by Martin Brown
“Some people thought he was a real pain in the butt.”
“Do you think this art commission guy Randolph killed Bradley? Seems like half the town, or more, believe that.”
“I thought there was a good chance of that at first, but I don’t know now.”
“What’s changed your mind?”
“My boss, Rob, has been trying to put together a piece about Bradley’s life, but he's had a hard time finding out anything about Warren’s life before he came to Sausalito.”
Chris shrugged. “Must be frustrating. If your boss isn’t getting anywhere, maybe the paper should just put the story aside. It sounds like you’ve got enough to do every week without having to play detectives.”
“You know, sweetie, I think he would do that if it wasn’t for Alma Samuels and her Ladies of Liberty breathing down his neck.”
“Oh,” Chris frowned, deep in thought, as he munched on a few French fries. “I hear she’s got a lot of clout around town. I know Chief Petersen hates it when she calls.”
“Believe me; Alma deserves to be whacked over the head with a shovel.”
“Wow, you’ve got a lethal side to you! I better watch myself.”
Holly squeezed Chris’s leg as she teasingly fed him one of her fries. She leaned in and whispered, “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, baby! I can be a dangerous lady when I want.”
“I’m starting to find that out,” he nodded toward the door. “I think it’s time we get back to my place.”
Holly signaled the waiter for a check. Minutes later they were driving back to their love nest.
Rob woke before sunrise. He did some warm-up stretches while waiting for Eddie to appear. Before long, the two of them were back, following the same circuitous route they had taken just six days before.
Jogging down the final half mile along Prospect, Rob realized that in thirty minutes they had not passed a single car, hiker, jogger, or dog walker.
“At six on a Sunday morning, this town is really dead,” he exclaimed. “Seems like we’re the only ones dumb enough to be up at this hour.”
“Don’t you love it? I think we might want to start doing this a few days a week,” Eddie suggested.
“Fine with me, as long as it’s not on a day when I can sleep in,” Rob muttered.
“Sorry about the early start with the kids being gone and all, but I’m hoping we’ll strike gold a second time.”
Rob chuckled. “May the Gods of law and order be with us.”
Eddie winked. “We’re on a roll, buddy. And I’m feeling lucky today.”
Once inside, they again donned their surgical booties and nitrile gloves.
“Okay, Sherlock, what are you looking for this time?” Rob asked.
“When we were last here, I’d hoped to find something substantial, so I rushed through a lot of other stuff. I know I can bullshit my way around why we’re here if we get caught, but I would prefer not to be in that position.”
“And?”
“During our last visit I quickly flipped through that big binder over there on the kitchen counter next to the Cuisinart. It’s filled with recipes, alongside which Bradley scribbled a lot of little notes in the margins. It mostly looked like names and dates, or additions and deletions of different ingredients. It would have been too much to cover in too little time, so I put the book aside and went looking at more likely hiding places, thinking that Bradley wasn’t going to place anything from his past in there. Yesterday, while flying back to Oakland, I tried to remember what it was that Chris Harding told us about Bradley during the reception after the memorial service. Suddenly it came to me: it was how much he enjoyed that caramel chicken. Remember? Warren made it the day of the last luncheon he served down at the Sausalito PD.”
“You’re right, Eddie. He did mention that chicken.”
“If he managed to get himself invited for dinner, perhaps that’s what Bradley cooked. I want to see if he scribbled anything in the margin alongside that particular recipe.”
“Wow! You’re smarter than I realized.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Now, go over to the door and keep an eye out for any of the neighborhood snoops while I spend a little time in the late chef’s kitchen.”
“I’m on it,” Rob said, as he positioned himself to the side of the ancient French door.
Eddie said a little prayer as he opened the old binder with frayed corners. He turned the pages carefully, many of which had yellowed over time and stiffened with the grease that inevitably was absorbed when paper sits so close to a kitchen range.
The sections all started with a tab but were not themselves arranged alphabetically. Through the C’s, Eddie went page by page, past the Clams Oreganata, and the Clam Chowder, the Couscous with Garbanzo Beans, and then a half dozen chicken recipes from the making of chicken sausage to Chicken Parmesan. Nearly every page had a date on it. Many of them had several. Eddie hoped that the book doubled as a kind of diary, reminding Warren how many times he’d made a particular recipe and for whom. Some notes said things like, “Alma’s favorite,” or “Women’s League Holiday Luncheon.”
When he came to the page that held the recipe for Caramel Chicken, the last note was “Sausalito PD,” and the date of that final lunch, but there was no date after that.
“Damn it, there’s nothing here,” Eddie pounded his fist down on the counter.
“Maybe he never got the chance to write it down,” Rob replied.
“Yeah, that could be. Still, it would have been sweet to have had one last nail in Harding’s coffin.”
“Wait a minute,” Rob said suddenly, “Harding also mentioned pasta with veal, sausage, and porcini ragu.”
“How the hell did you remember that?”
“Because I thought it sounded great. I suggested to Karin that we should try making it one night.”
“What the hell, it’s worth a try,” Eddie said as he reopened the book.
