“Yes,” she said, her eyes closed. “I can.”
Dane sat forward on the chair, his hands clasped between his legs, his voice lower now, smooth as honey. “You feel like you’re bathed in that light and it makes you feel warm and safe. It allows you to see everything around you more clearly because of that beautiful spray of colors.”
“Yes. I hadn’t realized how incredible it was.”
“Which hand was he holding the gun in?”
“His right hand.”
“He used his left hand to unscrew the silencer?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a young man?”
“No, I don’t think so. He didn’t move like a young man moves, like you move. He was older, but not old, close to Inspector Delion’s age, but he wasn’t carrying any extra weight. He was slightly built but straight as a conductor’s wand. He stood very straight, military straight. He had his head cocked to the right side.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A long trench coat—you know, the Burberry. It’s exactly the same sort of overcoat my father used to wear.”
“What color?”
“Dark, real dark, maybe black. I can’t see it all that clearly.”
“Was he tall?”
“Not terribly, maybe five-foot-ten. I know he was under six-foot.”
“Bald?”
“No, like I said, he had dark hair, lots of it, really dark, maybe black, just a bit on the long side. He wasn’t wearing a hat or anything.”
“Beard?”
“No beard. I remember his skin was light, lighter than anything else about him; it was like another focal point, a splash of white in all that gloom.”
“You said he was smiling?”
“Yes.”
“What did his teeth look like?”
“Straight, very white, at least they looked very white in all that darkness.”
“When he walked away, was he limping? Did he favor one leg over the other? Did he walk lightly?”
“He was fast, his stride long. I remember that his trench coat flapped around his legs, he was walking so fast, and he was graceful, yes, I can remember how graceful he was.”
“Did he ever put the gun back in his pocket?”
“No, he just kept it held down, close against his right side.”
Her breathing hitched.
Dane leaned forward and patted her hand. Her skin was dry, rough. She blinked, so surprised at what she’d remembered so clearly, seen so clearly, that she just stared at Father Michael Joseph’s brother.
She said, “Your name is Dane Carver?”
He nodded.
Delion waited another couple of seconds, saw that it was over, and said, “Not bad, ma’am.”
“Yes, you saw quite a lot,” Dane said, and now he leaned forward and lightly touched his fingers to her shoulder. It felt reassuring, calming, that touch of his, and she realized that he knew it and that’s why he’d done it. Dane said, “That was really good. Inspector Delion will call up a forensic artist next. Do you think you could work with an artist?”
“Yes, certainly. I really don’t think I can identify him if you ever catch him, though.”
“Now back up a minute,” Delion said. “Why were you in the church at midnight?”
“Father Michael Joseph told me that he had to meet this man really late for confession, but he said he wanted me to stay, he wanted to talk to me, see if maybe he could help me work things out.”
“Help you with what?”
She shook her head.
“Maybe we could help you,” Dane said.
She shook her head again, lips seamed together.
“You know,” Delion said, “life has a funny way of changing things around. People you don’t particularly trust one day, you can confide in the next.”
“Look,” she said, “I don’t want any help. I don’t want to tell you what I was going to speak to Father Michael Joseph about. I don’t want you to keep asking me about it, all right?”
“But maybe we could help,” Dane said.
“No. Leave it alone or I’ll disappear.”
Delion and Dane looked at each other. Slowly, Dane nodded. “No more questions about you and your situation.”
“Okay. Good.” Suddenly she started crying. Not a sound, just tears running down her face.
Delion looked like he wanted to run.
Dane grabbed a couple of Kleenex off the lieutenant’s desk and handed them to her.
“Oh goodness, I’m sorry, I—”
Dane said, “It’s okay. You’ve had a couple of tough days.”
She wiped her face, her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said again, tears thick in her voice.
She clutched the Kleenex in her right fist, sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the sofa. She took a very deep breath, looked down. She paused a moment, sniffed, swallowed, then said, “This sofa is really ugly.”
