Cold Serial Murder

by Abramson, Mark

  “I was all right!” Jason laughed some more. “All they lost was a bottle of grenadine.”

  Tim looked down at the bottom shelf and saw the back-up bottles of sweet and dry vermouth, Rose’s lime juice, triple sec, sweet and sour mix and grenadine. Tim pictured the pool of Jason’s blood on his kitchen floor where he’d found him. “You could have been killed!” Tim heard his own voice telling Jason again.

  He had to get out of here. He wanted another hit off the joint in his pocket. Maybe that would help turn off the pictures in his head - if not the voices. He finished his beer on the way to the front door.

  Outside, Tim headed north on Folsom Street toward the Hole in the Wall. He lit the joint. His lungs filled with smoke. That stupid song about a white wedding started playing in his head again and Tim knew it would be stuck there for the rest of the night.

  Ruth was busy at Arts that night, just as Artie had predicted. Patrick seemed edgy and a little too loud. Ruth suspected he was stoned on something besides marijuana. She was tempted to ask Artie about it, but maybe she was only imagining things. According to the evening news, there’d been another cocaine bust at the port of Oakland last week. Ruth tried to remember when they were all laughing about Ethel Merman and she hadn’t fully understood the joke. She’d never read that weekly newspaper they were talking about… something about world news. She still took the New York Times at home in Edina, plus the Star and Tribune, but here she only got her news from the Chronicle and the television. The SF Examiner had turned into a right-wing tabloid endorsing the McCain/ Palin ticket, so whenever Ruth saw one it went in the nearest trash can.

  She was trying to remember the rest of what they said that day. Didn’t Jake ask Patrick if he’d been snorting something? It wasn’t cocaine, though… china? Maybe he’d said crystal. Ruth didn’t know much about drugs except what was in the news. She knew that her nephew Tim liked to smoke marijuana, but that seemed harmless enough. Ruth’s own experiments with pot had mostly been back in her college days at Stanford when they drove into the city and tried to fit in by pretending to be weekend hippies on Haight Street.

  Arturo stuck his head out of the kitchen and hollered at Ruth, “Where is Patrick?”

  “I’m not sure, Arturo. He was here a minute ago. I heard him ask some guys at the bar if they were looking for Tina, but I haven’t seen any girls around. All three of them have disappeared now. They were sitting right here where these empty glasses are. I guess they’ve finished their drinks.”

  “Can you read what this says, Ruth?”

  She looked down at the dinner check in Arturo’s hand, but she had no clue. “There they are on the sidewalk. Here comes Patrick now.”

  “Patrick. Come here. I can’t tell your Bs from your Ps from your Rs when you squiggle like that. If you want your customers to get the food they ordered, you’re going to have to make a better attempt at writing legibly!”

  “Sorry, Arturo…”

  It slowed down after the dinner rush. Other than a few romantic couples at isolated tables, most of the stragglers were gathered around the piano. Viv was plunking out requests and her tip jar was overflowing. Ruth noticed that there’d been no sign of Roy tonight. By midnight Artie told Ruth he could handle things alone if she wanted to go home.

  “But Artie, you’ve been working non-stop since Jason died. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go home early? I wouldn’t mind closing up for you tonight.”

  “No thanks. There’s some paperwork I need to do. That’s what comes of owning the place. We have to hire another bartender pretty soon, but first we want to see how this new kid works out. Arturo says he’s a big help in the kitchen. I’ll have to ask Jake and Patrick how he’s doing for them on the floor as their busboy. You go on home. You’ve been wonderful.”

  When Ruth got back to Tim’s apartment there was no sign of her nephew. It felt strange to be coming into the empty apartment all alone. She wondered if she should be worried about Tim or anything else, but it was Saturday night. She hoped he was out having a good time on his own and Ruth fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Sunday morning church bells woke her. Then there were distant sirens and she tip-toed down the hall to put on the coffee, but Tim’s bedroom door was open and there was no sign that he had ever returned. Now she started to worry. She went to the gate for the Sunday paper and by the time the coffee was ready she heard Tim’s key in the door. “Good morning, dear. Did you have a nice night? I was just about to put out a missing person’s report.”

