Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (54 page)

I left The Beanery and hurried back to Stanyan Street. The print shop stayed open until nine; I could use its phone again. Once seated at Daphne's desk, I dug out the M-Z volume of the Yellow Pages and turned to taxicabs. I was about to dial Checker when I reconsidered and looked up its address; it was on Eighth Street, not too far from the Hall of Justice. I'd get better results, I reasoned, if I made my inquiry in person.

Next I called Daphne and Charlie's flat. She answered and said the girls were still there, amusing themselves on the home computer. I told her she might be stuck with them for quite a while; Gerry hadn't bothered to ask their address, and anyway, he hadn't looked as if he were thinking about resuming the responsibilities of fatherhood when he'd stormed out of the coffee shop. Daphne said that was fine, the girls could always sleep on the couch, and if Gerry did show up, she'd handle him gently.

I pressed the disconnect button and redialed. Ted answered the phone at All Souls. No, he said, there was no message from Bob Choteau. The only one was from Rae. She'd said it was urgent—

"I can't deal with that now. If she calls again, tell her you haven't heard from me."

"She sounded upset—"

"Ted, I'm working a case. Rae's problem will have to wait."

"Okay, if that's the way you want it, I'll say you haven't checked in." He sounded disapproving.

I handled it the same way I've been handling my mother's plaints about my unmarried state all these years—by ignoring it, but not without guilt. Then I set off for the Checker Cab Company.

The dispatcher in the office inside the cavernous, echoing garage was busy. It took her forty-five minutes to search the trip logs for the cab that had picked up Irene Lasser, and its destination. The only reason she did it at all was that she was one of those people who are fascinated by private investigators. She kept mumbling about some TV crime show with the word
hire
in its title. Since I don't watch much TV—except for the news and old movies—I didn't know what she was talking about. But I nodded and commented vaguely and smiled and worked at concealing my impatience. At close to ten she finally located the correct notation in one of the afternoon logs.

The cab had picked up two fares at The Castles and traveled to Rudy Goldring's building on the block-long alley called Stillman Street.

It surprised me, but I didn't think it strange that Irene would go there again. She and Rudy had been good friends; it was likely that she had a key to his flat. And the flat would make an ideal place to hide: it was in a commercial area where few people would see her coming and going, and no one save for Mrs. Halvorsen—the skeleton staff of Goldring Clothiers— would even suspect she was there.

One thing bothered me, though. Had I been in Irene's circumstances, I was not sure I would have taken my small daughter to stay in the place where a close friend had been murdered. I especially would not have wanted to spend a night there after I'd had the traumatic experience of discovering his body.

Irene had more nerve than I'd previously suspected. Or maybe she hadn't really been such a good friend to Rudy.

Either way, in a short time I'd find out what was going on. Stillman Street was close by.

The short street was deserted now. Most of the vehicles that crowded its curbs by day were gone. The old warehouses and factories were monolithic, their blank facades broken only by high many-paned windows that glinted blackly in the light from the street lamps. The fog hung thick and motionless; it seemed to mute the sounds from the surrounding streets and the hum of traffic on the elevated freeway.

I stopped the MG across from Goldring's Victorian and stared at the upper windows. The bay of the front room was heavily draped, but a telltale strip of light outlined it.

Stupid of Irene, I thought. If she doesn't want anyone to know the flat is occupied, why doesn't she stay in back, in the bedroom or kitchen?

Then I remembered the kitchen, and Rudy's body sprawled in front of the stove. Of course she would keep as far from that room as possible.

I remained in the car, considering my options. Ringing the bell would produce no results, except to panic Irene. She wouldn't answer the door, and she might flee again—this time to Lord knew where. I couldn't loid the lock; it looked to be a dead bolt. The offices downstairs would be similarly secure. Break a window? Too much noise.

Then I remembered Bob Choteau saying that "the captain" had let him sleep in the shed off the garage. That meant the shed had been left unlocked for him. Would anyone have thought to lock it up after Rudy died? If not, there might be some way to enter the building from there.

