Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (31 page)

Hank nodded, but I said, "Sometimes the obvious can fool
you." They both watched me as I got up and went over to one of
the end-table drawers that had been dumped on the floor. "Hank,
how big is a Torah?"

Hank, who had been bar mitzvahed at thirteen, held up his hands
about a yard apart. "Like this."

The drawer was a small one, around a foot square. "Levin
would know a Torah couldn't fit in here. Or in the bedside table
drawers that were ransacked upstairs. Or even in that woodbox."

"So what else could he have been looking for?" Hank
said.

"Or
who
else could have been looking? It doesn't
have to have been Levin, you know. His killer might—"

Again there were voices in the hall. I turned to the door and
stifled a groan when I saw who was standing there.

The Homicide inspector's name was Leo McFate. I knew him slightly
because I'd been seeing a lieutenant on that detail when McFate had
been transferred from General Works. Earlier tonight I had been
afraid my old boyfriend, Greg Marcus, would be the one to be called
to the scene—a confrontation that would have been sticky at
best. McFate's appearance, however, was ultimately worse.

Between Greg and me there would have been the professional clash
between a cop and a private operator, as well as the more basic one
between former lovers. With McFate, it would be less a conflict than
a complete failure to relate. We just didn't talk, act, or think on
the same plane.

Most women would have been delighted at the sight of McFate. He
had a tall, muscular body; thick dark brown hair with that
distinguished touch of gray at the temples; a luxuriant, well-trimmed
mustache; a movie star's cleft chin. He dressed impeccably in
designer suits—tonight a three-piece blue pinstripe—and
he did all the status things, like going to the symphony and opera
and openings at the art museums. Most women would have taken one look
at him and seen a real prize.

During our brief acquaintance, however, I'd taken more than one
look at Leo McFate. What I saw was a man who worked too hard at
getting his name in the gossip columns, a man who did the status
things because they were considered 'in,' not because he enjoyed
them. McFate was rumored to be a ladies' man, and his name had been
linked with some of the city's most eligible women. But when he
talked with the less eligible women—like me—his eyes took
on a cool politeness that masked the fact he wasn't really listening.
I'd long sensed that, underneath, McFate harbored a deep-seated
dislike of women in general and, in fact, was a little afraid of
them.

Now he surveyed the room with a faint look of distaste, then
nodded to Hank and me. "Counselor. Ms. McCone." His glance
flicked to Willie, then back to me. "I presume this is Mr.
Whelan, the owner of the house?"

"You got it," Willie muttered. I was somewhat surprised
at his surly reaction, but chalked it up to an instant and
well-placed dislike of the inspector.

McFate frowned. "Which one of you found the body?"

I said, "I did, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Willie… Mr. Whelan and I were together at the time. But I
was the first to see it."

"And what time was that?"

"Eight-ten."

"You're certain of that?"

"Yes, I looked at my watch."

"Most women wouldn't have the presence of mind to look at
their watches at a time like that."

"I'm not 'most women,' " I said stiffly. "I'm a
trained investigator and I try to follow proper procedure. The time
was eight-ten."

McFate ran a finger over his handsome mustache. "Very well,
Ms. McCone, suppose you tell me how you and Mr. Whelan happened to
find the deceased."

I told him, from the beginning, leaving nothing out except the
dubious nature of Willie's business. When I finished, McFate was
silent for a moment. "You're certain that Rabbi Halpert said he
had never heard of Mr. Levin?"

"Yes. He knew of the Torah Recovery Committee, but said he
had no connection with them or with Jerry Levin. And after seeing how
this house was ransacked, I'm not sure Levin was from the committee
at all. He—or someone— was looking for something besides
the Torahs—"

McFate held up a hand. "Ms. McCone, let's not jump to
conclusions."

"I'm not. You can plainly see—"

"Ms. McCone, please." He turned to Willie. "Mr.
Whelan, I understand you told the patrolmen that you're a
'merchandiser' and that the garage is your 'store.'"

"That's right."

"Isn't it true that what you really are is a fence?"

"A what?"

"A fence. A purveyor of stolen goods."

