While I spoke with Greg, Dolly stood outside the booth, one hand on the glass of the door, as if she was afraid she might lose touch with me. She stared down the misty, amber-lighted expanse of Market Street toward the theatre where Knox’s body lay. Dolly was another reason I wanted Greg on the scene; in addition to being a good cop, he was a gentle man, and he would deal better with this frightened girl than would most of the other men on the squad.
Greg put me on hold for a few seconds, then came back on the line and said a squad car was on its way to the theatre; he would meet us there as soon as he could, and we should do nothing until he arrived. I hung up the receiver and opened the door. “Dolly, what’s the phone number at your family’s restaurant?”
“At . . . No, you must not tell my parents—”
“I only want to say that we’re all right.”
She hesitated, then said, “The number is 525-9177.”
“Thank you.” I dialed, and the phone was answered immediately by Lan Vang, her voice high-pitched with anxiety. Without elaboration, I told her we were in no trouble and would return to the hotel within the hour. Then I asked to speak to Carolyn. To her, I explained a little more—that a friend of Dolly’s had been killed in an accident and we were waiting for the police. I asked if Carolyn would go back to the Globe with the Vangs and stay until we arrived. In spite of what I knew what must by now be bone-weariness, Carolyn agreed without hesitation.
When I stepped out of the booth, Dolly turned to me, wide eyes searching my face. “It’s all right,” I said. “I didn’t tell them any more than I had to.” I paused, then added, “Of course you’ll have to explain everything. They’ll need to know.”
She looked away, toward a darkened and barred storefront. I touched her shoulder and motioned toward the theatre. We started down the near-deserted sidewalk. An occasional cab cruised slowly by to see if we were potential fares; the few trolley buses that passed were almost empty of passengers. I looked at my watch and saw it was well after midnight. Halfway to the theatre, we began to hear a siren, and Dolly moved closer to me and slipped her small hand into mine. She had stopped trembling, but her fingers were icy and she didn’t speak.
The uniformed men were getting out of the cruiser when we got there, hands poised above their guns. The squad car’s headlights bathed the rough wooden scaffolding, and the beams of the flashing blue and red beacons bounced off the graffiti and notices posted there. I identified myself and told them Lt. Marcus has asked us not to do anything until he arrived. They looked dubious about that, but left us alone until Greg pulled up a few minutes later in an unmarked car. As he came toward us, Dolly shrank against me, and I said, “It’s all right; he’s a friend.” To Greg, I said, “Thanks for coming,” realizing the tea-party words sounded ridiculous.
One corner of his mouth twitched, and knew he’d also recognized the absurdity. He looked tired and unusually grim. “Sure. I was just interrogating a Forest Hills mother of two who decided to take an axe to the family tonight. Frankly, I was glad to turn it over to one of the inspectors; I don’t have the stomach for some things that I used to. Now, what’s happened here?”
I explained, from the beginning. When I got to the part about Dolly and Otis Knox being “friends,” Greg’s eyes flicked to her, then back to me, and the knowledge in them told me I wouldn’t have to spell it out. When I finished, he merely said, “Okay, show me where the body is.”
We showed him, Dolly sticking to me like a little burr, and then the lab men took over. The patrolmen had located a lighting panel in one of the wings, and the stage was now brightly lit. Dolly and I stood to one side, silent while Greg conferred with the technicians and an inspector named Mourant, who had shown up right behind them. When he finally rejoined us, I said, “Would it be possible for us to go back to the hotel? Dolly’s had a rough time, and her parents are bound to be worried about her. You could question her at her apartment, and there’s women there who can interpret, if necessary.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but let me talk with you for a minute.” He put his hand on my elbow and led me a few paces away. “This looks like a simple case of accidental death,” he said in a lower voice, “but there’s something in your manner that hints otherwise. Do you think the girl is responsible?”
“Initially I suspected something of that sort, but not anymore. Can’t we go into this later?”
“Go into it now.”
