Muller, Marcia, [McCone 01] Edwin of the Iron Shoes(v1, shtml) (20 page)

BEN HARMON, BAIL BONDS—READY TO SERVE YOU TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY

The sign was on Bryant Street, in the seedy district near the Hall of Justice. Harmon's storefront was well lighted tonight, a neon oasis in the darkness around Seventh Street. I parked directly in front, unwilling to travel those unfriendly sidewalks any further than necessary.

The reception room was tiny and crammed with battered plastic furniture. A slender, dark-haired young man stood beside the desk. He wore a black suit with a slick sheen to its fabric and smoked a small, thin cigar. He looked at me, curling his lip.

"Can I help you?" He spoke with a thick Spanish accent.

I gave him my card and asked if Harmon was in.

He looked at the card, raising a scornful eyebrow, and left the room without a word. I wondered if he treated everyone who came in like that. If so, Harmon was sure to lose business to the other bondsmen in the district. On the other hand, if you were there in the first place, maybe you were expecting to be treated that way.

I didn't have to wait long for Harmon. About two minutes later, he emerged from a narrow hallway to the left. He was wearing another flashy suit, blue plaid this time, and looked as fresh as if it were morning. Although he extended his carefully tended hand to me in a pleasant manner, Harmon's eyes flickered with annoyance.

"Miss McCone, what can I do for you?"

"I'm cooperating with the police on the Albritton killing," I lied, "and I want to ask you a few questions that have occurred to me since we spoke last night."

"This is a strange time to call with questions." He checked his watch.

"It's a strange time for someone to be at work."

"Not in my business."

I smiled. "Nor in mine. I often go about interviewing people at night."

Harmon gave a resigned sigh. "Well, let's go back to my office then." The neon light bounced off his thick glasses as he waved me toward the hallway.

I started along, then hesitated as the dark young man emerged from a door to the right. He nodded gravely and motioned me on. As I went, I glanced at the framed newspaper clippings that lined the walls. They were about clients, guilty and not guilty. Apparently Harmon was proud of anyone who paid his stiff fees, avarice being as impartial as justice, I supposed.

Harmon and I entered the room at the end of the hall, the Latin type following us. He closed the door and took up a position against the wall, like a sentry. I could smell the sickly odor of too much after shave under the cigar smoke.

I looked questioningly at Harmon.

"Don't mind Frankie," he said. "He's my bodyguard. Goes everywhere with me and does everything I tell him to."

I got his all-too-obvious point.

The office where we stood was deeply carpeted and paneled but with sleazy materials, as if Harmo didn't expect to occupy it long. The bail bondsman gestured toward a naugahyde armchair, and I took a seat.

"Would you like a drink, Miss McCone? I can offer you something better than Charlie's cheap gin tonight."

"As a matter of fact, I could use a drink."

"Bourbon?"

"Fine."

Harmon went to a small wooden keg that protruded from the wall at shoulder height, opened its hinged front and produced all the fixings for a cocktail party.

"Handy little gadget, isn't it?" he said, all affability now as he measured liquor into two glasses. "Looks just like a wall decoration until you open it. At any rate, it has my wife fooled."

I couldn't imagine Harmon shrinking from a wife's disapproval. I took the glass from his outstretched hand and watched him sit down behind the broad expanse of desk.

"Speaking of drinking," he said, "how is our friend Cornish doing?"

"He seems fully recovered. The last time I saw him was at a fire over on Salem Street half an hour ago. Austin Bigby's shop burned down."

Harmon sipped at his bourbon, raising an eyebrow. "Arson?"

"Possibly. There was some sort of explosion. It looks like a total loss."

"Poor Bigby. They've had their troubles over there." Harmon looked genuinely surprised, even puzzled. "First the vandalisms, then Joan's death. Charlie will never get over that."

"I thought their relationship had cooled off. Charlie seemed to regard you as a rival."

"Charlie." He sighed. "Joan and I were just casual friends, and he knows it. I really can't figure what Joan saw in him, but I doubt anyone could have taken Charlie's place in her affections. She had a weakness for lost souls, and more or less took him under her wing when he appeared on Salem Street. That would be over twenty years ago, right after Joan divorced her husband."

