Berkeley Noir

by Jerry Thompson

  Jeremy Lampara was not ascending any steps.

  He was lying dead on the Vine Street sidewalk. White male, middle-aged, blood thick on the chest area of his camel's hair coat.

  "Camel's hair?" Maduri said aloud.

  "Classic Jeremy Lampara," Detective Harry Shelby snorted.

  "The flipper? The guy who owned that building over by campus? The place that got torched?"

  "More to the point, someone got him." Lampara wasn't likely to get sympathy from anyone in Berkeley, least of all Shelby. Lampara was lucky anyone bothered to put a sheet over his face to keep dirt from blowing up his nose. Not that he was going to be blowing it again.

  "Gonna be one bitch of a case," Maduri said.

  "Unless we can run down the perp pronto."

  "Perp's gone."

  "Gate, gate, paragate." Shelby liked to drop in Buddhist talk. Liked to make the team ask what it meant.

  Maduri'd been on the team awhile. "Perp's gone, gone, gone beyond, eh?" He motioned at the suspect Callahan was holding on the ground. "You sure the perp's gone."

  "Twenty says he is. We'll take your car."

  "Huh?" Maduri wanted to say: Take my car for what? But he wasn't willing to give Shelby that too. He waited.

  "Single witness, that kid over there," he nodded at a thin, sandy-haired white kid in an inadequate white T-shirt and jeans, standing next to a blonde in a gray CALIFORNIA sweatshirt.

  "We got just one witness? At Walnut Square? There are more people standing around holding lattes than that."

  "Not this late. But Brian Janssen is what we got. He saw the perp shoot, saw him run. We're going to circle the area, hope he can spot him."

  Fat chance. If Janssen didn't spot the perp, this whole investigation was going to be a field day for the press: Cops' Cordon Catches Nothing! Cops on Scene 90 Seconds After Shooting; Killer Long Gone. Maduri could just imagine! Real Estate Developer Shot Dead Outside the Original Peet's Coffee and Tea. There'd be columns detailing the laws Lampara had charged through like a rhino clearing a papier-mâché doorway. There'd be lists of the ordinances he'd skirted, interviews with the tenants he'd evicted, pictures of the buildings he'd demolished, op-ed after op-ed about the shoddy construction of his shoddy new condos. And the fire!

  And then there'd be the Shelby connection. And the question: did Detective Shelby give Lampara's killer a pass?

  Shelby sighed. "Small chance, but all we've got." He nodded toward the tall, skinny kid and said to Maduri, "Brian Janssen, nineteen years old, sophomore at Cal, lives up by campus by the building that burned. He saw the fire guys carry out the victim. Saw the vic's cartons on the sidewalk soaked from the fire hoses. If the poor fuck'd left an hour earlier he'd be home in LA now."

  Maduri shot a glance to make sure no reporter had heard that. They'd be hard enough on Shelby if the perp vanished. From habit he slid into the patrol car and leaned toward the computer screen. Nothing there he didn't know. He turned on the engine as Shelby lowered his butt into the car and shouted, "Left on Shattuck!"

  Two cars, lights and sirens, squealed to stops across from Peet's. The crime scene van idled in front. An unmarked Maduri knew to be the medical examiner's blocked the sidewalk.

  Maduri turned on the engine, checked the side mirrors then the rearview, and did a double take.

  Janssen was in the backseat, with the blonde in the CALIFORNIA sweatshirt beside him.

  "Who's she?" he half shouted even though it was quieter in the car with the doors shut.

  "Lisa Kozlovski," the girl said.

  "You saw the shooter too?"

  "No, I was down the block, on Walnut, when I heard the shots. When I got here the man was dead. I mean, I think he was dead. He was on the sidewalk, all bloody. Dead."

  Maduri raised a questioning brow to Shelby.

  "Mr. Janssen wanted Miss Kozlovski to accompany him. He thought it would be interesting for her."

  "Help me to think," Janssen sputtered.

  Maduri had to jam his jaws together. Half the department would be circling the area. Every cop of the force would be dragged back in. And Brian Janssen was like a twelve-year-old on a date. Like he had Maduri and Shelby driving him and his date to the movies. The girl was a knockout blonde, three levels above what Janssen could ever hope for. But suddenly the kid had a novelty to offer. Want to ride in the back of a cop car? In the cage? Look for a murderer? Maduri didn't expect Janssen to spot the shooter—then again, he figured if this deer-in-the-headlights kid was managing to sit thigh-to-thigh with this blonde, he had to be sharper than he looked.

