him too far too fast. He'd invented phantoms and made some interrogation mistakes here with Kensing, just now.