Cop Out (25 page)

“Whole damn case’s going nowhere,” Jackson added.

I closed the door and leaned against it, brushing off chair-getting motions from Eggs. This was no time to bring up the subject of Ott. “Maybe Cyril’s gone back to Monterey. Or on to his church in Modesto.”

Jackson shook his head. But I persisted. “He had to go somewhere. Why wouldn’t he go where he knows? Unless he’s been driven out of there.”

“Both those places, Smith, the brother’s a model citizen. Word is he preaches in his storefronts, and that’s it. He runs a circuit: in the pulpit in Monterey Friday nights; here to hassle us on Saturdays and Sundays; preaches in Modesto Monday night. No complaints either place. Not even parking.”

“Does he husband all his venom for us?” Eggs demanded.

“Sad but true. And if you all paid attention to his schedule, you can see that by this time in the week he doesn’t exist. Gone from Modesto. No sign of him in Monterey.” Jackson slammed back. The folding chair quaked, and for a moment it looked as if Jackson would go banging into the wall.

Doyle had a translucent violet rhino in his fingers. He was tapping it hard against the desk. “And getting the weekend rate at the Claremont.”

Jackson’s fists tightened. “Special collections,” Jackson growled. “Asshole bilked his followers good.” Jackson had handled a couple of clerical frauds before he came to Homicide-Felony Assault Detail and one assault on a sticky-fingered minister since. He had forced himself to meet with the devastated parishioners afterward. “It’s not so much the money,” he’d told me, “though these folks can hardly afford it. It’s the trust. Some of them will never trust again. Might as well’ve been their god that shucked them.” When I asked how he could be so definite, he just said, “I
know
, Smith.” I picked up the leader of the windowsill herd and fingered him intimately. “Jackson, don’t you think Cyril’s schedule is peculiar?”

Deliberately Jackson nodded, as if he were a teacher with a particularly slow class. “The weekend in Berkeley?”

“Right. Sunday, Cyril’s big business day, why devote it to Telegraph Avenue?”

“Because Sunday’s Telegraph’s big day and the asshole’s more after raising hell than saving souls.”

“But why? Doesn’t he have much of an investment in his little congregations elsewhere?”

Jackson’s face pinched tighter in disgust. “Two storefronts. Nothing in any of them.”

“Not even chairs?”

“Zilch.”

“Maybe his followers levitate,” Eggs offered.

“Did he ever have chairs or equipment?”

“Altar, candles, statues, the works. But they’re gone.”

“What does he drive?”

“Van. So, yeah, Smith, he could haul a bunch of folding chairs and paraphernalia everywhere he goes. But they’re not in his van when he carts his flunkies up to the Avenue to raise hell.”

“How about the ACC storage locker? Bryant was bribing him, paying him off with something. There’s no record in the ACC books. So maybe the bribe is space in his storage locker.”

Eggs shook his head. “Smith, you are suggesting a rather modest price for giving up rights to Telegraph.”

“We know Bryant was paying him off with something. We know Ott was checking up on Cyril. We can deduce that Cyril was involved in something unsavory.” Something Ott discovered and I hadn’t.

“So, Smith, you’re suggesting Bryant’s payment was sealed lips,” Jackson said.

Eggs looked confused. “Keeping quiet about whatever Cyril was up to but not giving him space in the storage locker?”

I shrugged. “Either or both. It’s probably no big thing to Bryant. Still, someone did break into Margo Roehner’s unit right beneath it.”

“But if Cyril knew Bryant, he’d get the key and”—Eggs hesitated, abashed—“the key wouldn’t work because he’d be at the wrong locker and he’d be sufficiently angered to break in. And once he got inside, he’d realize he wasn’t in the ACC place—”

“Right,” I said, “and he’d have no interest in the Patient Defenders boxes of records, so he’d just make a mess and leave.”

Jackson was smiling. “But like we said, the dude’s no dummy. Maybe he figures out his mistake and finds his way upstairs and leaves his chairs. Or something better. Worth a look.”

I stood up.

“Before you go, Smith,” Doyle said, “what about Ott?”

J
ACKSON AND
E
GGS DIDN’T
move, except to resettle in their chairs. With Doyle, they stared at me.

I took a breath. “There was a note in the Claremont Hotel room in Ott’s handwriting—”

“He
left
a note? Among the slaughtered pigeons?” Eggs demanded.

