If Angels Fall

THIRTY-THREE

The highway curled breathtakingly close to the cliff edges above the Pacific, its crestingcobalt waves pummeling the rocks while embracing the beaches below.

The view soothed Sydowski whenever he drove toPacifica and today he needed soothing. His visit with his old man left him withsouvenirs. He flipped down the visor mirror again. The cuts on his freshlyshaved face had coagulated. He winced, pulling at the bits of tissue paper. Thethings a son will do to make his old man happy.

Sydowski had found his father sitting on his bed inhis shoebox bungalow at Sea Breeze Villas, staring sadly at the Pacific.

“What’s the matter Pop?” he asked in Polish.

“They won’t let me cut hair anymore. They say I’m tooold.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Is that so? Where’s your kit?”

“The old whore took it.”

“Pop, don’t call Mrs. Doran an old whore.”

“Well, she’s not a young one.”

Sydowski marched to the carpeted, lilac-scented officeof Mrs. Doran, Sea Breeze’s chief administrator. A kind, attractive woman inher fifties, Elsa Doran managed her “camp for golden kids” with the sternnessof a drill sergeant. Always happy to see Sydowski, her eyes sparkled and sheloved calling him “Inspector.” But the sparkle vanished when he asked her forhis old man’s barber’s kit.

“Mr. Sydowski, your father’s senility is a concern. Ican’t allow him to cut hair and give straight-razor shaves. He could injuresomeone. We’d be sued.”

Sydowski made it clear to Elsa Doran that he would notlose an argument with her over his father’s scissors and razor.

“Give me his kit, or I pull him out.”

She sighed, and retrieved the kit from a locked deskdrawer. He thanked her and returned to his old man.

“How about a trim and a shave, Pop?”

John Sydowski’s eighty-one-year-old face brightenedand he sat his son before his dresser mirror, draping a towel around hisshoulders. They talked sports, birds, politics, crime, and vegetables as he cuthis hair, then lathered his face for a shave. Sydowski loved how his father’sunit smelled of aftershave, like his old three-chair shop in North Beach. Heloved the feel of his old man’s comb through is hair, the clip of the scissors.For a warm moment he was a kid again. But when his old man neared him with therazor in his shaking hand, Sydowski’s stomach quaked. No way out of it, so heclosed his eyes, feeling the blade jerk into this skin again and again as hisfather scraped it across his face.

“See. Only a nick or two.” His old man beamed when itwas over, removing the towel stained with Sydowski’s blood before slapping onthe Old Spice. Sydowski damn near passed out from the sting.

“Thanks, Pop,” he managed through gritted teeth, goingto the bathroom to put toilet paper on his wounds.

They talked over tea, then his old man grew drowsy andfell asleep. Sydowski covered him with a blanket, kissed his head, gathered thekit, and returned to Elsa Doran’s office. She stared at Sydowski’s face indisbelief.

“Don’t’ ever give him his kit again,” he ordered,handing it to her. “If he fusses about it, call me.”

Elsa Doran understood, locked the kit in her deskdrawer and smiled up at Sydowski as he left. “What you did for John was verytender, Inspector.” Her eyes sparkled. “Very tender.”

Now, returning to San Francisco on the Pacific CoastHighway, Sydowski reflected on the case. He and Turgeon had squeezed a leadfrom Perry Kindhart. After they got a warrant, they tossed his apartment, butfound nothing tying him to Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker. Then IDENTdissected it. Zip. No prints, hairs, or fibers. Nothing, until they checkedKindhart’s Polaroid camera and came up with a latent belonging to FranklinWallace. The camera had been wiped, but one print was missed-a lost right-thumbprint screaming to be found. It didn’t prove a thing, but it was leverage.

“Let me get this straight, Perry,” Turgeon said. “Youhad absolutely nothing to do with Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker.”

“That’s right.” Kindhart stubbed his tenth LuckyStrike in the ashtray of the Homicide interview room at the Hall of Justice.Turgeon and Sydowski went at Kindhart, who played the relaxed con, wise to theprogram. He knew they could hold him for seventy-two hours before having tocharge or release him. Earlier, on the drive to the hall, Kindhart decidedagainst a lawyer. “You’re right, I’ve got nothing to hide. Some guys can’tfunction in the morning.”

Sydowski sat across from Kindhart in the interviewroom, letting Turgeon do most of the asking. Kindhart was taken with her, she’dstruck a rapport with him, letting him believe he had the upper hand, wascontrolling the information. Like a practiced snake charmer, she skillfullycoaxed his tongue from his mouth and let him wrap it around his own throat.Kindhart would roll over-all he needed was a little nudge. When the ramblingsof Kindhart’s empty stomach grew distracting, Sydowski began talking about hispassion for cheeseburgers from Hamburger Mary’s. Hunger was a powerful motivator.

“How ‘bout I send out for a couple of cheeseburgersand some fries, Perry?” Sydowski offered. Kindhart accepted. Enthusiastically.

Sydowski and Turgeon left. When they returned,Sydowski had his nose in the report from the search of Kindhart’s apartment.

“Sorry, Perry, we got sidetracked. We’ll order thoseburgers soon as we clear something up here.” Sydowski kept his face in thefile, sifting papers.

