Tie Die

by Max Tomlinson

  “To cover your ass.”

  Colleen pulled her pack of Virginia Slims from her bomber jacket, shook one out, pulled it out of the pack with her lips.

  “Don’t,” Owens said.

  She paused, removed the cigarette from her mouth, slid it back into the pack. “Fine.” She put the cigarettes back in her jacket, sitting with her hands in her jacket pockets now, hunched forward.

  “I’m trying to quit,” he said.

  “I didn’t know that,” she said. “Sorry.”

  A moment passed.

  “Have you been over there?” she asked. “To Lynda’s?”

  “My partner is there now. I needed to find out what you’re up to while he does that.”

  Colleen nodded. She handed over a photo of Melanie on the horse at Olema. “Here’s a recent photo.”

  Owens squinted at it. “Any ideas who might have taken her?”

  “Someone involved with the first faux kidnapping is my bet. When it didn’t pan out the way they wanted, they took over from Lynda and, possibly, her father. Hijacked it.”

  Owens pursed his lips, tapped his pencil. “Could Lynda’s old man have killed her?”

  She took a breath, thinking. “I haven’t met him, but I’m told he wouldn’t kill his own daughter. They were in cahoots, though, trying to steal Steve’s catalog.”

  “The family that kidnaps and extorts together stays together.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But maybe things went wrong after Lynda pulled the gun, fired it, and was most likely overpowered herself and shot.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “These.” She pulled her Polaroids of Lynda facedown on her bedroom rug, laid them down, one by one, in front of Owens.

  He looked at them, looked up at her, incredulous. “And when were you going to tell me about these?”

  “I just did.”

  “You took time to take photos?”

  “I’m a private investigator. Collecting information is what I do.”

  “By breaking into houses and taking illegal crime scene photos.”

  “Oh—so you don’t want them?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “I’m trying to help,” Colleen said. “The main thing is, put out an APB for Melanie Cook. Anyway, if you look at the one photo, you’ll see the disarray of the bedside table. I think Lynda ran upstairs, grabbed her gun, which is now missing, surprised the intruder.” Colleen cleared her throat. “Your forensics team should find gunpowder residue on Lynda’s right hand.”

  “Of course. You checked that out, too.”

  “If you can get a blood type from some of the blood splotches on the rug on the way out of the house, and the kitchen floor, and the garage, they’ll be different from Lynda’s. Might be the killer’s. You can also run them against Steve’s.” Hopefully, they wouldn’t be the same.

  Owens examined the photos, nodded. He wasn’t going to say “good work,” but she could tell he wasn’t entirely unhappy with the jump on the information. He sat back, tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the yellow pad. “You think Lynda’s ex could have done this?”

  “Steve?” She told herself she was past that suspicion. But she had killed her own husband. There were reasons sometimes. And Steve had his.

  She shook her head no.

  “That took you a while,” Owens said with a smirk. “You one hundred percent sure about your client?”

  “I’m sure. But get him to give you a blood sample anyway.”

  “Well, from what you say, Cook had every reason. His ex screwing him for money, his catalog, scaring the hell out of him by ‘kidnapping’ his own daughter.”

  “No argument there. But Steve is accustomed to Lynda’s ways. He was more hurt than anything else at the possible betrayal of his daughter. And he knew I was trying to get Lynda to cough up the ransom money Steve borrowed from some loan sharks. Killing her would have nipped that in the bud. If anything, he’d kill her after he got his money back.”

  Owens grimaced. He knew the reason Colleen spent ten years in prison. “We both know that killing someone out of anger isn’t always logical.”

  “If Steve did it, where’s Melanie?” Colleen realized she was clarifying Steve’s innocence for herself as much as she was for Owens. She couldn’t let her personal feelings for him color things.

  Owens gave a nod of confirmation. “Good question. But he could have his daughter tucked away somewhere. To throw off suspicion that he killed his ex.”

