“To talk with Greg Marcus. I have an idea that may help him identify the sniper.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Greg said, “Damn, you may have something there.”
I reached for the cup of coffee I’d set on the edge of his desk and waited for him to go on.
After a moment he added, “The motive might sound farfetched, but I’ve encountered stranger ones. Let’s hear your theory on who’s responsible.”
I replaced the cup and began enumerating items on my fingers. “First, I assume we’re in agreement that we’re dealing with a seriously deranged individual.”
He nodded.
“Second, given the length of time that’s elapsed, there has to have been some event that triggered the shooting spree.”
“I’m not sure that’s a given. Sometimes people brood for years—decades, even—and then just tip over the edge.”
“But usually with a nudge from some event or situation—however minor.”
“I’ll agree with that if you stress the minor.”
“All right.” I got up and began to pace about the cubicle, allowing the regular motion to lend order to my thoughts. “Let’s assume the person is a man. He’s disturbed. He’s probably a Vietnam vet.”
“Not necessarily; two of his victims weren’t, but they were still in Cam Ranh at the same time he was.”
“For the sake of this particular argument, let’s assume he is. Suppose he’s been receiving psychiatric treatment as an outpatient. Where would he go in this area?”
“Letterman.”
“Where Mary Johnson Davis worked in psychiatric counseling before she went to Children’s Hospital. And where John Owens probably received medical care for his disability.”
Greg nodded. “So our perp is at Letterman and he runs into Davis. Maybe she’s even the counselor assigned to his case. Whatever the circumstances, that’s the nudge.”
“And he also spots Owens. Now he knows they’re both living in San Francisco. From then on it’s easy to stalk them, learn their habits, wait for the right moment.”
“That’s fine. And I can see why he would have been able to locate Hank and Willie—but what about Hilderly?”
“Hilderly was Hank’s friend. They met for drinks fairly frequently."
“And Bob Smith?”
I sat down again. “Smith’s the one who didn’t seem to fit the pattern originally, and at first glance he doesn’t fit this one too well, either. But that pizza restaurant where he worked when he died is only a couple of blocks form Willie’s store, and I looked in there on the way over here. It’s the kind where the kitchen is only separated from the dining area by a counter; you can watch the people preparing the food. Our man’s coming across Smith could have been circumstantial. If it happened after he saw Davis and Owens at Letterman, he might have been on the alert for familiar faces.”
“But why go after Smith before the others, in that case?”
I shrugged. “Opportunity. Smith was a loner, easier to stalk.”
“Okay.” Greg leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin, eyes trained on a point above my head. Once again I waited.
Finally he said, “The time lapsed bothers me. I know we’ve said Davis or Owens, or the combination thereof, pushed him over the edge, but surely in twenty years there would have been other nudges. Why didn’t he go after his victims long ago?”
“I’ve thought about that. There’s an additional factor—and fortunately, it’s one that might speed an identification. I think he might have been in a mental institution most of that time. Perhaps he’d only recently been released.”
“Good point.” Greg’s gaze remained focused on the distance as he considered. “What we’ve got here,” he said, “is a lot of conjecture, if you want to know the truth. But it’s better than any lead I’ve developed. And obviously the place to start investigating is at Letterman. As it happens, I’ve an acquaintance in the CID at the Presidio who will expedite requests for information.” He reached for his Rolodex and thumbed through it.
I asked, “Do you still have a man on Willie’s house?
“No. We’re so damned understaffed. But I’ll try to get one back on, plus another on Hank.”
“I don’t think you need to worry too much about Willie; he told me he was going home and not coming out until it was all over. And I’ll take care of Hank, at least for tonight.”
“You sure you want the responsibility?”
“I don’t mind. It’s calculated risk. The sniper’s pattern has been to fire when the victim’s alone. Even when he shot at Willie, Rae was way down by the corner.”
“Well, be careful. I don’t want to lose either of you.”
“You won’t.”
Greg picked up the phone receiver and punched out a number. “Busy, dammit!”
I stood and shrugged into my jacket. “I’d better get over to All Souls.”
“I’ll phone you there when I have something.” Greg came around the desk and walked me to the door of his cubicle. Then he paused, his hand on the knob. “And Sharon—thanks for your cooperation. The chief’s been on my case since Willie was shot at, as the mayor’s office has been on his. This comes at a time when nailing the sniper could make my career—and failing could break it.”
I looked up at his face, somber in the neon light that glared down from the ceiling fixtures. “How so?”
“A captaincy is opening up—Narcotics. I’m the major contender for it.”
“Greg! Congratulations!”
His answering smile was wistful, and I knew why. The captaincy was a desk job, one in which he would juggle paper, policy and politics. There would be no actual field investigations, no more satisfaction of personally piecing together a solid case against a perpetrator. And yet, it was time . . .
