Every Move She Makes (14 page)

What I believed I saw was Zimmerman trying to avoid me when he was
stepping off the elevator. If it was him. Of course, he'd been avoiding
me for days. But if it was Scolari, he certainly would have tried to
avoid me under those circumstances as well. "I just thought it looked
like Zim," I said. "Could it have been Scolari?" I hesitated. "I
couldn't say for certain it wasn't."

"One of the property clerks said he saw Scolari in the basement."

"But it could have been Zimmerman," I pointed out in Scolari's defense.

"Where's the motive?" I hadn't a clue. I wanted to say Zimmerman hated
me, that he was setting up me and Scolari for his being banished from
Homicide, but I couldn't see him killing someone just because he got
caught. Then I thought of the evidence in Betty's case being destroyed
too. Everyone knew the city manager had political aspirations, right
along with the chief of police. Both wanted to be mayor. It was to the
city manager's benefit to have his son's case dismissed. "What about
Ramirezs possession case?" I asked. "What if some political bigwig came
in and had the case taken care of ?" "We're already looking at that
angle," he said. "On the QT, mind you. I like my job. And if you like
yours, you'll keep quiet. But back to your case. What I don't understand
is, if it was Scolari, what's the connection between his wife and that
box of evidence? What the hell was in there?"

"Clothes, a wedding ring, some seeds."

"What kind of seeds?"

"I don't know." But even as I said it, my gut instinct
told me that I'd better find out. I showed him the seeds, told him I
planned on taking them to UC Berkeley for identification. He eyed them,
nodding. When Shipley had finished taking my statement, he told me they
had everything under control, that I wasn't needed. He knew as well as I
that at the moment I was too close to the case, the victims. My
objectivity couldn't be relied on. I'd gone from investigator status to
witness, at least in his mind. In light of everything, I knew what I
needed to do despite this latest turn of events. Get those seeds to the
university. If Martin's and Smith's murders were related to my case,
then the possibility existed that the seeds I was carrying around in my
fanny pack were pertinent. I logged out on the board in the office, then
headed for my car. No sooner had I turned the key when someone rapped on
my window. My heart slammed into my sternum. My hand flew to my gun. It
was Torrance. "Son of a bitch," I said to myself, when I could breathe
again. At least I hadn't drawn down on him. "You ever take any time off
?" I asked after rolling down my window, hoping to sound calmer than my
actions indicated. I I failed. "When I'm allowed to." His gaze narrowed
and seemed to penetrate through me. "I was paged for the homicides in
Property by the DA. Their office called and said Von got another call
from one of Paolini's pawns. They're worried he'll make good on his
threat. That this might be part of it." "Alleged threat, don't you mean?

It's never been proven." I knew it sounded like I was defending the man,
but what I was really doing was defending my independence. I could feel
it slipping away at the speed of light. "Gillespie. Are you aware of
exactly what evidence was destroyed down there?" "Yes," I said, thinking
of the seeds in my pouch, wondering what the connection was. "I was
there." "From Paolitii's case. All of it's gone. His attorneys are
already filing for dismissal." I stared, shocked, the weight of it all
not lost on me. I'd been so worried about my little seeds, seeing
Zimmerman, and wondering who had called for that evidence, I'd forgotten
the very significant fact that someone had also called for Paolini's
evidence to be brought up.

Coincidence?

"Where're you off to?" "UC Berkeley," I said absently. I thought about
the night I'd been shot. All the death threats since then, threats that
I'd apparently too easily dismissed when they'd stopped several months
ago. They'd started up again, and now this. I didn't move for a long
while, and Torrance patiently waited. Finally he said, "I've always
found that getting back on the horse helps." I looked at him.

"Work," he clarified. "Immerse yourself." He was right.

"I'm going to Professor Rocklin's office," I said.

"Botany."

"Mind if I tag along?" "No." At the moment, I could use the company,
even his. I reached over and unlocked the door.

"Why the botany department?"

"Trying to identify a John Doe." I pulled out of the parking garage.

"What was he, tiptoeing through the tulips?"

In no mood for his attempt at humor, I glanced over at him, curious
about his break in solemnity but not willing to delve into the reason
for it. "Seeds," I said, patting my fanny pack. "Myjohn Doe was the last
autopsy Patricia performed. He hid some seeds on his person before he
died. She found them." Professor Rocklin was younger than I expected,
maybe late thirties, about my height, with sandy hair and a scholarly
goatee that went well with his turtleneck and wire-framed glasses. We
shook hands, and he introduced us to his assistant, Kay, a pretty
graduate student whose admiration for the professor was obvious. She
watched his every move, her eyes alight-with first love? I wondered if
he knew. "So tell me, Inspector," he said after Torrance and I were
seated at a table in his lab. "What can I do for you?" Around us, I
recognized a few of the numerous plants growing in pots on shelves and
in hanging baskets. Spider plants, pothos, a sago palm. The laughter of
students on their way to classes drifted in from outside through an open
window. I envied them their innocence, longed for my own college days
when I thought I knew everything, but knew so little. "I was hoping you
might be able to tell me what these seeds are," I said, pulling the tiny
plastic bag from my fanny pack. The bag was no more than an inch by two,
the seeds grouped in one small corner. He took them, holding the bag
close. "Hmmm, right off, I'd guess Phytolacca americans."

