Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (23 page)

I was in my office, sewing up the rip in the seat of my pants, when Hank barged in. He scratched furiously at his head and muttered, “Oh, you’re not dressed.”

“No, I’m not.” I draped the pants over my bare legs. “Why don’t you come back in about five minutes.”

“Uh, sure.” He backed out the door, his eyes bemused as he tried to act as if finding me half-naked in my office were an everyday event.

I chuckled softly while I inspected my repair job. The pants were intact, but they would never be the same. As I was putting them on, Hank knocked and, after an elaborate pause, reentered. His tall, lanky frame seemed to fill the little room.

“Ted mentioned you’d snuck in the back way, holding yourself together,” he said, perching on the edge of my desk. “I thought I’d better check things out.”

I’d parked two blocks away and slipped down the stone footpath that scaled the hill behind All Souls, hoping no one would see me. Ted, the para-legal worker and receptionist, had been fixing a snack in the kitchen when I’d come through the service porch, and he’d made appropriately lewd comments.

“Well, I’m
sewn
together now.” I sat down in my ratty armchair.

Hank grinned. “You’re having a rough vacation. Exactly how did you split your britches?”

“It would take years in the telling.”

“I’ve got all night. Besides, I don’t think it would be smart for you to leave here.”

“Oh?”

“Our friend Greg Marcus was here—minus his usual candy bar. Seems you’re wanted for questioning in a homicide.”

“Oh, Lord. I was afraid of that. How’d he figure out I reported it?”

“For one thing, the murder was in your building—again. For another, a young-sounding woman reported it. And, when Greg went looking for you, you were missing from your usual haunts.”

“That’s pretty flimsy evidence to put out a warrant on.”

“I don’t think there’s a warrant yet. He said something about keeping it friendly. But he’s got better evidence than what I just told you.”

“What?”

“Greg went to your apartment. Your houseguest answered the door, drunk as a skunk.”

“Oh, God.”

“When Greg asked where you were, your friend said she didn’t know, that you might have paid another visit to ‘that goddamned fortune teller’ far as she knew.”

“Oh, Linnea!” I wailed.

“She sounds like a delightful guest.”

“She’s getting more so every day. Hank, do you think Greg will come back here tonight?”

“Nope. He thinks you’re too clever to show your face in these parts. If you stay inside, you’re safe. So how about telling me how you ripped your pants?”

“Why? So you can go back and gossip with Ted?”

“Now,” Hank admonished, “you know we’re only interested in your welfare. I came right down here to reassure myself…”

“You mean to get the dirt. It’s no wonder it’s impossible to maintain one’s dignity around this place!”

“Aw, Shar, aren’t you going to let me in on it?”

The teasing light in his eyes was infectious. “What’s it worth to you?”

He considered. “A damned good cup of coffee. I brewed some of that French roast you like a while ago.”

“It’s a deal. Let me clean up and brush my hair first.”

“I’ll go wash some cups.”

When I went into the kitchen, Hank sat at the big table, two steaming mugs and a bottle of brandy in front of him. “Didn’t think you’d mind.” He motioned at the bottle. “Makes for better storytelling.”

I thought back to the brandy I’d shared with Sebastian. It seemed like years ago. “Mind? Not in the slightest.”

“So tell me your strange and wonderful tale,” Hank commanded.

I told all of it, not even bothering to edit the scene at Anya’s. When I got to the part about being imprisoned in the bathroom with the bird, Hank stroked his chin, pulling at the corners of his mouth to keep them from turning up. When I was finished, he looked more serious.

“What do you think Anya planned to do with you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She knew I was afraid of birds, but not that it was a serious phobia. Actually, I think she just flipped out.”

“And you heard voices while you were trapped in the john?”

“Yes. I thought she’d called someone in to help her. I still think whoever it was must have been someone she knew.”

“Why so?”

“Because Anya had a habit of answering her door with a gun. She must have put it away and let this person in. Then, after he killed her, he took the gun from the table drawer.”

“You sound like you think it might not have been the husband.”

“Everything points to him, though. Even though I saw him pick up Mr. Moe right after I called the cops, he still had plenty of time to go back to the Blind Center and get the truck. I must have searched Anya’s apartment for a good fifteen minutes before I made that call.”

