Angel With a Bullet

by M. C. Grant

  I dial.

  “Stellar Galleries, Casper Blymouth speaking.”

  The nasally voice is familiar, and I instantly have a mental picture of the annoying little man who wanted to remove the blood painting from Diego’s apartment before it even had time to dry.

  “Is Mr. Stellar available?” I ask, using my most polished voice. No, not the phone-sex one.

  “He is presently having lunch at the Hyatt. May I take a message?”

  He emphasizes Hyatt, just to let me know that if I can’t afford to eat there, I am wasting his time.

  “No, that’s all right. I was planning to stop by. Do you know what time he’ll be returning?”

  “Two o’clock. Can I leave your name?”

  “Just tell him Dixie called.”

  He sniffs as if the plainness of the name annoys him and then hangs up without a goodbye.

  I stretch my arms above my head, feeling a vertebra in my spine pop back into place, and rub my ear. I’ve never liked the phone, and I have a bad habit of holding it too tight. But in this economy, the paper frowns on taxi fares to a dozen galleries for background into a story based on a hunch.

  I glance over at the sunlight trying to squeeze through the cracks of the closed blinds and sigh. The SPF 15 in my daily moisturizer isn’t doing me any good if I’m stuck indoors.

  I still have one more call to make.

  The Hall of Justice line goes dead twice during call transfers before I finally connect with Frank.

  “Homicide. Fury here.”

  “Do you know that if you added a second r to your name, you would be Detective Sergeant Furry?”

  “You’re like one of those stray dogs, Dix. The kind that never goes away.”

  “Shouldn’t have fed me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “It must have been the ear rubs, then.”

  “How would you like to play a game of catch off the Golden Gate?”

  “Cruel, Frank. Very cruel.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Greek food, but I hate to eat alone.”

  “Fine. One condition.”

  “I’m not bringing my mother.”

  Frank sighs. “We don’t talk about the stiff.”

  “What stiff?”

  Frank sighs again. “I mean it, Dix. I’ve had it up to here with paperwork on that headless …” He mumbles to himself but doesn’t finish the thought.

  “Is the autopsy done?”

  “No and don’t bother interrogating me right now either. I’m still in the middle of transferring the file over to Northern. Their chief has been on my ass all day, you’d think he didn’t have anything better to do.”

  “When is the autopsy planned?”

  “Possibly later today, or maybe tonight, or maybe never. Nobody’s exactly screaming for it.”

  “If you attend, are you allowed to bring a date?”

  “Jesus, Dix.”

  “Come on. I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

  “Right now you’re the only one.”

  “Way I like it.”

  A rumble enters Frank’s voice that can almost be mistaken for a chuckle. “See you at lunch and remember what I said.”

  “We’re playing catch after?”

  Frank hangs up. Noisily.

  Seven

  After slipping into my coat, I stop at the paper’s morgue to convince the lone librarian that I need clipping files on Chino and Adamsky.

  “When do you need them?” Lulu Lovejoy’s lips form into a quivering kiss as she sucks the end of a yellow pencil.

  “This afternoon will be fine.”

  “Will you come back for it, or do you want me to …” Lulu works the dramatic pause by pushing her shoulders back and crossing her legs, flashing more meaty thigh than is appropriate for a bordello, never mind a morgue, “deliver?”

  I shake my head, trying not to laugh.

  “You know, Lulu, since the operation, every word out of your mouth sounds like a come-on. It was bad enough when you were—”

  “I’m a very sexual person, Dixie.”

  “Sexual I get, but it’s like you’re a hormonal hand grenade ready to explode.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  I grimace. “I don’t normally do this—in fact, it goes against my core beliefs—but have you ever considered porn?”

  Her eyes open wide, curious.

  “You know, like acting in …” My awkwardness is palpable as I attempt to stop my flushed cheeks from catching on fire. “It might give you the relief you’re after until, well—”

  “Know anyone?” she asks.

