Hardcase

by Bill Pronzini

  While I was working the phone I had two interruptions. The first was a Pac Bell lineman who came to activate Eberhardt’s old telephone line; the second was a pair of delivery men from the office supply company I’d contacted on Friday, who brought in Tamara Corbin’s new desk and chair. And to top off the morning, I finally had a response from Melanie Aldrich.

  “I’ve been in Santa Cruz since Thursday on a photo shoot,” she said. “I just now got home and got your message. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  “I didn’t expect to be calling you so soon.”

  “You found out about my birth parents?”

  “Who your birth mother was, yes.”

  “Was? You mean . . . she’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “Can we discuss it in person? I’ll come there or you can come here, whichever you prefer.”

  “This isn’t a good time. I have to go back to the agency and then to the photographer’s for some interior shots.... Well, I suppose we could meet there.”

  “Where? The agency or the photographer’s?”

  “His studio. I’ll have a few minutes while I’m dressing and his people are setting up.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “It’s the Kohler Studio, on Minna between Eighth and Ninth.”

  “How soon?”

  “I should be there by twelve-thirty. But if I’m late, just tell Jerry—Jerry Kohler—that you’re meeting me and he’ll let you in.”

  MINNA IS A NARROW ALLEY STREET south of Market that cuts through several east-west blocks between Mission and Howard. At one time, not so long ago, it was smack in the middle of the city’s skid row; the section bounded by Fifth and Sixth is still on the row’s hard edge. But much of the area south of the Slot has been reclaimed in recent years, particularly the now-trendy part farther south along Bryant and Brannan called SoMa. The alley streets closer to Market—Minna, Natoma, Clementina, Tehama—are among those that benefited. The flophouses and cheap apartment hotels that once lined them have gradually given way to such upscale enterprises as art and photographic studios tucked away behind blank walls, barred windows, and locked doors. Reclamation hasn’t turned the area into a crime-free zone by any means, thanks to drug addicts and petty thieves among the homeless and skid row populations.

  The address Melanie had given me was a stained metal door, like a fire door, with a bell button on the jamb and a card below it that said only: Kohler Studio. When I rang the bell, a young guy with bushy red hair and a Fu Manchu mustache opened up on a double-link chain. I had to show him my license before he’d let me in.

  We went down a dark corridor into the studio—a cavernous room with unpainted brick walls and exposed ceiling pipes that gave it the look and feel of a warehouse. Most of the space was jammed with lights, camera tripods, rolled and stacked backdrops, a variety of props, and half a dozen people busily arranging a bedroom set complete with canopy bed. A young woman wearing a sheer purple peignoir and not much else stood off to one side, smoking a cigarette and looking bored.

  “Melanie got here just before you did,” the bushy-haired guy said. “She’s changing. Through that door in back there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just don’t keep her long, okay? We’re on a deadline.”

  The door in the back wall led into another ill-lit hallway, which in turn took me to three tiny dressing rooms. Ms. Aldrich was in the second, with the door wide open, combing her hair in front of a full-length mirror. She wore a lacy powder-blue nightie that ended just below a pair of matching panties; both garments were sheer and she had nothing on under them. I tried not to look at her body, but hell, it was a very nice body and the day a heterosexual male stops looking when the opportunity presents itself is the day he admits he’s too old to care anymore. Even Kerry, ardent feminist that she is, couldn’t find fault with that philosophy.

  “We’re shooting the sleepwear section of the catalog today,” Ms. Aldrich said. “That’s why I’m dressed like this.” There was no trace of embarrassment in her voice or her manner; and if she noticed where my eyes kept trying to stray, it didn’t bother her. Young people today are much less modest and much more practical about their bodies than my generation. Good and bad in that, but mostly good.

  I said, “Catalog?”

  “Mail order. Princess Mystique. You know, they sell lingerie, sleepwear, beachwear. We shot the beachwear section and some of the lingerie section down in Santa Cruz.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Ms. Aldrich put her brush down on a vanity table, stood with her arms folded. Her expression was at once expectant and resigned. “You said my birth mother is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Her name was Jody Everson. Her family owned walnut and apple orchards in the Marlin’s Ferry area.”

  “Wealthy people then.”

  “Moderately.”

  “Why did she give me up?”

  “She was seventeen when you were born.”

  “Oh, I see. Not married?”

  “Not married.”

  “So I’m a bastard.”

  I didn’t respond to that.

  “My father—who was he? Is he still alive?”

  The first lie: “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you don’t know his name?”

  “No. It’s a closely guarded secret in the town. Among others I talked to was Jody’s sister, Carolyn, the only surviving relative. She wasn’t cooperative—wouldn’t tell me anything. She’s protective of Jody’s memory and she . . . well, she wants the matter to remain buried. In fact, she was adamant about it.”

