Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (62 page)

"Whatever."

"Why didn't you just go directly to the police? Or get a lawyer?"

"We're afraid of the police, and we don't know any lawyers—or have
any money for one. Marc's parents were giving him an allowance, but
they cut it off as of the first of the year. That's the reason he's
letting me move in with him, to help with the rent."

"So you thought I'd work for free."

She hung her head. "Please."

"All right—tell me what you know."

"Do we have a deal?"

"I don't know what the police will do, but you and I have a deal."

She hesitated.

"Amy, I'm in no mood to play games! I've just come from South Park,
where there was an explosion at the club. At least five people are
dead—"

"The club exploded?"

"There was an explosion and fire, at about ten tonight."

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, running her fingers through
her limp hair. "Oh God oh God! Marc said he was afraid something awful
was going to happen. Oh God!"

I didn't see the connection between an explosion caused by a gas
leak and whatever it was Emmons knew—or claimed to know. But since
she'd obviously linked them in her mind, I used it to my advantage.
"You see? You'd better tell me all of it."

"I would, but I don't know much. Marc only told me certain things.
He said it was too dangerous for me to know everything."

I took a deep breath, tried to keep exasperation out of my voice.
"Okay, tell me what he did tell you."

She raised her head and looked around. "Do you think I could have a
drink? Some wine, maybe?"

I quelled a desire to take her by the shoulders and shake her, and
went to look for some. There was a jug of dangerously cheap red under
the sink that the health nut had apparently missed. I looked dubiously
at it, shrugged, and poured a glass. When I returned to the table, Amy
seized it eagerly.

"Okay," she said after taking a gulp, "I'll tell you what Marc told
me. About two weeks before she died, Trace found out something really
bad about somebody at the club. It upset her,
and she didn't know what to do about it. A 'moral dilemma' she called
it. Trust Trace to make it into a big deal like that. Anyway, she never
said anything about it to me. She wouldn't. But she told Marc. And he
said she ought to just forget it."

"And you have no idea what it was? Or how she found out?"

"No. Only that it was bad. It really bothered her. She wouldn't turn
loose of it. And Marc… well, this sounds awful, but he saw some
advantage in it for him."

"How do you mean?"

She hung her head and said in a low voice. "He went to the person
involved and told them. He promised to keep Trace from doing whatever
it was she wanted to do about it."

"In exchange for what?"

She looked up quickly. Her eyes were moist. I could tell she wanted
to deny the obvious, but that wasn't possible. "Money, maybe. I don't
know," she said miserably.

"Go on."

"Well, he had her pretty much convinced. But then, the night she
disappeared, Trace came over to Marc's. She was really upset; something
terrible had happened at the club. She said that at first she'd decided
to go up to the river and sort things out. But then she'd realized that
maybe she could salvage the situation—those were her exact words,
'salvage the situation'—by using the information she had. Marc tried to
talk her out of it for a couple of hours, and she finally promised him
she'd think it over up at the river for a day or so before doing
anything. But he already knew what she'd decide. And then she left, and
he never saw her again."

And he'd allowed Bobby Foster to be condemned to death while he kept
his silence and reaped its profits. Damn the Marc Emmonses of this
world!

"And that's it?" I asked harshly.

Amy licked her dry lips and took another gulp of wine. "Not exactly.
This is the bad part. It makes Marc feel responsible for her dying.
After she left his place, he made a phone call."

"To?"

"The person Trace had something on."

"Did he tell this person where she'd gone?"

"I guess. He wouldn't say." But her expression told me she suspected
he had.

"The son of a bitch traded Tracy's life for money."

Now Amy looked frightened. "He wouldn't have!"

Right, I thought. Trying to keep my voice level, I asked, "Do you
have any idea who this person is?"

"No."

"Not even if it was a man or a woman?"

She shook her head.

Well, there it was: the motive stronger than either male pride or
anger that I'd needed to make my scenario work, with Jay Larkey cast as
Tracy's murderer. She'd found out something damning about him—possibly
from the copy of the L.A. Times that Jane Stein had had at the
airport—and decided to blackmail him with it.

