Too Close to the Edge (25 page)

I walked back into the shack and, in hopes that I hadn’t rubbed off any fingerprints when I opened it before, used a handkerchief to open the door. Brad Butz looked even more like my grandmother’s doll as the waxiness of death seeped across his face. His bowels had emptied with the shock. The stench was nearly overwhelming. Perhaps that was part of the reason, but I felt none of the shocked sorrow I had when seeing Liz Goldenstern. There was horror—there always is—but my strongest reaction was anger and frustration.

Forcing myself to stay inside, I glanced around the tiny room. Cartons lined one wall. A desk jutted out from the other. Between them there was just enough room for Brad Butz to die in. I understood why Liz expected to see Butz and his partner talking outside. In here they would have been cheek to jowl.

I stuck my head out the door and took a deep breath. When I pulled my head back in, the stench seemed worse. I surveyed the room. No sign of a struggle. Nothing out of place. No empty slots announcing items missing. No messages on the desk. If there was a clue in here, it would take the I.D. Tech to find it. I walked gratefully out.

Distant sirens cut through the splat of the rain. I stood, thinking not of Brad Butz lying in the shack but of Liz Goldenstern with her head in the water. She had seen who Butz was talking to and decided to come closer. Because she was angry? Of course. But also because she thought she could handle the situation. And that meant the other person was someone she knew, someone she had reason to believe she could control. Someone with enough at stake in Marina Vista to kill, and enough hatred for Liz to taunt her by leaving her hands on the shore while she drowned.

The rain ran down my neck, sticking the wet collar of my blouse to my skin. From the bay the wind gusted, snapping the faded cloth of the Rainbow Village flags, spreading the thick smell of seaweed over the marina. I scanned the ridge, but nothing moved. Liz Goldenstern had seen Butz’s partner. I had never been comfortable with the picture of Brad Butz leaving her to drown so close to the shoreline. But if Liz had called Butz and told him she was coming down here, why would he have called his partner if not for support? Why would the partner have rushed down here, have let Liz know who he or she was, unless he was afraid Butz would cave in and expose him? And unless he was willing to kill Liz? Of the two, it wasn’t hard to guess who had done the drowning. But what had happened to alert that partner that I was coming here now to beard Butz? Who would have known I was coming?

Herman Ott, for one.

I walked to Butz’s truck and opened the passenger’s door. The floor looked like a trash heap. It would take hours to sift through it. But the seat held only a worn magazine—
Runner’s World.
The date on the cover was February, two years ago.
Runner’s World
was not a publication Brad Butz would save to browse through in his spare moments.

Suspecting what I would find, I turned to the table of contents. The third article was “Sports Complexes Throughout the World.” The article I could read later. What it said about sports buildings was inconsequential compared to its presence in Butz’s truck.

Anyone could have come across it, but the person most likely to have bought a copy was Greta Tennerud.

Had Greta been Butz’s partner? Unless Coleman had come up with evidence, or forced an admission of guilt, Greta Tennerud would have been questioned and released by now. Could she have killed Liz and Brad Butz? She was in good shape. Throwing Liz in the water would have been no problem. She could have planned with Butz to sabotage Marina Vista. Her college degree was in sports management. She would be just the one to see the possibilities in Marina Vista. As an athlete, she would have been in a position to meet sportsmen with money, to cultivate potential backers. And, I thought, with a career that would be sputtering to a close if she didn’t win the Bay to Breakers next month, she had to plan for a different future. Managing a waterfront spa would be just what her education had prepared her for. Running it well—and there was no reason to think she wouldn’t do that—could lead to bigger things.

But what about the violence of Liz’s death? Greta seemed too nice, too easygoing for that level of viciousness. I almost laughed. Easygoing was the first thing to go when life was hard. Ask Howard’s drug collars if they found him as easygoing as I did. Ask Nancy and her dog.

Greta Tennerud was no scatterbrain when it came to managing Racer’s Edge or planning her training and her future. She said she loved Laurence Mayer. Maybe. Love comes easily when you’re twenty-three. How did she feel about the woman he had committed so much to? Did she resent Liz Goldenstern for taking her lover’s time, for being the catalyst that caused him to forego a life of wealth and the chance to become a psychological sports guru? Had he stayed in the sports psychology area, there would have been no limit to what he and Greta could have done. Passion, and practicality, would have beckoned Greta to drown Liz. Cunning would have suggested the spot, so near where Liz’s husband lived. Had it been she, using Laurence’s key, that Aura Summerlight heard at Liz’s door? Was she there to remove any evidence connecting her to the shoe theft ring?

