Jump the Gun (8 page)

Chapter Nine

I was lying on the floor, my head in Mickey's lap, his face close to mine, his voice repeating my name, and I grabbed onto him for all my life. He drew me up to sit and he held me and rocked me while I cried all over his t-shirt. Luis was on the phone, talking to Sergeant Franklin in a low voice. I couldn't hear what he was saying. I pushed away from Mickey suddenly and whispered, “Bonkers, my cat. Is my cat okay?”

Mickey turned toward Luis. “Ask about Annabelle's cat. Is it there? Is it okay?”

Luis kept speaking into the phone, then took the receiver away from his face. “The cat is fine. Hiding under the bed. But not harmed.” I went back to my position in Mickey's arms and eventually stopped crying.

Luis hung up the phone, walked over and sat down on a chair facing us. “Do you want to hear this now?” I nodded. “Someone broke into your apartment Sunday night. The lock was smashed.”

“But I have two dead bolts.”

“Well, either Cassie didn't lock them, or the perp somehow busted them. The police think that no one was home at the time, and then Cassie unfortunately showed up when the murderer was there. She surprised him. He hit her head with something, and that's what killed her.”

“Do they know it was only one guy, not more than that?” Mickey asked.

“So far, that's what they think. They don't have the murder weapon yet. They're dusting the apartment for prints. They've called Cassie's mother in Philadelphia. She's on her way to San Francisco.” This piece of information started me weeping again. “The police said they knew you were in Las Vegas, but hadn't been able to reach you.”

Mickey kissed the top of my head. “Annabelle, how did they know that?”

It took me a minute to remember. “I left a message for Cassie on my home phone. Sunday night. Said I was coming here with you but didn't give her any details, other than I'd be home a couple of days later than I originally planned.”

“The police heard your message. Said it came in at 10:05 p.m. Also said it had already been picked up.”

Mickey started. “Wait a minute. Annabelle leaves the message at 10:05, Cassie isn't there, Cassie comes home…when?”

“They figure around midnight.”

“And she's attacked basically immediately?”

“It looks that way.”

I shivered. “Whoever killed Cassie heard that message and found out where I was.”

“Sunday night. And we got here Monday afternoon.”

“And that's when Jake showed up.”

“You mentioned my name in the message?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes. He must have checked all the hotels…found us here.”

I stood up and went to the bathroom to wash my face. Whatever was going on had started with me, in California, and met up with us here in Las Vegas. In the meantime, it got my friend killed. What the hell was so important that someone was hot to get me, or get at me?

I walked back into the suite's living room. “Luis, what else? Was my apartment torn up? Things taken?”

“They won't know what might have been taken, but, yes, your apartment is a mess. They want you to come home and go through the place with them, answer questions, all that.”

“Yeah. Of course. Okay. I'd better get out to the airport.”

Mickey stood up. “
We'd
better get out to the airport. I'm coming with you.”

I started weeping again. Luis hugged me while Mickey started gathering up all our stuff. “We need to buy a couple of suitcases downstairs.”

“Don't go downstairs, Mickey,” I sobbed.

“Don't worry. I'll call down and have them brought up.” He picked up the phone.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Mickey opened the door, and a bellman stood there with two new suitcases, probably charged to Mickey's AmEx. Mickey tipped him, closed the door, then tossed the dry cleaning bags in the suitcases and started gathering up the rest of our things. I got control of my breathing and tears, gave Luis a weak smile, and helped Mickey finish the packing. We were ready to go. Luis said he would take us to the airport.

“What about all this damage to the room? What about Jake? Shouldn't we call the police before we leave?” I looked at Luis.

“I spoke with my partner. I gave him the basics, said there was a break-in here, but that because of a personal emergency you can't stick around. He's going to meet me here later. Mickey has the suite booked until tomorrow, so we'll sort this out with the hotel.”

Mickey handed me my purse. “What's your home phone number, or any phone number? Luis needs to reach us, and Jake took our cell phones.”

I recited it while Luis jotted it down. Then he gave us his card with his home and cell numbers. “I'll keep checking things out here. We should keep in touch, plan on talking to each other once a day. I recommend that you tell the SFPD everything that has gone on here, and in the meantime, I'll see what my partner and I can turn up.” He paused. “Remember, please: Chuck Lowery, Jake, is a Vegas man. His power and his contacts don't extend beyond this city, as far as I know. But if all of this is related, and it is too coincidental not to be, then he's also a man for hire. The connection is what's missing. The SF-Vegas connection.” He shook his head. “Well, no, amiga, you're the connection.”

“Yup. Luis. I know. I just don't know why. Please believe me.”

“I do.”

