Q: Did she appear depressed to you? Any suggestion she might commit suicide?
A: No way. I've known Carla for nine years, Inspector.
For the last two of those, she's been getting used to the idea of living without Tim. Why? Because she was going to leave him someday anyway. She knew that.
Q: But you just said they'd patched things up.
A: This time. But who knew for how long? Tim would fail again eventually-that's just who he was-and she'd wind up leaving him. She knew that, I'm sure, deep down. So it might have filled her with disappointment that he died, or even broken her heart at some level, but there had to be some relief there, too. And no way in the world would she kill herself over it.
Kensing walked up the six steps and pushed at the button next to the door of his old house on Anza Street. He still thought of it as his house and it made him sick to see how far Ann had let the place go. The once bright and appealing yellow paint had faded to a jaundiced pallor and was peeling everywhere. The white trim had gone gray. The shutter by the window nearest him hung at a cockeyed angle. The window boxes themselves had somehow misplaced even their dirt, to say nothing of the flowers he'd labored to establish in them. Back when he and Ann were good, they'd always kept the house up, even with all the hours they spent at their jobs. They'd found the time.
Now he looked down and saw that the corners of the stoop had collected six months' worth of debris-flattened soda cans, old newspapers and advertising supplements still soaked from the recent storm, candy wrappers, and enough dirt, he thought, to make a start of refilling the window boxes.
Where was Ann? Dammit, if she was still asleep, he was going to have to do something, although what that might be he didn't know. She should be awake at least to feed the kids. He pushed at the bell again, figured it must have stopped working, so he knocked. Hard. Three more times with his fist, shaking the door. He was turning to leave when he heard her voice.
"Who is it?"
"It's Eric, Ann. Open up."
"Didn't you get my call?" she asked. "I called two hours ago."
"Hi, Dad," his nine-year-old yelled from inside.
"Terry, you be quiet!"
"Hi, Ter. Hi, girls. You there?"
He heard sounds from both of them, Amber and Caitlin.
"Stop that!" his wife yelled at the girls, then talked again through the door. "I left a message telling you not to come." This was one of Ann's favorite tricks. Although she knew that Eric had a cell phone and beeper, she'd only call at his condo and leave a message he wouldn't get. Then she could be mad at him for being unreachable.
"Well, I never got it. Did you try the cell?"
"I didn't think of it. I thought you'd be home."
"Well, it was a nice morning. I went out for breakfast."
"With your girlfriend, I suppose."
He didn't feel the need to answer that. Instead, he tried the knob. "Come on, Ann. You want to open the door?"
"I don't think so. No."
"Well, that's going to make it a little tough for me to take the kids out to the ball game, isn't it?" His schedule allowed him only rare visits with his children during the week, so he made it a point to take them on weekends. Ann, burdened by her life, as well, had always before been happy to pass them off to him. Until now.
"Ann? What's this about?"
"You can't see them."
He kept his voice under control. "You want to open the door and we can talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about. You go away or I swear to God, Eric, I'll call the police."
"Ann, let's not do this in front of the kids. Just open up."
"No! You're not coming in. I'm not letting a murderer take my children."
The crying started. It sounded like Amber, the middle one, first. But the others immediately took the cue from her. Ann's voice, shrill and loud, cut through them all, though. "Stop that! Shut up, all of you! Stop it right now!"
"Ann!" Kensing pleaded through the door.
"Mom!" His son, Terry, hysterical. "I'm going out with Dad! You can't stop me."
"Oh, yes I can!"
Something slammed into the door.
"God, Ann! What are you…?"
More sounds of manhandling. Then, "Terry, get upstairs, you hear me! You girls, too!"
Kensing grabbed the doorknob, shook it with both hands. "Ann, let me in! Now! Open up!"
She was herding all of them upstairs, to their rooms. He stood for another moment on the stoop, then ran down the steps and up the overgrown driveway on the side of the house. The back door was locked, too.
But unlike the front, it had six small glass panes in its upper panel.
Kensing wished it was the usual cold day and he had a jacket he could wrap around his hand, but all he wore was a collared golf shirt. Still, he had his fist clenched. He had to do it, padding or not. But then he remembered the man last year who'd died after slashing his arteries trying to do the same thing-bled out in six minutes. The instant's hesitation gave him time for another flash of insight that stopped him cold.
He was already a murder suspect. Even if he had every reason in the world, he'd better not break into his wife's house. But the kids-Ann had lost control, and though she'd never hit any of them before, she might be capable of anything right now.
He pulled out his cell phone and punched 911, then ran back up front. The dispatcher answered and he gave the address and briefly described the situation. "I'm outside now. I need some help immediately."
Back up on the stoop, he heard Ann, upstairs, still screaming at the kids. A door slammed up there. Finally, he heard her footsteps on the stairs inside, coming down. Now she was at the door. "Eric," she said. "Eric, are you still there?"
He didn't say anything. He was pressed against the wall, scrunched down under the sill of the stoop. He knew she wouldn't be able to see him even if she leaned out the front windows. His heart thrummed in his ears. In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren.
Then he heard the lock tumble, saw the doorknob begin to move. He grabbed and gave it a quick turn, then hit the door with his shoulder. Ann screamed as the force of it threw her backward.
But she didn't go down.
Instead, she gathered herself and charged at him. "Get out of here! Get out of my house!"
He held her arms, but she kept kicking at him-at his legs, his groin. She connected and knocked the wind out of him. His grip went slack for a second. She ripped a hand free and swiped it across his face. He felt the hot flush of the impact and knew she'd scratched him. Raising his hand, he pulled it away and saw blood. "Jesus," he said.
"Daddy! Mommy!" From up the stairs.
"Don't!" Ann screamed. "Stay up there!" She never turned around, though, and came again at him. She kept coming, driving him back to the door, then out it onto the stoop. She kicked again at his groin, barely missing, but the kick spun him to one side. Now she charged full force, her fingernails out for his face.
Blocking her hands, he stepped back defensively. Her forward motion carried her by him. Her foot landed on one of the wet newspapers, which slipped out from under her. With another yell of anguish, she fell. Her head hit the concrete as her momentum carried her forward. She rolled down the steps all the way to the sidewalk, where she lay still.
The children flashed by Kensing and down the steps. They had just gotten to her, kneeling and keening around her, when a police car, its siren blaring, pulled up and skidded to a stop. Two patrolmen came out with their weapons drawn and leveled at Kensing.
"Don't make a move! Put your hands up!"
Glitsky and Treya had gotten out of bed late, got a sense of the incredible day outside, and decided on the spur of the moment to drive up to Dillon's Beach, about forty miles north of the city. On the way up, they detoured over to Hog Island for an hour or so and ate oysters every way they could think of-raw, grilled on the barby with three different sauces, breaded and deep fried with tartar sauce. Fortified, even sated and happy, they took the long way north along the ocean-switchback one-lane roads that wound through the dairy farms, the redwood and eucalyptus groves, the timeless and seemingly forgotten settlements of western Marin county.