Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (56 page)

"I know what you mean." I myself had experienced that pane-of-glass phenomenon earlier in the year, during a period of burnout when the cumulative weight of the misery and tragedy and horrors I'd seen professionally had threatened to incapacitate me. "How did you react when you realized you were pregnant?"

"At first I just plain denied it. It couldn't be happening to me. I felt terribly ambivalent—I'd always wanted a child, but I didn't want Hal's. I knew I should do something, either get an abortion or make plans for myself and the baby, but I didn't feel equal to the effort. It took Hal coming back to the ranch—after three months, when there had been no repercussions—to snap me out of it. I left two days later."

"But in the meantime, he found out you were pregnant."

"Yes, from Frank—when he came to the house thinking the baby was his and wanting to see me. From the timing, Hal figured out he must be the father. He confronted me, and I admitted it. He told me I'd have to leave the ranch. I'd already made up my mind to go. I suppose my meekly complying is one of the reasons Hal claims I'm a victim. Well, I was once. But never again."

Now she seemed drained. She slid her hands along the tabletop toward me, then leaned forward, her head against her forearms.

I put my hands over hers. This time she didn't pull away.

"Irene," I said, "both you and Hal seem to think you know who killed Frank. I heard you discussing it when I was out on the service porch. Who is it?"

"Harlan."

"Why?"

"Frank tried to see him a couple of times, to ask about friends or relatives I might have in the Bay Area. Hal was able to intercept him both times, but Frank was so determined that they fought, and Hal suspects he may have gotten to his father another time. Harlan's been drinking more heavily than ever in the past few weeks, and the reservoir where Frank's body was found is a place he knows well, one where he would have supposed a body wouldn't be found until spring. It all fits."

It did—and yet it didn't. I said, "Where do you think Hal's gone? I've got to have an APB put out on him."

She slipped her hands out from under mine and sat up. "Back to the ranch, I suppose. No, wait—Hal thinks Susan is at The Castles. He might go there—to try to get hold of her, so he could force me to keep silent about Rudy, as well as about Harlan. He might harm the girls. Or Gerry."

I noticed she didn't mention Vicky, and decided that she probably didn't care what happened to her. Then I reminded myself that I shouldn't be so quick to judge a situation about which I really knew very little. Besides, I thought—somewhat uncharitably—Vicky was so crazy that she was more than a match for Hal.

I said, "The security system at The Castles is very good. And Gerry and the girls may not even be there." I explained briefly about my earlier meeting with him, and how he'd stormed out and neglected to reclaim his daughters. "The best way to deal with this," I concluded, "is to call there."

There was a phone on the wall behind me. I got up and dialed the now-familiar number for The Castles. Vicky answered, sounding normal for a change. I identified myself and asked for Gerry.

"Sorry," she said, "he's not here. He went off a few hours ago with the girls. He even forgot to take his keys to the compound. I suppose they'll be late and I'll have to wait up and let them in."

"I think the girls are going to be spending the night with a friend of mine."

"Oh? Who's that?" She sounded oddly unconcerned.

I explained about Daphne and Charlie.

"I know them. They own the print shop I use. I suppose I could go round and collect the kids."

"They're probably asleep by now."

"You're right, it's better they just stay there. Besides, it's Gerry's fault they're there at all; let him take responsibility."

Something about the way she spoke made me uneasy. "How are you doing, Vicky?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Now the undertone I'd heard surfaced: that out-of-kilter, losing-control tremor that presaged what her daughters called "one of her fits."

"Vicky—"

"Where the hell is Gerry, anyway?"

"I don't know."

"You do too. He's finally run off with that bitch, hasn't he?"

"Of course not."

"He has too. Answer me, you!"

I hung up on her. If I'd thought she would have listened to me, I'd have advised her to call her therapist.

I glanced at Irene. Vicky had been screaming loud enough that she'd heard a good part of it. Before she could speak, I said, "Don't blame yourself for her condition. You may have contributed, but this has been coming on for a long time."

"I know."

