Tie Die

by Max Tomlinson

  Heart pounding, Colleen squatted down to check Lynda’s pulse, knowing she was far too late. Lynda’s wrist was stiff and stone cold, even through Colleen’s gloves.

  As much as she hated the thought, the first person who came to mind was Steve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Lynda had been shot at least once from what Colleen could tell. Back of the head. Colleen lifted a lifeless foot. Stiff. Rigor mortis was a variable condition but reached the extremities roughly six hours after death and lasted for up to seventy-two hours afterwards. Meaning Lynda had been killed six-plus hours ago. Colleen had spoken to her yesterday. The state of the kitchen suggested dinner last night but no breakfast.

  Lynda was killed last night.

  Colleen checked the bedside table drawer, which was wide open. The dildo was still there. The baby-blue-handled LadySmith, however, was not. Some of the contents of the drawer, condoms, a jar of Vaseline, rolling papers, were scattered on the floor, around Lynda’s corpse. Someone had retrieved the gun in a hurry. Had Lynda been surprised by an intruder, fought in the living room, run upstairs, knocked the movie poster off the wall on her way, gone for the gun? Had someone struggled with Lynda, taken the gun, shot her with it? Where was the gun that had been in Lynda’s bedside table?

  Lynda’s right arm was contorted unnaturally above her head. Colleen got on her hands and knees, nose down to the cold, curled fingers of Lynda’s right hand. Amidst the smell of lotion was that odor of burnt plastic with a sweet tinge to it. Smokeless powder. Had Lynda taken a shot at her attacker before she’d been overpowered and shot? With her own gun?

  Colleen stood up, taking deep breaths, willing her heart rate to go down. She got out her Polaroid camera. Snapped pictures.

  Again, her thoughts turned to Steve. He had been furious with Lynda. Understandably.

  But this? Could he?

  Standing back, she saw splotches of blood around the foot of the bed. She checked Melanie’s room. One spot by the door.

  She noticed more dark stains on the way downstairs but not around the sofa, where the initial struggle appeared to have taken place. That told Colleen the killer might have been shot, too, upstairs, on his—or her—way out.

  Melanie was gone. Taken? Colleen’s heart pulsed with the implications. No blood in Melanie’s bedroom. Whoever had been shot might have helped take Melanie. It seemed a distinct possibility. But who? Her thoughts traveled back to the fiasco in the Transbay Terminal. The little guy who snatched the bag was no longer but the big man in the duffle coat was. As was whoever had intercepted the cash on the bike. And, of course, there was Rex Williamson, Lynda’s father.

  And there was always Steve.

  Colleen checked the front door. Shut. No signs of forced entry. No bloodstains this way either.

  But there was a chaotic trail of spots leading back through the kitchen, now that she was looking for them, across the wild burnt-orange pattern of the linoleum.

  And out to the garage, now she saw, where Lynda’s BMW had been parked, one sticky blot by where the trunk would have been, another two by the passenger door.

  They had grabbed Melanie, spirited her away in Lynda’s car.

  Melanie Cook had finally been kidnapped. A deep chill ran through Colleen’s guts. What had once been a hoax was now the real thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Colleen stopped at the gas station on San Jose Avenue, used the pay phone to dial the operator, asked for emergency police services. She covered the phone with her handkerchief, reported the location of the dead body, told them that Melanie Cook had most likely been kidnapped as well. Hung up.

  Then she called SFPD at 850 Bryant, left a message for Inspector Owens. He was handling the John Doe case, the “kidnapper” who had handed the money off before Colleen chased him under a bus. That seemed like weeks ago now, although it was only a few days. Two dead so far. So far, Colleen thought, dreading what would transpire now that Melanie looked to be truly abducted. Not long ago, this episode had seemed to be almost over.

  Now it was beginning again.

  But she could trust Owens, as much as she could trust any cop. And she would tell him what she knew, in exchange for unofficial immunity.

  It was around seven fifteen in the evening. She thought about calling Steve. But there was some news you didn’t deliver over the phone.