Blackmail, I thought. A vicious and stupid crime.

Tracy had exhibited nastiness previously, but it had been of a petty
variety, not really what one could term vicious. And she hadn't been
stupid. But she had been young. You do stupid things at that age. You
dramatize yourself, think you're invincible. You're sure you can match
your largely untried wits with those of the wiliest of the older
generation. And it is that naivete that makes you such easy prey…

I said, "You're sure that's all Marc told you?"

"Yes."

"And you haven't told anyone else about this?"

"Well…" She wriggled around on the chair, picked at her dirty,
ragged fingernails. "I called Jay this afternoon."

"You… why?"

"I was afraid for Marc. Being a comedian means more than anything
else in the world to him; it's all he's ever wanted to do. I thought if
I explained to Jay about the cops being after Marc, and how he'd had to
hide out, Jay would forgive him for not showing up for work and not
fire him. But I didn't tell him everything, just that we were staying
at the cottage and would be back soon."

"What did he say?"

"That Marc should clear things up with the cops, and then they'd
talk. I said I was going to get you and take you up there, so you could
help us cut a deal."

"Did Marc know you planned to call Jay?"

"I didn't plan anything. It just occurred to me while I was sitting
around the apartment waiting for you to get back."

"What time did you make the call?"

"I guess sometime after two."

If Larkey had interpreted what Amy told him to mean Marc planned to
trade what he knew about Tracy's death for immunity from prosecution,
he might have decided to drive to the river and attempt to dissuade
him—either verbally or with force. There would have been ample time for
that between her call and when the club opened. Stifling my alarm, I
said, "Why don't we drive up there and talk with Marc?"

"Sure. Can I use the bathroom first?"

"Of course," I said, trying not to sound impatient. "Upstairs, on
the right."

While she was up there, I went out to Ted's desk and checked the
chalkboard on the wall next to it for a message from Rae. There was
none. Was she still trying to get hold of the copy of the Times? I
wondered.

The phone on the desk rang, startling in the post midnight silence.
I picked it up. "All Souls Legal Cooperative."

"Sharon?" George's voice.

"Hi. I tried to call you at home earlier, but you'd gone out."

"Sorry—my mistake. When I said home in my message, I meant Palo
Alto, not the city."

Of course he would still consider the Palo Alto house home, and yet…
"Is everything all right?"

"Not really." Now I recognized an undertone of despondency in his
words. "Apparently the woman whose body they thought you found is still
alive. The Napa sheriff's department called to see if we could tell
them how to locate Tracy's earlier dental records. Unfortunately, they
contacted Laura rather than me."

A chill crept across my, shoulder blades. I should have called him
from L.A., I thought, even though it meant breaking the news to him on
the phone. And I should have repeated my warning about Laura being
emotionally unstable to Gurski when I told him about finding Mclntyre.

"Oh, George, I'm sorry! How is she?"

"Not good. She didn't know anything about a body turning up; I'd
kept it all from her. When she realized… well, it was a confrontation
with reality that she didn't need just now. She called me, and I got
hold of her therapist and drove down here. They're probably going to
admit her for observation at the med center."

"This is my fault. I should have warned Gurski again—"

"You knew about it?"

"I flew to L.A. this afternoon, thinking I'd located Tracy. Only it
was actually Lisa Mclntyre. I was planning to tell you in person."

There was a long silence.

Thoughts crowded my mind, each one jostling the previous one aside:
what a terrible thing for him to go through… a terrible thing for
Laura… he'll blame me… I blame myself… this will ruin what we have
between us… every time he looks at me, he'll see the woman whose
carelessness
caused this…

"Sharon? It's okay. None of this is your fault."

"I feel responsible."

"Don't." In spite of his weariness and depression, the flatness of
his voice was leavened by warmth. "I've got to go now, the therapist
wants to talk with me. But I'll call you as soon as I can."

