by Susan Dunlap
Marin doesn’t plummet straight down, but close enough. I made a left, and sat there in the middle of the intersection, poised at the top of that mile drop. The fog curtained the streetlights. Two red dots—taillights—pierced it, maybe a block ahead. I waited. The street had to be clear. No one in the way in case I panicked. The lights sank into the fog and were gone.
I turned the radio on loud, and rolled the window all the way down to let the wind wipe the sweat off my face. I stepped on the gas. The Volkswagen cleared the level intersection and jolted downward. My stomach lurched. I clutched the wheel, singing, shouting with the music, trying to drown out my fear.
When I reached the Marin traffic circle, relief washed over me. I pulled to the curb and sat to savor it. But I had barely pulled up the emergency brake before it melted away. This ordeal was over. But I knew it would be no better the next time. Panic throbbed out against my skull. But it wasn’t the panic I’d come to know, it was a new, deeper one. It was more than the fear of crashing down; now it was fear of the fear. I had never dealt with a fear I couldn’t handle. Face them, conquer them. But this one—I kept staring it in the eyes and it didn’t blink.
Connie Pereira was bent over the Paradise books in the upstairs front room. To her right a beige corduroy sofa huddled in a corner facing a small television and stereo. One speaker was on the wall, the other functioned as an end table. The arrangement had more the aura of a warehouse than a living room. Clearly, it had been squeezed into the few square feet left over from the mammoth oak desk, typewriter table, desk chair, two oak visitor’s chairs, and three file cabinets that made up the office.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
She stretched her arm forward. “Look at that. Bureaucrat’s elbow!”
“What’s that?”
“It’s been bent over forms or books so long it won’t straighten.” Setting the offending joint down on the desk, she leaned back and sighed. “All those strength and agility tests to get on the force, Smith, what were they for? I’m just going to sit here hunched over garbage bills and wine receipts till my eyes cross, my shoulders touch in the front, and my butt spreads wide enough to wedge me in the chair. I can’t …” She looked up at me. “What’s the matter, Smith?”
My neck tightened as I battled between the urge to hold down my squalid tale of terror and the urge to spit it out. Connie Pereira was my closest friend on the force, next to Howard. Surely, she would understand. “Have you ever been really afraid, Connie?”
“You mean other than when I face these books?” She grinned, then shrugged it off. “You mean it, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Lots of times. When I was a kid I was afraid all the time. Afraid when there was a knock on the door that it was the landlord, or the sheriff. Pop was always behind on the rent. At night I lay in bed listening to Ma and Pop screaming at each other, terrified their anger was going to boil over onto me or the boys. When I walked to school I was afraid the girls would make fun of my clothes. Later, I was afraid of every decent guy I met, that he’d be the one that trapped me into a life like my mother’s. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know.” My own situational fear seemed even more embarrassing next to Pereira’s history of legitimate ones, ones she had overcome. “How about a walk to Fatapple’s?”
She hesitated long enough for her silence to say that wasn’t an answer. But she didn’t press me.
Fatapple’s, renowned for their burgers, muffins, and pies, was a block and a half away. It was a rarity not to find a line out the front door. But Berkeleyans appreciated good food and took it as a statement of their own discriminating taste that they were willing to stand in line for it. What was half an hour in the evening fog when the perfect mushroomburger and ollalieberry pie awaited? But perfect was not a word I associated with food, and waiting was something I had little patience for. Fatapple’s was one of the few places in town where I was willing, albeit ungraciously, to stand in line while other people ate.
But we were lucky. There were two empty tables. We ordered burgers, cheese for Connie, mushroom for me, and cafe lattes.
“So how’s it been today?” I asked.
“Quiet. When I started, Laura was calling the newspapers to run a notice that Paradise would be closed till the end of the week.”
“It’ll open Monday?”
“Tuesday. It’s normally closed Mondays.”
“That seems rather soon.”
“That’s what I thought. I didn’t say anything, but she must have picked it up from me. She said she had the staff to consider. They can’t be without work too long. And the routines are set; it’s easier to keep going than make all the calls necessary for a month’s lull.”
“After she gets a new sous-chef, salad chef, dishwasher, and host. That in itself should take her the rest of the week.”
“Well, she didn’t do that today. She hit the sack as soon as she made that call. She hasn’t been seen since. But the books are clear enough that I haven’t needed to ask her anything.”
“Mitch did the books,” I reminded Pereira. Despite the new touches of makeup, she still looked exhausted.
The waitress put our burgers and drinks on the table. I added a long pour of sugar to the latte and stirred. “Aconite comes from a plant called monkshood. You know anything about that?” I asked, not having much hope. Pereira’s interest was in only one kind of greenery, and that didn’t grow, at least not for her. Her parents and brothers kept her financial plants closely trimmed; no fruit ever dropped to the ground to reseed itself.
“Nope. But I know where you can find out. I’ve got the name of the florist Paradise got their arrangements from.”
“Great.” I took a bite of the burger; it was great too.
“The records are pretty straightforward. But there are one or two puzzling things, Jill.”
“Such as?”