Greta had motive, all right, but she wasn’t alone in that. Maybe Laurence himself was sick of supporting Liz while he lived in a garage. He was already reneging on his promise not to drive. Then why didn’t he cut his ties? No one would have blamed him, not after four years of providing housing, money, and physical help. And if he wanted a more gracious “out,” Liz’s moving to Marina Vista would have been perfect. And Liz did trust him enough to have him on the board of Marina Vista.

Aura Summerlight? She certainly lived conveniently close to the murder site. But what would she have gained by killing Liz? Liz’s flat? If tenancy of a desirable apartment were a motive for murder, Manhattan would be depopulated. But that and the continuation of the shoe theft ring? To Laurence Mayer, neither would merit murder. But Aura Summerlight lived much closer to the edge. Her options were few and her perception of them limited. A nice place to live and enough money for a nest egg would be equivalent to a couple hundred thou in Mayer’s world.

But Aura Summerlight, I suspected, would still be at the station. There was ample evidence of the thefts to hold her.

I started toward Rainbow Village. Ian Stuart. How angry was he about Liz’s affair with Butz? Had he come to hate Liz as much as Butz? He might have hated her, but he couldn’t divorce her, not and keep his green card, too. Had he been serious about wanting the Marina Vista land for a heliport? It was the only remaining spot for one.

But killing Liz wouldn’t change that. It would only make his situation worse. He had to have a wife for his green card, unless he could get an employer and the I.N.S. to agree he held a job that no American could handle. But once he did that, once his invention was accepted, he wouldn’t need Liz anymore. He told me theirs was a marriage of convenience. What had he promised her for that? Help? Money? Whatever, men had been known to lie. Fanatic as he was to work on his invention, he would have promised Liz anything. Maybe at the time and in the heat of emotion, with the excitement at the prospect of a place to work and the despair over the thought of losing it, he really meant whatever he said to Liz. But later, when he realized what he’d committed himself to, he’d begun to resent that agreement. After all, Liz had lost nothing by marrying him. She wasn’t even honoring the bonds of marriage. That he wasn’t either wouldn’t have come into the equation. In fact, I thought … starting to move toward Rainbow Village … once his life took on a normal rhythm and the chance to work on his invention no longer seemed a stroke of good fortune, he would think about the money he’d get for his invention and dream about using it to start his own helicopter company. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he became infuriated at the thought of Liz getting half, under the California community property laws.

It certainly explained that odd question of why Liz had married him. According to Brad Butz, she had insisted she had good reason for staying in the marriage. Half of his profits would certainly be reason enough. Perhaps Stuart had suggested breaking the agreement, and she—no fool—had refused. Perhaps she had even threatened to confess to the I.N.S. and have him deported. Liz was like Herman Ott in her attachment to agreements made. Once Ian had committed himself she wouldn’t have allowed him to renege. She’d had to work too hard to mold her own life to forgive wishy-washiness in others. And if she sensed Laurence Mayer’s waning commitment, Stuart’s potential money could have been essential.

One of the sirens groaned to a stop. The first car was at the frontage road. The ambulance would be here in a minute.

I was nearly to the Rainbow Village gate when Ian Stuart’s pick-up truck, with the striated red hot tub catching rain on the back, sped out the gate.

T
HE PICK-UP WAS GOING
full out. I could only catch a glimpse of a blue wool cap as it flashed by. I ran for my car, hit the siren and the flashers, and jammed the gearstick forward.

The truck was a hundred yards ahead, its lights off. In the thick rain, it almost disappeared. I was tempted to step on the gas and close the distance between us. But the Chief had been on us about high-speed chases. There was nowhere for that truck to go. In a moment it would hang a left toward the city and “escape.” In another it would come up against Murakawa at the frontage road. The flashers and siren would alert Murakawa.