  Janssen nudged her.

  "Would you leave the doors unlocked?" she asked. "Uh . . . I'm a little claustrophobic."

  You, not him, huh?" But Maduri just said, "Sure." As he clicked the lock, a patrol car Code 3'd around the corner, its sirens screeching in Maduri's ear as it passed inches away.

  "Damn sirens," Shelby grumbled. "Know why they blast your ears off?"

  It took Janssen a moment to realize the question was to him. "Uh-uh."

  "New cars! They're so airtight; music blaring inside. Drivers don't hear the sirens anymore. Not ours, not the fire trucks."

  From Janssen's guilty expression Maduri figured the kid was one of those drivers.

  Dark night, pedestrians in black, some under umbrellas. The white Christmas lights snaking up poles turned the dark blacker. Maduri hung the left onto Shattuck. If the perp was planning to escape on BART he'd be running down Shattuck toward it, or jumping on a bus. Or hiding in the Arts and Crafts Co-op standing over a sculpture he had no intention of buying. Or he'd have hidden in the hundred and one spots BPD was not going to uncover on a dark, foggy December night. He'd have gone . . . anywhere.

  Janssen would want to be the hero. Maduri slowed the car. "On the sidewalk, there! In front of the French Hotel!" He pointed to a white guy in a hoodie that could have been mahogany but was more likely black. "What about him?"

  Janssen shot a glance at the girl before turning toward the window. Maduri noted Shelby's mistake—he'd sat Janssen where he'd have a clear view out the passenger window. He should have put the girl next to window and let Janssen look over her since that was the way the kid was looking anyway.

  But Janssen was staring toward the dark figure moving into the Andronico's supermarket parking lot.

  "What so you think?"

  "No. Not him."

  Maduri caught the kid's hesitation. "You sure, Mr. Janssen?"

  Janssen shrugged. In the rearview Maduri could see him shiver and slide closer to the girl, who looked none too warm herself.

  "Sorry about the car. Heater repair isn't high on the department's budget plans."

  Janssen started to put an arm around the girl's shoulder but she gave him a quick head shake. "She's from LA," he said quickly. "It's like Nome here for her, right?"

  She nodded.

  "It's like Nome here period tonight," Shelby said. Back at the scene, officers were standing in the cold, laboriously interviewing every man, woman, and child, writing every name and address, double-checking spelling, triple-checking e-mail addresses, getting colder every minute. Getting no closer to tracking down the perp.

  "Mr. Janssen? That the killer?" Maduri said as a hoodie'd figure cut into the parking lot heading to the store or on out the other exit to Henry Street. Maduri hit the gas, swung a right, circled around and into the lot from the back. "There he is. By the first line of cars. Do you see him, Mr. Janssen? Is that the killer?"

  Janssen dragged his attention from the blonde and looked out the window. "Nah, not him."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Not him."

  "Not him how?"

  "How . . . what?"

  Maduri glanced in the rearview mirror in time to catch the boy's smart-ass grin; the sarcasm was for the girlfriend. Only witness, Maduri reminded himself yet again. Have to keep him on our side. "How's the killer different, Mr. Janssen? Shorter, taller, fatter? More hair, less? Different clothes?"

&
nbsp; "There was something . . . odd . . . about him. He was a little guy."

  "How little?"

  "Five two, maybe."

  Five two doesn't even make the chart! Probably he meant five six or five eight. Janssen was a good six feet. From his view anyone under five eight was a shrimp. "Short, huh? That all?"

  "He seemed spooked, you know, like he couldn't decide which way to go."

  "But he ended up running down Vine to Shattuck, right?"

  Janssen just nodded, shrugged at the girl beside him.

  "That right, Miss Kozlovski?"

  "To this street? Sorry, I don't know this part of the city. My boyfriend's car—"

  "Former boyfriend," Janssen put in.

  In the rearview, Maduri saw her jaw go tight. Janssen did not. The kid was, Maduri thought, an idiot. He eased the black-and-white out of the parking lot back onto Shattuck just as a fire engine hit the siren behind him. He jerked to a stop.

  Shelby shot him a glance that said, You get to the point when you block out even that. Not good!

