Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (25 page)

I retreated to the bank of phones near the baggage claim area and called Circle Wharf and Warehouse. After much prodding, their president, a Mr. John Hood, gave me a three-thirty appointment—the earliest he had available—to talk about the gin theft. He sounded extremely wary; doubtless he’d been bothered before by people peddling information.

Beating the meter maid to my car by about twenty seconds, I zipped off toward the freeway. The radio mumbled softly under the hum of my engine, and I turned it up when I caught a familiar name.

“… Marcus, of SFPD Homicide, said all-points bulletins have been issued for the husband of the deceased. San Francisco private investigator Sharon McCone is also being requested to contact the SFPD. McCone is believed to have reported the crime before fleeing the scene last night. In other local news…”

Damn! I snapped off the radio. A “request” was a polite way of saying come in or else. No APB had been issued, but squad cars would be on the alert for me. Quickly I moved into the left lane and headed back around the circle to the parking garage. No sense in going anywhere in my battered old MG, which would easily be spotted by the police.

I left the car in the long-term lot and crossed to the terminal once again. Two and a half hours were mine to kill, but somehow I had to get across the Bay to Alameda. My eyes roved around the terminal and rested on the sign for the SFO helicopter.

Well, why not? I’d never taken a helicopter ride before. Soon I stood in line, waiting to buy a ticket for Oakland Airport.

We lifted off twenty-five minutes later, into a gray, dreary sky. The roar was deafening at first, then softer as the copter gained altitude. I clutched the edges of my seat and peered down through a rain-peppered window as the ground fell away. The ten other passengers were evidently old hands at this exotic form of travel; they read their newspapers, oblivious to their surroundings. Fortunately, they were also oblivious to the bedraggled young woman with the unruly mop of black hair who pressed her nose to the glass and delighted in the ride across the choppy waters of the Bay.

Fugitive from justice enjoys last moments of freedom.

The words, like a caption for a newspaper photo, popped into my head. My spirits took a sudden plunge, and I swallowed hard. A request, I reminded myself, is not the same thing as an arrest warrant. The thought didn’t help.

At Oakland Airport, I virtually slunk to the ladies’ room, glancing around for official uniforms. Inside one of the stalls I removed the fake driver’s license and credit card in the same name that I carried in a compartment of my wallet for just such occasions as this. I was already in so much trouble that one more infraction of the law couldn’t worsen it measurably.

Approaching the rental car counters, I chose the one staffed by the youngest, least-experienced-looking clerk. She accepted my identification and credit card without a question. Fifteen minutes later I headed for the Port of Alameda in a green Toyota.

Alameda is an island a stone’s throw west of Oakland. I rumbled through the tube under the Bay and onto a main strip lined with fast food stands that served the Naval Air Station. Following Mr. Hood’s directions, I drove toward the waterfront.

A line of left-turning semi’s indicated the access road for Circle Wharf and Warehouse. I waited at the security gate between two hulking, puffing trucks that made me feel like a bug about to be squashed. A guard in a green windbreaker and hardhat directed me to a parking space in front of the Administration Building.

As I locked my car, I looked around for police cars, a habit I had developed to a fine art in the last couple of hours. I hoped fervently that Mr. Hood didn’t have a radio in his office or, if he did, that he hadn’t been listening to the news. After we talked, I should be able to bargain with the law.

Mr. Hood was an imposing gentleman with an iron-gray crewcut and a lean, weathered face. As he admitted me to his office and settled me on a leather couch, his manner was cordial, but wary. He sat down behind his desk and regarded me thoughtfully.

“One of the reasons I agreed to see you,” he said, “was because I’ve never gotten a look at a female private eye before.”

“So now that you have, what do you think?”

“You’d never know, to see you on the street. You look like you could be someone’s very efficient secretary. Are you efficient?”

“In my way.”

“Are you tough?”

“Pretty tough.”

“Know judo? Know how to slap thugs around?”

I couldn’t tell if he was baiting me or honestly curious. “I’ve used judo. As for thugs—I’d rather slap them in jail.”