I studied the house some more. The garage was under the two-story window bay; a narrow cement path ran alongside it. It was dark back there, so I reached behind my seat for the good-sized flashlight I keep there. Of course it had rolled forward and was wedged tight; finally I had to get out of the car and move the seat to get at it.

Flashlight in hand, I hurried across the alley to the pathway.

The shed was about six feet back from the sidewalk—a small structure with a sharply pitched roof that leaned against the main building. There was a padlock on its door, but when I touched it I realized it was merely positioned to look closed. It broke apart easily; I removed it and tugged at the hasp. The door opened, scraping on the concrete.

Quickly I turned the flash on and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

It was a cozier space than the one Bob Choteau currently occupied: about four by six, cleanly swept, empty except for some wood planks stacked against the wall that adjoined the house. There were a few shelves holding the usual array of dribbly-sided paint cans, rusted tools, glass jars full of screws and nails, and ends of rolls of wallpaper. There was no door leading into the garage. Or was there?…

The lumber looked carefully stacked. Too carefully, considering the disorder of the shelves. I went over and shined the flash around it. There was a door, all right; the lumber had been arranged to conceal it.

I set the flash on the end of a shelf and went to work moving the lumber, all the while reflecting that it was the simple contrivance of a man who had been more trusting and naive than he ought to have been. The type of lock on the door confirmed my impression; it took me only a minute to force it.

Inside the door was the garage. A handsome old Buick—the kind with portholes—stood there. Beyond it were an ancient washer and dryer, and then stairs leading to the first floor. The door at their top opened into the gray-carpeted hallway of the offices. I paused outside the door, listening for sounds of occupancy. The place held that humming silence that tells you no one is there.

I had an idea that there might be another stairway at the rear, where service porches have been added on to many Victorians, so I moved along the hall to the area where Rudy had said he did his fittings. When I pushed open the door at the very end, there was a sudden flare of light and motion.

Adrenaline pumped through me. I flattened myself against the wall and took out my gun.

Nothing further happened.

After a moment I pushed the door further open and shone the flash inside.

Its beam glared off the silvered glass panes of a mirrored room. The motion I'd seen had been my own, reflected back at me. I stepped inside and swung the light around. There were mirrors on three walls, so the customer could view his body from all angles. The fourth wall contained a wet bar flanked by comfortable chairs. As I crossed to a door next to the bar, I caught sight of my own rueful smile.

Beyond the door was an enclosed service porch crammed with cardboard cartons; the stenciling on them said they contained mailing boxes. There was a stairway to the second story, but the cartons blocked access to it. I shoved at one of the stacks and found it too heavy to move. Finally I set the gun and flash down and began moving them one at a time.

Before I started up the stairs I turned off the flashlight and jammed it into my bag. The gun I continued to carry. I groped slowly upward, splinters from the wooden railing pricking at my fingers. The stairway stopped at a landing and then switched back on itself; when I rounded the turn, I could see a rectangle of light spilling over the upper porch.

I crept to the top of the stairs and looked around. The light came from the kitchen window, which overlooked the porch. I remained where I was, listening. At first I didn't hear anything, but then there were voices, growing louder, as if people were coming along the hall to the kitchen.

One voice sounded like Irene's. The other was a man's and seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it. Nor could I yet make out what they were saying.

The porch was crowded with stacks of bundled newspapers, pop bottles and wine jugs, bags and boxes full of aluminum cans. Obviously Rudy had been a recycler. I crouched lower and moved among the clutter toward the window, avoiding the patch of light.

The voices were clearer now—not the words, but their tones. Irene's was high-pitched, seesawing up and down. The man's was deep, made ragged by anger. I crept directly under the window and leaned up against the wall.

The man's words became distinguishable first—but his voice was muffled enough so that I couldn't quite place it. "… none of this would have happened if you hadn't sent that card to Jane. Wilkonson wouldn't have gotten all stirred up about the kid he'd never seen—"

She interrupted him, but the words were muted.