I turned back to the phone and called the SFPD. Gallagher was off duty, but I told another inspector in his unit that I'd overheard what seemed to be the next best thing to a confession in the Goldring case. The inspector took down the particulars and said he'd try to get in touch with Gallagher. I should stay right where I was, he told me, until Gallagher called back.

Finally I called Daphne and Charlie's. She answered, sounding exhausted. The kids were still there, bedded down on the couch. There had been no word from Gerry. There was a message from All Souls for me, however.

She went away from the phone. When she returned, I could hear her yawning. "Ted called," she told me. "He said Bob called. At eleven forty-five. That's an hour ago."

I looked at my watch, feeling surprise at how late it was and guilt at disrupting my friends' lives this way.

"Bob says he'll talk to you," Daphne went on. "For fifty dollars. Not twenty—fifty. If that's okay, you're to meet Red— Are you following this?"

"Uh-huh."

"Meet Red at the McDonald's on Haight at one o'clock. That's fifteen minutes from now."

"Thanks. I owe you guys a big one."

"Don't worry," she said dryly. "We'll be sure to collect."

I hung up the receiver. Irene was watching me. "You'd best take Susan to a hotel," I told her. "It's not all that safe to stay here."

"All right. Are you going to wait for that cop to call?"

I thought of Gallagher; there was no telling how long it would take to reach him. Then I thought of the meeting with Red; he wouldn't be likely to wait. "No, I've got to go. When you're settled in somewhere, leave a message on my answering machine so I can reach you."

"Wait—where are you going?"

"There's somebody I have to meet."

I didn't know if I could get across town to Mac's Steak House—as Hank calls it—on time, but I'd try. There was one thing Gerry had told me earlier that I needed to confirm with Choteau. If I was now interpreting it correctly, it could present a whole new solution to the case.

Even the hard white neon of the McDonald's restaurant across from the park was softened by the fog. I left my car in the mostly deserted parking lot and hurried inside. It was one twenty-five.

Three customers hunched in widely separated booths in the dining area. They were all shabbily dressed men, but none was Red.

I turned toward the serving counter, where a plump young woman stood staring vacantly at a spill on the fake terra-cotta floor. The trays under the warming lights were almost empty; from the area behind them came the sound of desultory conversation. The soft drink machines hummed, and hidden mechanisms clicked and whirred.

When I asked for a cup of coffee, the woman barely shook off her lethargy. She fetched it at a plodding pace; when she rang up the price on the computerized keyboard, I noticed dark smudges under her eyes. I paid her and asked, "Have you seen a skinny man with longish red hair hanging around in the last half hour?"

A silent shake of her head was all the reply she could muster.

I took the coffee to a window booth from where I could see the corner of Haight and Stanyan. Traffic was light, foot traffic even lighter. Beyond the intersection, the park lay in impenetrable fog-filtered darkness. I thought about Red and Bob, and the secret lives they lived there. I tried to picture how the park—so familiar by day—looked when rendered alien by nightfall.

When I next checked my watch it was one forty-seven. No one had come into the restaurant after I had; those there before me had scarcely moved. I felt as if I were caught in some frozen bubble in time—one that was harshly lit, exposing me for the rest of a hostile world to view.

One fifty-three. I finished my coffee. Briefly I considered another cup, decided against it.

Come on, Red, I thought.
Now
!

As if in response to my summons, a figure emerged from the park and started across the intersection. It was a man with longish red hair held off his forehead by a blue bandanna. He wore a light-colored down jacket that fluffed out around him as he walked. He looked to be the same man I'd glimpsed twice near the windmill.

The man came to the street side door of the restaurant and looked around furtively before entering. When he stepped inside, the woman at the counter became more alert. He scanned the room, saw me, and started toward my booth.

The counter clerk opened her mouth to call after him, but I held up a staying hand. Red glanced at her, then grinned nastily, showing crooked yellow teeth. "Fuckin' people," he said. "Aways tryin' to run you off if you look like you don't have the price of a fuckin' hamburger." He sat, eyes narrowing slyly. "Buy me a burger, lady? And some fries?"

"Quarter Pounder or Big Mac?"

"Quarter, with cheese. Coke. Large fries."

