What it boiled down to was, he resented her independence and she resented his need to control everybody and everything—her, Ma, Claudia, the Redwood City police department, the damn gophers and crab grass in his backyard. And when you threw in what Bill called the generation gap, you had a recipe for friction just about every time they saw each other. Big day if they agreed on anything. If she said the earth revolved around the sun, he’d find some way to argue the point and twist things around so she was wrong and he was right.
She knew going in that he’d probably be against what she was of a mind to do, but she figured she might as well give it a shot. Thing was, and she’d only admitted this to herself a couple of years ago, she’d always craved the approval, at least some of it, that he gave kiss-ass Claudia in pretty much everything she did. Closest he’d come to spooning some out to her was telling her he thought she’d done “a good job” with the agency, but then he’d had to go and spoil it by lecturing her on the dangers of detective work and offering a lot of unwanted advice. He’d tossed a hissy fit when he found out about the day last Christmas—the day the whack job with the load of guns invaded the old agency offices and held her and Bill and Jake hostage for a few hours. Another fit in March, when she’d been kidnapped by that child-stealing son of a bitch in the East Bay. Actually tried to talk her into giving up the partnership after that episode—for her own safety, he said.
Well, the threat of danger was what she wanted to talk to him about now. Strictly business, very professional. Her taking control of the situation, right? That’s the way she looked at it. Plus it was an offer of some father-daughter bonding. He couldn’t object to that, could he? Naïve, girl. Like hell he couldn’t.
So she called up Ma and asked her if Pop would be home tonight, and she said he would, he was working the day shift this week. Ma was always glad to hear from her, always glad to invite her for dinner; they had a pretty good relationship now, at least. Stage set, everything cool.
And everything stayed cool through one of Ma’s famous braised short-ribs meals. They all had a glass of wine—just one glass, all Pop allowed except on holidays and then, wow, you could actually have two glasses as long as you put plenty of space between the first and the second—and he seemed to be in a pretty good mood. He’d helped catch a serial rapist and he did a little justifiable bragging about it, which was rare because he usually didn’t like business rap at the dinner table. Afterward she said she’d had a little business matter to talk over with him, and they went into his den and sat down.
He looked good, she thought. Buff, even, not a hint of flab anywhere. She felt a stab of jealousy. Must be nice not to ever have to worry about your weight. His hairline had receded about halfway back on his knobby head, the reason he wore his “lucky Fedora,” a shapeless gray hat with a moldy bird feather in it, everywhere except in the house; he’d probably be bald as an egg in another few years. That was something she’d never have to put up with, anyway.
“Talk to me, sweetness,” he said.
Sweetness. She didn’t much like that nickname; sometimes, when he pissed her off enough, she actively hated it. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “it’s about time I got myself firearms certified.”
He’d been favoring her with his fatherly smile. Amazing how quick it could turn into his stern, disapproving fatherly scowl. He said, “What brought that on?” and his tone had dropped to one decibel above a growl.
What had brought it on was the happenings last Christmas and March, and what had brought it to the point where she was ready to do something about it was Janice Krochek walking into the office unannounced and all beat up on Monday morning. Nothing really ominous in that, but what if the dude who’d done it had followed her in and started more trouble? What if something like the Christmas invasion or the kidnapping happened again? It could. Bad things happened in threes, right? She didn’t want to get into explanations with Pop, but avoiding them with Sergeant Dennis Corbin, Redwood City PD’s hotshot interrogator, was next to impossible. Should’ve remembered that, too.
“Something else has happened,” he said before she could open her mouth. “What this time?”
“Nothing’s happened, Pop.”
“Then how come the sudden urge for firearms certification?”
“Something I’ve been thinking I ought to do, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“For protection. Always telling me I need to be more careful, right?”
“Guns aren’t toys, Tamara.”
“Don’t I know it? I’ve had enough of ’em shoved in my face this year.”
His lips thinned down, the way they always did when he was annoyed and trying to hang onto his temper. “And now you want to start shoving one of your own in somebody else’s face.”
“That what you think I am? Some damn cowboy?”
“Don’t use that snotty tone with me. You know I don’t like it.”
Here we go again, she thought. “Listen, Pop,” she said, trying to keep a hitch on her own temper, “I’m not always going to be chained to a desk. I’d like to get out into the field once in a while—”
“Out into the field. Christ.”
“Well, why not?”
“You’re forgetting what happened the last time you tried to conduct a simple stakeout.”
“All right, so I screwed up. Big fucking deal. I won’t—”
“Don’t use that kind of language in this house.”
“Okay, sorry, but you’re getting me all worked up.”
“I’m your father. Show a little respect.”
Show me a little respect and I will. But she didn’t say it. She said through clamped teeth, “I made a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes.”
“A mistake that almost got you killed.”
“A mistake that saved a little girl’s life.”
He had no comeback for that, just sat there and glowered.
“Point is,” she said, “I won’t make that kind of mistake again. But things happen in my business same as yours, things you can’t always be on guard against. Makes sense to be prepared.”