  “Aunt Ruth, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m a big boy. I would have called, but by the time I thought of it, I was sure you’d be asleep.” He was still carrying his leather cap in his hand and hung it on the coat tree inside the door.

  Ruth had never seen him in full leather before, but she decided not to mention it. “Did you have some adventures… meet anyone new, dear?”

  “Not exactly,” Tim said as he sat down at a kitchen chair to unzip his chaps. “He was someone Jason and I met together a while back. His name was Ed. We were both thinking about Jason, I guess, and both of us in the same sort of mood. He invited me back to his apartment, but it was a little strange without Jason there… different… almost like Jason was watching, like last time. It was pleasant enough.”

  “I’m glad you had a nice time, dear.” Ruth didn’t want to hear the details of Tim’s sexual exploits; she was just glad to know he was all right and got home safe and sound. “I just picked up your paper and put on the coffee a few minutes ago. You know, Tim, I’ve been thinking… about the latest murder, I mean.”

  Tim had walked down the hallway to his bedroom. He yelled back, “Sorry, I’ve gotta get out of this leather. I can still hear you, though. Thinking what?”

  “Well, wouldn’t the pizza place where that French boy worked have the addresses of all the orders where he was supposed to deliver on the night he was killed?”

  “Probably…” Tim put his boots back in their box and felt twenty pounds lighter. Who knew when he’d have the opportunity to wear them again?

  “So I was thinking… If we could find out where he worked, then maybe we could take a trip over there and act friendly and see if anyone would talk…”

  “Hold on there just a minute, Nancy Drew!” Tim reappeared in the kitchen in gym shorts and a tee-shirt. “Is there any more coffee in that pot or did you drink it all yourself?”

  “No, I told you I just made it. There’s plenty.”

  “Great. I need some.”

  “You just sit down and relax and have some coffee and then think about this pizza angle. Are you hungry? Want some breakfast?”

  “No, not yet.” He opened the back door and quickly closed it again. “Brrr…It’s freezing out there. It was a good night for leather, that’s for sure. I still forget how cold it can get sometimes in San Francisco.” He leafed through the Sunday paper and started separating the ads from the news.

  “Well?” Ruth asked. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About the pizza idea, silly.”

  Tim took a long sip of his coffee. “I think it’s too easy. I mean… the police would have already thought of that, wouldn’t they? If it was that simple they would have already found the killer and made an arrest by now.”

  “Don’t you have friends in the police department? Couldn’t you find out? What about those two who were here the other day to question us when they picked up the knife I found? Couldn’t you call and ask them?”

  “I don’t know…” Tim was hesitant. “I think some of these gay cops are a prime example of taking a uniform fetish one step too far.”

  “But you could at least ask him, couldn’t you?”

  “You know those cops you’re talking about… the ones who stopped by here the other day? I’d met the woman at a fundraiser at Arts, but the guy…”

  Tim was stirring his coffee and his voiced trailed off into such a long silence Ruth couldn’t wait
any longer. “Yes… the guy? What about him?”

  “Well, I tricked with him once, shortly before I met Jason. It was okay, but no great shakes, nothing serious. Anyhow… he knew Jason and he certainly knew about it when Jason and I got together. It wasn’t like I had to spell it out to him why I wasn’t interested in getting together with him again. The whole neighborhood knew about Jason and me… the whole town!”

  “What does this have to do with…”

  “The other day when they stopped by here, he started making innuendos about getting together with me again, now that Jason is gone. I really didn’t appreciate him coming onto me like that, especially under the circumstances.”

  “I see,” Ruth said. Once again, she didn’t want to know the details of Tim’s sex life, but she was curious about what they might be able to find out. “Well, what about that police woman, then? She seemed nice enough.”