“And what was it you found? Nylons?”

“Yes. Wait a minute.” I hurried back to my office and got the box of nylons from my bag. Returning to the kitchen, I tossed it on the table.

“ ‘Knee-Hi’s,’ ” Hank read. “What is this?”

“Something that makes no sense whatsoever. But they have to be what Molly gave Anya; I found them in the freezer.”

“That still doesn’t explain about your pants.”

“I’m getting to that.” I went on with my narrative.

“You’ve had a busy evening,” Hank commented when I’d finished. He poured us more coffee and brandy. “So what does it all mean?”

“I’m not sure.” I turned the box of nylons over in my hands, then opened it and dumped the plastic packets out on the table.

“What’re these?” Hank picked up two IBM-type cards that had fallen out with them.

“Let me see.” I snatched one from his fingers.

“God, you’re grabby. You recognize it?”

“Sort of. This, my friend, is a stock-control card. I remember them well from my department store days.” I read aloud from the card. “ ‘System-a-Tron, a Retail Management Plan.’ ”

“Oh, one of those cards that goes in with the merchandise,” Hank said. “When the salesclerk gets to it, she forwards it to the computer, and it tells the computer it’s time to reorder.”

“Plus provides statistics on sales volume and turnover.” I looked at the figures printed in the boxes on top of the card. “These nylons are Stock Number 40/KB-1216 in Department Number CN43 of the Knudsen Department Store…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Hush.” I held up a hand. “It’s starting to fit.”

Hank drained his coffee cup, watching me silently.

“Okay,” I said after a minute, “I think I’ve got it. I’ll take it slow, from the beginning.”

“All right.”

“Start with the Blind Center. The other day, Sebastian offered to sell me some shoelaces. He said they had expanded their line to products they didn’t manufacture, products they bought wholesale. But when I mentioned it to Herb Clemente, he got upset. He indicated Sebastian wasn’t supposed to sell those items yet. My impression was that Sebastian had taken the stuff and pocketed what he made on it.”

“Taken it from where?”

“The basement of the church at the Center. They’ve got a whole storeroom of stuff like dishwashing gloves and wooden spoons and other kitchen equipment. Lord knows what else they’ve got in there; I didn’t take time to explore it completely.”

“So what do they plan to do with it?”

“Clemente said they were going to sell it as soon as they got new racks to hold that type of thing.”

“And you think that’s strange?”

“Wait, I’m not through. This Jeffrey Neverman used to be a trucker. Like I told you, he went to prison for ripping off his employer. It’s a common enough crime—I remember how, when I worked in security, truckers would take an extra case or two of merchandise from the loading dock or short a customer at the other end. The kinds of things the Blind Center has in that storeroom are the sort that are pilfered all the time.”

“Ahah!” Hank exclaimed. “So you think the Center is buying stolen goods?”

“Yes, probably through Neverman’s contacts among truckers.”

“Where do these nylons fit in?”

“The stock cards tell me they were stolen, probably from Knudsen’s warehouse after they’d been readied to go on the selling floor. I can’t prove it, but I think Molly bought them off of Sebastian. Molly used to work at Knudsen’s, and she would have recognized their cards and known what they meant.”

Hank scratched his head. “All right, you knew this Molly person. What do you think she would have done about it?”

“First, I think she’d have consulted Anya Neverman, whom she considered a spiritual advisor. In fact, finding these nylons in Anya’s freezer makes me sure that’s what she did. Anya probably proposed several solutions: Keep shut up about it, complain to Clemente, or go to the cops. She probably advised against the latter, not wanting Jeffrey to go to jail again. Molly also had a genuine concern in the matter, since her husband leads Sebastian on his rounds. She was a very righteous woman, and I don’t think she’d want Gus involved in a crime.”

“So, of the other two alternatives, which did she take?”

I ignored the question. “None of the alternatives was pleasant to her. She told Linnea that Anya hadn’t offered any solution that wouldn’t make her problem worse. She also said she wished she’d never seen the cards. Both Linnea and I took that to mean Tarot cards, but she was actually talking about these.” I waved the IBM-type cards.

