“Yes.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
I felt another of those guilty twinges. “I don’t know. We lost track of each other after I bought the house. I heard he had a stroke and was living with family.”
“But if it’s not Dicky buried in the backyard, where is he?”
“I have no idea. As far as Dean and Quigley are concerned, Dicky is a case for Missing Persons. So I guess you should file a missing-persons report. Or no, you must have already done that.” I stopped. “Did you file a missing-persons report?”
It seemed to me that David hesitated. “Uh, no. I didn’t,” he admitted.
“Why?”
He sounded defensive when he replied, “I told you. I figured he must have changed his mind.”
“No, you said from the very first you had a bad feeling. That you knew Dicky would not have willingly left your side. Or some such muck.”
“Sure, but then I realized that was unlikely. I figured he probably had changed his mind.”
“Didn’t you consider any other possibilities?”
After a moment he said, “No. Not really.”
I was getting more confused by the second. “But didn’t you want to know for sure?”
“Of course!”
“And yet…”
“He took his stuff,” David said.
“When? From where?”
“From the hotel. I had moved into a hotel, remember? The plan was he was going to stay with me while I looked for a new place, but he only brought a few items. I had the feeling— Anyway, his toothbrush and everything was gone when I got home that night.”
“The night he disappeared? The Monday he came to see me?”
“Yes.”
“He’d cleared his things from your hotel room?”
“Yes.”
“And when Detectives Dean and Quigley came a-callin’, you didn’t bother to tell them that?”
“Well…”
“You let them think he disappeared after talking to me!”
David said hotly, “He did disappear after talking to you!”
“But it was obviously planned. He took his belongings with him. He left voluntarily.”
“Maybe!”
I said, “What are you talking about maybe?”
“He would have had his keys on him. So whoever killed him could have come back to the hotel and cleared his things out to make it look like he left.”
“Whoever… You mean me?”
David didn’t say anything.
“Are we back to this? Didn’t you just say… What you’re telling me is you do think I had something to do with Dicky’s disappearance?”
“Not anymore, no. But at the time, I thought maybe we’d…”
“We’d—you’d—what?”
“Driven you to it.”
I could only make random vowel sounds for a few seconds. Finally, I got control and said, “Let me get this straight. You thought Dicky might have changed his mind or I might have killed him, but you didn’t bother to check up in either case?”
Once again David said nothing.
“You didn’t care enough to find out?” I demanded.
He protested, “I did care, but…”
“But what?”
“I also thought maybe…we’d made a mistake. And that he saw it too.”
It was my turn to say nothing.
David said, “If you had done something, then it was partly my fault. I didn’t want to know.”
“You didn’t want to know if I’d killed your boyfriend?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“It’s not like I thought that was what happened,” David protested. “It went through my brain, of course. I read mysteries. But mostly I figured he’d changed his mind. And frankly, that was a relief.”
“A relief?”
“Yes.”
“But what about all that guff about finally having met your soul mate? What about what you were saying on Monday about missing someone who could share the good times and the bad?”
“I’d already had that. And thanks to Dicky, it was all fucked up. So…”
“I can’t believe this.”
I could hear the shrug in his silence.
“If you’d changed your mind, why didn’t you tell me?” I pressed.
David gave a weird laugh. “If I’d told you I’d made a mistake, would you have taken me back?”
“Hell no!”
“Exactly. So what was the point?”
“Wow. I just…wow.”
David said, “Which brings us back to the question of what did happen to Dicky.”
“Okay, well, that’s your problem,” I said. I had my breath back by then and planned to put it to good use. “He was your boyfriend, and you lost him. So if you want to find out at this late date what happened, I suggest you file a police report.”
“I will. But in the meantime, maybe you could look for him. I could help.”
“What? No, I really couldn’t.”
“You’re good at this kind of thing, Christopher. You’re a natural.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve never looked for a missing person, and I’m not going to start with Dicky. I can give you the phone number of one of his friends. I don’t know if it’s any good, but you can start there. Or not. This is not my problem. I do have my own problems and plenty of them.”
“Christopher, wait—”
“Here’s the phone number.” I read the number from the Post-it note.
“We could work together,” David was saying. “We’d make a great team. I always wanted to—”
I hung up.
Chapter Eleven
“Thank God for that,” J.X. said after I’d filled him in on the latest developments. And then, belatedly, “What did I tell you?”
I had been in bed, reading, when he finally finished the day’s work and tiptoed upstairs. As much as I’d wanted to run straight to him with my news, I remembered only too well what it was like to be interrupted when you were deep, deep into the zone.
Now I tilted my head sideways, considering him. He looked tired and frazzled as only a writer in the homestretch can look. There were shadows under his eyes, his five-o’clock shadow now looked like two a.m. in the drunk tank, and his hair was standing up in tufts like he’d been tugging on it in despair.