  And besides, she needed to see the look on his face when she gave him this particular news. Because maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be too surprised. And, as much as she didn’t like it, she had to accept that he might have had something to do with it.

  She drove over to Steve’s place, her heart in her throat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Colleen stepped up onto Steve’s porch and rang the bell. No answer. She tried again. Same. She put her ear to the door. Nothing.

  She drove over to The Pitt on Mission. Maybe the band with no name was playing tonight. They were.

  Finn, the bass player, with his signature pompadour and ducktail, was pulling his blue Rickenbacker bass guitar out of a tweed case. Boom, the roadie, was lugging a speaker cabinet onstage as if it were a basket of laundry. He wore his camo jacket and thick-framed glasses.

  Steve and Deena were leaning over the bar, near the back hallway, having a tête-à-tête. Steve wore a tight black T-shirt and was tapping ash off a cigarette into a Budweiser ashtray. Deena’s shock of black spiky hair stood up. She wore a black tube top, black denim mini, torn fishnets, and hi-top sneakers.

  Colleen ventured over. Deena saw her before Steve did. She stood up and stepped back, a few inches away from Steve, as if distancing herself. She gave Colleen a cautious look. Did she know about Steve and Colleen’s one-night stand?

  Did she know about Lynda?

  Steve turned from the bar, a look of surprise on his face. “Oh, hey, Coll. Come to see the show, have you?” He beamed. “Maybe we’ll tempt you back up onstage, yeah?” It didn’t seem he had any idea of what had transpired over on Colon Avenue.

  “Steve,” Colleen said, “—we need to talk.”

  He blinked in concern and flicked more ash into the ashtray. “Alright, love.”

  Deena rolled her eyes, possibly assuming the conversation was going to be boy-girl stuff between Steve and Colleen. “See you onstage, Steve,” she said with heavy irony, and disappeared.

  A flash of awkwardness warmed Colleen’s face.

  “It’s about Melanie, Steve,” she said. “And Lynda.” She watched his face for clues.

  “What?” Steve’s mouth grew stiff. It was hard to read. “What about Mel?”

  “Let’s go outside.”

  Out in the alley, in the soft San Francisco fog rain, the ever-present kid in the hoodie was nodding off by the dumpster. A couple of leather-clad girls smoking cigarettes and practicing for the Scowling Championships propped up a wall.

  Colleen took Steve through the afternoon’s events.

  He stood, mouth open, dumbstruck.

  The forgotten cigarette in his hand shook him awake when it burnt down to his fingers and he flung it loose. The butt bounced off the wet brick wall behind the bar in a flurry of embers.

  “Dead?” he said in a loud whisper.

  Colleen nodded.

  “And Mel—gone?”

  “Looks like for real this time.”

  “But—how?”

  She watched his reaction. So far, so good. But stranger things had happened. “I’m guessing it has something to do with Melanie’s first ‘kidnapping.’ I think things might have gone wrong when the scam was exposed. Maybe Lynda had a run-in with someone when it didn’t go according to plan.”

  Steve grimaced. “Fuck, Coll,” he said. “What did you do?”

  “What did I do? Tried to get your damn money back. They were playing you, left you holding the bag with Octavien.”

  “I can’t fucking believe this!” he said, holding his head in both hands.

  The two scowler girls we’re looking their way now. One
smirked, obviously reading the situation as a romantic horror scene.

  “Steve,” Colleen said. “Get a hold of yourself.”

  “And you just walked out of there? After you broke in? Left her there, like that? Dead?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Colleen said as quietly as possible. “I called it in. I called Inspector Owens. But no, I wasn’t going to stay and wait for the cops and implicate myself.”

  “Do you even know what you’re bloody doing, Colleen?”

  She took a deep breath, suppressing her aggravation. “Look, I’ve gone to bat for you, Steve. You were the one who was walking head-first off a cliff, with Lynda’s blessing. You wanted your daughter back. You wanted me in on this.”

