The Love-Haight Case Files

by Jean Rabe, Donald J. Bingle

  Chapter 3.15

  Thank God Javor Vujetic had caught her out on the street and that she’d subsequently taken his brother’s case! She had a law school loan to repay, and their little firm needed more clients and more income. She turned the loan payment schedule face down on her kitchen table, shoving it out of her mind for the moment. She’d write a check this afternoon when she got back, make sure she put it in the mail by the end of the week. If they ended up keeping the entire retainer, she’d get ahead on the payments and get some breathing room.

  Evelyn felt a little guilty about taking last night off to attend the church revival. But sometimes a good service buoyed her, which it had. She’d even put an extra five in the plate that was passed around.

  This morning her earworm was “It Ain’t the Whiskey,” a Gary Allen song she’d heard on the radio while surfing channels as the coffee brewed, and she couldn’t get it out of her head. Normally she didn’t like country music, favoring oldies rock when she ran. But this morning it was all “Whiskey.” She set her feet in time with the beat, which she’d tricked up a notch in her mind, and headed down the stairs from her apartment and up the street.

  It was drizzling. She didn’t mind running in the rain, since it wasn’t a downpour. She had good shoes and was dressed for it. The cool temperature would keep her from overheating on her eight-mile trek, and she tied her hoodie tight to keep her hair dry. Maybe she should have stopped down in the office and chatted with Thomas first, let him know what she was up to. But then she might have ended up talking a while, and she had, as the saying went, places to go and people to see. She wanted to catch Fahim Yar’Adua at home before he was up and about and doing whatever.

  She went north on Ashbury until she came to Waller. This early in the morning, she hadn’t expected many people out on the sidewalks, but there were restaurants advertising 6 a.m. specials, and so she slowed her pace and jogged in place when a bus from some senior center offloaded a gaggle of blue-haired ladies. She nearly joined them, the scents of fried eggs and bacon wafting out the opened door made her salivate. But she pushed on and headed left when she reached Masonic Avenue. The drizzle tapered and the next mile melted. She felt the cell phone vibrate in her pocket, but she wasn’t going to slow and answer it.

  A right onto Geary Boulevard and she lengthened her stride. The damp had seeped through her sweats, but she felt warm nonetheless, the burn spreading up from her legs. Evelyn recognized that she was an adrenalin junkie, and running was her drug. She did her best to feed the habit a couple of times a week. Geary became O’Farrell, and she started to notice more OTs on the sidewalk. Goblin-like creatures, a green-skinned hag, and a ghoul that politely stepped aside as she jogged by. She’d encountered several ghouls since going to work for Thomas, and every one of them had been relatively pleasant. One had even saved her life during a shootout in a restaurant kitchen two months past.

  Just past Larkin, Evelyn took a right on Hyde, having memorized the directions from checking her iPad before she left. Café Hurghada beckoned with wondrous smells, and she almost surrendered to them.

  “Only a few more blocks.” Evelyn spotted Ellis and turned again, slowing to a walk and checked the numbers on the businesses and apartment buildings. 650. That was it. She slipped inside. The small lobby was warm. The lone bench by the elevators was empty. She sat, put her hands on her knees and breathed deep and even, part of her cool-down routine.

  Then she unzipped her jacket, pushed the hoodie back, and fluffed her hair with her fingers. She’d take a few minutes to dry off … and to think. She’d intended to mull over the possibilities again on her way here, but that hadn’t happened. The streets were always too interesting and distracting and the song had kept playing in her head.

  Why had Dimitar been set up? That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it?

  Who planted the blood bags?

  What would Ginny Sams have to say? The director of the blood bank was next on Evelyn’s jogging route. And should she go back and talk to Dimitar later this morning? Open the possibility of pleading to a lesser charge?

  An avid reader, Evelyn had plenty of mystery novels in her apartment, as well as an assortment of police procedurals—Ed McBain was her favorite genre author, and she’d acquired a couple dozen of his 87th Precinct paperbacks through eBay. What would McBain’s Detectives Steve Carrella or Meyer Meyer think of this case?

  They’d think that Dimitar had made an enemy somewhere along the line.

