The Clockwork Teddy (21 page)

“The pocketbook.”

“Brad honey, can I interrupt for a second?” Ash called. “Heather and Colin want to know if we’d like to have dinner with them tonight at Fior d’Italia.”

I glanced at Gregg. “Are we about done here?”

“We’ll have to wait for the tow truck, but you can go.” Aafedt pulled his cell phone out and said, “Yeah, and I’d better get a tow en route out here and then call my wife to let her know that I’m going to be late for dinner
again.
”

I said to Ash, “Tell them I’d love it and we’ll see them around seven-thirty.”

Ash passed the information along and then said, “Heather also told me to tell you that it isn’t on Union Street anymore. It’s at the San Remo Hotel on Mason.”

“Got it. Oh, and I expect our daughter to be fully dressed.”

“I’ve already made that
very
clear,” my wife primly replied and then returned to her conversation with Heather.

Gregg said, “Fior d’Italia? I’ve always loved that place. Have a good time, but don’t stay out too late.”

“Why not?”

“Because you old guys need your sleep and you have to be at the Hall of Justice tomorrow morning by ten. I want you with us when we go down to talk to those sociopaths at Lycaon.” Gregg extended his right hand.

As we shook hands, I said, “I’ll be there with bells on . . . although that’s probably a visual you didn’t need.”

Ash and I were in the minivan and headed back to San Francisco a few minutes later. As we waited for the red light before turning onto Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road, I said, “Guess where I’m going to go while you’re exchanging teddy bear techniques with Lauren tomorrow.”

“Lycaon?”

“Yep. Gregg wants me to go down there with them. You aren’t interested in changing your plans and coming along, are you?”

Ash patted me on the knee. “Heavens, no. I need some teddy bear time, because this whole investigation is like walking through a freshly fertilized field.”

“Yeah, it has been a little squalid.”

“And I don’t know how you could work homicide for as long as you did and not despise the human race.”

“It’s only because I had you in my life.”

Fior d’Italia has been in business since 1886 and advertises itself as the oldest Italian restaurant in the United States. It might be, but that isn’t as important as the fact that they serve some of the most wonderful Northern Italian cuisine you’ll find this side of Tuscany. It being a Sunday night, North Beach wasn’t too crowded and I found a parking space near the restaurant. The restaurant’s new home was on the ground floor of the San Remo Hotel, a handsome three-storied Victorian-style building that was constructed in 1906 by a fellow named Amadeo Giannini. He’s better remembered now as the man who established a moderately successful financial institution known as Bank of America.

Heather and Colin were already there and seated at one of the restaurant’s tables out on the brick sidewalk. They hadn’t seen us yet, so we paused for a second to watch them. Ash’s hand tightened around mine as Heather laughed at something funny Colin had just said and then rested her head on his shoulder.

“Been there, done that,” I whispered. “Do you remember the first time we held hands, Ashleigh Remmelkemp?”

“Of course. We were going into the old Torpedo Factory in Alexandria. You hated that artisan stuff,” she said with a tiny giggle.

“Yeah, but I’ve absolutely loved every minute I’ve ever spent with you.” I lifted her hand to kiss it.

“Now stop. You’re going to make me cry.”

“And we can’t have that, because this is a celebration. Let’s go and get acquainted with our future son-in-law.”

We began the festivities with a chilled bottle of Asti Spumante, an Italian sparkling wine that I believe tastes every bit as good as far more expensive champagne, which probably speaks volumes about my unrefined palate. I offered a toast to the young couple and Colin scored major points by thanking Ash for the genes that had made his future bride so beautiful. Dinner was excellent, as was the second bottle of Asti Spumante. By the time we’d finished and were standing in front of the restaurant, Ash had wrestled a promise from Heather and Colin that they would spend Christmas with us in the Shenandoah Valley.

“That will allow plenty of time for your hair to get back to its original color,” said Ash.

“Or I could dye it red and green. It would be festive,” Heather said teasingly.

“It would be suicidal, once your grandma saw it,” I said. “Listen to your mom, honey.”

Heather rolled her eyes, while Colin stood behind her and mouthed the words: “Don’t worry. It’ll be blond.”

