The big man saw the shock of unmistakable recognition in the pawnbroker’s face. “I, I can’t believe . . .” Silverman stammered, then ran out of words.
Shaking his head in frustration and disgust—their good plan was all in tatters now—he stood up slowly and took three steps toward the old man, as though he planned to have a conversation with him. He did speak, but only to say, “Ah, shit, Sam.”
Then he raised the gun and shot him twice in the chest.
The streetlights on O’Farrell came on as assistant patrol special Matt Creed, working Thirty-two, came around the corner a long block down on Market. Though Creed had been on the beat less than a year, when he heard the squeal of the burglar alarm and saw the two men breaking out of a storefront ahead of him on a dead run, he knew what he was seeing.
“Hey! Hold on!” he yelled into a gust, over the alarm and the wind. To his surprise, the men actually stopped long enough to look back at him. Creed yelled again and, moving forward now, reached down to clear his jacket and unholster his weapon. But he hadn’t gone five steps when—
Crack!
Unmistakably, a gunshot. Brickwork shattered by his head, rained down over him. Creed ducked against the front of the nearest building. Another man broke from the door of Silverman’s shop. Less than a half block separated them now, and Creed stood, stepped away from the building into the lamplight, and called again. “Hold it! Stay where you are!”
The figure stopped, whirled toward him and without any hesitation extended his arm. Creed caught a quick glint of shining steel and heard the massive report and another simultaneous ricochet. It was the first time he’d been fired at and for that moment, during which his assailant broke into a run, he half ducked again and froze.
By the time he’d recovered, raised his own weapon, and tried to level it with both shaking hands, the third man had disappeared with the other two, and there was no real opportunity to shoot. Creed broke into a full run and reached the corner in time to get a last glimpse of what seemed to be a lone fleeing shadow turning right at the next corner. Vaguely aware of pedestrians hugging the buildings on both sides of the street, he sprinted the length of the block along the cable car tracks, past the trees that incongruously sprang from the pavement near the end of the Powell Street line.
By the time he got down to the cable car turnaround at Market, it was over. There was no sign of any of them. They’d probably split up and gone in separate directions. But even if they had stayed together, which Creed would have no way of knowing, they could go in any one of six or seven directions from this intersection—streets and alleys within a half block in every direction, each a potential avenue of escape. The turnaround also marked the entrance to the subterranean BART station.
And since Creed hadn’t gotten close enough to get a good look at any of them, as soon as his three men stopped running, they would look like anyone else. He had a sense that the man who’d fired at him was bigger than the other two, but that was about it.
A fresh gust of wind brought on its front edge a wall of water as the drizzle became a downpour. Creed heard the insistent keening, still, of Silverman’s alarm. He took a last look down Market, but saw nothing worth pursuing. He looked down at his gun, still clenched tight in his right hand. Unexpectedly, all at once, his legs went rubbery under him.
He got to the nearest building and leaned against it. He got his gun back into its holster, buttoned the slicker over his jacket against the rain, began to jog back to Silverman’s. It didn’t take him a minute.
Still, the alarm pealed; the door yawned open. The shop’s interior lights illuminated the street out front. Creed drew his gun again and stood to the side of the door. Raising his voice over the alarm, he called into the shop. “Is anybody in there?” He waited. Then, even louder, “Mr. Silverman?”
Remembering at last, he pulled his radio off his belt and told the dispatcher to get the regular police out here. With his gun drawn, he stepped into the light and noise of the shop. But he saw or heard nothing after catching sight of the body.
The victim might have been napping on the floor, except that the arms were splayed unnaturally out on either side of him. And a stream of brownish-red liquid flowed from under his back and pooled in a depression in the hardwood floor.
