The Clockwork Teddy (4 page)

She squinted at my event nametag, hanging from a lanyard around my neck. “And you’re a teddy bear artist? There’s a major career change.”

“Yeah, I’ve gone from stiffs to Steiffs.”

“Huh?”

“Twisted teddy bear humor. Steiff is a world-famous teddy bear manufacturer.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The cop then turned to Lauren and said, “Any particular reason you didn’t tell me about this guy Bronsey?”

“I didn’t think there was any connection.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. So, who’s Kyle?”

There was a long pause before Lauren answered, “My son.”

“And why is this PI targeting you to get to your son?”

Lauren looked away. “I don’t know.”

The cop sighed. “Look, lady, there’s no point in me writing a crime report if you’re gonna lie to us. You
do
want this investigated, don’t you?”

“No . . . I’d just like to forget it ever happened. There wasn’t much money in the box, so . . . no . . . I don’t want to make a report.” Lauren knelt to pick up several teddy bears from the grass.

“Fine. And how about you? You want me to cut paper for the Two-Forty-Two?” the cop asked me, using the penal code section for battery.

“I won’t waste your time either. We both know that even if you did ID the guy in the bear suit, your DA’s office would never file the case because it’s a lightweight misdemeanor and I live out of state. Besides which, what’s the worst that could happen to the suspect? Six months of un-supervised probation concurrent with whatever else he’s currently serving?”

“Yeah, you were a cop all right.” The officer called to her partner. “C’mon, we’re Ten-Eight. No report.”

As I watched the cops walk toward city hall, I noticed a young and pretty Hispanic woman leaning against one of the building’s stone pillars. She was looking in our direction and I had the impression she was watching us, but the instant I made eye contact with her, she looked away. Obviously, word of the robbery had already spread through the teddy bear show and we were objects of curiosity. After a moment or two, I saw the woman pull a brochure from her rear pants pocket. She glanced at the booklet and then sauntered around the side of the structure.

Meanwhile, there was an uncomfortable silence between Lauren and me. She kept her gaze averted as she dragged the table over to its original spot, banged a small dent from one of the aluminum legs, and then retrieved the tablecloth from the ground. It was irrational, but I felt as if I’d let her down.

Finally, I said, “Look, I’m sorry if mentioning Bronsey upset you, but the police needed to know about him.”

She spread the white cloth over the table and then looked up at me. “It’s not your fault. I’m just so frightened and I don’t know what to do.”

“Understandable. You obviously need to talk to someone about this situation. Why not me?”

“Because you’re an ex-cop. You might . . .”

“Tell someone? Lauren, I’ve already pretty much figured out that the police must be looking for your son, too. I could have suggested to the officer that she run Kyle for wants and warrants, but I didn’t, did I?”

“You knew?” Lauren’s eyes widened with alarm.

“Yep. So, doesn’t that show you can trust me? Besides, the other thing you’ve got in your favor is that I’m automatically suspicious of anyone who’d hire a slimy character like Bronsey as a private investigator.”

There was a long pause before Lauren said, “Have you ever heard of Lycaon Software and Entertainment?”

“The company that put out that pet shop slaughter computer game last year?” I asked sourly.

Although I don’t play computer games, I knew that the Silicon Valley software behemoth, Lycaon, had made a fortune marketing evil and savagery as amusement. Their products were an obscene celebration of psychopathic behavior with heartwarming titles such as “High School AK-47 Massacre,” “Arson Carson: Torching the Mall,” and the aforementioned “Slay Day: Pet Shop.” They were games that could be played by the entire family—the Manson family.

Lauren saw the look on my face and sputtered, “Kyle didn’t have anything to do with that game. He worked in another department altogether.”

“Worked, as in past tense?”

“He quit on Wednesday. He just . . . didn’t fit in with the corporation’s culture. Then things got nasty.”

“Big surprise coming from a company like that. What happened?”

“Lycaon sent a couple of their security people to Kyle’s condo. Kyle wouldn’t open the door, so they kicked it open.”

“Because?”

“They claimed he’d stolen company property.”

“No offense intended, but did he?”

“My son is not a thief, but he could see what was about to happen, so he ran.”

