by Janet Dawson
I huffed my way up to the third floor and began knocking on doors. No one answered the door opposite Emory’s unit. At the next apartment an older woman talked to me through the door but refused to open it. I worked my way along the hall, asking questions of those people who were home and willing to talk with me.
Most of Emory’s neighbors didn’t know him, which wasn’t surprising. He worked nights and kept to himself. Finally I found myself face-to-face with a young man who lived in 306, two doors down from Emory.
“Emory’s kind of an odd bird. I don’t see much of him,” the neighbor said, after telling me his name was Damon. “But he had the carpet cleaned.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. It was one of those services. They bring in hoses and equipment. I remember because I tripped over one of the damn things. They had the hose snaked all the way down the stairs and out to this truck they’d parked here in front.”
I wondered why Ms. Gupta the manager hadn’t noticed this, if she was as observant as she claimed. “When was this?”
“It was sometime before Halloween,” Damon said. “About the time Tarala—the manager—was gone. Last week in October, I think.”
“Do you remember the name of the carpet cleaning service?”
He scratched his chin. “Hard to say. Magic Carpet? Magic Clean? Something like that.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Did you ever see him with a young woman, brown hair? About his age.”
Damon shook his head. “Never saw him with any girls. To tell you the truth,” he continued, quirking one dark eyebrow, “I thought he was gay.”
Just then another young man came trudging up the stairs, a big dark guy with broad sloping shoulders stretching the material of his tan raincoat. He carried a shopping bag in each hand, both crammed with wrapped and beribboned packages. “Got it all done, got it all done,” he muttered, repeating the mantra of the last minute shopper.
Damon laughed smugly, as though he’d had all his Christmas gifts bought and wrapped since Thanksgiving. “Hey, Tommy, lots of people down at the Emporium?”
“Wall-to-fucking-wall,” Tommy growled in a deep voice, setting down his burden as he fumbled for his keys. He looked at his neighbor, then at me, and my presence registered. “Sorry.”
“Tommy lives across the hall from Emory,” Damon told me. “Hey, Tommy, you ever seen Emory with a girl?”
“Yeah, a foxy-looking blonde. Definitely not his type.”
That would be Kara Jenner, I thought, reaching for my purse and the by now well-thumbed snapshot of Maureen. I handed it to Tommy. “How about this woman?”
Tommy peered at the photograph. “Maybe. Once or twice, couple of months ago, or maybe earlier. Can’t be sure. I don’t pay too much attention to Emory. He works nights, you know. What’s up? He in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said, netting raised eyebrows from both of Emory’s neighbors. I took the picture of Maureen from Tommy’s fingers. “This young woman was murdered. About the time Emory had his carpet cleaned.”
“Cleaned?” Tommy said. “I thought he got rid of it.”
I stared at him, thinking about what Sid told me about Maureen’s autopsy. Two kinds of fibers had been found on the body, from a rug or a carpet. After what Damon had told me, I’d already figured there had to have been something on Emory’s carpet that he didn’t want anyone else to see, something that prompted him to have it cleaned.
“Emory got rid of a rug? What are you talking about?”
Now Tommy looked confused. “Well, I guess it was a rug. An area rug. He said it was old and stained and he was hauling it to the dump. I saw him carry it out to his car. Held the door open for him, as a matter of fact. Saw him shove it into the back of that little Honda hatchback he’s got.”
“When was this?” I demanded.
Tommy seemed taken aback at the intensity of my voice. “Couple of months ago. October, I guess.” Now he and Damon both stared at me as though the thought already in my head was finally working its way into their brains. “You don’t think...?”
“Yes, I do.” I looked at Damon. “I need to use your phone.”
He stepped aside and gestured. I crossed the living room of his small apartment with both young men at my heels, and picked up the phone, punching in the number. When I got Homicide, I asked for Sergeant Vernon or Sergeant Hobart. A few seconds later Sid came on the line.
“Sid, how fast can you get a warrant to search an apartment?”