I fought down my annoyance at the order, reminding myself that it belonged to another time, when I had had a right to take offense. “I was at Otis Knox’s ranch in Marin County earlier tonight.”
Greg’s eyebrows shot up.
“In connection with the Globe Hotel business,” I added hastily. “When I first talked with Knox—to get a feel for the neighborhood—he claimed he knew nothing about the hotel or what he referred to as ‘a bunch of slopes.’ But then I heard about his connection to Dolly and decided to drive out to Nicasio and question him. When I arrived, Knox looked settled in for the night, but as I was starting to leave, he had a phone call. I suspect he planned to come back to the city.”
“Any idea who the call was from?”
“No, but I think I can reconstruct what he said. And he seemed . . . well, not upset, but as if he didn’t like whatever the caller wanted.”
“I see. We’ll discuss it in more detail later. But know, because I know you—and you must admit I know you well—let me tell you what I sense is going on in your head.”
I braced myself, already aware—because I also knew him well—of what was to follow.
“You think,” he said, “that phone call was a lure. You think someone wanted to kill Knox, so he phoned him, enticed him to this theatre, and murdered him.”
“It’s possible.”
“Some clever killer. While he was enticing him to the theatre, he decided he might just as well entice him up onto a catwalk above the stage. And then he climbed up there after him—this, mind you, without making our Mr. Knox the least bit suspicious—and pushed him to his death. Is that how you see it?”
“Greg . . .” But put in those terms, it did seem silly.
“And you also think, because of the connection with the Vang girl, that Knox’s death might have something to do with the killing at the Globe Hotel.”
I had considered the possibility, but now I was damned if I would admit it.
“In a neighborhood where there are random murders every day,” Greg went on, “you want to connect these particular deaths, because the Vang girl knew both victims.”
Dammit, why had I wanted Greg on the scene? Had time—plus his good behavior the night before—made me forget how sarcastic and cutting he could be? What an idiot I’d been to think he would listen to me! Especially to an idea that was only half-formed—worse than that, not an idea at all but more a feeling that everything here was not as it looked on the surface.
But I’d been right about those kinds of feelings before. And Greg knew that. I glared up at him, not speaking.
“All right,” he finally said, “take the Vang girl back to the hotel. But don’t talk to anyone outside; there’s a crowd, and I don’t know if any of them are from the media, but if they are, I don’t want them getting wind of who the victim is yet.”
He wasn’t going to argue with me; he wasn’t going to try to poke any more holes in what remained of my reasoning. And that meant something. It meant he was remembering those other times I’d been right.
I went over to Dolly and took her arm. “Come on,” I said, “I’ll take you home.”
When we got back to the hotel, the small lobby was jammed with people, most of them Vietnamese. Given the presence of the little Christmas tree, it could have been a festive holiday gathering—except for the anxious expressions on the participants’ faces. They milled about, talking in low voices, and as we entered, Lan Vang threw herself upon her daughter, as if to shelter her from further harm.
For a moment I felt a stab of alarm. Had som
ething else happened here at the hotel while Dolly and I had been dealing with the police at the theatre? But then I caught a glimpse of Carolyn and Mary Zemanek over by the door to the manager’s apartment. Neither of them looked particularly upset, so I chalked up the others’ agitation to worry over Dolly.
Lan Vang clasped my hand and said, “Thank you, Thank you for taking care of my daughter.”
I looked at Dolly. She had been leaning on her mother, but now she pulled herself erect, and I suspected she was thinking about the explanations ahead. I said, “I was glad to help, Lan. Why don’t you take Dolly upstairs now, away from this crowd? She’s had a bad time.”
Lan nodded and tugged at her daughter. Dolly hesitated, then followed her toward the elevator, looking back with pleading eyes. I shook my head at her. This was Dolly’s problem.
With the departure of the Vangs, the lobby began to empty and soon only Mary Zemanek, Carolyn and I remained. Carolyn crossed to me and said, “Now will you please explain what has happened? I’ve been going crazy, trying to figure it out.”
