Hard Evidence (13 page)

She walked over to the low couch, next to where she’d laid her jacket, and floated down onto it. She made some motion that he took to be an invitation to sit, which he did, feeling like a clod in his brown socks and his American sports coat.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked. ‘Please, take off your coat. It’s too warm.’

So far as Abe knew, he was the only male tea drinker on the force. He thought about declining, then realized he would enjoy watching May Shinn move around. ‘That would be nice,’ he said. He folded his coat over his end of the couch, thinking if she kept this up, he’d be stripped before long.

She walked into the kitchen, open from the living room, and he watched her back, the straight shoulders, tiny waist, womanly curve of her hips. Even barefoot, her ankles tapered, thin as a doe’s.

She poured from a bottle of Evian into a kettle. ‘Owen’s dead,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am. Somebody killed him.’

He kept watching her closely. She was taking down some cups, placing them on a tray. If her hands were shaking, the cups would betray her, but they didn’t. She stood by the stove, turning full to face him. ‘I read that.’

Glitsky sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees. ‘The suitcases,’ he said. ‘You were going somewhere.’

‘Japan. On business,’ she added, spooning tea into the cups.

‘You have business over there?’

She nodded. ‘I buy art. I am a — a broker for different friends of mine.’

‘Do you go over there a lot?’

‘Sometimes, yes. It depends.’

Glitsky would have time to pursue that if he had to. He decided to move things along. ‘We found your gun on Mr Nash’s boat. On the
Eloise
.’

‘Yes, I kept it there.’

‘We’re reasonably certain it’s the gun that was used to kill him.’ She seemed to be waiting, immobilized. ‘When was the last time you saw him, Ms Shinn?’

She turned back to the stove, touched the side of the kettle with a finger and decided it wasn’t ready yet. ‘Friday night, no, Saturday morning, very early. He stayed here.’

‘In this apartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then where did he go from here?’

‘He said he was going sailing. He sailed many weekends.’

‘And did you go with him?’

‘Most times, yes. But not Saturday.’

‘Why was that?’

She tried the kettle again, nodded, then poured the two cups. She brought the tray over and set it on the low table in front of them. ‘He had another appointment.’

‘Did he tell you who it was with?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Or what it was about?’

‘He didn’t say. He only said it was clearing the way for us.’

‘What does that mean, clearing the way for you?’

‘I don’t know. I think he needed to be alone. To think it out.’ She seemed to be searching for words, although not the way a foreigner would. She appeared to be a native speaker of English, but there was a hesitation, a pause. It threw Abe off — he couldn’t decide when, if, she was editing, when she was telling the truth. ‘We were going to be married.’

‘You and Owen Nash were going to be married?’

‘Yes.’ Keeping it simple and unadorned. The best kind of lie, Abe thought. And this, he was sure, was a lie. Owen Nash, internationally acclaimed tycoon and business leader, intimate of presidents and kings, did not marry his professional and well-paid love slave. Period.

‘Had you set a date?’

‘No,’ she said. She picked up one of the teacups and held it a second, then put it back down. ‘It is still too hot,’ she said. ‘We only decided, finally, last Friday. It was my ring.’

‘The snake ring? The one on his hand?’

‘Yes, that one.’

‘Then you’ve known since Monday that he was dead?’ Or since Saturday when you shot him, he was thinking. ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

She picked up the teacup again, perhaps stalling. ‘When it doesn’t burn the fingers, it can’t burn the mouth,’ she said. She handed him the cup.

It was strong, excellent green tea. Abe sipped it, not really understanding why you could drink hot tea on a hot day and feel cooler. ‘May, why didn’t you call us, the police?’

‘What could they do? He was already dead. I knew it was Owen. The rest didn’t matter. It was his fate.’

‘It wasn’t his natural fate, May. Somebody shot him.’

‘Monday I didn’t know that. I only knew it was Owen’s hand.’

‘What about today? Did you read the paper today? Or yesterday?’

‘Yes.’

Glitsky waited. ‘Just yes?’