For several more minutes he methodically turned over each page in the binder and then:
“BINGO,” Eddie exclaimed too loudly, he quickly realized.
Alongside his pasta recipe, there was one last entry: Chris Harding.
Underneath the name, Warren wrote the date. It was the night he died.
“Something tells me you got it,” Rob said.
Eddie pulled his phone out of his nylon running jacket and snapped a photo of the page.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Eddie said. “It’s time for me to get a warrant for Chris Harding’s arrest.”
By the time Rob walked back in his front door—just a few minutes after seven—he was no longer interested in sleep. The sky was bright blue, but the streets of Sausalito were still quiet. The house was blessedly silent as well. Karin and the kids were likely still tucked in and fast asleep at her folks’ place.
There were so many intriguing places for Rob to start this story. How should he explain to his readers the mystery of William Benedict’s life and Warren Bradley’s death?
He was indecisive for a time, knowing the story had many points of entry. But, as he’d learned after years of turning out one story after another, there are times when you start writing and allow the story to take shape as you move forward. There was always time for taking a second, third, and fourth pass. Now was the best time to start putting words on a page.
With each new sentence, Rob could feel the weight of the mystery lifting off of him. His final deadline would be Tuesday afternoon. Even with news of the arrest of Chris Harding almost certainly breaking the morning before The Standard would arrive in-home, Rob was now fully confident that only his readers would have the full story.
He was so busy working away at his laptop that he hadn’t realized it was going on nine. He decided he would wait until ten before giving Holly a call. Whatever else, Rob was sure that his longtime assistant would fall off her feet when she learned that Warren Bradley’s killer was a Sausalito police officer.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
> Rob called Holly’s home number precisely at ten. Having no luck, he tried her cell, but again there was no answer. He was disappointed, but it was okay; he had enough on his plate and Holly had little enough downtime from her average workweek.
Through Sunday afternoon, he shaped, changed, and re-worked his story. Shortly before five in the afternoon, Karin returned home with the children. Rob kissed her like she had been gone for a month. “I’m going to put on a movie for the kids. You and I have to talk."
When he told Karin his news, he wasn’t surprised that she sat there for a time utterly speechless.
“I knew the butler didn’t do it, Warren could never afford one,” Karin proclaimed with the crooked smile that first caught Rob’s interest and led him to, in his uniquely awkward way, ask her out on a date.
After hearing the outcome of the mystery, Karin was happy for Eddie, thrilled for Rob, and pleased that the shadow of guilt would soon be lifted from Grant Randolph.
“Holly said for years that Warren Bradley was a creepy guy. That gal was spot on! I guess she’s a pretty good judge of character. Speaking of Holly, what does she think of all this?”
“I’ve been trying her since ten this morning, but I’ve had no luck.”
“Maybe she finally got smart, and she’s hiding out. You can’t blame the poor thing for wanting a little peace, given how hard she works all week.” Having done Holly’s exhausting weekly routine for several years, Karin knew this better than anyone, other than Rob.
After dinner, Rob asked Karin if she objected to his walking down to the office. “I have to clear some items off my desk so that I can spend most of Monday and Tuesday before press time getting the Bradley story as good as I can make it.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Karin said. “I know what a huge week this is going to be for you. I’m very happy for you, and I’m proud of the way you and Eddie worked together. You’re quite a team.”
By seven on a Sunday evening in downtown Sausalito nearly all of the day visitors have traveled back to San Francisco, leaving the town once again to its citizens.
Rob walked along Bridgeway toward his office on Princess Street. He passed cafes busy with diners, street cleaners sweeping up after another busy weekend, and bike rental kiosk operators closing up their stands and tallying their weekend profits. As he walked by the No Name Bar, he stopped in for a moment.
Since I’m here, it’s worth a shot, Rob thought, as he stopped, turned, and went inside. The place was starting to fill with the usual after-dark locals. Rob did a quick look around and was disappointed not to see Holly.
“Rob,” he heard a voice say. He turned and saw Alberto standing behind him.
“Got the night off?” Rob asked.
“Just finished working the day shift. You looking for Holly?”
“Yes. I was hoping she might be here.”
“No, I haven’t seen her since Friday. It was pretty funny.”
“What was?” Rob asked.
“She and that new cop in town were sitting at the bar, making goo-goo eyes at each other. I think she’s landed a keeper," Alberto smiled as he flashed Rob a thumb's up. "Anyway, they both beat it out of here—must have been around nine Friday night, and I haven’t seen either of them since.”
Trying to remain calm, Rob asked, “You don’t mean Chris Harding, do you?”
“Yeah, Chris. Seems like a great guy,” Alberto called out as Rob rushed out the door.
A few minutes later, Rob was at his desk. This could be bad, he thought, as he took a deep breath and collected himself before calling Eddie.
“What the hell do you want?” Eddie said, only half joking on a Sunday night.
“Are you sitting down?”
“No, but I could be. What’s up?”
“I’ve been trying to find Holly all day, with no luck.”
“That’s no big deal, given that it’s the weekend.”
“I just saw Alberto down at the No Name. He last saw Holly Friday night. She left the bar—with Chris Harding. She hasn’t been seen since.”