“I told you on the phone—”
“No, I want the full story.”
I glanced at Mary. She was standing next to the Christmas tree, obviously with no intention of leaving.
“Later,” I said to Carolyn.
“Miss McCone,” Mary said, “I think I deserve an explanation too. What happens to the residents of this hotel—”
“It’s none of your business.” The words popped out before I could temper my irritation.
Mary drew herself up taller—which must have been all of four-foot-eleven. In her red chenille wrapper, white hair in its net, she looked like Mrs. Santa Claus finding her husband coming in drunk on Christmas Eve.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, but it’s police business and I can’t discuss it.”
“The owner—”
If I heard her invoke the powers of Roy LaFond one more time, I would run screaming into the street. Instead I grabbed Carolyn’s arm and hurried her toward the front door. “Let’s wait for the police outside.”
The night was still clear—almost cloudless, if you looked up beyond the shabby buildings to the sky. People still prowled the streets: hookers and john, pimps and winos, the restless and the homeless. The air had lost the freshness the earlier storm had lent it, and the characteristic stench of the Tenderloin rose around us. Carolyn leaned back against the grimy façade of the hotel, folded her arms and waited.
I looked down the street and spotted the now-familiar figure of Jimmy Milligan shambling along, talking to himself.
“That’s the fellow I mentioned earlier,” I said, “the one who quotes the poetry.”
“I know who he is. You’re avoiding the issue.”
I was, and I didn’t know why. There was no reason Carolyn shouldn’t know about Dolly and Otis Knox. It would upset her, because part of her job was to keep her clients from being victimized, but her feelings would be based on professional, rather than personal, consideration. No, the reason I didn’t want to talk about it had to do with me, with my weariness, and my pity for Dolly.
I started to speak, but Jimmy Milligan approached us, waving, his face alive with a manic delight. When he came up, he said,” ‘A bloody and a sudden end . . . gunshot or noose . . . for Death who takes what man would keep . . . leave what man would lose.’”
“What?” I said, startled. I knew it was only more William Butler Yeats, but his choice of verse was eerily consistent with my thoughts.
“‘John Kinsella’s Lament for Mrs. Mary Moore.’” He waggled his head energetically. “‘What shall I do for pretty girls . . . now my old bawd is dead?’”
“Jimmy,” I said, “You must have memorized every word Yeats ever wrote.”
“That I have, Miss. Every word.”
“Where did you study his work, Jimmy?”
Another violent head waggle. “Oh, here, there, everywhere.”
He was clearly at the apex of his manic stage, soaring out of control. I glanced at Carolyn, who was watching him intently, as if cataloging his symptoms.
I said, “Are you a poet yourself, Jimmy?”
His elfin features crumpled, as if under a sudden weight. “Oh, I was, miss. But not for a long time now.
“But did you write poems?”
“Oh, yes, miss. Many poems. And once I had one that appeared in a magazine. A little magazine, but it was a published poem nevertheless.”
I was about to ask him to recite his poem when Greg’s unmarked car pulled up to the curb and he got out. He crossed the sidewalk and glanced at Jimmy, his lips twitching in irritation. Then he said to me, “All right, let’s get on with this,” and pushed past us into the lobby.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Greg had just finished questioning Dolly when all the lights went out.
We’d been sitting in the Vangs’ living room, with only Dolly and her parents present. Dolly had told her story in halting English, with Carolyn assisting her occasionally, and Lan and Chinh, while obviously ashamed at airing such a matter to outsiders, had supported her in a way that made me respect them all the more.
And now the power had failed. Lan gasped and then everyone was silent. After a few seconds, Greg said, “What’s with the electricity?”
I said, “It’s happened frequently; it’s one of the things I was hired to investigate.”
“Why didn’t they just call PG and E?” There was edginess in Greg’s voice that amused me; he could walk confidently into the goriest murder scene; but being in a room that had been plunged into darkness had unnerved him.
“PG and E came out,” I said. “They determined that someone is shutting off the power at the main switch.”