The connection broke, and I was left clutching a silent receiver. As
I heard Amy coming down the stairs, I thought, I want to believe you,
George, I really do.

But why, why did you have to call Palo Alto "home"?

When Amy and I stepped through the front door, Rae was getting out
of her old Rambler American, which she'd parked so it was blocking the
driveway. She waved vigorously, her ratty brown coat billowing open,
blue and gold scarf trailing to the ground on one side.

"Got it!" she called.

"The paper?"

"Right." She loped up the steps, obviously wired. "From a friend of
Hank's. Calls himself an archivist. What I call him is a pack rat.
Weirdest-ass house you ever saw. Out in the Avenues, big place. The
upstairs is full of reference books and two of the fattest, ugliest
dogs in creation. I'm certain they're descended from pigs. Downstairs
is like the Catacombs, only the rooms are filled with newspapers,
rather than bones. Before he let me take this, he practically made me
swear on the heads of my unborn children to return it in good
condition. So guard it with your life, or we're all in deep shit."

She thrust the paper at me. I took it and said, "You're a genius!"

Amy was staring at Rae as if she found her fascinating. I made
introductions and explained where we were bound, omitting my concern
for Emmons's safety.

"You want me to go along?" Rae asked.

"Is there room for three in your car?" I asked Amy.

"I was kind of hoping we could take yours. Marc's isn't too
reliable; it was acting up on the way down here."

"And neither is mine," Rae said, "so that lets me out." She paused,
then added, "Awful about the fire at Café Comedie, huh? I heard about
it on the radio. Did Jay Larkey… ?"

"Probably." But I had begun to wonder about that. The bartender had
said the explosion was in back near Larkey's office, but he hadn't
actually placed his boss on the scene at the time. And there was also
the matter of the male phone caller who had hung up on Hank after
asking if I was back from Los Angeles and if Amy had contacted me yet.
That combination of facts was one which only Larkey had possessed. "Are
you going to be up for a while?" I asked Rae.

"For hours. I'm too wired to sleep."

"If anyone calls for me, will you tell him I'm still in L.A.? And if
he asks about Amy, say she's still here but asleep."

"Sure." Her eyes were curious.

Quickly I motioned to Amy and we went down the hill. I wanted her to
drive so I could look through the Times, but she said she couldn't
handle a stick shift. I considered checking the features section right
then and there, but my worry about Emmons was strong enough that I
decided not to waste any more time in getting to the river. Whatever
Tracy had seen in the paper might not hold any significance for me;
better to wait and let Emmons tell me his story—if he was in any
condition to.

There was little traffic on the freeway, and we made good time,
passing Richmond by one-thirty. Flame billowed from a remote tower at
the refinery on the shore; the faintly illuminated
storage tanks hulked on the dark hillsides. Amy was
uncharacteristically silent, her head turned away from me as she stared
out the side window.

At the other end of the bridge over the Carquinez Strait, the toll
taker yawned as she accepted my dollar bill. The neon of the
frontage-road businesses in Vallejo was softened by a light mist. Amy
stirred and pointed to a twenty-four-hour coffee shop. "Can we stop? I
need to use the bathroom."

What was it with her and bathrooms? I thought irritably. Probably
nervous, or maybe she wants to do some coke. Nothing would surprise me
anymore.

I pulled off the freeway, drove to the coffee shop, and parked in
front. "Don't take too long."

"Aren't you coming in?"

"I'll wait here." As she got out, I took the copy of the Times from
where I'd set it on the rear carrying seat and switched on the car's
dome light.

The features sections was called "View." I turned to it first. The
piece Tracy had used to demonstrate her new comedy technique—about the
woman who built the twenty-thousand-dollar doghouse—dominated the front
page. To its left was what looked to be a regular entertainment column;
below it was an article on the spring fashions. I turned to the inside:
a personality sketch of a New York-based cartoonist, with ads below the
fold. Similar arrangement on the facing page, with a horoscope and Dear
Abby.