  Colleen thought about that for a moment, shook her head. “It just doesn’t fit. He couldn’t have done it against Melanie’s will. He doesn’t have it in him. Look at the effort he went to in order to get her back. And he doesn’t get along with Melanie well enough to conspire with her. And where would he put her? No, she’s bona fide kidnapped.”

  “We need to talk to Steve,” Owens said. “If he calls you, tell him to stick around, not to take any unplanned trips. Got that?”

  “Ten to one Steve gets a ransom call soon anyway.”

  “If he’s telling you the truth.”

  She didn’t answer that. She couldn’t see Steve as a murderer, but she also knew she would tend to side with him. Whoever said men were simple creatures didn’t know what they were talking about.

  “We can put a trace on his line,” Owens said. “But that can take a while and can be hit or miss. How do I get in touch with Lynda’s father?”

  “Rex Williamson. I’ve got his number.” She got out her penny notebook, flipped pages, found Rex’s number. She read it off. Owens wrote it down, set his pencil down, looked at her.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, “for all the information.”

  “That’s why I’m not booking you,” he said with a wan smile.

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  “You started all this, don’t forget. By not coming to us in the first place. But that’s done. Now I’m giving you a warning: stay out of this from now on. It’s SFPD’s case, not yours.”

  “I hate to lie to you and say ‘yes.’”

  Owens actually cracked a weary smile. “Are you always so easy to get along with?”

  “Just being straight with you.”

  “Well, then I’ll return the favor. If you do stick your nose in this case again, after I just told you not to, I won’t be so appreciative. You’re a PI without a license, and you’re still on parole. You don’t want a bad report card from me.”

  She nodded, stood up. “You can keep the photos,” she said. “I imagine it will take a while for forensics to get you copies of theirs.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  So much for doing the right thing, Colleen thought as she peeled off her jacket, hung it up in the hall closet of her flat.

  But she understood Owens. He had come through for her before, and he would again. Just not this time. She kicked off her sneaks, poured a glass of wine, put that album on the turntable, set the volume low. Steve’s teenage voice came in raw and throaty, like a Mississippi blues man forty years his senior, singing about a river that time couldn’t stop. It was late, after midnight. She sat back on her sofa, lit the cigarette she had reinserted in the pack not long ago down at 850 Bryant.

  As she smoked, she couldn’t help but put herself in Melanie Cook’s place. A child she barely knew was going through hell right now—if she were indeed still alive. Once again, Colleen had to pigeonhole that grim fact. Right now, she needed to get to the bottom of things so she could find her.

  Steve had been adamant that Lynda’s father wouldn’t kill his own daughter. She didn’t know Rex Williamson. But that’s who’d she’d find next, first thing in the morning. He lived in Los Angeles so a trip to SoCal was in the offing.

  The phone rang.

  Maybe it was Alex. Even though the timing was lousy, Colleen kind of hoped it was. Alex was a good friend and they hadn’t spoken in a while.

  She answered.

  “This is Deena.” Her nasal New York accent was unmistakable. The clatte
r of voices and music filled the background. A bar, somewhere like that. “I think I need to talk to you,” she said.

  It sounded important. “I’m all ears,” Colleen said, taking a puff on her Slim.

  “No. Not on the phone.”

  “Then I’ll meet you,” Colleen said. “Where?”

  “All Night Donuts,” Deena said. “On Noe.” She hung up.

  Colleen crushed out her cigarette, stood up, drained her wine. What could Deena want? Something to do with Steve? Colleen threw her jacket back on, left the stereo playing The Lost Chords. The turntable had automatic shutoff.

  By 1:00 a.m. she was on 24th and Noe, where All Night Donuts presented a cast of characters who looked like they hung out in all-night donut shops: people sobering up, people grabbing a quick coffee or a snack before heading off somewhere else, people with nowhere else to go. Street people: more and more of them since Colleen moved to SF a year or so ago. The air was a blend of sweet-baked stickiness and warm bodies. “Stayin’ Alive” bounced out of the jukebox. Rows of shelves displayed vintage toys, some going back to the 1920s.