We exchanged hugs with the young couple and a few minutes later Ash and I were in the minivan and driving westward on North Point Street. As we approached the intersection with Polk Street, I saw the scaffolding above the old brick buildings that bore the large lightbulb-illuminated letters that read: GHIRARDELLI. I sighed and realized that I had to make one more stop before returning to our hotel.

Over four years had passed since I’d been shot and crippled at Ghirardelli Square. I’d paid more than a few return visits to the tourist attraction in my nightmares, but I’d never come back in person. At the time, I couldn’t. The prospect of reliving the event was too terrifying to even consider. Then we moved to Virginia, which allowed me to pretend that I’d someday go back and confront my fears. It would have been easy to drive on past, but I suspected that if I didn’t go into that square tonight, I never would. I turned onto Polk Street, found a place to park, and shut the engine off.

There was a moment of silence before Ash quietly said, “I was wondering if you were going to come here.”

“Yeah, I’ve dodged it long enough.”

She took my hand. “You want me to come with you?”

“I’d love it, but I think it would be best if you stayed here. It would be too easy for me to lean on you . . . again,” I said, referring to how she’d carried me through those dark days. “I’ll leave the keys in the ignition.”

I got out of the car and limped down the sidewalk toward the shopping complex. It was the same route I’d taken the afternoon I was shot. The square looked deserted and the chocolate shop and ice cream parlor were closed and dark. Somewhere in the distance, I heard what sounded like Gaelic music, but I couldn’t be certain.

Continuing along the brick walkway, I came to the place where one man had died and my life as a cop had ended. The spot where I’d lain was marked with a large flower planter packed with chrysanthemums. The oversized ceramic pot had probably been put there to conceal my bloodstains, which was no doubt a cheaper solution than pulling up the brickwork and replacing it. Another planter marked the spot where the crook had fallen.

I stood there wondering how I should feel, other than foolish for having put this off and chilly from the breeze blowing in from the Golden Gate. Whatever meaning this place had for me was long gone and buried beneath flower-pots. Finally, I picked a mum from the planter and started back to Ash and my new life.

Eighteen

It was a typical Monday morning on the 101 Freeway headed toward San Francisco and a reminder of one of the reasons we’d decamped from the Golden State. The commuter traffic was already pretty much bumper-to-bumper where we got on in Novato, which was twenty-five miles north of the city. Traffic only got more congested the farther south we traveled. Around us, the other drivers were eating, drinking coffee, shaving, applying makeup, talking on phones, working with computers, and reading newspapers. About the only activity I didn’t observe was someone paying complete attention to the fact they were guiding two tons of metal down a crowded roadway.

“I’ll sure be glad to get home,” Ash said with a sigh as the traffic came to a stop again.

“Me, too.” Although I’d lived in San Francisco most of my life, I realized that I no longer considered it home. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to be back in our house, beside the South Fork of the Shenandoah River.

Ash turned her attention from the sluggish column of brake lights to the teddy bear sitting on her lap. “I think I’m going to give Shannon to Lauren.”

Shannon Shoofly Pie was the only teddy from Ash’s Confection Collection that hadn’t been sold on Saturday. This was a mystery to me, since I considered the bear’s open-mouthed smiling face to be an example of Ash’s best work. Shannon was named after the molasses and brown sugar pie that most people associated with the Pennsylvania Dutch Country, but was also a traditional dessert in the Shenandoah Valley. The teddy bear was dressed in a wedge-shaped costume made from a rich brown fabric that looked exactly like the gooey filling.

“That’s a very sweet gesture,” I said.

“I just felt I had to do something. Lauren looked so sad and empty when we left her house yesterday,” Ash said as she smoothed the fur between Shannon’s eyes.

It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning by the time we arrived on Lauren’s street. Her Outback wasn’t in her driveway, which made me wonder if she’d forgotten about Ash’s visit. However, as I pulled up to the curb, Lauren came out of the house smiling. She gave us a happy wave.

I leaned over to kiss Ash good-bye. “I want you to have a great time.”

“And I want you to be careful.” She touched the tip of my nose.

“Aren’t I always? Wait, don’t answer that.”

“I won’t. I’ll see you around four.”