  She’d found Yar’Adua’s address on the Internet. He’d moved from an efficiency on Geary a couple of months ago to this little-more-upscale building on Ellis. He didn’t have a Facebook or Twitter account, and a search of public records had revealed that he was twenty-eight, and had moved to this country with his parents from Waddan, Libya, when he was a small boy. He was single, and a graduate of Illinois Valley Community College in Oglesby, Illinois, moving to California seven years ago and spending the past four months working at the blood bank. His previous employment consisted of television commercial roles filmed for a small company in the city.

  Yar’Adua was on the fourth floor. She took the stairs up, pressed her ear to his door, and caught the strains of “Unbreak My Heart.” He was home, and awake. She tapped on the door. The cell phone vibrated in her pocket again.

  Fahim Yar’Adua’s smile was wide and white, and his bright green eyes wandered up and down to check Evelyn out. He was barefoot, wearing jeans and a 49ers T-shirt, thick gold chain around his neck, hair short and wet like he’d recently stepped out of the shower. He was good-looking, though bruises from a recent fight or fall marred it—a large one on the right side of his face, and more on both arms.

  “Well hellllo there,” he said. His voice had a good tone.

  “I’m Evelyn Love, and—”

  His friendly expression vanished and he shook his head and started to close the door. Evelyn was fast and caught her foot in it. “Look, Mr. Yar’Adua—”

  “D.A. told me not to talk to you, least not without him around. You want to talk to me, set something up through him.”

  “Please, just a couple of questions.”

  Yar’Adua sighed and opened the door a few inches. He didn’t move, clearly not wanting Evelyn to come in. She noticed that he favored his left leg.

  “You told police you saw Dimitar Vujetic—”

  “—steal blood. And so I reported it.”

  “Did you and Mr. Vujetic—”

  A deeper sigh. “I’m not an OT-hater, Mrs. Love.”

  Ms., Evelyn stopped herself from saying.

  “I got along with him. We weren’t friends, but we were friendly enough. Worked with him for the past three months. Hated to snitch on him.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “You’re not full time at the blood bank.”

  “Not many people are full time there. They keep a lot of us just under the limit. Saves them on insurance, you know. Besides, part-time lets me keep my schedule open for film work.” He flashed the smile again. His teeth were perfect, and Evelyn thought if they were any brighter she’d need sunglasses.

  “Did you and Dimitar ever argue or—”

  The smile disappeared. “Mrs. Love, I really shouldn’t be talking to you. If you want anything else, you’d better call the D.A.” He looked down at her foot and she pulled it back. He shut the door and she heard the lock turn.

  She did the mental calculations. Part time at the blood bank, Fahim Yar’Adua would earn at best $30,000 a year, according to salaries she researched on the Internet. A one bedroom apartment in this building rented for $2,360 a month—or roughly $28,000 a year. He’d been paid a flat fee for the commercials: $2,600, which she’d learned with a phone call to the production company. Didn’t look like he was earning enough to afford this place … and pay assorted living expenses. Gold chain around his neck.

  Detectives Steve Carella and Meyer Meyer would have said, “follow the money.” They�
�d probably think that Fahim Yar’Adua had been paid to frame Dimitar. That was certainly what Evelyn was thinking. Yar’Adua had access to the blood. He could’ve stolen the bags, and maybe he found a way into the vampire’s apartment and planted the stuff.

  O O O

  Two miles later, Evelyn jogged up to the entrance of the blood bank. She stood inside the entrance, watching the rain come down against the sidewalk. It was steady, and cars passing by on the street had windshield wipers going.

  Another half hour before the blood bank opened. Evelyn pressed her face to the glass door, hoping to see a secretary or someone else moving around inside. She tapped on the door, but no one showed themselves. Her cell phone buzzed again, and this time she answered it.

  “Gretchen. Hi.”

  “Where are you, sweetie?” Gretchen’s voice came across like tin wind chimes. “Came in early today. Been trying to call you.”

  Gretchen must have been the two calls she’d missed.

  “Sorry, I was working.”

  “Well, you better work yourself back over to the office.”

  “In a little while, Gretchen. I’m waiting for the blood bank to open. I want to talk to Ginny Sams.”

