“Mr. Cohen,” I said.
He turned as he was about to step over the rolled rugs.
“May I ask you something?”
“Certainly.”
“Why didn’t your committee simply turn the matter of Levin and the stolen Torahs over to the police?”
“We intended to, once we had recovered the Torahs.”
“You didn’t think the police would recover them for you?”
“Perhaps. But their main concern would have been apprehending Levin. Ours was ensuring that the Torahs survived.” He smiled then, a smile that contrasted sharply to his wintry eyes. “Besides, Miss McCone, our people are accustomed to doing things for themselves.”
As I watched David Halpert show Cohen out, I remembered the men and women who had devoted their lives to hunting down Nazi war criminals. Yes, I thought. His people certainly were accustomed to doing things for themselves. And with good cause.
11.
I stopped at a tacqueria on Mission Street and bought a beef burrito, then went back to All Souls. As I came through the front door, our secretary, Ted, stared at the bag I was carrying and said, “Uh-oh.” Most of the folks at the co-op were food faddists – I think that year it was sushi – and their tolerance for Mexican fast food was limited.
Hank was the only person in the kitchen however, so nobody was going to pick on me about my poor dietary habits today. Like me, my boss would eat anything. He was always whipping up pots of hearty chili or exotic curries, at which the others turned up their noses. It was funny, though, how those leftovers mysteriously disappeared in the dead of the night.
I unwrapped my burrito, got a Coke and joined him at the big oak table. He was polishing off a Dagwood sandwich and reading a rough draft of a brief. One of the pages had a big mustard smudge on it.
“What’s happening with Willie?” I said.
“The arraignment‘s at two o’clock. I’ve already talked with the judge and the D.A.’s man. Willie should be out on bail by tonight.”
Bail in capital-offense cases was usually high. “Can he afford it?”
“Don’t let Willie’s appearance or lifestyle fool you; he’s managed to sock away plenty of cash in his day. How are things coming on your end?”
I told him about my talks with Fat Herman, David Halpert and Ben Cohen. Noncommittally silent, he continued eating.
“Hank,” I said, “this would be much simpler if you could persuade Willie to tell you where he was when Levin was killed. You’re his friend; can’t you just lay it on the line for him?”
“I intend to.”
“Good. Will you also tell him to do something for me?”
“What?”
“Search his house from top to bottom for those Torahs.”
“Didn’t someone already do that?”
“Not necessarily. Even if that was what he was after, we don’t know that he found them. That’s a big house, and there’s a lot of junk in it.”
“You really think the Torahs are there?”
“Levin seemed to think so, and he invested a lot of time in watching Willie.”
“All right, I’ll tell him to look.” Hank stood up and took his empty plate to the dishwasher. “In the meantime, where will you be?”
“In the Santa Cruz Mountains, researching Jerry Levin’s past.” I tossed the Coke can and the foil the burrito had come in into the trash, then went to my office and called home. It had occurred to me that Don might enjoy an excursion in the hills. The phone was picked up by an answering service, and I remembered then that Don had said something about delivering his demo tape and taking a tour of the KSUN studios today.
That was just as well, I decided as I hung up. I was preoccupied with the problem of Willie Whelan and probably wouldn’t be very good company. Besides, I could accomplish the trip in far less time alone. I gassed up the MG at my usual station, then headed south on Interstate 280.
Following Ben Cohen’s hand-drawn map, I left Highway 17 at Old Summit Road south of Los Gatos. The road curved up into the mountains; it was in reasonably good repair and lined with expensive homes on thickly landscaped lots. Then, after about five miles, it narrowed and the pavement deteriorated somewhat. I came to a couple of forks that weren’t indicated on Cohen’s map and followed the branches that looked most promising. Houses were no longer in evidence, save for a few mailboxes, and the road continued to climb, winding in switchbacks through rocky terrain that was covered with scrub oak, pepper trees, and occasional scraggly pines.
