As a Favor (13 page)

“Then surely you want to help me. Something was going on in these cases. If you’d go through them with me—”

“No!” His eyes opened, as if he were startled by his own assertiveness. “I’m sorry. I have work to finish. It’s almost noon.” He headed toward the dining room door.

“Fine.” I didn’t move.

Effield stopped. He opened his mouth, said nothing. He’d exhausted his assertiveness. After a moment, he nodded and left.

As soon as the door closed, I opened the folders he’d shut—Anne’s twelve cases. In each of them was a memo on NCR paper indicating the new address. The handwriting looked like Anne Spaulding’s. All three copies of the NCR paper were still in each folder. Apparently welfare workers wasted the NCR paper just as we did, using it not only to make carbonless copies, but just for notes.

How had I missed these before? All I recalled were the four legal-sized sheets in each case. I had been in a hurry. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Still, it was careless. It unnerved me.

I could hear Effield’s voice in the next room. There was no time to contemplate. I copied the addresses and was just closing the last folder when Effield returned.

“Officer, what are you doing? You know that’s against the law!”

Ignoring that, I said, “Where were these notes”—I held out a piece of NCR paper—“on Wednesday?”

“On Anne’s desk.”

“No. I checked that. They weren’t in the case folders either.”

“You looked at them before? Really, I must protest.”

“Where were they?”

“I must ask you to leave.”

“Mr. Effield, what’s going on with these cases?”

Effield swallowed, turned, and walked back through the dining room door.

I knew he was lying. He wasn’t likely to come back for a while. I could check through his desk, but I didn’t know what I was looking for. Again, I wished I had a better knowledge of the welfare system.

I’d have to go at it from the other end—from my own turf—Telegraph Avenue.

I
HAD CAUGHT LT.
Davis before the meeting, told him I needed to see Donn Day, Fern Day, and Mona Liebowitz, and to check the new addresses for Anne’s clients. I could skip staff meeting, I suggested. But the lieutenant was not having that. Send Pereira, he said. I, as a beat officer, needed the information he was about to disseminate. Cost-effective, he added. I could see my argument of the previous night had not been so subtle as I’d thought.

So I sat in staff meeting listening to the lieutenant’s summary of his meeting with the mayor, to the animal control officer’s semi-annual plea for more help from us. I glanced at the hot-car list, at the list of things Night Watch wanted us to watch for. And I thought of Pereira banging on door after door asking for Anne Spaulding’s eleven remaining clients. There were worse things than staff meetings.

And afterwards I waited at my desk for Howard to show up and for Pereira to come back from Donn Day’s gallery. I sorted through my IN box, glancing at memos and tossing them out. Fern Day had been in and identified Anne’s clothes. I filed that report, and sent in a request to be notified about any unclaimed female bodies recovered from San Francisco Bay or found in surrounding county morgues. Halfway through the box, I came on the lab report; back in two days—not bad.

From the blood samples taken in Anne’s apartment, the lab had found two types—A positive and O positive. The blood on the clothes was A positive, and the two subgroups matched. So I could assume that one person’s blood—Anne’s—had stained both the dress and the apartment walls.

But the fingerprint report, the one that might have provided a lead, was a bust. The only clear prints in the apartment formed one set—doubtless Anne’s. There were smudges on the lamp, but only one whole print, a thumb, and it belonged to the set. Nat’s pen produced nothing telling—it was too slender to have captured a full print and even the partials were blurred.

I filed the reports and looked through the rest of the material in the IN box, and was just getting ready to dictate a note about Sri Fallon’s mention of having observed Mona Liebowitz at the bank, when Howard walked up.

“Pretty elusive ex-husband you have. Not at work, not at home.”

“It took you this long to track him down! Where’d the other workers say he was?”

“They didn’t. No one was there. I was tied up with the lieutenant, and by the time I got there they were closed.” He sat on my desk, pushing papers out of the way with his hand.

“What were you with the lieutenant for?”

“My thief, and the ever-diminishing supply of auto parts. Lieutenant Davis read me a list of everything that’s been stolen, with prices. What do you think that guy’s been doing with my stuff?”

“Maybe he’s building his own police car, bit by bit, in the basement.”

