No Footprints (10 page)

‟And yet, Declan, your employee just about kills herself. You don't know why. You don't know where she is now. What does that say about you?”

‟Watch what you—”

‟She was supposed to be going on vacation. Where?”

‟I don't—”

‟You don't
know!
She's answerable to you, there on her own, in your front. Under your protection. What kind of big shot are you?”

He slapped me.

I was so stunned—

He stared as if to say: What're you going to do about it?

‟Or,” I said, ‟are you the boyfriend she was calling the Friday before she tried to jump?”

He grabbed my arm. ‟How do you know about that?”

‟Are you?”

‟Tell me!”

‟She told me, on the bridge. What do you think?” I thought that might shake loose the truth. I didn't think he'd hit me again.

‟Told you what? What'd she say?”

I was in too deep. Too deep to lie anymore. ‟That's all. You can waterboard me now.”

It was an effort for him to rein himself in. He said, ‟If you think you're protected because of John, think again. I know your brother, known him for years. Knew him when he was a high school kid running smack down here.”

‟John wouldn't—”

‟Not John.”

I couldn't help myself, I gasped.
Smack
.

He'd gotten me. ‟Yeah, Mike. Said he needed the money.” He laughed. ‟That's what they all say, as if that makes everything okay.”

‟He didn't need money. He always had . . . ”
Shit!

‟He said”—he paused—‟he did it for you.”

I worked to steady my breathing. It was a moment before I could force out, ‟Yeah, right. If you'd had something on my family you'd've used it ten times over by now.” I reached for the door and was out before he could react.

But he'd gotten me big time. I knew it. He knew it. The statute had run out long ago on anything Mike had done back then, but still it sent another chill down my spine a lot colder than fear of Declan Serrano.

I didn't even waste time not believing him. When I'd been desperate for private gymnastic lessons Mike had paid and we'd told Mom they were free. When I'd've died if I couldn't see the Up Down and Over auto race outside L.A. he'd arranged it. And there were birthday dinners for Janice, one at the Palace Hotel for Mom. Not often, but not cheap, and always
with an excuse the recipient believed. And that was all twenty-five years ago. What had he been into since?

I wanted to figure—

But no time now. Now I wanted to get to Tessa Jurovik's apartment before Declan Serrano pulled up.

No way was that going to happen. Not with him in a car and me on foot. And, more pressing, I had to get to Kristi. I'd been so careful not to bring her into it, but a detective'd have to be a total dud not to make the connection.

I pulled out my phone, called information for Skilled Copy, let the phone company steal a buck for putting me right through.

It rang and rang, clicking off just before the machine picked up.

I'd thought to ask her for her cell, though. I called and left a message. And told myself that there were ordinary enough reasons she wasn't answering.

What I couldn't stop thinking about was Declan Serrano's slap. If he'd take the chance of hitting me, his colleague's sister, what would he do to someone like Kristi?

Or Tessa?

I tried Skilled Copy again, not expecting an answer now, and not getting one. Ditto her cell. I could barely keep myself from racing back over to make sure Declan Serrano hadn't gotten to her.

But I wasn't near there or close to any transit that'd get me there. On the other hand, Tessa Jurovik's address was three blocks away.

I started to run, then caught myself. Whatever Tessa was into with Serrano wasn't going to be changed by my questions to him. I didn't want to burst into her place on his heels. My aim was to slither in after.

What would I do then? What did I expect? Who the hell was Tessa Jurovik anyway? I had three blocks to come up with answers.

Last Sunday Tessa Jurovik—

No, start earlier. On the Friday before that she'd had a fight with her boyfriend. With Declan Serrano?

No, before that. The weekend before last—Tessa Jurovik had bought a six-thousand-dollar bicycle. When she rode it she was
alive.
She rode it till the last possible moment, before she tried to jump off the bridge. The
bridge is at the far corner of the city from the Mission district, but hardly an impossible ride. San Francisco's only forty-nine square miles. The hypotenuse of a right angle triangle is the square root of the sum of the squares of the other sides, right? So then, nine? Ten miles? Anyone on an old Schwinn could handle that.

