The Man in the Microwave Oven

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I saw Katrina Dermody alive for the last time before dawn on a dismal San Francisco morning, when she was heading north and I was heading south on Polk Street, near where we both lived. Her new Tesla was supposed to be housed in the garage she was having renovated for it, but the work wasn’t finished and she had to park her bright blue baby on the street. I was surprised no one had keyed it or slashed its tires, honestly. One of Katrina’s clients was trying to push through planning permission for a fifteen-story condo in our neighborhood of two- and three-story apartment buildings built around a small, private park on the nicer end of Polk. We were usually a friendly little community, but life for the past few months had been enlivened by sign-yielding protests, raucous meetings with the city, and general havoc, most of it Katrina’s doing. With her talent for reducing people to white-faced terror or murderous rage, often in the space of a single conversation, Katrina played what my American lover, Ben, called hardball.

  Matthew, a homeless, semipermanent resident of our sidewalk, was cowering and mumbling in the corner of a doorway, trying to hide under his duvet, so presumably Katrina had given him both barrels, and not for the first time. When she wasn’t happy she applied a scorched earth policy, and everyone in her path got burned. The only way to deal with her was to stand your ground and fight back. Matthew, who could barely put together a lucid sentence or pull on a pair of jeans, wasn’t a fighter.

  All the same, one of the odd things about Katrina, and there were several, was the occasional flash of generosity that seemed to overtake her, almost like a nervous tic. She shared her apartment—which admittedly would comfortably house the Trapp Family Singers–with an impecunious cousin who was trying to make his way as a freelance journalist, and I’d once seen her handing Matthew some folded-up bills. Another time she’d dropped a blanket on him. There’d been no gentleness—she’d dropped the folded blanket on him as he slept, and he’d jumped awake like a startled deer with the blanket teetering on his head like an ungainly hat. Because of those occasional, clumsy efforts, and because my grandfather once told me that kindness can be learned, I tried, I really did, to stifle my first impulse when I saw her that morning, which was to bare my teeth.

  She was about fifty, with expensively streaked blonde hair and a wardrobe of custom-tailored suits. With her phone awkwardly tucked between her ear and her shoulder, she was raging at whoever was on the other end of the call, which was pretty much her default. Even from twenty feet away I heard her snarl, “You’ll regret it, you son of a bitch!” I’d heard she shouted similar things at her harried staff, usually when they were working overtime at the weekends, which probably explained why she was always looking for a new paralegal.

  I raised a hand to acknowledge her, which she ignored, choosing to add into her phone, “It’s criminal fraud, you prick. And the models will be hearing from the FBI. You have til tomorrow to fix it!”

  Huh. That sounded like a Fashion Week crisis, but what could be fraudulent there? A padded sock? Knockoff Gucci knickers? As far as I was concerned, five in the morning was too early for that level of intensity. Maybe that was her strategy—get them while they’re still half asleep and vulnerable. I yawned and blinked a few times and tried not to listen as she continued to sandblast the poor bastard on the other end of the call, relieved it wasn’t me.

  She’d built up a hefty enemies list in her thirty years as an attorney, and I had, sadly, added myself to that number by being the public face of the group of residents opposing her client’s condo. The other neighborhood association officers managed to keep their heads down more often than not, but I’d spoken out publicly and as the neighborhood association secretary I’d signed many letters to her, to the developer, and to the city. I tried not to think about whether my signature, a falsehood like almost everything about me, was even legal.

  Her response had been to serve me with a payback lawsuit. Her live-in cousin had tripped in the doorway of my bath and body shop when he was so drunk he could barely stand, and apparently it was my fault. I was certain she’d bought him the tequila and aimed him in my direction like a poisoned arrow.

  She would have been disappointed to know that the lawsuit barely moved the needle on the gauge of my anxieties. Until Katrina dropped hints that morning about exposing me I thought I didn’t have the bandwidth to worry about one more thing. I had bigger worries. For one thing, Ben had been in harm’s way somewhere overseas for several very long weeks. I’d thought I was getting involved with a social worker, which was true. But he was also a lawyer with a military background, and he was still in the Individual Ready Reserve, which I’d been surprised to learn meant he could be recalled to duty at any time. Things were still new with us, and the time apart wasn’t helping. We didn’t know a lot about each other, and I’d even suspected him of murder when we met, largely because of the secrets he was keeping. What he didn’t know—because I hadn’t told him—was that I was living my own secret life in the West Coast home of Out and Proud. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

  I desperately needed a cup of tea.