May Shinn sipped at her own tea. Carefully she put the cup down. ‘What do you want me to say? My instinct, after all, was not to call the police. Whoever killed Owen will have to live with himself and that is punishment enough.’

Abe put his cup down and walked back to the turret window. Across the street was another apartment house, the mirror image of this one. A cable car clanged by below. The sun was still fairly high, slanting toward him. There wasn’t a cloud clear to the horizon.

From behind him. ‘Am I a suspect, Sergeant?’

Glitsky turned around. ‘Do you remember what you did last Saturday, during the day?’

‘An alibi, is that right? I am a suspect, then.’

‘It’s an open field at this point, but unless you have an alibi for Saturday, I’m afraid you’re in it. Did you kill him?’

Just say no, he thought, I didn’t do it. But she said, ‘I was here Saturday, all day.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes, alone. I was waiting for Owen to come back.’ A little short there, exasperated. Deny you did it, he thought again, just say the words. But she said, ‘I loved the man, Sergeant.’

‘Did you make any phone calls, order out for pizza? Did anybody see you?’

Finally it was getting to her. She sat on the front three inches of the couch, ramrod straight. ‘I got up late, around nine. Owen had left sometime around six. I took a long bath. I was nervous. Owen was doing something to make it so we could get married —deciding, I think, that he was going to go through with it. He thought best out on the water. I waited. I paced a lot. When he wasn’t back by dark, I went to bed. I couldn’t face anybody. I was crying. I thought he’d decided not to.’

Glitsky put his jacket over his knees. ‘I think you might want to put your trip on hold,’ he said. ‘And maybe see about retaining a lawyer.’

He thought about taking her downtown now, but knew that he’d be asking for repercussions if he did. It was premature. He really had no evidence. It had been a week since the gun had been fired, and even the most sophisticated laser analysis wouldn’t show powder on the hands after that long. What May had told him was plausible, though pretty unlikely, and there was still plenty of legwork to try and verify her alibi or not, maybe neighbors hearing her walking around and so forth. If she agreed to put off going to Japan, there wasn’t any risk of imminent flight, and he didn’t really have any probable cause.

Plus, she being Oriental and he being half black, he didn’t want to give anybody any ammunition to be able to accuse him of hassling her on racial grounds. She had invited him, without a warrant, into her apartment. It was bad luck to arrest somebody under those conditions. Now if she took flight, it would be a different story.

But she was standing, too. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

Glitsky was picking up his shoes. ‘Can you get a refund on that ticket? If you can’t, we may be able to help you.’

She shook her head. ‘They should refund it. God knows I paid full price, they should.’

So she’d bought the ticket recently, Abe thought. Probably since last Saturday. He hesitated. Strike two and a half. Tough call, but he was still an invited guest in her house, and she’d promised to stay around. He’d really prefer to have an indictment before he decided to arrest somebody on a murder charge.

He thought he’d bring his suspicions to Hardy and Hardy could decide whether they wanted to try to persuade the grand jury. But he doubted there was enough yet. Two and a half strikes didn’t make an out.

He said goodbye and she closed the door, gently, behind him.

*     *     *     *     *

Abe didn’t love himself for it, but it was too close and he thought with a little patience he would at least not have to worry over the weekend. He pulled his Plymouth away from the curb and made a point of turning west at the corner under the turret window. He drove three blocks, turning north again on Van Ness, left on Geary and back up to Union. He parked at the far end of May’s block on her side of the street.

Even with the windows down, in the shade, it was hot. Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait.

A cab pulled up in front of the corner apartment building and honked its horn twice. Glitsky waited as May came out of the building. He let the driver load her suitcases into the trunk, let May get settled into the back seat before he pulled out into the street.

As the cab rounded the first corner, Abe turned on his red light and hit his siren. The cab, directly in front of him, pulled over immediately.

Abe came up to the window and flashed his badge. The driver asked what he’d done; Abe had him get out of the car, then asked him where this fare had asked to be taken.

‘Down the airport,’ he said. ‘Goin’ to Japan at eight o’clock.‘

Glitsky thanked the man, then opened the back door and looked in at May. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid you’re under arrest.’