“Starting with the outside?”

“You don’t need an engine in the basement.”

Howard nodded. “Maybe so. Whatever, this is my last day. The lieutenant is fed up with the pettiness and with me. No thief, no car. If I don’t get him today, I’m on station duty indefinitely.”

“We’ll get him. What’s the plan?”

“Same as before. This time ending off the Avenue. I think—”

“Jill.” It was Pereira, hurrying down the aisle, her hair still in disarray from the wind outside. “I’ve been to the Day show, and it was quite some show.”

“Good,” Howard said, “I’m ready for some amusement.”

“Well, settle in, then.” Pereira could barely control her grin. Planting herself on the desk across the aisle, she said, “After a lengthy prologue about himself—rising artist, widely known, with growing following and invitations to teach—he offered me a glass of wine and his body.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed. It wasn’t quite that blunt, but it wasn’t done with velvet gloves either. I got the feeling,” she said, again controlling her expression with difficulty, “that he didn’t want to be too explicit for fear of being accused of offering a bribe.”

When the laughter stopped, I said, “Mr. Day’s sense of aesthetic evaluation must stop when he looks in the mirror.”

Howard put out a hand. “Let’s get to the serious stuff. Did you take him up on it?”

“I told him I’d consider it later.”

I laughed again, then felt a rush of pity, thinking of Fern Day. Was she ignorant of her husband’s profligate tendencies? Or did she choose not to see? Without Donn, Fern would be a priest without a church. I asked Pereira, “What did Donn say about the other night?”

“He was at the gallery till after midnight. I checked with the workmen. He kept them there, too. They were only too glad to tell me.”

“And he was never out of their sight?”

“Never went as far as the bathroom, and that’s a quote.” Pereira pushed herself up. “I’d like to tell you all the lurid details of the proposition, but I have eleven wandering welfare clients awaiting.”

“You sound like ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ ” Howard said.

“By the time I finish they’ll probably be singing that. Wait till I get a beat and can dispatch some peon to do the shitwork.” She sauntered down the aisle, blond hair glistening in the afternoon sun.

Howard watched her go, then turned to me. “About the stake-out…”

“Yes?”

“Dusk?”

“Sounds good.” I looked at his drawn, freckled face. “We’ll get him this time, Howard.”

“We better.” He picked up his hat and headed for the stairs.

Checking the phone book, I dialed Fern Day’s home number. But if she was too sick to work, she was not sufficiently incapacitated to be housebound. After eight rings I replaced the receiver.

I dictated my morning’s interviews and checked out Anne’s clothing—dress, bra, pants, and a half slip. The blood had spotted the dress, concentrated on the shoulder and chest areas. I was still wondering about the clothes and about Fern’s phony alibi as I drove home, changed into jeans, and headed to Telegraph.

I got a large mug of
café latte
—it might have to last a while—and grabbed a seat by the front window of the Faded Rose Cafe just as Howard got out of his car and sauntered toward the Avenue. If he had followed our plan, he’d made his presence obvious, driving down Telegraph, double parking to get out and stretch his long legs, leaving the patrol car in front of the Faded Rose. Choosing the Faded Rose was a gamble. It was a spot that any Avenue regular passed ten times a day—half a block east of Telegraph, a block west of the University Museum, a block south of campus. Small specialty shops clustered around it, and the sidewalk in front was never empty. Odds were, the thief would bite, but the odds were also very good in favor of the thief’s disappearing into the crowd or the shops.

Had the thief spotted Howard, he might well be in here now, waiting.

I glanced around the room. The group at the table next to me was watching the car. Across the room a man sat alone, staring out the window. Making a show of opening the newspaper, I observed him. He was small, long haired, with that loose body that could be mistaken for a woman’s at a distance. And his clothes—old jeans and a flannel shirt—were the type the thief had worn.

Taking my eyes from him, I glanced at the trio next to me—two men and a woman. She wore a long cotton skirt and I dismissed her—too clumsy for a getaway. But either man could be the one. Their dress and appearances approximated the lone man across the room. Concentrating, I made out their conversation. They were speculating about tires—Howard’s tires? Radials? Steel belted? Glass belted?

