Bleeders

8

On the way out California I stopped at a neighborhood hardware store and bought a can of 3-in-1 oil. The pick gun had gone unused for so long it needed lubrication. I helped myself to one of the free shopping papers from a rack at the storefront, spread it open on the car seat. A couple of shots of oil, then I tested the trigger action, pick movement, and tension knob. Still a little balky. I gave it another squirt, wiped off the excess, tried it again. Seemed to work okay then, but whether or not it would get me into Annette Byers’ building and her apartment was still problematical.

I was on Locust Street, scouting for a parking place, when the car phone buzzed. Tamara. I made myself listen patiently to her expressions of concern, delivered the appropriate responses, then told her what I wanted her to do.

She said, “How come you don’t trust the cops to find this bald guy?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust them. They’ve got their resources, we’ve got ours — we might be able to turn up a lead before they do. Besides, I shouldn’t’ve held on to that damn money in the first place, no matter what the client wanted. I feel responsible.”

“For the woman’s death? Might’ve happened anyway.”

“And it might not have.”

“Not your fault.”

“I know that, but I still feel responsible.”

Three-beat. Then, “You sound like a man with an agenda.”

“Meaning what? That this is personal? Damn right it is.”

“What happens if you find him before the law does?”

“Nothing happens. I’m not a vigilante, Tamara.”

“I know it, but do the cops? Does the bald dude?”

“You going to give me an argument?”

“No sir, not me.” In a softer voice she said, “Must’ve been pretty bad last night.”

“Yeah, pretty bad. Can you get to work right away?”

“Nothing on my plate except what’s left of a crappy pizza. I’ll see if I can get hold of Felicia first thing.”

“Call me as soon as you find out anything. If I don’t answer, keep trying until I do.”

I was on Clay now, a couple of blocks from Byers’ building, and I spotted a parking space opposite the Presidio Heights Playground — the first I’d come across in ten minutes of circling. Tight fit, but I got the car maneuvered into it. The fog had all but burned off here; I walked to Locust through pale sunshine and blustery wind, the pick gun in one pocket and my .38 in the other.

Still nobody home. Or at least nobody answering the bell. The vestibule, the sidewalk, the street in front — all empty. I stooped to peer at the locking mechanism on the entrance doors. Flush-mounted cylinder lock, a steel lip on the doorframe to protect the bolt and striking plate. It had been there awhile, seen a lot of use; that was good because pick guns work best in old locks.

I unpocketed the thing, slid the pick into the keyhole, worked the knob to adjust the tension, and squeezed the trigger. It made a small chattering noise, vibrating in my hand, but nothing happened. I fiddled with the knob, tried again. Nothing. Another adjustment, another squeeze. Nothing. I gritted my teeth, got set to try again. And stopped and just stood there.

For Christ’s sake, I thought, what am I doing?

The angle of daylight was such that the door glass acted as a mirror: my cloudy reflection stared back at me. I was sweating and I looked a little wild-eyed and the facial Band-Aids and bruises completed an image to frighten children. Standing here with a burglar tool in my hand like a demented sneak thief, hearing clicks in my head instead of voices.

“You damn fool,” I said under my breath, but that only added to the Halloween image. Not thinking clearly. Not acting like a rational man or a professional detective. Get a grip, goddamn it!

I put the pick gun away in my pocket, cleaned the sweat off my face. All right, use your brain. Think. There are other ways to get into a building, into a locked apartment. Risky, all of them, but a hell of a lot more reasonable than playing stupid Watergate games in broad daylight.

I took a couple of slow breaths, calming down, and then rang the bell for 1-A, L. Timmerman, Bldg Mgr. And this time a male voice said through the intercom, “Yes?”

“Mr. Timmerman?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Police business.”

There was a murmur that might have been “Oh, shit.” After which he said, “Right away,” and the door buzzer sounded.

Just like that, you horse’s ass, you.

