Tie Die

by Max Tomlinson

  “Okay.” He pursed his lips as he seemed to think it over. “Keep going.”

  “Lynda wants you indebted to your ex-father-in-law. And Lynda—shy, blushing, demure creature that she is—is not acting like a mother whose daughter’s been kidnapped.”

  “You don’t know Lynda.”

  “I think I know enough. Anyone who’s had a child in jeopardy doesn’t act the way she does. She should be grateful for any help that comes her way. But, instead, she’s making phony little speeches when you try to throw her out and won’t tolerate her tantrums, and she’s busy trying to get me out of the way because she reckons I’ll figure her out. And she’s rounding up thugs to pressure you for round two. She doesn’t want the cops anywhere near this either. Why? Especially after a failed payoff? She should be desperate for the police to be involved. She wants you in debt to her old man. So he can own your catalog. Her father’s in the movie business, right? Maybe it comes down to someone wanting those songs. Which I bet are worth a freakin’ fortune once they get out of the courts.”

  Steve thought. “Close to a million quid, last time I checked. The lion’s share will be eaten up in legal fees, though, if I ever even get it.”

  “But what if you aren’t the lion?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If someone else gets the royalties?” she said. “Maybe not so many legal fees for them. And, on top of it, there might be fresh demand for those songs.”

  She saw a light bulb go off over his head.

  “Okay, but, why …” Then Steve’s face changed color, from ashen to angry red as he put things together. He smashed his cigarette out, sat up. “Fuck. I don’t believe it! I don’t bloody believe it.”

  “It’s not a happy development. But it sure beats the alternative—Melanie kidnapped. I bet you a million quid she’s tucked away safe somewhere while your ex and her father scam you.”

  Steve shook his head. “My own daughter?”

  Colleen took a deep breath. “She’s a kid, Steve—and a pawn. She may not even know what’s going on.”

  There was a pause.

  “Christ!” Steve held his head in his hands. “Bloody hell!” He let go of his face, looked up. “But yeah, you’re right. It beats the fucking alternative.”

  “I still have to piece it together, but my gut is telling me this—or something very much like it—is what happened.”

  She went to the linen closet where she grabbed a clean towel. In her bedroom, Colleen got her black-and-white zigzag-pattern kimono out of the stack of fresh laundry. It was roomy and would work.

  She returned. “Help yourself to a shower. I’ll make some tea. You need to crash.” She handed him the kimono. “This is the best I can do, under the circumstances.”

  Steve stood, groggy but sobered by the news. He took the towel and kimono. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He staggered to the bathroom, towel and kimono under his arm. She heard the water running.

  She made tea with milk and found a bottle of brandy, the only alcohol she had, apart from wine. Steve might need one more belt to get himself to sleep. She set the tea, bottle of booze, and a glass on the glass coffee table, turned off the overhead light, turned on the lamp sitting on the floor by her new leather sofa. The spotlight pointed up to a section of ceiling, indirect. She sat down at one end of the sofa, kicked off her sneakers, lit a cigarette.

  What a day. But she was getting somewhere.

  The water shut off and Steve emerged from the bathroom a couple of minutes later, wearing the kimono. His hair was wet and ruffled. He had strong muscular legs and was more well built than she first thought. And she thought he’d been pretty well built to begin with. His chest was covered with dark hair. Even beat to shit, in a woman’s kimono, he was worth a second look. Maybe a third.

  “That was bloody brilliant.” He sat down at the other end of the sofa, gave an inquisitive look at the cup of tea, eyed Colleen.

  “I’m told Brits like milky tea,” she said.

  “It’s in our genetic makeup.” He took a swig of tea, uncorked the bottle of brandy, poured a good inch into his tea, took a deep draught. Then he sat back. “The problem is, Coll, is, what if it isn’t the case? What if someone has kidnapped Mel?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t almost sure.”

  “Almost.”

  “Ninety-nine-and-one-half percent. I didn’t want to tell you but I can’t stand by and watch it eat you alive.”

  “What about the half percent, Coll? What if you’re wrong, love? What if?”

