Night work (9 page)

Kate wondered if the director spoke to all the residents as if they
were rather slow children, or if Crystal was simply a bit stupid.
Perhaps she'd better keep her own words basic, just in case.

"Hello, Crystal, good to meet you. Sorry to interrupt your dinner. This'll only take a few minutes."

Crystal did not respond, except to hunch her head more deeply between her shoulders.

"Let's sit down," Kate suggested. Crystal looked
less like a threatened turtle when she was seated, but her thin hands
began twisting each other, over and over.

"There was a meeting here Monday night, Crystal. A group
therapy session, do you remember?" The woman nodded. "Do
you know what time it ended?"

Crystal shot a glance at Diana Lomax, then at Carla, to see if this
might be a trick question. When neither of them reacted, she sat up a
little straighter and said, addressing her hands, " 'Bout
nine." The words were said with a strong Southern twang.

"Do you remember who was here?"

Again the nervous consultation, and again she spoke to her twisting
fingers, frowning slightly. "There was about ten of us, I think.
Me and Tina, Joanne, Emily, Carmelita, and Sunny. Then there was you
two." Her gaze came up to touch on the Lomax cousins. "And
Roz, of course. And I think Phoebe might've been here, but
I'm not sure. And wasn't there someone else? Oh, right,
Nikki was here for a while and then she had to go."

Without drawing attention to the notebook in her hands, Kate made
surreptitious note of the names while asking the next question; she
would ask Diana about them later.

"What were you talking about?"

"Just stuff, you know? I told 'em about looking for a
job--I'm a dental assistant, or I used to be, once
'pon a time. And the others talked about this 'n that.
Like, Tina's boy was acting up in school, and somepin' he
said to her sounded just like it might've come out of his
daddy's mouth and she was all in a bother, thinkin' that he
was gonna come out like his daddy, and she didn't know if she
wanted to shoot herself or shoot him. And then somebody said
somepin' about just tyin' him up with duck tape and
everbody laughed and joked for a while. You know, about them Ladies
who're goin' around duck-tapin' naked guys to phone
poles and stuff?" Kate nodded to indicate that she knew who the
Ladies were, and that the joke was getting a bit tired. "Well,
anyway. And then Emily talked a whole bunch--I remember that,
"cause it was the first time she'd said more'n two
words. And Joanne. She was having problems with her ADC checks."

"What did Emily talk about?"

"Her husband. He sounds a real shit house, pardon my French,
but she said she was thinkin' about giving him another chance.
Stupid, really stupid."

"Was it?"

"Oh, God." Crystal went so far as to raise her eyes to
Kate for a moment. "I mean, look. One thing we know here are men.
Talk about denial--she figured he was gonna change, just because
she'd moved out for a couple of weeks. Men like that never
change. They just wait."

It was a voice of experience speaking, and Kate had seen enough
domestic violence, had in her uniform days separated enough bloody,
screaming couples, not to argue with her assessment of the Larsen
situation. As Carla Lomax had said, James Larsen would have gotten his
wife back, and he would have put her in the hospital, if not the morgue.

"So you finished around nine. Did everyone leave then?"

"Oh, no. Nikki, like I said, she was gone, and Carla. And
yeah, Phoebe must've been here, "cause I remember she left
with Carla. But the rest of us had a cuppa tea in the kitchen and made
the kids' lunches for the next day. Roz was around, with somebody
who came in at the end-- I didn't know her. That Roz,"
she said wistfully, "she's really somepin',
isn't she? Has a knack for makin' you feel good about
yourself. Like you're bigger'n you really are. Important,
almost. But anyway, then that woman left and Roz came back in and sat
in the meeting room with Emily. They were still there when I went off
to bed."

"What time was that?"

"Maybe ten-thirty? I had a bath and I was in bed before eleven, so yeah, "bout ten-thirty."

"You said Roz came back in. She had left for a while then,
with this woman?" The Lomax cousins stirred simultaneously, the
inevitable response to that question from the police, but Crystal did
not see any import in it, and after a moment's consideration, she
answered.