“What do you mean?”

Lauren took a deep breath. “Lycaon was worried that Kyle was going to work for a competitor and they wanted to muddy the proprietary waters in advance.”

“Still not following.”

“Kyle was one of Lycaon’s top software designers. They want to keep him from making another company successful.”

Suddenly, I understood, and shook my head in reluctant admiration. “So, the best way to do that is to falsely accuse him of theft. It provides a platform for them to claim that anything he develops for some future employer was ripped off from his old one. It’s evil, but inspired.”

“And that was just the beginning. Not only did they hire that goon to harass me, they also made a report to the police and now there’s a warrant for Kyle’s arrest.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Two police detectives came to my house looking for Kyle early yesterday morning.”

“A criminal complaint filed and an arrest warrant issued in less than two days? That sounds like they dropped everything to work the case against your son.”

Lauren glowered. “Down in the Silicon Valley, if Lycaon says jump, the local government asks, ‘How high?’ ”

“I’m afraid politicians are like that pretty much everywhere. I’m assuming Kyle is in hiding, but that isn’t a permanent solution.”

“I know. He meets with an attorney on Monday morning.”

“That sounds like your best option. Can I make one suggestion, though?”

“What’s that?”

“The next time you see Bronsey, call the police and have him arrested. He doesn’t get a free pass to terrorize you, no matter what Lycaon is alleging against your son.”

She gave me a weary smile. “I will, and thanks for being so understanding.”

“It’s one of the prerequisites for members of the teddy bear community.” I patted her arm. “Take care. I know it started badly, but I hope you have a great show.”

Although I’d promised Ash I’d come right back to our table, I figured she wouldn’t object to me taking a brief detour to my original destination, Penny French’s booth. Her table was packed with wonderful bears, but one in particular grabbed my attention. It was a bruin dressed in a bumblebee costume, complete with stubby antennae, climbing up an artificial tree bedecked with yellow flowers. I knew Ash would love it, but the piece was almost three feet tall, and I didn’t see how we’d be able to take it home on the plane. Fortunately, Penny showed me that the tableau was easily disassembled, and would fit into a large suitcase. I bought the bear and told her I’d come back for it at the end of the day. As I limped toward our table, I was pleased to have found the perfect gift—and also curious what the TSA X-ray operator would make of it when he scanned our luggage.

Two women were leaving our booth as I approached, one of them hugging a paper bag containing one of Ash’s most recent creations, Rhea Red Velvet Cake, a bear made from scarlet plush fur and wearing a fabric cake-wedge costume. Meanwhile, Ash was restocking our table with fresh bears, which meant there’d been lots of customers. I was also pleased to see that she’d apparently received my earlier psychic distress signals and had removed Mc-Bear-ett from the table. Hopefully, that had happened before the Quinlans were in the neighborhood. I still had high hopes that one of Ash’s bears would end up in their museum.

“That was mostly a big waste of time,” I said as I lowered myself onto one of our wood-and-canvas folding chairs.

“How do you mean?”

“Lauren declined to press charges.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“It’s your basic can of worms. Her son has been accused of stealing from his former employer and Bronsey was hired to recover the Four-Ninety-Six stuff.” I used the California penal code section for Receiving Stolen Property. “Fortunately, it’s none of my business.”

“Thank you, God,” Ash said mock-reverently as she gazed skyward.

“And thank
you
for putting Mc-Bear-ett under the table.”

“I didn’t. He was the very first bear we sold this morning.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, and you’ll never guess who bought it.”

“Someone with very bad eyesight?”

“No, the Quinlans. They’re delightful people and Steve Mc-Bear-ett is going to be in the Teddy Bear Museum.” Ash’s eyes were bright with joy. “Honey, I’m so proud of you.”

“I don’t understand. I saw them shortly after I left our table and they didn’t look insane.”

“Of course they aren’t. I really wish you’d realize that you’re getting to be an accomplished bear artist. Susan said that she’d never seen anything like Mc-Bear-ett.”

“That isn’t necessarily a compliment. Besides, why buy Mc-Bear-ett when they could have had one of your Confection Collection bears?”