I was waiting for Sid and his warrant, standing in the upstairs hallway with Damon and Tommy. I heard the brisk thump of footsteps on the stairs below and walked over to see who was climbing to the third floor. It was Stuart Marland. He had a scowl on his face and he didn’t see me until I stepped in front of him. Then he looked surprised.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, poised a couple of steps below me.
I grinned like a shark that’s just spotted dinner swimming overhead and zoomed in for the kill.
“I just had a very interesting conversation with Kara Jenner,” I said, keeping my voice low. “About a party at her parents’ house three years ago. When you and your friends gang-raped Maureen Smith.”
His face went pale above the dark green scarf he had wrapped loosely around his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t.”
I moved forward, backing him down to the landing between the floors. “You and some of your college pals were home on spring break. Kara took advantage of her parents’ absence to have a party, fueled by some illicit booze and drugs, no doubt brought by those of you who were over twenty-one, or just barely. Maureen had a crush on you and she was flirting with you. So you decided to do something about it. You took her upstairs and you and your friends raped her.”
“It wasn’t like that at all,” he sputtered, his face chalk-white.
“The hell it wasn’t. Kara saw you and your buddies zipping up your pants as you came out of the bedroom. The same room where she found Maureen, naked and crying with bruises on her arms and shoulders.”
“I didn’t force her to go upstairs,” he protested. I had him backed into a corner now, his shoulders against the red-and-white-flocked wallpaper. His eyes shifted back and forth as he looked for an escape. Damon and Tommy watched from the upper hallway, fascinated at this new twist in tonight’s drama, but they made no move to interfere.
“Spare me the line about how she was asking for it.” My voice would have withered holly. “Spare me the line about how you got carried away. It doesn’t matter if she was drunk. Or you were drunk or stoned. You raped Maureen Smith. After you were done, it sounds as though you stood around and watched your friends do the same thing.”
I didn’t have any proof of my accusation, but as I spoke I saw the guilty truth in his face. “She was barely eighteen and she ran away from home the following week. She had a baby, wound up homeless and on the streets, and now she’s dead. You and Kara bear some responsibility for that, with that big wall of silence you built. And Emory. Was Emory in the room when you and your friends raped Maureen? I know he took her home that night.”
I paused for breath but Stuart didn’t take the opportunity to answer my question. “Tell me something, Stuart. Did you call Emory after I left your office today?” He nodded, looking frightened. “I thought so. Someone pushed me in front of a BART train this morning. I’ve been in a bad mood ever since. Bad enough to think that person might have been you, or Emory. And that both of you had something to do with Maureen Smith’s murder.”
His voice sputtered to life again. “You’re crazy. I hadn’t seen her since that night. I didn’t even know she was dead until you told me.”
“What about Emory?”
“He said something about seeing her once, earlier in the year.” Stuart shook his head as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But he never said anything about her bein
g dead.”
“He saw her more than once. She was seen getting into his car, Stuart. Sometime around the first of October.” I pointed up at Tommy, who was leaning over the railing staring at me and Stuart. “And one of his neighbors says she was here at the apartment. Maureen’s body was found on a lot that was burned out in the Oakland fire. The house used to belong to a Mr. and Mrs. Kelton.”
I stopped, long enough to watch the name sink into his brain. “After the fire they moved in with some relatives named Van Alt. Same name as your stepfather.”
“My aunt,” he said. “Well, she’s not really my aunt. She’s my stepfather’s sister.”
“You and Emory would know about that lot. Such a convenient place to dispose of a body.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with her death,” he protested.
“Then why did you call Emory?” I demanded. “To compare stories? And what are you doing here tonight?”
“I was Christmas shopping,” he said.
I stared at him incredulously, waiting for some connection.
“My credit card,” Stuart explained. “He’s been using my credit card. I went to use it tonight at Nordstrom, and it’s over the limit. I talked to the credit card company and found out someone’s charged some plane tickets. It had to be Emory. He’s used my card before. But now he’s maxed out my credit card. I came over here to have it out with him, when he gets home from the theater.”