  Colleen found Deena perched on a stool at the counter, spooning a milkshake out of a huge metal malt cup. She envied skinny women who could eat like that, especially late at night. But then again, from what she knew, musicians ate sporadically. Deena wore the same outfit she’d worn earlier onstage: black denim mini, torn fishnets, black Keds, and now a black leather jacket dripping with chains, spray-painted with band names, none of which Colleen recognized. Colleen sat down on a stool next to her.

  Deena spun to her, pulling the long spoon from her mouth. Her hair was still spiked, and her heavy eye mascara was dramatic, drawn to a point on either side of her face, like cats’ eyes. But she pulled the look off with room to spare.

  “About your phone call,” Colleen said.

  Deena stuck her spoon in the metal cup.

  “It might be nothing,” she said.

  Colleen shook a cigarette out, offered one to Deena. Deena declined. Colleen lit up. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as a thousand-calorie milkshake.

  “Is it about Steve?” Colleen set her spent paper match in an ashtray.

  “I feel like a rat.”

  Colleen took a sip on her cigarette. “Does it have to do with Lynda?”

  Deena nodded, looked away.

  “Steve told you what happened to Lynda, right?”

  Deena turned back, gave an awkward sniff. “Ya,” she said, something catching in her throat. “Fucking unbelievable.”

  Colleen made eye contact. “Is it?”

  “I’m not going to say Lynda had it coming,” Deena said, “but she didn’t do much to endear herself to people. But no, no one deserves that.”

  Colleen’s ex had wound up with a screwdriver in his neck, on the kitchen floor, thanks to Colleen. And he had deserved it. “How much has Steve told you?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “About Melanie?” Deena said. “Her horse? The twenty-seven K? Oh yeah. Steve tells me things. We go back a ways.”

  “He confides in you.”

  “We used to have a thing,” Deena said, giving Colleen a look. Rubbing it in? “Not anymore, though. But we still talk. Don’t worry, you don’t have me for competition.”

  “I’m not worried,” Colleen said, wondering how much Deena knew about her and Steve. Deena might be his confidante, but she couldn’t imagine he’d kiss and tell.

  “Don’t take it the wrong way. Most chicks who meet Steve want to go to bed with him.”

  “Okay,” Colleen said. Deena wanted to take Colleen down a notch or two.

  Deena patted Colleen’s knee. “If you’re going to hang with a musician, you have to learn to share.”

  “Got it,” Colleen said, getting tired of the conversation. She tapped ash in the ashtray. “Back to your midnight phone call.”

  Deena spun back to the counter, looked down. “He went over to Lynda’s last night.”

  An alarm bell rang between Colleen’s ears. “Say what?”

  “We’d just played The Pitt. I knew he was feeling a little better because Melanie was back home. Whatever that little cow and her mother did to Steve, he was relieved that she was okay. Normally, we hang out after a gig. But he called a Yellow cab, took off. He normally walks home so I figured he was going somewhere. He was very serious. I could see it in his face. More than upset.”

  Colleen took a puff, exhaled. Deena didn’t think much of Melanie. “Do you think Melanie knew what was going on? With the fake kidnap?”

  “Who knows? She treated—treats—Steve like shit. All she wanted was that fucking horse. She wouldn’t ask too many questions if Lynda stuck one in front of her.”

  “So Steve was pretty angry with Lynda.”

  Deena looked up at Colleen, laughed. “Ya think? That bitch pretended his kid was kidnapped, got the little bitch to play along, and, on top of it, screwed him for a bunch of money. And was ready to go for more? Who wouldn’t be furious?”

  Colleen wondered how mad Deena was. She seemed to be carrying a sizable torch for Steve. “So Steve didn’t hang out with the band afterwards after you guys played—like he normally does. He took off. In a cab.”

  “Yeah. After I have a drink with the guys, I stop by Steve’s place—you know, just to make sure he was okay.”