Dane laughed. Somewhere deep down, there was still laughter in him. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s butt ugly.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Delion said, scooting his chair forward, crowding Dane out of the way, easy since the office was very small. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Ms.—Hey, we don’t know your name.”
She blinked at him. “My name is Jones.”
“Jones,” Delion repeated slowly. “What’s your first name, Ms. Jones?”
“Nick.”
“Nick Jones. As in Nicole?”
She nodded, but Dane thought it was a lie. What was going on here? Was she wanted by the police in some other city? Maybe she was wanted here, in San Francisco. Maybe that was why Michael had wanted to help her. Michael had always been able to sniff out folks who were in trouble, and he always wanted to help them. He gave her a long look but didn’t say anything.
“Well, Ms. Jones,” Delion said, “I could arrest you, send your fingerprints off, and find out what you’ve done.”
“Yes,” she said. “You could.”
She was a good poker player, Dane thought.
Delion folded first. “Nah, we’ll pass on that. No more questions about your background, your own situation. You got a deal. Now, tell us, Ms. Jones, did you meet other people that Father Michael Joseph knew?”
Nick nodded. “Yes, there was another woman he was trying to help. Her name is Valerie Striker. I think she’s a prostitute. She was in the church when I got there. She’d just stopped by to speak to Father Michael Joseph for a moment. I remember she left maybe five minutes before that man came in.”
Delion said, “Oh, shit. Whatcha bet he saw her?”
“It’s possible,” Dane said.
“Did you see her when you ran out of Saint Bartholomew’s, Ms. Jones?”
She shook her head.
“Valerie Striker,” Delion said and wrote the name down in his book. “We’ll check on her. Just maybe she saw something.”
“Or maybe he saw her,” Nick said. “Dear God, I hope not.”
SEVEN
Nick said, “I’m really sorry you lost your brother, Mr. Carver.”
Dane’s hands were clasped in his lap. “Thank you,” he said, but didn’t look up. He said after a moment, “You said that you and my brother were friends. How close were you?”
“Like I told you, we only met two weeks ago. Father Michael Joseph was visiting the shelter a couple of days after I arrived. We got to talking. We got off onto medieval history. I don’t remember how it came up, to be honest. Father Michael Joseph was very kind, and very knowledgeable. We got to talking, and it turned out that he is—he was—fascinated by King Edward the First of England, particularly that last Crusade Edward led to the Holy Land that led to the Treaty of Caesarea.” She shrugged, tried to look self-deprecating, but Dane wasn’t fooled for a moment. Who was she?
“He took me for a cup of coffee at The Wicked Toe, a little café just off Mason. He didn’t care how I looked, didn’t care what anyone else would think—not, of course, that the area is any great shakes.�
��
She looked over at Dane, stared at him, and then she started crying again.
Dane didn’t say anything this time, couldn’t say anything because his throat was all choked up. He wanted to cry himself, but he wouldn’t let himself, not here. All he could do was wait, and listen to her sobs.
When she’d stilled, he said, “Did my brother give you anything to keep safe for him?”
“Give me something? No, he didn’t. Why?”
“Too bad.”
Delion came into the lieutenant’s office and said, “Valerie Striker lives on Dickers Avenue. I’m outta here. You want to come, Dane?”
Nick was on her feet. “Please, please, let me come with you. I met Valerie, she’s so beautiful, and really nice. She was unhappy, didn’t know what to do. There was this man who was threatening her. Please, let me come with you. Maybe if she sees me, she’ll agree to talk to you.”
“This is police business, ma’am. You’re a civilian, for God’s sake, you can’t just—”
“Please,” Nick said, and grabbed Delion’s sleeve. “This is so important to me, please, Inspector. I won’t get in the way, I won’t say a thing, but—”
“I’m an outsider, too, Delion,” Dane said. “Maybe she can be helpful if Ms. Striker doesn’t want to talk to us.” His unspoken message that Delion got real fast was that Ms. Jones might just disappear on them again.