“Plane tickets to where? When?” I demanded.
“To Mexico,” Stuart said, cowed by the intensity of my voice. “On American, at two o’clock tomorrow morning, out of San Francisco International.”
I backed away from Stuart, looking at my watch. It was past ten, less than four hours before that flight left. Over at the Paramount Theatre the dancers were nearing the end of their performance. Emory wasn’t coming home from the theater tonight. He was probably already packed, planning to drive to the airport as soon as The Nutcracker ended.
I looked up at Tommy and Damon. “Sit on this clown until the cops get here. When they do, tell Sergeant Vernon I’m going over to the Paramount. I think Emory’s planning to run.”
Forty-four
PARAMOUNT.
The green, red, and blue neon sign towered above the rain-washed pavement of Broadway, bracketed by its mosaic of the puppeteers and the arts, an oasis of light in the downtown darkness of Oakland. Below it, the slanting marquee spanned the main entrance, white neon on a black background announcing this evening’s performance of The Nutcracker. Just below the bright lights of the soffit were four words in metal letters. THE PARAMOUNT GREETS YOU, they read, but the opaque glass doors leading into the Grand Lobby were closed.
I glanced at my watch as I cut through the parking lot at the corner, trying to remember how long the performance lasted. Surely the ballet must be nearing its completion. I moved quickly along Twenty-first Street, past the box office entrance, where a uniformed security guard stood chatting with an older man whose black jacket marked him as an usher. Another seventy-five feet or so and I reached the theater’s two stage-door entrances. One was a wide door with a ramp, used for moving large sets and other equipment into the theater. Right next to it was a smaller single door. Tonight it was ajar. I saw a couple of stagehands standing just outside, smoking cigarettes, hugging the building to keep out of the rain.
I stepped up to the door as though I belonged in the theater. As I moved toward the opening, one of the stagehands held out a restraining hand. “Hey, you can’t go in there.”
“I have to,” I told him. “It’s an emergency. Have to talk to Emory Marland.”
“Emory who?” The speaker was a man about my age. He looked at his companion, an older man whose balding head was covered with freckles and age spots.
“You know,” the other man said. “Big towheaded kid.”
“I really do need to talk with him.” I edged closer to the door, ready to dodge inside at the first opportunity.
The older man cocked his head, listening, and I listened too. Music wound its way out onto this rainy sidewalk, reaching a crescendo. Soon it would descend to its finish. I identified the scrap of melody and tried to recall what came next. I searched my memory, trying to sort out the order of the score as it was on the conductor’s stand. I glanced at my watch. I knew the ballet was almost over. When the dancers stopped and took their bows, Emory Marland would be out of here, on his way to San Francisco International to catch that early morning flight to Mexico.
The two stagehands sensed from the music that their presence was required for the next scene change. At one accord they dropped their cigarettes to the wet pavement and moved into the doorway, blocking any hopes I had of going through with them.
“We’ll tell Emory you’re here,” the younger one said. “Soon as he’s free, he’ll be out. What’s your name?”
“Kara Jenner,” I told him. “Jeez, it’s cold out here, guys.” I pressed toward the tantalizing inside space where I glimpsed people and lights and heard the music reach its final peak. “Can’t I just wait backstage?”
“Sorry.” The older stagehand shut the door. But not quite. I stuck my hand and foot into the space just as it closed, wincing in pain. Now I had another ache to go with the ones I already had. The two stagehands didn’t see me open the door again. Their backs were to me as they hurried toward the stage for the scene change.
The applause of the audience washed from the auditorium over the orchestra and onto the stage. I cautiously made my way into the area between the stage and this level’s dressing rooms. To my left were the stairs leading to the upper level dressing rooms. There was a security guard here too, but he wasn’t watching the door. I saw his profile, farther to my left, as he chatted with one of the dancers in the doorway of the Green Room.