“You want the promotion, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Yes and no. But I know it’s the only logical step. And I’m tired, Sharon. I’m tired of being called out in the middle of the night to crime scenes. I’m sick and tired of violent death. And I’m sick of dealing with scum, of being reminded at every turn how vile people can be.”
“You think you won’t be in Narcotics?”
“Maybe I just need another brand of vileness.” He paused, his lips quirking up mischievously. “Besides, my appointment will really piss off McFate. He was recently passed over for lieutenant.”
“In that case, I hope it comes through fast. And speaking of McFate . . .?”
“Probably over at the Intelligence Division again. He seems to prefer his cronies on the old detail to those on Homicide.” Greg glanced through the door. “Well, what a surprise. Maybe now I’ll actually get a report on the Grant case out of him.” He motioned to a desk on the far side of the squad room. A pearl-gray suit jacket was draped precisely over a silly-looking brass garment rack that was more appropriate for a bedroom, and I could see the back of McFate’s head.
“You know,” I said, “even though I need to talk with him, I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t be here.”
“I know how you feel. Good luck.”
I crossed the noisy, cluttered room, avoiding boxes of files, misplaced chairs, and even someone’s bowling bag. When I stopped next to McFate’s desk, he kept his eyes on the report in front of him. Moments later, he looked up expression going glacial when he saw me.
“Ms. McCone,” he said, “what may I do for you?”
McFate didn’t ask me to sit down, so I remained where I was. His gaze moved up and down my body, taking in my jeans, sweater, and suede jacket in a manner that stopped just short of being contemptuous. A slender needle of irritation pricked at me, but I adopted a businesslike tone.
“I have some information pertaining to the Grant case.” He smoothed his luxuriant brown mustache—surely it wasn’t real; could one purchase a fake, like a toupee?—with his index finger. “Yes?”
“I’ve found evidence that Grant’s real name may have been Andy Wrightman.”
�
��Evidence.”
“One of Perry Hilderly’s heirs mentioned the name when I described Grant to him.”
“Oh, I see—hard evidence.”
With an effort I kept my voice level. “It’s something you may want to look into. Wrightman was associated with Hilderly in the late sixties; he was a campus hanger-on at Cal, something of a hippie and a drifter—”
Now McFate smiled superiorly. “I can assure you that Thomas Grant was never a hippie or a drifter—quite the opposite. Frankly, I think you’re becoming obsessed with this Hilderly business.”
“And frankly, I think it’s logical that there might be a tie-in.”
“Ms. McCone, my background check on the victim was very thorough.”
“Would you care to share what you turned up?”
“No, I would not. I am not, as you put it, in the habit of sharing the details of my investigations with civilians. Nor do I care for any further input from you.”
I glared at him. McFate remained impassive. I said, “Do you plan to share the details of your investigation with Lieutenant Marcus? He mentioned to me a few minutes ago that he was hoping you’d brief him.”
McFate’s clef chin jutted out. “I intend to speak with him momentarily.” His impatient glance toward his superior’s office indicated that only my annoying presence was preventing him from doing so. He picked up the file, stood, and motioned at the way out of the squad room.
I remained in front of him, blocking his path. “You know, Leo,” I said, “it strikes me that the past of a man who practiced law the way Grant did can’t have been any to savory.”
McFate smiled thinly. “And that, Ms. McCone, shows exactly how much you know.” He brushed past me and moved toward Greg’s cubicle. Greg still stood in its doorway; apparently he’d been watching the entire exchange. As McFate entered and took a seat, Greg smiled at me and shrugged sympathetically.
Irresistible impulse overcame me; I made single-fingered gesture at the back of McFate’s well-barbered head. Snickers erupted from the desks around me. Greg rolled his eyes and went back into his office.
I left the squad room, oddly elated by my display of temper. I’d always been the good kid on the private investigators’ block: cooperative, professional, rarely antagonistic. But even good kids have their limits. I figured I was entitled to throw an occasional fit.
As I punched the Down button at the elevators, I wondered why I’d allowed Leo McFate to enrage me. The man was petty and mean-spirited; why couldn’t I just ignore him?
Because, I told myself as I brutalized the button some more, the man’s an asshole. When you’re dealing with someone who suffers from that altogether-too-prevalent malady, it’s very often catching.
I made two detours on my way to All Souls: first to pick up a pizza, so I wouldn’t have to sponge off the folks who lived there (and probably have to eat some god-awful health food), and then to my house to pick up my gun.
The strongbox where I keep my .38 is actually an ammunition box that my father pilfered from the navy years ago. The box sits on the floor of the linen closet in my bathroom, hardly an original hiding place, and one that it wouldn’t take a competent thief two minutes to find. However, its lock is a good one, and when I had my closet built while I was renovating the cottage, my clever contractor put a bold straight through the bottom of the box and into the floor joist. Any thief who wants to make off with it will have to take part of the cottage along, too.