“The receipts have fallen off in the last month, but I guess that’s not surprising. There’s a check from a David Whitney of something called Bump and Grind that makes up the difference. It could be to take over the place for a night, for an employee dinner. It’s big enough, but there’s no record. It’s a good thing, though, because Mitch paid the leasing company that handles the kitchen equipment a double payment this month.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. If the books were done by a professional, there would be a lot more clarification. What they’ve got here is a competent job, but a job by someone who was still learning the ropes.”
“Could there be something in the contract, like a balloon payment?”
“I haven’t found the contract. But balloon payments aren’t likely in equipment-leasing contracts.”
“Any ideas?”
“The logical one would be a prepayment penalty. If the Biekmas decided to lease from another company before the term of this agreement was over, they might have to pay an extra month’s fee to get clear of this one.”
“Is that normal?”
“I can’t say for sure. I do know that different companies which lease their own equipment vary in their servicing. Maybe Mitch and Laura found a better deal.”
I took another bite of the burger, chewing thoughtfully. “What else is odd?”
“The employees were paid once a month. Most places go on the biweekly or weekly schedule. It’s not a stable enough industry to assume that all your help will still be there at the end of the month. And it’s a hassle to terminate midmonth, what with notifying the health care carrier, Social Security, et cetera, and then start someone else, much less do it three or four times during the month. It’s easier to pay more often.”
“So Paradise must have had a pretty stable employee situation.”
“And employees who could wait till the end of the month.”
Pereira swallowed the last of her latte. “So what are you going to do with your supposes, Jill?”
“It keeps coming back to Yankowski.” I shoved the last
bite of burger in my mouth. The first of the month was Sunday, which meant that Frank Yankowski hadn’t been paid in four weeks. Yankowski might have friends who were willing to help him; but there was a limit to friends’ help. And there was nothing about Yankowski’s life to suggest he had groups of friends, or even a few friends. According to Laura, he didn’t make friends easily. So far the only one we had turned up was Earth Man, and he certainly wasn’t in a position to bankroll anyone. A month’s salary would be a temptation, if I could work it right.
CHAPTER 22
IT WAS NEARLY TEN-THIRTY when we got back to Paradise. I left Connie Pereira to put a note on the kitchen door telling Earth Man to come back at midnight. Then I climbed the stairs to the Biekma’s office, settled in the desk chair, and dialed Homicide.
“You have reached the Homicide Detail of the Berkeley Police Department. At the present time no one is in the office to answer the phone. If your call is an emergency. …” The answering machine, the price we paid for direct phone lines.
I depressed the button, then dialed Inspector Doyle at home. “Doyle here.”
It didn’t take a genius to tell I’d woken him up. Quickly, I relayed my plan.
“You’re hot to catch this guy. Only natural. But your plan’s damned iffy, Smith.”
“I know that. Still, every curve leads back to Yankowski. The whole case is on hold till we find him.”
“May be, Smith. The question is, with this scheme are you going to find him?”
“I don’t know. What alternative is there?”
He sighed. From the background came a soft moan. Presumably Mrs. Doyle had adjusted to interrupted sleep.
“Pereira’s wiped out. So I’ll need two other—”
“Holy Mother, Smith, you’ve got men watching La Maison and the Hillvue. You had Parker last night, Pereira all day today, and now on overtime. You’ve had Murakawa. You can’t have the whole damned department.”
“Inspector—”
“The plan’s not worth it.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll just make do with what I have.”
“Call me if you get him. If you don’t, I’ll see you in the morning.” He hung up.
Pereira flopped on the couch. I hadn’t been exaggerating her condition. Yankowski could have run out from behind one of the stereo speakers and she might have spotted him, but she’d never have caught him. Still, I couldn’t handle this surveillance alone. Who owed me? Whom did I not owe? The answer to both questions was virtually no one. There was only one choice. I dialed Howard’s number.
I didn’t have to worry about waking him at this hour. Howard shared a six-bedroom brown shingle house south of campus with five guys and their ever-changing girlfriends. It was every college senior’s dream, a perpetual party. No matter what the hour, there was someone in the living room with whom to watch the tube, drink beer, or share a pizza. A variety of music wide enough to suit any taste, loud enough to block out unwanted thought, flowed from all directions, frequently accompanied by the howls of the basset hound in the bedroom nearest the stairs.
Howard had been low man on the rental agreement when he moved in six years ago. Since then, he had risen to the top through attrition, like a name on a form letter. By now he should have been lord of the house, levying the rent, setting the rules, filling the bedrooms with considerate adults. But the kind of housemates he wanted weren’t willing to put up with the chaos; no one else shared Howard’s passion for the house; no one was willing to wait months or years till the party animals moved to other dens. And now, rather than controlling the house, Howard was finding that it controlled him; he could neither afford the rent alone nor bring himself to move. Someday, he insisted, he would buy the house. The same way he asserted he’d make chief. But even if the latter happened—and I had my eye on that job, or at least I did before I’d become too timid to drive downhill—he would never be able to afford a six-bedroom house south of campus.
“I need a favor,” I said when he picked up the phone.
“What?”
“Tailing.”
“What kind of tailing?”
I explained the plan.
