“All right, but … Can’t you give me some idea of what this is all about?”
No, he couldn’t. What he’d just begun to realize about her brother and Brian Youngblood had shaken him a little; it would knock her down. He said he’d call her later, or Aaron would, and got out of there as fast as he could without scaring her any more than she already was.
22
The damn cell phone started in again as I was driving to work Friday morning. I was on the curvy part of Upper Market and I had to wait for a break in traffic in order to pull over into curb space.
I barked a hello, and a woman’s voice said, “This is Deanne Goldman. Mitch Krochek’s friend?” She made the last a question, the way some people do when talking to strangers.
“Yes, Ms. Goldman.”
“Mitch had to leave this morning before seven—an emergency at one of his job sites—and he didn’t want to bother you so early. So he asked me to call and let you know he won’t be available all day.”
“When will he be available?”
“He didn’t know. Probably not until sometime this evening.”
“Ask him to call me when he gets in,” I said. While she was saying she would, I had a thought. “Would it be possible for you to meet with me today? For a few minutes on your lunch hour, say?”
“… Why?”
“A few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“About what? I don’t know anything about Mitch’s wife.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Just some general questions.”
“Well … I suppose it’d be all right.”
“Suggest a time and a place that would be convenient.”
It took her a few seconds. “There’s Heinold’s at the foot of Webster Street. Do you know it?”
“I’ve been there, yes.”
“I’ll try to be at one of the outside tables.”
“What time?”
“Noon?”
“Fine,” I said. “How will I know you?”
She described herself. I told her what to expect in return.
When I got to the agency I filled Tamara in on what had gone down with Phil Partain. “So now we’ve got the beating cleared up, but I can’t see Partain as the person responsible for the disappearance. Two separate events.”
“Who, then? Lassiter’s out, QCL’s out, Partain’s out. One of her gambling friends? Somebody else she owed money to?”
“Possibilities, both. There’s another, too: Mitchell Krochek.”
“You think?” she said. “Why would he call you if he’s responsible?”
“Smoke screen. Make himself look innocent if the law steps in.”
“That’d mean he killed her and did something with the body.”
“If he did kill her,” I said, “chances are it was an accident—end product of a fight. He’s not the premeditated type.”
“Not the violent type, either, according to his BG.”
“You don’t have to be the violent type to lose control in a screaming argument. His wife gave him plenty of provocation and he’s been on the ragged edge. Still… What’s his first wife’s name again?”
“Let me check the file.” I went into her office with her while she brought it up on her computer. “Right—Mary Ellen Layne.”
“What have you got on her?”
“Let’s see. Not too much—I didn’t go very deep. Remarried, one daughter. Lives in San Bruno, works here in the city—”
“Where?”
“Tarbell Jewelers, on Post.”
Ten minutes from South Park. I said, “I think I’ll pay her a visit, see if she feels like talking about her ex-husband.”
Tarbell Jewelers opened at ten o’clock. The address was half a block off Union Square, which meant street parking was impossible; I left my car in the Square’s underground garage and walked over to Post through a thin, misty overcast. It was five past ten when I got there. The two employees, one male, one female, gave me those bright-and-hopeful, early-morning looks that disappear when they find out you’re not the first customer of the day after all.
The woman was Mary Ellen Layne. Krochek’s age, conservatively dressed as befitted the surroundings—Tarbell’s was one of the more exclusive downtown jewelry stores—and a general body double for Janice Krochek. Mitch evidently liked his women slender, brunette, high-cheekboned, small-breasted. Her professional smile evaporated when I showed her the photocopy of my license and asked if she’d mind answering a few questions about her ex.
“Why?” She said it softly, with a glance across at where the male employee was polishing the glass top of a display counter. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention. “Are you investigating Mitch for some reason?”
“Not specifically, no. He’s involved in a case I’m working on.” Little white lie to maintain confidentiality and forestall a lot of questions and explanations.
The shape of her mouth turned wry and bitter. She leaned forward and said even more softly, “It has to do with a woman, I’ll bet.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“And not his wife. If he’s still married to number two.”
“He is.”
“Amazing. She must be a saint.”
“Why do you say that?”
“To put up with him this long. I divorced him after ten months, and I was a fool not to have done it sooner.”
“He was unfaithful to you?”
“Oh, yes.” No hesitation, no reticence about discussing personal matters with a stranger. I had the feeling the pump in her was always primed and ready when the subject of Mitchell Krochek came up. “Twice that I know about. Twice in ten months. The first time … well, let’s just say the honeymoon didn’t last very long. If I’d found out about it at the time, I’d have left him then and there.”
“He was pretty young then,” I said. “Young men make mistakes that they don’t always repeat as they grow older.”
“Are you telling me he’s turned into a faithful husband? I don’t believe it.”
“Once a cheat, always a cheat?”
“That’s right. Mitch… well, it isn’t just a roving eye with him. It’s compulsive. He’ll never be satisfied with just one woman. He needs a steady stream of conquests to boost his ego.”