I went into the bathroom, pushed aside a jumble of cleaning supplies, and flattened myself on the floor so I could work the lock. I hadn’t had the .38 out in so long that it lay beneath the velvet pouch containing my grandmother’s garnet earrings that I’d last worn on New Year’s Eve. The sight of them gave me a flash of bittersweet nostalgia. I’d met George Kostakos on December 30; he’d called me for the first time at a few minutes after midnight on New Year’s.
So much had happened since then: we’d come so close, only to move apart. George had said he cared deeply for me, that when his estranged wife’s mental condition stabilized he’s come back and see if I’d still have him. But months had passed, and I’d heard nothing; now I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. Maybe it was better to go through life alone, protected form its hurts and disappointments. Maybe people who only indulged in casual, short-term relationships were the ones with the greatest chance of happiness.
But casual, short-term relationships had never worked for me. And I wasn’t sure that happiness was a reasonable goal, anyway. At times it seemed a myth—something an advertising agency had dreamed up to sell more toothpaste.
“Enough!” I said aloud. “You’ve got things to do,” I took out the gun, locked the box, and got up off the floor.
That was another thing: I found that I talked to myself more lately. People always talk to themselves, particularly those who live alone, but with me it was as if the sensible, self-sufficient side of my personality was trying to tell the other, vulnerable side to shape up. And I suspected that the sensible McCone was losing the debate.
Before I left the house I checked my answering machine in case Wolf had tried to reach me at home. The first message was from Jim Addison, sounding angry because I hadn’t returned his call. I fast-forwarded through it, unwilling to allow my uneasiness about his potential for violence to compound my tension about the sniper. The only other message was from my mother, complaining because I hadn’t called her last week. I should have, but I’d let it go because I really didn’t have anything to say. And now I couldn’t because Ma is very sensitive to undertones in my voice and would catch on quickly to the fact that things weren’t right. Then she would worm it out of me about the sniper and about my friends being in danger, and finally, because she was way down in San Diego and couldn’t have done anything to help even is she were right here, she’d worry. When Ma worries about one of her children, she calls the other four and tells them all about it, and soon she has a big McCone worryfest going. The only family member who doesn’t feed into it is my father; Pa just stays out in his garage workshop, playing the guitar and singing dirty folk songs in a voice loud enough—because he’s getting deaf—to scandalize the neighbors.
No, I decided, I can’t call Ma back until this whole thing is over.
At quarter past eleven Rae and I sat cross-legged on her brass bed playing what seemed like our thousandth game of gin rummy; we’d been at it since nine. Initially we’d discussed the sniping and the Hilderly case, but then we’d fallen silent. Now the only sounds were the slap of the cards, the distant bellow of foghorns, and small moan and sighs of contentment from the trunk under the dormer window, where Ralph and Alice curled together in luxurious sleep. Rae was baby-sitting then tonight, since Ted had gone to a memorial service for their former owner.
I had to admit how tranquilizing the presence of a sleeping cat could be. And Rae’s room—which she’d created herself at the rear of the Victorian’s unfinished attic, after she’d lived in her office for months and none of the regular rooms had become available—was lovely. A snug aerie full of plants and white wicker furniture and splashed with yellows and golds and greens, it revealed her heretofore unknown flair for interior decorating on a small budget.
I picked up a king and discarded a trey. “Gin.”
She glared at me. “I’ve been waiting for one card since the deal.”
“Them’s the breaks.” I didn’t even bother to write down the score, just let my hand gravitate toward a stainless-steel bowl containing the dregs of a batch of popcorn. Comfort food is what I call things like popcorn and macaroni-and-cheese and milkshakes and butterscotch pudding—food that is reminiscent of childhood and reduces your world to simple terms when it becomes too complicated to bear.
Rae said, “What’s the matter—you feeling gruffly?”
I smiled at the word, one of those that I’ve come to consider Rae-isms. “Yes. I’m sick of gin rummy, even if I am winning. Is Hank ever going to go home?
“He’s turni
ng into a workaholic. I guess it keeps his mind off the possibility of being shot at.” Rae gathered up the cards and score pad and set them on the nightstand. She wore an old gray-and-red plaid flannel bathrobe and had condition on her hair; it stuck up in greasy-looking points. As she flopped back against the pillows, I noticed she seemed tense and faintly depressed.
“You look kind of gruffly, too,” I said.
She shrugged.
“Worried about Willie?”
“Not really. He was settled in for the night when I left there. Had an adult western—the sexy kind, you know?—and a twelve pack of Bud. That’ll hold him.”
“Things not going too well with you two?”
“They’re fine. The relationship’s not complex enough for us to have problems. No, what it is, I need to talk to you about my job.”
Trophies and Dead Things Page 18