“That’s not good! Where are you right now?”
“Down at the office.”
“I’ll be right down.”
After checking in with Rob, Eddie went to Holly’s apartment on Caledonia Street. He got no answer when he rang her doorbell, so he knocked on the neighbors’ doors at either side of her unit. Both reported having not seen Holly for the past two days.
Eddie had gotten Chris Harding’s address earlier on Sunday when he began his paperwork for an arrest warrant. He drove over to Easterby and parked on the opposite side of the street from Chris’s one-bedroom cottage. He made sure that his unmarked car was far enough away from any streetlight that could illuminate the interior of his vehicle. With binoculars, he focused in on the cozy home’s interior.
There was a light on in the kitchen. Before long, Eddie saw Holly walk in, stir a pot on the stove and taste whatever it was she was cooking. As she stirred, Chris, shirtless, came up behind her, pulled her hair to one side, and nuzzled her neck. Holly turned, and they kissed.
Looks more like a scene out of Love Story than Psycho, Eddie thought. She is going to be disappointed when we lock up her new boyfriend!
Eddie reviewed his options, all of which needed to be considered. There was an excellent chance that the arrest, scheduled for seven-thirty the following morning, would go off without a hitch. Holly wasn’t in any immediate danger. At the moment, she was more of a love slave than a hostage.
Still, anything could go wrong. After all, Holly was shacked up with a man who had committed a brutal murder. And, for that matter, Eddie could find himself in serious trouble if one of his favorite people—crazy, lovable Holly—was harmed.
Eddie sat in the dark and kept an eye on the cottage as he thought about his next step. He chose the middle path between being overly cautious and disregarding an innocent civilian’s safety. He arranged to have a deputy in an unmarked sheriff’s department vehicle park across the street and remain there until Harding’s scheduled arrest.
As Eddie’s relief arrived, he headed home for what would undoubtedly be a fitful night’s sleep.
Rob came back and was greeted by Karin, who immediately asked, “Why do you look so worried?” Rob came close to answering honestly, sharing his concerns about Holly, but then changed course.
“I want to get this story in the best shape possible. After this, it’s back to reporting on guest speakers at the senior center and design review board meetings.”
“Oh, honey!” Karin said as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek, “Maybe you’ll get lucky, and in a few months someone else will get murdered.”
“You mean, like one of the Ladies of Liberty?”
“If gossiping gourmets are getting knocked off, I suppose anything is possible.”
Just before they turned off their lights, Rob got a text message from Eddie: "Easterby, 7:30 tomorrow morning. Walk halfway up the block and then hang back."
Neither Rob nor Eddie slept well that night.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shortly before seven-thirty Rob walked into the 7-Eleven at the corner of Bridgeway and Easterby and got a cup of their usual burned and nearly tasteless coffee. As he stood outside the old wreck of a building, he looked up the block just as a black SUV with four large white letters printed on the side turned and headed up the block.
The SWAT armored vehicle stopped halfway up between where Rob stood and Chris Harding’s cottage. No police personnel got out; the vehicle just waited there. One minute later, two Sausalito police cars went up the block and pulled alongside the SWAT vehicle.
Two residents came out on their stoops and said in near unison, “What’s going on?” The patrol officers waved them back inside. As the neighbors went back in, shut and locked their doors, Eddie’s old unmarked black Plymouth rode past and stopped in front of Chris Harding’s small cottage.
So far, so good, Eddie thought, as he walked up the s
mall rise of the driveway and went around back to the small red cottage’s only door, which faced in the opposite direction of the street. Placing his hand just inside his jacket, Eddie unsnapped his shoulder holster and removed his gun, but kept it hidden from sight.
Just as Eddie was about to knock, he heard the top bolt slide back. Eddie took a deep breath. As he often did at a moment like this, he thought about Sharon and his young son, Aaron. He all but laughed out loud when he saw Holly standing in the doorway alone, dressed, ready for work, and brushing her hair. She greeted Eddie with a smile.
“Hi, Eddie, what are you doing here?”
“Is Chris here?”
“Yeah, but sleepyhead is still snoozing. He doesn’t have to go to work until one today. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get moving. I’m sure it’s going to be another busy week with all this Bradley stuff still on the front burner.”
Eddie put his index finger up to his lips and signaled her to come outside. She did but with a look of complete bewilderment. “Stay right here, and don’t move.”
Eddie slipped inside and saw Chris shirtless, sound asleep on his back. Quietly as he could, Eddie cuffed Chris’s right hand to the side of the old iron rail headboard, and, to his relieved amazement, Harding continued his light rhythmic snoring.
He then went back out as Holly, who was still attempting to tame her curly black hair, asked, “What’s up, copper?”
Eddie took Holly by the arm and walked her around to the front of the driveway, where two armed SWAT officers moved her quickly away from the property.
Rob, who had been standing fifty yards down the road talking with two Sausalito patrol officers, walked up to Holly and slipped his hand around her arm. “I’ve got her from here, fellas. I’ll take her back to her place."
Holly, looking bewildered, asked “What in the hell is going on, Rob?”