  "The shooter, Miss Kozlovski, how would you describe him?" Maduri was yelling over the fading siren.

  "By the time I got there," she yelled back, "he was gone!"

  "Citizens of Berkeley," Shelby grumbled as the siren faded away, "they bitch about everything. But a guy guns a man down and trots off and not a single concerned citizen bothers to follow him."

  Maduri shot a panicked glance at the detective. Don't give up, damnit!

  As if she caught his vibe, Lisa Kozlovski said, "Maybe this will help. I heard someone say you wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley—"

  "Which you took to mean . . . ?"

  "Bigger. I mean like more substantial. I'd say bulky too"—she turned to Janssen—"don't you think, Bri?"

  Janssen hesitated as if he was scanning the still shots in his mind before agreeing with her. As opposed to the decision he was weighing. Hesitantly, he placed his hand on her thigh, the way Maduri used to test the burners for heat on the ancient electric stove.

  "Mr. Janssen?"

  "Yeah."

  The girl poked an elbow into his rib and he grinned, seemed to be squeezing her thigh, though Maduri couldn't be sure. "Yes, officer, she's right. He was stockier. That's why it was so odd, see, that he was bouncing around trying to decide what to do. Only a minute. Less than that, I think. I was looking at the guy lying on the sidewalk."

  Maduri shot a glance at Shelby, but the detective was off in his own world.

  Maduri pulled into the intersection and hung a left. Circling back on Walnut, paralleling Shattuck, eyeing the ivy-covered hurricane fence that surrounded a block of university plantings. Good place for a perp to leap into. But dicey if anyone spotted him. Maduri aimed the spotlight at the vines, on the small chance it'd jolt the perp. Nothing.

  Janssen's head was turned toward the vines, but what he was eyeing was the girl.

  Look for the perp, damnit! Maduri forced himself to inhale slowly. "Mr. Janssen, I want you to do an exercise for me. While you're scanning the sidewalks, run through what happened when you got to Peet's."

  "When I arrived on the scene?"

  "Yeah, exactly. But keep looking out the window."

  "Like patting my head and rubbing my stomach."

  Patience! "Sure. So . . . ?"

  "Well, you know, I got coffee and left and—"

  "What was Peet's like—crowded, noisy, half-empty?"

  "Pretty empty. I only had to wait behind one guy in line before I ordered, and he was just getting regular, not like Lisa and her macchiato." He grinned at her, raking his fingers softly up and down her thigh.

  "Keep checking the sidewalk, Mr. Janssen."

  "Oh, yeah, sure."

  "So you got your coffee—"

  "Espresso." His head twitched toward her but he caught himself before letting his gaze leave the window. "It was in a paper cup. I walked outside—"

  "How did it strike you out there?"

  "You mean, set the scene?"

  "Exactly. You're doing great." The car was back at the Peet's corner now, on Walnut. Crime scene tape was strung across the entry to the Walnut Square walkway. Tech lights shone off shop windows. The bark of radios cut through the buzz of talk.

  Maduri hung a left onto Vine. Janssen was on the passenger side, looking toward the far side of the street across from Peet's as he would have been when he came out the door with his espresso. In front of the coffee shop, the scene techs were laying down markers. Maduri didn't want Janssen seeing that, coloring his memory of the scene.

  An update flashed on the computer screen. Shelby'd read it, said nothing.

  "So, Mr. Janssen, light? Dark, warm, cold, crowded . . . ?"

  "Well, you know, it was getting to be night. I remember now I was surprised. I mean I wasn't in there more than a couple of minutes, but it seemed lots darker when I came out. And, you know, wet, like now. Like moist, but not raining."

  "You're doing great. Were there people on the sidewalk?" Where was the suspect Callahan nabbed? Anyone else? Anyone who could be the killer?

  "A couple, I think. Like I said, it was dark and cold and no one was hanging around, not like they do in the morning. These were, like, people going someplace."

  Maduri stopped at the light at Shattuck. "Where was Lampara, the victim? When you came out. Before the shots."

  "Dunno. He could have been . . . I didn't pay attention to him till I heard the shots. Till I heard him groan. When I saw him go down."

  The girl squeezed his arm, but for the first time he didn't seem to notice her.

