If Walls Could Talk (17 page)

“I thought we were tracking down my killer.”

“As a matter of fact, we’re going to see if there’s anything in the crate I took from the house that might shed some light on your . . . on what happened.”

“Good. I’m really put out about my hand. Like he couldn’t have killed me with a simple knife wound.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“A bullet would have been so hard?”

“Wait a second. Your killer’s a ‘he’?”

“What? Oh, I don’t actually know. Guess I was just assuming. Ever notice how in situations of murder and mayhem, the culprit’s almost always male?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

We crossed over Market and sat in traffic near the on-ramp to the Bay Bridge.

“I hate to tell you this,” Kenneth said, “but it looks like your dog is going to hurl.”

“What?” I glanced in the rearview mirror, but I couldn’t see the dog.

“He’s on the floor, rocking back and forth a little. He’s about to lose it.”

“No way. Dogs love riding in cars.”

“This one looks like it needs Dramamine.”

I twisted around when we stopped for the final light before the bridge on-ramp. Kenneth was right; the dog was sitting on the floor, panting loudly.

“This must be your fault,” I said.

“
My
fault?”

“You weirded him out, sitting right on top of him like that.”

“He was in my seat. Anyway, it was probably the cookies you fed him. I saw the wrapping on those things. How long had those been in your purse?”

“A while,” I conceded. “But dogs have strong stomachs, don’t they?”

Kenneth looked back and grimaced. “I’m just saying. You might want to get to your destination soon.”

Luckily the storage facility was near the Port of Oakland, right at the eastern base of the bridge. Traffic was light, so we arrived quickly.

As usual, the entire port area was deserted. Oakland wasn’t great at signage, and I always wondered about hapless tourists who get off at the wrong freeway exit and meander, lost, amongst the huge shipping containers and storage facilities and desolate, uninhabited military housing. The old army post had long since been abandoned; the only parts of it still in obvious use were the outdoor athletic facilities. I remembered taking Caleb to Little League games out here from time to time, where if you forgot to bring drinks and snacks, you were in real trouble—there was nowhere to buy anything at all. Rarely even a sign of life.

At the big gate of the storage facility, I referred to the small notebook I kept in my glove box and reached over to the security pad to punch in the access code.

As I waited for the lumbering metal gate to open fully, I looked over at the office. There was a real live human at the main desk. Even from a distance I could see that he had greasy hair and acne, and if I were to judge him by his looks alone, I would assume he had a generally bad attitude. Then again, if I had to spend my eight-hour workday sitting at a desk out in the nearly abandoned military facility, watching what looked to be a daytime drama on a small TV on the counter, I might be just as grumpy.

I gave silent thanks for my day job. I might complain about the stress and responsibility, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Except for Paris, of course.

I found a shady spot near the main entrance to the storage building, hurrying to let the dog out. He bounded down and trotted around, sniffing the weeds at the edge of the blacktop, but he didn’t toss his cookies.

Graham pulled up behind me and climbed out of his truck.

“Shall we?” he said.

“It’s inside,” I said. The external compartments facing onto the parking court had been sold out when I rented the space, and I liked the increased security of the internal units. “Let me just put the dog back in the car.”

He jumped obediently into the rear seat when I opened the door for him.

To Kenneth I whispered, “Hey, stay here and watch the dog for me, will you?”

Kenneth looked pained. “I’m not really a pet person.”

“You’re not really a
live
person. Just watch him, in case . . . I don’t know. In case he needs to go out or something.”

“What am I supposed to do about it? I can’t open doors.”

“You can’t?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, well, if he seems like he needs something, come and get me.”

“How do I know where you’ll be?”

“Good question, except that you’ve known precisely where to find me every damned time I turn around.”

“That’s true.” Kenneth flashed another wary glance at the dog, who sat patiently in the backseat. “Don’t be long.”

I patted the dog on the head, cracked the windows, and slammed the door shut.

Inside the building, Graham and I walked down the long corridor, our footsteps echoing in the cavernous, empty concrete-and-metal space. The overhead lights were set on an energy-saving system, so they came on as we walked by but shut off after we passed. Other than a glowing green Exit sign over the door we had entered, the hallway behind us was pitch-black.

I could have sworn I heard a scrape or a footstep behind us. I swung around.

“What is it?” Graham asked, looking back as well.

Could it be Kenneth? Or someone else? Or nothing at all?

“Nothing,” I said with a shake of my head. “Imagination run amok, I think.”

I had been here before, plenty of times, sometimes as often as once a week, putting things in and taking things out. But somehow now this place seemed spookier than Matt’s house.

The last light blinked off as we moved out of range, but the one that was supposed to come on as we passed it failed to light up.

Darkness enveloped us.

Graham yanked a small but powerful flashlight from his utility belt and shone the beam both ways down the empty hall. No one here but us.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“Right here. Number one-eight-four.”

Graham focused the flashlight on the combination lock, but there was no need for me to work the dial. The lock hung open on the handle.

I looked up at Graham. His mouth pulled tight in a grim line. He reached down and rolled up the metal security door.

Matt’s crate, right in the center of the unit, had been pried open. Amber and red shards of glass littered the floor. There were mirrors, a few framed pictures, window and door hardware, a carved gold gilt wooden chair . . . everything strewn around the space, which also held other items from other jobs. Upholstered furniture had been ripped open, stuffing scattered.

“I can’t believe thi—”

I was shoved, hard, from behind.

I lost my footing and crashed into Graham. He caught me, but the force of the shove knocked us both off balance and we hit the floor with a painful jolt. I felt splinters of glass dig into my upper arm.

The metal door clattered down, trapping us. Graham pushed me unceremoniously aside and jammed his booted foot under the door just as it slammed toward the floor. Then he tried to shove it up, while someone in the corridor struggled to keep it down.