"I think so. I think the two of 'em just went outside to
talk, in the woman's car maybe. It's sometimes hard to get
much privacy here. Which is fine," she hastened to add, looking
at the shelter director. "I like havin' company, and
it's sure great for the kids. But if you're wantin'
to have a quiet talk with someone, it's best to step
outside."

Kate nodded her understanding. "How long were they out there?"

"Oh, I dunno. Half an hour maybe? By the time Roz came back
in, all the cups'd been washed and put away. She joked about
havin' good timin.

Kate consulted her notes. "So other than Roz and her friend,
and Nikki, Carla, and Phoebe" (Phoebe; wasn't that the name
of Carla's secretary?), "did anyone else leave the house,
even for a little while? Maybe disappear and then come back a while
later?"

"They could've, I guess," Crystal said doubtfully.
"People was comin' and goin'--they always are.
Emily I know was in the kitchen till Roz came and got her, and the rest
of us were there. Joanne may have gone up to check on her
kids--she usually does--but I think I'd've heard
if someone went out. But I'm not real sure. Sorry."

"Oh no, don't be sorry. That's very helpful."

"Was that all you wanted, then? I should go get my kids ready for bed."

"Yes, thank you. If you think of anything else, give me a
call, here's my card. And--good luck with the job
hunt."

When Crystal had left, Kate turned to the Lomax cousins. "Do you know who this woman was who came and got Roz?"

"No," Diana said, "but it was someone she knew. Roz is-- Do you know Roz, Roz Hall?"

"I do, yes. She told me she'd been here, in fact."

"I should have guessed," Diana said. "Everyone
knows Roz. Anyway, this woman stuck her head in the door and Roz
spotted her, and told her she'd be out in a bit."

"Did you get the impression that this was a prearranged visit, that Roz was expecting her?"

"No, she was surprised to see her."

"Can you tell me about the other women Crystal was talking about?"

"Tina, Joanne, and Sunny are still here, you can talk with
them if you like. Carmelita Rosario is the one who went back to her
husband. You know the word
marianismo'!
The woman's half of
machismo,
submission to the man's superiority. Remove
marianismo
and the man--but that isn't what you want to know,"
she interrupted herself, causing Kate to wonder what it was about this
case that seemed to demand that everyone involved make speeches.
Perhaps Roz was contagious? Diana went on. "Carmelita went home.
Nikki Fletcher was a resident for about five weeks until she found an
apartment and moved out last Wednesday. She drops in almost every day,
just to stay in touch and to have us tell her that she can do it. Was
that all?"

Kate looked over her notes and came up with another name. "Phoebe?"

Carla answered this time. "You met Phoebe at my office--Phoebe Weatherman. She's my secretary."

"Was she once a resident here?" Kate asked. That might explain the woman's deep respect for security measures.

"Not this one, but she was in a shelter for a while, yes."

"She seems very competent."

"Not everyone who ends up in a shelter is from the unemployable dregs, Inspector," Diana said coldly.

"I didn't think they were," Kate told her,
unintimidated. "Still, women with marketable skills tend to have
more options than those without. And often savings accounts as
well."

"Some women who come here do need more time than
others," Diana admitted. "We give them training and help
them with anything from bus schedules to taxes. And true, others find
jobs quickly and move out. But any woman can find herself a victim,
Inspector Martinelli. It only takes one bad turn to end up in an ugly
place."

"Roz Hall," Kate asked in an abrupt return to the earlier topic. "How often does she come here?"

"It depends. She used to be here all the time when we first
opened up, but since then she's been appointed to a couple of
commissions and she can't get free as much. And then she's
trying to finish her Ph.D. thesis, and leave a little space for Maj.
You know her partner, Maj?"

"Well enough to have dreams about her tiramisu."