  “You did tell her about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she wants nothing to do with me.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  Ms. Aldrich winced. Once, briefly—her only visible reaction.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I had better news for you. But I think you understand the situation. At least I hope you do.”

  “I understand. Was I given up to Paul and Claire as soon as I was born?”

  I made myself say, “Jody never saw you.”

  “Her decision?”

  “Hers and her sister’s.”

  “Did she name me, at least?”

  “No. The Aldriches gave you your name.”

  “How was the adoption arranged? How did the Eversons know Paul and Claire?”

  “All of that’s in my report.” I’d brought it with me, along with the final bill; I handed them to her as I spoke. Uncomfortable feeling, presenting a false document to a client, and a nearly naked client at that. As if I were doing something indecent, when in fact the opposite was true.

  Without looking at the papers, she turned to the vanity and slid them into her purse. “When did Jody Everson die?”

  “A long time ago. Late seventies.”

  “Before she was even thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “That’s in the report too.”

  “I don’t want to read it now. Please tell me.”

  “She had a brain tumor,” I said. And another half-truth: “She died of a brain tumor.”

  “God. So young . . .”

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but that sort of condition can be hereditary. You should make your doctor aware of the fact.”

  “I will.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. The odds—”

  “I’m not worried,” she said.

  There was a flat, wooden quality to her responses now. As if she’d retreated inwardly, toward the core of herself. More alone than ever, I thought. But not as alone, not half as hurt, as she’d be if I told her the rest of what I knew and what I suspected.

  She asked, “Is there any chance you could find out who my father is? Given enough time?”

  “Not much,” I said carefully. “Not under the circumstances. If you want my advice, let it end here and now. Whatever else there is t
o find out is liable to be even more painful.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But if I do decide I want to know, will you continue investigating?”

  “No, Ms. Aldrich. I’d rather not.”

  “For more money?”

  “Money has nothing to do with it.”

  The words seemed to hang between us. Her eyes probed at me. But I had my poker face on, a pretty good one when it needs to be. She didn’t get anything from the scrutiny, no clear impression I was withholding information; I was fairly sure of that.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway and the bushy-haired guy poked his head into the room. “Melanie, we’re ready for you.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  He retreated. She said to me, “Did you put a bill in with the report?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll send you a check tomorrow.” She stepped past me into the corridor. “Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “Good-bye, Ms. Aldrich. And good luck.”

  “Luck,” she said, and the way she said it kept me standing there until she was gone, feeling lousy even though there was no question I’d done the right thing.

  FIVE MINUTES AFTER I RETURNED to the office, Joe DeFalco checked in. “How’s married life?” he asked. “You manage to consummate yet or are you waiting for the honeymoon in Cazadero?”

  “Fine to the first question, none of your business to the second. Listen, Joe, I need some help—big—time help.”

  “Sure you do. Why else would you call?”

  “It’s important.”

  “Isn’t it always.”

  “I mean it. It could mean something good for you.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like an exclusive on a major crime case, if it breaks the way I think it will.”

  “You just got my attention. What’s the case?”

  “Serial rapist, ongoing for years, apparently never suspected. Might be homicide involved as well.”

  He whistled. “You know his identity?”

  “Yes. No names yet, though. I need to be surer than I am now before I open it up.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Check with any police and newspaper contacts you have in a list of cities I’ll give you—find out if there are unsolved rape cases in their areas dating back ten to twelve years with these specifics: beating and choking of victims; attacker described as fat or overweight, middle-aged, big hands, wearing a ski mask or some other kind of mask—any of those singly, as well as in any combination.”

  “Particular M.O.?”

  “Picks his victims at random, attacks whenever and wherever the opportunity presents itself.”

  “That include home invasion?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Specific types of women? Age, height, body type, hair color, nationality?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. My guess is, he has no preference. It isn’t individuals he hates and wants to hurt, it’s women—any and all women.”

  “Name the cities.”

  “Sacramento, for starters,” I said. “At least four rapes up there between eighty-six and eighty-eight fit the profile—Sacra—mento proper, Walnut Grove, Carmichael.”

  “Where else?”

  “Chico, Redding—Red Bluff, Eureka, Susanville. Medford, Eugene, Salem, as far north as Portland.”

  “Jesus, that much territory?”

  “That many possibles, yeah. Oh, and while you’re at it, check the greater Bay Area, too, and the Paso Robles—San Luis Obispo area. Back even further there, say twenty years.”

  DeFalco said with awe in his voice, “You think this son of a bitch has been raping women in California and Oregon for twenty years?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Killed some of his victims too?”

