Free Obstruction of Justice by Perri O'Shaughnessy Page B

police investigation. In sharp-focus black and white he studied Anna Meade lying on top of a white-painted parking stall stripe, her small shoe a couple of feet away.
    Though the shadows were long on that August evening the photographer had managed to expose well for detail. Faceup on the asphalt, one of her eyes open and looking off shyly to the side, already comatose, she looked as if she felt slightly embarrassed to make such a mess. The left side of her head had been cracked open and the blood from that injury had pooled around the back of her head. Her legs had settled into impossible positions. The car had hit her broadside from her left while she was walking, and she might have gotten away with broken bones, except she’d apparently gone up over the hood on impact, hitting the windshield before sliding to the pavement.
    Stroking his stubbly jaw, Paul thought about that. About ten years earlier he had handled a homicide investigation in San Francisco in which the victim had hit the windshield of the vehicle involved. The body had hit so hard, it had left an imprint of the face on the safety glass, a side view that showed the shape of the nose and an open mouth.
    The massive contusion on the left side of Anna Meade’s face looked similar to the injury on that victim. The cops were right. She had hit the windshield. He tried not to think about Hallowell seeing that face.
    Find the end of the string that led to the car, and the rest would take care of itself. Even without broken glass or bits of chrome or paint to match from the scene, there might be marks on the front grillework or signs of replacement. And then there was the long shot, the remote possibility that, unless the windshield had been replaced or the car had been crushed for junk, the car might still carry some kind of an impression, a web of cracks, a slight indentation not worth fixing, an oh-so-slightly visible imprint, a memory of murder on glass.
    He made some calls and opened a new file on the Powerbook. First, he would read it all, all three years of police work, again, taking notes on the computer. At three he would go to see Kim Voss, the eyewitness.
    Kim Voss’s home in Round Hill, on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe, was an oddly shaped modern affair that started low and ended up more than two stories high, sheltered behind a solid eight-foot stucco wall with a security gate. Inside the gate, Paul found himself in a cactus forest, the tall cacti planted in massive pots beside a sandy walkway, in front of a white windowless house of the same stucco. The desolate effect was broken by a sun-colored door, which opened noiselessly to present the lady herself, late twenties, fluffy-haired, wearing paint-stained overalls and a wary look.
    "Did you read the sign?" she asked, pointing to a discreet brass plate next to her door that said NO SOLICITORS.
    "It doesn’t apply."
    She came closer, leaning a hip on the doorway and folding her arms as if settling in for a cozy talk. "Well, then. What does?"
    "My name is Paul van Wagoner. Collier Hallowell hired me to investigate the death of his wife, Anna, three years ago. I understand you were a witness."
    A fleeting look Paul couldn’t identify passed over Kim Voss’s face. She had strong classical features, a prominent nose, well-cut lips. Unlike so many women, she wore her body comfortably, as if she liked it.
    "He’ll never get over her, will he? I’ve already talked with Collier a number of times. Didn’t he tell you? I didn’t see anything."
    "I really just have a few questions...."
    "This is pointless. I saw a car at a distance, no plate, not even a specific color."
    Paul whipped out his notebook. "Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. What else?"
    "I’m busy ..." she said, but he could see she was weakening. Good, he liked women who weakened.
    Paul gestured through the door. "Any chance we could"—he paused and raised an eyebrow—"rake over the old coals just this one time"—his best imitation of