  My friend, Nat, who was about to reopen the defunct coffee shop down the block, was waiting for me in his doorway, sipping from a paper cup and watching me approach with his usual casual ease. The lettering on the green canvas awning above him used to read Helga’s Coffee and Bakery, and now it just said The Coffee, with the letter “o” fashioned into a coffee bean. I told Nat it showed a sad lack of originality. I’d suggested Shaky Grounds, but he’d just rolled his eyes. But that’s cute for a San Francisco coffee shop, right? He didn’t agree, so The Coffee it was. The official opening was still a week away, but for the past few mornings he’d had the doors open by six for what our hacker friend Haruto called early adopters. I’d been helping him out for an hour or two, since my own shop didn’t open until ten. As a dedicated tea drinker, I was immune to the scent of brewing coffee wafting down the street, but it was a heady lure to a surprising number of our neighbors. Even though we’re not an early-rising town on the whole, having coffee ready for the zombie hordes at dawn had already earned Nat promises of eternal devotion and repeat custom. He and his former partner had recently dissolved their high-end jewelry business, and the partner had decamped to New York. I thought it was good riddance, but Nat was still a little bit tender from the breakup.

  I took my usual few seconds to admire him. He was tall and slim, with skin the color of milky cocoa and almond-shaped eyes that were usually alight with humor or curiosity, and sometimes both. He’d been my dearest friend even before he made a hobby of saving my life and I thought he was the best-looking man in San Francisco. He was going to pull customers into his coffee shop from up and down the Kinsey Scale like catnip.

  (“Don’t say ‘pull,’” he’d said when I teased him. “Why not?” “Never mind; forget I said anythin’.”)

  Nat was from
Texas, and gay, and both subcultures had their hidden vocabs. Even after nearly a year in America, I still had a lot to learn about both, so I didn’t always understand what he was talking about. I just tried to internalize the casual lessons he tossed my way, without asking too many questions. In the meantime, he kept sending me lists of old movies to watch so I could improve my American slang. (“These films are all in black and white,” I complained. “Yeah, but the slang is still good.” “‘Java’ is current slang for ‘coffee’?” “Betcha ass.”) I had my doubts, but the movies were good anyway, and I especially liked the ones filmed locally. I even caught a glimpse of my building in one of them, circa 1945, pre–parking meters, when the street was all residential. At first I envied the men in their suits and fedora hats and the women in wide-shouldered suits and lace-up high heels, because I thought life must have been simpler back then, but a world war had just ended, so perhaps not.

  Nat tilted his head in Katrina’s direction and winked at me, inviting me to join in his fascination with whatever nastiness she was brewing. I was usually his willing coconspirator, but Katrina chose that moment to glance at him. She caught the wink and flushed. He looked back at her innocently and took another sip of his coffee.

  Her cheeks slightly pink from left-over anger, she tossed her phone into her car and turned to me, her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Theophania Bogart, or whatever your name is, you know about criminal fraud, am I right?”

  I thought I kept control of my expression, but she looked satisfied with the result of the barb. One more sentence could have brought my life here to an end, but she was content to let me flop around with the hook in my mouth, rather than going for the humane kill. She enjoyed seeing her victims squirm. As elegant and composed as ever, she threw her overstuffed briefcase into her car and folded herself into the driver’s seat. Nat and I exchanged a glance, his full of curiosity and mine full of guilt, and then Katrina was gone, tires squealing, toward another drama-filled, fourteen-hour workday.

  The words “criminal fraud” stayed with me for hours, like a particularly insidious earworm.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Knowing how she operated, I half expected to hear from Katrina later that day with further details of what she’d discovered about my life and what I’d have to do to prevent her from exposing me. I spent a good deal of the day trying to decide how I’d deal with the threat—tell her to publish and be damned? Make a preemptive strike and tell my friends the truth? I even briefly considered murder—not personally, but in a Henry II sort of way, wishing someone else would murder Thomas à Becket for me.

  But I didn’t hear from her and nothing had changed by the next morning, even the weather, which was again raw and damp and dripping with fog. All summer, while tourists shiver in their shorts, hastily buying sweatshirts with Property of Alcatraz printed on the front, natives pull on their gloves and wooly hats and wait smugly for the sunny days of September and October. I’d lived here long enough to be unsurprised by the weather and, being English, I was accustomed to cold. I just pulled my hoodie closed and yawned as I drew close to home.

  When Ben was away I’d taken to wandering the city instead of lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Unlike New York, which we’re told never sleeps, most of San Francisco dozed away the late night and early morning hours, and I’d found the streets had a special charm when they were quiet and empty of traffic. The foghorn on the Golden Gate Bridge moaned on foggy nights, like a watchman chanting “All’s well,” while the city slept. The occasional person I met on my walks gave me a sharp, city dweller’s once-over before returning to whatever business they were conducting at four a.m. Someone might trot briskly down a set of outdoor steps, clang the security gate closed, and hustle away into the shadows, or a streetwalker would give me a sisterly chin lift, but by and large I felt as if had the city to myself.