“And he doesn’t really care about any of them, is that it?”
“Well, that’s not exactly true. Give the devil his due. He cares for a while, genuinely, I think, but he just can’t sustain his feelings. He—”
“Mrs. Layne.” That came from the male across the room. “Do you need any assistance?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Tarbell.” She reached down into the display case, brought up a bracelet bristling with diamonds, set it on the glass in front of me. “Pretend you’re interested in buying this,” she whispered to me.
I picked it up, gingerly. A discreet little price tag hung from one clasp. $2,500. Some bracelet. Kerry would love it. She would also give me a swift kick in the hinder if I bought her a piece of jewelry anywhere near that expensive.
“How did Mitch react when you told him you were divorcing him?”
“React?” she said. “I’m not sure I know what you mean?”
“Was he angry, upset over the financial implications?”
“No. He was just starting out at Five States Engineering and we didn’t have much to divide between us, much less get upset about.”
“Was he ever violent?”
“Mitch? Violent? Good Lord, no.”
“Never raised a hand to you?”
“Never. I’ll say this for the man—he was always a gentleman, in and out of bed.”
“How would he handle a major argument?”
“The same way he handled everything else. Yell a little, whine a little, rationalize everything, and never accept responsibility. The two affairs that broke us up … it was the women’s fault, they wouldn’t leave him alone, they seduced him?
All of which pretty much coincided with my take on the man. I
still had the diamond bracelet in my hand; it felt cold and hot at the same time and I put it down as gingerly as I’d picked it up. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Oh, a long time. More than seven years. I ran into him at a party about a year after the divorce. We didn’t have much to say to each other.”
“No contact since then?”
“None.”
“Do you know his second wife?”
“No. When I heard he got married again, I thought about calling her up and sharing some things with her. But I’m not really the vindictive type. And I expected she’d find out for herself soon enough what he’s like.” She leaned forward again, her eyes avid. “Has she, finally?”
I said, “I think they both know each other pretty well after eight years together,” which I thought was a noncommittal response, but the words made her smile anyway. Mary Ellen Layne may not have been a vindictive person, and nine years is a long time, but she was still carrying a grudge. Not that I blamed her, if what she’d told me was an accurate portrait of her ex-husband.
Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon was the oldest little piece of Jack London Square, a historical anachronism surrounded by the concrete, asphalt, and modern buildings that now dominated the Oakland waterfront. It was a literal shack built around 1880 from remnants of an old whaling ship, first used as a bunk house for men who worked the East Bay oyster beds, then converted into a saloon. It’d been in continuous operation ever since, with food service added when the Square began to flourish decades ago. Jack London himself was rumored to have hung out there with his pals in the oyster pirating game.
Deanne Goldman was seated at one of the umbrella-shaded outdoor tables when I arrived. There weren’t many of them, so she must have been there a while; the place was already teeming with lunch trade. She was shorter and darker than Krochek’s two wives, but cut from the same body mold and bearing a vague resemblance to Mary Ellen Layne. She wore a neutral expression that didn’t change when I introduced myself and sat down, but there was nervousness behind it: she kept rotating a glass of iced tea in front of her without drinking any of it. A determined set to her jaw told me I was not going to get anything out of her about her boyfriend that she didn’t want to give voluntarily.
The first thing she said to me was, “Have you found out anything yet about Mitch’s wife?”
“Not yet.”
“He’s half-frantic with worry, poor man. He’s so afraid that Janice is dead and he’ll be blamed for it.”
“If he’s innocent, he has nothing to worry about.”
“If he’s innocent? Of course he’s innocent.” Her eyes narrowed; the determined jaw poked out a little farther. “He’s your client, for God’s sake. Surely you don’t think…”
“I don’t think anything, Ms. Goldman. I’ve exhausted a lot of possibilies in Mrs. Krochek’s disappearance and there aren’t many others left. I need to get as complete a picture of the situation as possible—that’s why I’m here. He’s told you everything about the situation, I take it?”
“Everything, yes. We don’t have any secrets from each other.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Eleven weeks. I know it’s not very long, but that doesn’t matter. You don’t have to know somebody for a long time to love and understand them.”
Wrong, lady. Some people you do; some people you could know for a lifetime and never understand. But I said, “When did he tell you he was married?”
“At the beginning of our relationship. That’s one of the things I love about Mitch—he’s honest, forthright, he doesn’t try to hide anything.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“That he’s married? Why should it? He doesn’t love her anymore, and she doesn’t love him. He loves me.”
“But you know he doesn’t want a divorce.”
“Of course he doesn’t. She’s already squandered so much of his assets, why should he give her half of everything he has left?”
“He wouldn’t have to give her anything if she were dead.”
“He doesn’t want her dead. He’s not like that.”
“Solve all his financial problems. And he’d be free to marry you.”
