There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of

by Marcia Muller

  “I’d like that.”

  I led him inside and down the tiny hall to the living room. The house had a close, shut-up feeling, and Watney didn’t even come to greet me. Probably the ferocious creature had availed himself on the new cat door Don and I had installed and was out hunting mice—or dogs and small children.

  Thinking of Don made me realize I hadn’t spoken to him all day, not since he’d cooked the breakfast I hadn’t been able to eat. I went over and pressed the playback button of my answering machine—a new acquisition, since my service had recently gone bankrupt—but there was only one message, an unintelligible one from Barry the contractor, who sounded drunk. I frowned, wondering why Don hadn’t called, then turned to Greg. He was looking around the room with obvious curiosity.

  “All I have is red wine,” I said, “and I have to warn you—it’s of dubious quality.”

  “At three-thirty in the morning, I don’t much care about quality.”

  “Me neither.” I went into the kitchen and took down two glasses, then detoured into the bathroom. The surgical tools lay on the floor, and there were nails scattered around the shower drain. Barry’s delicate operation was going slowly. I sighed, realized I would have to go next door to the Curley’s for my morning shower; they’d been awfully understanding about helping me out—and rightfully so, after they’d recommended Barry—but this couldn’t go on indefinitely . . .

  When I returned to the living room with the wine, Greg was examining the little picture of the country inn Don had bought me. I set the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table, thinking how seldom Don and I used this room. We preferred to sit at the kitchen table, but somehow Greg would have seemed out of place there. I poured wine, he came to sit beside me, and we toasted one another.

  “To your new house,” he said, “It’s a nice place.”

  “Thank you. I’m quite happy with it.”

  “No plans to take on a roommate—your boyfriend, I mean?”

  “Not at the moment. We both like our privacy and, besides, his baby grand piano wouldn’t fit.”

  “Oh, yes—he’s a musician as well as a disc jockey.”

  “Yes.”

  We fell silent, sipping wine. The silence lengthened. It wasn’t a comfortable one. Finally Greg said, “Tell me about the problems at the Globe Hotel.”

  As I’d figured out earlier, he was taking at least some of my ideas seriously. “I outlined them to you last night.”

  “I’d like some more detail.”

  “The case has a lot of odd elements. There’s the owner who would like to unload the place, but can’t do so without first evicting the tenants. Initially I thought he might be trying to scare them away, but he turns out to be a letter-of-the-law guy who’s deathly afraid someone will slip on the stairs and sue him.”

  “And the manager, Mrs. Zemanek?”

  “She’s sympathetic to the tenants, but afraid of losing her job, so she backs the owner in everything.”

  “From the way she was talking tonight, the owner is practically sitting at the right hand of God.”

  “Practically. Then we have Sallie Hyde, the murderess.”

  “Yes. I’ll check her out.”

  “And then there are the Vangs and the Dinhs and the other Vietnamese residents. They all seem to be hardworking, honest people. The Vangs’ son Duc is a little strange—alienated, clings to the traditional ways. He and the first victim, Hoa Dinh, were best friends, and originally I thought Hoa’s death might be gang related. But I talked with Inspector Loo of the Gang Task Force, as well as with Duc and other people in the neighborhood. Whatever those boys are, they’re not gang members.”

  Greg watched me over the rim of his glass. “But something bothers you about them. Or about Duc, anyway.”

  “Yes. I can’t put my finger on it, except that Duc was very evasive about what he and his friends do in the neighborhood. Maybe I’ll talk with him again.”

  Greg was silent.

  “What? You don’t want me pursuing this?”

  “It may not be to the Department’s advantage.”

  “Greg. I’ve cooperated—”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I knew that tone, so I dropped it. “Okay. Anyway, that’s the case of characters at the hotel. Then there are the outsiders; the man who I was talking with when you arrived tonight, he’s a little unbalanced, recites poetry all the time. There’s a street preacher who has potential streak of violence. And, of course, there’s the deceased, Otis Knox.”

  “This preacher—he have any connection with that hotel?”

  “None that I can uncover. But he did with Knox; he preaches in front of his theatre.”

  “What else?”

  I could have mentioned the umbrella lady or the man who chipped the tiles off the Taj Mahal Bar or even Knox’s young, spaced-out film projectionist, but it all seemed irrelevant, and suddenly I felt tired. “That’s about it.” As I spoke, my spirits dipped even lower. I’d been on the case for two days, and that was all I had to show for it—that, and two bodies in the morgue. And a power failure …

  I frowned.

  ‘What now?” Greg said.

  “That power failure bothers me. Why tonight? At that particular time?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was late, and there were very few tenants of that hotel who were likely to be inconvenienced. They wouldn’t be using their lights or the elevator . . .”