“But which alternative
did
she take?”

“I think she complained to Clemente. She may have told him she had proof stashed with someone in the building. She’d left the nylons with Anya, just to be on the safe side.”

“And Clemente killed her?”

“I don’t know about Clemente. He’s just a disillusioned liberal. Neverman, maybe. Possibly Mr. Moe. He’s involved in this, in some peripheral way, and I have only his word that he found the body and was so shaken he ran.”

“And tonight someone killed Anya because she also knew about the scheme?”

“Yes. No one would have realized she did, except for her passion for Jeffrey. She gave herself away when she tried to blackmail him into coming home.”

Hank tipped the coffeepot, but only a few drops trickled out. “It’s gone. You want straight brandy?”

“Sure. Why not?”

He poured it. I sipped absently.

“So where are we now?” Hank asked. “Do you tip the police to what’s going on at the Center?”

“It wouldn’t do any good.”

“Why not, if they’ve got a whole storeroom full of stolen goods?”

“In security, I learned a good bit about the way fences operate. Any smart fence covers himself with bogus receipts. They have bookkeeping systems and cancelled checks to show they bought and paid for the stuff. Even if the supposed seller is on the shady side, they can claim they didn’t know the stuff was stolen.”

Hank nodded. “The way the law reads, in order to convict of receiving, you have to prove that the stuff was stolen, that it was in the accused’s possession, and that the accused was aware it was stolen. That last is the toughest to do.”

“And Clemente’s a smart man, so you can be sure he’s covered himself completely.”

“What I wonder,” Hank said, “is why they’re going to risk selling hot goods on the Center’s racks.”

“I doubt they are. Clemente may have just said that. The Center is probably a way station for the goods en route to the final purchaser—a drop, it’s called. But what a place for a drop!” I laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“If you wanted to store stuff where nobody would see it, what better place than a blind center?”

Hank chuckled.

“And it explains why they haven’t fixed that burnt-out roof,” I added. “They really don’t want the workshop in there, because it would mean having more people—maybe sighted visitors—around.”

I leaned my chin on my hands, staring out the kitchen window at the lights of downtown. They had been winking off steadily; it was after two in the morning. My head was beginning to whirl—either from the excitement or the brandy.

Hank, however, never got tired. “What about the people out at the old iron works?” he asked. “Who were they?”

“Thieves, probably. Moe and Neverman were most likely arranging a drop.”

“I read something about rip-offs just last weekend,” Hank said. “Let me see if I can find it.” He hurried off to his office.

I sighed wearily. Hank was an information freak. His office was papered with maps of every type and description. He saved his
National Geographies
for years. He subscribed to the
New York Times, Washington Post
, and
Wall Street Journal
, as well as the local papers. Often he stacked back issues in great piles all over his office. With a sense more accurate than radar, he always knew how to put his hands on a particular clipping. If he got started now, we’d be up all night.

He bustled back into the kitchen, brandishing a section of the
San Francisco Chronicle
. “It’s a backgrounder for a news item on the theft of two containers of Tanqueray gin from Circle Wharf and Warehouse in Alameda last Thursday,” he announced. “Seems like somebody made off with two forty-foot containerized shipments of the stuff, worth around four hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

He riffled through the pages of the paper. “Anyhow, what’s interesting is the statistics on cargo pilferage in the background story. Listen to this: for the ports of San Francisco, Oakland and Alameda, and the two airports, cargo pilferage amounted to $194,966 last year alone—and they say that figure is only eighty percent accurate. Wow, that latest theft is really going to boost this year’s figure!”

Wide awake and bright-eyed, Hank pored over the article, picking out statistics with his forefinger. “Catch this quote, will you! ‘Any veteran of the waterfront will tell you he doesn’t take anything, but he has plenty of co-workers who consider pilfering little more than a fringe benefit.’ ”

I yawned. “That’s how Neverman described it.”

“They say it’s hard to locate the weak link in the security chain—it can be in the freight station itself, after cargo clears Customs, with the truckers, or at the consignee’s own warehouse after the merchandise is accepted.”