"Where did Charlie come from anyway?" In light of his deception about asking the Merchants' Association to hire me, I wanted to take a good close look at the big junkman.

"Who knows?" Harmon spread his hands in an empty gesture. "He got into the business as a scavenger, one of those people who run around at night raiding garbage cans."

I was familiar with the scavengers. A couple of them were active in my neighborhood, and I often woke late at night to the rumbling of their carts in the alley.

"That's kind of an unsavory start," I commented.

Harmon nodded. "Charlie was addicted to junk, you might say. When his room filled up with the stuff he'd scavenged, he rented the store on Salem Street and sold it all. I don't think he ever expected to make money off it, but pretty soon he was able to buy his building and the street became his permanent home."

And where did he get the money to rent the store in the first place? I wondered. Aloud I said, "But, much as he interests me, I didn't come here to talk about Charlie. Right now I want to know when you finalized your agreement with Joan to buy the Salem Street properties and put up condominiums."

Harmon started. "Where did you hear about that?"

"Around the street. How long before her death did you make the agreement?"

He regarded me warily. "Not that it's any of your business, but we agreed on it over a month ago—long before she died."

"And, as part of that agreement, you were to provide her with space for her new shop at a reduced rent?"

He scowled. "You seem to have all the details. Joan couldn't afford to move to a new place otherwise."

I thought of Hank's description of the Albritton estate: substantial. "For how long?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long would the reduced rent have gone on?"

"Oh." He waved his hand vaguely. "Until she got on her feet again."

I watched him for a few seconds, then asked, "Is there any reason, if she were pressed for money, that she would have sold to you when she could have gotten a much higher price from the Ingalls syndicate?"

"Who told you that?"

"I saw Mrs. Ingalls yesterday." To myself I added, From a distance.

Harmon paused, looking down into his glass. Behind me, the bodyguard shifted against the wall.

"Well," Harmon finally said with a forced leer, "you have to remember Joan and I were extremely good friends."

Hank had been right about Harmon: he wasn't very smart. "A few minutes ago you said you and Joan were just casual friends. Which was it?"

Anger flickered in his eyes as he realized he'd contradicted himself. "I don't go around broadcasting my affairs!" he snapped. "I'm a married man!"

Stifling a smile, I nodded gravely. "I understand."

"Besides," Harmon added, "Joan wasn't a very good businesswoman. She wasn't too… too stable, you know."

Then how did she amass such a sizable estate? I asked myself. "I've heard that from other people. Oliver van Osten mentioned her habit of talking to that mannequin she called Edwin. He took her routine about Edwin's art gallery as evidence her mind had been affected by her grandson's death."

"Van Osten said she was crazy?"

"That was the general idea."

"Well, for Christ's sake." Harmon fell silent, picking at his well-manicured nails.

"How well do you know van Osten?"

He looked up, his eyes confused. "Van Osten? Not well. I mean, I've heard of him is all. What the hell are you driving at?"

"I'm not driving at anything, Mr. Harmon. I'm just collecting information that will help me find Joan's killer."

"What makes you think I have any?"

"I have my reasons."

Behind me, there was a quick movement. I turned my head. The Spanish bodyguard's dark face was only inches from mine. His breath smelled bad and his bright black eyes glinted with hostility.

"Frankie, relax," Harmon's voice said. To me he added, "Frankie doesn't like me upset."

He's seen too many gangster movies on the late show, I decided. I took my cue. "Why are you upset?"

"I don't like being badgered by little girls playing detective." He stood up.

Harmon was hiding something from me, and not very skillfully either. I took what seemed like a big risk and remained sitting. "I'm not playing, Mr. Harmon. This is for real. What were you doing over at Bigby's shop tonight?"

"I wasn't anywhere near Bigby's shop!"

"Or at Albritton's the night she was murdered?"

Behind me, the bodyguard hissed furiously. It would have been laughable if I weren't so frightened.

"What are you talking about?" Harmon demanded. "I hadn't seen her in days!"

"Then you won't mind telling me where you were at the time she was killed."

"I don't have to tell you anything."

Of course he didn't. I hadn't expected him to. But his behavior had told me a great deal.

Harmon's face was florid to the top of his bald head. He came around the desk toward me. I felt the bodyguard pressing against the back of my chair.

