Every Move She Makes (29 page)

"This have anything to do with the lieutenant watching the bathroom door
like a hawk?"

"Yep-"

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"Nope."

"Hey, Kate. It's me, Les." Slowly I lowered the wet towels and looked at
her in the mirror. Les stared right back, her stance telling me she
wasn't going anywhere until she knew I was fine. Sometimes friends were
a pain in the rear, and right now I knew she was going to be that type
of friend. "I'm ticked off," I said, crumpling up the paper towels and
tossing them into the trash.

"No kidding."

"They would never do this to me if I were a man."

"Do what?"

"Act as if I can't take care of myself." I tried the
looking-up-into-the-ceiling trick, but the tears still came, so I turned
the water back on.

"I doubt anyone thinks that."

"Oh, bull," I said, splashing the cold water onto my face until I
thought I could control my emotions. "I can't do anything, go anywhere,
use the damn bathroom without someone holding my hand." She held out
more paper towels. "Has it occurred to you that maybe they don't want
you to end up like Martin and Smith?" "What if it were reversed? What if
I were the suspect and Scolari were here? You think Torrance would be
standing outside the door, waiting? Of course not." "He wouldn't need
to. He could walk right in with him. Like I'm doing with you."

"Okay. Bad example."

"Look, Kate. I know you're upset about Scolari. We all are. But you
can't let it get to you. It'll eat you alive. Channel that anger into
your case. Solve it. Prove Scolari's not the Slasher, like you told
everyone you were going to do."

"Nice thought, but they took me off the case."

"What do you mean?" "Torrance put me on AL." I lifted my hair, showed
her my stitches, and told her about my stunt with Mathis and how I
ignored Torrance's orders to return. By the time I finished, my paper
towels were in shreds, but my tears were gone, my anger dissipated.

"Torrance's idea of light duty doesn't match mine." Les pulled a
lipstick from her purse, applied it, but I could see her wheels turning.

"Okay," she said a moment later, handing me the tube. My face was pretty
much washed out, no pun intended, so I applied a coat to my lips.

"Apparently Torrance thinks you need to be watched closer than he can do
while you're working, light duty or not."

"So," I said, handing the lipstick back.

"So, you need to make him realize otherwise." She eyed me in the mirror.

"At least your stitches are right at your hairline. You know, that color
looks better on you than me."

"How?"

"Skin tone. Except for the bruise." "No, how do I convince him
otherwise?" Her smile was reminiscent of our academy days, and the
nights we spent talking about anything and everything but police work.

"If you're on administrative leave, you're not on duty. Period." It took
me a moment to figure out what she was saying, then it struck me.

"You're an angel, Les." I hugged her.

"I know. just remember, I didn't tell you."

"Don't worry." She brushed her hair, headed for the door, pushed it
open, and looked out. "You get my message about the tickets for your
aunt?"

"Tickets?"

"The Forty-Niner tickets your aunt wanted me to pick up for your
nephew's birthday? I left a message on your voice mail. Remember?"

"Voice mail. Yeah," I said, suddenly recalling that her message had come
just before Martin's did on the afternoon he was killed in Property. She
gave me a strange look, and I added, "My mind was elsewhere. Of course I
got your message. I know Aunt Molly will be thrilled.

Thanks."

"Any time. By the way, he's still there." Then she was gone, leaving me
there to ponder my next step. One glance in the mirror told me that it
would take more than a shade of red on my lips to undo the damage,
mostly because my hair hung in wet strands down either side of my face.

Brushing my hair out, then tucking it behind my ears, I exited the rest
room feeling confident. As expected, Torrance was right there. I swept
past him to the elevators.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"MacY's."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" I stopped in front of the elevator, trying
my best to ignore him.

"You may not care about your life, but I do."

"Oh, I care. But there's more than just my life at stake," I said,
punching the Down, button. "My partner's life. He's out there somewhere,
because someone's blaming him for a murder he says he didn't commit-not
to mention the accusation of him being the Soma Slasher. If he were your
partner, wouldn't you want to know? Now, if you don't mind, I seem to
have plenty of free time on my hands. I have some shopping to do." The
elevator door opened. I waited a palpable moment for him to say
something. When he didn't, I stepped on.

The door started to shut.

At the last moment, he stopped it with his hand.

"What do you want?"

"To work the Slasher case my way."

"Fine." I didn't move.

"There's something else?" he asked. "Since everyone seems to think the
Slasher murdered Doctor Mead-Scolari, I want to be included in that
investigation as well."

"I already let you look at the file."

"Not enough. I want in. Every meeting, every report all the way." He
gave it several seconds of thought, then stepped aside, still holding
the door open. "Consider yourself anointed."

"Thank you."

"There will be ground rules."

"Naturally."