  “Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her. Still, it’s a long shot. It’s like I already said… if it were that easy they would have thought of it. I don’t know what her schedule is.” He reached for the phone and they were both surprised within a few moments when Tim began speaking to the policewoman he was looking for at Mission Station.

  She must have just finished the night shift, Ruth thought, or was starting a new day. Ruth tried to listen in on Tim’s end of the conversation as he relayed her suggestion to check the pizza deliveries. Then all she could hear was Tim saying, “Uh-huh… yeah, hmmm…yup… yeah… but what about the orders? Uh-huh… I thought so… the computer? Oh, I see… Uh-huh…yeah, that makes sense… aw, darn it… so even if they… well, that explains that, I suppose… thanks a lot. Sure thing… yup… seeya.”

  “What did she say?” Ruth was on the edge of her seat and brimming with questions, but she let Tim talk first, before he could forget anything. If it had been her on the phone, she would have been taking notes.

  “She said the police went to the pizza place first thing, Aunt Ruth. From what I could gather, whenever a call comes in for a delivery, they punch everything into a computer: name, address, phone number… size of pizza, what all they want on it—sausage, mushrooms, extra cheese—and if they want any extras, side-dishes or soft drinks. They’ll even sell you and deliver a six-pack of beer.”

  “Yes? Go on…” Ruth was sure they’d really hit upon something now.

  “If it’s a regular customer they’ll already have the address on file. They keep everything in their database, so they know where to target their advertising. It tells them how much pepperoni to order and things like that. If someone has been a regular customer for a long time and they don’t place an order for a few months, the computer automatically sends up a flag that lets the management know. Maybe they’ve found someplace cheaper to order their pizza. Or maybe they’ve moved out of the area. Anyway, they know to send that person a special flyer, maybe with a discount coupon in order to lure them back. If they don’t hear back or if they find out the person is no longer living at that address, they’ll try to find them or else they can remove their name from the database entirely. It’s all well organized in the computer age.”

  “This is wonderful, Tim!” Ruth said.

  “Yes, it would have been. Their computer ought to have been able to give the police all sorts of information.”

  “Yes? And? What happened?”

  “Their computer was down that night.”

  “No!”

  “And whenever that happens, they go back to the old-fashioned way; they write the orders down on paper. But they don’t keep carbon copies anymore.” Tim stopped talking long enough to take a sip of his coffee.

  “I can’t believe the killer would have such luck,” Ruth poured herself another cup while mulling over every word Tim said.

  “Do they even make carbon paper anymore?” Tim asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The only pizza orders the police could find—the paper kind—were taped to the four pizzas that were still in the big thermal envelope in the back seat of the car. The only information they got from them was the names and addresses of four customers who never got their pizzas that night. They might have been hungry and angry, but that doesn’t implicate them in the French boy’s murder. “

  “Darn it!” Ruth said. “It seemed like such a good idea.”

  “It was, Aunt Ruth. It was a great idea. Keep thinking. Maybe you’ll come up with an even better one.”

  Chapter 12

  Monday morning dawned clear and bright for a change. During the past few days of fog, Tim and Ruth had been talking about going on a little trip somewhere if the weather ever turned nice again. After a lengthy discussion they decided on a ferryboat ride across the bay to have lunch in Tiburon.

  Once she was out on the water and admiring the views, Ruth began to feel depressed at the thought that her flight back to Minnesota was only a few days away. “Tim, I don’t want to go home and leave this beautiful place. Look! There’s Alcatraz. There’s nothing like that at home. The Minnesota State prison at Stillwater isn’t nearly as romantic!”

  “No, I guess it isn’t,” Tim laughed. “So don’t go. Stay here.”

  “Really? Do you really think I should stay? In San Francisco, I mean… not in your little apartment. I should have been out of your way a long time ago!”

  “You’re not in my way, Aunt Ruth.”