Delion said low to Dane, “If this was FBI business, would you let her tag along with you?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Yeah, right.” He said on a sigh to Nick, “All right, Ms. Jones, just this one time. Dane, she’s your responsibility.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Hey, wait. Before we head on over to Valerie’s place, let’s just wait for the forensic artist here before Ms. Jones starts to forget.”
An hour later, Jenny Butler, one of two forensic artists on staff, held up her sketch for everyone to see.
“Is that him, Ms. Jones?” Delion asked.
Nick nodded slowly. “It’s as close as I can get. Will it help?”
“Remains to be seen. Thank you, Jenny. How’s Tommy?”
“He’s just ducky, Vince. The older he gets the more of a handful he becomes.” She added to Dane and Nick, “He’s my husband. See you, Vince.”
“Thanks. Ms. Jones, this sketch will be printed up and distributed, and there will be no mention of you.”
Delion grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, Nick and Dane close on his heels.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled the Ford next to the curb only a block from the address they wanted on Dickers Avenue.
The three of them stood a moment staring up at the old Victorian where Valerie Striker lived.
Delion looked at Ms. Jones—homeless woman, fake name—and said, “This is great, just great. I’ve got a Fed and a civilian with me to interview a witness. Great.”
“He’s all bark,” Dane said.
They watched Delion stomp up the six stairs to the front door of the Victorian, which was painted four shades of green. He turned. “Hey, come on, you guys, enough chitchat. Let’s see what Valerie’s got to say.”
“The place looks terrific,” Dane said, touching a pale lime-green gargoyle, one of three hovering over the lintel of the front door, looking down at them. “Business must be good.”
“I talked to one of the inspectors in Vice; he said eight hookers live here. Everything very discreet, very respectable, doubtful even the neighbors know anything. There’s a back way in, and it’s all sorts of private.”
Delion rang the bell to 4B. “There’s four apartments on each floor.”
There was no answer.
He rang again.
There was still no answer.
“It’s pretty early,” Dane said. “She’s probably still asleep.”
“Yeah, well, we’re her wake-up call.” Delion pressed his thumb on the bell and kept it there.
Three minutes later, he rang the bell to 4C.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Very polite, very discreet,” Delion said under his breath, then continued into the intercom, “This is Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD. I know I got you up, but I’m a cop and we need to talk to you. This isn’t a bust, nothing like that. We’re not here to cause you any trouble. We just need to talk.”
A pause, then the buzzer sounded.
The entrance was old-fashioned, dripping with Victoriana, the dark red carpeting rich and deep. Everything was indeed very upscale.
Dane glanced over at Nick Jones. She looked fascinated. Must be her first time in a hooker’s nest. Come to think about it, it was his first time, too. Business, he thought, stroking his hand over the beautifully carved newel post on the stairs, was good.
They walked up one flight of stairs, turned right. The lush red carpeting continued. There was wainscoting along the walls of the wide corridor, and well-executed watercolors of the Bay were hung along the walls.
A woman in a lovely black kimono stood in the open doorway to 4C. She was young, with artfully mussed long black hair tossed over one shoulder. She wore almost no makeup. Delion looked at her, appreciated her, and guessed that five hundred bucks wasn’t out of the question.
“Ms. . . . ?”
“Elaine Books. What do you want? Hey, she isn’t a cop, she’s homeless. I know . . . Valerie told me about you, told me you sort of hid in the shadows whenever somebody came around, that you’d only talk to this priest. And you, you’re no local, just look at those wing tips; they’re a cut above what local guys wear. What are you, a lawyer? What’s going on here?”
Delion said, “They’re with me, no problem. You really think his shoes look more expensive than mine? Nah, forget it. We need to speak to Valerie Striker, your neighbor in 4B, but she’s not answering her doorbell. You seen her this morning?”