“Let's go,” said Mickey, and we grabbed our bags, headed for the elevators, down to the street, and, once again, into Luis' cab. We didn't see Jake or anyone else who looked familiar to us in the casino. We didn't see Mary on the way. The airport ride this time was uneventful. Mickey and I sat in the back seat, holding hands. Every now and then he would squeeze mine, and I would squeeze back, but we were each looking out our respective windows.

Luis parked at the United curb, got out of the cab, and gave me a hug. He held out his hand to shake Mickey's. Mickey took it but then drew him close and gave him a man hug. “Thank you.” He pressed some cash into his hand.

“Not necessary, Mick.”

“I insist, Luis. Fair is fair.”

Luis pointed at Mickey with two fingers, like a gunslinger. “I will call you tonight or tomorrow, or you call me any time.”

We picked up our bags and started walking.

“Amigos!” Luis shouted. We turned around. “Thank you.”

I walked a bit toward him. “For what, for chrissakes, Luis?”

“I'm back on track. You did that.” Luis smiled at me, got in his cab, and pulled away. I stood watching him until Mickey called me, and I turned to head into the airport with him.

We were in time to make the flight I had booked in Chicago. “You thought we would only be in Las Vegas for one night, hmm?” Mickey gave my cap a playful tug and bought himself a ticket. We sat toward the back, me in the middle, him on the aisle, and a girl of about nineteen at the window, who listened to her iPod the whole trip. Somehow I slept, my head resting against Mickey's shoulder.

We landed at SFO, where Mickey rented a red Mustang convertible. I chuckled. “Are you still trying to impress me?”

He winked at me. “Always.”

Our flashy, look-at-us car headed north to San Francisco, the city I had always loved, the city where I thought I would always belong. But this homecoming felt dark and the streets, strange. The fog was cutting, not soothing. For the first time in my life, I didn't want to be there.

Chapter Ten

My apartment building is on the corner of Geary Boulevard and 23rd Avenue. I live on the second floor, right above a mom-and-pop bakery owned by an Italian couple. The luscious scents of freshly baked profiteroles, cannoli, and other sugary confections wake me each morning. The periodic roar of the Geary buses pulling in and out of the bus stop beneath my living-room window drove me crazy when I first moved in. It would completely drown out my TV or music. But I eventually got used to it. City noise has been a small price to pay for living by the ocean in a light-filled city that has embraced beatniks, hippies, and out-of-the-closet homosexuals. The rent, of course, is another matter. I can't really afford my apartment, and I've got way too much debt on my MasterCard. Retirement savings are a long way off.

Money doesn't interest me much. Expensive things aren't a necessity. Good taste and an eye for the great bargain keep my wardrobe up-to-date. Too many shoes, probably, but no Jimmy Choos or Manolos. Sales at Scandinavian Designs have furnished my apartment, so clean wood and simple lines offer uncluttered sanctuary in my four-room abode: bedroom, big living room, kitchen, and bathroom. I painted most of my walls what I call “clay-gray-green,” the cool color that I plastered all over my face once when I thought I should be worrying about wrinkles and bought an expensive French clay mask. My kitchen is sunny with yellow tile counters, a red linoleum floor, and sunflower wallpaper I put up myself. It's a little over the top, but the room lands me smack dab in the middle of
Under the Tuscan Sun.
The movie bored me to tears, frankly, but the sunflowers that led Diane Lane to love and happiness have stuck with me.

If you've ever been to San Francisco, you know what a problem parking is. I don't own a car. I rent one when I need to get out of the city. Mickey drove around and around the avenues, from 20th up to 26th, and from Balboa to Lake, until we finally found a spot on 23rd and Anza, a block from my apartment. We got out of the car and shut the doors. Mickey grabbed his suitcase from the back seat.

“What are you doing? Don't you want to put the top up and lock it? We can leave our suitcases here.”

“Nah. It's a convertible. If someone wants to steal it and the top is up, it's easy enough to slice through it with a good knife and get in. This way, we're saving the car some damage.” He grabbed my suitcase, too, unlocked the trunk, and tossed them both in.

“Your logic escapes me.” We were walking along the sidewalk now. “You've driven lots of convertibles, and this is how you came up with this theory?” We got to the front door to my building. I pulled my keys out of my purse.

Mickey smiled. “Not exactly. I used to steal cars. Convertibles were easy.”

I jerked to look at him, dropping my keys. “Are you kidding me?”

That easy smile again. “High school. Long time ago.” He picked up the keys and handed them to me. “Don't worry.”

What, me worry?
Even though I just found out I slept with a car thief who is now escorting me to a murder scene?
I stuck the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed. We walked in and headed upstairs to my apartment. The creak of the old wooden stairs was louder than I remembered. The cream-colored walls, dingier.

