by Susan Dunlap
“So if he’s not doing it for the poor, or to make money, and he’s not a fool, then why?”
“Because,” he said, jerking the beak of his cap down, “he got married.”
“Ott, give me a break!”
“Okay, forget it.” He started for the stairs.
“Wait.” I had to get to the bottom of this. “What’s marriage got to do with this?”
Ott turned slowly, but he had no smile of victory. “Here’s the thing, Smith. Fannie is ten or fifteen years younger than Sam. She’s attractive, arty in that European way. Like a young Jackie Kennedy. And Johnson’s crazy about her.” Ott shook his head in bewilderment. “He wants her and he wants his principles. She wants him, but she doesn’t want to live in a movement safe house.”
“She’s not enamored of fugitives arriving in the middle of the night, guys camped out in the kitchen drinking beer and grumbling about the system. Big surprise.”
“Look, Smith, you want to mouth off or you want to listen?”
I smiled. I’d forgotten how hard it was for Ott to give me something, with not a thing in return. “I’m all ears.”
“Sam wants the house in the hills to be apartments for him and Fannie, and for the poor. Fannie’s got the money. She’ll give it to him, on the condition that he keep his gym open.”
It had all made sense until now. But this was crazier than any of the other speculative reasons I had heard for Johnson running the gym. “Why does she care?”
Ott mumbled.
“What?”
His answer wasn’t much louder. It took me a moment to realize it was: “I don’t know.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” To not even have a speculation, for Ott that was astounding.
“You tried—”
“Yeah.”
“Ott,” I said, “Sam Johnson said she inherited the money.”
He brightened. “Not a chance. She was on full scholarship at Cal.”
“So where did she get her cash?” The words were barely out of my mouth when I recalled where Fannie Johnson worked. “The public guardian’s office, where she is charged with watching out for the funds of the incompetent.”
A smile flickered at the corners of Ott’s pale, narrow mouth.
The Johnson house was just what I would have expected for the long-term leader of the movement—a small, stucco bungalow in a neighborhood we on the force knew too well. The shrubbery in front of the streaked picture window was virtually mummified, and the cracked and dirty white paint attested to more important commitments than home maintenance. It was not a dwelling that a young Jacqueline Kennedy would have chosen. Especially not with the old Rambler and Nova parked on the lawn.
Every light in the house was on. The front door was open, and music and men’s voices flowed out. At this hour, in beat two up on Tamalpais, neighbors on both sides would have called in complaints. The screen door opened before I could knock.
“What do you want now?” a guy demanded. I recognized him from demonstrations on the Avenue. “You can’t wait to hassle us, can you? Some rich, white woman gets offed in the hills and the first thing you cops think is: let’s shake down the movement. You got a warrant?”
I wasn’t surprised he’d heard about the murder. “You living here now?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“Right. You’re not. Tell Fannie I’m here.”
“What is this, the local doughnut shop? You cops have been here every hour all night.”
“Fannie,” I insisted.
“Hey, leave her alone. She’s had a hard day.”
“Oh, really? Why is that?”
“Every day is hard for her,” he said after a moment. Behind him, the music had stopped and the voices had gone quiet. I had told the dispatcher I wouldn’t need backup on this call. Had I made a mistake? Over his shoulder I could see two sets of male legs. But there could be ten guys sitting inside, having spent hours bitching about the system and its protectors.
“Tell Fannie I’m here.”
“You’ve got no—”
“Do it! A woman can make up her own mind.”
He hesitated a moment then, apparently failing to raise an objection, trudged off.
I moved back down the two steps to the path, stood beside the old Nova in the driveway, and called the dispatcher for backup. As I waited I heard her call 6 Victor 8. I’d never worked graveyard. At this hour the eighteen beats we worked in swing shift were condensed into nine. I had no idea who Victor 8 was or how far away he was likely to be.
“Whatsamatter?”
I turned, startled. Whoever had spoken was behind the Nova.
“You worried we’re going to take you, cop?”