“And you just decided this without any provocation.”
“Not exactly. Been thinking on it for a while now and it’s time.”
“Have you talked to Bill about this?”
She’d intended to today, but he’d come into the office with a grouch on and when he was in that kind of mood he was as stubborn as Pop. Catch him at the right time, he’d agree that it made good sense and wouldn’t try to talk her out of it.
“Not yet,” she said.
“He won’t like it any more than I do.”
She didn’t argue with him. Only make this harder going than it already was.
“You’ve never fired a gun in your life,” he said.
“First time for everything.”
“Not everybody’s made for it. Some people can’t get the hang, can’t shoot straight when they do. People who aren’t comfortable and accurate with handguns shouldn’t keep them around.”
“I thought maybe you could teach me,” she said. “At the police firing range.”
He was mum on that.
“I’d like it if you would, Pop. Be a way for the two of us to spend some time together …”
“Firing handguns isn’t my idea of quality time.”
“Family that shoots together stays together.”
“That’s not funny,” he said, tight-assed again. “I suppose you want me to help you pick out a weapon, too.”
“Once I have my permit.”
“Carry permit? Is that what you’re after? Walk around with a piece stuffed into your purse?”
“No. Keep it at the office, or in the car if I’m working field.”
“Lord,” he said. He popped a stick of spearmint gum into his mouth and chewed the hell out of it. What he really wanted was a cigar, but his doctor had made him give them up a couple of years ago. “Guns, detective work. You know I never wanted you or your sister t
o get into law enforcement.”
“You only told me about three million times.”
He gave her the old half-glum, half-evil-eye parent look. “That sassy mouth of yours’ll get you in some big trouble one of these days.”
She’d heard that about three million times, too. She forced a smile and shrugged and said, “So how about it, Pop? Us going to the range together, you teaching me.”
“I don’t think so. It’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think you’re the type who should be firearms qualified.”
“… What’s that mean?”
“Just what I said. You and guns … no, I don’t like it.”
“What don’t you like?”
He worked on the gum some more. Made her itch when he did that; people who chewed gum like cows chewing their cuds were bad enough, but the hard, juicy chompers like Pop gave her fits. “I just don’t think you’re the right fit,” he said.
“No, huh? What’s the right fit, Pop? Cops, muggers, and NRA cold-dead-handers?”
“Most NRA members are responsible gun owners.”
“Since when do you have to be a gun nut to be a responsible gun owner?”
“Don’t start in with that liberal crap—”
“Yeah, right. Charlton Heston in black face.”
“You better watch it, girl.”
“Or what, Pop? You’ll paddle my behind?”
“Same old smartass anger. When’re you going to learn to control yourself?”
“When you stop putting me down every time we talk.”
“I don’t put you down—”
“The hell you don’t!”
“Keep your voice down, Tamara.”
Now he’d really pissed her off. “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Throw out orders, treat me like a damn kid. Well, I’m not a kid anymore. And I’m not a wild teenager or a militant college student, I’m a grown woman running a business and doing a job that’s not much different than yours. You treat your cop buddies with respect, why can’t you do the same for your own daughter!”
He glared at her. She glared back.
Knock on the door and Ma came in. “What’s all the yelling in here?”
Pop snapped, “Ask her.”
She said, “Ask him.”
“Well?”
“She’s decided she wants to buy herself a handgun,” he said. “Start carrying one around in her car.”
“For protection, in case of emergencies,” she said. “I wanted Pop to teach me to shoot, help me get qualified, but I guess it’s just too much to ask.”
Ma looked at her, at Pop, back at her again. One of those long, steady looks she always used when she had to step in between them. Ma, the mediator, the voice of reason. “Well,” she said finally, “I think it’s a good idea.”
Surprised her a little, and drove Pop up out of his chair, clouds all over his big face. “You what?”
“You heard me, Dennis. Her work can be as dangerous as yours—you know as well as I do how close we came to losing her twice this year. She has as much right as you to own a gun, learn how to protect herself.”
“She’s too young, too inexperienced …”
“Too flakey, he means,” Tamara said.
“I never said that.”
“Didn’t have to.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Ma said. She went over to him, got up in his face. Little woman, Ma, but she could be tough as hell when she needed to be. “Tamara’s as stubborn as you are when her mind’s made up. If this is what she wants, then she’s going to have it no matter what you say. You want some stranger to teach her about guns instead of her own father? You should be proud she came to you, not getting into an argument you can’t win.”
He couldn’t win an argument with Ma, either. She knew how to handle him, the right buttons to push. Took a little time but the clouds started to break up. He said reluctantly, “Maybe you’re right.”
“Damn straight,” she said. “Tamara, apologize to your father for yelling at him.”
She did it; she wasn’t pissed anymore, either.
“Your turn, Dennis.”