“No.” Ms. Books frowned, tapped her lovely French manicure against the door frame. “You know, I haven’t seen Valerie in a couple of days. What’s going on with her?”
Dane said very slowly, “I really don’t like the sound of this, Delion.”
Delion said, “Right. Ms. Books, we’d like you to come next door with us, watch us open the door, okay?”
“Oh God, you think something’s happened to Valerie, don’t you?”
“Hopefully not, but we’d like you to verify that we’re concerned, and that’s why we’re going in.”
Delion knocked on 4B. There was no answer. He pressed his ear to the door. “Nothing,” he said.
Delion put his shoulder to the door of 4B and pushed hard. Nothing happened. “Well made, solid wood, I should have guessed,” he said. Both he and Dane backed up, then slammed their shoulders into the door. It flew inward, crashing against the inside wall.
A beautiful apartment, Nick thought, looking past them, all light and airy, so many windows, sunlight flooding in.
Where was Valerie Striker?
Dane stopped suddenly. He became very still. He turned, said very low, his voice urgent, “Ms. Jones, please stay right here. Thank you, Ms. Books. We’ll take it from here.”
“Hey, what’s that smell?” Elaine Books jerked her head back. “Oh God, oh God.”
“Stay back,” Delion said. He turned to Dane. “Keep them here, all right?”
But it was too late. Before Dane could force Elaine Books and Nick Jones back out of the apartment, Nick saw two white legs sticking out from behind the living room sofa, a really pretty sofa, all white with even whiter pillows strewn across it. All over that white were dark stains, as if someone had dipped a hand into a paint can and just sprinkled the paint everywhere.
“Oh no,” Nick said. “It’s not paint, is it?”
“No,” Dane said, “it’s not. Don’t move from this spot, you understand me?”
Delion went behind the sofa and knelt down. When he straightened, he looked hard, sad, and angry.
“I think we’ve found Valerie Striker. She’s been garr
oted. I’d say she’s dead a couple of days at least.” He nodded to Dane, who herded the two women back into the hallway. He heard Delion on the phone, speaking to the paramedics.
Elaine Books leaned against the corridor wall and started crying. “I’m so sorry,” Nick said. “She was your friend. I’m so very sorry. I liked her. She was kind to me, despite—despite how I look.” Very slowly, Nick drew the woman into her arms and let her cry on her shoulder.
Nick looked up at Dane. “He killed her. He must have seen her, worried that when she found out about Father Michael Joseph’s murder, she’d remember seeing him. He either knew who she was or he found out, came here sometime during the night on Sunday and killed her. That’s exactly what happened, isn’t it?”
Dane nodded. “Yes, that’s probably right.”
Elaine Books continued to weep, softly now, her head still on Nick Jones’s shoulder.
Valerie Striker was dead. Chances were that she hadn’t seen a thing, but that hadn’t mattered. She couldn’t tell them anything now. Nick closed her eyes as she rocked Elaine Books against her and thought, I’m the one who’s supposed to be dead, not her. If only she’d waited for the cops, she would have remembered to tell them about seeing Valerie Striker, and they would have come here, maybe before the killer did, and they could have saved her.
It was her fault.
EIGHT
“She can’t stay in the shelter,” Dane said. “Do you have a safe house where we can stash her?”
“Yeah,” Delion said, “but I don’t know if the lieutenant will approve it for her. There’s no real threat of danger here.”
“You’re wrong, Delion. When our guy sees this description—and I bet he will—he’ll try to find out about the person who gave it, knowing that if he’s ever caught, she can identify him. She’d be a sitting duck at the shelter.”
“If she would just tell us her real name and address, we could send her little ass home.”
Dane looked over toward the small kitchen where Ms. Nick Jones stood waving a tea bag in a paper cup of hot water, the frayed cuffs of her thick red sweater falling over her fingers. He could still see the tear streaks on her cheeks.
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 35