  “No! I—I mean, how would I? Ch—check the classifieds. There must be a union office or casting agency. Hell, you’re the librarian. If anyone can find …”

  Lulu laughs and flattens her skirt.

  “You’re so cute.”

  “No,” I blurt. “Really, I’m not.”

  “You want me to leave the files on your desk?”

  “Yes. I would appreciate that.”

  “Mmmm,” she moans. “How much?”

  “Oh, jeez,” I groan. “I’m outta here!”

  _____

  I run down the three flights of stairs and burst outside before the sizzle of lamb souvlaki and aroma of lemon-infused potato forces me to detour. I don’t slow down until I’m a block away with my nasal passages clogged with fresh traffic fumes.

  Union Street is only six blocks away, and the sun has yet to rise high enough to make the walk unbearable. That’s one of the troubles of being a redhead. I hate to be indoors, but my fair complexion leaves few alternatives.

  Just as some women always know the location of the nearest washroom, I tend to plot where to find the next patch of cool shade. In the middle of summer, I scurry from shadow to shadow like a leper hiding her face while the beautiful bronzed people soak in the sun, sacrificing their skin in the hope Mattel will one day immortalize them in plastic.

  Lately, I’ve found the shadows becoming more crowded as the ozone/cancer scare sinks in. It’s nice to have the company, but sometimes I wish the reformed sun worshippers would leave the cool places to those of us who don’t have a choice.

  One of the joys of walking in the morning is the chance to watch the illusive wisps of ethereal mist that still huddle deep in the alleys. Like vampires, each tendril shrinks away from the encroaching sun, entwining with others of its kind to dance and brush lips.

  Sometimes, I feel their vaporous arms challenging me to run down the silver-streaked alleyways and join them. But each time I get up the nerve to become a child, stretching my arms wide like an airplane and readying my lips to make propeller noises, they dissipate. In their place, solid forms twitch and stumble, unfocused eyes glistening within pale, skeletal masks, and the road’s shiny shards of silver become broken pieces of glass.

  San Francisco does that to you. It loves to tease, taunt, and flirt. If you listen close, you can hear a snicker as it forces your collar to rise against its frigid breath, then, as though forgiven, it lifts the haze and allows the sun to shine.

  Of course, I could just be crazy. The city does that to you too.

  In daylight, the building that houses Diego Chino’s condo looks no different. It is still trendy and unsettlingly expensive.

  I enter through the first set of glass doors in the lobby and press the buzzer for Mrs. M. Stewart, one of the ground floor tenants. Unlike last night, the inner set of doors is locked.

  “Hello?” a woman’s singsong voice calls out from the tiny wall speaker. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Dixie Flynn of the NOW. I’ve come about the shooting upstairs.”

  “Oh, come in.” The woman’s lilting brogue is either Iri
sh or Scottish; if she has joined the American melting pot, she made sure to stick to the edges.

  The buzzer sounds, and I push open the second set of doors. A short distance from the elegant staircase, a petite woman dressed in purple from head to toe smiles out at me. I estimate by the wrinkles in her neck that she is in her seventies, but with her gray hair perfectly coiffed and the cut of her suit giving her a lovely figure, she appears ageless.

  “Oh, my,” says Mrs. Stewart, “what lovely hair you have, dear. Are you no Scottish yerself?”

  I laugh. “It’s been a few generations.”

  “Aye, I thought so. You can’t hide a Scot. Spot them a mile away. Two if I have my glasses on.”

  I laugh again. “I hope I’m not catching you on the way out, but I was wondering if I might ask a few questions?”

  “I was just trying this on.” She smooths the suit and reaches up to play with a large pearl and diamond bauble in her left ear that could likely pay my rent for the year. Her eyes twinkle, and she lowers her voice conspiratorially. “My son has a big function coming up at his law office and wants me to look the part. This is a Donna Karan, do yeh know her?”

  I take the question to be rhetorical, but nod anyway.

