“How so?” Doc asked.
“That’s the problem. I’m not sure.” Aloa tugged at her bottom lip. “She did an Instagram post of her and Kyle at home that night. They were drinking wine and eating popcorn. She said they were watching Wild Travels reruns on TV.”
“Pretty convenient,” said Doc.
“Exactly,” Aloa said. “It was almost like Kyle staged the photo and convinced her to post it. Like maybe he blackmailed her with something or paid her off. She’s a freelancer. She probably needs the money. But how can I prove he did that?”
“How about we kidnap the little asswipe, slip him sodium thiopental, and see what he has to say?” P-Mac said from the back seat.
Doc grinned. “Hey, I know a guy who knows a guy who might be able to get us some of that stuff.”
“We could say we have a delivery and grab him when he answers the door,” P-Mac called out.
“How about a FedEx truck?” Tick said, leaning forward. “We follow a truck and when the driver gets out to deliver a package, we jump in. I hot-wire the engine. We’re out of there in thirty seconds or less. We nab the jerk and boom.”
“Just like Berkeley, 1969,” P-Mac said.
“Christ,” said Doc, “we said we were never going to talk about that.”
P-Mac thumped the back of Doc’s seat. “Good times, though, right?”
Tick laughed. “Do you think that capitalist pig ever figured out what happened?”
“Guys,” Aloa interrupted, “I hate to bust up your kidnapping party, but we’re not abducting Kyle.”
“But—” Tick said.
Aloa turned. “No. We’re going to go at this logically. We’re going to think.”
She swept her glance over the men. “And I don’t want to know what happened in Berkeley in 1969, OK?”
Doc steered the van through the city toward the Castro, a circuitous route that took twice as long, but also avoided the very real possibility that the old van’s gutless engine would wheeze to its death on one of San Francisco’s famous hills.
The wind had pushed away the fog earlier than expected, bringing the city back to life. Delivery trucks honked, businesswomen strode along the sidewalk in high heels, the homeless huddled with their possessions on the sidewalk. Aloa thought of Elvis and of Keisha trying to raise her little girl under a freeway. It was a hard life and one with no easy options for escape, despite what some believed. She wondered if the Sacrificial Lamb deaths had hit the news yet. Tick, always suspicious about the government and police tracking citizens, had confiscated and shut down Aloa’s phone when they rescued her from the headlands, which had turned her into a hermit on an island in the sea of technology.
An idea flickered, then disappeared. She willed it back, rewinding her thoughts.
“That’s it,” she said and slapped a hand on the dashboard of the van.
Doc startled.
“It was Monday, not Tuesday,” she cried.
“Are you OK, Ink? You having a flashback or something?” P-Mac asked from the back seat.
She turned. “No. It was the hashtag on the Instagram. It said tristelundi.”
“French for ‘sad Monday,’” Doc translated.
“Exactly. There was a French word-a-day calendar on her desk. The Instagram shot of Kyle in his pajamas must have been taken on a Monday, not Tuesday when Corrine died. Either the roomie forgot she’d posted it the day after they’d watched the show or I was right and Kyle paid her to give him an alibi, but she screwed up.”
“Release the hounds,” Tick cried. “We’ve got him now.”
P-Mac gave a loud bay from the back seat.
“Ah hell,” Doc said.
“You don’t like my hound-dog impersonation?” P-Mac asked.
“No, it’s Tall Boy, and it looks like he’s got some news,” Doc said. He swerved the van toward the sidewalk where a young guy with cornrows and baggy pants gave a quick chin lift to the vehicle.
“Uh-oh,” Tick said.
The kid leaned in the window. “Narc in the park,” he said, his gaze twitching up and down the street.
“What time?” Tick demanded.
“’Bout an hour ago. Unmarked. Across the street from where you’re staying.” Tall Boy looked at P-Mac. “You got what you promised?”
P-Mac rooted around in the cargo compartment of the van and reached past Doc out the window. “Here you go. Just like we said.” He handed Tall Boy a thick paperback with a black cover. The Pragmatic Programmer: From Journeyman to Master read the title.