Taillights flickered as the truck lurched left. A few seconds later I hit the turn, pulling the wheel and pressing the gas. The car skidded; I held the wheel steady; then the tires caught. I looked ahead. The truck was gone.

It was a moment before I spotted it, pulling in beside Calicopter. I hit the brakes. Now the car skidded for real. Bracing my arms, I turned into the skid, too late. The car slid into the muddy weeds of the center divider and stalled.

Leaving the lights and siren on to signal the back-up units, I jumped out, gun in hand, and ran toward the helicopter barn. The sandy mud tugged on my shoes. I tried to push off with each step, but my feet sunk further into the wet ground, and I had to yank my foot up every time. The rain dragged my hair into my eyes. With my free hand I shoved it back. The helicopter barn was fifty yards away. The hot tub-laden pick-up was parked not by the front door but at the side, nearer to the huge sliding rear wall that the helicopters rolled through. Rain splashed through the broken window.

It was too late to count on the back-up. Murakawa would call the dispatcher when the copter took off, and then the dispatcher would notify our own copter and it would fly down here. By that time Ian Stuart’s copter would be gone. And on a day like this, with visibility nearly zero, it could go anywhere, south to the Santa Cruz Mountains, east to the Sierras, or to any of the sparsely populated spots in Northern California. Then it would just be a matter of abandoning the copter and hitching a ride.

I forced my legs faster, pulling harder against the gummy mud. My breath caught. When I’d chosen a sport, why couldn’t it have been running instead of swimming?

As I rounded the corner of the helicopter barn, the blue and white ship rolled out onto the tarmac. The whir of the rotor blades thundered at me, the blasting wind knocking me back onto my heels. Catching myself, I leaned forward. The maelstrom from the blades slapped my hair against my face. The ship stopped. In a moment it would lift. Forcing my legs faster, I ran for it, lunged through the wall of wind, and grabbed the sides of the door.

Something metal struck my hand knocking my gun loose. It hit the tarmac and bounced. My hand throbbed. Gripping painfully, I caught both sides of the doorway, got my foot on the step and yanked myself up, bracing for another blow.

But that blow didn’t come. Instead the ship jerked up. My feet slipped. I clung to the sides of the doorway, frantically feeling for the step. The whirlwind from the blades whipped my hair into my face and eyes; it yanked my rain-heavy jacket away from my arms and slapped the collar of my blouse against my neck. I pulled my head closer in toward the craft. The seat belt lay unbuckled on the passenger seat. Forcing my weakened right hand to hold tighter, I let go with the left and made a grab for the belt. The ship jerked. Something hard hit my shoulder. My feet held. I yanked on the belt and thrust myself forward into the cockpit, landing with my head in his lap. My shoulder hit the control between his knees; the copter bounced, tossing me up in the air. I caught the edge of the dashboard, hung on, and managed to brace my feet inside the door. Despite the wind pouring in through the door slots, I could smell the liquor on his breath. He swatted my wrist with the metal rod, but there wasn’t room for a swing. I hung on and pulled my butt under me.

For a moment we stared at each other—he in outrage, me panting too hard to talk. The wool cap was gone. His gray curls stood out, insouciantly mocking the deep, angry lines across his forehead and down beside his mouth. Laurence Mayer’s eyes weren’t bloodshot, not yet, but they had the blurry look of drink. They looked as they must have when he ran Liz Goldenstern down.

When I caught my breath I yelled, “This is futile, Mayer. Put the ship down!”

His long fingers tightened on the controls. “You forget,” he shouted above the roar of the engine and the storm, “I’ve piloted before. I can handle this ship. You may not fall out now, but there’s the whole bay out there waiting for you.” His words weren’t quite slurred.

“Every police department in the area is watching you, the highway patrol is down there, the country sheriffs. It’s all over, Mayer.” In the silence, I tried to recall what Ian Stuart had told me. The gearstick between his knees, the cyclic, was for steering. Then the tube to his left would be the collective that raised the helicopter and adjusted the motor. And the foot pedals controlled the tail rudders so the ship didn’t spin out when it lifted. Mayer pulled up on the collective, too fast. The craft rose; it weaved to the left. Frantically, he pressed one foot pedal, then the other. I grabbed the sides of my seat and braced my foot against the doorway. The craft shimmied, then eased back upright.