“Dave’s not a murderer, so yes, just the two men. Unless you count our male classmates, which I suppose we’ll have to.”
“We’ve checked out a long list of those classmates, Vanessa. So far there’s nothing to implicate any of them. The investigation’s ongoing by the department.”
“There you go then.” She hesitated. “As for other factors, you might want to add Orrin O’Malley to the list.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s Sandy Lewis’s cousin and currently the deputy mayor of San Francisco.”
“Ah, right. I met him briefly. He’s a dork.”
“That’s today, Rick. In college, Orry was considered a troublemaker. At the very least, he was unconventional.” She gestured at a parking spot. “Bobby’s place is two blocks from here. I’d arm my vehicle if I were you.”
The heat slapped her as she stepped out. Pictures of Bobby Valley and now Orrin O’Malley swam in her head. She’d forgotten about Orry O. Then again, she’d forgotten a lot of things about college, things she’d rather not remember, but would with clarity by the time this investigation ended.
Resisting an urge to tug at her top, Vanessa adjusted her sunglasses and waited for Rick to lock up and join her.
“I’ve always liked Haight-Ashbury,” she confessed, doing a circle on the sidewalk. “It’s got a unique vibe.”
“I remember it.”
She lifted the glasses. “You know San Francisco?”
“Lived here as a teenager. You don’t want the details.”
That’s what he thought. But a loud squeal issuing through an open door prevented her from asking. There were shouts punctuated by pockets of silence. It depended on which entranceway they passed.
Across the street, boards had been nailed across the ground floor windows of a derelict building. Two floors above, Vanessa spied a bedsheet hanging next to several foil-covered panes.
“That place could use a search.”
Rick let his gaze rise. “If your search comes up empty, check out the neighboring apartments. The obvious one might be a red herring.”
“My but you’re a clever Fed.” She tickled his shoulder. “Were you a clever teen as well?”
“Ask Billy.”
“Who?”
“A wise old man, my mentor in a way.”
The smell of sweat, sex and dying flowers wafted out of the next doorway. Vanessa grinned. “Says Haight Street spa to me.”
A woman in a muumuu watched them as they entered. Goldfish swam in dirty faux stone ponds. Water dribbled into them along algae-green walls. The potted plants near the door were thriving. The ones farther inside had turned a sickly shade of yellow. The carpet was red, the front desk covered with smears, and the woman behind it reeked of dollar store perfume.
“You’d be the cops, then.”
“Good spot.” A series of thumps and groans issued from a room to Vanessa’s left. “Sounds like your massages get kind of rough.”
The woman didn’t bat an eyelash, merely shrugged a massive shoulder and leaned on the smudged counter. “You want Bobby, he’s in his office. Down there.” She pointed away from the noisy room. “Knock before you go in.”
“You were awfully quiet back there,” Vanessa remarked as they left.
Rick scratched his throat. “I think I recognize her. She used to own the place.”
Vanessa peered around his arm. “That’s Mary?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Really. I pictured more of a Mae West character. You know, very voluptuous and sexy.” She halted so abruptly that Rick bumped in to her. “Wait a minute. You recognize her?” Vanessa’s gaze went from Rick to Mary and back. “Seriously?”
“Adolescence, hormones, cheap sex.” Setting his hands on her shoulders, Rick pivoted her and pushed. “This is about you and your friends, not me.”
She knocked and at the same time tried to envision a much younger, though undoubtedly still kick-ass sexy, Rick being led into one of the establishment’s back rooms.
“Come,” a man’s voice said.
Vanessa spotted Bobby instantly. It would have been hard to miss five feet nine inches of overtoasted man, wearing bright orange shorts and a yellow T. Even loose, the shirt failed to conceal the paunch around his midsection.
“Mr. Fitness,” she said under her breath, then smiled. “Vanessa Connor, Bobby. Do you remember me?”
“You, yes. Him, no.”
“Agent Maguire,” Rick obliged in a pleasant tone. “FBI.”
Bobby’s jaw tightened. He left them standing and took a seat behind his desk. “This is about the dead women, isn’t it?”
His fingers jiggled to an unheard beat. Vanessa held her smile. “We have some questions.”
“Like was I in contact with any of them before they died?”
“Uh-huh, like that.” He still smelled of chicken. Was that possible all these years later? “Were you?” she prompted when he didn’t respond.
He flicked a glance at Rick. “No.”
“Try again,” Rick suggested softly.
His fingers jiggled faster. “Okay, yes, I saw Deirdre, but only her, no one else.” A muscle twitched beside his left eye. Rubbing it, he added, “And Sandy. Once. Six months ago. She was visiting Deirdre.”
Vanessa wasn’t surprised the two women had kept in touch. She was very surprised that Deirdre had maintained contact with Bobby. “Where did you see them?” she asked.
“Dee has—had a place in Malibu. She used it a lot. Her uncle the senator was pushing her to sell. He wanted her to plant herself in Chicago. He didn’t care for her lifestyle.”
Rick strolled to the window, gazed down into a narrow alley. “How involved were you with Ms. Morton?”
“We were friends.” At Rick’s over-the-shoulder look, Bobby added a terse, “Sometimes we slept together.”
Yuck, was all Vanessa could think. Aloud, she said, “What about Sylvia Porter?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Sure about that?” Rick asked, but this time Bobby held firm.
“The last time I saw snotty Sylvia was at her graduation.