I went in, and a skinny guy about fifty with protuberant front teeth like a beaver’s was coming out of a door labeled 1-A. Before he shut the door I could hear noise from a TV set tuned to a college football game, crowd sounds and the overheated voices of a pair of announcers. When he got a good look at me he blinked and his jaw dropped an inch or so. He said in a surprisingly deep baritone, “What happened to you?”

I told him the truth. “Run-in with a dangerous felon.”

“I hope he got the worst of it.”

“Not yet, but he will.”

“You here about the Byers woman?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I told that lieutenant, what’s his name, Fumente...”

“Fuentes.”

“Right, Fuentes. I told him and the city cop... uh, officer with him everything I know early this morning. Which isn’t much. Like I said to them, I mind my own business.”

“I’d like a look inside her apartment, Mr. Timmerman. Check on something that might have been overlooked. You mind opening it up for me?”

Ticklish moment. If he asked to see ID, I’d show him my investigator’s license with my thumb over the part that said I was a private not public detective. If he wanted to see the entire license or a badge, I would back off and walk away. Impersonating a police officer is a felony; so far I hadn’t made that claim, at least not directly, and I wouldn’t if push came to shove.

But he’d already taken me at face value. And he was anxious to cooperate; he didn’t want trouble with the law any more than I did. He said, “No, sir, I don’t mind. Just let me get my passkey.”

On the second floor, when he’d finished unlocking the door to Byers’ studio, I said, “You go on about your business, Mr. Timmerman. I’ll let you know when I’m done so you can lock up again.”

“Sure thing. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere today, just watching the Cal game on TV”

The apartment seemed even more disarrayed than it had on Thursday night, but probably not as a result of the police visit. The Chinese partition had been knocked askew, revealing the bed — a double without a headboard — and the fact that the none-too-clean sheets and blankets had been pulled loose and were trailing on the floor, either by a restless sleeper or as the result of vigorous lovemaking. In the wall behind the bed a closet door stood open; most of the hangers in there appeared to be empty. Next to the closet was a cheap maple dresser, all its drawers open, part of a black net brassiere caught on the knob of one.

I moved over there for a closer look. All that remained in the closet were a couple of inexpensive dresses, a blouse that lay crumpled on the floor, and a pair of scuffed sandals. Three of the dresser drawers had been cleaned out; the fourth contained the black bra, some wadded-up pantyhose, and the husks of two long-dead flies.

Packed up and long gone, I thought. In a hurry, from the looks of it.

In the bathroom I opened the medicine cabinet. The usual clutter, but no toothbrush or prescription medicines or other essentials. Nothing essential to me, either. I wasted a couple of minutes checking inside the toilet tank and other possible hiding places, doing it out of thoroughness rather than hope. If there’d been anything to find, Fuentes and the San Francisco cop would have turned it up this morning.

I went out to the kitchenette. The lid to the tape compartment on the answering machine was open; if Byers had replaced the tape I’d confiscated on Thursday, Fuentes had carted the new one away. I poked through drawers and then took them all the way out to see if anything had been taped underneath or behind. Looked inside the cupboards, the small refrigerator, and the even smaller stove. Peered into corners and crannies. Nothing. Under the sink was a garbage bag about a third full. The contents didn’t appear to have been disturbed; the two cops had either overlooked or ignored the bag. I used two fingers on each hand to sift through it.

Coffee grounds, empty cans, a shriveled apple, a sour-smelling half-and-half container, a few wadded-up yellow sheets from the five-by-seven pad by the phone. And another sheet from the pad that had been folded and torn into several little pieces. The wadded ones were meaningless — part of a grocery list, tic-tac-toe games, and the kind of doodles people make when they’re talking on the phone. I fished out as many of the torn scraps as I could find and fitted them together, puzzle fashion, on the breakfast bar until I could read what was written there.