He didn’t respond. Behind him the bass of a stereo boomed in something akin to four-four time. The basset howled, not in four-four time. Howard, I knew, was howling silently, asking himself why I couldn’t get someone from Patrol to do my tailing. Tailing was the second rung from the bottom; only surveillance was worse. But Howard didn’t question me; he realized my call to him meant Patrol was unavailable. “I’ll get an unmarked car and be on Josephine Street by midnight.”
I drove to the station to change cars. When I got back to Paradise, Laura Biekma was in the upstairs kitchen, brewing coffee for Pereira. Pereira was still in the office, but she’d given up trying to focus on the books. She was just baby-sitting Laura for me and it was taking all her energy to stay awake for that. Laura Biekma’s coffee wasn’t going to make a dent.
But it could help me. Accepting Laura’s offer of a cup, I took a moment to watch her. Although she had slept during the day, she looked almost as tired as Pereira, albeit in a different way. Hers was the internal exhaustion of shock, fear, and deadening sorrow that requires months of sleep to ameliorate. She had washed her blond hair. It hung in fine waves. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, and now her pale skin seemed to have lost what color it had before, and her freckles stood out as if her face had been splattered with Day-Glo paint.
“Cream?” she asked me. “It cuts the bitterness this late at night. We have real cream, from the farm. Yesterday it was still in the cow.”
I felt I couldn’t refuse, though the picture of that cream oozing down inside the udder last night did nothing to tempt me. I like to think of cream as divinely created in little half-pint cartons. “Thanks,” I said. I took the cup from her and propped myself on a stool. “I need your help,” I said.
“Yes, of course. What can I do?” She rested her hips against the counter and leaned forward, as if her concern for my problem was drawing her toward me. “I feel guilty having slept all day while strangers worried about who killed Mitch. He was my husband.”
“Don’t. This is why you have professional investigators. All you need to do is keep yourself together, so when we do ask for your help you’re in shape to give it.”
She nodded slowly. “What is it you want from me?”
“You haven’t paid your employees this month.”
If she found that comment strange, she gave no indication. Twenty-four hours into a murder investigation, most witnesses have given up trying to differentiate strange questions from the merely obscure but necessary ones. Laura shook her head.
I said, “Frank Yankowski must need his money. I want you to give it to Earth Man.”
“And let you follow him? You want me to set him up, right?” It was the first flash of anger she’d shown.
Had she and Yankowski been lovers? The question had arisen before. But a lover should have been frightened rather than angry. Was she protecting a lover, or just reacting to being used?
She wrapped both hands around her coffee mug. “I can’t do that.”
“This is your husband’s murder we’re working on.”
“Frank didn’t kill him.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know Frank.”
“How well?”
“What? Are you suggesting … ?” Her mouth quivered, then set into a hard line. “I don’t like that inference. My husband hasn’t been dead twenty-four hours and you’re accusing me of infidelity.”
I didn’t respond. Let her answer my question.
But she didn’t. What she said was, “You’re assuming Earth Man knows where Frank is.”
I nodded.
“But suppose he doesn’t know? Six hundred dollars is a lot of money to Earth Man. It’s unfair to tempt him like that.”
“In most cases it would be unfair, and foolish. But Earth Man has his own set of ethics. He’s not going
to steal from a friend.”
“You’re asking me to betray his friendship.”
“Only if Yankowski killed Mitch. If he’s innocent, there’s nothing to betray.”
She stared down into the coffee as she sloshed it slowly around the sides of the cup. In the harsh white kitchen, the light showed up the myriad fine lines around her eyes. “Can you guarantee I’ll be reimbursed if it never gets to Frank?”
I restrained a smile. Ah, ethics versus economics.
“Give him two hundred, and if he skips the department will make good.”
She took a long drink of coffee, thinking. I wondered whether she was considering how to alert Yankowski. There were phones up here in the office and the bedroom. Downstairs the only one was at the front desk, behind that Plasticine-covered strip of twinkling lights.
She set down the cup with a thump and—resistance clear in every leaden step—walked into the office and unlocked the safe, and counted out two hundred dollars. Pereira stared blankly as if dazzled by a sleight-of-hand act, but Laura Biekma seemed to have forgotten she was there. Putting the money in an envelope, she said, “I’d better fix Earth Man something to eat up here. I don’t think there’s any food downstairs.”
“Make a sandwich he can carry with him, so he doesn’t have to hang around and return a plate.”
“Goose on black bread?”
“Fine.”
She cut two thick slices of ebon bread, spread them with a paste that resembled butter only in the broadest sense, laid on the meat and some greens I couldn’t name. The result looked like a sandwich that should have been consumed on the Left Bank with a bottle of champagne.
“Earth Man usually comes at eleven, right?” I asked as we walked down the stairs. Neither of us suggested that he might think Paradise would be closed tonight and there would be no handout. I wasn’t sure the possibility of closing would occur to him, and even if it did, I was willing to bet he’d decide the trip was worth the chance. Earth Man took comfort in the traditions he’d created, in occupying his spot at Sproul Plaza every day regardless of the weather, delivering his spiel regardless of the reception. Dinner here was a tradition he wouldn’t let go of easily.