  “To be honest,” she continues, “I’m more comfortable in housecoat and slippers, but if you look like the cleaning lady they try and lock you in a home and take away your money and the remote for the TV. As though being relaxed is the same as being addled.”

  I don’t know what to say. Fortunately, I don’t have to say anything.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in, come in. What do you take in your tea? I’m brewing up.”

  Before I can reply, Mrs. Stewart is striding down the short hallway to the kitchen. I close the door and follow.

  The apartment is half the size of Diego’s, but more elegant with polished cherry hardwood floors, antique European furniture, and crystal fixtures that cast tiny rainbows on the walls and ceiling.

  I stop at the kitchen doorway and watch Mrs. Stewart scuttle from one side of the room to the other, humming contentedly. When she spots me, she waves toward the living room.

  “Sit doon, sit doon,” she says. “I’ll get some biscuits. And don’t you fret about the furniture, a chair is just a chair no matter where it came from or what it cost.”

  The living room would have been large if not so crowded. An antique couch and two high-backed armchairs are covered in tartan shawls, and every flat surface is overflowing with knickknacks: tiny china teapots decorated with British town crests; a collection of clay animals with curled, ram-like horns and trumpet-shaped snouts with MacHaggis written on tiny brass plaques; an assortment of thimbles and spoons; a collection of well-used pipes in a wooden rack, the smell of tobacco still faint on their bowls; sets of silver coins bearing scenes of royal weddings; a framed Elvis stamp; and a waist-high bookcase packed with large-print paperbacks by Martina Cole, Ian Rankin, Stuart MacBride, Ken Follett, and Val McDermid. Sitting on top of the bookcase is a white porcelain bust of a man with unruly muttonchops.

  Despite her wealth, it seems Mrs. Stewart loves to be tacky. It reminds me of something my father often said about my mother: “You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but not the trailer park out of the girl.”

  Of course, this was usually said just before he was banished to the couch for the night.

  “Do you like Rabbie?” Mrs. Stewart asks as she clears a space on the coffee table to set down a wooden tray. On the tray is a stoneware teapot, two large mugs, a bowl of sugar, a little container of milk, and a plate of chocolate-covered cookies.

  “Rabbie?” I ask.

  “You were just admiring him.” She indicates the porcelain bust. “Rabbie Burns. He’s a grand poet. Bit of a lad, they say, but better that than a poofter like most of the English lot.”

  I smile across at her, not sure what she is talking about, as she busily fusses with the teapot to make sure everything is just right. Her bony hands look frail, the skin paper thin, and yet she moves around without a hint of arthritic pain. I wonder what her secret is.

  She pours the tea.

  “Bet you drive the lads wild with that hair of yours, don’t you?” She chuckles. “When I was a lass, my hair was nearly as bright, like the sun it was. Oh, the boys used to fight over me something rotten.” She giggles. “I was thinking I should dye it again. Redheads really shouldn’t go gray, should we?”

  I shake my head, which makes her smile.

  “Right, that’s settled. I’ll make an appointment and get it done before my son’s big do. Won’t he be shocked? Now, how do you take your tea?”

  “Just cream, thanks, Mrs. Stewart.”

  “Och, call me Millie.”

  I sip the tea, smile gratefully, and accept a chocolate cookie. I notice Millie doesn’t take one herself. I dunk the cookie into my tea, lick the melted chocolate off the crispy base, and then pop the whole thing into my mouth. Delicious.

  I accept another one.

  Millie smiles, sipping her own tea, as she watches me.

  After a few sips, she says, “Now, what do you want to ask me about?”

  “Diego Chino.”

  Her eyes turn sad. “Such a nice young man,” she says softly. “And talented too. He can’t have been much older than you, dear. Such a waste.”

  “Did you notice if he had any visitors last night?”