“We don’t have to be married to be together,” she said. “I’m not a conventional person. The kind of relationship we have right now, based on love and trust… it’s enough for me.”
No, it wasn’t; I could see it in her eyes. I said, “He told me he was with you Tuesday night from seven until after eleven. True?”
“Yes. At my apartment.”
“He never left, even for a few minutes?”
“Not for one second.”
“Did you see him on Wednesday?”
“No. You told him to stay home all day, and he did.”
“I spoke to his first wife this morning,” I said. “He tell you about her?”
“Yes. She’s a bitch.”
“Do you know her?”
“I’m glad I don’t. I’ll bet she had all sorts of nasty things to say about Mitch.”
“Not really.”
She rotated the iced tea glass again. “Why did you talk to her anyway? What could she possibly know about Janice’s disappearance?”
“Nothing. As I told you, I’m trying to get a complete picture.”
“By asking all these questions about Mitch?”
“Among other things. You think he’d object?”
“… No, I guess not. He … has faith in you. He told me that.”
“I hope I can repay it,” I said.
“I hope so, too. You … well, you just don’t know how bad it is for him right now. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but … he cried in my arms last night. Like a hurt child.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I felt so awful for him,” she said. “He’s such a warm, caring, loving man.”
And she was a naïve young woman riding for a big fall. But it wasn’t up to me to burst her rose-colored bubble; she would have fought me if I’d tried.
A waitress came by. I asked for the same as Deanne Goldman was drinking. The waitress asked if we wanted to order lunch and I said not yet and she went away. Ms. Goldman sat making more wet circles with her glass.
“It’s not his fault, you know,” she said.
“What isn’t?”
“The affairs he’s had. She told you about the one that broke them up, didn’t she? His first wife?”
“She mentioned it.”
“She drove him to it. Nagging at him all the time, denying him … you know, in bed. He wouldn’t have been unfaithful to her if she’d been a proper wife.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“It’s the truth,” she said. Sharply, but with a defensive undertone. She had her own doubts, I realized then, even if she wasn’t admitting them. If she were lucky, she’d burst the rose-colored bubble herself before Krochek had a chance to hurt her too badly. “He wouldn’t have been unfaithful to Janice, either, if it weren’t for her gambling sickness.”
“With you, you mean?”
“With me, with that neighbor of his. He was vulnerable, he’s still vulnerable …”
“Wait a second,” I said. “He had an affair with one of his neighbors?”
“Before he met me. It didn’t last very long. She wanted it to, but it was just… physical for Mitch. Not like it is with us.”
“Which neighbor? Did he tell you her name?”
“The woman who lives next door to him. It was right after her divorce.”
“Rebecca Weaver?”
“Yes,” she said. “Rebecca Weaver.”
23
JAKE RUNYON
Aaron Myers’s car was a ten-year-old Buick LeSabre. He got that info from Tamara on the way back to the city. When he reached Noe Valley, he drove around within a three-block radius of Myers’s apartment building. If he found the LeSabre, and Myers still wasn’t answering his bell, he’d figure some way to get i
nside the building and then the apartment.
He didn’t find it.
And nobody answered the bell.
Maybe good, maybe not. Depended on where Myers had gone. Runyon drove up to Duncan Street—and the LeSabre was parked around the corner from Youngblood’s flat, facing downhill at a bad angle. There was a narrow space behind it; he squeezed the Ford in there and went to have a look. All the doors were locked, the interior empty. Under the windshield wipers was a parking ticket, issued at 9:40 that morning. A sign just down the way said that Friday was street-cleaning day and there was no parking on this side between four a.m. and noon. The Buick had been here since early morning or sometime the night before.
He didn’t like that at all.
He hurried uphill and around the corner. He expected to have some trouble getting into Youngblood’s building, but he caught a break. One of the residents had bought a new refrigerator; a delivery truck was double-parked in front, and two burly guys were hauling the old one out through the propped-open front doors. Runyon waited for them to pass by, stepped through as if he belonged there, and hurried up the stairs.
A one-minute lean on the bell bought him nothing but muted noise from inside. When he tried the knob, it turned under his hand and the door edged inward. The muscles in his gut and across his shoulders pulled tight. Cop’s instincts, telling him something was wrong here—bad wrong. He stepped inside, shut the door softly behind him.
The place smelled of death.
The odor was so faint and indistinct that most people wouldn’t have noticed. He’d been in too many places where people had died; the smell was sometimes strong, sometimes not, but always there and always the same.
He went down the hallway into the living room. And that was where he found Aaron Myers, slumped down in a chair in front of one of the computers, his head lolling sideways, his eyes squeezed shut.
Runyon touched knuckles against one cheek, felt the neck artery. Cold skin, no pulse. Dead a long time; rigor had already come and gone. Last night sometime. There were no marks on the body, nothing except a thin foamy drool that had leaked from one corner of the mouth and dried there. Overdose of some kind—hard drugs or prescription pills.
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