  “You’re just saying that to be kind and I love you for it.” She inhaled the salt air deeply and smiled into the sun. “I’m not sure what I have to go back there for, anyway…”

  “So move to San Francisco,” Tim encouraged her. “It would be great! You can stay with me until you find a place. I’ll help you look for a nice little apartment in the neighborhood. I see FOR RENT signs all over the place.” They strolled to the uppermost deck of the ferry with the San Francisco skyline growing smaller in the distance.

  “I don’t know. Have you looked at the prices on some of those signs?” Ruth asked. “Rent on a studio apartment in San Francisco costs more than mortgage payments on a four-bedroom house in most parts of the country! At least my house in Edina is paid for.”

  “But how often do you drive to Stillwater to admire some ugly prison?” Tim asked and they both laughed. “You even told me the other day that the cracks in the sidewalks here grow prettier flowers than your garden in Minnesota.”

  “Well… that would be especially true in January, I’ll have to admit. The snow shovels tend to chop them off. Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “I’m skeptical about the coffee they serve on the ferry.” Tim was looking down and behind them at their wake. “I’ve heard they make it with the water right out of the bay. It’s pretty vile stuff.”

  “Oh, Tim… you’re joking.”

  Tim looked at his watch. “It’s past noon. Let’s live it up and have a Bloody Mary. How bad can they be? Come on. The bar is one level down.”

  When they disembarked in Tiburon, it was only a few steps up the dock to Guayma’s restaurant. The host seated them outdoors on the lower deck with the sounds of seagull cries overhead and waves lapping at the rocks nearby. “They have terrific margaritas, here, Aunt Ruth. How does that sound?”

  “Delicious. I wonder how they compare to Teresa’s… or mine.”

  “Those Bloody Marys on the boat were pretty bad, weren’t they?”

  “I wasn’t going to mention it, but they tasted almost metallic and there was a strange spice in that mix. Maybe oregano?”

  “I don’t know what it was.” Tim looked up at the cute waiter who’d appeared out of nowhere, “We’d like to start with two of your best margaritas, please.”

  They both decided on salmon and salad for lunch and let the waiter talk them into some decadent chocolate desserts afterward.” I can see why you like this place,” Ruth said. “Not only the view is great, but the food is delicious.”

  They watched their waiter bring a plate piled high with steaming shellfish to the next table. “He’s
not bad looking, either,” Tim said.

  “I think he’s been flirting with you.”

  “Nah, he’s just being a good waiter. I never hesitate to flirt with my customers either, if it means a bigger tip.”

  The waiter turned slightly toward them and smiled knowingly before heading back inside. “He is definitely flirting with you Tim,” Ruth insisted. “But you work on Castro Street in the city. Why would he even imagine way over here in Tiburon that it would do him any good to flirt with you? He doesn’t even know you… does he?”

  “Gaydar!” Tim announced. “It works everywhere in the world—even in Timbuktu… or so I’ve been told. I haven’t actually gone there to try it.”

  After dessert they lingered over coffee. “Seriously, Aunt Ruth… I’d love it if you moved here. Arturo and Artie need to hire another bartender to take Jason’s place and the customers adore you. Not everyone has a job lined up before they decide to move here. You could stay with me until you find a place. It’ll be perfect! ”

  “I don’t need to work, but I’d be glad to help out until they find someone permanent. I’m so tempted,” she said as she stared out across the bay at the San Francisco skyline. “Back home there’s nothing but a big empty house waiting for me and an ex-husband I only speak to when we have to sign papers. I’ve got my charity work, of course, but they could get along without me. They were always more interested in the checks I forced Dan to write when we were married than in any of my suggestions. It’s true, if I could sell the house in Edina I’d have quite a nest egg, but not in this economy. Still, I have my own money and my alimony.”

  “You never did tell me why you and Dan split up,” Tim said hesitantly. He didn’t want to pry, but this seemed as good a time as any to clear the air. “I sure didn’t see that coming, did you?”

  “It was the oldest story in the book,” Ruth sighed.

  “You mean another woman?”