There were two entrances onto the stage itself. I knew from the tour that the one farther away, on my left, led to the light board. The route was likely to be crowded. But so was this nearest entrance, ahead and to my right. There were dancers clustered here, waiting in the wings, listening to the music and waiting for their cues. Bathed in the diffused light from the spots shining on the stage, they looked like wraiths and fairy spirits as I moved toward this inner sanctum.
Just inside this doorway, opening onto the back reaches of the stage, I looked to my left. Three stagehands, none of them Emory, manned the dizzying array of ropes and counterweights controlling the pipes that stretched high and wide above the stage, holding the backdrops and cyclorama. On the other side of the proscenium I heard the applause winding down. There was a rush and whisper of movement, and the wooden stage flooring creaked as dancers’ feet sought their ordained positions. A slight dry cough from one of the men standing at the light board, then a sotto voce comment from the stage manager. The orchestra began to play. I looked through the wings onto the brightly lit stage as the dancers joined in “The Waltz of the Flowers.”
I searched the backstage faces, looking for Emory Marland among the stage crew and the dancers, wondering whether to risk an inspection of the Green Room or the dressing areas. Maybe he was down in the trap room or the performers’ lounge, beneath the stage. But I couldn’t risk going down there.
Now the two stagehands I’d encountered earlier came toward me, readying another scene change. I turned and ducked my head, moving from the stage to the entryway just off the dressing rooms. But they were so intent on their work they didn’t spot me. “The Waltz of the Flowers” ended and applause and shouts of “Bravo” came hurtling at the orchestra and the dancers. Then there was a flurry of movement. Dancers darting offstage, lights dimming, stagehands pulling on the ropes and moving sets into place for this next and final scene, as Tchaikovsky’s Christmas fantasy ended. Soon the dancers would take their final bows and the audience would filter out of the auditorium. My chances of finding Emory Marland were getting slimmer with each hand clap.
Then I saw him.
He was on the other side of the stage, standing in
the wings, gazing out at the dancers. Was there an exit to the exterior of the theater over there? I couldn’t remember. He turned and moved toward the rear of the stage, narrower on that side than it was here. I moved with him, mirroring his actions. Suddenly the wings were crowded with dancers. The music ended again. Again the applause and “Bravos” rose to greet the dancers.
Emory began to move toward me, crossing the stage behind the backdrop as the dancers took their bows. He was holding a sword in his hands, a stylized prop from the Nutcracker’s battle with the Rat King. He walked quietly so as not to announce his presence, his head down as he watched where he was putting his feet He had almost reached this side of the stage when one of the hands I’d seen earlier turned and stared at me, surprised.
“Hey,” he said in a normal voice, audible under the blanket of applause. “I told you that you couldn’t come back here. You can’t talk to Emory till he’s done working.”
Emory looked up when he heard his name. He was about ten feet from me. When he saw me, he knew why I was there. Time seemed suspended as one second or two stretched under the steady clapping of hands. Then he hurled the sword at me. The sword glanced off my upraised arm then clattered to the floor, attracting the attention of the hands at the ropes and the light board.
“What the hell’s going on back there?” I heard someone say. Emory turned and ran, back the way he’d come. I followed him out onto the stage behind the backdrop, conscious of the entire cast of The Nutcracker taking their bows just on the other side of that expanse of hanging cloth, determined not to let Emory get away.
On the other side of the stage Emory dodged another stagehand and one of the principal dancers in the cast, waiting in the wings for his bow. Emory disappeared into the stairwell. He was heading down into the trap room. I was right behind him, two and three steps at a time. He darted across the concrete floor as above us the stage creaked with the many feet of the ballet’s cast. I passed the ramp leading to the orchestra pit and saw him nearly bowl over someone who was just emerging from the performers’ lounge. I gained a few feet on him in this corridor. Then he turned right. He was sprinting up the long narrow tunnel that ran under the Paramount auditorium. Ahead of us a cross corridor led to the theater’s administrative offices. He could get out that way. But as I narrowed the gap between us, I suddenly realized where he was headed.