I couldn’t see him, but his voice was edged with hysteria like he was on something. In the light from the windows I was virtually spotlighted. “Should I be worried?” I sounded way more offhand than I felt. This could be the kind of situation Pereira and Leonard had warned me about: a crackhead or crazy coming out of nowhere, where logic is useless and there’s no place to run. It was like facing down a growling dog: I couldn’t back off without giving him the go-ahead to attack. I wasn’t about to retreat back up the steps, not and find myself surrounded. I needed to lay the framework here, to set the rules. “I know you, don’t I?” I bluffed.
“Huh?”
“From the Avenue, right? You’re—”
“You don’t know—”
“Sure I do. If I see you, I’ll remember your name.”
Silence. Inside the house I could hear muffled voices, a man’s and a woman’s, arguing. Not in the living room, though; farther away. My throat was dry. On my shoulder my radio crackled—the dispatcher calling 6 Victor 4 for a 911 hang-up.
“Not again,” Victor 4 said. “I’ve been out there twice this week. They’ve got ten people there. No one knows anything about the call. But I’m on my way.”
I strained, listening for street noises, for the sound of my backup. This kid was probably harmless; if I hadn’t just seen Ellen Waller dying for no reason, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him. But God, I didn’t want to get shot.
I pushed back that thought, and said, “Come on. Walk out here.”
“Hey, I don’t have to—”
“Yeah, you do.” I flipped the flashlight up, still in its loop, and aimed it at the car. It turned night to day and the anonymous speaker into a skinny guy in his twenties with a greasy blond ponytail.
Simultaneously the backup car pulled up and the door to the house opened. I spun toward the door, hand on gun.
The woman behind the screen pulled both of her hands shoulder high.
“Just a minute,” I called to her. To Victor 8, I said, “Our blond friend here thinks I should be afraid of him. Let’s see what we’ve got on him?” Then I turned to the woman. “Open the door, please.”
“Hey, I don’t—”
“Please,” I repeated. For the first time I realized I was shaking. I stepped up to the screen door.
The woman waiting behind it may have once resembled the First Lady who charmed General de Gaulle, but not now. She looked anything but charming or happy to see me. “Goddamn it. He wasn’t here an hour ago. He’s not here now.”
“Sam?”
“Who else?”
“It’s you I want to talk to.”
“In the middle of the night? Why not talk to me tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Well, I can.”
“You’re right. It’s late,” I said. “How about we flip to the last page of this script. You don’t want me inside, but you might as well get it over with.”
Behind her a guy muttered, “Hey, you don’t have to—”
“Forget it!” she snapped. She pulled a patchwork Japanese jacket tighter around her. I’d seen it in one of the stores at Walnut Square, and coveted it, and resisted paying well over a hundred dollars for it. Her rayon slacks I recognized, too. I had tried
them on in the same store, and they tempted me because of the wonderful way they hung when I stood, and wafted when I walked. But they didn’t hang well on her. They bunched to one side and looked more in keeping with her long brown hair fingercombed back into a rubber band, and the irritable expression on her square face. It was a face that didn’t expect people to be in the way.
Behind her I could see a sofa that had once been a montage of blousy pastel flowers. Now it looked like it had seen too many years and countless guys who scorn material possessions.
“Inside?”
“Look, I’ll answer your questions. But you can do the asking here.”
“How long have you and Sam been married?”
“Three years.”
“Are you a partner in The Heat Exchange?”
“Yeah, so?” Behind her I could hear feet skimming carpet as if someone behind her was getting ready to spring up to her defense.
“You know the people in need in that building aren’t getting any help from it.”
“That’s Sam’s concern.”
“And yours?”
“Mine is the business. If we choose to give something back to the community, that’s gravy. We opened the Exchange like any other gym.”
“No, it’s not like any other gym, not up there on Telegraph. Without the heat gimmick, people connected with Cal would find a gym free on campus, or they’d go to The Girls’ Team.”