My door was slightly ajar, and yellow crime-scene tape criss-crossed in front of it. It matched the tile in my kitchen. That's when I started to gulp for air, seeing how the edge of the door was bashed in, the locks were all busted up, and the figure of a uniformed policeman stood inside my hallway.

Mickey put his left arm around my shoulders and held tight. “Slow down, even breaths, slowly, you're okay.” He lifted up the yellow tape.

The cop was about to speak when I said, “Hi, I live here.” I immediately looked at his shoes to see if I could figure out what Luis meant, about cops wearing a certain kind of shoes. These looked sturdy and black, with laces.

“Ms. Starkey? Can I see some I.D.?”

“Okay. Can I see your badge?”

“It's right here on my chest, Miss. I'm Officer Wilson.”

I was slightly embarrassed about that, but my only experience in situations like this came from TV, mostly
Law and Order
in all of its incarnations. I checked out his badge and then lifted my driver's license from my purse. After he examined it, Wilson nodded at Mickey, who took the hint and pulled out his license as well. Wilson examined it and handed it back to him before addressing me.

“Sergeant Franklin isn't here right now, but he asked me to tell you that he'll be back about six and wants you to wait here.” I nodded. “He said to apologize for not meeting you at the airport, this being a murder case, but thought it would be best to see you here, since you are the primary…”

“Suspect?” Mickey interrupted. “Is that what you were going to say, officer? Because Annabelle wasn't even here Sunday night! She doesn't need this stress on top of everything else she's going through.”

“Actually, no, Mr. Paxton, that's not what I was going to say.” Wilson took a step toward Mickey. Mickey held his ground. Wilson's words were clipped. “I was going to say ‘primary resident.'” He crossed his arms.

Mickey held up his hands, like he was imitating a goalpost. “Officer Wilson, we're a bit on edge, as you can probably imagine. We'll just take a seat and try to calm down.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Paxton.” He stepped aside as Mickey and I walked into the living room.

Sitting down was not easy. My home was a replay of the Las Vegas suite, with furniture turned upside down, books in heaps, shelves askew, a knife slice through the padding of the couch. I peered into my bedroom, looking for Bonkers, and saw the same mess. On my knees next to my bed, I lifted up the spread to see Bonkers' little black-and-white face peering at me as he crouched on all fours.

“Honey bun! C'mere!” I held out my hand, but he wasn't budging. I got up to get him some water, heading back to the kitchen through the living room and into the entrance alcove. That's when I saw the blood on the floor by the telephone table, gasped, moaned, and fled to the bathroom, where I heaved into the toilet.

Mickey came to the bathroom door but didn't watch me, just stood next to it. “It'll be okay, Annabelle.” But he didn't sound okay, and I was throwing up, and Cassie's blood was on my floor.

He moved back into the living room. I eventually stood up, took off my glasses, washed my face, and rinsed out my mouth. I took my extra contact lenses out of the medicine cabinet and put them in. Then I sank down on the closed toilet seat, afraid to leave, unable to bear seeing the blood again. Mickey was on the phone.

“Luis?…Yeah, we're here.…Yes. The place is a mess.…No, he's not here right now, we're waiting for him. Any news there?…Mmm. Okay. There's still blood on the floor.…Yes, there's an officer here, but…Okay. Yeah. I'll ask him.…Yeah, after we see Franklin. Later…Yeah…Thanks.” He hung up. “Officer?”

“Right here.”

“May I have your permission to clean up this blood? Has forensics finished their work here?”

“I'm not sure, but I don't think so. We should wait for Sergeant Franklin before we touch that.”

“No, sorry, no can do. Annabelle cannot see this blood again, do you understand? She can't. We have to clean it up.”

“Well, look, I can't just…”

“You can call someone, right? You can call and find out if that would be okay?”

Wilson sighed. He was probably crossing his arms again.

Then Mickey walked closer to him. “Wilson.” He used a very measured voice. “You can call someone.”

Wilson talked on his walkie-talkie, and Mickey came back to the bathroom. “You stay right there, Annabelle. I'll take care of this.”

I couldn't open my eyes to thank him, but I waved my hand. Never had a man looked after me so well, ever, in my life. Let alone a car thief. Why was he so caring? Given my track record, how could I bet on any guy liking me enough to listen to me hurl without hurling himself—right out the door.

Wilson's voice faded away, so he must have stepped out into the hallway to have his conversation. Mickey waited by the bathroom door, as if guarding it, not letting anyone in and making sure I stayed put. Then Wilson called out. “It's okay. You can clean it up.”

“Good. Thank you.”