"Listen, you nosy little bitch," Harmon said in a low shaking voice, his hands balled into fists. "I'm not taking any more crap off of you!"

I kept my voice from revealing my fear and asked, "Are you going to call the police names when they come here with the same questions?"

He stopped short in front of me, his voice growling deep in his throat. "You little fool! Do you think I swallowed that line about you cooperating with the police? Greg Marcus told me he was only humoring you. when he hears about this, you'll be lucky you don't end up in jail!"

I was certain Harmon had swallowed my line initially or he never would have talked to me, but his mention of Marcus threw me off. I wondered what their connection was. Could Marcus be a crooked cop?

Harmon made a savage motion to Frankie. "Get her out of here." He turned away, toward his desk.

The young man yanked me from the chair by my arm. He walked me through the door and down the hallway, his fingers biting into my flesh. I didn't resist: preservation lay in going quietly.

At the front door, Frankie kept his grip on my arm, mashing my body between his own and the door frame. The combined odors of his breath and his loathsome after shave were overpowering, and I tried to squeeze away through the door. For an instant, I wondered if he could have been the intruder I'd struggled with in the shop the night before. No, I decided, he was much too slender and odorous.

"I will make a warning to you, Miss McCone," Frankie said, his nostrils flaring in distaste. "When a young lady asks bold questions, many bad things can happen to her. You do not wish this. ¿
Comprende
?" He looked as if he might spit in my face.

I pushed him away and wrenched my arm from his grip. "
Gracias
, Frankie.
Comprende
."

I backed through the swinging door and across the sidewalk toward my car, fighting down nausea. Frankie's threat hadn't particularly bothered me, but the touch of his body literally made me sick. It was important I remain here, though, waiting for Harmon's next move. I was surprised at how much our conversation had thrown the bail bondsman off, and it was possible he might panic and do something revealing. If he did, I wanted to be on hand for it.

I moved my car down to the corner, where I could see both the front of Harmon's place and the exit from the one-way alley behind it. If he decided to leave either way, I would have him covered.

About ten minutes later, Harmon came out onto Bryant Street, wearing a raincoat. He paused, looking around, then went to the curb and unlocked the door of a gold Lincoln Continental.

I slumped lower in my seat, watching him in the side-view mirror. When he had pulled out of his parking space and gone past me, I started up and followed.

Harmon led me out Geary Street into the Avenues. I recalled Charlie's remark about the bail bondsman's palace in the Sunset District. Possibly Harmon was going home to bed.

The Lincoln was easy to follow, and traffic wasn't heavy. I stayed two lanes over, a few car-lengths back.

We continued out past Geary, past Park Presido, the numbers of the Avenues getting higher. I knew now that Harmon wasn't heading home because he hadn't crossed the park.

At Forty-third Avenue, the road made a little "Y," the right lane becoming Point Lobos Avenue. The Lincoln went that way, toward the sea. I followed, slowing in the middle of a block when it turned into the last street before the large parking area overlooking the water. Through the thick fog that enveloped everything, I saw the brake lights of the other car as it stopped at the curb.

Harmon's tall figure emerged from the car and approached a three-story rough-shingled building on the corner. I timed myself three minutes, then got out of my car and went down the sidewalk. The fog swirled damply around me, providing good cover. I could hardly see the houses that lined the street, and I had an unreal feeling I might step off the edge of the world at any minute.

The modern building resembled two shoe boxes standing on end. The bottom apartments had fenced-in patios, and the balconies of the second and third floors were isolated from each other, designed for maximum privacy. Tonight, all the windows were dark save for a dim light behind draperies on the top floor.

Another light shone on the mailboxes in the shrubbery-filled entryway. I went up and examined them. There were six, each with a little buzzer next to it. The metal mouth of an intercom smiled up at me. Five mailboxes had names on them that I didn't recognize, but the sixth name interested me very much.

Oliver van Osten.

The fake antique dealer whom Harmon had said he didn't know. Van Osten's apartment number was five, and from what I could guess of the layout, it would be the third-floor one with the light on. I retreated from the building, thankful I was wearing black, and crossed to a large wooded area between the street and the parking lot. From there I could watch the apartment unobserved.

The fog dimmed my view of the window, making it a luminous screen on which no film played. I stood in the clammy underbrush, shivering and wishing for a heavier jacket.