  Just to make sure he was okay, Colleen thought. Of course.

  “And Steve wasn’t home,” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “So you went over to Lynda’s.”

  “What if I did?”

  “I’m not judging you, Deena.”

  “Sure, you are. But it wasn’t the way you think. Steve can go to bed with anyone he damn well wants. I don’t care anymore. We’ve been through that. Steve is like a brother to me now.”

  Deena sounded like a woman trying to convince herself of something. “So you drove over to Lynda’s. And you waited outside. And watched.”

  “In the old days, Steve was always trying to get Lynda back. Mostly for Melanie’s sake. He thought she needed a father around full-time—especially with a mother like that.”

  “This time, though, you thought he was going to have it out with Lynda.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Maybe. “When did you see him leave Lynda’s place?”

  “About one fifteen maybe. Not long after I got there.”

  Right around the time Lynda was killed.

  “Was he alone when he left?” Colleen asked.

  “Yeah.”

  That didn’t explain Melanie being taken.

  “Did you hear a shot?” Colleen asked. “Shots?”

  “Too far away.” She shook her head. “I was up the street, on the corner of Mangels. I can see Lynda’s house from there, but no one can see me. Steve knows my car.”

  Colleen wondered how many times Deena checked out Lynda’s house, looking for Steve.

  “Was Steve carrying anything?” she asked.

  “What? Like a smoking gun?” Deena laughed. “Get real.”

  Someone made off with Lynda’s gun. Or dumped it. “Could it have been in his pocket?”

  Deena grimaced. “Do you really think he shot her? Come on! Steve’s a prince.”

  Colleen nodded, tapped her cigarette. “Well, you obviously think he might have. Otherwise you wouldn’t have called me.”

  Deena took a deep breath. “I can’t believe he would. But he did go over there. That’s all I know. And I thought you should know, too.”

  “I’m glad you did, Deena. I appreciate it.”

  “Now what?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Do you know Lynda’s father?”

  Deena shook her head. “Some movie producer in LA. Steve says he’s a slime ball, always pulling fast ones.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? They looked at each other for a moment. “Let’s keep this conversation between you and me, for the time being,” Colleen said.

  “No prob
lem.”

  “It’s important for Steve to tell the police the truth. They’re going to question him.”

  “I know.” Deena’s face grew grim. “He needs to play it straight.”

  Not like the time he ran, in 1966, when that girl OD’d in his London hotel room.

  “You’ve got my number,” Colleen said, standing up, stubbing out her cigarette. “Please call if you learn anything new.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Deena said, picking up her metal malt cup and stirring what was left with the long spoon.

  Colleen left.

  Poor Deena, she thought. Another female who fell by the wayside on Steve’s path.

  Would Deena have been angry enough to kill Lynda? No, she didn’t think so.

  But that didn’t bother her. Not as much as wondering what Steve was doing at his ex’s house the night she was murdered, if what Deena was saying was true.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Next morning Colleen woke early to the pelting of rain on her bedroom windows. Coming down strong. It was still dark. She wasn’t going back to sleep. There was too much on her mind after last night’s conversation with Deena. She got up, pulled on her kimono, padded out into the living room, flicked on the heater, and into the kitchen where she made coffee.

  She poured dark roast into a cup and stirred in three spoons of brown sugar, took her coffee out to the living room, picked up the white Princess phone, dialed Steve.

  To ask him why he went over to Lynda’s the night she was murdered. And why he hadn’t mentioned it.

  She let it ring.

  No answer.

  Where was he, not even six a.m.?

  Showered and dressed, she put another call in. No answer. Now it was bugging her.

  She drove over, parked in the narrow driveway, stepped quietly up the stairs to the porch, peered in around the tarp as best she could.

  Dark.

  Maybe Steve didn’t make it home last night. She hoped he hadn’t done anything dumb. Like run. Like he did when he was sixteen. She left. It was raining.

  A few hours later, she found herself back on Steve’s porch, after more unanswered phone calls.

  Still not home.