Chapter 23 Sara Batcher
Sara Batcher
“I used to work at a pharmacy in the Mission District, and David Batcher came in and tried to fill a script for Vicodin outside of insurance, but it was a dupe and the system flagged it. He was not happy about me denying him, and got pretty hostile, which is why I remember it. When I left work a few hours later, I saw him outside the store, talking to one of the customers, and I swear I think he was trying to buy their pickup prescriptions off of them. Trust me, in this business, you see it all, and the suits in the health-care industry are the worst. More money they make, the more screwed up they are.”
Sara walked up the largest hill in Crestmore, a set of five-pound weights in hand, stride brisk.
In her ears, a decades-old Britney Spears song pumped.
She had been through the entire north end of the neighborhood and, so far, hadn’t seen any sign of the police.
Joel hadn’t told her where the body was found, but she knew the likely culprits, and she was running out of them.
She should have used the two-pound weights instead. Her arms were burning, and if she was going to cover Laurelmeade to Fernlight, they were going to give out. She spotted a trash can at one of the golfing refreshment huts and detoured off the road, cutting across the grass as she headed toward it.
“Morning, Sara.” The retired COO of Whole Foods waved as she passed in a golf cart, her tennis outfit on, giant sunglasses obscuring most of her face.
Sara grunted, lifting one of the weights in a wave.
The woman didn’t slow—thank God—and Sara hopped over the curb and onto the cart path, skirting around a foursome of golfers and their clubs.
She made it to the shade of the hut and undid the Velcro enclosure of the weights, freeing her hands and dropping the items into the trash.
She’d have to get more, but that was what money was for.
Right now, the relief on her arms was more valuable.
She lifted one elbow above her head and stretched her obliques, almost moaning at how good the stretch felt.
“. . . closed the entire back nine.” Two men came out of the restroom. One was wiping his hands on a paper towel, which he dropped into the trash can next to Sara. “So I’m going to call Beau and see if he can get us a tee time at Silverwood.”
“Excuse me.” Sara dropped her arms by her side. “They closed the back nine of which course?”
The second man spoke. “Stone Hollow. No word on how long.” He lifted the visor from his head and smoothed over the scant bit of hair that he had, then repositioned it in place.
“Did they say why?”
“Something’s going on with the cops. That’s what the starter said.” The man’s gaze drifted down the length of her body. If he thought she was interested, he was wrong.
Sara skipped the water cooler and changed directions, cutting across the fairway and heading toward her house.
Stone Hollow was on the opposite side of the neighborhood.
Within walking distance, sure, but she’d be exhausted by the time she got there, and she’d still have to get back home afterward. Better to fortify herself first.
She turned left at Whippoorwill and moved onto the bike path, weaving around a mother with a stroller. The kiddie park was ahead, and there was already a crowd gathered.
She looked away from the reminder of her childless state and refocused on her current situation.
A checklist, that was what would make this more manageable.
Back in the InkRose days, she had lived by checklists.
David had once joked that she should add pay attention to your husband to her daily check-off routine.
Little had he known that he was on dozens, if not hundreds, of lists.
He had thought that she was emotionally absent from her marriage, never acknowledging the herculean attempts she had made to check in with him, ask about his work projects, reorder his favorite supplements, schedule his dentist appointments, and more.
Yes, a checklist was exactly what she needed.
First item of business: Have another meeting with her attorney.
It was important to keep Ian abreast of this development, whatever this development was.
Evidence of a murder? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe David got drunk, wandered around the golf course, tripped, hit his head, and died.
It was possible, if not plausible. A prosecutor could punch a million holes in it.
Like his car, which had been left at the condo.
Of all places for his body to turn up, why Stone Hollow?
Talk about the shittiest course in the gates.
He couldn’t be at Red Palms or the Brintmore?
This was just like David. The man was meticulous about some things and a complete airhead about others.
He’d once scheduled a pickup of every single nice suit in his closet by a dry cleaner, then forgotten which dry cleaner it was.
Sara had had to call twenty-three cleaners in the area before she found the one he had used.
She smiled at the memory, which had been a funny moment, once he had taken a Vicodin and refound his high.
He’d had to do a heart-valve sales pitch wearing khakis and a golf shirt, but had told the story and gotten a big laugh, plus the account.
And later, he’d been so grateful he’d taken Sara to that French restaurant in Marin County, and they binged on lobster and champagne, and when they got back home he’d made love to her, and it had been messy and drunken and perfect.
They hadn’t had enough sex, her and David. Maybe that had been the issue in their marriage. It was hard to tell what had caused the disconnect, because the Vicodin had ruined his life, but also his erections.
Back when he’d disappeared, she didn’t mention his drug use to the cops. It had seemed like a detail she should hold close to the vest, but maybe now was the time to share it. Depending on what the cause of death was—if they could even determine it after all this time.
Her anxiety spiked as she rounded Tetterran Drive and headed up the boulevard, toward her street.
There were just too many unknowns. She’d go crazy waiting to find out everything.
She wasn’t a big drinker, but maybe this was the kind of occasion that warranted a stiff drink or two.
Maybe three. Maybe she’d just take that bottle of Van Winkle from the back of the liquor cabinet and chug it like it was water.
She turned onto her street and slowed at the sight of three police cars, parked at odd angles, in front of her gate.
So, no time to get wasted.