Ignoring his sarcasm, I said, “I know his handwriting. The paper said ‘Zeise.’ It proves Ott was at the beach when Bryant was killed. It proves he’s not the murderer.”

“You’ve got a pretty big leap of faith there, Smith.” Doyle clicked the little violet rhino’s heels against the desk.

“Zeise is the ranger at Muir Beach, the one who told Ott not to camp overnight Sunday night. He spotted Ott there again Monday morning and was sure Ott had defied him. He probably was professional but hardly overly gracious that second time. Ott didn’t note down Zeise’s name to get together for coffee later.” I waited till Doyle gave a grudging nod. Neither Jackson nor Eggs bothered.

“The only reason for Ott to write down that name was to prove he was there”—I checked to see that Doyle was still with me—“so he could give it to me to check. Which meant”—I raced on before any of them could interrupt—“he at least
suspected
there was something he’d need an alibi for, right?”

“Dude
knew
he’d need an alibi,” Jackson growled.

Doyle sat silent. His face revealed nothing but exhaustion.

“Look, guys, if Ott had been hiding out at the beach, he could have done it well enough to avoid being spotted. He wouldn’t have prowled the parking lot in his mustard yellow trench coat. But he made himself suspicious enough that the ranger had to deal with him because he suspected something would happen in Berkeley in his absence—”

Doyle smacked down the rhino. “Smith, I hardly—”

“And since Ott had spent his time here going after Cyril, it follows that he suspected Cyril was involved in whatever happened.”

“And so,” Doyle said, “you’re saying that Ott got himself back to Berkeley. Somehow he uncovered Brother Cyril in the last place you’d expect an itinerant troublemaker—”

“Ott called me to the Claremont Sunday afternoon. The site was his choice. I figured he’d just picked a place where none of his cronies would see him with me.”

Eggs laughed. “So, Smith, you flattered yourself? Ott wasn’t thinking about you at all, right? He was just having you up there because he was there anyway, spying on Cyril?”

I brushed over Ott’s insult and Eggs’s righteous amusement. “It explains the black suit. Cyril wasn’t registered under his own name. The hotel manager checked every entry for the past two weeks. There was no way for Ott to know what name he was using or what room he was in. So Ott dresses as a man of the cloth and asks the staff about other clergy, and when he can’t get an answer, he checks in and waits in the lobby till he spots Cyril or one of his thugs and follows him. Or vice versa.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Smith. The scenario could be: Ott and Cyril both had rooms because they planned it that way. Ott walked out with Cyril’s thugs because he’s one of them.”

“But why—”

“Smith, it’s all speculation. Nothing’s changed except we know Ott’s loose in Berkeley.”

My hands balled into fists. “No, we know Ott
was
in Berkeley,” I said slowly, deliberately. “We certainly don’t know he’s loose. He left the hotel surrounded by Cyril’s men. If Cyril’s got him, he’s not loose.”

“No need to patronize us, Smith.”

“I’m not, Inspector. I’m just trying to get you to see—

“What I see, Smith, is”—his face was red, he seemed to be forcing himself to take a breath—“you found Ott. Your part of this case is done.”

“But, Inspector, Ott’s still—”

“We don’t know what Ott is. But there’s no more call to focus on him separately.” Before I could speak, he said, “No more call. No more budget. If what you say is right, when we find Cyril, we’ll find Ott.”

“He could be in the locker.”

“Maybe he left another note there.” Jackson’s voice was cutting. I looked over at him, my old buddy from Homicide. He met my gaze, but his face was a wall.

Doyle took a deep breath. “Smith, I knew I should never have put you on this case. You’re too close. You can’t be objective.”

I felt paralyzed, as you do in a dream. The key fact was right out there somewhere, but I couldn’t reach for it. I was so close. No one knew Ott like I did. There were things they’d miss, key things. I couldn’t say any of that. On the desk the herd of rhinos plodded motionlessly in their endless journey to where they were. “Inspector,” I said, sounding dead calm, “I’ve been in the storage units. I took Margo Roehner’s report there. It’ll be easy for me to see if Cyril could have mistaken her unit for ACC’s.”

Doyle shrugged. “Fine, Smith. Go with Jackson. But then you’re back on patrol.”