"I am your only backup. You go nowhere without me."

"An inconvenience, but I'll manage. Anything else?"

"I want to be apprised of everything you discover as well." "Deal." We
returned to his office, and without another word he gave me everything
he had on Patricia Mead-Scolari's murder, including the autopsy I still
hadn't been able to locate, then sat at his desk, regarding me. Knowing
better than to try to guess his feelings on the matter-if I had to, I'd
say he wasn't pleased-I removed the autopsy report from the binder, and
put the remainder aside. "Why do you want to do this?" he asked.

His question surprised me. "He's my partner."

"And you think he'd do the same for you?" I thought about saying yes,
but in truth, I had no idea, even though he'd saved my life at the Twin
Palms. "I don't know." There comes a time for every couple when
disenchantment sets in. The first disappointment, first fight, whatever.

I felt that we had reached that point, Torrance and I-although I doubted
that our rendezvous on my sink constituted a true relationship, or made
us a real couple. Regardless, I felt the strain between us, undoubtedly
caused by his belief in Scolari's guilt, and my unwavering conviction,
at least verbally, of Scolari's innocence. Torrance returned to his
work, and so did I. I knew I was missing something simple from the
autopsies, and lined the Slasher cases side by side with the doctor's
and with McAllen's. I took a tablet, divided it into columns, and listed
each of the obvious traits as well as the dates of each murder. Nothing
stood out the first time around.

The second time, I stopped on McAllen's case. The date.

How had I missed it? January twenty-fourth. The night I'd been shot. I
stared, unbelieving. I wanted to tell Torrance what I'd found, but I
heard him pick up his phone and ask to speak with Captain Griffin, his
boss. "Just wanted you to know that I've asked Inspector Gillespie to
join the Mead-Scolari task force," he said. Silence, then, "No, sir. I
believe she'll be an asset." He hung up and said, "He feels you'll be a
risk, because you're too close to Scolari." "What do you think?" I asked
without turning around. I could see his reflection in one of several
framed certificates on the wall. He sat with hands clasped before him,
steepled fingers tap-tapping.

"Exactly what I told the captain," he finally said.

"Don't let me down." This last was said so quietly, I barely heard. I
swiveled my chair to face him, weighing whether or not to tell him what
I'd just learned. Then I said, "I think I have the proof that Scolari's
not the Slasher." "And that would be?" I held up the McAllen autopsy.

"If my theory proves correct, this is a Slasher case that we missed." I
handed it to him. "Look at the date."

"Wasn't that the night you were shot at the Twin Palms?"

"Yes," I said, surprised that the date stood out in his mind.

"Scolari was with you."

"Exactly-,, He returned the autopsy to me. "Get me more facts, a tighter
case." Then he nodded, picked up a report, his actions dismissing me. I
decided then and there that Torrance was a man I would never understand.

Now, however, was not the time to dwell on it, and I pulled out the
autopsy photo packets from each case, spreading them on the table. There
were several in each packet, but I concentrated on the neck shots, since
that was the Slasher's MO. Looking at the photos reminded me of a
conversation I'd overheard as a rookie. Two officers on my shift
discussing a throat slashing they'd responded to, one saying something
about the suspect cutting a second smile on the victim. At the time I
thought it macabre. Still did. But seeing the photos spread out before
me, the gaping wounds cleansed of blood, I knew exactly what he meant.

And that was when I realized what I'd missed. The location and severity
of the entrance wounds and exit wounds. In black and white. Ask any cop
what it's like to fit the missing puzzle pieces, and they'll tell you
that's the thing that keeps them coming back for more. I felt that
excitement as I scanned each of the reports, starting with McAllen's.

Nothing was going to stop me now. Nothing except a page from Scolari.

wasn't sure what Scolari's motivation was. At the moment I didn't care.

"What do you make of this?" I asked Torrance, showing him Scolari's
page, telling me to go to the Gold Ox.

"Why the Gold Ox?"

"The autopsy I just showed you, McAllen. She was killed in a parking lot
a couple of blocks away from the Ox." I gave him the particulars on the
report.

"How is it that no one made the connection?"

"The case was in limbo for a year. I think it was overlooked because
right before the victim died, she led the officer to believe that she
knew her attacker. It didn't fit the profile, and there wasn't another
Slasher case until six months later." "So for the past six months,
Scolari says nothing and suddenly this case takes top billing?" "Look.

I'm not Scolari s, keeper. I don't know why he never mentioned this to
me before. But he is now. And I intend to find out why. The question I
have for you is, are you coming along?" The sun had disappeared behind
the fog bank, and a light drizzle was falling when we pulled out of the
parking garage. Torrance was driving. We were probably about a block
from the Ox when Torrance nodded at the gray pickup in front of him.