  “And what a boon it’s been,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said, staring him in the eyes. “I’m just going to say it. Look me in the face and tell me you had nothing to do with it.”

  He gawped at her in round-eyed shock. “Are you fucking crazy, Coll? Do you know what you’re bloody saying?”

  “Just do it.” She pointed to her eyes with two fingers. “Look me straight in the eye, tell me you had absolutely nothing to do with Lynda.”

  He flinched, took another breath, looked away. “This isn’t happening.”

  “Do it, Steve.”

  He composed himself, looked her in the eye.

  “I did not do it,” he said.

  His look was steady, although his head was shaking. But who wouldn’t be a wreck?

  “If you did do it, Steve,” she said, “I’ll do what I can to see you get a fair shake.”

  “I didn’t fucking touch her, Coll! Yeah, it might have crossed my mind when I saw those photos of Mel on that bloody horse, but I didn’t do it. I swear.”

  She watched his pupils. She thought she knew people, she thought she had a good sense of intuition, but her ex had molested their daughter for close to a year, right under her nose, and she had been clueless. It had shown her that you never really knew what was going on in someone else’s mind.

  But Steve appeared to be telling her the truth. Appeared.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay? Oh-bloody-kay? You accuse me of murder, and I deny it, and that’s all you can say now? You’re a piece of work, Coll. Maybe you should just go your own way.”

  “No. It’s going to be ten times harder to get Melanie back without you. And I’m getting her back, whatever you do.”

  She stared into his hardened face until he relented, taking a deep breath.

  “Right,” he said finally. “Right …”

  “I found her once before, Steve. I’ll find her again.”

  He frowned. “How do we start?”

  “We bring Inspector Owens in.”

  “No. No way.”

  “Are you listening to yourself, Steve? Your daughter’s gone.”

  “I hate the fucking cops. Worse, I don’t trust ’em. Not with Mel.”

  “Well, join the club. But if you want my help, they’re getting involved. I already called in the murder and possible kidnapping. There’s no going back.”

  Steve frowned while he seemed to think about that. “Whatever.”

  “Good. Now, we head back to your place. The cops are going to want to talk to you at some point. I suspect you’re going to get another phone call, demanding ransom. Or they might make you wait, sweat it out. And we don’t even know who they are anymore.” She made direct eye contact with Steve again. “Do you think Lynda’s father is capable of this?”

  Steve shook his head. “He’s a hard-hearted old bastard, but killing his own daughter? No, I can’t see it.”

  Worse things had happened. But maybe something had gone wrong with whoever was helping Lynda and her father extort Steve. Had Lynda stopped playing along with them when the hoax was blown and been shot for it? Maybe someone thought kidnapping Melanie wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  There was a lot she didn’t know.

  Yet. But right now, time was running out for Melanie.

  “Cancel your gig tonight, and let’s get back to your place, in case someone’s trying to contact you,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Steve said, scratching his head. “Right.”

  They went back inside The Pitt, wall-to-wall with customers now. Colleen waited by the bar while Steve talked to Deena, who was setting up her drums. Deena’s face went from surprise to open-mouthed shock when she looked Colleen’s way. Colleen wasn’t sure how much she knew. She wasn’t sure what anyone knew at this point.

  Vernon, the owner of The Pitt, was the least happy about Steve’s cancellation. Once he heard the news from Deena, he came swaggering over to Steve, who had rejoined Colleen. Vernon’s gut preceded him in an RIP Lynyrd Skynrd T-shirt that poked out of an open leather vest. Three of the band members had died in a plane crash last year.

  “Are you trying to fuck me up, Steve?” Vernon growled.

  “No time to talk now, Vernon. Problems, yeah? Serious problems.”

  “I thought you were serious about this residency.”

  “Deena and the boys are going to rock the house.”

  “People aren’t coming to see Finn sing, Steve. They’re paying to see you.”

  “I’m sorry, mate. I’ll make it up to you.”

  Vernon grimaced behind his gray mountain-man beard. “If you walk out that door, man, you’re not coming back.”