"Don't give me that! You knew she'd show it to him. It's almost as if you
wanted
all this to happen. And now if you're right about who killed Wilkonson—"

More garbled syllables.

"No, we're not going back to the living room. I want you to face up to what your selfishness has caused. Take a look, Irene—that's where your friend Goldring died. Take a good look at the chalk marks and the bloodstains."

She must have turned toward the window then, because her voice came louder. "I told you I couldn't stand to come back here!"

"Poor sensitive Irene can't stand to come into the room where Rudy died. Couldn't bear to bring her precious baby girl to the place where a murder was committed, so she foisted her off on friends."

That surprised me. Gerry Cushman might have lied about Irene taking Susan with her, but I didn't think so. He had no reason to, and besides, the cab company's log showed that two fares had been picked up at The Castles and dropped at this address, with no intermediate stops. If the second fare hadn't been the child, who was it? And where was Susan?

The man added, "You're always such a victim. And you'll never take responsibility for anything, will you?"

"Me take responsibility? If it wasn't for you—"

Irene's words broke off in a scream of pain.

My hand tensed on the gun.

Silence. Then I heard her sob.

"Go ahead, cry."

I wished I could place that voice!

"I don't see the point of this," her tear-clogged voice said. "We should be doing something."

"What?"

No reply.

He said, "It's all coming unraveled now. If you just hadn't sent that card. If Wilkonson hadn't started running around like a crazy man. Even then you could have defused it, or I could have—if only Goldring would have told me how to contact you."

Irene said, "You tried to get Rudy to tell you where I was? How did you even know about him?"

The man didn't reply; he must have realized the slip he'd made. I did. Perhaps Irene did, too.

She said, "Never mind—I think I can guess. You had no right…
When
did you go to him?"

"A long time ago." Now his reply was too quick.

"I don't believe that. You were the one who came to see him last week. How else would you have known where he died?"

"
You
were the one who said you couldn't stand to come into the kitchen. Besides, there are the chalk marks—"

"No, I said I couldn't stand to go into the
back rooms
of the flat. I didn't say anything about the kitchen."

Another silence. Then, "Well, whatever happened, it's all your fault. Everything, damn you."

She screamed again. I'd once heard a dog scream like that—when it was hit by a truck. But this deliberate torture of a human being was even more terrible.

I looked at the door to the kitchen; it was secured by a dead bolt. The window was closed, probably locked.

There was a thump, and Irene began to cry hysterically.

I stood up and thumbed the safety off the .38. Snatched one of the heavy wine jugs with my left hand. Backed off a step and swung at the window. The lower pane shattered. I dropped the jug and aimed the gun two-handed through the opening.

"Freeze!" I yelled.

I couldn't see Irene. The man had his back to me but was pivoting.

"Freeze!" I yelled again.

He completed his turn, then dodged to one side. In the millisecond before I fired, I recognized him.

Hal Johnstone.

My shot missed Johnstone. He lunged for the window. I stepped back, fired again. The bullet tore into the frame. Johnstone leaned across the sill, karate-chopped at my hands.

Pain shot through my wrists. I dropped the gun. As he jumped down onto the porch, I scrambled away.

The gun wasn't in sight. I darted behind a stack of newspapers. Shoved it at him.

It hit him across the thighs; he stumbled. He was panting, and blood trickled down from a cut on his right cheek. I backed toward the stairway, tipping over a bag of cans and sending them rolling. I still couldn't see my gun.

Johnstone righted himself and shoved the newspapers aside. I whirled. My shoulder bag caught on the newel post; I wrenched its strap off my arm and kept going.

Johnstone was close behind me. His hands slammed into my back. I pitched down the stairway.

I raised my hands to break my fall; they met with nothing but air. My knees hit the bottom step, and I fell forward and my head smashed into the wall of the landing.

The stairs shook under Johnstone's weight. He hurtled over me. There was more pounding and shaking, a crash from below.