He gave a hoarse, barking laugh. “I like that. You’re all right.” His eyes sobered. “So what’s this about my missing gin?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve discovered where it is.”

“And what do you want from me? Money?”

“No. Information.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want me to hire you? Or pay you to tell me where it is?”

“No. And I can’t be positive what I’ve discovered is yours until you give me some details.”

“And then?”

“Then, if it is your missing shipment, I’ll tip the FBI. I believe they’re the agency that has jurisdiction over this crime.”

He nodded, pinching the bridge of his broad nose. Finally he asked, “What’s in it for you?”

“I plan to use the discovery to bargain myself out of a tight spot.”

“And it wouldn’t do me any good to ask what kind of tight spot.”

“Right. Of course,” I added, “should you or your insurance company see fit to reward me after the recovery of the cargo, I’ll leave my card. That way, you’ll know where to send the check.”

Again, he laughed. “I like your style. Okay, what do you want to know?”

“First, how did the thieves get two full containers out of here in the first place? Your security looks pretty tight.”

“It’s tight. It’s tight twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And when a ship’s working, it’s even tighter. They got those containers out of here the simplest way possible: by presenting what looked like a bona fide delivery order from the steamship line.”

“What’s a delivery order?”

“Facsimile of the bill of lading. It’s our signal from the steamship line that all charges have been paid and the cargo’s ready to roll. Take that fellow.” He gestured at the window. Down by the security shack, the driver of a red semi cab was presenting a paper to the guard in the hardhat.

“That fellow,” Hood went on, “will show his delivery order to our clerk. If we have the Customs release and the papers are in order, he’ll hook up the container and haul it away.”

“And, in the case we’re talking about, the delivery order only looked genuine.”

“Right.”

“How’d they fake it?”

He shrugged. “Ladings are customarily made up as ditto masters by the shipper or his forwarder. They’re sent to the steamship line, where the appropriate documents are run off. Anybody at any point along the line can run off extra copies of whatever document he wants.”

“Surely it would be easy to find out who did it.”

“It should be, but we’re dealing with extremely clever people. That delivery order was a damned good fake, and the so-called truckers who showed up for the cargo were as cool as they come. It wasn’t until the real drivers arrived a few hours later that we realized what had happened. By then, the gin was long gone.”

All the way to India Basin, I thought. By day, it was a congested industrial area where no one would notice a couple of extra semi’s.

“Okay,” I said, “if I were to stumble across a lot of Tanqueray gin in an unlikely place, what would I look for to make sure it was this particular shipment?”

He leaned forward. “I believe you
do
know something.”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Where is this unlikely place?”

I shook my head in the negative.

Hood’s hand moved toward the phone. “I could call the FBI and let them get it out of you.”

“But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have no guarantee I’d cooperate. I could claim I was merely speculating about coming across the gin. And then where would you be?” Inwardly, I willed him to take his hand away from that phone.

“No place.” He stood. “Okay, lady, like I said, I like your style. I’ll give you a try. Let’s play it your way.”

“Good. Is there any way to distinguish the shipment?”

“Yes. If the gin had been intended for only one consignee, we’d be out of luck. Fortunately, this was a CFS shipment. That means that cargo for several different consignees was loaded together. To distinguish among them, the cases bear different shipping marks.”

I felt a flash of excitement and reached for the notebook where I’d copied the markings from the cases of gin in the Blind Center storeroom. “Shipping marks are pretty distinctive, aren’t they?”

“Generally. They can be the entire address of the consignee or abbreviations.” Hood hit an intercom and said, “Mary, get me the file on the Tanqueray theft, will you?” He met the secretary at the door and turned, flipping through a manila folder. Standing over me, he read, “Amco, Oakland, PO 1732. Mean anything?”

“No.”

“Brothers Wholesale Liquors, San Francisco, PO XX-349-765.”

“No.”

“Sales Liquor Distributing, Oakland, PO 7786-52-B.”

“That’s it.”

“What?”

“It’s your gin, all right.”

Hood shut the folder and went back around his desk. He sat, drumming his fingers on the blotter. “Okay, lady, what now?”