Ash got out of the van and I watched as she gave the teddy bear to Lauren, who raised a hand to her mouth and looked as if she were about to cry. The women were exchanging hugs as I drove from the cul-de-sac. It took me twenty minutes to travel the six miles to the Hall of Justice and park. Gregg and Aafedt were waiting for me in the lobby.

“We were beginning to think we were going to have to go without you,” said Gregg.

“I had to drop Ash off at Lauren’s and then must have been stopped by every school crossing guard between here and the Sunset District,” I replied. “When are we due at Lycaon?”

“In a half hour, so let’s go.”

Lycaon was down in Sunnyvale, forty-five miles south of the city, which meant that I was in for a high-speed ride down the freeway. We had to go through the police department’s Southern District headquarters to get to the parking lot and I felt bad that I couldn’t stop to chat with all the old acquaintances I encountered. I realized that the best I could do was smile, wave, and promise we’d talk when I returned. At least, that was my intention. However, I threw on the brakes when I suddenly saw a teddy bear I recognized. It was Bearny Fife, my furry interpretation of the bug-eyed deputy played by Don Knotts in the old TV program
The Andy Griffith Show,
and the bear stood on a shelf in an office cubicle belonging to an old friend: police records supervisor Jackie Craig. I was surprised and mystified, since I hadn’t seen Jackie since leaving the department and she certainly hadn’t been at the bear show in Sonoma.

Peeking into her cubicle, I saw Jackie focused on her computer. In a faux gruff voice, I said, “Hey, the city isn’t paying you to waste time playing computer solitaire.”

Jackie looked up and gave a joyful squeal as she jumped up from the desk to give me a hug. “Oh, my God, it’s good to see you, Brad!”

“Likewise. I’m also pleased to see you have one of my bears.”

“
You
made that?” Jackie looked shocked. “I noticed the tag read LYONS, TIGERS AND BEARS, but I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Strange as it sounds, my wife and I are teddy bear artists. Actually, my wife is an artist. I’m still learning. See the detail around the eyes and lips? That’s called needle-sculpting and Ash taught me how to do it,” I replied. “But what I don’t understand is, how did you get him? I didn’t see you at the show Saturday.”

“My daughter thought it would make me laugh, so she bought it for me.” Jackie picked up Bearny to admire it. “I was worried about you after the shooting. You were . . .”

“Having a colossal self-pity party.”

“But this wonderfully silly bear tells me that you’ve got your old sense of humor back.”

“Brad, we gotta go,” said Gregg.

“I’m sorry, Jackie, but we’ve got to fly.”

“Okay, but when you get back, I want you to autograph his tag.”

“I promise.” I gave her hand a quick squeeze.

Once we resumed our journey toward the parking lot, I asked, “So, do we have any new information on the case or Kyle?”

“Nothing on Kyle. He’s gone to ground,” Gregg said.

“And Rhiannon doesn’t know it yet, but she’s not having a good day,” Aafedt said cheerfully. “The lab has positively identified her fingerprints on the motel room door.”

“She had knowns on file?” I asked.

“She was arrested for Deuce back in oh-three.” Aafedt used the California cop slang term for the offense of Driving Under the Influence.

“But I’ll bet the lab hasn’t had any luck linking her to the latents they found inside the room.”

“Not yet.”

“So, we have the prints and the popper. Anything on the revolver?”

Gregg pushed open the door that led out into the parking lot. “The gun is still in the fuming tank. They won’t test fire it until they’ve checked it for latents. Oh, and that last god-awful pun was a new low, even for you.”

“Why? Did it make you lose your Twain of thought?”

“No, but working with you makes me wonder if I’m losing my mind.” Gregg pointed across the lot. “My car is over there.”

“Where’s Patrick the Polar Bear?”

“I hand-delivered him to the cyber unit this morning. The geek squad couldn’t wait to get their hands on him.”

As we got to the car, Aafedt opened the back door and said, “I’ll sit back here. There’s more room in the front seat, so it’s probably better for your leg.”

“Thanks, Danny. I appreciate both the gesture and knowing I’ll be able to get out of the car when we arrive.”

A couple of minutes later we were flying down the Bayshore Freeway toward Sunnyvale. Fortunately, there wasn’t nearly as much traffic on the southbound side of the freeway as on the north and Gregg soon had the car up to seventy-five miles an hour, which meant we were running with the flow of traffic.