The Divorcee Murder Club

Trienta Y Siete ~ 37

              The wind carries the scent of salt from the ocean as we shuffle Richie's body from Sammy's car to some wealthy-looking, Spanish-style home with a red-tiled roof and white stucco in the Marina district.

This area is like the Beverly Hills of San Francisco, with houses worth millions of dollars and either owned by families who have been here for ages or new people bathing in money. Even the pavement feels rich with pristine black asphalt and freshly coated yellow lines.

But none of that matters.

What matters is that we are walking up to someone's home instead of a hospital. We're a few feet into the driveway when a side door opens, and an older woman with salt and pepper hair waves us down.

"This way."

"You heard the doc," Sammy says, allowing Jackson and I to pass ahead of him.

"Set him down on the kitchen counter." She steps aside, and we enter the home through a mudroom.

Everything is dark as we maneuver through hallways where shadows dance across the walls from moonlight beaming through windows. We finally reach the living room with an open view of a grand kitchen that must have cost a fortune. Everything is a shade of white, with stainless steel appliances built for a chef. Oddly, my stomach gurgles, and I'm hit with the need to devour a steak.

"You sure you want us to put him on the counter?" I ask over my shoulder. "He's dirty and bleeding."

"Yes, on the island," she says, flicking on lights, and when we set him down, she pulls her black silk robe tighter, then leans in. "Sir, I am doctor Irene Banaag. Can you hear me?"

"Mmm..." Richie moans.

Furrowing her brows, Dr. Banaag straightens and pulls the glasses from atop her head down to the bridge of her nose. "Who is this young man?"

"Richie Reddy," I say.

"Hmm. Any relation to Rohan Reddy?"

I shrug. "No clue. Who is Rohan?"

But she ignores my question, and her mouth forms a straight line when she turns to Sammy. "You know who this young man is connected to, right?"

"No, but I have a feeling," he replies.

"This kid answers to the Abramovitz family," she says.

"Yeah, I was starting to wonder..." Sammy rubs the back of his neck, and my gaze jumps between them. "This isn't good."

"No, it's not, Samuel," she replies, but her attention averts across the living room and to the stairs, where a man with grey hair is descending while rubbing his eyes.

"Honey, what is all the commotion?" he says.

"Go back upstairs, Greg!" she shouts.

He pauses midway and takes in the scene. "Oh... I see you've got a house call."

"Yes, now please go back to sleep."

He sighs and tosses his hands in the air. "Alright, Irene, but this is the last time."

"Just go to bed, please!"

Shaking his head, he goes back up the stairs, and when he's out of sight, Dr. Banaag focuses back on us, her hands on her hips as she sighs heavily.

"Listen, I can clean Richie up, give him medical care, and keep him here until the fever and infection are under control, but the Abramovitz sisters need to know about him being here."

"No!" I say.

"Uh, yes." She nods.

"If Augusta finds out, I'm fucked."