“Like I said, I’ll tip the FBI.”

He motioned at his phone.

“No, I’ll call from somewhere else. I need to do some bargaining first.”

“You’re free to bargain from here.”

“No, I do better in private.” I stood up, taking out one of my cards. Setting it in front of him, I said, “Remember, that’s where to send my check.”

The phone booth across the street from Circle Wharf and Warehouse was hot and steamy. I propped the door open with my foot while I waited for Greg to come on the line.

“Sharon! It’s about time.” He sounded like he was gritting his teeth. “You’d better have something good to tell me.”

“How about if I were to give you the person who killed Antonio and Neverman—plus made you look good to our local office of the FBI.”

“Right. Big talk,” he growled. But he sounded hopeful.

“Okay, Gregory.” I took a deep breath. “There’s an old ironworks at India Basin, near Hunters Point. In the warehouse at the end of the pier, you’ll find a lot of gin, close to two containerloads of it. It’s stolen, from Circle Wharf and Warehouse in Alameda. If you tip the Feds in a hurry, they might find the thieves there with the stuff.”

Greg was silent, but papers shuffled, as if he were making notes.

“Neverman and Antonio were killed because they caught on to the people who plan to fence the gin,” I went on. “There’s a fencing ring operating right in my neighborhood.”

“So who’s the killer?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You don’t… all right, Sharon!”

“I said
yet
. I need your help.”

“You bet you need help!”

“Greg—give me three hours. It’s almost five o’clock now. Call off the cop on my apartment. By eight o’clock you’ll have your killer.” I hoped my voice sounded more confident than I felt.

He paused. “Goddamn it, Sharon,” he said in a low voice. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me?”

“I realize. Please, Greg. If you have any respect for me as a professional, please give me the time.”

He was silent. Finally he said, “Dammit, Sharon, why I ever wasted all that chocolate on you…”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“You said three hours?”

“Right.”

“Three hours it is. I’ll call everyone off. But, Sharon…”

“Yes?”

“If you don’t deliver, don’t expect to work in this state again. Not as a private eye.”

His threat, I was certain, was serious, but it did nothing to dampen my spirits. Greg must have faith in my abilities or he wouldn’t have given me this chance. “Don’t worry. I’ll deliver.”

I headed for home in the rented Toyota. Bad as our relationship had become in the past two days, there were some questions I had to ask Linnea.

Carrying my mail—a letter from my mother and a request for alumni contributions from the University of California—I banged the apartment door and walked noisily down the hall, trying to act as if nothing had happened the night before. In the archway to the main room, I stopped, surprised.

Linnea stood by the bed, packing her suitcase. It was an orderly suitcase, and Linnea herself looked tidy: She wore a tan pantsuit, and her hair was clean and shining, her makeup carefully applied.

She looked up and said, “I’m going home to San Diego.”

I put my mail on the table and sat down. The room was neat, the magazines she’d soaked with liquor the night before laid out to dry. Watney, contented once more, curled in the center of the bed.

“When did you decide this?” I asked.

“This morning. The kids have been with Mama long enough. I miss them, and it’s time we had a home of our own again.”

I couldn’t keep the incredulous look off my face.

“I know it’s a shock.” Linnea laughed nervously and shut the suitcase. “The last time you see me, I’m sloppy drunk, blubbering about how the world’s treated me, and now…” She sat in the chair across from me, looking uncertain.

“Listen, Sharon,” she went on, “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you, and I hope it hasn’t damaged our friendship, not permanently.”

“I…” I shook my head in confusion. “I… no, of course it hasn’t. But you must admit this is a startling transformation. What happened?”

She laughed nervously again. “Oh, you know how people have moments of truth. I guess you could say I had mine last night.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Sure. Why not?” She sat back, smoothing her carefully pressed trousers. “You see, I was awfully upset when you walked out of here. Nobody had ever spoken to me like that. Not Mama, not Jim, or anybody. Why, when Jim left me, he barely said a thing—his lawyer did all the talking. You really pulled the rug out from under me.”

“And that shaped you up?”

“No. In fact, it made things worse. I… I decided to kill myself.”