A minute or so passed, and then a stocky figure appeared, silhouetted on the drapes. Van Osten. Or was it? I had seen that figure before.

It went away, then reappeared, pacing.

A second figure joined it, a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered one. Ben Harmon was about that height, and his shoulders rounded a little, too. It waved its arms in an agitated gesture, then went away. The stocky shape followed.

"Incredible!" I whispered aloud. No wonder the stocky figure looked familiar. The last time I had seen it in silhouette, though, it had been running, not pacing. Running along Salem Street, away from the havoc it had wreaked on Charlie's shop. I was sure I was right.

Still, I couldn't see van Osten as the original vandal; it just didn't fit. But if not, why was he now running around hurling bricks at Charlie's windows? He had to want something from Joan's shop very badly—enough, maybe, to justify setting Austin's entire building on fire earlier tonight.

I leaned forward, watching the little shadow play across the street. I was so absorbed in it, in fact, that I didn't turn fast enough when I heard twigs snap in the brush behind me.

The arm that hooked around my neck was lean, but very strong. I sagged backwards against a wiry body, my scream choked off at its source. I was immediately aware of the smell of too much after shave and cigar smoke.

Hot breath tickled the hair over my ear, and the heavily accented voice of Harmon's Spanish thug said mockingly, "So, the little detective does not heed my warning. You think you are so clever, driving right along behind Mr. Harmon, but I am driving right along behind you."

I struggled, but he tightened his grip.

"¡
Pobrecita
!" Frankie chuckled. "You must not fight so hard. It is of no use. Now we will go to Mr. Harmon and Mr. van Osten, and you will see what happens to people who interfere." He dragged me toward the street.

I put down my terror and thought of the moves I'd practiced in self-defense classes. I dug my heels into the ground and created as much resistance as I could. I had to stop him before he dragged me into that building.

Just before we got to the curb, my attacker stopped, breathing hard. He wasn't a big man, and I was enough burden to tire him. The pause gave my reflexes time to wake up. I shot my right leg back around his, then rolled my hips and pitched forward with all my strength. He toppled, flipping and hitting the ground on his back, grunting heavily.

Shocked that it had actually worked, I stared down at him. Then I dashed back into the underbrush, stumbling and slipping on the wet ground. I heard him gasp. I hadn't disabled him for long.

I ran wildly through the bushes and trees, falling and sliding down toward the parking lot. Footsteps scrambled fast behind me.

Several cars were parked at the edge of the lot, fog thick about them. Foghorns bellowed as I raced through the lot to the walk beside the Great Highway. Footsteps crunched back on the ground.

I ran blindly down the sidewalk, knowing Cliff House, the restaurant that overlooked the sea, was not far ahead. The footsteps now slapped along on the pavement after me and seemed to be gaining.

Out of the heavy mist, a couple of dark shapes appeared. I couldn't swerve, and I plowed into them, crying out in shock.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" an angry male voice demanded.

I whirled and careened down the sidewalk.

"Hey, damn it!" the voice shouted a few seconds later. "Once was enough!"

Evidently my pursuer had followed the same collision course.

The lights of Cliff House were before me now. I raced toward them, avoiding strollers, and burst through the door of the restaurant, breathing hard. I wasn't sure if Frankie would come in after me or not.

Ahead I saw the stairs to the dining room and the upper bar. I wanted to find shelter in the ladies' room, but its downstairs location would be a trap. I climbed slowly, my knees weak. The bar was crowded and brightly lit, a cheerful haven from the dismal, foggy sea beyond huge windows. It would also be a haven from my attacker. I stood in the doorway, looking for a place to sit.

A group of people in Levi's and windbreakers occupied a table in the far window bay. As I stood there, one of them, a woman with a round, freckled face and dark hair, spied me. She waved, her face crinkling into a wide grin.

"Hey, Sharon! Hello! Come on over!"

It was my friend Paula Mercer, a fine arts graduate from Berkeley who worked for the de Young Museum.

Almost collapsing with relief, I started across the bar. The group rearranged themselves as Paula greeted me, introducing everyone by first names and adding asides that led me to believe they were part of the local arts and crafts crowd. As I sat down and one of the guys called for another glass of wine, I glanced at the entryway.