Finally the road became a mere cut in the hillside, walled on one side by dirt and rock to which ferns clung. On the other, it dropped off sharply. At a wide spot I pulled off and got out of the car. From there I could look over the tops of trees to the soft contours of the mountains on the distant horizon. Although it was a sunny day, a light haze made them bluish-green. Across the valley a vineyard clung to a hillside. Somewhere in the underbrush below a stream trickled, and a jay scolded me from a nearby branch.
I looked at Cohen’s map again. There was no telling if I’d followed the right forks or come far enough. I debated going back, but decided this road probably came out at Boulder Creek. If I arrived there without finding Levin’s place, I would ask directions.
After a few more miles, however, I suddenly came upon the barbed-wire fence and rusty wagon wheel that the map indicated as marking Levin’s property. The driveway consisted of two ruts that snaked off down the hill from the road. I considered whether the MG’s suspension could withstand the bumps, and decided to leave the car where it was. The overgrown tracks descended steeply for some distance and then bottomed out at a plank bridge that crossed the little creek. The water, running swiftly over moss-covered rocks, was clear and sparkled in the sun. I knelt down and felt its mountain coldness.
From the bridge, the track climbed up again, into a copse of wild sumac. Jays hopped from branch to branch, their blue feathers brilliant against the dark foliage. At my approach, they began a disapproving chorus. I looked at them warily, because I have an unreasonable fear of birds, but kept going through the trees to a clearing.
The tall grass there had been bleached to a wheat color by the sun and was crushed and bent, as if a car had been driven in and parked there. To the right of the clearing was a tumbledown shed, its doors sagging on rusty hinges and most of its roof caved in. Straight ahead, on still higher ground, stood what remained of Levin’s cabin.
All that was standing was a cement-block foundation, a few charred beams, and a chimney of blackened stone. The lower branches of the redwood trees that shaded it had been burned, and their great trunks were badly scorched and splattered with a yellow substance that might have been a fire retardant. It was impossible to tell what the cabin had looked like, but from the foundation I could see that it had been little more than two rooms. I went up to it and stepped over the cement blocks to get a closer look.
The kitchen had been at the rear of the structure, as evidenced by a heat-blistered two-burner stove and refrigerator. A pair of galvanized pipes showed where the sink had stood. The basin itself lay on the ground, the cabinet that had held it having burned to ashes. Blackened porcelain fixtures indicated that the bathroom had been to the right of the kitchen. Near the stone fireplace lay the charred remains of springs and a mattress.
How had the fire started? I wondered. Faulty wiring? Sparks from the fireplace? Had Levin been smoking in bed? Or had he even been here at the time? I began walking around through the ashes and debris, looking for the blaze’s origin.
I didn’t know much about investigating the scenes of fires, but it seemed logical that the place of origin would be where the most damage was. The cabin, however, seemed uniformly burned. I assumed there was no fire department up here and that Levin had not been able to put the blaze out himself. Probably he had merely contained it and allowed it to burn itself out. That might account for the equal degree of destruction. Or maybe the fire had started in more than one place. I’d have to call a
man I knew on the Arson Squad and ask him about that when I got back to the city.
I stepped up to the blackened foundation and surveyed my surroundings. To one side was a dense thicket where I could hear the creek splashing over the rocks. Behind the ruins was a dark ring of redwoods. The temperature under the trees was cool and the air was redolent with the scent of bay laurel. Under it, the smell of charred wood lurked like an unspoken warning.
I kicked at the foundation in frustration. There was nothing here that would tell me any more about Jerry Levin. Even if I got down and hand-sifted through these ashes, they would yield no information. But maybe someone in Boulder Creek had known the dead man; I’d go there after I explored the property a little more.
Stepping off the cement blocks, I went over to the redwood grove and started through it. On the other side was an open meadow, dotted with scrub oak. I crossed it and again found myself at the edge of a steep slope, looking down into a valley many hundreds of yards below.