“That’s the other piece of great news.” Ash was grinning from ear to ear. “They bought Becky Birthday Cake, and she’ll be in the museum, too!”

Three

Not only were two of our bears selected for the Quinlan Museum, the Plaza was packed with fur fanatics and it was our most successful sales day ever. We sold all but one of the pieces we’d brought from Ash’s Confection Collection, most of her more realistic-looking big cat soft sculptures, and a cop’s girlfriend even bought Jon and Ponch, a pair of plush bears I’d dressed in California Highway Patrol motorcycle officer uniforms. The day flew by and before we knew it, it was five o’clock and time to start packing up.

Although we’d been busy since morning, the adrenaline of the day kept both of us from feeling tired. This was a good thing, since we had a dinner date with my old partner Gregg Mauel and his wife, Susie. We drove to our motel in Novato, took showers, and changed clothes, and then headed south on the 101 Freeway toward Sausalito. We were distressed to see how much new development had taken place along the freeway corridor since we’d moved away and were also taken aback by how oppressively brown and parched the hills looked. Even the clusters of eucalyptus trees dotting the slopes were more of an ashy gray than green and seemed shabby compared to the emerald forests of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Although it tends to be a little too touristy, I like Sausalito. Built on the coastal hills above the north side of the bay—which provides one of the more panoramic views of the San Francisco skyline and the Golden Gate Bridge you’ll ever find—it is a tidy and fashionable small town. I particularly appreciate the architecture in the commercial district. It’s an eye-pleasing mixture of styles that were popular in the decades before the soulless stucco and glass box became the norm for California business buildings.

Our destination was Scoma’s of Sausalito. The popular eatery was located right on the water in a restored Victorian-era building that had once housed a ferryboat service. It had been one of our favorite restaurants when we’d lived in San Francisco, where we’d often celebrated anniversaries, birthdays, and the occasional murder conviction.

The restaurant was crowded, but we’d reserved a table by the big plate glass windows overlooking the sailboatdotted bay. Gregg and Susie were already waiting for us when we arrived. With his kind eyes, silvery-gray hair, and customary expression of gentle amusement with the world at large, Gregg looked more like a benevolent minister from some Protestant sect than the hard-nosed homicide cop he was. And Susie looked as if she could have been Ash’s cousin. Both were blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful.

We began our reunion by ordering a bottle of Napa Chandon Brut, and when the sparkling wine arrived, we clinked glasses as I offered a toast to the ladies. Then we chatted as easily as if we’d only seen the Mauels the previous weekend, instead of nearly two years ago, which is the mark of a true and abiding friendship. Naturally, it wasn’t long before the topic switched to cop work.

I asked Gregg, “So, who’s your partner now?”

“Danny Aafedt. It’s not the same as working with you . . .”

“You’re lucky to be partnered with him. Danny’s a damn good detective.”

“With the added benefit that I know he’s never going to sing the Monty Python ‘Lumberjack Song’ to a murder suspect . . . unlike someone else I could name.”

“It was just a subtle way of letting the macho man know that we knew he was a cross-dresser.” I chuckled at the memory. “And he did cop to the murder.”

“One of many. We were one hell of a team.” Gregg held the glass up to salute me.

My voice suddenly thick, I said, “Will someone please change the subject before I get all soggy with nostalgia?”

Susie asked Ash, “Are you guys going to get together with Heather?”

“We’re having brunch with her tomorrow. She’s on duty tonight,” said Ash.

“Do you ever see her?” I asked Gregg.

“Not often. She’s mostly working nights, but I hear she’s doing a great job. How do you feel about her transfer to dope?”

I glanced out the window at the San Francisco skyline, which was now beginning to glitter with lights. “I’m proud she was promoted to an investigative job so quickly . . .”

“But he worries.” Ash took my hand. “We both worry.”

“Working street narcotics enforcement in plainclothes is dangerous. Why didn’t she take that assignment in the property crime unit?” I asked, momentarily forgetting our dinner companions.

“Because the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.”

“It wasn’t as crazy out on the streets when I worked dope.”

Ash smiled in gentle amusement. “Brad honey, you can’t even look me in the eye when you say that.”