Still listening, I glanced back at the solitary figure, then at the patrol car and at the alley across the street. The thief could be there, or in another shop, or around the corner on Telegraph. Or he could not be here at all.

“Officer Smith?”

“What?” I looked up. If the thief was listening it was too late now. “Sri Fallon, we seem to be running into each other a lot.”

“Ah, yes. I almost didn’t recognize you in civilian clothes.” He indicated a seat and when I nodded, sat down.

I shifted my chair so that I could stare past him out the window. Leaning forward, I glanced at the man across the room. If he was surprised by Sri Fallon’s announcement of my title, he wasn’t letting on. At the next table, conversations had stopped.

I tried to recall a picture of the thief as he’d outrun me Tuesday night—he was short, thin, fast, with long curly hair that could have been a wig. He could as easily have been short haired or bald. I remembered what Skip Weston had said about the effectiveness of make-up. The thief could even have been Sri Fallon.

“Is this your day off?” Sri Fallon asked.

“Huh? Oh, no. I’m on my dinner break.”

“And you’re only having coffee.”

“I had a big lunch,” I said, wondering how elaborate a story I was going to have to concoct. Outside, groups of students and street people strolled up Durant Avenue past Howard’s car. The night was warm, the sun falling low toward the Pacific. Shadows hung from Howard’s car.

“…unearthed some facts?”

“What?” I jerked my head toward Sri Fallon.

“I was asking if you’d found anything on my neighbor.” His face was calm, with no tight look or irritation at my ignoring him. It was as if the question had been asked by a third party.

“I’ve been checking into it, but I really haven’t found anything.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

“Why do you ask?”

He grinned. “I feel like I should say in a suspicious voice, ‘Because I killed her and I want to know what you know.’ Actually, it’s because one of my devotees told me that she was disliked around here. When someone with that reputation disappears, death is always a possibility.”

“Who was this devotee?”

“I wouldn’t want to cause him any trouble.”

“Unless he’s done something you won’t.”

Fallon patted my arm. “I can’t help but believe that’s stretching the truth. Surely you’ll admit that innocent observers, when they aren’t pillars of Berkeley society, can be hassled.”

The man across the room headed for the door. Uncrossing my legs, I watched him go out, down the steps, and onto the streets.

“You’re giving it a lot of thought. Aren’t you supposed to discuss that type of thing?” Fallon’s tone was amused.

The man glanced at Howard’s car, his eyes resting on the grill. If he decided on something as complicated as that I could have him while he was assembling his tools.

“Yes,” I said to Sri Fallon, no longer remembering his question. The man glanced through the window, turned, and headed up the street.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Fallon asked.

“What? Yes. I don’t know if he’s really coming.” I took a sip of cold coffee.

“Who is it? I don’t mean to be nosy, but I do know most of the people around here. Between chanting and the Bank of America, you really get a cross section.”

“Surely people bank elsewhere, too.” A pair of Hare Krishnas, heads shaven, orange robes blowing in the evening breeze, stopped by the car, blocking my view. I pushed the chair to the right.

When I settled, Fallon said, “No. Almost everyone here uses my branch. Not only because of me.” He grinned—it was the same puckish expression he’d had when commenting on Anne Spaulding’s sun-drenched, nude body. “It’s just that it’s the most convenient bank—not in the sense of location—it’s the one off Telegraph—but it’s fast and has parking. Anne Spaulding used it for a while, a year ago. She didn’t recognize me, of course.” He fingered the lapel of his white suit. “Lots of people who work around here come in. So, to get back to my point, finally, I may have seen your friend.”

The Hare Krishnas moved closer to the car, looking through the window. I braced to move, waited, said to Fallon, “Not likely.” The Krishnas stayed put. “Sorry. I’m really distracted. I’m having personal problems, and I guess they’re clouding my mind.”

“If you’d like to talk about them—”

“No.…Thanks, though.”

“No, really, I don’t pretend to any esoteric knowledge and I won’t ask you to do three Hail Marys in chant, but I am a rather good listener.”

I started to protest, eyes still on the stationary Krishnas, but Fallon continued. “You know where I am. If you feel like it, drop by.”