And . . . ? Tessa Jurovik knew bicycles. You don't wander into a store cold and buy a top-of-the-line racing bike, one that looks no different to the untrained eye. So, this woman who spent her days copying paper knew bikes.

I started across the street. A car shot around the corner, just about blowing me back onto the sidewalk.

So, she bought the bike, but why now? A couple of hundred dollars' bonus wasn't the reason. Why buy a luxury bike right before a vacation? I couldn't get the pieces I had to fit together. What bothered me almost as much as Tessa's decision to kill herself was trying to figure out the extent of Serrano's involvement.

The vacation? Had she planning to go with him? Could—I smiled at the thought—could it be that she pedaled off the bridge, caught a Bayporter to the airport, and was on the beach in Waikiki right now? And the hell to him? Could that be why Serrano had gone off the deep end? Maybe he didn't know she was gone?

This was her block. I scanned the street, but no sign of the unmarked. Still, he could hardly have come and gone so fast. Or could he? I eased closer to the buildings letting the shadows shield me.

Tessa's building was squeezed between a motorcycle repair shop and a slit-windowed brick rectangle that could have held just about anything. Its streetside windows had drawn shades. The entryway was on the side and the window next to it was not merely barred but bricked in. Not a place
I'd sit on the stoop after dark. Riding a Campagnolo here? That'd be not merely asking to be mugged, but begging.

The buzzers were labeled, Graham–1, Byron/Jurovik–2, and Gonzalez/Washington–3. Was Serrano still around? It was a question I couldn't answer. I pressed 2. No response. Big surprise.

But then came a real surprise. I pressed the door handle and the door swung open.

The hall was gloomy. I could just make out the edges of that former window around an amateurish bricking in. A wail came from the first-floor apartment. The
first
floor. She lived on the second.

What kind of place
was
this?

The wail was louder. Whiny. Piercing.

Omigod. A bagpipe!

A bagpipe in the middle of the city! A bagpipe played by someone who shouldn't. A fucking bagpipe!

Now things fell into place: the separate building, the bricked window—the self-deception in soundproofing! As if! I wanted to think the ground-floor tenant—he
had
to be the owner—gave lessons to the tone-deaf who came through the unlocked door and thankfully went, as opposed to the source of those shrieks being himself. Well, no need to creep silently. I raced up the steps and pressed Tessa's bell. Could it even be heard? How could anyone live here? Did Serrano pay her that little? Poor Tessa. What kind of life did she have? Her days spent copying papers and her nights in a place she couldn't hear herself scream.

‟Yeah?” The guy who answered the door was young, with long dark hair and apparently wearing what he'd slept in. Headphones circled his crown, not earbuds but serious block-out-noise cuffs. He slid them to his neck. He was, of course, shouting. He'd either missed or ignored the downstairs buzzer—if it worked at all—but pulled himself together for the bell here.

‟Tessa?” I asked.

‟Out.”

Had he given Serrano the same answer? ‟I'll wait,” I mouthed and stepped forward. He moved reflexively and I was in the living room before he had time to reconsider. ‟This your—” the bagpipe suddenly went dead; I was shouting into silence but he barely seemed to notice. Behind him discarded clothes draped the sofa and cascaded over the floor. Tables held empty food cartons and quart-sized soda glasses. ‟This must be your room, right?”

‟Not really. I mean, it's the shared space. Tessa, she could use it. But she's got her own stuff. I mean, I know it's a mess. My mom comes by with the rent and she tells me. Says I'm lucky to get anyone to share. Talks rats, health department, you know the spiel.”

‟When's Tessa coming back?”

He shrugged.

‟Did she say anything about a vacation?”

‟We don't cross much. I'm in school and—”

‟Which school?”

‟State.”

‟San Francisco State? You could hardly live farther away and still be in the city.”

‟Yeah, bummer.”