I went up to the counter and placed the order, throwing in a hot apple pie for good measure. The woman looked curiously at me but boxed it up silently. The food had probably been standing in the warming trays for some time, but I didn't suppose Red would mind.

When I got back to the booth, he was licking sugar out of a packet some previous customer had left on the table. He nodded brusque thanks and started eating rapidly, as if he were afraid the meal might be taken away from him.

I said, "Where's Bob?"

He gulped Coke. "I'll take you there—after you hand over the cash."

I shook my head. "You'll bring Bob to me—after you get
half
the money."

"He don't want to leave the park."

And I didn't want to go there—not with Red, at night. "I won't make him go far. You know the lane that runs alongside Kezar Stadium?"

He nodded.

"It's dark there and not patrolled much. Neighborhood people cut through there and use it to park their cars; if anyone notices us, that's what they'll think we're doing. I'll be there in fifteen minutes, in a red MG parked next to the chain-link fence."

Red hesitated, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay. Here's how it is: I want twenty-five for me, fifty for Bob."

"What I heard was a straight fifty."

"Lady, I'm taking a risk bringing him there. He's wanted; they could get me as an accessory."

I sighed. These days, everybody's a lawyer. "All right. I don't have time to haggle. I'll give you thirty-five now, the rest after he and I have talked. Are you ready?"

He balled up the wrappings from the fast food, stuck the apple pie in his jacket pocket, and held out his hand.

I counted out thirty-five dollars and passed it over to him. "Remember—fifteen minutes. Don't be late."

The lane next to the old and largely unused stadium was deserted. I pulled up next to the fence and killed the MG's engine. It was silent there, save for the regular bellow of the fog horns out at the Golden Gate and the occasional swish of tires on the streets to either end. A security light shone down through the branches of the overhanging cypress trees, casting a web of shadows on the hood of my car.

I was edgy and keyed up, sure my investigation was approaching its climax. My nervousness may have been heightened somewhat by the place I'd chosen for the meeting: years before, one of the principals in another case had been murdered only yards from here. Now the scene returned vividly to my consciousness. I shook off the memory, took the .38 from my bag, and set it on my lap.

Ahead of me was the intersection where King Drive winds off into the park, between the heavily vegetated area known as Whiskey Hill and the children's carousel and playground. There was a traffic light there, but it was set to cycle only when cars approached from the park, or at a pedestrian signal. I watched the occasional car pass through it. A police cruiser went by. A few minutes later I saw another. The patrols seemed unusually heavy for this hour; I began to wonder if the search for Bob had been stepped up. If so, I might have unwittingly led him into danger.

Fourteen minutes went by. Sixteen.

I thought of Gallagher. By now the inspector who had caught my call would have contacted him. Gallagher would have called Rudy Goldring's flat and gotten no answer. He'd be furious with me, justifiably so. I'd better have something to deliver.

Nineteen minutes. Twenty.

And then I spotted Red's down jacket, fluffing out peculiarly as he walked. Bob was next to him; they were approaching the traffic signal, looking around cautiously, waiting for a van to go by. They started across—

A siren whooped. Red and blue flashes stained the pavement. The men froze in the headlights of a black-and-white that had suddenly appeared. It skidded to a stop across the mouth of King Drive and its doors flew open.

Red started running back toward the park. Bob just stood there. One of the cops was on the cruiser's microphone now, yelling for them to freeze.

Red dove into the shrubbery at the periphery of Whiskey Hill. A warning shot boomed out. Bob raised his hands above his head.

"Goddammit," I said as I watched the cops approach him. "There goes my thirty-five bucks."

It was gross self-interest, but I felt far worse about the loss of the money and my inability to question Bob than I did about him being arrested. At the jail he would be fed, clothed, given a warm place to sleep and medical attention, should he need it. By the time they apprehended Hal Johnstone and released Bob, he would be in much better shape for a winter on the streets. And given that Rudy Goldring had left him five thousand dollars, he might not have to spend another night out in the cold for a long time—if ever. I'd make sure to seek him out and convince him I hadn't deliberately led him into a police trap. Perhaps I could find him some sort of job similar to his post as "doorman" that would supplement his small inheritance and provide beer money.