The skin on Sergeant Inspector Dan Cuneo’s face had an unusual puffiness—almost as though he’d once been very fat—and it gave his features a kind of bloated, empty quality, not exactly enhanced by an undefined, wispy brown mustache that hovered under a blunt thumbprint of a nose. But his jaw was strong, his chin deeply cleft, and he had a marquee smile with perfect teeth. Tonight he wore a black ribbed turtleneck and black dress slacks. He was a professional and experienced investigator with an unfortunate arsenal of nervous habits that were not harmful either to his own or to anyone else’s health. They weren’t criminal or even, in most cases, socially inappropriate. Yet his partner, Lincoln Russell—a tall, lean African-American professional himself—was finding it increasingly difficult to tolerate them.
Russell worried about it. It reminded him of how he’d gotten to feel about his first wife Monica before he decided he was going to have to divorce her if he wasn’t going to be forced to kill her first. She wasn’t a bad person or an unsatisfactory mate, but she had this highly pitched laugh that, finally, he simply couldn’t endure any longer. She’d end every sentence, every phrase almost, with a little “hee-hee,” sometimes “hee-hee-hee,” regardless of the topic, as though she was embarrassed at every word, every thought, every goddamned impulse to say anything that passed through her brain.
By the last few weeks of their cohabitation, Russell would often find himself in a high rage before he even got to their front door, merely in anticipation of “Hi, honey, hee-hee,” and the chaste little kiss. His fists would clench.
He knew it wasn’t fair of him, wasn’t right. It wasn’t Monica’s fault. He’d even told her about how much it bothered him, asked her politely more than several times if she could maybe try to become aware of when she did it, which was all the time. And perhaps try to stop.
“I’ll try, Lincoln; I really will. Hee-hee. Oh, I’m sorry. Hee . . .”
One of the things he loved most about Dierdre, his wife now of eleven years, was that she never laughed at anything.
And now his partner of six years, a damn good cop, a nice guy and the other most intimate relationship in his life, was starting to bother him the way Monica had. He thought it possible that this time it could truly drive him to violence if he couldn’t get Dan to stop.
Here, on this miserable night, for example, they had been called to a homicide scene just outside the Tenderloin, some poor old bastard beaten up and shot dead. And for what? A few hundred bucks? No sign of forced entry to his shop. Nobody even tampered with the safe. Botched robbery, was Russell’s initial take on it. Probably doped-up junkers too loaded to take the stuff they came for. But a tragic scene. It’s looking like the guy’s married forever—an old lady’s picture on the desk. Kids and grandkids on the wall. Awful. Stupid, pointless and awful.
And here’s his partner humming “Volare” to beat the band: humming while the young beat guy, Creed, all traumatized, is giving his statement to them; humming as he follows the crime scene photographer around snapping pictures of everything in the store; humming while the coroner’s assistant is going over body damage, occasionally breaking into words in both Italian and English. “Volare, whoa-oh, cantare, oh, oh, oh, oh . . .”
Now it’s ten-thirty. They’ve been here three hours. Somebody is knocking at the door and Cuneo’s going over to open it, suddenly breaking into song: “Just like birds of a feather, a rainbow together we’ll find.”
Suddenly Russell decides he’s had enough. “Dan.”
“What?” Completely oblivious.
Russell holds out a flat palm, shakes his head. “Background music. Ixnay.”
Cuneo looks a question, checks the figure at the door, then gets the message, nods
, mercifully shuts up. The sudden silence hits Russell like a vacuum. The rain tattoos the skylight overhead.
“I’m Wade Panos, Patrol Special for this beat.”
And no pussycat. Heavyset, an anvil where most people have a forehead, eyebrows like the business side of a barbecue brush. Pure black pupils in his eyes, almost like he’s wearing contacts for the effect. “Mind if I come in?”
Under his trenchcoat, Panos was in uniform. In theory, Patrol Specials were supposed to personally walk their beats in uniform every day. Then again, in theory, bumblebees can’t fly. But obviously Panos at least went so far as to don the garb. He looked every inch the working cop, and Cuneo opened the door all the way. “Sure.”
Panos grunted some kind of thanks. He brushed directly past Cuneo and back to where Silverman’s body lay zipped up in a body bag. The coroner’s van was out front and in a few more moments they’d be taking the body away, but Panos went and stood by the bag, went down to a knee. “You mind if I . . . ?”