Graham grunted as the culprit stomped on his foot.

Graham whipped the gun we had found at Matt’s, still in its plastic bag, out of his jacket pocket and shoved the muzzle under the door.

He fired.

T
he door was released.

“Stay!” Graham shouted at me, flinging out a hand in the universal sign of
Stop
.

I crouched down, my ears still ringing from the blast of the revolver.

The metal door clattered up. Graham was gone.

I heard footsteps running down the dark hallway, but no more shots were fired. Grunts and sounds of a scuffle floated over to me as I rooted around in my satchel for my flashlight. At last, down at the other end of the corridor, an exterior door opened, letting a bright beam of light into the hallway. I saw the silhouette of a man slipping through the opening before the door slammed shut again.

“
Graham!
” I called out, flashing my light down the corridor.

“Here,” came his voice. “I’m okay.”

My light finally landed on Graham lying on the concrete floor not far from the exit. I ran to him and knelt by his side.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing.” He yanked away from the bright beam of my flashlight.

He struggled to his feet, limped to the door, and looked out. There was no way to tell which way our attacker had gone. No sign of life in the parking lot other than the dog in my car, barking crazily.

“
Dammit!
”

In the light I could see that his right eye was already swelling.

I reached up to touch it. He winced and pulled back.

“That looks bad,” I said.

“Yeah, well, you should have seen the other guy.”

I laughed grudgingly, shaking my head. “You could have been killed.”

“Hey, I had the gun.”

“Yeah, about that . . . Was using that gun the smartest move on your part?”

“Not really, no. Blame it on the adrenaline.”

“I suppose we should report the break-in to the front desk? Call the police?”

“Yeah, about that—” He began to explain, but I interrupted him.

“
Graham
—if they were after something they thought had been in Matt’s house, and they knew about the storage crate . . . would they have gone after the piano next?”

“Where’s the piano?” he called after me. I was already running to my car.

“My dad’s house!”

I was placing a call to Dad even as I ran. No one picked up. Graham jumped in his truck and followed me as I sped toward the freeway. It took only ten minutes to get home; I broke my cardinal rule of never using the phone while driving, redialing my dad, and then Caleb, the whole way. Neither answered.

I saw the smoke the second I crossed International Boulevard.

The panic I was holding at bay shifted into high gear when I made the turn onto our street and saw the blinking red and blue lights of two police cars and a fire truck.

I pulled to a screeching halt and jumped out. The dog bounded after me.

My dad was standing with two police officers, chatting and laughing. He signed a form and handed it back to them, waving at me.

I ran up to him.

“Dad! What happened?” I demanded, trying to keep the panic from my voice.

“Don’t worry, babe. Someone got into the garage is all. No big deal,” Dad said.

The garage was still sending up whiffs of black smoke. Firefighters had sprayed the structure with water and foam and were already loading up their gear, preparing to depart. Ugly soot marked the tops of the windows and the main door, which had been axed open.

Caleb and Dylan stood by the smoldering ruins, checking it out, excited.

“Graham, good to see you,” my dad said with a significant glance at both of us. “You okay?”

Dad looked at me as though
I
was the one who had given the man a black eye.

“I’m fine, thanks, Bill,” Graham said. “Long story.”

“I’ll bet,” Dad said. “Sorry, Mel. I’m afraid your friend’s grand piano is history.”

“And your workshop, too, looks like,” I said.

He shrugged. “No one got hurt—that’s the important thing.”

“What happened?”

“You know how this neighborhood can be.”

True, it wasn’t the best part of town. But we knew everyone on the block, and with our active neighborhood watch group there had been very few problems in the years my parents had lived here.

“Looks like maybe they tried to get into the house, but Tom next door spotted them and called nine-one-one.”

“Everyone’s okay?”

“Yup. We weren’t even here at the time. The boys were still on their way home from school, and Stan and I were over at the union hall.”

The boys came up to us, thrilled, dog in tow.

“What’s his name?” Caleb asked.

“He has no name,” I said.

“Can we name, him?”

“No.” I tried to ignore Graham’s know-it-all look. “If we name him, we’ll want to keep him.”

“Why can’t we?” Caleb asked.

“Yeah! I love dogs!” Dylan chimed in. Both boys conveniently forgetting that neither of them officially lived here.

“I have no time or energy for a pet.”

“He’s gotta have a name, at least,” Caleb said.

“Just call him Dog,” I said. “Like the cat in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.”

“Wait, what?” Dylan asked, crouching by the animal and petting him with enthusiasm. “What cat?”

“Mel watches old movies from when she was a kid,” Caleb said, barely managing to stifle his impulse to roll his eyes. “Don’t ask.”

“Hey,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
is a classic film,” I said. “And for your information, it was made long before my time. I may be old, but I’m not
that
old.”

The boys looked at each other, laughed, and started running around on the lawn with the dog.

“Just don’t get too attached,” I warned, feeling like a curmudgeon of the highest order.

Caleb’s and Dylan’s real homes didn’t allow pets because the boys’ parents didn’t want hair all over their designer furniture. I couldn’t claim that excuse here at the less well-heeled Turner house; that much was certain. But the last thing I needed right now was yet another entanglement.

On the other hand, watching the teenagers roll around on the lawn like carefree kids—rather than in their usual personas as sullen, uncommunicative automatons—was the kind of treat that only a four-legged friend seemed able to inspire.

I walked over to peer into what was left of the garage/ workshop.

“Poor Matt,” I said as I looked at the remains of the once-beautiful piano. Keys had been ripped from it, the black lacquer finish had bubbled and cracked, the whole top had been hacked apart. One more thing gone wrong.