He couldn’t do it. Not in so many words. That was Pop for you—hard, inflexible, strictly old-school macho. But it was all right because what he said was, “I’m free Saturday afternoon. I suppose we could go out to the police range then.”
Tamara said, “How about one o’clock?”
“One o’clock. All right.”
Damn if she didn’t feel a moment of tenderness toward both her parents. She grinned across at them.
“Well, that was easy,” she said.
Pop’s mouth twitched, twitched some more, and he burst out laughing.
Well, what do you know, she thought, grinning. She’d not only made him laugh, which was rare enough in their relationship, but for once she’d also had the last word.
14
My mood on Thursday morning was considerably better than it had been on Wednesday, but Tamara’s was downright ebullient. All smiley-faced and energetic. I thought maybe she’d finally met somebody new, after the months of monastic living, but no, that wasn’t it.
“Made up my mind to get firearms certified,” she said. “Going out to the pistol range with Pop on Saturday for the first lesson.”
It took me a few seconds to digest that, and then all I could think of to say was, “Well.”
“Not against it, are you?”
Five years ago, given her immaturity, I would’ve been. Two years ago I’d have tried to argue her out of it. Now …
“No, I’m not against it. It’s probably a good idea. And your dad’ll be a good teacher.”
“I thought so, too. Not that you or Jake wouldn’t have been as good …”
“I’m a little rusty and I don’t think Jake practices as often as he should, either. No, you made the right choice.”
“Now all I have to do is convince Pop of it.”
I went in to check my voice mail messages. Among them was a brief one from Mitchell Krochek. He had no news; he wanted to know if I had any. The callback number he left was his cellular.
“Janice isn’t in any of the East Bay or San Francisco hospitals,” he said when I got him on the line. “I called them all. Her friends, too … the women who used to be her friends. None of them has heard from her in over a year. I was hoping maybe you …” He let the rest of it trail off.
“Not yet. You’ll hear from me if I have anything to report.”
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he said. “I didn’t sleep last night. If I don’t hear something by five o’clock, I’ll go home and see what’s what but I’m not staying there alone again tonight. I’ll be at Deanne’s.”
Deanne Goldman, the girlfriend. “What’s her number and address?”
He gave them to me. She lived in Oakland, near Lake Merritt.
After we rang off I spent a little time going over the file on Janice Krochek. Tamara had put it together when we were first hired to track her down and I thought there might be something in it that would give me a lead.
Born in Bakersfield, where her sister Ellen still lived. Parents divorced, father deceased five years ago, mother remarried and living in Florida. Moved to the Bay Area in 1996 to attend UC Berkeley. Majored in business administration,one of those catch-all degree pursuits that young people take when they have no set goals or special interests or skills. Left school after two and a half years—deteriorating grades, poor study habits. Her computer abilities were good enough to buy her a job as a “systems trainee”—glorified name for clerk-typist—at Five States Engineering, where she’d met Mitchell Krochek; they were married less than a year later. Pregnant the second year they were together, terminated by abortion. The pregnancy was an accident, according to Krochek; neither of them wanted children. By his lights, the marriage had been “pretty stable” until her gambling mania began to spiral out of control.
&nb
sp; The Krocheks had a circle of friends, but they were what he called “couples friends”—other married people they saw in pairs and groups. Janice Krochek had no close women friends. She’d been something of a loner her entire life, kept things about herself private even after the marriage; he confessed that he’d thought he knew her well but now was sure he never really had. Her big passion as a teenager had been video games—no surprise, since a compulsive gambling addiction often starts with that sort of dissociative activity. It also explained her preference for Internet betting.
No police record or brushes with the law. No extramarital affairs; Krochek was positive of that, though his certainty might have been more ego than actual knowledge. No jobs after the marriage, nor any volunteer work or other outside activities. No hobbies or interests other than computers and gambling. Your typical bored wife of a well-to-do professional husband who had too few friends and interests, too much time on her hands, and carte blanche with his income.
Nothing, no potential lead, in any of that.
Tamara was on the QCL hunt; with any luck she’d turn up something in the next hour or so. Meanwhile, I had some other work to finish up. Routine business that didn’t completely engage my attention. The door between my office and the outer office was open; I heard Jake Runyon come in and exchange a greeting with Alex Chavez, who was pecking out a report on his laptop at one of the desks. I also heard what Runyon said next.
“Question, Alex. You know a man named Kinsella, Nick Kinsella?”
“Heard the name somewhere. Give me a second …”
I got up and went out there. “What about Nick Kinsella, Jake?”
“Know him?”
“Oh, yeah, I know him. Loan shark. One of the slickest in the city.”
“Sure,” Chavez said, “now I remember. Rough trade.”
“Very. Operates out of a place called the Blacklight Tavern, on San Bruno Avenue west of Candlestick. Charges a heavy weekly vig. Miss a payment or two, get a visit from his enforcers.”
Runyon said, “Sounds like you’d have to be pretty desperate for money to go to him.”
“Desperate, foolish, and naïve.”
Fever: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) Page 11
