by Smith, Julie
Judging from what followed, Roxanne hadn’t heard yet. But from Chris’s sudden alertness, I knew we’d hit pay dirt. Yet when she finally hung up she hollered a loud and heartfelt, “Shit!”
“What is it?”
“You’re not going to believe this. It’s way too labyrinthine. You’re just not gonna believe it.” Long pause. “I don’t know where to start.”
Kruzick said, “The bottom line, as you Yanks so crudely put it, would be ever so appropriate, Mum.”
“She left the keys in McKendrick’s car.”
“Shit!” Kruzick and I spoke together and then fell silent, staring into space.
Finally, I said, “I think the shock’s worn off. You can hit us with the rest of it.”
She drummed her desk again, something I’d never see her do before— an ugly habit, usually, but on Chris it looked good. She’d painted her nails a fetching Chinese red, and she was wearing a long-sleeved cream silk blouse. The long, long fingers, backed by silk-swathed wrists, tipped with red, were as elegant, even in her impatience, as a musical instrument.
“Roxanne’s … how to say this … well, she’s probably carrying about fifty more pounds than she’d like to be. She wears glasses; she’s short; and she’s shy. Now does she sound like a Jason McKendrick woman or what?”
“One kind, anyway.”
“What a weird dude. I’m not kidding, it’s a crime what he did to that girl. She wasn’t making it as a freelance editor, so about three months ago she went down to the Chronicle and applied for a job.”
“Don’t tell me.” Kruzick was rolling his eyes. “She met him in the elevator.”
“How’d you know that?”
“All the best lives are ruined that way. It’s something about the motion.” He wrinkled his nose. “And the slipping standards, of course. One day the Orient Express, the next elevators.”
“Anyway, she was bowled over, she couldn’t believe the likes of him could possibly be interested in her, and one day they left her house for a drink— at her insistence, after she’d been screwing him for about a month— and then she didn’t hear from him for about a week and a half. Finally, he called and asked her if she’d dropped any keys in his car. Well, she didn’t realize she had mine, so she said no, but she’d missed him and could they get together soon. So he dropped the news that he thought the relationship ‘wasn’t really going anywhere….’”
“Men are swine,” sniffed Kruzick.
“Anyway, she fell into a decline, and things began to get more and more desperate with her work situation. Meanwhile she actually got the Chronicle job she’d applied for, but she couldn’t face McKendrick every day. Can you imagine? That poor girl.
“So finally she decided there wasn’t anything left to do but go home to Virginia for a while and maybe try to find a job in Richmond or someplace like that. Anyhow, on just about the last day, she’d decided to treat herself to a movie all by herself, but the theater was in a neighborhood she wasn’t crazy about, so she was putting money and things in a belly pack when this little heart fell out of her purse— a piece of the key ring I kept my extra keys on, and she realized she must have had my keys somewhere in her purse. When she couldn’t find them, she knew she must have dropped them in McKendrick’s car. So she decided to call him to tell him he had to send them to me and also give him a piece of her mind, kind of let him know what he put her through.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, he was very cold and said he could certainly understand her position, or, as she put it, ‘my fucking position,’ and he was sorry things had worked out that way. And he took down my name and address.”
“Eureka!” I shouted.
Kruzick said, “So how was the movie?”
We looked at him blankly.
“I mean, was she late because of the phone call, or did she bag it, or what?”
We ignored him.
I said, “It’s over, do you realize that? Now we know why he had your name and address, and we know who had access to your car key.”
“Yeah. The victim.”
“How long was it between the time Roxanne said they weren’t hers and the time she gave him your name?”
“I don’t know. I had the impression it was a week, at least. Roxanne had to pack up to move, after all.”
“Well, he could have done anything with them in the meantime. My guess is he did one of two things. Maybe he took them over to some woman’s house— or even some other friend’s house— thinking that person was the one who left them in his car. Then he later phoned to say they belonged to you and gave that person— henceforth known as the murderer— your name and address to mail them back. If she happened to be a woman scorned— especially recently scorned— she might have hatched a plan then and there. All she had to do was watch you and steal your car. Maybe she didn’t mean to implicate you at all. Maybe she meant to sit in front of McKendrick’s house until he came home, cream him, and then abandon the car wherever— no! She always meant to take it back to where you’d left it, because she had to park her own car there to save the space. So she must have known he’d be coming home when he was— but that would be easy enough. He was pals with most of his old girlfriends. She could just have asked him.”
“What’s the other thing he might have done?”
“Well, he might have left the keys in his glove box, and somebody who rode in his car picked them up for some reason— maybe just playing around— ‘Hey, Jase, can I have the key to your heart?’— who knows? And then later he phoned to say they were Chris’s.”
“Awfully damn responsible of him.”
“Well, he was a complicated man.”
“Right,” said Kruzick. “He breaks a woman’s heart and then to compensate, he has to take care of the little things like this, even gets obsessive about it. Maybe a little crazy.”
I confess I turned and stared, openmouthed, never having imagined him capable of such insight.
“What?” He shrugged. “It’s what I’d do.”
Chris ignored us both, her mind on something else. “She said he had a brother.”