"Purveyor?" Willie looked elaborately blank. "What's… Oh, you mean, is that stuff down there stolen?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"Hell, no. I bought it all legal. I got receipts, fair and
square."

"Yes, Mr. Whelan, I'm sure you do."

"You want to see them?" Willie started to get up.

I glanced at Hank; he was trying not to smile. And much as I
disapproved of Willie's line of work, I was fighting back amusement
too. It was the opening round between McFate, the stuffy champion of
all that was right and proper, and Willie, society's outcast. And I
found myself rooting for the underdog.

"That won't be necessary," McFate said.

"No, listen, let me show you."

"Mr. Whelan, all good fences protect themselves with
receipts. That doesn't alter the fact that—"

"Now wait a minute!" Willie stood up. Although he was
not as muscular, in height he was a match for McFate. "You're
saying I'm a fence, and you're also telling me you're not going to
give me a chance to prove otherwise?"

"Mr. Whelan—"

"Is that what you're saying?"

"Calm down, please."

Willie turned to Hank. "Isn't that slander or something?"

"Technically."

"Well, make him stop it. You're my lawyer; are you going to
stand for that? Tell him we'll sue him."

The corners of Hank's mouth twitched. "McFate, you're baiting
my client. I'll have to ask you to stop."

"Mr. Zahn, you're an officer of the court. You can't
condone—"

"I'm not condoning anything. I'm merely protecting my
client's rights."

"Yeah, I got rights the same as anybody else."

McFate gave an exasperated sigh. Willie stood there, quivering
with manufactured indignation. I made the mistake of looking at Hank,
and then involuntarily started to laugh. I tried to force it down,
but that only made it well up faster. I swallowed, and what came out
was a snort.

Willie turned and stared at me. Hank rolled his eyes at the
ceiling. McFate's mouth turned down in disgust.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and snorted again.

"For God's sake, Sharon," Hank said.

"Oh, Lord, I'm sorry, I can't—" I doubled over
laughing, arms clutched around my midsection.

"You all right?" Willie asked.

I snorted again.

"Sharon, stop it." Hank's voice was stern.

"I'm trying."

"Good."

I remained doubled over, breathing deeply to get myself under
control. When I looked up, McFate's imperturbable expression was once
more in place. "Would you like a glass of water, Ms. McCone?"
he asked coldly.

"No, I'm all right now."

"Then perhaps you'd like to be excused. You can give us a
formal statement tomorrow."

"But—"

"That will be all for now."

"But what about—"

"Sharon," Hank said, "I think the inspector is done
questioning you." He jerked his head toward the door.

I got up, feeling a little weak. "Okay, I'll see you back at
the office."

"Yes. I want to talk to you."

"Wait a minute," Willie said to me. "Can you do me
a favor?"

"Sure."

"Will you stop by Alida's place and explain why I can't call
her? She lives over on Ninth Avenue, seventeen-twenty-seven, bottom
apartment."

"I'll be glad to." As I turned to leave the room, I
bumped into McFate and stepped on his polished black shoe. He moved
back, glowering at me, and extended one hand toward the door. I fled.

Alida Edwards's building was five blocks from Golden Gate Park,
where the avenues began to slope upward into the middle-class
neighborhood known as Sunset Heights. Diagonally across the street
from it was a white structure that looked like a community center; a
sign announced it was the headquarters of the Sunset Heights
Association of Responsible People. Briefly I wondered who these
people were and what they were responsible for that warranted a
clubhouse. Of one thing I was certain: Had I lived in this
neighborhood, I would not have been asked to join.

I pressed Alida's bell, received an answering buzz, and crossed a
tiled lobby to the door to the downstairs apartment. The blond-haired
woman looked out, raising her eyebrows when she saw me.

"Willie asked me to stop by," I said. "He won't be
able to call you as he promised, and he wanted me to explain."

The lines around her mouth tightened. "Got some hot deal
going, huh?"

"Not exactly."

"What then?"

"I don't think you want me to go into it in the lobby, where
your neighbors can hear."