  “Well, the Sacramento rapes were extremely violent. One of the women was a pregnant nurse and she lost her baby. That’s one count of homicide right there, if he’s responsible.”

  “Oh, man. If you’re right, this could be the biggest serial case of the decade.”

  “If I’m right.”

  “Hang up,” he said. “I’ve got calls to make.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  TAMARA CORBIN ARRIVED PROMPTLY at two for her first day of work. With her was a fierce-looking black guy about her age; he stood four or five inches over six feet, must have weighed in at two-fifty, and was loaded down with cartons, a tool kit, and an extension cord looped around one shoulder. She introduced him as Horace, no last name. He gave me a long, narrow, appraising look and nodded once without saying anything or bothering to shake hands. Defensive end, I thought. The Charles Haley type that enjoys breaking quarterbacks’ heads for fun and profit.

  She directed him to put his burden down on the newly delivered desk. Then, while he was doing that, she eyed the desk without much enthusiasm. “Gun-metal gray,” she said to me. “Wow. Didn’t they have chartreuse?”

  Joke, I thought. I laughed. She laughed too. And handed me an invoice from a downtown computer outlet, to which was stapled a copy of her Visa charge slip. I stopped laughing and tried not to wince when I saw the amount.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t buy state-of-the-art and I made the best deal I could. But if I’m going to do a good job I’ve got to have good hardware and software. Okay?”

  “Okay. You’re the expert.”

  While I wrote a reimbursement check that didn’t quite deplete my account, she and Horace began setting up the equipment she’d bought to go with her Apple PowerBook. It didn’t take them long. When they were done he knocked down the empty boxes, folded them under one arm, hoisted up his tool kit, and favored me with another long look. “Be good, man,” he said, which I interpreted to mean “Be good to Tamara or I’ll break your head like a quarterback’s.” Then he vanished.

  I asked Ms. Corbin, “Is Horace your boyfriend?”

  “Well, we’ve been hanging awhile.”

  “Hanging. Uh-huh.”

  “You want to know if we’re doing the nasty?”

  “The what?”

  “You know, mashing the fat.”

  “Huh?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Having sex,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said. “No,” I said. “He plays football, right?”

  “Cello.”

  “... Pardon?”

  “He plays the cello, not football. He’s studying to be a concert cellist at the Conservatory of Music.”

  “Oh,” I said again.

  “Surprised?”

  “Only at myself.”

  I showed my filing and billing procedures to Ms. Corbin and she made a valiant effort not to sneer at either one. “No problem,” she said when I asked if she could set up a billing program right away. Then we had a detailed discussion about the sort of priority data I needed for my investigative work, and which city, county, and state agencies I dealt with on a more or less regular basis.

  “No problem there either,” she said. “Accessing public agency files is simple. And there’re a lot of databases we can subscribe to for the rest. I’ll check around, see which have the best menus and the best prices.”

  “Menus?”

  “Services. Dataquick, for instance. Their menu has Busi-nessLink, Verifacts, COMPS, DQ Software . . .”

  I just looked at her.

  Half-smile. “You really are from another century, aren’t you? Okay, like Dataquick can provide real estate searches, foreclosure and default data, mortgage leads. Other databases have different menus. We pick out the ones that’ll cover all your needs. Or I guess I do.”

  “You do. How many do you think we’ll need?”

  “At least half a dozen.”

  “How expensive are they?”

  “Not too bad. The fees won’t break you. We can tap into others on a need-to-know basis, for a transactional fee.”

  “Uh-huh. Go ahead and select the ones you think will do us the mos
t good. But let me see the fee schedules and, uh, menus before you commit to anything.”

  “I’ll get you full-service printouts.”

  She went to work on the billing program. I ferreted out the information on Stephen Chehalis’s medical insurance claims. Dead end there: he’d had only one claim in the past fourteen years, and that was a gastrointestinal disorder.

  At five o’clock on the nose, Ms. Corbin shut down her Apple PowerBook, disconnected it, and made ready to leave. “You know,” she said, “I think this is going to work out okay.”

  “The billing program?”

  “That, sure. I meant the job.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “Yeah. It could even get to be interesting, once I hook us in and start us networking. Not as interesting as my dad’s work, the down and dirty stuff, but not boring like I first thought.”

  “It gets down and dirty around here sometimes too.”

  “Does it? That’s right, George said you’d been in some heavy shit a few times.”

  Heavy shit. Right.

  “Didn’t you get shot once?” she asked.

  “More than once, I’m sorry to say.”

  “And kidnapped and locked up somewhere for a long time?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “That’s cool. You ever kill anybody?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Come close to it?”

  “No. Don’t you have a bus to catch or studying to do?”

  “The strong, silent type,” she said, smiling. “Okay, I’ll split. When you want me to come in again?”