Deadly Legacy
Chapter One

Another Saturday night, and I was home alone. In my line of work, I knew better than to make any plans. If I did someone was murdered. If I didn't someone was murdered. It was easier not to make plans. I tried to overlook that it was a hell of a lot lonelier, too.

Sometimes it made me wonder what had possessed me to become a cop.

But that's what I was. Homicide inspector. San Francisco PD. And for all the glory it brought me, if you could call it glory, I still thought about what would have happened if I'd chosen a different career. Some nine-to-five thing, where I wasn't waiting for the call that told me to put my life on hold because someone had lost theirs.

I glanced at the TV news, watched the smiling face of Senator Harver, who was announcing his intention to run for Governor, and wondered if he'd ever regretted his career choice.

I switched the channels, pausing on the latest incarnation of Star Trek. What I really wanted was a beer, but I was on call, and right about the time I was actually concerned about Star Trek's plot, the phone rang.

I stared at it, not sure if I wanted to answer it, and knowing full well that my pager and cell phone would both start up if it was work. Then again, maybe it was a normal call. At eleven P.M.? Right.

I answered on the fourth ring, just as my pager went off. "Hello?"

"Kate?" My partner, Rocky Markowski.

"Rocky," I said, forcing a lightness to my voice. "Any chance you were lonely and just needing company?"

"Yeah. Me and the two dead people sitting in a car in the SoMa area," he said.

Great. I took down the location and told him to give me a half hour. I dressed in jeans, a turtleneck, and a hooded sweatshirt, then brushed my shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail. Ten minutes later, holstered gun and badge tucked safely on my belt, I was heading down my stairs and knocking on my landlord's kitchen door, because his car was blocking mine in the driveway.

It was chilly out, maybe in the low fifties, typical Bay Area conditions for early summer nights and as I drove down the street, I cranked up the stereo. Much to my chagrin I heard Cat Stevens belting out, "Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody…" I wasn't sure what bothered me more. That he seemed to be singing my life on the radio, or that I was old enough to know who he was. I quickly found another channel, a little more modern pop.

Traffic on University Avenue wasn't too bad, and 880 even lighter. I zipped across the Bay Bridge in the Fast Trak lane and made it to the city in twenty minutes flat. Driving like that left no time to contemplate what one couldn't have-like a life that didn't involve leaving home in the middle of the night to go look at dead people.

I took the first exit, which took me into the SoMa area, which was what the locals called everything located south of Market Street. It was home to some killer deals on clothes during the day--the original designer outlets before outlet malls became all the rage.

The street dead-ended beneath the on ramp to the Bay Bridge, and at night, with the columns and expanses of freeway overhead, gave true meaning to the term concrete jungle. This one happened to be lit with flashing red, blue, and amber three-sixties from the radio cars at the perimeter. A uniformed officer waved me through after seeing my gold star which I held to the window. I parked just a short way past him, popped my trunk, and got out a pair of latex gloves, my notebook, pen, and Stinger flashlight. I wrote down my time of arrival, 11:28 P.M.

Rocky stood about fifteen yards ahead, speaking to a number of uniformed officers. Beyond them was a small two-door sedan, looked like a white Mercedes, lit up by two radio car spotlights. A crime scene investigator in dark blue coveralls was snapping photos of the exterior of the car, another was taking photos of the surroundings, their flashes going off one after the other like giant fireflies bobbing beneath the freeway.

Rocky saw me and walked over. He was a short man, stocky, with a flattop haircut and a round face. Tonight he wore a rumpled khaki raincoat, apparently going for the stereotypical detective look.

"Yo, Gillespie," he said.

"Yo back. What are we looking at?"

"Two as-of-yet unidentified bodies in a brand spanking new Mercedes. Driver male, passenger female. Both thirty-something. Vehicle's registered to a Genevieve E. Harrington. Got a radio car watching her house for us."

As he spoke, I gave my name and badge number to the uniformed officer who kept the crime scene log. Rocky did the same, then lifted the yellow tape that was strung several feet around the car as an inner perimeter to keep the curious from getting too close. This late at night not too many ventured out, but there was always a chance.

"Who's the RP?" I asked.

"Couple teens looking for a place to neck. Isn't that what everybody does on Saturday nights?"

"I wouldn't know," I said, wondering what was up with this Saturday night thing. I was feeling older by the minute. "What'd they report?"

"Driving down the street, figuring the couple in the car were doing what they were thinking about doing, until they realized they're dead. Kid called on his cell phone. Got 'em back at the Hall," he said, referring to our all-inclusive building that housed everything City Hall could need, including San Francisco's finest. "Got 'em in separate interview rooms. Called their parents. They're both sixteen."

Too young to be seeing this sort of thing -- not that there was a right age.

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