The Dirty Secrets Club by Meg Gardiner Read Free Book Online

hilltop—blue, yellow, and green with gingerbread gables—looked Easter-egg bright. In the distance, past dense rooftops and Monterey pines, the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge glowed red in the dawn. Mist clung to the water below it, but here above Fisherman's Wharf her neighborhooc gleamed.
    She was lucky to live here, and she knew it. Her house was a classic San Francisco Victorian, adobe-red with white gables. Tuckec back from the street, it looked unassuming. And it was Plain Jane compared to the faux mansion next door, which had a rooftop terrace adorned with statues of Roman godlets. Cupid was covered in pigeon crap.
    Curtains twitched in one of the mansion's upstairs windows. She sighed. Her neighbor was checking to see if her lights were on. She lowered the blinds and hit the shower.
    If her house looked humble from the street, inside it was all air and space, and saturated with color. Big windows captured each ounce of sunlight the capricious weather offered. Her bed frame was Japanese, lacquered to a black shine, covered with a scarlet comforter and gold pillows. Hot colors were good. They helped her wake up, reminded her of heartbeats and action. The orchids on the dresser were a fiery orange.
    She loathed confined spaces, and the house let her breathe. It even boasted a million-dollar view of both the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge. To see it, she just had to shinny up the downspout to the roof. Piece of cake.
    She loved this place. But it could be too quiet, now that it was just her.
    Climbing out of the shower, she felt revved up. She dressed and slipped on her necklace, a silver chain on which hung a Coptic cross and a white-gold ring. Downstairs in the kitchen she booted up her laptop. Sunlight cut a wedge through the French doors. The tiny backyard was shaded by the old magnolia and overrun with sage, lilac, and an unruly wall of white-flowering clematis.
    Her computer sang at her. She took a look. Lieutenant Tang had sent a hunk of preliminary information.
    Callie Ann Harding. Age thirty-six. Palo Alto address. Divorced, no children. Next of kin was her ex-husband, Gregory Harding of Portola Valley. Harding had been contacted. He had identified the body.
    Hell of a wake-up call for the ex. Jo pulled off the top of a pen with her teeth, opened a notebook, and made a note to contact Harding ASAP.
    She pulled up the next file: Callie Harding's driver's license photo.
    Even under the harsh lens of the DMV camera, Harding looked strikingly attractive. Her cheekbones had the angular look common to long-distance runners. Her hair was pulled back into a serene French twist and dyed a platinum shade that hinted at a healthy ego and libido. It was a Monroe blonde, set against serious, no-nonsense Dragnet eyes. Her gaze was piercing and intensely alive.
    Jo pulled out her psychological autopsy checklist. Her spirits tanked.
    She worked within the NASH framework—determining whether a death was natural, accidental, suicide, or homicide. To do that, she gathered as much hard evidence as possible. But none of the information she usually relied on would be available here.
    The police report on the crash hadn't been filed yet. Forensics hadn't analyzed the BMW to determine whether a mechanical fault had caused the wreck. Harding's family, friends, and coworkers hadn't been interviewed. The autopsy was scheduled for noon, which meant Barry Cohen was clearing the decks to get it done. But toxicology screening, blood, and urine tests wouldn't be back.
    She was going to have to tag along with detectives and scrounge information from the medical examiner. And neither law enforcement nor the ME's office was eager to share their findings with a psychiatrist.
    She had a good working relationship with Barry Cohen, but some of his colleagues disdained the concept of the psychological autopsy. In their view, they did science. Jo did hoodoo.
    They were half right. The psychological autopsy wasn't science. Like all of medicine, it