  "Tell me about it. See it. No, don't close your eyes. See it in your mind. Keep looking out the window." Maduri turned left onto Shattuck as he had minutes earlier. "That guy, in front of the Cheeseboard? Did you see him at Peet's?"

  "No," Janssen responded so quickly it surprised him.

  "Go on, Mr. Janssen. You walk out of Peet's. You're holding your cup. Did it have a lid?"

  "It was just an espresso. I wasn't going to be drinking it that long."

  "Okay, so you walk out . . . ?"

  "I come out the door there on the corner. I turn left, downhill. I get, like, to the Peet's window, no farther. Like three steps from the doorway. I hear—wait!—I hear someone yell, 'Mr. Lampara!' and then the shot."

  This is it! Maduri struggled to keep his voice even. "What did it sound like? Man, woman, high, low, accent? Hear it now!"

  Janssen was trying, trying to hear. Shelby was swallowing any reaction; Maduri'd seen him do that before when the witness was on the verge of something.

  Maduri was trying not to tell Janssen not to squeeze his eyes closed.

  Janssen was thinking.

  "Don't think! Remember!"

  Janssen jerked.

  Shit!

  "Nothing special. I mean, it was like a growl, like right next to him. Just those two words: Mr. Lampara? Like a question." Janssen's jaw was quivering.

  "Five thirty at night. How'd the killer just walk away?"

  Did Shelby realize he was muttering aloud? Or was he just losing it?

  Whatever. Maduri knew it was all up to him now. He checked the rearview. The girl was looking out the window; the boy's expression was blank, his shoulder moving up and down in response to his hand on her thigh.

  "I'm not surprised," Shelby continued. "Lampara's well known in this town. Well hated."

  Janssen and Kozlovski cocked their heads toward him. Almost in unison.

  "You know what the Law of Karma is?"

  "Sure," Janssen said.

  "Right. It's the one law citizens in Berkeley respect." Shelby uttered a weary chuckle. It was an old joke at the department. "I've been on the force a long time. I used to laugh when the new guys whined about driving up one block and down the next every morning, eyes out for a parking spot, them hauling themselves out of bed half an hour early to do it, to find parking within a mile of the station, then having to run to make the squad meeting. I didn't respect the
Law of Karma then, so I laughed. Then they bitch about coming back at the end of shift and finding a parking ticket on their windshields! Rite of passage, I'd tell them, and I'd still be chuckling when I walked the four blocks home to a sweet two-bedroom cottage I was renting there . . . Lampara, he taught me about karma. Evicted me. Flipped my house."

  Now Shelby drove an hour in traffic each way to the lesser house he could afford in the lesser town. The best he could say was that by the time he got there, he only had an hour or two to listen to the wife go on about the ugly streets, the bland neighbors, the boredom. The exile.

  "Lampara was just beginning then," Shelby went on in that musing voice, almost like he was inviting them all inside his head. "That was before he could buy four-plexes, eight-plexes, four-story places—and slumlord the tenants out. Mostly near campus. And then there was the fire last month, the grad student who died. You live near there, don't you, Mr. Janssen?"

  The girl jumped. Had Janssen squeezed her thigh that hard?

  "You live near that apartment of his that burned, right? You must've heard the sirens, seen the engines roll in, the water, heard about the shitty wiring that sparked it. Didn't you?"

  "Yeah, but . . . Yeah."

  "You live across the street, right?" Shelby said. "Did you see the fire from your window, Mr. Janssen? Did you watch? Did you know the guy who died? In the flames? The smoke? Was he your friend, Brian? Did you see him at the window, trying to break the glass, Brian?"

  Janssen was shaking, trying to get words out.

  "Did you see his suitcase on the sidewalk? Taxi for the airport? To fly to LA? To get married? Did you see that? Did you know that? Did you, Brian?"

  "Stop it. Just stop it, now!" The girl wrapped her arms around Janssen and pulled him to her. She was shaking too.

  Maduri shot a glance at Shelby to see if the old guy had a plan or if he'd just lost it. If all those hours on the freeway had wadded into rage. Or if it wasn't that. If, maybe, it was the boy who'd died in the fire. But all he saw was the back of Shelby's head. Shelby was staring hard out the window, or just staring blankly. He said to Janssen, "Black, could be brown, hoodie ahead walking fast. What do you think?"

  Now Janssen was staring hard, wanting it to be the suspect.