Samson's Deal: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) (26 page)

“I’ve got a little money.”

“Yeah?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Nice for you. And of course you write articles.”

“Right.”

“But not very many. What have you had published lately?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh huh. We know that already. Too bad there’s no reward for turning in Cutter.” He looked at my jeans and flannel shirt. “Looks like you could use a few dollars.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty sold on Cutter,” I probed.

“Does it?”

“Okay, Hawkins, I came to tell you something. You want to hear it or you want to play games?” Dangerous to talk to a cop that way, but I was getting damned tired of acting like a twerp.

“I’m after your ass.”

“You can’t have it.”

He grinned at me. “Why don’t you do it legally?”

“Do what?”

He shook his head. “Shit. I hope you came to tell me who beat you up. And why. I know,” he added sarcastically, “that you want to protect your sources and all that crap, but I also know you’ve been withholding information. And this is homicide. And you’re going to tell me or you’re going to jail. How’s that?”

Not bad
, I thought. Especially since he knew I was there to tell him something. Good guess.

“Very direct,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.” I started out by telling him I’d heard some vague rumors about some drawings. I didn’t tell him I’d broken into Cutter’s flat to get them or that I’d ever had them. What I said was that I asked Cutter about them, and his friend Frank had beaten me up for asking. Then I said that Cutter had accidentally dropped Frank’s name, and I’d finally found him the day before.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this stuff before?” Hawkins’s voice was soft and dangerous.

“I didn’t know anything to tell you. Just that I’d heard about the drawings and was trying to find out if they existed and where they were. For my article.”

“I suppose it didn’t occur to you that they might be important evidence?”

“No,” I insisted, “they were just art to me. But I got to thinking about it last night after I saw Frank Shane. That maybe these guys don’t just beat people up for asking questions. That maybe they were trying to cover something up. That whoever had the drawings had gotten them from Margaret Bursky, and maybe that person killed her. I just hadn’t been thinking along those lines. After all,” I added parenthetically, “I’m not a policeman anymore. I’m not used to thinking in those terms. It seemed more like they were trying to cover up something about their organization. The faces in the drawings. A whole separate issue.” I hoped my acting was better than I thought it was.

He wasn’t buying any of it. “Uh huh. And now you’ve thought about it and decided to let us in on your little secrets.”

“I didn’t know what to think, but I figured it was your business not mine.”

He laughed shortly; it was more like a bark. “And you weren’t withholding evidence because you never had any, right?”

I nodded, trying to look dumb and praying some very intelligent prayers.

“Were you seriously injured?” he asked solicitously.

I thought about it. A cracked rib, a few stitches. He’d had a gun, but I couldn’t prove that. The broken bone did make it battery with serious bodily injury. “Well, no…”

“And you want to make a complaint so we can slap his hand for picking on you?”

I knew that was about what it would amount to. And before they could slap his hand I’d be spending a lot of time with the city’s law-enforcement apparatus.

“No,” I said, “I just wanted to tell you what I know.”

“I appreciate that.” He didn’t mean it. “What’s the guy’s full name and address?”

I gave him Shane’s business address.

“Thanks. Now get the hell out of my office.”

I got out. I felt better.

There was still a chance that Hawkins could give me some trouble if Shane and Cutter both told him I’d stolen the drawings. But that seemed unlikely. Cutter would have to be more of a fool than I thought he was to admit he’d gotten those sketch pads from Margaret Bursky.

But there was no longer any question that Rosie’s right-wing political career was going to have to end. The police would be closing in on
CORPS
, and Hawkins had, after all, met her when we’d turned Cutter over to him. About all we’d need now would be for Hawkins to identify a member of that group as my friend Rosie. Rosie the ringer. He’d toss us both in jail and regret that there was no local Devil’s Island.

I stopped for lunch at a Chinese restaurant near downtown Oakland. The almond chicken wasn’t so good, but the fortune cookie was even worse.

The fortune said, “Someone in authority is watching you with an eye to promotion.”
Yeah
, I thought.
His
.