“God, no!”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded solemnly. “It was the whole big horror show: razor blade, bathtub full of warm water, and me, clutching the last bottle of booze in the house. And I couldn’t do it. I was scared you wouldn’t come back and find me in time. Can you imagine: me, who always despised fakers, doing the fakiest thing of all?”

I glanced at her wrists. No bandages. None of the little hesitation marks suicide attempts left.

“Anyway,” Linnea went on, “I realized what a total fraud I was when that cop came to the door. I lay there in the bathtub, thinking it was you and that maybe you’d forgotten your key. I pictured you getting Tim to open the door, and how shocked and sorry you’d be. But the cop kept on pounding, and finally I had to get out of the tub and answer. Then when he said Madame Anya had been murdered… oh, wow!”

“So what did you do?”

“Got angry at myself. I kept thinking about what you’d said—that at least I had life, even if I didn’t have much else. That life hasn’t been worth much to me for a long time now, and I hated myself so much for being such a cowardly fake that I said, ‘Okay, take your lousy life and gamble with it.’ ”

“What?”

“That’s right. Do you remember how we used to ask the cards a question?”

I nodded. The solitaire game we’d played back in San Diego.

“I decided I would play one game,” Linnea said. “And the question would be: ‘Do I live and work things out?’ If the game came out, I’d try. If not…” She slashed a finger across one wrist.

I pressed my hands to my face, shivering. The odds against the game coming out in one try were incredibly high.

Linnea went on, “Anyway, to cut the melodrama short, I played the game, and it came out. And when it did, I realized I had to face up to things and take my life in hand whether I liked it or not. Because I’d been so lucky, so blessed… Sharon!”

I was crying, tears leaking through my fingers and trickling down the backs of my hands. My entire body shook.

“Shar, don’t! It’s okay. The game came out. And I honestly don’t think I would have shaped up without the shock of… oh, hey, come on!”

Linnea moved to the arm of my chair, her hands on my heaving shoulders. “Hey, don’t! Everything’s all right.”

I wished I could believe her. Giving in to this sudden reversal of roles, I buried my wet face against my friend.

When I had calmed down, Linnea went back to her chair and lit a cigarette. Her motions were measured. I could scarcely fathom such a change in less than twenty-four hours.

With my fit of tears behind me, I felt better, though. Too much tension held in check for too long had worn me down.

Linnea said, “Wow, you really came apart for a few minutes there. It can’t all be because of me. What else is bothering you?”

“The image of you floating in a bathtub of bloody water is enough to unhinge anybody.”

‘’Maybe, but there’s something besides that.”

She was too calm, too dispassionate, for Linnea. I knew this wouldn’t last, but it was a step forward. If I could get her back to San Diego and her kids while she was still in this frame of mind, she might work things out after all.

She asked, “It’s the murders, isn’t it? Molly and Madame Anya?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “You think you’re hardened, you think you’ve seen a lot, and then…” I shook my head.

“I’m sorry,” Linnea said quietly. “Did they find any clues yet?”

“No. I’ve got three hours—less now—to come up with something, or I’m likely to end up in jail for obstructing a police investigation.”

Linnea’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding!”

“I don’t think Greg would go so far as to arrest me, but…”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Right now, wash my face and change my clothes and go talk to some people.”

“You ought to eat something.”

I motioned wearily. “I couldn’t.”

“Sharon, you’ve got to start eating better.”

Who else had told me that? Stanley, the bartender. It reminded me of the questions I had to ask Linnea. “Hey,” I said, “have you heard from Herb Clemente?”

She smiled. “Yes, I called him this morning to apologize for freaking out on the phone. He had to go to LA today, but he said he’d be back sometime this evening. If he’s here early enough, he’s going to drive me to the airport.”

“Why’d he go to LA, do you know?”

“No. He just said on business.”

Blind Center business? Or something to do with fencing a load of Tanqueray gin?

“When’s your flight?” I asked.

“Eleven was the earliest I could get. If Herb doesn’t call, I’ll take a cab.”

“No, I’ll try to be here to drive you.”