17

It was after five, but yesterday Hardy had gone home early after the beach, so today he felt compelled to check in after his visit with Farris instead of going directly home from the field. He parked under the freeway and stopped for a moment to admire the huge hole in the ground that now, after a year of political struggle, was the beginning of the new county jail.

Like everything else in San Francisco government, the decision to build a larger county jail had been arrived at after a fair and wide-ranging debate of other uses to which the alloted money should, in a perfect world, be put. Although the electorate had approved the bond measure that would provide the funds, the board of supervisors had at first leaned toward using this money to buy electronic bracelets to keep track of prisoners — Hardy grinned involuntarily whenever the thought crossed his mind — and using the remainder for AIDS research. This enlightened plan was discussed by the mayor, the board and various agencies for eleven months. Finally, over the threatened resignations of both Police Chief Dan Rigby and County Sheriff Herbert Montoya, the jail had been approved.

Hardy gazed down into the hole as the last of the workmen were wrapping it up for the day. He had a vision of five gang members in an old Ford cruising out to one of the projects to shoot whoever might be standing around, each of them wearing a Captain Video wrist bracelet to keep him from committing crimes because, see, if the cops knew where you were at all times, then it would be the same as being in jail, wouldn’t it?

The first time he’d seen her she’d had mascara running down her face, hair witched out in shanks, so Hardy didn’t immediately recognize Celine Nash, who was coming out of the coroner’s office, on Hardy’s left, thirty feet in front of him.

The ashen hair — or was it blonde? — was thick and combed straight back, to just below her shoulders, looking like it had been professionally done about ten minutes before. She wore a peacock-blue leotard on top that disappeared into a pair of designer blue jeans, cinched at the waist with a red scarf. Watching the body approach him from the side, he was almost preternaturally aware of its substance, the solid thereness of a splendid female —the movement almost feline, the rock of hip and jounce of breast. He stopped breathing.

Then she turned toward him, and he recognized her.

‘Ms Nash?’ he said.

She was still ten feet away when she halted. Hardy introduced himself again, coming up to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘there’s been so many…’ She let it trail off. ‘Were you with the coroner?’

Hardy explained his connection, that he would be handling the case when it got to the district attorney. ‘I just got back from seeing Ken Farris. He told me you might be up here. He’s pretty broken up.’

‘I imagine he is.’ Her eyes were light blue, almost gray. He thought he might as well be invisible — the eyes looked past him, then came back to him, waiting.

‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he said, meaning it.

She nodded, without any time for him, or simply lost inside herself.

‘Well, I’m keeping you.’ He took a step and she touched the sleeve of his jacket, leaving her hand there, her eyes following an instant later.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s all this keeping up appearances.’

Her hand was like a brand on his lower arm — he felt it through the sleeve of his coat, a grip like steel. He caught her eyes, still distant; her face a mask. He wondered if she might be in some kind of shock.

‘Are you all right?’

She took a deep breath, then seemed to realize she had his arm. A flush began at the top of her leotard. She let go of Hardy and brought her hand to her neck, embarrassed. ‘It’s one of the main traumas, death of a parent,’ she said. ‘I guess I’m not prepared for it.’

‘I don’t think we get prepared for it,’ Hardy said. ‘That’s the point.’

‘I do things… I don’t know why.’ Letting go of her neck, she brought the palm of her hand down across her breasts. The flush was still on her chest. ‘Like I’m just going through motions, you know? Doing what has to be done, but all this other stuff is going on inside me.’

‘Would you like to take a break? Come up to the office? Go get a drink somewhere?’

‘I don’t drink, but it would be nice if…’

‘We can go to my office then.’

‘No, you go ahead. I’ll just… well, we could go to a bar, thanks. I could use the company.’

*     *     *     *     *

Lou the Greek’s would not have been an inspired choice under these conditions.

They were sitting on high stools around a small raised table at the front window of Sophie’s, which after eight turned into a dinner club for the young and hip. But two blocks north of the Hall, if you wanted a quiet short one after work it wasn’t a bad spot before the scene came alive.