“Who?”
“Jason. Did you know that?”
“Only the sister came to the wake.”
“I know, that’s why it’s odd. She said, ‘I wish he was gay like his brother.’ That was before I told her he was dead. Apparently, she thought he was a menace. But then she was desperately in love again once she found out he was permanently unavailable.”
“Ah, the human condition— don’t you love it?” Kruzick got up to answer a ringing phone. “Rebecca, it’s a Dr. Suzawa.”
The surgeon, which meant bad news. The pathologist had called to tell him the worst. I knew this because he’d said I was to call to get the results. There was only one reason he’d call me.
“Hi there, how’re you doing?”
“Fine, thanks.” My throat was closing, but I got the words out. How could a man on such a mission ask a question like that? Surely Miss Manners would throw up her hands in horror.
“Well, I just thought you’d want to know. The biopsy was negative.”
“But … you told me to call you.”
“I always like to deliver good news.”
A saint. A saint and an MD— not a natural combination.
“Wheeeeee! Drinks on the house!” I raced through the office like a madwoman. “In fact, let’s all go out to dinner tonight. My treat. No, forget that— we can talk about the case and charge it to the office. Alan, get Mickey. And I’ll ask Rob too. Yes, by all means.”
Chris said, “Rebecca, you’re babbling.”
And Kruzick said, one hand on the phone, “What shall I tell Madame is the great occasion?”
“My biopsy was negative!”
His brow wrinkled. “What biopsy?”
But Chris came out to the reception area, shouting, “Hot damn!” and began to polka me around the office. And for three days after that Kruzick was on his best behavior, ha
ving gotten a taste of what it’s like to share an office with lunatics.
Having hardly worked in a week, I figured now wasn’t the time to start. I took the rest of the day off, dropping first by the Hall of Justice to give Martinez and Curry the glad tidings.
That is, I intended to take the rest of the day off. They kept me there, going over and over the story, calling Chris in, calling Roxanne in Virginia, carrying on as if we had nothing better to do than help them beat a dead horse.
That night at dinner Rob didn’t seem half as thrilled about our hot new evidence as we were. There’s not a doubt in my mind he wanted Chris cleared, but it didn’t do much for his story.
But I was happy and Chris was happy— we both had plenty to celebrate. Mickey and Alan were ecstatic— they were getting a free meal at the Bravo Caffé. We all wanted Rob to be happy. So I made sure his wineglass was always full, and I gave him lots of attention and smiles. To be perfectly honest, I flirted with him, a somewhat dishonest proposition under the circumstances. If I hadn’t had a glass or two myself I might have felt guiltier; as it was, I merely noticed it worked. He got into the spirit, and the five of us celebrated like guests at a Mafia wedding. Nothing was too trivial to laugh at; nothing too expensive to order.
I remembered a million other evenings like this— with Rob and me and Chris, sometimes with one of her boyfriends, or Mickey and Rob and me, with or without Kruzick— or the five of us together.
I remembered what I liked about Rob— his social ease, his cleverness, the way he could be so much fun when he hadn’t disappeared for days on some story he’d forgotten to mention. I was starting to think that maybe, after all, Julio had reason to be jealous. I was so overcome with nostalgia and good feeling that I invited them all to my place for coffee.
We were laughing and probably talking way too loud— paying no attention to anything except our own good mood— and we had just begun the ascent to my apartment on Green Street, when we heard the first shot. Almost as quickly, there was another. We could have jumped into a doorway if there’d been one, but there was nothing, no cover at all, in this section of the block, and now we heard clatter, footsteps behind us.
Like a herd of cattle, we began to stampede— all five at once, as if at a silent signal, simply took off hell bent for leather.
“Shit!” Rob yelled behind me, and I looked back, saw him grasp his arm, and knew he was hit. Another second later we were all cowering in the overhang of my front door. There was no one behind us, and there were no more shots, though people were poking heads out of windows, even stepping outdoors, gathering to see what had happened. Not wanting to talk, I fumbled for my key and let us in.
“Rob, let’s see.”
“Winged my wing.” He held up his right arm, showing a bullet hole in his jacket sleeve.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not yet. I must be in shock.”
Quickly, before the pain started, he wrestled the jacket off, revealing one pristine arm, not so much as a wrist hair disturbed.
“Holy shit,” said Mickey, and Rob, speechless for once, started to laugh. The rest of us caught it, and it was five minutes before we could climb the stairs to my apartment.
The shots meant another bout with Curry and Martinez, but there was no help for it. Instead of coffee, we had cognac, knowing the cops wouldn’t be thrilled about it, but feeling an unaccustomed, un-nineties need for a stiff belt.
And as soon as Rob had fortified himself, he phoned in a little story, prompting Mickey to call our parents, knowing they’d get overexcited if they read it in the paper.
It was late before the dreaded detective duo had raked us over the coals and left. Mickey, Alan, and Chris left in a cluster, but Rob couldn’t seem to make up his mind to go.
When I hinted, he said, “Rebecca. Someone tried to kill me.” His voice was full of wonder.