  “Then we’ve got a little over three days to find out. But my gut is telling me otherwise. Loud and clear. I need to take a closer look at Lynda. And her father—Rex.”

  Steve drank his liquored tea. Set his cup down on the coffee table with a clunk. It seemed to hit him completely then. “Bloody hell.”

  “Does Lynda have a movie business connection? Besides her father?”

  Steve shook his head. “She used to be an actress. Before we met. Not bad. Did half a dozen potboilers. Got out of it, though, after bad experiences with directors, if you know what I mean.” He raised his eyebrows. “Then she got a shot with NewMedia, managing bands, something else she’s good at.”

  “So she knows her way around the music and movie business.”

  “Oh, yeah. Works with her old man on a deal now and then.”

  That had to be it. But Colleen needed hard evidence.

  Another look of rage crossed Steve’s face again. “Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Colleen took a breath. “I took a risk in telling you, Steve. I hate to share working theories. But you need to unwind. Just know Melanie isn’t lying in a ditch somewhere. But you need to stay calm until I wrap this up.”

  Steve sighed. “Just my ex and my ex-father-in-law, along with my kid, playing me for a fool.”

  “The important thing now is to move forward. That means I can’t have you going off half-cocked, taking it out on Lynda. Or her old man. Got that? You’ve got to promise me you’ll hang tough with me for just a little while longer.”

  Steve looked up, eyes sunken. “At least I know Mel’s alive.”

  “There you go,” she said. “And right now, you need some sleep.” Colleen got up as Steve poured more brandy into his cup. She went into the spare bedroom, turned on the light by the bed. There was the photo in a frame on the nightstand, Pamela at thirteen, before she went to hell. Taken when Colleen was incarcerated. Now she was up at Moon Ranch in Point Arenas, her pretty red hair butchered, wearing an orange robe and chanting bullshit with fanatics who kept the place locked down like a prison.

  Someday Pam would change her mind. Someday.

  And when she did, this room would be waiting for her.

  Colleen turned the covers back, fluffed out the pillow, headed back out into the living room.

  “Time to hit the hay, Rock Star.”

  Steve was leaning back on the sofa, head back, snoring at the ceiling. The kimono had fallen open, partway, barely covering his groin. She could be forgiven for stealing an involuntary glance. Her onetime idol, the crush of millions of girls, sacked out in her very own apartment, damn near naked.

  A lesser human might have been entertaining some fantasies.

  She was a lesser human.

  She went over, reached down, touched Steve’s arm. “Hey, Steve …”

  He woke up, looked at her with sleepy bedroom eyes. “Thank you for setting me straight, Coll. I didn’t see it.”

  “No need,” she said. “That’s what you hired me for.”

  He gave her a sly look.

  She knew what he was thinking. Because she was thinking it, too.

  “No,” she whispered, brushing his cheek. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”

  He gave a deep sigh. “You’re right … I suppose.”

  She returned a sad smile. “Check back when this is all over, hey?”

  He nodded, smiled. “Deal.” He smiled again, slumped over, imm
ediately started to purr.

  She shook his arm.

  No response.

  She went to the linen closet, pulled a blanket, a leopard print flannel thing, came back, draped it over him, tucked it under his chin.

  Let sleeping dogs lie.

  In the bathroom she gathered up his clothes, took them to the laundry nook off the porch, threw them in the washer.

  Then she went into her bedroom, shut the door, stripped down to her undies, being careful not to aggravate the bandage on her knee too much, tender as it was, and climbed into bed, pulled the sheet over her. The warm water sloshed under her, pulling her eyes shut.

  She didn’t yet know how to expose Lynda Cook and her father—yet. But tomorrow she’d start.

  She fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Early next morning, the sun not up yet, Alex stood at the door to Colleen’s flat, decked out in a short paisley boho dress with a swirling dark red-and-purple flower pattern on a white background. Her outfit was accentuated by tan platform boots and a light brown floppy-brimmed felt hat. A matching handbag hung over her shoulder on a long strap. In contrast, Colleen wore a white fluffy bathrobe. Barefoot, she rubbed her eyes. She had just woken up to the doorbell.