“Solid,” said Tall Boy. He took the book and loped away.
“Who was that?” Aloa asked.
“Brilliant kid. We’re trying to get him into Stanford,” Doc said.
Tick took off his cap and slapped it against his thigh. “How in the hell did the cops find us?” he said.
“It doesn’t matter,” P-Mac said. “What matters is that we beat feet out of here.” He tapped Doc on the shoulder. “Hit it,” he said.
Doc stomped on the accelerator. The van jerked forward and died.
“Damn,” Tick said. “Where’d you go? Miss Daisy’s Driving School?”
“Shut up, old man. I got this,” Doc said. He pumped the gas and turned the key. The engine coughed and died. Horns honked.
“Come on, baby,” Doc urged the van.
“You’re going to flood it,” P-Mac called as the engine sputtered and died once more.
Doc shot him a look and tried another time: a cough, a wheeze, and, with an almost-human groan, the engine caught.
“Miss Daisy, huh?” Doc said and pulled away in a burst of speed, swerving the van around the next corner and racing down an alley so narrow it felt like they were being shot through a gun barrel. Aloa watched concrete walls flash by with what seemed like millimeters to spare.
“I told you not to take that call,” Tick was shouting from the back seat.
“And leave our girl here twitching on a cliff? No sir,” Doc said over the van’s engine.
“He’s right, Tick,” P-Mac said. “We had to do it.”
“Watch out,” shouted P-Mac as a guy in sweatpants and a stained T-shirt started to step from a doorway into the alley.
Doc hit the horn and the man leaped backward.
Aloa saw his face as they passed the doorway. His eyes were wide and his mouth open in an O.
The van went about twenty more feet before it bounced onto a side street and Aloa heaved a sigh of relief that the van and everyone around it had survived intact.
“What now?” Doc asked.
“We get the kid and head for Mexico. Like we were going to do before,” Tick said.
“Bad plan,” Aloa said.
“Why?” Tick demanded.
“Because a) you’ll never make it across the border and b) if they catch you, we’ll all go to prison.”
“When freedom is in jeopardy, prison is a palace,” P-Mac said. “Mahatma Gandhi.”
“Call it whatever you want, I still don’t want to go there,” Aloa said.
“We’ll drop you off. We’ll say we never saw you,” Doc said.
“Too late,” Aloa said. “I have an idea.”
Doc piloted the van south of the city and stopped in front of a gray warehouse.
“This isn’t a car rental place,” Aloa protested.
“Better,” Doc said. He eased himself from the van with a cracking of knee joints and approached a large metal rolling door. Aloa watched him push a button and talk into what looked like some kind of intercom, resulting in the door rolling upward. Doc hoisted himself back into the van and drove forward.
Inside the warehouse, a half dozen workmen in blue jumpsuits swarmed over an array of cars: a black Mercedes, some SUVs, a couple of Porsches, a green Prius.
What was a Prius doing here?
“Tell me this isn’t a chop shop,” Aloa said.
“All right,” Doc said, “this isn’t a chop shop.”
He opened the door.
“Omi
god,” Aloa said and followed as the Brain Farm let themselves out of the van.
“Porky wants you guys to sit over there,” said Doc, pointing to an old bench car seat set in a corner of the warehouse, before disappearing into the bowels of the shop.
Pneumatic drills burped, sanders hissed, tools clanged.
Aloa opened her mouth.
“Don’t ask,” Tick said.
A few minutes later, a shiny black Escalade rolled forward through the center of the warehouse with Doc at the wheel.
“Get in,” he said.
Aloa opened the passenger door, her nostrils filling with the scent of leather and new car. “If this is stolen . . . ,” she warned.
“What do you take me for, a rookie?” Doc said in a tone that let her know his feelings were hurt. “This is Porky’s car. I helped his kid get into UC Berkeley. He’s gonna give the van a new paint job, take out a few dents, and maybe get her a new license plate. We’ll pick her up in a couple of days. Meanwhile, if there’s a be-on-the-lookout for the van, we’re safe.”