The coroner’s assistant looked the question over to Cuneo, who’d followed Panos back to the doorway. The inspector nodded okay, and the assistant zipped the thing open. Panos reached over, pulled the material for a clearer view of Silverman’s face. A deep sigh escaped, and he hung his head, shaking it heavily from side to side.
“Did you know him?” Cuneo asked.
Panos didn’t answer right away. He sighed again, then pulled himself up. When he turned around, the Patrol Special met Cuneo’s gaze with a pained one of his own. “Long time.”
To a great degree, Cuneo’s nervous habits were a function of his concentration, which was intense. His mind, preoccupied with the immediate details of a crime scene or interview situation, would shift into some other trancelike state and the rest of his behavior would become literally unconscious. And the humming, or whistling, or finger-tapping, would begin.
Now Panos took up space next to Russell in the front of the shop, neither man saying much of anything, although they were standing next to one another. The body had been taken away and the crime scene people were all but finished up, packing away whatever they’d brought. Cuneo was back in the office, doing snippets of Pachelbel’s Canon in D while he took another careful look around—he’d already discovered the unplugged video camera, located one of the bullet holes in the wall and extracted the slug, lifted some of his own fingerprints.
Matt Creed had finished his regular beat shift after the preliminary interview he’d had with the inspectors at Silverman’s, and now he appeared again in the doorway, this time carrying a cardboard tray of paper coffee cups he’d picked up at an all-night place on Market. He paused at the sight of his boss. “Mr. Panos,” he said. “Is everything all right?”
“I’d say not.”
“No. I know. That’s not how I meant it.”
“That’s all right, Creed. That coffee up for grabs?”
Creed looked down at his hands. “Yes, sir.”
A couple of minutes later, the last of the crime scene people were just gone and Panos, Creed and Russell had gathered at the door to the office, in which Cuneo was now rummaging through the drawers in Silverman’s desk, bagging in Ziploc as possible evidence whatever struck his fancy. He had stopped humming, though now at regular intervals he slurped his hot coffee through the hole in the top of the plastic lid, loud and annoying as a kid’s last sip of milkshake through a straw.
Suddenly he looked up, the sight of other humans a mild shock. But he recovered, slurped, spoke to Panos. “You said he wasn’t your client anymore?”
“No. But he’d been for a long time.” Panos boosted himself onto Silverman’s desk and blew at his own brew. “I had to raise my rates last summer and he couldn’t hack them anymore. But ask Mr. Creed here, we still kept a lookout.”
Creed nodded. “Every pass.”
Cuneo moved and his folding chair creaked. “Every pass what?”
“Every pass I’d shine a light in.”
“No charge,” Panos put in. “Just watching out.”
“But he—Silverman—wasn’t paying you anymore?”
“Right.”
“So then”—Cuneo came forward, his elbows on his knees—“why are you here again?”
The question perplexed and perhaps annoyed Panos. He threw his black eyes over and up to Lincoln Russell, who stood with his arms crossed against the doorsill. But Russell just shrugged.
“The incident occurred on Mr. Creed’s shift, so he was obviously involved, and he was one of my men. Plus, as I say, I knew Sam, the deceased.”
“But this place isn’t technically in your beat? Thirty-two, isn’t it?” Cuneo sucked again at his coffee.
Panos straightened up his torso and crossed his arms. “Yeah, it’s Thirty-two. So what?”
Cuneo sat back in his chair. “So since the deceased is your friend and ex-client, you might know something more about this shop than your average joe off the street, isn’t that right? And if you do, what do you think might have happened here?”
Panos grunted. “Let me ask you one. Did either of you or any of the crime scene people find a red leather pouch here? Maybe on Sam?”
“What leather pouch?”
Panos held his hands about eight inches apart. “About this big. Real old, maroon maybe more than red.”
Cuneo glanced up and over at Russell, who shook his head. Cuneo spoke. “No pouch. What about it?”