  “Hey there,” Colleen said, giving Alex a peck on the cheek as she held the door open. “I was going to call you as soon as I got up. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since that fiasco at the Transbay Terminal.”

  “Antonia’s birthday party last night.” Alex entered the large living room. “Oh,” she said, seeing Steve sitting up on the sofa, blinking himself awake, the leopard print blanket wrapped around him. She turned to Colleen with a frown. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Alex had thought that she and Colleen might have been an item at one time. Colleen had contemplated it, given that her own history with men was a disaster—her ex in particular. Now her liaisons with the opposite sex tended to be occasional and brief. No strings. She and Alex were close, and there was a level of intimacy and trust she hadn’t found elsewhere. But ultimately Colleen’s personal landscape was much too conventional. Try boring, Alex had said with a smile.

  “Alex,” Colleen said, “this is Steve. Steve—Alex.”

  “How do.” Steve nodded. Alex said hello.

  “I’ll make coffee,” Colleen said, heading into the kitchen, grabbing the kettle off the stove. Alex tailed her.

  “I won’t stay,” she said. “Did Steve get his daughter back?”

  “Not even close.”

  “I’m so sorry, Coll.”

  “I spent most of yesterday getting grilled by the cops.”

  “So he’s having trouble with his wife and is staying with you?” She eyed Colleen.

  “Alex, you have got your wires crossed. And it’s his ex-wife.”

  Alex unhooked her bag, dug around, came out with a Polaroid photo. “I didn’t actually come over to pry. I took this yesterday from the car when you were chasing that short character out of the Transbay Terminal. I was parked across Mission. That was the last I saw of you. I was going to give it to you at Antonia’s party.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I called, but Harold said you had left. Meanwhile, the kidnappers have made another demand.”

  Alex grimaced, handed the photo to Colleen. “Maybe this will help.”

  Colleen took the photo, studied it as she leaned back against the counter. A blurry picture of crowded 1st Street next to the Transbay Terminal. You could just see, partially blocked by a jaywalker, the little man in his Giants cap handing something—a bag?—to someone astride a motorcycle. It was hard to make out as the photo wasn’t clear and the man wore a helmet. Colleen recalled again the popping of a motorcycle engine as she had chased the little guy out of the terminal.

  “This is really helpful, Alex.” Colleen held the photo up. “Thanks so much.”

  Alex reached over, gave her hand a squeeze. “Good luck, Coll.”

  Alex left. Back in her kitchen, Colleen examined the photo again.

  No license plate. The driver took a risk with that, but no doubt didn’t want to be ID’d. Colleen couldn’t quite make out what kind of bike it was. It wasn’t a Harley—too small. Too big for a Japanese bike. Colleen knew something about bikes.

  But it explained the ransom money now.

  She made coffee, took cups out for her and Steve.

  Colleen pulled a Virginia Slim from the pack, lit it up, sat in the armchair, crossed her legs, took a sip of coffee. She pulled the Polaroid photo out of the pocket of her robe, leaned over, handed it to Steve. “Know this guy?”

  He examined the photo, shook his head no. “Not much to see.”

  “Well, that’s where your money went.”

  He gave the photo back. “Christ,” he said. The tone in his voice was distinctly cool.

  “Steve, about SFPD … we need to bring them in.”

  “Coll,” he said, looking away. “I appreciate everything you’ve done …”

  Colleen felt a “but” coming. She drank coffee. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Steve?”

  He drank some coffee, too, looked at her. “Now that I’ve had some sleep, time to think, I can see things a bit more clearly, yeah?”

  She set her cup down. “And you’ve decided I’m making all of this up?”

  “No, Colleen, but I can’t afford for you to be wrong.”

  “Steve, I am not wrong on this. Bear with me.”

  He gave a frown. “I reckon I know Lynda a bit better than you do. And I just can’t risk it.”

  Colleen smashed her cigarette out. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” She’d broken a cardinal rule, giving out information before it was solid. And now she’d pay the price.