At that both Lomax cousins laughed. Diana said, "How many
potluck dinners have been planned just because of Maj's desserts?
God knows how either of them are going to have time for their baby. But
they'll manage. Especially Roz. She always does--though I
don't know where that woman gets her energy." Kate smiled,
having wondered the same thing herself. "Anyway, some weeks Roz
is only here two or three times, sometimes half a dozen. She does come
regularly on Mondays and Thursdays for the group sessions, but other
than that, it's whenever we need her. Or if she happens to be
nearby, she'll stop in for a few minutes, have a cup of coffee,
see how things are going."

"Fine. Can we see one of the other residents now? Tina?"

"She'll be with her kids. How about Sunny?"

"Sunny will do."

But Kate learned nothing from any of the other three residents,
nothing but the details of life as a woman struggling not to be a
victim. Joanne was gay and her abuser a woman, but the language of
violence was the same for all, and by the time she finished her
interviews, Kate felt the need for a strong drink. Instead she dropped
her notebook into her pocket and rubbed her face.

"Don't you just despair sometimes?" she asked,
more a rhetorical musing than a question, but Diana eyed her from her
broken face, and then she nodded.

"All the time, Inspector Martinelli. All the time."

KATE DROVE THE DEPARTMENT unmarked car through streets thick with
freeway-bound traffic to the Hall of Justice. As the light faded
outside and the honks and squeals of frustrated commuters drew to its
peak, she typed up the report of the interviews, found them every bit
as unsatisfying as she had thought at the time, and went looking for Al
Hawkin. Sometimes it helped to toss around ideas. This time it
didn't. They went home, to try for a fresh view of things in the
morning.

Things in the morning began with the news that the Ladies had struck
again overnight, in another park, this time with a middle-aged drunk
who was giving his girlfriend hell for some imagined infraction
involving their neighbor. He had slapped her, hard; she had set out for
a friend's house a few blocks away with him on her heels,
shouting and threatening. When she got to the friend's house, she
realized gratefully that he had dropped off her trail. In the morning
it was found that he had dropped out of the world for a few hours.

Taser, again; duct tape, again, against a splintery tree this time
rather than a frigid metal light post. And they had added a twist: the
note was attached to his bare buttocks with Superglue. The emergency
room told him the glue should wear off in a few weeks. Before they
scrubbed the paper portion off him, the police had photographed the
note in situ. It read:

BENICE.ORELSE.

--
the Ladies

WHEN KATE REACHED HER desk, she found a note saying that James
Larsen's car had been found, parked on a street in the Mission
and stripped down to its chassis. She rounded up Hawkin and they went
out to look at it. The old Chevy sedan hadn't been much to look
at to begin with, and it had sat on the street for four days; no one
had seen who left it; there were no keys and a million prints, most of
which no doubt belonged to the kids who had liberated the car's
radio, battery, and the rest. They arranged to have it towed off for
closer examination, on the stray chance that Larsen had been
transporting drugs in the trunk or had himself made his final journey
inside it, and spent a few fruitless hours asking questions in the
neighborhood, but it was a community of blind people when it came to
seeing who had driven up and abandoned the car there with its doors
unlocked.

They then set off on the entertaining task of trying to trace the
cuffs that had been used to restrain Larsen. The number of shops
selling that particular brand of regulation police handcuffs in San
Francisco was astonishing, even to Kate, who thought she had seen it
all. In each of the shops she ended up going through the same ritual,
fending off the shopkeeper and customers who found the idea of an
actual live, badge-wielding cop on the premises too titillating for
words. She was only grateful that she wasn't wearing a uniform,
or she might never have been allowed to escape without putting half the
city in cuffs, for their own entertainment.

Aside from the car and the cuffs, the investigation had become
simple slog, contacting those of Larsen's family and
acquaintances whom they had not reached earlier and going back over the
phone bills and financial records. The preliminary lab report came
through during the afternoon, telling them that Larsen's last
meal had been two or three hours before his death and had probably been
a fast-food bacon-cheeseburger and fries. There was no trace of drugs
on his clothes, in his blood, or in his history. Emily Larsen showed no
signs of making a run for it, no one else in sight had any particular
reason to kill him, and there had been no whiff of connections to shady
business deals, outright crime, sleeping with someone's wife, or
any of the other customary reasons for knocking someone off.