“Sorry, Doc,” Aloa said and meant it.
The door rolled open and they pulled away.
Hamlin looked terrible. His hair was wild and unwashed. His beard had gone past hip and moved into bum territory.
“What’s she doing here?” he demanded when Aloa and the Brain Farm walked in the door of an elegant house in Pacific Heights, one of the richest neighborhoods in the city.
“Saving your butt,” P-Mac said.
“Who lives here?” Aloa asked, surveying the two-story foyer and the curved staircase. To the right was an impressive library. To the left was a huge living room.
“An old girlfriend,” Doc said. “Met her back in the day.”
“Is she here?” Aloa asked.
“In Europe at the moment,” Doc said.
Aloa was pretty sure that was a Jackson Pollock on the wall.
They went down a hallway into the kitchen, Hamlin eyeing her suspiciously. Doc rummaged around and came out with a bottle of red wine and five glasses.
“No thanks,” Aloa said.
They sat down at a glass table in a gorgeous breakfast nook and Aloa went over the plan she’d devised.
Doc listened and then dialed.
“May I speak to Mr. Kyle Williams?” he said. “Yes, this is Detective, um, Jack Coltrane.”
“Really?” Aloa mouthed.
Doc shrugged.
She hoped Kyle didn’t know jazz.
“Yes,” Doc said. “I’m with the Marin County Sheriff’s Department and I’m afraid I may have some bad news.” He paused. “It’s regarding a woman. Her name was Aloa Snow.” Doc gave Aloa’s date of birth. “Do you know her?” He paused. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid her body was found early this afternoon. Yes, um, it appears to be a suicide but we need to check all possibilities.” He listened.
“What’s he saying?” Tick whispered.
Doc held up a hand to quiet him. “Yes, it is upsetting, but if we can just have a few minutes of your time,” Doc continued. He rustled an old New York Times that was on the table. “According to my notes here, Mr. Williams, a witness saw the victim leave an Uber vehicle before she jumped. We traced the fare to your account and the driver gave us the address for the pickup.”
He raised an eyebrow at Aloa and she gave him the OK signal. Arjun, the Uber driver, had told them where he’d picked up Aloa but she was gambling that Kyle wouldn’t know it would take the cops longer than a few hours to get the same information from the ride-share service.
Doc listened. “Yes. Uh-huh,” he said. “Would you mind telling me about Ms. Snow’s state of mind when she left the address?”
Aloa wished she could hear the responses on speaker, but she was afraid background noises might alert Kyle that it wasn’t actually a detective who was calling.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” Doc said.
Hamlin shook his head, got up, and left.
“There was a note,” Doc said, “but I’m afraid I can’t reveal its contents.” Another few moments of listening. “Yes, it appears it was written in her hand.”
Aloa scribbled something on a piece of the newspaper and shoved it toward Doc.
He read the scrawled sentence and raised an eyebrow at her again. “Of course, her previous mental health issues add to the idea of suicide,” he said.
Aloa nodded. Good.
Then: “Did she say anything about a head injury, about being hit by a small pickup truck?”
Aloa made a frantic cutting motion across her throat. She didn’t want to spook Kyle.
“It’s pretty much a dead end,” Doc amended hastily. “Nobody got a plate number and nobody saw the driver, and of course, now that Ms. Snow is dead . . .” Doc let his voice trail off and made the OK sign at Aloa.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Williams. You’ve been very helpful. Sure sounds like a suicide,” Doc said. “You have a nice day now.” He clicked off the phone.
“Have a nice day?” Aloa said.
“Too much?”
“A little,” Aloa said. “What did he say?”
Doc lifted his wineglass and Tick splashed in more red. “He was real nervous at first.”
I’ll bet, Aloa thought.
“He kept saying he didn’t know what was wrong with you, but that you seemed out of it and were asking crazy questions. He was a little too insistent, if you know what I mean. Like he needed to convince me,” Doc said. “He told me he thought you were going home, but that you must have asked the driver to take you to the headlands instead.”