There were buildings down there, a large stone one with a slate roof and several smaller ones. I could look down on top of them. A black van and a jeep stood in front of them, but there was no other sign of life. What was it? I wondered. A ranch? I tried to orient myself. Possibly it was the winery that went with the vineyards I’d seen on the hill. Given its curves and switchbacks, the road could very well have brought me deceptively close to civilization. Perhaps if I found out how to get down to the buildings, the people to whom the van and jeep belonged would be able to tell me something about Levin and the fire.
Intending to go back to the MG, I turned again and headed across the meadow. I was only a few feet from the redwood grove when I heard a buzzing sound close by. I stopped – and then I heard the crack of the shot.
I froze, then dove for the cover of the trees. A second shot cracked, and then another.
I landed on my hands and knees just beyond the first line of trees. Quickly I crawled deeper into their shelter, trying to figure out from which direction the shots had come. It was completely quiet now; even the cries of the birds were stilled. I crouched there, shaken, clutching a tree trunk.
The silence went on for what seemed forever. I strained my ears, but heard no one moving in the underbrush. The shots had come from close by; as near as I could tell, whoever had fired them was somewhere between me and the road where I’d left my car.
But who was it? Someone who now owned the land and didn’t like trespassers? But the land wasn’t posted or fully fenced. And didn’t reasonable people warn you before shooting?
Of course, this didn’t have to be a reasonable person.
I shivered, suddenly cold. The silence went on. I took the absence of bird calls to mean the sniper was still out there.
Was he waiting for me to make the next move? I could lay still, wait him out – but for how long? Until dark? That was hours away.
Slowly I began to move through the redwoods toward the ruins of the cabin. I stayed in a crouch, going from the trunk of one tree to another. When I got to the edge of the grove, I would have to run across open space to the ruins. It was only a short way, though, and once there I would have the foundation for protection. Then if I could get to the thicket by the creek –
Another shot rang out. I dropped to my stomach, cursing the pale pink blouse that made me easy to spot, even in the deep shade.
The shot, however, had helped me pinpoint its source; near the clearing on this side of the plank bridge. Possibly the sniper was using the tumbledown shed as cover.
After a few moments I began to move again, keeping as close to the ground as I could. If I could get to the thicket by the creek, I could wade across it and climb up the other bank to the road. The stand of sumac I’d come through earlier would screen my approach to the MG from anyone in the clearing by the shed. Providing the sniper hadn’t found the car and disabled it – a frightening possibility - I would then get the hell out of here.
I was at the edge of the redwoods now. Several yards away stood the ruins of the cabin. If I could get across that seemingly immense space, the foundation and chimney would shield me.
I dashed out from the shelter of the trees, leaped over the foundation, and hurled myself behind the chimney just as a bullet smacked into the stone wall a mere three feet from me. The shot echoed and then died away.
Lying there on my stomach, my nose in the ashes, I felt pure rage rise up to supplant my terror. Dammit, no one had the right to play this deadly kind of game with another human being!
I began inching through the rubble, determined to get to that thicket. When I reached the other side of the foundation, I raised myself and peered over it, braced to duck a bullet. Everything remained silent. I suppose my black hair was not noticeable against the charred debris, but when I stood up and started running, I would make a clear target. Still, I had to get to the road…
I leaped over the foundation and ran in a crouch for the protection of the thicket. Another shot sounded as I slid into the thicket on my knees. Stumbling to my feet, I fought through the underbrush, branches slapping my face and tearing at my clothes.
The creek was narrow at this point, and I waded into it, feeling the shock of the cold water through my tennis shoes. Then I was on the bank beyond, scaling the rocky slope that I hoped led to the road. I reached the top, gasping with relief when I saw the broken pavement.
Cautiously I stepped out a couple of inches and peered down the road. My car stood where I had left it. If the sniper had come across the countryside rather than along the road, there was a good chance he hadn’t even seen it.