Loose ends were plaguing me. A dead artist. Radical students. Lunatic fringe groups. A will split four ways. A political science professor. A lot of real estate people.

Real estate.

Houses for sale could mean people coming and going. Maybe someone had seen something on Virgo Street the day Bursky was killed. A far-out chance and a tedious job, but I was getting desperate.

Not a bad afternoon for a drive in the hills. The sun had already dried the previous day’s mud, and the air was cleaner than it had been before the rain. Nothing’s more depressing than a good view of bad air.

There were two houses for sale on and around Virgo and a couple more not far away. Two of them had
SOLD
notices plastered across the
FOR SALE
signs. I wrote down the names and phone numbers of all the realtors. If the agencies themselves came up with nothing, I’d take the next step and talk to the householders.

The next stop was home. Rosie was off working somewhere, so I wrote a note, folded it over, and push-pinned it to her door. It said, “Rosie: Get out of C immediately. Will explain when I see you. Jake.” I was afraid we’d miss each other that night.

The cats were dozing in the sun and didn’t bother to greet me. There were some messages on my answering machine. One from Harley and one from Rebecca. Harley wanted me to call him back. I did. He was terse. He was in his office and wanted to see me right away.

Rebecca had left her office number. I guessed that meant she was anxious to talk to me, and she was. She wanted to see me that evening. I told her I was busy. I had a date with Iris.

“Why do you want to see me?” I asked her.

“Can’t we just have a friendly meal together, for God’s sake?” she replied indignantly. Lunch the next day was out for her, she said. Could I come to her house the next night, she wanted to know. I had a date with Faye that night, but I told Rebecca I’d stop by for a drink about five-thirty, if that was okay. It would have to do, she sniffed. I was beginning to feel like a substitute boyfriend.

When I got to Harley’s office he didn’t waste any time or cordiality on me.

“You’re off the case, Samson. There’s no case to be on. I’m paying you off today.” He pushed an envelope across the desk. It contained the second five thousand dollars, plus expenses. Payment in full. I didn’t ask any questions, just thanked him and left quickly. What the hell. I was beginning to think the investigation would drag on for weeks anyway, and I might as well get paid up front.

Harley was anxious to get rid of me, so anxious he was willing to pay me off. That was no big surprise. He believed the killer was in jail, and he wanted me out of his life. I was happy to be rid of him, too. At least now I could move ahead on the case without having to deal with him. That is, I could move ahead on it if I could be sure where I was going. I was beginning to get a few good ideas, but an idea isn’t proof, and it wouldn’t be easy to push the matter to a clear climax.

On my way back to my car I passed a group of
CORPS
people carrying their signs and heading in the direction of the political science department. Their silliness was unending. Didn’t they know that the social sciences had no effect on anything, anymore? Didn’t I know it? Did I?

Time to go home, shower, shave, clear my mind and make myself irresistible. I was picking Iris up at six-thirty. Ten minutes to get to her house from mine, twenty to get home from campus. That left only a couple of hours to get ready.

The note I’d left on Rosie’s door was gone, and she wasn’t home. Just like I thought. We would have missed each other. She’d come dashing home, pulled the note off her door, cleaned herself up, changed, and gone dashing out again. But she’d gotten my warning. Everything would be okay.

Still, I wished I’d had a chance to talk to her just to make sure.

Tigris and Euphrates greeted me effusively, standing on my feet and directing me to their empty dishes. I started the water running in the tub, fed the cats, selected my wardrobe for the evening, stripped, set a clock on the windowsill, and settled in. Even though I was about to go out with a woman I’d been thinking about for days, it was the death of Margaret Bursky that kept worming through my thoughts. A picture of how she’d died. The movements and events preceding and following that death. Blank spots, scenes in the film fading to black.

I checked the cottage on my way out. No Rosie. Come to think of it, why, I wondered, hadn’t she fed the cats if she was going out? She was probably planning to be back in an hour or so, I told myself. Nothing to worry about.

Five minutes late, as required by social law, I arrived at Iris’s house in South Berkeley in one of those neighborhoods-united-against-crime where everybody posts notices in their windows saying they’re keeping an eye on each other’s homes. Good investments, those neighborhoods. Usually.