"Isn't that Dex Kermgard?" "Looks like him. Let's follow." The pickup
turned right, and then made a left. We dropped a couple of cars back
when it became apparent that he was heading straight for the warf area.

"A man on a mission," Torrance said, commenting on the way Dex was
driving, weaving in and out of traffic. I didn't think he was trying to
lose us-assuming he saw us at all-for the mere fact he didn't turn onto
one of the side streets. "Hot date?" "With who?" We found out soon
enough. He managed to find a parking space, then walked about half a
block to the Buena Vista, a bar immortalized for its Irish coffee by the
late San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen. We parked farther up
the road, away from his car, and quite illegally, leaving the radio's
mike over the rearview mirror to ward off the parking patrol, who were
known for eating their young. As we approached I asked, "How do you want
to do this? Walk in, see who he's meeting? Or pret we chanced on him
coming here for a drink?" Torrance looked at his watch. "Three-thirty. Too
early for us to get off and imbibe. Guess we go for the former." He
pushed open the door, then stood aside for me to enter. Frequented by
locals and tourists alike, the bar was crowded, all the tables taken
even at this hour. We found Dex standing at the end of the long
polished-wood bar, apparently ordering a drink. As we headed that way,
he turned and saw us, his expression never wavering. Behind him, at the
table in the corner, sat Nick Paolini, and a man who seemed familiar. I
couldn't place him at the moment.

We approached the table.

Paolini stood, his gray silk suit impeccable. Ile was a smooth talker,
very formal, and when he wanted he could turn on the charm. He reminded
me of the glamorous crooks portrayed in the Gotather movies. Al Pacing
with tattoos. "Inspector Gillespie. I understand you are assigned to
Homicide now." Yes. Funny I should run into you. I have a few things I
need to discuss." His dark brows raised a fraction. "I admit to a
fascination for your new assignment, and would love to stay, but Tony
and I are late for a very important meeting." Tony? Of course. Antonio
Foust. I glanced at Foust, who stood, and without a word, turned toward
the door. With that, the pair wove their way through the myriad of
chairs, tables, people, then out the door. Not once did they acknowledge
Dex's presence, which I found more odd than their "chance" meeting here
in the first place.

"Hello, Dex," I said, eyeing him.

"Kate." Ile nodded in greeting to Torrance.

"You here to meet Paoliiii?"

"Actually, I'm waiting for Josie." He looked at his watch. "She's late.

Buy you a drink?

"Sure," I said. "Coffee, black. "'lbrrance declined the offer.

Dex went to the bar to order, and I sat in the chair Paolini had
vacated. Six empty glass mugs littered the table, giving testament that
Paolini and Foust had probably sat there awhile, drinking. Torrance took
a seat, keeping an eye on the window and the door while I watched Dex.

"You don't really expect me to believe you weren't
here to meet with Paolini?" I asked him when he brought my coffee. I
didn't drink it.

"I suppose you'll believe what you want."

"I read the old fa reports about the informant and the missing drug
investigation. What's with you and Foust?"

"You have that conversation with Scolari, too? He was there."

"Really?" "You read the report. You know that one of the slugs dug out
of the dirtbag's heart was never identified. Maybe you ought to ask
Scolari what the hell he did with that old thirty-eight he used to carry
back then. You think it was stolen like he said? Or conveniently lost?"

"You're saying Scolari killed the guy?"

"I'm saving I'm grateful I'm alive. just like it says in the IA. But you
might want to ask Scolari how he put his wife through medical school." I
crossed my arms, leaned back, tried not to show my surprise. "Why do I
think you're trying to distract me from the real issue? That you were
here to meet with Paolini?" "Look, Inspector. I'm here to meet with
Josephine Hilliard. By coincidence, Paolini and Foust happened to be
sitting here when I arrived. You ask Paotini, he'll tell you. I haven't
spoken to him in years. But don't take my word for it. You wait long
enough, you can ask Mrs. Hilliard herself. She's getting out of that cab
now." He tilted his head to the window, where out in the street, sure
enough, josie Hilliard was exiting a Yellow Cab.

Dex's gaze held mine. Any more questions, Inspector?"

"For now, no," I said, rising. I had enough to think about, and we still
needed to get to the Gold Ox. "I'll be in touch." "I'm sure you will."

Once the door closed behind us, I said, "I'd like to know who's lying.

Scolati did report his gun missing the night before the shooting. Which
was why he was cleared." I thought about what Dex implied, that Scolari
had faked the theft, then lied about the shooting. "Had it occurred to
me sooner that that was Foust, I might have asked him about Dex's
shooting. I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place why."

"You think he would have told you the truth?"