“If you don’t show, it’ll mean you’re in trouble. I’ll stay and try to help.”

I smiled weakly. “Thanks. Another question: the other day when Molly was in here, around five o’clock the day she died…”

Linnea flushed. “What about it?”

“I’m not interested in your conversation. Anyway, I think I know what it was about.”

“I’m sure you do. She was yelling at me for drinking so much. What about that day?”

“When Gus and Sebastian came over here from Mr. Moe’s, did Gus come inside the apartment?”

Linnea frowned. “I think… yeah, I’m sure he did.”

“All the way inside?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He sat right where you are now and looked through some magazines on the table. Why?”

I ignored her question. Gus had had the opportunity to take the cord. He also had had the opportunity to strangle Molly—none of the domino players had given him an airtight alibi. All along I’d discounted Gus because I’d thought him too stupid. But what if it was an act? Gus worked for the Blind Center; he had told Tim this morning that he had plenty of money to pay the rent. Gus could be part of the fencing scheme.

“Why?” Linnea insisted.

“What?”

“Why do you ask about Gus?”

“It has something to do with my missing drapery cord.”

“Are you still on the string-collecting jag?”

“Why not? It’s a hobby I could keep up in jail.”

“You know, that’s not really funny.”

“I know.” I grabbed my bag and, since I’d left my .38 locked in the glovebox of my car at the airport, went to the strongbox and took out the other one I kept there.

Linnea stared at the gun. “Hey, I thought you wanted to change your clothes.”

“Nope. I’ve lost too much time as is. I’m going over to Mr. Moe’s.”

“I’ll come along with you and pick up some wine. I drank everything.”

“No.”

Linnea looked reproachfully at me. “Sharon, all I want is a glass of wine. I’m over swilling it down, believe me.”

“What I meant was, it could get unpleasant at the Superette.” I paused, remembering the wine I’d left with Stanley the other night. “I know where there’s a bottle of Grey Reisling, though. Go over to Ellen T’s and ask Stanley for it. It belongs to me.”

“You do leave things in the most peculiar places. Let’s go.”

Halfway down the front steps, I said, “Oh, by the way, I thought of filing a complaint about the way Greg Marcus hassled you yesterday, but first I want to take it up with him personally. Do you have any choice words to pass along?”

Linnea stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Greg Marcus? The guy who sends you all the chocolate? The cop who was here last night?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“He came over and upset you. Remember how he kept asking you what Molly gave you for safekeeping? When you threw the chocolates he brought at him?”

She shook her head. “Sharon, that wasn’t Greg Marcus. I mean, all he did was leave the box of candy outside the door. I never even laid eyes on him until last night.”

“Who was it, then? Who upset you?”

“Sebastian, the guy who peddles the brushes. He got me to let him in on the excuse that you’d ordered a toilet brush.”

I remembered it, lying on the floor among the candies.

“
Sebastian
wanted to know what Molly had left with you?”

Bewildered, she nodded. “But it’s okay, really. He came by today and apologized. He said he was worried about Gus’s inheritance, or he wouldn’t have been so rude.”

“Gus’s inheritance? Linnea, are you sure Gus was in here, by the coffee table the other afternoon?”

“Yes. Sharon, what…”

“Listen, go back inside and lock the door and stay there.”

“What? Can’t I even get the wine?”

I hesitated. “Oh, all right, get it. But then come back and don’t let anybody in.”

“What about Herb?”

“Definitely
not
. Tell him you’ll meet him at the Blind Center later. Stall him a while. But I don’t want anybody coming in that apartment until I get back from Mr. Moe’s. Do you understand?”

“Okay. Don’t get all excited. I’ll hold the fort.”

“Good.” I hurried toward the corner. As I waited for the light, I watched Linnea cross in mid-block to Ellen T’s. Her hands were thrust deep in the pockets of her jacket, and her head was bowed dejectedly. In the fog that had followed the day’s rain, she looked lost and alone.

I glanced up and down the street, patting the reassuring bulk of the .38 in my bag. With its help, I’d get the answers I needed out of Mr. Moe.