“What’s to clear up?”

“Perry, we found Franklin Wallace’s prints on yourcamera.”

“That’s a fucking lie.” Kindhart looked at Turgeon.

“And, Sydowski continued, with a bluff, “the labreports aren’t back yet, but the snapshots you saw of Tanita with Wallace andthe hooded tattooed man, were likely taken with your Polaroid.”

“Bull-fucking-shit.”

“And there’s the note,” Sydowski threw out anotherbluff.

“What note?”

“Wallace’s suicide note.”

“What does it say?”

“It’s not good, Perry. That’s all we can tell you. I’msorry.”

Kindhart was dead silent.

Sydowski locked his eyes on him and waited. Kindhartlooked at Turgeon, at her beautiful, patient face. She waited. Kindhart’sstomach grumbled. He lit another Lucky Strike and blinked thoughtfully. Thewheels were turning.

Here it comes, Sydowski knew.

“Did that little fuck try to implicate me? After whatI did for him in Virginia? Is that what this is about?”

“Where were you on the Saturday Danny Becker waskidnapped from his father off BART?” Turgeon sat down.

“Modesto. I told you.”

“Can you prove it?”

“People saw me there.”

“Where were you last year when Tanita Marie Donner wasabducted, then found in Golden Gate?” Sydowski asked.

“I can’t remember. I think I was in town.” Kindhartdragged hard on his cigarette, squinting.

“Uh-hh.” Sydowski slipped on his glasses and studiedthe file. He let a minute of silence pass, then said, “Before we go on here,Perry, there are certain rights we have to advise you of. I’m sure you knowthem.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he continued in a friendly tone.“You have the right to remain silent-“

“Hold every-fucking-thing.”

Sydowski stopped. “Are you waiving your Mirandarights?”

Kindhart nodded. Sydowski wanted him to speak becausethe room was wired, they were recording the interview.

“We have to be clear, Perry. Are you waiving yourrights?”

“I’m waiving my fucking rights because I was notinvolved with those kids. I don’t know what you think you got on me, but it’snot what you think. It’s not the truth.”

“Then tell us the truth, Perry,” Turgeon added.

Kindhart’s breathing quickened and he eyed both ofthem. “Franklin wanted me to join a party. Just the three of us. Me, him andhis new friend. He said they were going to pick up a little date, play for aday, then let her go.”

“When was this?” Turgeon asked.

“Around the time the Donner kid went missing.”

“What was the date?” Sydowski asked.

“I don’t know. I figured it was the Donner kid.”

“Why?”

“Franklin said it would be a little one who couldn’t ID anybody.”

“What happened?” Sydowski asked.

“I never went.”

“Why?”

“I had to see my parole officer that day.”

“What day?” Turgeon asked?

“The day Tanita Donner went missing. I know you cancheck it out. I know from the news reports the time she was grabbed, and I waswith my parole officer.”

“Convenient, Perry,” Sydowski said. “Ever call a guyby the name of Tom Reed?”

“Who’s that?”

“You just said you followed the news reports.”

“I’m supposed to know this guy?”

“How do we know you weren’t involved?” Turgeon said.

“Because I wasn’t. Franklin came to me that night andasked me if I wanted to come to their party. I said no. I didn’t like hisfriend. He scared me. An iceman.”

“The friend came to your place, too, that night?”Sydowski said.

“No.”

“So what happened?” Turgeon asked.

“I let Franklin borrow my camera, which was stupid. Hedropped it off the next day and that was the last time I ever saw him. Afterthe news on the girl and Franklin’s suicide, I wiped my camera clean.”

“Where were they holding her?” Sydowski said.

“All he said was that it was a safe place.”

“What about the mystery man, Mr. Tattoo?” Turgeonasked.

“I only met him the one time at the bookstore about amonth before it happened. I swear.”

“Why didn’t you tell police this last year?” Sydowskisaid.

“Because with my record, I was afraid. And I wasafraid Franklin’s friend might come after me.”

“Can you tell me anything more about Franklin’smystery friend?”

“All I know, and I swear this is all I remember, isthat he is a skinner con from Canada and Franklin once called him ‘Verge’.”

They released Kindhart, put him under surveillance,then called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Correctional Service ofCanada. It was a government holiday in Canada and with only a first name as anidentifier, it was going to take several hours before the Canadians could runchecks and start faxing files on possible suspects. Sydowski used the break tosee his old man.

Sydowski was optimistic about the lead. It could bethe turning point. Usually he dismissed the mysterious-person-did-it alibi, butthere was a mystery man involved in this. Kindhart was in Modesto whenBecker was grabbed, that checked out. And Kindhart didn’t fit the suspect’sdescription. No tattoo. Not even close. Sydowski was driving north, passingSharp Park when his cell phone rang.

Maybe the Canadian faxes had arrived. “Sydowski.”

“Walt, it’s bad.” Turgeon said. “We’ve got anotherabduction.”

“Another one!”

“Five-year-old girl, from her mother in Golden GatePark. A man in a pickup. Bearded. Fits with the Becker case.”

“I’m on my way.”

Sydowski hit his emergency lights and siren.