  Gretchen made a clucking sound. “Mrs. Sams is here. Sitting at my desk. Some Rizzo fellow—”

  “Manny Rizzo—”

  “That’s it, with the D.A.’s office. He’s on his way over. Wait, there he is. Just pulled up. Thomas says you need to be here for the pow-wow. Your vampire client’s going to get out of jail tonight.”

  Evelyn let out a hissing breath and closed her phone. “My case,” she said. “This is my case. My damn case.”

  She ran the miles back to the office, the chill February rain doing nothing to cool her simmering temper. This was her case, and it appeared that Thomas had found a way to settle it out of court or had come up with some plea agreement. Her case!

  Evelyn scolded herself for not stopping in the office before her morning run. Thomas might have sprung the news on her then. She wished she would have answered her cell the first time it buzzed.

  But if wishes were fishes, she’d have every one of them in the harbor served in a mound on her dinner plate. Her side ached from the exertion, and the welcome burn wasn’t as pleasant a sensation as usual. Her feet pounded against the sidewalk and the passersby and the business signs, the occasional OT … all of it became a blur.

  She turned up the volume on her mental “It Ain’t the Whiskey.” And was out of breath by the time she made it back to the office on Haight.

  Chapter 3.16

  Manny Rizzo and Ginny Sams sat on one side of the table, Evelyn and Gretchen on the other. Thomas sat cross-legged, floating off to the side. Dagger McKenzie was at the very back, in Evelyn’s chair, next the fridge, a can of beer held against the side of his swollen face.

  It looked like the private investigator had been through a war. There wasn’t a spot visible that wasn’t bruised or bloody, and his clothes were in tatters. His lower lip was purple, and his nose was at an ugly angle, clearly broken.

  She’d rushed right to him when she came in, but he waved her off and mouthed “later.” The look in his eyes told her not to argue.

  Gretchen pressed a button on the small recorder in the center of the table. “Mr. Rizzo and Mrs. Sams have already heard this a few times.”

  Evelyn listened: disco music, glasses clinking, punches thrown … and an admission of setting up Dimitar Vujetic to get his brother to pay protection money.

  Evelyn played it again, and sat back, closed her eyes.

  “My office will be dropping the charges against Mr. Vujetic later today,” Rizzo said. “Normally we’d have this meeting at the courthouse, but I figured this would be easier, and I was going to be in the neighborhood anyway.”

  Evelyn knew better. Manny Rizzo was here so the people in the D.A.’s office wouldn’t see or hear him settling the matter with an OT—Thomas. Rizzo was a good-looking man, chiseled features, and sandy-blond hair that put together could win him a spot in GQ. But had a smarmy aura, and to her his smile didn’t seem genuine.

  He continued: “And the police have launched an investigation into Hound activity in the Tenderloin. They’ll be doing a sweep. Hopefully some of the merchants will come forward to testify. And hopefully this time the Hounds will do real jail time.”

  “Not like in the city’s past,” Gretchen added.

  Rizzo straightened his tie. “With all the charges dropped, Mr. Vujetic will have a clean record, and Mrs. Sams says he can have his job back.”

  “A gem,” the woman said. She twirled a tight brown curl around her index finger. “Dimmy is one of our best employees. I told Mr. Rizzo here right away that Dimmy was innocent. And I’m going to fire Fahim.”

  “After he’s arrested,” Rizzo said.

  Evelyn cast her gaze at Dagger. It was painful looking at him.

  “Dagger got the recording.” Thomas supplied the obvious. “Pete’s idea, actually, sent Dagger out last night on a hunch.”

  “Pete?” Rizzo raised an eyebrow.

  “One of our assistants,” Evelyn said.

  Rizzo pushed back from the table and stood, reached across and shook Evelyn’s hand. She found the grip firm, the fingers calloused. Perhaps he had a manual-labor hobby.

  “I’m just so happy this is working out,” Sams said. “Thank you, Mrs. Love.”

  “Ms.”

  “Ms. Love. Thank you, Mr. Brock.” Sams nodded to the ghost. “I’ll pick Dimmy up at sunset, all right? Get him back to work tomorrow.”