I asked, “Did it ever cross your mind that I might have murdered Dicky?”
“No.” He answered without hesitation. “Never. It crossed my mind David might have.”
“Sure, before you’d actually met him. But now that you have met him, do you still think David would be a likely suspect?”
“I didn’t think it was likely, but certainly, between the two of you, David is the logical suspect.”
“Really? You don’t think I could kill someone?” I recollected slamming Jerry over the head with that adorable—and murderously heavy—reading-bear bookend. In that moment, I hadn’t been unduly concerned whether I killed Jerry.
Maybe J.X. remembered that too because he said, “I didn’t say that. You could kill if you had to. But you wouldn’t be so dumb as to plant the body in your own backyard. The fact that the body appeared to have been dumped on your property seemed to indicate malicious intent. And that, to me, implicated David.”
I thought of my earlier phone call with David and his suggestion that we take up amateur sleuthing together. I was not going to share most of that conversation with J.X. He was edgy enough on the topic of David without adding to his list of grievances.
“He wouldn’t have had any reason to feel malice toward me,” I said. “He was doing the dumping. I was the dumpee. Between the two of us, I had a much stronger motive. On paper at least.”
“Maybe on paper.”
“Anyway, he’s not a murderer. I’m not sure he could kill even to save his own life. You should have seen him wrestling that clown. It was pathetic.”
J.X.
shuddered at the word clown. “In any case, it’s moot.”
“Yes,” I said slowly.
J.X. watched me. “What are you thinking?”
“Something David said. If that body is a couple of decades old, it was there when I bought the house. All those peaceful mornings I sat drinking coffee up there under my pergola, and that was underneath my feet.”
J.X. was silent. “Not necessarily,” he said at last. “It’s not yet been determined whether the original cement slab was left in place or not.”
“True.”
“This is a bit gruesome, but I recall a case where a husband held on to his wife’s remains through several moves across the state. He stored her in an oil drum, and he faithfully took that drum with him every time he changed addresses.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve seen a number of episodes like that on Investigation Discovery. In the instance you’re talking about, the guy was finally undone by a nosy son-in-law.”
“Yes,” J.X. said in surprise.
“I can think of eleven cases right off the top of my head where women’s bodies were left in barrels. It’s not so common with men because it’s a lot harder for a woman to get a man’s body into a barrel than it is a man to deposit a woman—and most of these times the killer is a disgruntled spouse or partner.”
He paused in the middle of pulling off his T-shirt, offering me a very nice view of his muscular chest. Silky dark hair swirled across the brown, satiny planes, setting off the rosy hue of his small, flat nipples. I rested my book on my lap.
“You’ve got to find another channel,” he said. “What about Acorn? What about BritBox? You used to love watching polite English people kill each other.”
“I still do. But ID gives me great ideas.” He raised his brows. I said, “For writing, that is.”
J.X. made an unconvinced noise and finished yanking off his shirt. He lifted the lid on the hamper in his half of the closet, dropped the shirt in, and replaced the lid. Yep, that was the attention and care his dirty clothes received. No ordinary laundry basket for his garments!
“Anyway, I see where you’re going with your theory. Someone decided to get rid of the incriminating contents of a barrel or a burial in their own backyard under cover of the construction on my property.”
“It’s still a possibility.”
“It is, I agree. Although, it’s very hard to picture the Olsens on the left or the Jászis on the right resorting to murder, let alone illegal dumping. Both families were so conscientious about recycling.”
“You never know what goes on behind your neighbors’ front doors.”
“True. If rather a sinister outlook.”
“Hey, you’re the fan of I Wanna Kill My Neighbor or whatever that show is called.” He climbed into bed and stretched out with a groan. “God, I’m tired. My brain is tired. My back is tired, my butt is tired…”
“I get the message.” I picked my book up again. “You’re too tired.”
The book was plucked out of my hand and went sailing across the room.
“I didn’t say that.” J.X. reached past me to snap out the lamp.
Inspector Ishwar Jones of SFPD’s Investigative Bureau—Homicide Detail—phoned the next morning as we were having our coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. Izzie was not contacting us in his official capacity. He was calling in his capacity as J.X.’s former partner and perennial pal.
They had a brief and cryptic—at least from my end—conversation, and then J.X. promised to phone Izzie later that morning. He bade his brother-in-blue goodbye.
“What was that about?” I asked as J.X. returned to the table.
“Jerry Knight’s girlfriend has alibied him for Monday night.”
I chewed that over. “Maybe she’s lying.”
“Maybe she is, but Izzie says she’s credible.”
“What does that mean?”
“Credible? It’s an adjective meaning worthy of belief or confidence; trustworthy. For example, a credible witness.”
“Thanks, smartass. This girlfriend is the jailhouse pen pal with the Victorian slew-foot name?”
“Violet Sanderson. She and Knight are currently living together.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I know. I figured he was gay.”