The house was a small Victorian, frame, with a little gingerbread around the eaves. It was painted cream with royal blue trim. Six rooms, tops. I wondered if she owned it but decided not to ask.

She was ready and waiting for me. She looked luscious.

Our reservations were for seven-thirty at a place called Sheldon’s. It had one of the better bars along the Berkeley-Oakland line, and when the food was good, it was very good indeed. Continental. Served with style and grace. After dinner we were going into San Francisco to a club that showcased talent already well known locally and on its way to greater fame. Like L.A. The night approach to San Francisco across the Bay Bridge is a romantic sight, and I was looking forward to experiencing it with Iris. I tried to imagine how I’d feel about it with Faye but got confused and gave up.

The bar at Sheldon’s was crowded, and we couldn’t get a table right away. We drank our first drink standing, which was not conducive to conversation but was conducive to leaning on each other. When a table opened up, we took possession of it. Then I ordered our second drinks and excused myself. I knew I was probably being silly, but I felt nervous about Rosie. Maybe the note had blown off her door. Maybe she was right this minute being rounded up by Hawkins at a
CORPS
meeting. Maybe she’d need a sitter for Alice. I used the pay phone near the door. She wasn’t home. I let the maître d’ know we were in the bar so that he could let us know when our table was ready in the dining room.

Then I returned to the bar and told Iris how wonderful she looked. She wasn’t fooled.

“What’s wrong, Jake?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Iris. Nothing at all.” I smiled at her.

She smiled sweetly back at me. “Bullshit.” I flinched. “We’re supposed to be out having a good time. You’re distracted. You’re barely even here. But you don’t want me to worry my pretty little head about it, right?”

I didn’t tell her everything, simply that I was worried about a friend of mine getting a note that had to do with the case. That it was important. And that she could be in danger. Iris was great. She showed just the merest flicker of “What kind of movie is this anyway?” and then she accepted.

“Should we go to her house then?” she wanted to know, just as my name was called. Our table was ready.

“No,” I said decisively. “She’s probably out carousing somewhere, and we’d be ruining our evening for nothing. I’ll try to call again.”

We were seated at a nice table in a corner. Reasonably private in the dim light. We agreed on oysters on the half shell for starters. I ordered duck à l’orange and she ordered stuffed trout. We toasted our marvelous palates and ate the oysters with sensuality and a minimum of self-consciousness. When the waiter took away the ravaged shells, I excused myself again and went to the telephone.

Rosie answered on the third ring.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m glad you’re there. I’ve been worried. You got my note, didn’t you? On your front door?”

Silence. It dragged on. “Rosie? Didn’t you get my note?”

Another pause, then she laughed girlishly. “Why, no, Janie,’’ she said, “I’m sure I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“I put it on your front door early this afternoon. Later it was gone. You didn’t take it?” I was beginning to sweat.

She giggled again. “That’s silly, Janie. That’s not like me at all. You must be thinking of someone else.”

“Who’s there with you?” My voice cracked dryly.

“Listen, Janie, I can’t stay on the phone gossiping with you. I have company. I just got home, and this charming young man I met the other night was waiting on my doorstep…”

“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to calm myself down. How the hell did he know where she lived? Had he read the note? “Maybe it’s okay. Maybe he’s just so hot for you—Jesus, what are you wearing?” I got an image of her in work boots and flannel shirt. Or worse yet, the Gertrude Stein T-shirt. But she was still all right. He’d let her answer the phone, after all. “Do you think you’re bluffing him?”

“Oh, Janie. I really don’t think so.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I hung up and dashed back to the table.

“I have to go, Iris.” She jumped up, threw some bills on the table, and grabbed her coat.

“Let’s go,” she said.

It isn’t easy to drive down College Avenue fast. It’s not a wide street, and it’s usually jammed with cars. I cut down Alcatraz, over to a side street, angled onto Claremont, and zigzagged home, narrowly missing two collisions. Iris gasped only once, at the first near-miss.