"Never hurts to ask." We entered the Gold Ox, stepping into a long,
narrow room lit by amber-hued lights that helped to camouflage the
peeling paint. The Ox was everything the Buena Vista wasn't. Typical
beer signs littered the wall to our right, the bar ran along to our
left. A man, stout, fiftyish, with brown hair that looked like it came
out of a spray can, stood behind the counter, wiping the wood surface
down with a towel. At the far end sat a woman, thin, red nose, sagging
features of a classic alcoholic, sipping on something clear from a tall
glass. Farther down, through an opening in the wall, I caught a glimpse
of what appeared to be another room, perhaps the dance floor where
Spider Sherwood had played in the band. The woman looked up, her gaze
lingering on Torrance a moment before settling on me, and then just as
quickly dismissed us.

"Something I can get fer ya?" the bartender asked.

I was about to pull my star when Torrance stopped me. "Do you have a
telephone?" he asked. "Down there, next to the rest rooms," he said,
nodding past the dance floor to a narrow, dim hallway. "Thanks." We
strolled over, not in any great hurry. "NVHY no ID?" I asked Torrance
when we were out of earshot. "Just a feeling." He poked his head out the
back door, then checked the men's room while I looked into the women's
room. Nothing but a single toilet, sink, and warped faux marble wall
paneling. No sign of Scolari or an ambush. Not that I expected Scolari
to be present.

I let the door swing shut. "Empty."

"Same here." We leaned against the wall by the phone. Torrance called
his desk. After two minutes we wandered back to the bar, taking a seat.

The woman eyed us with a glazed curiosity. "What are you guys? Like the
potty police?" At first I thought she'd made us, which surprised me-her
slow, deliberate voice told me she'd been drinking the afternoon away.

But then she continued on. "I mean, you walk right in, and without even
buying a drink, you check the goddamn rest rooms out. Figure ya gotta be
from the Department of Health, the way yer all dressed. What'dya think,
Joe?" Joe the bartender made a sound that could have been a sign of
agreement. He straightened out some glasses, then looked over at us. So
remind me never to wear tan wool slacks and blazer with a white blouse
to a dive bar.

"Buy you a drink?" Torrance asked.

I shrugged. "Two margaritas," he ordered. "Over ice." Without a word the
bartender polished up a couple of glasses, filled them with ice,
tequila, and Margarita nlix. He stirred them, dropped a quarter of lime
in each, then slid them toward us. Torrance laid a twenty on the
counter. I waited to see if he was really going to drink. Lifting the
glass to his lips, he took a long sip. No doubt about it. I did the
same, curious.

"You work here long?" Torrance asked.

"Twelve years. Own the place," Joe said, running the towel over the drip
marks left while concocting our drinks. Torrance drank some more. "That
you?" he asked, pointing to a framed photograph on a shelf behind the
bar. The owner turned, gave a thorough appraisal of the picture of a
much younger version of himself standing next to a yellow race car. His
chest swelled with pride. "Sure is. Used to be pretty damn good. Got
that trophy up there at Sears Point. Came in second," he said, returning
to his cleaning and polishing, glasses clinking as he returned them to
their shelves. "That was my last race. My wife didn't want me ending up
dead." For the next several minutes they discussed racing while I nursed
my drink. "How's business been these past few months?" Torrance asked
during a lull.

"Not bad."

"Hasn't sloughed off any with all that Soma Slasher stuff you hear in
the news?"

"People get immune to hearin' about it."

"You here that night the first one got killed?" "You two Police?" he
queried, looking us over. I took a long sip. Everyone knew cops didn't
drink on duty.

"Why do you ask?" Torrance countered.

"The way I see it, the cops ain't done shit. And there's already been
one PI here the last week. Who hired you?" "We're looking into Christy
McAllen s death." He wiped down the counter again, avoiding our gaze. "I
thought you were lookin' into the Soma Slasher stuff." Torrance swirled
his drink, then sipped. "Read it in the paper. Might be related." "No
kiddin'?" he said, tossing the towel over his shoulder, then picking up
a couple of bottles from the counter behind him. "Don't know nothin'

about it." Torrance lifted his glass as if to say, You're up. Although
Joe's back was to us, from the angle where I sat, I had a clear view of
his actions. He proceeded to pour whiskey from a generic bottle into a
Seagram's bottle, then did the same with generic gin into a Tanqueray
bottle. Despite that I wasn't experienced enough with gin to distinguish
real Tanqueray from lighter fluid, I knew any agent from Alcoholic
Beverage Control would have a field day inspecting this place. "Hey,
what's the name of that friend of ours that works for the ABC?" I asked
Torrance, nodding toward Joe. The bartender looked up, his gaze catching
mine in the mirror. He seemed to be waiting for Torrance's answer, as
though to ensure I wasn't bluffing. I kicked Torrance's shin. "Henry,"