I shook my head. “No. He’s not gay. Interestingly, you can be obsessed with someone and yet not sexually interested in them.”
“True. There are all kinds of stalkers.”
I said, “Jerry could have hired someone to come after me.”
“It’s possible. But to what purpose?”
“You know, there doesn’t have to be a practical purpose. Terrorizing me could be purpose enough.”
“Yes, but in that case, I think Knight would want to experience that firsthand, not contract it out.”
I grunted. “Point.” I put my fork down. “Okay. Well, speaking of psycho stalkers, I should get down to the Civic Center to pick up my paperwork. I want Jerry served as soon as possible.”
J.X. lowered his coffee cup, said casually, “No worries. Leave it to me.”
“No way. You’ve got a book to write. It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.”
“The thing is,” J.X. said in that careful tone he got when he was about to tell me something he figured I didn’t want to hear, “Izzie’s going to serve Knight.”
“Izzie? Why? I thought that was something the Sheriff’s Department did.”
“Because we want to make sure it’s done ASAP. Sometimes these things have a way of falling through the cracks. Especially—” He cut himself off.
I eyed him uneasily. “Especially what?”
“The Sanderson woman is apparently well-connected.”
“You mean like mob-connected?”
“More like Nob-connected. As in Nob Hill. She belongs to one of the oldest and most wealthy San Francisco families.”
I could see by his expression that this was liable to be more of a potential problem than he wanted me to know. “Terrific.”
“It doesn’t matter. Knight is getting served today.”
After a moment, I nodded.
I spent the morning working in my office, continuing to unpack the boxes I had put off dealing with since I’d made the move from Southern California.
My reluctance seemed odd in retrospect. Why had it been so painful to sort through these old files and folders? Why had it felt like I was putting my old life into mothballs instead of what it was: preparing to take active part in my new life?
As I moved around the room, I’d occasionally glance at the Post-it lying on the desktop. Would David bother to phone Joe E.’s number? It hadn’t sounded like it. Even if he did phone, would he know what questions to ask? Would he say the wrong thing and scare off our only lead?
I mean, not that we had a lead. There was no lead because there was no investigation. Not on my part.
Although…
Why not admit it? I was a little curious.
Okay, a lot curious.
Curiosity was killing me.
I sat down at the desk, picked up the phone, and punched the numbers on the piece of paper.
The phone rang a couple of times, and then someone picked up. A male voice said, “Yep?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Joe E.”
“Joey? He moved out about six months ago.”
“This isn’t a cell phone?”
“Nope. It’s the house phone.”
“Do you have a new phone number for him? Or even his last name would be helpful.”
“Who are you again?”
“My name’s Christopher Holmes. A friend of Joe’s used to work for me, and I’ve been trying to get in touch with him. I thought maybe Joe might have his address or a phone number.”
“I don’t know.”
“His name is Dicky Dickison.”
“Nope. Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Okay, well, do you have a new number for Joe?”
“What company did you say?
”
“I don’t work for a company. I’m a writer.”
“Huh.”
I waited. Nothing seemed forthcoming.
“So do you have a number or maybe a forwarding address?”
“Somewhere, maybe.”
“I don’t want to be a pest, but it’s kind of important. Do you think you could look and maybe phone me back?”
He seemed to think it over. “If you want to hang on the line, I’ll have a quick look now.”
“Yes. Thank you. That would be great.”
I waited. The minutes ticked by on the clock on my desk. I absently admired the woodwork on the heavy hand-carved ball-and-claw writing desk. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, originally belonging to my former mentor, Anna Hitchcock. I had come to regard it as spoils of war.
The front door bell rang. I ignored it. If it was the mail or UPS, they’d leave their package or redeliver. If it was Girl Scouts bearing cookies, damn, damn, damn. Anyone else could come back another time.
Another minute passed. The doorbell rang again.
“Go away,” I muttered.
“Here it is,” the voice on the other end returned. “I don’t have his cell, but this is where he was staying. It’s from six months ago, so he might not still be there.” He recited a number with a 213 area code, which I took as a promising sign. Six months ago Joe E. was still in the Los Angeles area.
“Thanks very much for your help.”
He said cheerfully, “No prob, Rob.”
I hung up and went to the front door. I looked out the peephole, but no one loitered on our doorstep. I opened the door and glanced out. No package sat on the small porch. No notice had been stuck to the door.
I went back to working in my office.
About an hour later I heard the front door open. J.X. shouted, “Kit? Christopher?”
Christopher? Since when?
“Right here.”
My voice must have been muffled because his footsteps pounded down the hall. “Kit, are you here?” J.X. called again, and his tone was odd. Sharp. He sounded almost, well, scared.
“Here. In my office.” I rose from behind the desk as J.X. skidded to a stop in the doorway.
“Kit!” He actually closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. “Thank God.”
In Other Words...Murder Page 10