  Steve leaned in. “Well, let me tell you something, man. I don’t give a rat’s ass. But if you fuck with Deena and cancel her gigs, you can be damn sure I’ll be back to see you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  “Is that some kind of a fucking threat, asshole?”

  “Yeah,” Steve said, pulling on his jacket. “That’s exactly what that is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Back at Steve’s place, Steve checked with his neighbor upstairs to see if anybody had stopped by. One tenant, a young red-eyed Hispanic with a yellow watch cap pulled down tight over his head, reeked of marijuana but didn’t recall hearing anybody ringing Steve’s doorbell.

  Downstairs, Steve paced back and forth, chain-smoking, waiting for the phone to ring. Colleen wondered if it was possible to rent one of those fancy new answering machines. She might just have to buy one and set it up first thing.

  It was getting late. If wondering how Melanie was doing, if she were even alive, was eating at her to a point of desperation, what must it be doing to Steve?

  She’d just have to compartmentalize, treat the child’s disappearance like one more thing to deal with.

  “I’m going home,” she said to Steve. “I need to make some calls, and we have to leave this phone line clear in case they try to contact you. But you call me first thing you hear something. If my line’s busy, call my answering service.”

  “Right.” Steve smashed his cigarette out in the tuna can ashtray. He came over, held her at arm’s length. “Don’t bail on me now, Coll.”

  “No way.” She still didn’t know if she could trust him completely but finding Melanie was the priority and he was key. And, the fact was, she had feelings for him that had nothing to do with his current situation. Those few hours between the sheets had left an indelible imprint. “I’m only just up the hill. I can be over in minutes.”

  “Yeah,” he said, letting her go, looking into her eyes.

  “She’s going to be okay,” Colleen said.

  Steve frowned. “Yeah,” he said, but it didn’t have the conviction she would have liked.

  And, the truth was, she wasn’t feeling it one hundred percent either.

  Back home, Colleen called her answering service. A gruff message from Inspector Owens instructed her to return his call immediately, regardless of time of day. Immediately. It was close to ten p.m. She called. And heard the hustle and bustle of a busy office in the background after Inspector Owens answered.

  “You’re at 850 Bryant,” she said.

  “What did you expect? You called in a murder! And a kidnappin
g. And then you left the damn crime scene!”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “Well, you can get down here right now and explain your reasons, or I can put out an APB to have you picked up. Your choice.”

  “I’m on my way.” She hung up, headed back out.

  Down at 850, in the same interrogation room she’d sat in the other day after the little guy was run over, Colleen faced Inspector Owens across the same Formica table, now littered with candy wrappers and paper vending machine coffee cups.

  Inspector Owens looked weary. His gray crew cut needed a trim. He had bags under his eyes. But his outfit was alive: he’d obviously come in from home at short notice and wore a lime knit shirt with a little alligator on it, tucked into a pair of wild, orange checked flared pants—the checks four inches across. A wide white belt tied it all together.

  “Explain,” he said, tapping the eraser of a pencil on a yellow lined pad. “Don’t leave anything out, or you can enjoy one of our fine community holding cells while we wait to hear from your milquetoast lawyer.”

  Colleen proceeded to explain the situation from the original call to Steve from the kidnappers up until this afternoon. She told him who her client was, everything.

  Owens was stunned.

  “I still can’t believe you left the body,” he said.

  “I couldn’t hang around. I’m on parole.”

  “That wasn’t your call. This is a now a homicide, and a kidnapping, time critical.”

  Didn’t she know it? Every hour Melanie was gone was another light-year. “Lynda was dead. I figured she would probably stay that way for a few more minutes. And that’s all it was. Ten minutes, tops, until I called it in.”

  “You should have called it in immediately.”

  “Look at it this way: if I hadn’t found her when I did, Lynda might still well be there, undiscovered.” She raised her eyebrows. “Melanie’s disappearance might still be unknown.”

  “Some might say that makes you look suspicious.”

  “If I didn’t want to be associated with Lynda’s murder, why would I even call it in to begin with? Why would I admit breaking in?”