"Which would be?" Torrance asked.

"Your garden variety pokeweed, but if you care to leave them with me, I
can look them up in a catalog, do some checking. If all else fails, we
can try to grow a couple, see what sprouts up." "They're evidence," I
said, disappointed by his tentative ID in some ways, yet even more
curious in others. I suppose it had something to do with the fact that a
man was dead, and knowing he had your basic pokeweed seeds on him did
nothing to tell me why he was killed. "It's imperative that strict
control be maintained as to their location at all times." "Yes, the
chain of custody. I like to watch Quincy reruns." Torrance and I
exchanged glances. I said, "Is there some way you can assure me they'll
be locked up?" "I'll keep them in the safe in my office." He knitted his
brows, fingering the mottled seeds in their bag. "I'll try to grow two,
use the others for ID. Kay, get me a sterile jar from the cupboard,
please." Kay retrieved the jar, and Professor Rocklin, with all the care
of a pharmacist doling out pills, separated the four seeds from the bag.

He walked us to the door, we shook hands, and he said, "I'll call you,
Inspector, the moment I learn something."

"Thank you," I said, leaving him with my card.

We were out the door when he asked, "What sort of case is this?"

"Homicide," I said.

"So what happens next?" Torrance asked me when we'd gotten back to the
car. "How's that going to solve your John Doe's murder?" "It's not. I
guess I was hoping the seeds would turn out to be something rare. I
don't know. At the moment, all I want to know is why. It may turn out to
be nothing, but it's the only piece of evidence remaining, with the
exception of the body in the morgue."

"That was all the evidence?"

"What was booked is now a melted lump. Had I not gotten the remaining
seeds out, they'd be gone too." "Are you telling me those seeds are
somehow related to the murder down in the Property room?" "Actually, I
checked them out of evidence before the arson." I couldn't say "murder."

It made it all too real. Concentrating on the seeds was better. I could
almost pretend that I'd never been involved with Paolini, or that he'd
never threatened me, never tried to have me killed or had the evidence
destroyed. It had to be Paolini, because the alternative was
unthinkable. That Scolari ... I stopped myself from finishing the
thought. Drive.

Look out the window. Watch the road.

The day was clear, the wind having swept the clouds from the sky, and
when I pulled onto the 80 from University, San Francisco's famous
cityscape beckoned from across the calm bay. I couldn't help feeling
that it was all an illusion, like the calm before the storm. I wondered
if Torrance thought the same, because like me, he was silent, staring
out the windshield as though interested in the passing scenery. The
traffic at the Bay Bridge tollbooth was surprisingly light, and we made
it back to the city in record time. As we neared our exit, he asked,
"The seeds aside, you have any theories on your John Doe?" "Nothing yet.

I still need to do backgrounds on the businesses that occupied the
warehouse before it became vacant. Scolari had started the background,
found out that Paofini was somehow involved. That's all I know."

"You mind driving past there?"

"No." Several minutes later we pulled up to the vacant side of the
warehouse. I parked in front of it. The door had been padlocked, and a
remnant of yellow crime scene tape tied to the handle fluttered in the
wind. Torrance eyed the windows near the roof line. "What were the
businesses?" he asked. With the events of the past few days crowding my
thoughts, the exact names escaped me, but I was grateful for what
Torrance was doing _for both of us. Giving us a task to occupy
ourselves, and keep us from remembering.

"Some import place and a leather goods company."

"Shaw Imports?"

"Might have been. I'd have to look it up."

"They were being investigated by the DA for money laundering," he said.

"Bettencourt was telling me about it yesterday. Nicholas Paolini and
Antonio Foust. If I'm not mistaken, Foust continued the operation after
Paolini was arrested in your drug sting last year." "I'll definitely
look into it," I said, wondering if the man in the freezer was a Mafia
hit. Paolini had definite Mafia ties as did Foust. If so, it shed a
whole new light on the homicide of my john Doe. But why, then, would
they hide the body in a warehouse that could be traced back to them?

Granted, they were not exactly the tenants at the time the body was
found, but Paolini had connections to Hilliard Pharmaceutical in
addition to the warehouse. Before I arrested him, his last venture was a
thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner, underwritten by Hilliard Pharmaceutical,
benefiting the Save the Rain Forest Foundation, a cause near and dear to
Hilliard's wife's heart--since she was using the Foundation to promote
her Lost Forest Shampoo. She apparently had no idea that Paolini was a
major drug runner with ties to the Mafia and that he was using the
Foundation party as part of his operation. The black tie event saw the
majority of San Francisco's elite in attendance. It was a night I
doubted Paolini would ever forget, for the simple reason that I was his
date and as a result gathered enough evidence to conduct a search
warrant served the following day that netted three million dollars of
drug money he had not yet had a chance to launder.