  Rizzo nodded and held the door open for Mrs. Sams as they left.

  Evelyn peeled off her soaked jacket and let it hang on one finger. The drip-drip-drip was the loudest sound in the room. She’d rehearsed lines on her way here, things she intended to tell Thomas, that this had been her case and he’d been out of line to tie it all up with a neat little bow for her. She kept silent.

  Drip-drip-drip.

  He’d done nothing wrong, and it hadn’t been him who’d solved it all … it had been Dagger, because of a suggestion from Pete.

  It had been teamwork.

  “You have a bill for us, Dagger?” she asked.

  Dagger nodded and pointed to Gretchen.

  “It’s a rather large one,” Gretchen said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  “We’ve got the funds to pay it.” Evelyn wasn’t going to return any of the retainer. Looking at McKenzie, she knew the fee had been well-earned. “Good that Dimitar is a free man.”

  “Vampire,” Gretchen corrected.

  “I’ve got some regrets, Gretch.”

  The secretary reached out a hand and touched her. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “I was looking forward, you know, to going to trial. I could’ve won it. And it would’ve been some good publicity for us,” Evelyn admitted. “Might have attracted more clients, which we need. And maybe—”

  The bell jangled and the door opened. A troll ducked and squeezed through. Probably eight feet tall, with shoulders half again that wide, green-tinged flesh, and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Evelyn thought he could do stand-in work for the Incredible Hulk.

  “I need a lawyer,” he said, his voice rumbling and setting the tiles in the floor to tremble. “I heard youse guys was good.”

  “The best,” Evelyn said.

  Gretchen hurried to welcome him.

  O O O

  The celebration the next weekend at Javor’s restaurant occurred after dark, for obvious reasons—after the restaurant closed for the night, in fact. Thomas didn’t mind—after all, as a ghost, he no longer kept regular hours. Besides, this way the group had the place to themselves and the complete attention of the wait staff, not that Thomas could share in the gourmet fare.

  It was a small group. Just Thomas, Evelyn, and Gretchen from the office (Pete could not leave their office building, of course), along with Dagger, who was doing his best to consume Thomas’ and Pete’s share of the gastronomic
al delights as well as his own. They were joined by Dimitar, Javor, and a middle-aged woman dressed in a peasant blouse and colorful skirt, a bandana holding back her graying hair. When she had first arrived, Javor had introduced her to the group as his cousin, Nika.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Thomas, stepping forward from the group. He started to offer his hand, then drew it back, embarrassed. “Er, sorry. I forget I can no longer shake hands.”

  Nika smiled. “No offense taken, Mr. Brock. Spiritual connections are too often overlooked in favor of physical ones in this world. I am pleased to meet you, too.”

  Javor’s brow furrowed. “You two have not met before?”

  Thomas shook his head as he looked hard at Nika, trying desperately to scan his memory for any prior encounter. Through his roommate, Harry? Nothing. He turned to Javor. “Should we have?”

  Javor’s eyes skittered between the two of them. “Nika’s the one who recommended your firm, Mr. Brock. She recommended Evelyn Love to be Dimitar’s attorney.”

  “Oh,” said Thomas, “so you’ve met Evelyn before.” He turned to Evey as he spoke, but her face was a mask of confusion, too.

  Nika laughed. “Only in my dreams, Mr. Brock. Only in my dreams. You see, I am a psychic.…”

  Gretchen interrupted. “You’re the one who called … the day before Thomas’ … murder.”

  Nika’s face hardened as she looked over at Gretchen. “Yes, that was me. I really wish he’d returned my call. It was more important than you can imagine.”

  Thomas could see there was some kind of tension between the two women. No time for that at a celebration. Before Gretchen could respond, he interjected: “Next time you call, I promise to speak with you as soon as humanly … or other-than-humanly … possible.”

  “And I, in turn, promise to call only if it is a matter of life and death … or undeath.”

  “Er, well,” stammered Thomas, “that makes it hard to say that I look forward to your call. Doesn’t it?”

  Nika gave a guttural chuckle which showed her fangs. Like the rest of her family, she, too, was a vampire. “Looking forward is my business, Mr. Brock. Mind you heed that when I call.”