Celine wore expensive Italian sandals and no socks. She crossed her legs on the high stool, showing off the pedicure, the toenails a light pink, the skin between her ankle and her jeans honey-toned — warm and smooth. She watched Hardy take the first sip of his Irish whiskey.

On the way over, in the warm dusk, she had again taken his arm. They hadn’t said ten words. Now she said, ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For taking this time, that’s all.’

He didn’t know what to say. He lifted his drink, clicked it against her glass of club soda and brought it to his lips. He found it hard to believe that two days before he’d been around this woman and had no reaction. He felt pretty sure it wasn’t anything she was doing purposely, but he was acutely conscious of everywhere her skin showed — at her feet, above the leotard on her chest, her arms and neck. But why not? It had been a broiling day. He kind of wished he could be sitting there wearing a tank top, instead of his shirt and tie. He’d folded his coat over another stool at the table. ‘I’ve got time,’ he said at last.

‘That’s all I’ve got now, it seems.’

‘It’s rough, isn’t it?’

Now her eyes met his. ‘What I was saying before —that’s the hardest part. The stuff going on inside.’

‘I know,’ Hardy said. He couldn’t exactly say why, but he found himself telling her how after his son Michael had died by falling out of his crib, Hardy had made the decision that he would be strong and deal with it, the way adults dealt with things, right?

‘It didn’t work?’

‘Oh, I made it maybe two months. You know, go to work, come home, eat, drink, wake up, do it again.’ Hardy paused, remembering. ‘You’re not married, are you?’

‘No. I was once.’

‘I don’t know if it’s better or not, having someone there. It broke me and my wife up.’

Celine didn’t say anything for a long time. The music in Sophie’s changed, or at least Hardy became aware of it —some automatic stuff that he hated. The sun was almost down, hitting the tops of the taller buildings north of Market and a few up on Nob Hill.

‘I almost wish there were somebody to break up with,’ she said at last. ‘Take it out on somebody else. But Daddy was my only family, so now what?’ She tipped her glass and found it empty. ‘Do you think I could have a drink now? Something with gin in it?’

At the bar, Hardy ordered himself a second Bushmills and Celine a Bombay on the rocks. The bartender poured a three and a half count, a solid shot, close to a double. Hardy tipped him two bucks and asked him if he could lose the noise on the speakers.

Celine sipped at the gin and made a face. ‘I haven’t had a drink in a couple of years,’ she said. ‘Daddy didn’t like me to drink too much.’

‘He didn’t too much like you to drink or he didn’t like you to drink too much?’

She smiled, small and tentative, but there it was. ‘Both, I think.’ Her eyes settled on him again. ‘Sometimes I’d get a little out of control. You couldn’t get a little out of control around Daddy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because if the daughter of Owen Nash is not in control, that means he’s not in control of me.’ She took another sip of the gin, and this time it went down smoothly. ‘And if Owen Nash is in the picture, he’s in control.’

‘He was that way?’

‘God, what am I saying? I loved my father. I just miss him. I’m so mad at him.’

‘It’s okay,’ Hardy said. ‘It happens.’

‘He was just such a… I mean, I was his only family, too, so it made sense he wanted me to be a good reflection of him.’

‘He saw you as his reflection?’

She shook her head, putting more movement in it. ‘No, not exactly, you know what I mean.’ She put her hand over his on the small table. ‘He wanted what was best for me… always.’

‘And that got to be a burden?’

‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. She took a drink. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get so worked up.’

Hardy found himself covering her hand now. ‘Celine, look. This is one time you should be allowed to get worked up. You can let it go once in a while or it’ll come out all at once, and you don’t want that.’

‘But it wasn’t so much of a burden. Look at all the good it’s done me. I’m serious. Stuff I never would have done without Daddy.’

‘I believe you.’

She shook her head. ‘He was just always so hard. Even when he was good, he was hard. He pushed people — I’m surprised Ken Farris didn’t tell you. I mean, look at us, we’re perfect examples. But it was worth it for what you got out of it.’

‘Which was what?’

She took her hand away and Hardy thought he’d offended her. ‘The main thing was being close to him. You got to be close to Daddy, which was the most alive you could be.’