“Then why doesn’t someone turn it back on? Hal,” he said to Inspector Mourant, who had arrived at the hotel a short time before, “will you do down to the manager’s apartment and ask her to do something about this?”
“Right, Lieutenant.” I could hear Mourant bang into the tables as he made his way to the door.
“You’ll have to take the stairs,” Carolyn said. “The elevator doesn’t function during the blackouts.”
Mourant muttered something that sounded like “terrific” and left the apartment.
Greg said, “Well, this is an odd way to end an interview, but I thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Vang. I’ll have a statement ready for you to sign at the Hall of Justice by noon today.” Then I felt his hand on my arm. “Sharon, I think we’d better let these people get some rest.”
“We’re leaving now, when we can’t even see where we’re going?”
“Yes. Give me your flashlight.” The tone of his voice said that he didn’t want to hear any arguments; I guessed he was feeling claustrophobic.
At the word “flashlight,” Lan, who was sitting on the other side of me, made a little exclamation. She got up and rummaged in a drawer, returning moments later with a lighted candle. Its flicker illuminated a circle of tense faces—faces that quickly relaxed.
I handed Greg my flash and looked at Carolyn. “Are you coming?”
“No, I think I’ll spend the night here on the couch, if no one minds.”
I told her I’d be in touch, and Greg and I went out into the hallway. As we passed Sallie Hyde’s door, the fat woman stuck her head out. In the flashlight’s beam I could see that her hair was in big pink curlers and she wore a quilted pink housecoat. When she saw Greg and me she said, “Oh, Sharon, it’s you,” and regarded him with frank curiosity.
“We’re just leaving,” I said. “Someone’s got to throw the switch, and the lights should be on in a few minutes.”
Sallie shook her head. “First Hoa Dinh. Then poor Dolly, finding that Knox swine. Now this. And to think I told everybody there was nothing to be afraid of.” Quickly she withdrew into her apartment.
Greg said, “Who was that?”
“Sallie Hyde. She’s a murderess.”
“What?”
“It probably has no bearing on what’s going on here, but what did you say her name was?”
“Sallie Hyde.” That meant Greg would run a check on her—and I would be sure to get the information from him.
We started down the stairs, Greg holding the flashlight so it illuminated the metal tread, our footsteps echoing loudly in the empty stairwell. When we reached the second floor, the lights came back on. “Mourant must have found the switch,” Greg said. To confirm his statement, when we got to the first floor, the inspector and Mary Zemanek emerged from the basement. Mary was babbling about the owner and his liability insurance, and when Greg stopped to talk to them, I went on through the lobby. Greg caught up with me on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.
“Mourant didn’t see anyone down there in the basement,” he said, “but he’ll stay around a while in case someone tries to pull the switch again.”
“Good,” I turned in the direction of the lot where my MG was.
“Wait,” Greg said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“It’s okay. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“No, I want to.”
With a sense of déjà vu, I let him accompany me to the parking lot, but when we arrived all was not as it had been the night before; the chain-link fence was locked, the lot deserted. Beyond it, the MG sat waiting forlornly.
“Dammit,” I said. “I should have known they’d have closed the lot by now.”
“It’s good I came down here with you,” Greg said. “I’ll drive you home, and you can pick up your car in the morning.”
“I guess I have no choice.”
“Gracious, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. I’m just tired.” To prove I had meant no offense, I took his arm companionably as we went back to where he had parked in front of the hotel.
Out of habit, Greg drove toward my old apartment building on Guerrero Street. When I realized where he was going I corrected him, giving him directions to my house on Church Street. The street was lined with cars, and one of my neighbors had parked in my driveway, as I’d told him to do when he couldn’t find a space. All the lights in the nearby houses were out, the respectable working-class folks having been in bed for hours. I wanted to go to bed too—right away, and sleep for days—but Greg seemed to have no intention of leaving. He accompanied me onto the front porch and looked expectantly when I opened the door. Shrugging, I said, “Do you want to come in for a drink?”
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