  By five a.m. I’d been out for a couple of hours and was heading back down Polk Street to help Nat get coffee brewing and scones baked in time to open The Coffee. I raised a hand in greeting when I saw Katrina’s car at the curb with its headlights on, partly because I was trying to be a grown-up and partly because I could hear my grandfather’s advice in my head: “Courtesy costs nothing, Theophania, and often pays dividends.” He’d disapproved of most of my life choices since I was seventeen, but he loved me and I loved him back, even if neither of us was very verbal about it. He’d even transplanted himself here, unasked, when I couldn’t bear my grim notoriety in England for one more day.

  Katrina ignored me, which, after the previous day’s snarl-fest, was almost a relief, but I dipped down to look into her car, so she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t seen me. Thanks to the streetlight above us, I could see a reddish splatter covering much of the side window. What remained of her head was resting against the headrest as if she were napping, except her pale blue eyes stared at me, wide and unblinking, from the other side of the glass. I almost fell over in my haste to back away, and hit my head on the streetlight pole.

  Still holding my head, I looked frantically up and down the street. As I expected, no lights showed in The Coffee or in the other street-level storefronts in both directions. A shopping cart half filled with cans and bottles and a grubby duvet was parked in a nearby doorway, but there was no sign of Matthew, who usually spent three or four nights a week there. Only a couple of distant upper windows were showing lights, and none was within shouting range. I was alone, which meant there was no one to share, or take over, what was obviously going to be a grisly duty.

  It took me a few ineffective tugs to understand that the driver’s door was locked, to run around the car, pull open the passenger door, and scramble inside onto my knees. Of course she was dead—half her head was missing—but I ridiculously felt for a pulse in her neck anyway. Her skin was cold. I swallowed the bile in my mouth when she fell stiffly against the window with a horrible little squelch.

  The car was so quiet I wasn’t sure it was turned on, but its headlights were still blazing, so power had to be coming from somewhere. Katrina had explained to everyone who would listen that the car turned itself on when she sat in the driver’s seat. I didn’t know if it had an override switch or where to find it, anyway, so I moved cautiously, afraid it might throw itself into gear—or whatever electric cars do—and run off with us. I looked around on the floor and between the seats, in a confused effort to understand what had happened. Her briefcase was open and tipped over on the back seat, its papers scattered there and spilling onto the floor, but I couldn’t see a gun, and in fairness it was hard to imagine Katrina taking her own life. It was murder, then, and I was probably obliterating clues by the dozen squirming around on the passenger seat. Somehow resisting a strong urge to just walk away and leave this nightmare for someone else to deal with, I climbed out of the car and pulled out my phone.

  Katrina was unpleasant and bellicose and she bore a mean grudge, and instead of feeling sympathy for her unpleasant end, I was struggling with a complicated brew of horror, resentment, and relief. As it turned out, I wasn’t alone. Some of us were just surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Good morning Ms.… Bogart.”

  I managed not to groan aloud as I turned, but it was a close run thing. “Hello, Inspector.”

  In San Francisco, police detectives are known as Inspectors, which makes them sound like characters in a British crime drama. In the same mystifying way, a full-floor apartment here is called a flat, as if we were in Oxford or Liverpool. Inspector Lichlyter was the only person here besides my grandfather who knew who I was, and she knew because she was a good detective. She’d been the lead investigator the last time (but unfortunately not the first time) I’d been involved in a murder.

  I think she was in her early forties although her face was deeply lined, making her look older. She was wearing the same red jacket I remembered and carrying the same heavy Coach shoulder bag. I had never thought about it before, but TV detectives don’t carry handb
ags, and I wondered why she bothered. Her shaded glasses, which she wore even at night and even on foggy mornings, were a disguise for her mismatched eyes; one was brown, the other was blue, and without her glasses her expression projected a sort of all-purpose skepticism. I didn’t dislike her; I even liked her a little. I just didn’t expect to see her again so soon after all the turmoil of a few months ago.

  She always called me “Ms.… Bogart,” with that little hesitation. It was a hint of humor, or maybe just sarcasm, in a woman who otherwise appeared to have no sense of humor.

  It had been more than an hour since I’d found Katrina’s body, and I was shivering in the blanket someone had wrapped around my shoulders. Inspector Lichlyter headed in my direction, leaving behind a small group of uniformed officers who dispersed in several directions, looking motivated.

  “Tell me what happened here, Ms.… Bogart,” she said. She rooted about in her bag and came up with a shabby notebook. Maybe that’s why she carried the bag. Like the others I’d seen her use, its wire binding was bent and coiling into nowhere at one end. Various cameras and tablets were being used by others to record the scene, but she liked and used the notebook as a prop. Sometimes, as I knew from personal experience, she abandoned it casually and strategically, to see if the contents prompted any ill-advised reaction. She rummaged again and came up with a cheap ballpoint pen, clicking it against the notebook’s cover and scribbling impatiently until ink emerged. She looked up at me.

  “I’ve already told him.” I nodded at one of the uniformed officers. She just waited and I took a deep breath. “Right. I was walking along the street here—”

  “Why?”

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s cold, it’s still dark, and none of the stores are open. Why were you out here on the street?”