  Greg shrugged, clearly uninterested, and sipped wine. Again we fell silent, and again the silence lengthened. When I glanced over at him, he was regarding me speculatively. With a shock I realized he was considering kissing me.

  When the shock faded, I actually considered encouraging him. After all, Greg was an attractive man, and even at our worst times the physical part of our relationship had never cooled off. Then I thought of Don and set my wineglass on the table.

  “It’s awfully late,” I said, “and we both got to be at work in the morning.”

  Greg looked at me for a moment longer. Then he nodded and drained his glass, his face expressionless. “Thanks for the wine,” he said, standing up. “Call me sometime after noon and we’ll talk about you investigating further.”

  I followed him to the door and out into the crisp night. Here, miles from the stink of the Tenderloin, the air had a fresh quality that I could savor. For a moment, standing there on my porch, I looked up at Greg and again felt the tug of physical attraction. Apparently he felt it too, because he hesitated before he went down the steps to his car, raising a hand in farewell.

  I went back inside, took the bottle and glasses to the kitchen, and turned off the lights. After groping my way to the bedroom in the dark, I shed my clothes and crawled into bed.

  Only someone else was already in it. A familiar, warm, muscular body.

  I hadn’t seen his car, where was it? Parked far down the congested street, no doubt.

  Don said, “It’s about time. For a while there, I thought the three of us were going to end up in bed together.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I got to the Globe Hotel at eight-thirty the next morning, my head aching from lack of sleep and my eyes feeling as if tiny grains of sand were trapped under their lids. I was determined, however, to ignore my wretched state and get as much accomplished as possible before noon. Greg had said we would talk then about whether I would be allowed to continue my investigation, but I suspected that his decision would be a negative one. This morning might be my last chance to help my clients.

  The lobby was deserted, and a hand-lettered sign on the elevator door said: Out of Order. Perhaps, I thought, last night’s power failure had delivered it a coup de grace. My weary body aching, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and knocked at the Vangs’ apartment. Lan answered immediately, her face pasty, her eyes deeply shadowed. Her wan expression turned to relief when she saw me, and I realized that somethi
ng was wrong here, something in addition to the events of the previous evening.

  “Lan,” I said, “what is it?”

  “Please, come in.” She opened the door wide and gestured with one arm.

  I stepped into the living room, which looked dingy and ill-furnished in the subdued light that filtered in from the alley. The room was empty, but I could hear voices and the baby’s cries from the adjoining bedrooms.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  Lan glanced at the door to the bedrooms, then said in a low voice, “It is Duc. He did not come home all night.”

  “Has he ever done this before?”

  “No, never.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Before we left for the restaurant, at four yesterday afternoon. My husband had told Duc he might take the evening off from work, because of his grief for his friend. I thought he planned to stay here.”

  “When did you realize he was gone?”

  “When the lights came back on after you and the policeman left. Before that there was such confusion, and Dolly needed me. I had no time to think of Duc. When I noticed he was missing, I did not mention it to anyone. I especially did not want my husband to know; he had had such a difficult day, so full of pain and shame for our daughter. But I lay awake listening for Duc until daybreak.”

  “Did you mention it to anyone this morning?”

  “I have asked the other children. They know no more than I do.”

  “What about the others in the hotel?”

  “I asked Sallie Hyde and Mrs. Zemanek and several others. They had not seen him. I even spoke to the foot . . . beat officer. He said he could do nothing for seventy-two hours, and then I must go to the police station and fill out a form.”

  “That’s standard procedure here in missing person’s cases, unless there’s some indication of suspicious circumstances. Duc is old enough to be out on his own, and there’s no evidence he’s been harmed.”

  “But he has never done this before?”

  I patted her shoulder briefly, thinking of the talk I’d had with Duc yesterday. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to help you find him. What about his friends, the other boys? Did you question any of them?”

  Lan brightened somewhat. “I had not thought of that. There is Hoa Dinh’s brother, and the boys on floor five. Shall I go see them?”

  “No, let me do it. I need to speak with them anyway, and I’d like to ask you to do something for me in the meantime.” I got out the list of disturbances that Lan had given me at our first meeting and asked if she could fill in the approximate time of day each had happened. She said she would consult with the others, and then I left her and climbed to the sixth floor.

  I was about to open the fire door there when I heard noises above. The door to the roof creaked on its hinges, then boomed shut. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and seconds later Roy LaFond appeared on the landing. His mane of white hair was windblown and he was brushing dirt from his sharply creased tan slacks. When he saw me, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Ms. McCone,” he said in an obvious attempt to cover his confusion.

  “Mr. LaFond, what a surprise. I thought you hardly ever came to the hotel.”

  “I don’t, usually,” he said, moving across the landing to the steps. “But with all these problems, I thought I should stop by and check things out.”

  “On the roof?”