I should help clean up that blood. Why should Mickey have to do it?
Still, my body wouldn't move. He rummaged around in the kitchen and found my Ajax and that big sponge I use for wiping down the kitchen walls after I have steamed them up but good from boiling more pasta than I need to eat. I plugged my ears, elbows on knees, kept my eyes shut, and tried to pretend I was sitting on the toilet on a cruise ship in the middle of the Caribbean. That was hopeless. Instead my mind retraced my walk up the apartment stairs to my front door, and came up with a lot of questions.

“Annabelle?” I opened my eyes and removed my fingers. Mickey squatted down in front of me and took one hand in his. Nice of him not to notice the bit of earwax on its tip. “I'm sorry. Most of the blood is gone, but there's a stain. I can't get that up.”

I squeezed his hand. “Okay. Thanks.”

“But I found a small braided rug in the corner of your bedroom, and I put that over it.”

I drew him to me then, my arms around his neck, pressing the side of my face against his. “What's your middle name?”

“Thomas.”

“Thank you, Michael Thomas Paxton.”

“Sure.”

We both stood up and walked into the living room, taking our time looking around at the mayhem. And that's when Sergeant Franklin walked in.

“Wilson?”

“Sir.”

“They're here?”

“Yes, sir.”

We turned around to meet Franklin. It's true I was not in a trusting mood, and it's true that I was imagining conspiracies behind every handshake, but it got far too weird when Mickey saw Franklin and said, “Brad? Brad Franklin? Is that really you? Jesus!” before holding out his hand.

Brad Franklin used his hand to pull Mickey into a bear hug. “Surprise, surprise, Paxton! I knew it was you when I talked to the Las Vegas detective, Luis Maldonado. How's everything going in New York? Man, how long has it been?”

“Christ, probably twelve years. Damn.” Mickey acted nonplussed. “A cop? You're a cop? When did that happen? The last time I saw you, you were trying to sell futures for a brokerage house.”

“Well, that got old quick, and I thought, what the hell, I'll see if I can get a real job. Signed up, in fact, soon after I last saw you. I guess you inspired…”

Mickey jumped in. “Patty? How's Patty?” Franklin kept gripping Mickey's hand in a shake and pumping their arms up and down during this exchange. Mickey was trying to pull away. I just gawked.

“Ah, well, didn't work. We got divorced about five years ago. The police world didn't suit her, you might say.”

“Hmmm. Yeah.” They finally let go of each other.

“What about you? What was her name, um…Laurie?”

Okay, now I was annoyed. I guess I coughed or shuffled my feet, and the two long-lost pals swiftly shifted their loving gazes from each other to me. Franklin spoke first.

“I'm so sorry, Ms. Starkey. You must be Beatrice Starkey. I'm Brad Franklin. Sorry about all of this.” He held out his hand and I shook it.

“Thanks. So you guys…?”

Mickey put his arm around my shoulders. “Annabelle, Brad and I were in college together at Amherst. I majored in English and Brad…what
did
you major in, Brad? Frisbee?” Franklin snorted.

“We'll catch up later, Mick.” He winked at his old pal, then shifted his expression and turned to me again. “Right now we have to talk about your friend Cassie and what happened here Sunday night.”

“Okay. I'll start. I have a lot of questions.” I held his gaze.

Franklin paused and I saw his mouth twitch slightly. “Okay, shoot.” Then he stuck his hands in his pockets, moved his legs a bit wider apart than his hips, locked his knees, and waited.

“How come we weren't met at the airport, seeing as how this is a murder case, and all?”

Brad laughed. “Well, usually we don't worry about one of…”

Mickey interrupted him again. “Brad just said, he remembers me from the old days.”

Brad paused to study Mickey for a few seconds. Whatever passed between them was creepy.

“Sounds pretty casual to me. You haven't seen Mickey in ten years. How do you know he's not some criminal? I mean, he used to steal cars.” Mickey let his arm drop and gave me a look that I read as, “What has gotten into you, little lady?” which got me even more riled up.

Franklin held his position a moment, moving his eyes back and forth before relaxing into a pleasant smile. “Mick isn't a criminal, I know that. But you got me on the other thing.”

“What?”

“You're right. It would have been sloppy police work not to meet you at the airport. But someone did. Followed you here. If you were going to take off somewhere, we wanted to know where you'd go.”

Mickey shrugged at my glare. “We weren't really paying attention to people or cars around us.”

“Hey, we're good at what we do. You wouldn't have seen my guy anyway.” He fiddled with coins in his pocket. “Do you have another question?”

“Yeah. My next one is, if the locks on the door were broken when Cassie got back here, why would she have come into the apartment?”

Franklin was sizing me up. “She didn't. It looks like the intruder grabbed her right when she reached the top of the stairs and pulled her into your apartment. He was in the hallway waiting for her. He may have been ready to leave and seen or heard her come in the front door of the building. We found her purse out in the hallway, like she dropped it there.”