“That’s not what Arjun said,” Tick said. “He told me the fare was to the headlands. You want me to call him? I got his number.”
“I believe you,” Aloa said.
“He couldn’t get off the phone fast enough,” Doc said. “I think he’s guilty.”
“So do I,” Aloa said, anger growing at how he’d almost caused her death—one that would have cemented the idea that she was damaged goods for the journalists who would read her obituary.
They were silent for a long moment.
“What’s next, Ink?” Tick asked.
“We let him relax, get comfortable,” Aloa said, “then we’ll make our move.”
Aloa wandered through the mansion, its rooms decorated in so many shades of white she couldn’t imagine there were names for all of them. Outside, night had fallen. She folded her arms across her stomach. She wanted to be alone.
P-Mac had made a pot of spaghetti and, although she wasn’t hungry, she managed to down a small bowl of it. Afterward, she’d used the owner’s computer and password to go online. There, she’d found a story in the local section of the Chronicle about the discovery of the bodies of four homeless people. According to the article, police were mum about the investigation but interviews with people at the Jungle revealed detectives had been asking about drug use or sales by each of the victims. When the bodies’ connections to the Church of the Sacrificial Lamb were exposed, Aloa knew, the story would jump to page one. It was one of the sad truths about the nation that while the murder of some pretty white girl usually landed on page one, the death of a person without a home or money merited only a few inches in the back of the paper. Unless it turned lurid, which this one would.
She hoped Keisha and her daughter would be OK and remembered what Quinn had said about her visits to the Jungle being so dangerous.
The only danger was to those who actually had to live there.
She stared out the windows on to a stone fountain and wondered if Quinn was trying to get hold of her. She was walking a little too close to the legal edge by being with Hamlin and the Brain Farm, although she consoled herself with the idea that no arrest warrants had been issued. Yet. Besides, she wasn’t sure Quinn would believe her if she told him her suspicions about Kyle. Their last conversation hadn’t exactly been complimentary—or conducive to sharing.
She moved through the living room, examining a large bowl of oversize glass cherries, a painting of
a woman on a horse, a pillow embroidered with the word “Love.”
She thought of Michael and their years together. His protectiveness. Their almost desperate sex on the couch. His abrupt disappearance from her life. She wondered what he would think if she told him about the baby they’d conceived so long ago. The one who had lived in her womb for four months, then disappeared in a wash of tissue and blood. The doctor at the clinic had called it a miscarriage, but Aloa thought that was too simple a name for something so devastating, something that also tore out a piece of her heart. One of these days, she would have to tell him. She shoved the thought from her head, although she knew it would resurface as it did sometimes when she saw a mother with her child or a pregnant woman. It wasn’t a constant grief. Just one that rose up and surprised her because of how much it hurt.
On she went, moving through the foyer and into the library where rows of books filled floor-to-ceiling white shelves. Soft lighting fell from the ceiling and flames danced in the gas fireplace. She could live in this room.
She perused the shelves: classics, bestsellers, books on international art and poetry. She was reaching for a book of poems by a local writer when she heard a hiccup. She turned and saw a shadowed lounge chair facing the window. A half-empty bottle of expensive cognac sat on a table next to it.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
A figure leaned forward, lamplight revealing Hamlin’s face. His eyelids were at half-mast and the corners of his mouth dragged down. He lifted a tumbler filled with golden liquid in salute.
“And there she is, Lois Lane,” Hamlin said. “The savior of the world.”
He took a slug of cognac and flung himself back in his chair. “Who are you going to accuse next?”
“Excuse me?” Aloa said, stepping toward him.
“Well, first you said it was a drug dealer who killed Corrine and now you think it’s that neurotic twerp Kyle who stabbed her? Corrine said he threw up when she killed a spider in front of him.”
Was that true?
“So now I figure I’m pretty much screwed,” Hamlin continued and splashed more cognac into his glass.
“You know, if you told the cops about your son, you’d be cleared.”
The Thin Edge Page 17