“No pouch makes it open and shut. What this was about, I mean.”
Russell spoke from the doorsill. “And what is that?”
“We’re listening,” Cuneo said.
Panos shifted his weight on the desk. “All right,” he said. “First you should know that Thursdays was when Sam took his deposit to the bank.”
“Every Thursday?” Russell asked.
Panos nodded. “Clockwork. Everybody who knew him knew that. I used to walk with him myself over to the B of A. He put the cash in this pouch. It’s not here now.”
“So,” Cuneo butted in, “he was going to the bank tonight, and somebody who knew him decided to take the pouch?”
“Three guys,” Creed corrected. “One of ’em pretty big.”
“Okay, three.” Cuneo hummed a long, unwavering note. “Must have been a lot of money, they were going to split it three ways.”
“Might have been,” Panos said. “I wouldn’t know.”
Cuneo indicated the surroundings. “This little place did that well?”
Panos shrugged. “Wednesday nights they played poker here.”
The two inspectors shared a glance. “Who did?” Russell asked.
“Bunch of guys. It was a regular game for a lot of years. Sam took out ten bucks a hand for himself, except when he played blackjack, when he was the house.”
Russell whistled softly. “Every hand?”
Panos nodded. “That was the ante. Per guy. Per hand. Ten bucks.”
A silence settled while they did the math. Cuneo hummed another long note. “Big game,” he said, pointing. “That’s the table then.”
“Right.”
“We’re going to need the players,” Russell said. “Did he keep a list?”
“I doubt it,” Panos replied. “Knowing Sam, he kept them in his head. But I might be able to find out, and you can take it from there.”
“We’d appreciate that.” Cuneo was making some notes on his pocket pad. “So they came in masked . . .”
“They weren’t masked,” Creed said. “Not when they came out.”
“They were when they came in,” Cuneo said. “Because Silverman knew them. They knew him and the setup here.” He pointed to the hidden video up above. “They knew about that, for example.”
Panos stopped him. “How do you know about the masks?”
Cuneo reached into his pocket and pulled out a gallon Ziploc bag into which he’d placed the one ski mask that had fallen to the floor.
“Sons of bitches,” Panos said.
“Who? “Cuneo asked.
/> Panos’s jaw was tight, his heavy brow drawn in. “It’d be a better guess once we know who was at the game.”
“All right,” Cuneo said, “but this is a homicide investigation. What you’ll do is give us a list of players at the game and we’ll work from that.”
Panos nodded. “All right, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in the loop. Whoever killed Sam, any way I can help you, count me in.”
3
For several years after the death of his first wife Flo, Glitsky had a live-in housekeeper—a woman born in Jalisco, Mexico, with the German name of Rita Schultz. She had slept in the living room of his duplex behind a shoji screen and had come, in her own way, to be almost one of the family. After the marriage, when Treya and her then sixteen-year-old daughter Raney had come to live with Glitsky and his sixteen-year-old son Orel, Rita wasn’t needed anymore and Glitsky, regretfully, had had to let her go.
Now and for the past eight months since Treya had gone back to work at the DA’s office, Rita, no longer living in, was again at the Glitskys’ five days a week, taking care of the baby. Two months ago, the big kids had both gone off to college—Orel to his dad’s alma mater of San Jose State, and Raney all the way across the country to Johns Hopkins, where she’d gotten a full academic scholarship and planned to major in pre-med. The baby Rachel moved out of Abe and Treya’s bedroom and into Raney’s old room behind the kitchen.
Over the summer, he and Treya had actually fixed up the place a bit. They tore out the old, battle-worn gray berber wall-to-wall carpet in the living room and discovered the original blond hardwood underneath. Over one weekend, they stripped the seventies wallpaper and repainted the walls a soft Tuscan yellow. Then with the fresh new look, they got motivated to go out and buy a modern brown leather couch and matching love seat, some colorful throw rugs, Mission-style coffee and end tables. They put plantation shutters over the front windows.
The Dismas Hardy Novels Page 99