  He glanced back the way he had come. “On the roof, as well as in the rest of the building.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting. . . .” He went down the stairs, and I listened to his footsteps clatter all the way to the bottom.

  When I’d talked with him before, Roy LaFond had said he hadn’t been to the hotel since last August. At the time I’d believed him; his manner had been convincing. But so had Otis Knox’s—almost—until Knox had dropped his country-boy façade and shown himself for what he really was. As owner, Roy LaFond would have a full set of keys to the hotel. There was nothing to prevent him from coming and going at will. But if he had done so often, wouldn’t someone have seen him? That was another thing I’d have to ask people about.

  I went through the fire door and knocked at the Dinh’s apartment, but got no answer. It was late enough that the family would all be off at their jobs. I got similar results at the apartments of Duc’s other friends on the fifth floor, and made a mental note to come back later. Then I went downstairs, bypassing the Vangs’ floor, to Mary Zemanek’s and when she saw me, her lips pursed in disapproval.

  “You again,” she said. “Now what?”

  “I want to borrow your key to the roof.”

  “You’ve already been up there once.”

  “I want to go again.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have a key anymore.” Now her mouth took on a sullen, downward slant.

  “What happened to your key?”

  “The owner took it. Said no one was to go up there again.” She paused, then added grudgingly, “He’s the owner. He has the right.”

  I watched her thoughtfully, then said, “I ran into Mr. LaFond on the stairwell. What was he doing here anyway?”

  She bit her lip and her eyes strayed to the little Christmas tree. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well, I said, following her gaze, “at least he didn’t make you remove the tree. Why did he go up on the roof?”

  “I said, that’s none of your business.”

  The anger that lay under her defensive attitude didn’t seem to be directed at me, however. On impulse, I said, “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “What he was doing up there. You don’t know any more than I do.”

  She drew herself up haughtily. “Mr. LaFond has no secrets from me.” But the fury in her eyes told me I had been right.

  I got the revised list from Lan Vang and checked it over. There was no pattern to the times of the disturbances—at least none that I could see. I’d have to examine it carefully later on, but right now I needed to go about the neighborhood while I was still able to investigate. After telling Lan I would keep asking about Duc, I went down the street to Hung Tran’s grocery store.

  The old man was behind the counter, wearing the same kind of gray smock and looking as if he hadn’t moved in two days. He nodded politely when I came in, and didn’t seem surprised when I asked how often he’d seen Roy LaFond visiting the Globe Hotel.

  “At first, when he bought the building, it was often,” he said. “Then not so much. Whenever he came he was with people who looked like real estate salesmen. I hear the building is for sale.”

  “That’s true. When did you last see him?”

  “Only a half an hour or so ago.”

  “And before that?”

  The grocer’s eyes became veiled. “I do not remember.”

  “Mr. Tran, this is very important.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then seemed to make some sort of mental decision. “The day before yesterday.”

  “What time of day?”

  “Late. It was dark. Perhaps after six. No later than nine. At nine my son comes to run the store until closing, and I go home. He does not like for me to be here so late.”

  And with good reason, I thought. Robberies—armed ones—were common here in the late evening, and they could easily flare into fatal violence if there wasn’t sufficient money in the till. I said, “What was Mr. LaFond doing at the hotel? Did you see him do anything unusual?”

  Again his expression became vague. “He was there. That is all I can tell you.”

  “Can, or will?”

  He gave me a polite inquiring look, pretending not to understand.

  The grocer’s silence didn’t matter, though. What did was that I now had a witness who could place Roy LaFond at the hotel within a couple of hours of the time Ho
a Dinh had died. Thinking of Hoa Dinh made me think of Duc, and I asked, “Do you know Duc Vang, Mr. Tran?”

  Again he didn’t seem surprised at my question. “Yes, the young man comes in here often. His mother has a young child, and she must work long hours at their restaurant. Duc helps her by doing the family grocery shopping.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  He considered. “Yesterday afternoon, perhaps at two o’clock. He purchased a half gallon of milk.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Tran, the other day I asked you about the bui doi.”

  He nodded.

  “Could either Hoa Dinh or Duc Vang be connected with them?”

  “No. Most certainly not. He bui doi do not recruit young men of their type.”

  With his reply, I gave up any notion of a gang connection. “But Hoa and Duc and some others at the hotel were friends. You’d see them going about the neighborhood, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of things did they do together?”

  Once more he put on his vague look.

  “Mr. Tran, the reason I ask is that Duc Vang is missing and may be in danger. I need to know where he might go, what he might do.”

  “I see.” Hung Tran folded his waxy hands across his smock and stared down at them for a moment. “You are a detective, are you not?”

  “Yes,” I said, puzzled.

  “Well, that is what Duc and his friends fancied themselves to be. They went about the neighborhood being detectives. Actually what they did was more like spying.”