“But they don’t.” She couldn’t, or didn’t choose to, hide her satisfaction.
“Is your goal to run The Girls’ Team out of business?”
“My goal is to succeed. Look, I spent forty hours a week working among the walking dead. I dreamed of having a place like the Exchange. I researched the business; I know marketing. I put everything I have into the Exchange. I had good reason for every decision I made. If I’m better than the competition, well, I should be.” She caught my eye. “You know what they say: life isn’t fair. If Bryn Wiley is squealing now, tough. Fairness hasn’t always been such a big issue for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe she kicked up some spray.”
“What—”
“No! Is this what you disturbed me in the middle of the night to ask?” She moved her hand to the door. In a minute she’d slam it closed.
“Where did you get the money to open a health club, and buy a house in the hills?”
“So that’s it?”
“Where?” I demanded again.
She shrugged.
“You work at the public guardian’s office. We can check your cases—”
She laughed. “You figure I stole it, don’t you? Sam Johnson’s wife came into money; she must be a thief. Well, you’re going to be disappointed. The University of California gave me that money. It took them ten years and three lawsuits before they’d finally settle. But now, twelve years after the fact, they’ve admitted their liability and I’ve got a house and a health club.”
Herman Ott knew that; he had to. No wonder he was laughing at me when he left the station. “What exactly—”
“That’s all.” She reached for the inside door.
“What about Ellen Waller? How come you were seeing Bryn Wiley’s secretary?”
She looked at me and laughed before she shut the door.
I got back to the station at 2 A.M. Inspector Doyle was on the phone. With a case like this, he could be on the phone for hours. Certainly, he’d be up all night. I tapped on his glass door, waved to let him know I was back, and headed for the squad room to write up my report supplement. It took well over two hours to record the essentials of the scene, and the three interviews. As I carried it back to the inspector’s office, I reminded myself mine was just one of many reports. I should be glad I didn’t have to coordinate the rest, deal with coroner, the D.A., and the press, like he did. In half an hour I would be home in bed. Tomorrow, I could hike at Pt. Reyes, visit my friend Virginia in Stinson Beach, or catch a movie. My team wasn’t back on duty till Wednesday morning; I had time to drive to Fresno and surprise Howard.
But I didn’t want off the case.
I stuck my head in the inspector’s doorway. “I know you’re short-handed in Homicide,” I said, as soon as he put down the phone, “and I—”
Doyle laughed. “Smith, I could have made a bundle betting you’d want in, if there’d been anyone naive enough to take the other side. So skip the polemics. Your report; anything you need to add?”
“No, it’s all there: coordinating the scene, and interviews with Pironnen, Estler who made the 911 call, and Fannie Johnson, Sam Johnson’s wife. I also talked to Pironnen last week about the nudist. Pironnen’s a recluse; he’s not likely to open up to most people. He—”
“Okay, Smith, I take your point. And I do need someone to head up the interviews until Brucker gets back Monday.” He eyed his watch. “Jesus, it’s after four. Get yourself back here by ten.”
Chapter 14
IT WAS 4:30 IN THE morning when I got home. The house was dark and silent. That is so rare an event that I had to feel around to find the light switch. I was exhausted, wired to the point of giddiness. Forgetting that it was Spring Break, I glanced around for the tenants: two adults with part-time and poorly paying jobs, a teaching assistant, and a pair of career students committed to stopping to smell every rose. They and their friends (and enemies, and lovers) have made vocations of huddling near the fireplace grumbling about the smoky air. The TA, a Medieval Studies major, felt it gave an aura of verisimilitude when he graded papers. Sometimes they sprawled in postcoital or precoital bliss on the sofa, rug, or—on more than one occasion—the coffee table, or they lined up three-deep at the fridge. Stereo and CD players from all rooms battled for supremacy. Dogs snarled, cats hissed, coldblooded beast friends scurried or slithered as their owners grumbled territorially. Normally the place was a zoo. What Howard needed to do—what I’d told him to do—was to get rid of them all, man and beast. The rent would be manageable, he’d agreed, on two cops’ salaries. That always stopped me. I wasn’t about to give up my freedom and my salary so Howard could spend every spare moment keeping up this brown-shingled money shredder.