  “No, I was watching ma shows on the TV. The Mystery channel has been showing some great reruns lately: Wire in the Blood with Robson Green, that scruffy Inspector Rebus, and Inspectors Morse and Frost, of course. Do you like them?”

  “I don’t watch much TV anymore. Had my fill when I was younger.”

  “Och, they say it’ll rot your brain, but I love a good mystery. Coronation Street, too, though it’s English. But it’s the North, so that’s OK. You watch Corrie?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s very good,” she continues. “My son says I’m addicted, but that’s ridiculous. A week just wouldn’t be complete without ma shows.”

  “But you heard the gunshot?” I ask in an attempt to get back on track.

  “Aye, I did. There I was in front of the TV, feet up, wee cup of tea, enjoying myself, like you do, when I heard this awful clatter upstairs. It was as if the four horsemen had arrived and discovered no beer in the fridge. Well, I thought to myself that was odd since it’s normally very quiet here. And then,” she claps her hands together, “Bang! Well, I’ve watched enough police shows to know a gun when I hear one. I have that surround-sound thingy on my TV, you know? The woofs and tweets. My son set it up. He’s very clever that way, not like his father at all, rest his soul. If it wasn’t about trains, he wasn’t interested—”

  “You called the police?” I say.

  “Oh, yes. Talked to this nice woman, very efficient but already divorced, which surprised me because she was very pleasant and has a good job there. Anyways, I told her what I heard, and she said she would send somebody right over. Well, these two nice big policeboys arrived, looking very smart in their uniforms, and went about investigating. I keep keys for everyone since I don’t go out much, so I let them in. And oh my, I didn’t linger when I caught a peek of the mess inside.”

  I press on. “And you didn’t notice if Mr. Chino seemed depressed or angry over the last few days?”

  “No, he seemed his usual self. Quiet, you know? I don’t think he had many friends, poor dear. I kept inviting him for tea, but he was always working on a painting.”

  I wasn’t getting anywhere. “Would you mind if I looked at the apartment?”

  Millie wrinkles her nose. “It’s an awful tip up there …”

  “That’s OK,” I assure her. “I was here with the police last night.”

  She nods. “Let me get ma key.” />
  _____

  At the door to Diego’s apartment, Millie hands over the key.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, “but it’s too sad to look at. Would you just lock up when you’re through? I’ll go down and refill the kettle.”

  I nod, feeling a twinge inside as Millie wipes a tear from her powdered cheek before retreating.

  With no crime scene tape or other official encumbrance to bar the way, I unlock the apartment and enter.

  The smell of death is strong; air, musty and stale, warmed by sunlight streaming through the large picture windows. If Diego had ever felt like catching a movie, all he had to do was take a few steps to the window and read the Metro’s marquee across the street to discover what was playing.

  The apartment is empty—eerily so. No paintings or partially finished canvasses; no television or radio; no dining room table or even a comfortable couch. The only pieces of furniture are an antique armchair with Queen Anne legs and oak arms, plus a matching coffee table that appears too delicate to be of much use.

  It’s a home made for a ghost to glide through, and the thought sends a shiver down my spine. I glance over at the blood-spattered wall with its ominous clean rectangle where the canvas had blocked the spray and will myself to ignore the movement of shadow in the play of light.

  I pace the room, aware of every footfall, trying to get a feel for the hollow space. Suicide? Murder? I can’t help but think of the last moment’s of Diego’s life in this room. Was he afraid? If so, was he afraid of someone?

  If Diego, or his ghost, popped out now to shout “Boo,” I expect the whole city would be deafened by my scream.

  Repressing my unhelpful imagination, I focus on the search for clues to the story behind Diego’s death and find a small tin case in one of the corners, abandoned and forgotten. I pry it open with a thumbnail to find eight tiny tubes of used earth-tone oils and a thin sable brush, its tip hardened into a stiff point from years of use. It’s the kind of beginner’s paint set that one buys for a child.

  For a reason I can’t explain, I close the lid again and slip the tin into my pocket.