Ungraciously she flung the door open and stalked off down a long
hallway.

I closed the door behind me and followed her into a large room
that was sparsely furnished with an open, rumpled hide-a-bed and a
Danish modern dining table. Its walls were hung with Indian weavings,
and earth-toned pottery sat on some shelves near the tiny kitchen. A
large window overlooked a floodlit backyard landscaped with fig trees
and fuchsias.

I was about to tell her how attractive I found her place when a
woman's voice called to her from the next room. It sounded familiar,
so I followed Alida in there. The room was outfitted with a worktable
and cabinets, and in its center stood Selena Gonzalez. She was
admiring an intricate gold band that coiled around her arm.

"Alida, I will take this one," she said. "The snake
bracelet with eyes of agate." Then she saw me and grinned. "So,
we meet again."

"You know each other?" Alida asked.

"We met earlier today at the flea market," I said

"Of course. In addition to being a fellow vendor, Selena's my
next-door neighbor—and one of my best customers." Abruptly
Alida had shifted into amiability. I wondered if all her mood swings
were this sudden.

While Selena paid for the bracelet, I went over to a display
cabinet that contained jewelry on black velvet pads. Made of gold and
polished bits of stone, most of the pieces incorporated animal
shapes. I didn't particularly like them, but one medallion of a lion
with gleaming blue eyes wasn't too bad.

We went back to the larger room, and Alida began straightening the
covers on the bed. Selena and I sat crosslegged on the floor, the
Mexican woman still admiring the bracelet. Alida quickly gave up on
the rumpled bed and flopped in its center, hugging a pillow.

"So what's Willie's excuse tonight?" she said.

"It's no excuse. There was a murder at his house. The police
are questioning him about it."

Alida sat up straighten Selena looked up from the bracelet. There
was a heavy silence. Then Alida asked, "Who was killed?"

"The man we were supposed to meet at the Oasis. He was shot
in Willie's garage."

"When?"

"Sometime while we were in the bar, I assume."

"Who was he?"

Odd, I thought, that she didn't bother to ask if Willie was all
right. "The man who had been watching Willie's stall at the flea
market."

Selena sucked in her breath. She was very pale. "The evil one
with the little eyes."

"What was he doing in Willie's garage?" Alida asked.

"I don't know."

"How'd he get in there?"

"I don't know that either."

There was another silence. Then Selena said, "Evil begets
evil."

Alida flashed her an irritated glance. "We can do without
your Latin American philosophy thank you." To me she said, "What
was the dead guy's name?"

"Jerry Levin."

"And you say he was shot?"

"Yes."

"With what kind of gun?"

"Again, I don't know. I didn't see a gun near the body."
I wondered if the police had found the weapon. McFate hadn't said.

"God," Alida said. "That's what they get for not
passing the gun control ordinance. If people weren't free to walk
around with the things—"

"Nonsense." Selena shook her head. "It is the
outlaws who use them to kill. Outlaws always know how to get guns."

"That's an overworked and illogical argument." Alida
turned to me. "Isn't that so?"

"Yes."

"You're a detective. Do you carry—"

Selena interrupted her. "A what?" she asked.

"A detective," Alida said.

The Mexican woman put a hand to her throat. "Police… ?"

I realized why she was so anxious. "No, private."

"Willie hired her to find out about the man who was killed,"
Alida added.

"Oh." Selena fell silent, her finger tracing the coils
of her new bracelet.

"Do you carry a gun?" Alida asked me. It was what she'd
started to ask before.

"Very seldom. I own two, and I know how to use them. But no,
I don't carry one unless I'm going into a very dangerous situation."

"You're like me," she said. "My daddy taught me to
shoot straight when I was just a kid—they do things that way in
Texas. But I wouldn't have a gun in the house. Unlike some people."
She cast a baleful glance at Selena.

"I live alone over there in a ground-floor apartment."
Selena jerked a thumb at the wall behind her. "I feel unsafe, so
I have a gun that I bought from Fat Herman."

"Fat Herman?" I asked.

"The man who sells the knives at the flea market."

"The one who wears the beach-umbrella hat."