  “You were trying to make me feel better, yeah?” Steve said. “I appreciate it. But I can’t afford to be wrong.”

  Damn it! “Well, we’ve got three days to see if I’m right. Prove that I’m right.”

  Steve downed most of his coffee. “No, I’ve got enough time to talk to Lynda’s old man, borrow that cash.”

  “And lose your damn catalog.”

  He shrugged. “Easy come, easy go, eh?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Steve. Can’t you see what they’re trying to do?”

  “Mel’s my daughter, Coll. I’ve done nothing but let her down. I’m not going to let her down now.”

  “How can I talk you out of this?”

  Steve drained his cup, put it on the glass coffee table, stood up. “Send me your bill. I’ll pay it when I can. But I’m going to have to sort this out on my own. Thanks for all your help, Coll. Really.”

  “If you don’t want me on this, Steve, I get it. But you need the police. Inspector Owens is the cop assigned to the case. He’s a good guy. And I don’t say that about cops in general. Let me get you his number.”

  “No,” Steve said. “No police. And I appreciate you not telling him either.”

  She took a deep breath through her nose. “I can’t promise that.”

  “Understood.” He looked around. “Where are my clothes, please?”

  “In the dryer.” She stood up. “Steve, you really need to think this over.”

  Shook his head.

  Christ. She went out to the porch, got Steve’s clothes out of the dryer, shook the wrinkles out, stacked them. She brought the clothes back in the living room, handed them over.

  “Thanks,” he said sheepishly. He went into the bathroom to change.

  He returned a few minutes later, dressed in clean jeans and work shirt.

  “Have some more coffee,” she said.

  “No,” he said, going over to his shoes by the door, stepping into them. “I’ll be on my way. I’ve taken too much for your time.”

  “No, you haven’t. Let me get changed and I’ll run you home.” She might be able to swing him back to her way of thinking.

  “No, thanks, love. I’m good. It’s only over the hill. I could do with t
he walk.”

  “I need to caution you about going back to your place. Watch out for anyone suspicious.”

  He nodded. He found his jacket, threw it on. “Send me the bill, please.”

  And then he was gone, stepping down the stairs to the front of her building. She heard the big old front door on the ground floor open and shut.

  What a start to the day.

  A slew of expletives flowed from her mouth, freely and without remorse. She went back into the kitchen, poured herself more coffee, got another cigarette, stepped out on the porch where the San Francisco morning fog hung like a gray cloud. She drank coffee and smoked.

  If this was meant to stop her, it wasn’t working.

  In fact, she had a pretty good idea what to do next.

  Colleen mashed her cigarette out, took the phone on its long cord into the shower, and set it on the black-and-white hexagonal tiles by the claw-foot bathtub, so that she could hear it in case somebody called. And then she got in the shower.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Colleen was parked in the Torino up on Colon Avenue in Westwood Highlands, half a block down from Lynda Cook’s 1930s terra-cotta-color Spanish-style house that overlooked South City. This was a neighborhood of detached houses with front yards—not the norm by San Francisco standards. Lynda’s was two stories and even had an ivy-covered brick wall around it. It was afternoon and the fog hadn’t burned off all day. Gray mist hung along the hillside.

  Steve might have changed his mind. But Colleen hadn’t. She’d been staking out the house for a couple of hours.

  Finally, a distant clanking confirmed the opening of the wrought-iron gate in front of the driveway. Colleen flipped the visor down, hiding her face, and straightened her hair in the mirror, pretending to freshen up.

  A black BMW pulled out. Lynda’s car. Colleen kept her head down as the car came down Colon and motored by. She caught a glimpse of Lynda at the wheel.

  Colleen pulled her hair together with a fastener, got her white Pacific Gas & Electric hard hat off the passenger seat. The helmet came in handy now and then. She donned innocuous sunglasses, grabbed her large brown leather shoulder bag. It was heavy with her tools of the trade. She got out, tucked her ponytail up inside the helmet as she pulled it on. She looked the part in jeans, white sneaks, blue denim work shirt. It was too bad she had no one to cover for her, honk the horn in case Lynda suddenly came home.