But it was, indeed, Spring Break. The tenants had headed off to places even smokier and more crowded. The house was so silent I could hear the fridge hum. For once I was sorry the tenants were gone. I could have used a normal conversation—even one about medieval farming techniques or reptilian egg fertilization—or even the grunts and moans of passion to remind me I was in the world of the living. In the absence of which, I headed to the fridge.
I had two scoops of blueberry swirl in my dish before I remembered my bet with Howard. Damn, why couldn’t I have forgotten?
The whole silly bet was so trivial now. Still my stomach was churning with panic, and a Bar None, the crème de la crème of chocolate bars, would have put everything right; or an It’s-It’s, that ice cream confection not even known on the East Coast; or a doughnut with that red jelly which defied connection to any known fruit. If Howard missed working on this house as much as I did sweets, it was a good thing he was in Fresno.
Well, rats, I thought, if he’s away from this house and his temptation, then the whole bet is off!
I had the spoon almost to my mouth. Then I put it down. Not because of the bet, exactly. I missed Howard. I certainly had no grounds for complaint. A cop swap is standard procedure. I was the one who loved the idea of getting behind the wheel and driving until the dawn found me on a road I’d never seen. It was I who insisted on keeping all gates open.
I stared at the ice cream. All of a sudden, hungry as I was, I just couldn’t bring myself to eat. Death, divorce—nothing had ever put me off food before. The feeling was so strange it was like I was in someone else’s body.
I ran the water in the tub and lay back. If Howard had been here, we would have been sitting in bed, discussing my 187. He’d be shaking his head at the mistaken identity, nodding with his Only-in-Berkeley expression at my descripti
on of Karl Pironnen’s dust-carpeted house, laughing at the prospect of Bryn Wiley camped amid the discarded papers and clothes that covered Herman Ott’s floor.
Fannie Johnson, what would I tell Howard about her? It was hardly her intent to be accommodating. And yet, if I could get beneath that automatic antiestablishment shell, there would be something more inside.
I could picture Fannie Johnson glaring at me. “You think there’s fairness in the world?” she’d ask sarcastically. Of course there wasn’t. That’s why I was a cop, so I could try to bring a little of it to Berkeley.
When I went to bed, I yearned to curl up on my side of the California King, turn my back, and press against Howard’s ribs and groin, letting his arms slip around me. Instead, I rolled over to the middle and lay there until I slept.
I slept fitfully and finally gave up the attempt at 8 A.M. My arms were tense, my shoulders ached, and my fists were clenched. Clutching onto my portion of the case?
There were secrets Bryn Wiley wasn’t revealing, and things Fannie Johnson had been holding back. One more try apiece and I could get to those secrets. But it would be two hours before I could even see Doyle.
Maybe Ellen had been the intended victim. She was, after all, dead. Maybe the attacks on Bryn Wiley’s vehicles were aimed at Ellen, and she, who resembled Bryn, sitting in Bryn’s car, which she never drove, with Bryn’s purse … well, all things were possible.
And when the coroner was done, Bryn would have her body cremated and deposited somewhere. Would there even be a service? It pained me to think that Ellen’s life was gone, just like that. Like the Zen dictum: Walk through life and leave no footprints. I hated to think Ellen was not even a shifting of the sand.
I tossed on good jeans and a navy turtleneck, and headed to Peet’s to think.
The courtyard between Peet’s and Rick and Ann’s Cafe is crowded every morning, but on Sundays it’s like the First Church of Free Time with worshipers on their al fresco pews, communing in scones and caffè lattes, offering silent hallelujahs for another warm, sunny day. Dogs and toddlers make the rounds seeking tithes. There is even a poor box of sorts for the Free Clinic or the Food Project.