A Plague of Secrets by John Lescroart Read Free Book Online

multimillion-dollar property, and standing out in front of it, Bracco whistled. “There’s more money in coffee than I thought.”
    Schiff stared at the immensity of the house, shaking her head. “This isn’t coffee money, Darrel. Unless she also owns Starbucks. But in that case Bay Beans West would have been a Starbucks, right? No way she wouldn’t have gone for the brand name.”
    It was closing in on one o’clock, the schizophrenic temperature back up near seventy. Above them, high clouds drifted in the blue. A fitful breeze, barely strong enough to ruffle Schiff’s hair, hinted of another change in the weather, but for the moment it was nice.
    The ornately carved door had an eight-toned ring.
    “Lord, we thank thee. We bow our heads.”
    Schiff turned to him. “What?”
    “Those bells. The song that goes with it. Lord, we thank thee. We bow our heads. You watch,” he said. “She’s Catholic.”
    “Maybe, but the Ferry Building, you might not have noticed, plays the same song.”
    “Maybe it’s a Vatican plot.”
    Before Schiff could come back with a suitable wisecrack, the door opened to an attractive dark-haired woman in her early thirties who dressed as though she’d never heard of the Haight-Ashbury, or blue jeans, for that matter. In fact, she wore a grown-up, upscale version of the uniform for a Catholic girls’ school-a plaid skirt over a white shirt under an argyle sweater. Her hair curled under at the shoulders. Green eyes, flawless skin.
    Bracco and Schiff hadn’t specifically told her when, or even if, they’d be coming by. Schiff had talked to her by telephone briefly over the weekend and said that the police might like to interview her sometime about Dylan Vogler and the business she owned, but she’d purposely refrained from making an appointment. There was the possibility that Maya wouldn’t be in when they came to call, of course, but that downside was more than offset by the chance to catch her before she’d talked to a lawyer or given too much thought to what she might want to tell the inspectors.
    “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”
    Bracco had his ID out. “Police inspectors, ma’am. Homicide. We wonder if we might have a word. On the Dylan Vogler matter.”
    “Sure. Of course.” She stepped back, maybe unable to come up with an excuse on the spur of the moment why this wasn’t a great time-and invited them inside, through a large square foyer with a thirty-foot ceiling.
    Schiff stopped, agog at the panorama through the enormous windows. Apparently her reaction wasn’t that unusual.
    Maya stopped and presented the view as though it belonged to her. “I know,” she said. “We’re very fortunate.”
    “You must be selling a whole lot of coffee,” Bracco said.
    Maya’s contralto laugh was unforced. “Oh, this doesn’t come from BBW. This is all Joel, my husband. He’s in real estate. The coffee shop is really more or less a hobby for me, to keep me busy.”
    Schiff came at her with a casual tone. “I understand you don’t spend much time there.”
    Maya nodded. “Yes, that’s true, very little. But I do most of the books, approve the ordering, sign the paychecks, that kind of thing.” She shrugged apologetically. “It might not be really true, but I feel like I’m somewhat involved. It’s good to have something keeping you busy besides the kids and outside of housework. Maybe you know.”
    Neither Schiff nor Bracco was married, so maybe they didn’t. But Bracco kept the early patter alive. “But the place breaks even?”
    “Oh, much better than that. Last year we grossed around forty thousand a month. It’s actually quite a little gold mine, all things considered. People really like the place.” Suddenly a pout appeared. “I’m sorry. What kind of hostess am I? Here we are all standing around. Would you like to sit down? Can I get you some coffee or something?”
    “Sitting’s good.” Bracco lowered himself onto an ottoman. “Nothing for me,