The closer they came to Joan’s home on El Camino Del Mar, the more anxious Joan became. She tried to call her husband again, as Mallory had done when Joan had first woken up in the morgue, but the call went unanswered.
“I’m very frightened now,” Joan said to Conklin. “What if we find him shot and lying dead on the floor? What if my kidnapping was part of a larger plot?”
“Everything’s going to be okay, Joan. We’ll investigate every piece of evidence we find. If a clue surfaces in your memory, you know where to reach me.”
The brass house numbers were embedded in the gateposts that flanked the driveway leading to a handsome Mediterranean-style stucco house with a tiled roof. The gate was open, revealing manicured gardens inside the walls. Conklin pulled his car up the long driveway and parked it between a blue Mercedes XL sedan and a silver Bentley.
“Which one is Robert’s car?” he asked Joan.
“The Mercedes. The Bentley is mine.”
Conklin went around to the passenger side and helped Joan out of the car. He retrieved her handbag from the foot well and held it open for her while she searched inside it for her keys. When she found them, she handed the set to him.
They reached the front door, and Conklin unlocked it. He pushed the door open and said, “Stay here. I’ll go in first to make sure everything is safe.”
Conklin took three steps into the room, entering the foyer. Lights were on inside the house, but the security alarms weren’t set.
He called out, “Mr. Murphy? This is the SFPD.”
There was no answer. Conklin drew his gun and held it out, but he kept the muzzle pointing down. He walked through the foyer, which emptied into a spacious living area decorated with modern furnishings. The windows along the far wall looked out over lawns with topiary and a small pathway of stone steps. A large swimming pool was across the lawn and off to the right.
He called Mr. Murphy’s name again as he rounded a corner. He heard music coming from outside the sliding glass doors, where a set of teak outdoor furniture faced the ocean.
A man stood up and turned to Conklin, holding a sheaf of paper in his hand. He was big, not just tall, but well-built and handsome. He was wearing what looked to be a cashmere half-zip sweater and expensive jeans. He showed no sign of injury.
Conklin said, “Mr. Murphy?”
The man said, “Who the hell are you? And how did you get into my house?”
“I’m Inspector Conklin, SFPD. I’ve brought your wife home from the hospital.”
“Oh? I didn’t know. Why was Joan in the hospital?”
“She was shot, Mr. Murphy. Let me go get her. I’ll tell her that you’re back here.”
Conklin went back out to the front door and told Joan Murphy that her husband seemed fine. She smiled and then started to weep. Conklin holstered his gun and accompanied the frail woman, who was still wearing blue scrubs, paper slides, and an SFPD windbreaker.
When he saw Joan, her husband opened his arms and folded her in. He patted her back as she sobbed against his chest.
“I almost died, Robert. I almost died.”
Conklin thought that Murphy’s actions were warm, but his expression and his affect seemed to be a little distant. Conklin watched and listened as Joan gave Robert a shorthand version of the story as she knew it. But why didn’t Joan’s husband seem shocked by the news?
Joan told Robert that she had woken up in the morgue. Apparently she had been shot in the shoulder and had a wound on her hip as well, but she had no memory of being attacked. Thank goodness she had no broken bones. She just needed some TLC and rest.
There was no mention of the deceased John Doe.
Robert asked her where this had happened and she said, “At the Warwick, Robert. I was found in a hotel room, bloody and unconscious. The police thought I was dead! My jewelry was gone. That lovely pendant of my mother’s. And oh, my God. My rings were taken, too.”
“Why were you at the Warwick?”
“I have no idea how I got there, Robbie. I think that I was drugged and kidnapped.”
“Drugged and kidnapped? My God, Joan. By whom?”
“That’s my theory, but this kind man, Inspector Conklin, is going to figure out what happened and who is responsible.”
“God, I hope so,” Robert said as he hugged her close one more time. “We’re going to take good care of you, dear.”
From inside his embrace, Joan looked up at her husband and smiled.
“I’m going to change into my own comfortable clothes, Robert. I could use a drink. Tell Marjorie I’m very hungry. I have no idea when I last had a meal. I think I’d like chicken stew. That will fix me right up. Inspector, you’re welcome to stay for dinner. I’ll be right back.”
When Joan had left the room, Conklin turned to Robert Murphy and said, “You mind answering a few questions for me?”