T
HE ASSISTANT’S GOT A
bug up his booty. Why all of a sudden?” It was a rhetorical question Jackson was throwing out to avoid the awkward subject of my being taken off the case. He had made it across town to Storit Urself with a series of turns and fast pickups that would have impressed me if I were allowing myself any feelings at all. Not only had he avoided the major red lights on University, San Pablo, and Sixth Street, but he’d maneuvered the side streets like a pinball, never once getting caught at one of the intersection fences the city erected to thwart drivers. I had followed him through the gate at Storit Urself, bounced over the speed bump, and parked in front of the four-story prefab building in this village of the unwanted.

“Last I talked to him,” I said as we headed to the elevator, “I’d have listed Macalester as depressed. He was bemoaning Bryant killing ACC and undermining the mediation concept with his duplicity. The idea of mediating between citizens and bureaucracies or corporations—faceless entity mediation—was Macalester’s baby. He saw it as saving the world and—”

“And Hemming pictures it as pocket lining?”

“You could make a case for that. Macalester wouldn’t have disagreed. So what’s he up to now?”

“From the looks of it, he’s already up there in the storage. He must have had wings on that hog. Didn’t even bother with a helmet.” Jackson pushed the elevator button. “Maybe we should have gotten a warrant.”

Automatically I groaned. “Right, and devoted the entire afternoon to paperwork.”

He lowered his voice. “So, I call Mr. Cooperative Macalester and tell him we need to go by the storage unit and we’ll swing by his office for the key.”

I almost smiled.
Assuming
permission, making Macalester scamper uphill to object.

“All of a sudden Macalester’s coming here anyway. He’ll meet us.”

We rode up silently, and when the elevator door opened, I headed out ahead of Jackson. Macalester might be nothing but bad-day jumpy, but if he was on the edge, he’d be less confrontational spotting me than he’d be with Jackson. Male cops used to worry whether they’d have to protect their women partners; they never considered situations like this. I made a quick right and strode down the stark hallway, past door after metal door. All the units looked alike—mausoleum slots for stuff. If Cyril had got off on the wrong floor, he’d have forced Margo’s tiny lock and been inside staring around in disbelief before his mistake occurred to him. I knocked on the door of 307. “Roger? Jill Smith here, and Detective Jackson.”

“Come on in.” Was his pitch a bit high? Nervousness? Exertion getting here?

I eased open the door. The space looked like something out of Dickens. A ten-by-fifteen box. No ceiling light, just two camp lights stuck on the plywood walls. Macalester standing by the far wall in front of cardboard boxes and hastily organized piles of cloth and papers. Sweat shone on his pate, and his little ponytail glistened. The whole place smelled of dust and something I couldn’t name. “You’ve been cleaning up?”

“This is the attic of last resort. You could have spent all day hunting through things the way they were.” It was the land of light statement with a twinge of sarcasm typical of our earlier interview, but now it sounded neither easy nor loose.

“So you don’t mind us looking through it, right?” Jackson asked, before heading for the piles.

I motioned Macalester closer till we were huddled near the door. “Roger, look, I’ve been something of a slob all my life. I know from panic cleanup. These piles of yours, they’re an open book to me. Save me some time. What are you covering up here?”

Macalester backed away, hands digging into his jeans pocket. “I’m just trying to help.”

I softened my voice. “Roger, half the time witnesses cover up, it has nothing to do with the crime. Officer Jackson and I are dealing with murder; if you’ve been stashing a couple joints here, we don’t have the time—or the inclination—to deal with that.”

“I don’t do drugs.”

Maybe. Macalester was an old lefty, but there was a conservative strain to him. I could picture him refusing meat, saturated fats, or drugs. “Okay. Just tell me what you’re hiding here. You didn’t kill Bryant, so you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

He looked at me, raised an eyebrow; then he laughed.

Sometimes it worked; sometimes it bombed. I shrugged and walked over to Jackson, who was scanning the last box. “Pottery. Shaving mugs.”

“One of our members’ overstock.” Macalester stayed put. I considered moving between him and the door but opted for readiness instead.

“And the rest?”

“T-shirts, assorted clothing, lamps, penal codes, papers, more papers, blankets, old phones, and the like,” Jackson said.

I stared at the piles. There weren’t many for a room this size. “Why did Bryant bother getting a storage unit?”

Macalester just shrugged.

I looked more carefully at him, the personally conservative lefty. “You don’t ride your motorcycle without a helmet, do you?”