Burden pulled his gray Ford Taurus into the parking lot that served the Exploratorium and Palace of Fine Arts entrance. Vail swung her legs out of the car and rose, then craned her head skyward. Ahead of her were groupings of thick, Corinthian columns that stretched more than thirty feet into the sky.
“What is this place?”
“The Palace of Fine Arts. Part of an exposition the city had in 1915.”
Vail knew that voice. She turned and saw a man in a black overcoat sporting a crew cut, a Marlboro dangling from his lips. “Inspector…Friedberg, right?”
The man grinned and approached with his right hand extended.
Vail took it and shook. “My personal historian.”
Burden came around the vehicle. “You two know each other?”
“I was out here a couple of months ago on another case. Friedberg helped out on a cold case of his.”
“More like frozen. And she cleared it for me. Ain’t that a goddamn kick?” He pulled the cigarette out and expelled a wisp of smoke from the side of his mouth. “A dozen years working the case, I got a big goose egg. Then she blows into town and in a week, she solves it.”
“The task force solved it,” Vail said. “I was just part of the team. But let’s hope we clear this one just as fast.”
“Speaking of which,” Burden said, “what’s the deal with the husband? Where is he?”
“Follow me.” Friedberg led the way through the path between the two large stands of columns.
“You said this place was the Palace of…what?”
“Fine Arts,” Friedberg said.
“What’s it for?” Vail asked. “And don’t say ‘fine arts,’ or I’ll have to kick you where it hurts.”
Friedberg glanced at her over his shoulder. “The way you say it, I think you’re capable of doing just that.”
You wouldn’t be the first.
“Ten of these buildings were built to celebrate the rebirth of San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake. They weren’t supposed to be up more than a year, so they made ’em out of wood, plaster, and burlap. But people really liked them. I mean, they were freaking gorgeous, right? So they raised money and collected a gazillion signatures, and the city eventually made castings of the original structure. Around 1964, I think, they tore the whole thing down, then rebuilt it in concrete.”
Burden, striding to catch up, shook his head. “I don’t know how he keeps all these facts crammed into that brain of his.”
“Is he like this with everything?” Vail asked.
“He is right here,” Friedberg said. “And it’s just Bay Area stuff. For the most part. What can I say, I like history. Shoulda gone into teaching. Instead I carry a gun and badge and try to teach lessons to the scum of San Francisco.”
They had walked through the colonnade and were headed toward a large rotunda. Vail stopped and brought her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes against the bright gray, glaring sky as she looked at the columns. They were conjoined by a walkway of sorts, with what appeared to be female figurines standing with their elbows draped across the top of the portico, as if peering over its uppermost boundary.
“It’s quite beautiful.” She swung her gaze to Friedberg. “But where’s the husband?”
“In here.” Friedberg led them into the rotunda, a large structure that dwarfed the pergola and served as its centerpiece.
“What’s he afraid of,” Burden asked. “That the killer’s going to find him?”
Friedberg stopped walking. “Nope, that’s definitely not a concern of his.”
“Then why meet us here?” Burden asked. “Why not the local Starbucks?”
“I think the answer to that question’ll be evident in a minute.”
Vail peered up and around the vast structure, which she figured stretched over fifty feet into the air. Half a football field ahead, there appeared to be a body of water. “C’mon, Friedberg. You interrupted my morgue visit, and you just gotta know I cherish my time in those places. Where is this guy?”
Behind them, footsteps. Vail turned and saw a man dressed in a county uniform marked CSI. He was carrying a kit. She looked at Friedberg.
Friedberg took a long drag on his Marlboro, then pulled it from his lips and watched the smoke swirl on the breeze. He then tipped his head back and gestured above them with the cigarette. “Agent Vail, meet William Anderson.”
Vail and Burden craned their necks and saw, twenty feet above them, an ashen elderly man. Tied to the base of a massive wine-red column.
“That’s William Anderson?” Vail asked.
Friedberg brought his eyes down to meet Vail’s. “Yes ma’am.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Right again.”
Vail looked away. “Shit.”