We didn’t know that, really— they could have been trying for any of us— but there was no denying he was the one they’d nearly gotten. I opened my arms to him, and we hugged for a long time. We kissed a little as well, but after a moment I resisted, and in time, he left, though I offered him the couch.
I thought, as I watched him go, that I’d never seen him look so sad. But his life was the one he had chosen, a life alone, a life of adventure yet no real closeness, and I couldn’t change that.
When I was in bed, tears, seemingly from nowhere, trailed down my cheeks. I wanted to call Julio, but it was too late, and anyway, what would I say? “My biopsy’s negative, but I got shot at”? It might not be the easiest thing to relate to, since I’d never gotten up the nerve to mention The Thing.
Even in my tears, I could have kicked myself. How could a person who couldn’t tell her own boyfriend about a breast lump judge someone else’s choice for aloneness?
Chapter Seventeen
It’s funny how a few hours’ sleep can turn a grim world downright hospitable. That and the sun, I suppose. And maybe cheerful genes. I woke eager to get back to my regular schedule, more or less convinced we’d been set upon by a random lunatic, which I suppose made me a candidate for one myself.
I breezed into the office and buried myself under a pile of paper, hardly wincing when the phone snapped me out of it. Kruzick answered and reported, “It’s some guy says he’s a friend of Rosalie.”
“Rosalie?”
“That’s what I thought. I’ll get rid of him.”
And then I remembered: Rosalie from Raiders of the Lost Art. One of Chris’s psychic friends.
I sighed. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him.”
“He said you would.”
“He ought to know. I’m pretty sure he’s psychic.”
And then a beautiful voice came on the line, a male voice, slightly accented, mellifluous, I thought. Although I was unsure of the meaning; it just sounded right. “Rebecca, it’s Maurizio.”
With a great effort, I managed not to sigh again. “Rosalie’s friend.”
“Well, not just that. We do readings for each other.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mmm. Well. Your partner Chris— she got a vibe about me.”
“Okay.” I had no idea where he was going with this. “How does she even know about you?”
“Psychics share readings. I’m sure she shared about me in the group. Once when they did that racetrack thing… you know, when they were trying to predict winners? Well, it can’t be done. We found that out. But I sat in with them sometimes when they were trying. I mean not literally— I’d always just be on the phone. I live in Atlanta.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, Chris kept thinking there was something I had, some piece of information, that she needed and she asked Rosalie to ask me if her name meant anything, or yours. Well, yours did.”
“Which you determined how?”
“Oh, I saw green when she said your name. How’s that for a metaphor? I always see green if it’s important.”
“As in green for…”I wracked my brain “…uh…growth?”
He laughed. “No, dope. Go. Like a traffic light.”
It was weird, but I liked the way he felt free to call me a dope—like we were friends. Damn, he had a great voice.
“Well, anyway, she told me about Chris’s case, how you’re her partner and her lawyer and everything. If she’d done that first, we could have dispensed with the psychic part. Just on that alone I’d have been damn sure I’ve got something you need.”
“Could I…um…ask what you’re talking about?”
“Does the name Michael McKendrick mean anything to you?”
“McKendrick? As in Jason McKendrick?”
“Michael’s his brother. And my ex-boyfriend.”
“Oh. Was he here when Jason died? I don’t remember meeting him.”
“No, and he was horribly broken up about it. You see, Michael’s a hugely talented but wildly unlucky musician— well, actually I’ve done his chart (I’m an astrologer too), and there’s nothing surprising abo
ut that. But anyway he’s just passed his Saturn return. Things should improve for him soon. Anyway, for once Michael had a gig. I mean a whole week of pretty good gigs— a little tour arranged six months before— and if things had been going better, I know he’d have been the first one there.” He sighed again. “Poor, poor baby. He just didn’t think he could do it. And he’s destroyed. He’s been absolutely wrecked ever since.”
“He and Jason were close?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly. You have to let Michael tell you. He needs this. I’m telling you; he needs it desperately.”
“He needs what?”
“To talk to you. To clear this thing up.”
“Hold it. You’re saying Michael knows who killed Jason?”
“Of course not. He’d have gone to the police if he did. Common sense would tell you that. Look. Here’s the thing. You need to see him. It’s in the cards. I read for you.”
“I thought you said Michael needed this. Who needs whom here?”
“You need each other. It’s a match made in heaven, Sunshine. Can you get a plane out today?”
“I’m a little overwhelmed, to tell you the truth. Could you tell me exactly what the cards said?”
“They said Michael was going to be very important in your life.”
Oh, no. Shades of the Cosmic Blind Date.
“But only briefly. You only have one thing to do together, as far as I can tell.”
“Did you say you used to date Michael?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He’s gay then?”
“Completely.”
“Not bisexual?”
Maurizio burst out laughing. “Believe me, it wasn’t that kind of reading. Michael would rather die.”
“Well, look, have you talked to Michael at all? Will he see me?”
“Michael’s out of town right now, but of course he’ll see you. You don’t think he’d let you come all this way for nothing, do you?”
Sure I did. It was the most harebrained scheme I ever heard in my life. “Well, look, Maurizio, I’ll think about it.”
“Talk to Chris about it.”