Frankie stood there, his shiny suit rumpled and sweat-stained, his tie askew. His eyes scanned the room and came to rest on me. Our glances locked, and an icy dread frosted my limbs.

"Sharon?" Paula's voice was concerned. "What's the matter?"

I dragged my eyes away from Frankie. "What?"

"I said, what's wrong? You just turned a ghastly shade of pale!"

The waitress placed a glass of Chablis in front of me, and I grabbed it, gulping deeply. "I'll be all right," I said. "I'm just in a little trouble."

Comprehension flooded Paula's features. "I thought you looked strange when you came in. Is it a case?"

I nodded. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here. Will you help me?"

"Of course."

"Don't leave me, that's all. Not for a second. And when you go, give me a ride to my car. It's parked up on Point Lobos."

Paula frowned. "Don't worry about a thing. But shouldn't you tell the police if someone's out to get you?"

I glanced at the entryway. Frankie had disappeared.

"No, it's not that sort of thing," I said. "Don't you worry either." I felt slightly more normal, thanks to the wine.

"Look, Paula," I went on, realizing my friend could help with one of my more mundane problems, "I don't want to go into it now, but the case I'm on involves taking an inventory of some art objects."

"You?" Paula clapped a hand to her forehead. "God help whomever the inventory's for!"

I smiled. Paula's joking and the chatter of the group around us was doing a lot to restore my sense of reality. "Anyway, there are some paintings, probably done by local artists, that I can't fix a value on. If I dragged them over to the de Young tomorrow, do you think you could take a look at them?"

She nodded. "I've got a big exhibit to put together, but I should be done around two. Why don't you stop by then?"

I said I would, and we turned our attention to the rest of the group. It was after one in the morning when we left, a large, somewhat drunken crowd that provided perfect cover for me. Paula drove me to my car in her van, waiting while I checked the MG over to make sure Frankie hadn't disabled it. It surprised me, but the car was okay. Still, I was expecting some kind of trouble and circled the block several times when I got home, watching for suspicious figures. I parked as close as I could and rushed in, clutching the carton containing the paintings and Joan's records. The apartment seemed okay, too; for whatever reasons, Frankie had, I hoped, given up for the night.

Tired and shaken as I was, I sat down cross-legged on my bed to check with my answering service.

"It's been a busy night," Claudia, the operator, told me. "Hank Zahn called at ten and again at eleven. No message either time. Your mother called from San Diego and complained about you not being home, like she always does. That was at ten fifteen. A Mrs. Cara Ingalls called twice, asked that you call her tomorrow at her office. And then a Gregory Marcus called at ten twenty-three, left a number. Said it was important. Revised the number at eleven and called again at twelve fifteen, talking as if he suspected me of not giving you your messages." Claudia's professional pride was wounded.

"Don't let him bother you," I told her. Claudia, like the companionship and wine at Cliff House, was helping me pull myself together.

"What's with him anyway? He sounds mean and sexy." Claudia, a friend who gave me cut rates on the expensive twenty-four-hour service, loved to speculate about the callers, and we'd had many interesting conversations in the dead of night.

"Mean he is, but forget the sexy," I said, yawning.

"Do me a favor, will you?" Ben Harmon's mention of Marcus had made me wary.

"Sure."

"If Marcus calls again, tell him you haven't talked to me." I didn't like to ask people to lie for me, but Claudia had long ago explained her operator's code of ethics. It was very complicated, involving concepts of client confidentiality that would astonish even the legal-minded Hank.

"Right. What about your mother?"

"I'll try to get her tomorrow. Probably one of my brothers has gotten busted again, or one of my sisters is having another baby. No big deal." I got the number Cara Ingalls had left with Claudia, then said good-night and hung up.

Cara Ingalls: I had temporarily forgotten her, but the message on my card had interested her enough to make her try to reach me twice. Talking with her could well add many missing pieces to my puzzle—or change the shape of it altogether.

And Charlie Cornish: tomorrow I'd have to wring his story out of him. He might throw some light on the van Osten-Harmon connection.

I undressed sitting on the bed, then snuggled down under the heavy quilt. A residue of the terror I'd felt while running through the fog still clung to me, warring with my exhaustion. In minutes, exhaustion won out.