Meaningless, too, maybe. And maybe not. The 4.15 could be a time... a reminder to meet somebody named Dingo at V.V.S., whatever that was. Or was it some kind of code message? The handwriting was Byers’ — same as the grocery list — and the fact that it had been torn up rather than wadded like the other throwaways made me wonder if she’d done it to make sure somebody — Cohalan? — didn’t happen to see it. I scraped the pieces together, slipped them into my wallet.

There was nothing else for me here. After I put the garbage bag back where I’d found it, I made one more pass through the studio just to make sure and then got out of there.

Downstairs I knocked on Timmerman’s door. He said when he opened up, “All through?” He didn’t seem particularly interested; he had one ear cocked to the football game blaring away behind him, the crowd and the announcers engaging in the kind of frenzy that follows a touchdown.

“All through. You can lock up any time.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

On my way to the car I wondered if he would mention me if the police contacted him again. If he did, they could make trouble for me with the State Board of Licenses. Worry about that if and when. Right now it didn’t seem to matter much.

I was halfway to Daly City when Tamara called again. She said, “I tried you a little while ago. Not much yet, but a couple of things you be wanting to know.”

“Go ahead.”

“Felicia’s working today and I got her to access the DCPD computer for us. Data’s incomplete, but as of two P.M. they still didn’t have an ID on your perp, and Cohalan and Byers hadn’t come forward or been located. Lieutenant Fuentes put out a BOLO on both of ’em.”

BOLO is police code for a Be on Lookout order. “When?” I asked.

“Around noon.”

“County wide, Bay Area, statewide?”

“Bay Area so far.”

Byers and Cohalan, I thought. On the run together? Unlawful flight to avoid answering for... what? The extortion scam? Involvement in the money theft and Carolyn Dain’s murder? They’d run if they were accessories to a capital crime; they might also run if they were innocent and afraid they’d be tabbed for it. In any case, a noon BOLO was next to worthless. With an early-morning jump, they could be in Nevada or L.A. or closing in on the Oregon border by now.

“Anything on Byers?” I asked.

“Not much more than what we had before. Born in Lodi, raised there by an alcoholic single mother. Father unknown. Mother died when she was in high school, no other known relatives. First arrest at nineteen, possession of marijuana. Meth bust was her only felony charge.”

“Niall and Bright?”

“Sketchy stuff so far.”

“Keep digging. Addresses, first priority.”

“One other thing,” she said. “I accessed the office machine to check for messages. Man named Melvin Bishop called, said he’s a friend of Carolyn Dain and wants to talk to you.”

Melvin. Mel. Last night’s anxious caller, probably. “He say what about?”

“No. Sounded real shook up.”

“Leave an address or just a phone number?”

“Both. Address is 750 De Montfort. I looked it up — it’s off Ocean out near City College. Said he’d be there all weekend.”

“Okay. Here’s something else for you to look into. See if you can find a link between Byers and somebody or something called Dingo.”

“Dingo? Like the Australian wild dog?”

“D-i-n-g-o.”

“That’s how they spell it Down Under. Kind of appropriate if it’s somebody’s name, huh? Bitch like Annette Byers hanging with a wild dog?”

At the DCPD I left the file with the desk sergeant and beat it out of there as though I was nothing more than a messenger boy. I did not want another session with Fuentes or Erdman or any other cop today, not after my previous visit and not in my frame of mind.

The car phone buzzed as I pulled out of the parking lot. Kerry, this time. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” she said. “You okay?”

“Holding up.”

“Where are you?”

“Driving around at the moment. I went to the office, did a little work.”

“When’re you coming home?”

“Not for a while. Maybe not until tomorrow. I thought I might spend the night at my flat.”

There was a longish pause before she said, “You think that’s a good idea? Being alone tonight?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to see how I feel later.”

“Call before seven and let me know. So we won’t wait dinner if you’re not coming.”

“I will.”

I felt better for having heard her voice. God, I loved that woman. She was the rock-solid center of my life, whether we were together or not. Without her I would be in worse shape right now than I was.

In my head I heard the clicks again.

Yeah. Much worse shape.