Afresh bagpipe wail cut through me. I felt like my intestines were being yanked out. It stopped. But for how long? ‟How long?”

‟Does he practice? Long as he wants. That's the deal. Rock bottom rent; never complain.”

‟How do you”—I shouted over the latest burst—‟stand—”

‟At school. Girlfriend. Hang out.”

‟Tessa, how does she?”

‟Dunno.” He fingered his headphones.

‟Her boyfriend, does he come here?”

‟No one comes here, not if they don't have to.”

‟No one comes to see her here?”

‟Why would they?” He seemed anxious to block out noise, in this case me.

‟She told me to wait in her room for her.”

He jerked his head toward the hall.

The walls were covered with acoustic tiles, in the hall and—I pushed open her door—in her room. Which just meant that the noise came through the inadequate carpeting. I'd been expecting this room to be the size of the living room—Tessa's half of the apartment—but if it'd held a king-size bed, I'd have had to edge around it. It didn't. No bed at all. There was a desk, a serious metal file cabinet, the kind that has folders left to right rather than back to front. Neat, tall stacks of papers on top, bigger, more irregular piles against another wall. And on the carpet, dirt streaks from two narrow tires. No landline. No computer, damn! I pulled open the closet and almost fell over a rolled mat. Her bed? How could she live here? Much less work here? Maybe she was deaf? No, of course not—she'd heard Mike's horn; she'd talked to Kristi and the woman at the resale shop. How could anyone with normal hearing endure this? Why?

The pipes screeched and kept at it. I could barely keep from running out, but made myself look through the closet. Of course it was empty, but for a pair of bike shorts. On the floor was a pile of blankets, sheets, pillow. I turned back to the room, hesitated, and picked up the pillow and shook it. Just a pillow. The sheets under it were just sheets. But under that—voilà!—was a laptop.

I shifted the nearest pile from the top of the file cabinet to make space. It was made up of college catalogs: Allegheny in Pennsylvania, Bucknell University, Lehigh, Lafayette, Muhlenberg, Susquehanna, all in
Pennsylvania. The next stack held schools in Virginia, and there were ones for Delaware, Maryland and New Jersey, and, finally, Ohio. What was this fascination with East Coast colleges?

A new screech made me slam my hand over my ears. Papers on the bulletin board shook. If there were an earthquake I wouldn't notice. If the building were attacked by terrorists I'd be dead before I realized it.

I moved the computer so I could see the door and turned it on.
Please don't use a password!
I prayed to the balance-in-the-universe gods, the ones who arrange for you to whip through town on all green lights—that after a day of all reds. And damned if they didn't come through—bagpipe payback? —not only to a screen but, after one click, right to Google. I had only to click on History to see a list of colleges that went on for pages. Websites showed one homey place for eager happy students after another. One after another students hurried or strolled though sun and snow, among pines and oaks. But never palms.

I checked the list more carefully. No state universities, no Ivy League schools, but, if the ones I recognized were examples, small liberal arts schools. Not one of them was in California.

Odd.

The noise stopped. The silence was piercing.

How long had I been here, in this stranger's room? I just hoped if she came back I'd hear her lugging her bike up the stairs. Quickly I skimmed down the history, now ignoring the colleges until I came to Bank of America. I clicked on the website, but of course a password was necessary.

I glanced nervously toward the hall. No one was there. I clicked on Documents, Self.
Everyone knows better, but please be one of the people who do it anyway!
And she was. There was a file titled
passwords
. Halfway down, under modem was ‟bank: R$mp$n$–g5ng5r.” I'd owe the gods big time for this.

I was in! I could see her account history for the entire year. It told me nothing I couldn't have guessed. Slowly, and surely painfully, she'd made deposits of two to three hundred dollars swelling the balance till it reached $6,753.93. There'd been monthly checks of $200.00 to the Ginger Rampono Fund but no withdrawals until two weeks ago when she'd written a check to Central Cyclery for $6,532.99 and another, dated Monday, to Rampono Fund for $220.00.