Hardy swirled his drink in the bottom of his glass. Outside, it was full dusk. A couple more people had come into Sophie’s. ‘You know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think you’re allowed to have some mixed feelings right now. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

Celine put her hand back over Hardy’s. ‘I’m sorry, I think I feel this gin already.’

‘You want some cheap advice? Go get a bottle of it, find somebody you can talk to and drink half of it. There’s nothing more natural than being mad at somebody close when they die.’

‘I can’t talk to anybody,’ she said. ‘Not about Daddy.’

‘You’ve just been talking about him to me for a half hour.’

She tightened her hand over his one last time, then released it. ‘You’re the D.A. This isn’t personal for you. It’s not the same thing.’

‘It’s personal enough for me. This is my job, my case.’

‘But that’s what it is, a case.’

‘It’s also that, Celine. Somebody killed your father.’

‘And maybe it was me, right?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You’re investigating the murder, and now you get me to tell you I’m mad at him —’

‘Celine

‘Well, I was down in Santa Cruz the whole weekend. I was staying in a house with three of my friends. I couldn’t have been up here…’

Hardy stood up and moved close in to her, pulling her head tight against him. The gin was hitting her, the panic on the rise as it loosened her up. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered. ‘Stop.’

He felt her breathing slow down. A bare arm came up to his shoulder and held him, pulled him down to her. A second passed. Five. Her grip relaxed and he lifted himself away from her. Her blue-gray eyes had teared up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m a mess.’

‘You’re okay,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ She waited meekly by the door while he grabbed his coat, then took her arm. They walked out into the warm early night.

*     *     *     *     *

On the way back to the Hall, she told him about Owen’s Saturday appointment on the
Eloise
with May Shinn.

‘I know,’ Hardy said. ‘We’re looking into that.’ He considered telling her about everything they’d found on board, but there was still police work to be done there, and all of that could wait. What Celine needed was some understanding and a little time to get used to her father having been murdered. Hardy didn’t think an update on the investigation would do a thing for her piece of mind.

They got to her car — a silver BMW 350i — and she hugged Hardy briefly, apologizing again for her ‘scene.’ She told him he was a good man, then she was in her car, leaving him with the faint scent of gin, a memory of her body against his and the feeling that, without ever meaning to, he’d done something terribly wrong.

*     *     *     *     *

They were having pizza in the reporters’ room on the third floor of the Hall of Justice, the same floor that contained the offices of the district attorney.

The room, befitting the esteem with which the police held the medium of print journalism, wasn’t much. There was a green blackboard that kept up a running total of murders in San Francisco thus far that year (sixty-eight). There was a bulletin board tacked three deep with Christmas cards the press guys had received from their friends in the building, as well as the jails some of them had gone to reside in. The surface area of all three desks combined did not equal the expanse of oak on Ken Farris’s desk in South San Francisco. There was also an old-fashioned school desk. Jeff Elliot sat in that one.

It wasn’t bad pizza. Anchovies, pepperoni, sausage and mushroom. Cass Weinberg, an attractive gay woman of about thirty, had ordered it. She was with the
Bay Guardian
and didn’t have much going on until later that Friday night, so she thought she’d bring in an extra large and schmooze with whoever might be hanging. Holding down the second ‘big’ desk was Oscar Franco from the Spanish-language
La Hora
. Then there was Jim Blanchard from the Oakland
Tribune
, who’d been worried for the past eighteen months about his job ending when the paper went bankrupt.

‘My theory,’ he was saying, ‘is that Elliot here did the guy himself. Otherwise how’s he gonna get a story this good.’

Cass picked it up. ‘You used to be a sailor, didn’t you? Didn’t you tell me that? In college?’

‘He did,’ Blanchard said. ‘At college, in Lake Superior.’

This was true. Before the multiple sclerosis had kicked in, Elliot had loved to sail, spent his summers under the canvas. He’d covered the America’s Cup for his high-school newspaper as a special project. ‘Not in Lake Superior, on Lake Superior, anchovy breath,’ he said.