I began moving down the road in the shelter of the underbrush. Since the last shot, I had heard nothing. Pausing at the entrance to the rutted driveway, I listened. Silence. I sprinted across the entrance and kept going.
There was a crashing in the sumacs to my left. I stopped, half panicked, only a few feet from my car. A deer came leaping from the trees. It cleared the road in a single bound and disappeared.
Weak with relief, I closed my fingers around the car keys in my pocket. Then I ran for the MG and jumped in. I hunched low in the seat and jammed the keys into the ignition. The car started on the first try.
I let out the clutch and gunned the MG wildly down the road.
12.
Boulder Creek was a bigger town than I’d imagined. It was the gateway to Big Basin State Park, and its streets were crowded with vans and campers, even though it was only May. There were lines at the filling stations, and people with wilderness gear lugged boxes of supplies out of the grocery stores. Even the bars were jammed. I took one look at the confusion and decided to go back to San Francisco.
I probably should have reported the sniping incident to the local law, but I’d decided there was no point in it. The sniper would be long gone, and talking to the police and giving a statement would only cause me unnecessary delay. I headed toward the freeway and drove north going over the incident in my mind, trying to make sense of it.
The person had definitely been shooting at me, but he hadn’t been aiming to kill. None of the bullets had come very close to me; he’d have to have been an exceptionally poor shot to have missed me so many times. No, his intention had been merely to scare me. But why not shout a warning and save his ammunition? I still didn’t understand.
Of course, the mountains down there had a reputation for harboring crazies. Bodies were frequently found in the wilderness and the nearby city of Santa Cruz had been dubbed, unofficially, the “murder capital of California,” due to more than one series of mass murders. So maybe I’d just crossed paths with one of the resident lunatics.
The city, with fog boiling in over the hills, was a welcome sight. I exited the freeway at Army Street, remembered to keep going straight rather than turn toward my old apartment at Guerrero, and in minutes I was home. Don’s gold Jaguar stood at the curb; I eased the MG in behind it.
He was in the living room, spackling the walls. When I came in he turned, wiping the putt
y knife on the tail of his old workshirt, a cheerful grin on his face. The grin faded when he saw me.
“What happened to you?”
I looked down at my jeans and pink blouse, which was grimy with soot.
Don waited.
“Somebody shot at me.”
“What!”
“A sniper. I don’t think he was trying to hit me, and I’m fine. Only a little dirty, that’s all.”
“Where did this happen?”
I told him, briefly, trying to minimize the seriousness of it. He listened, stroking his mustache. Finally he said, “You shouldn’t have gone down there alone.”
“I tried to call you, but you were out.”
“You should have waited.”
“Don, it’s my job. I couldn’t wait.”
“Yeah. Your job.” He turned away, set the putty knife down, and put the top back on the spackle.
I felt a sinking sense of déjà vu. This had happened before with other men. “Don, please don’t hate my job. It’s the most important part of my life; I have to do it. If you hate it, you’re also hating me.”
“Oh, babe.” He turned back, his face full of concern. “That’s not it at all. I’m just worried because I love you.”
Relief flooded through me. “I love you too.”
That was the way it had been with us since the day we met: simple, easy. How could I have thought he’d be like the others? “How did your tour of the studios go?” I said. “Did they play your demo tape?”
“Yes, and liked it a lot, I think. The studios are terrific, too. I’d never realized what a small operation KPSM is. What I could do in those studios…”
I felt a defensive tightening that was becoming all too familiar, followed by a flash of annoyance at myself. “Listen, Don,” I said, “I want to take a bath. Then you can tell me all about it.”
I spent close to an hour in the tub, periodically adding more hot water when the temperature cooled. I lay submerged, the ends of my hair trailing in the water, trying to make sense of this emotional rollercoaster ride. Finally, though, I had to get out and dry off. A bathtub is a good place to hide, but not indefinitely.
Leave a Message for Willie Page 9
