“Why don’t you look at the paper while I change?” I tell her.
“Are you going to ask Susan?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to?”
“It’s up to you.”
“I thought tonight maybe just you and me.”
Sarah smiles, dimples in the cheeks and spaces between the teeth. A date with Dad.
I grab the newspaper, an afternoon throwaway, and the mail from the box in front of the house, and thumb through the stack of mostly bills.
Peggie Connelly is on the front step waiting for me. Twenty-seven going on fifty, Peggie is a graduate student in early-childhood development at the university, someone Susan put me onto. She sits for a couple of families during the week and picks Sarah up after school for pocket change while she works on her studies. Peggie is the closest thing Sarah has to a surrogate mother. They spend the afternoons together, sharing quality time, something that I don’t often give her.
“See you on Monday, same time?”
“You bet. You’ll pick her up.”
She nods, smiles, and heads to her car.
It takes me less than a minute to check the messages on the phone. The first is a guy trying to sell aluminum siding; the second is a message from Harry telling me to call him as soon as I get home. It sounds as if there is traffic in the background, as if Harry had to call me from a pay phone. I have told him many times to get a cellular, but Harry resists technology.
I dial his number. There’s no answer.
A few minutes later I try him again. This time I leave a message on his answering machine.
“It’s Paul. I got your message. Sorry I missed you. Should be home about ten o’clock tonight. Taking Sarah to see a flick at the mall. Wish you could join us.” I laugh. “I’ll call you when I get home.” Then I hang up.
Ten minutes later I’m changed, polo shirt, slacks, and loafers.
Sarah comes into my room with the newspaper in her hand. “I thought we could do the mall, have dinner there. Catch the movie at the Cineplex.”
“You did, did you?”
“You said we could get dinner out.”
“Cheese pizza and Coke, my favorites.”
Sarah smiles and gives me one of those looks. Well, you promised.
“How was school?”
“Good.”
“What did you do today?” I run a comb through my hair as I stand in front of the vanity mirror and look at Sarah in the reflection. She’s lying on the bed, chin propped on elbowed hands.
“Oh, nothing.”
Like pulling teeth. “You spent six hours there. You must have done something.”
“Had a math test.”
“How did you do?”
“Got an A.” She says this matter-of-factly, no big deal. A year ago she was drawing down D’s until I started taking some time with her, teaching her not so much the elements of mathematics, but that she had a brain and that if she applied it she could succeed.
“Well, that’s good.”
Sarah has finally reached that plateau where she has discovered the correlation between studying and grades, that there is a reward for work. Some kids never do. Others just assume that they don’t have it, can’t compete. They sell themselves short, give up before they have a chance.
I curl the comb so that my hair does a teardrop over my forehead, throwback to the fifties. I turn and model it for her. She laughs. Sarah is always an easy touch when it comes to comics.
“It’s you,” she says.
I comb it back into shape.
“Let’s get out of here before the phone rings,” she says.
“You got it.” We’re out the door.
The food fair is not my idea of fine dining. My father would never have done this. He was of an age before fast food. But tonight Sarah and I sit at a table under the sprawling mall roof, next to a hundred other parents and kids, cutting cheese pizza with plastic knives.
Sarah likes hers with nothing on it, just string cheese that looks like white rubber and doesn’t taste much better. No green stuff. Not even parsley. The green stuff is poison.
Dinner takes all of ten minutes. We spend the next twenty negotiating the line for tickets, forking over our savings to gain admittance and going into deep debt for popcorn. We sit through an hour of trailers, enough close-up action to give you motion sickness, with sound effects delivered at a level to raise the dead. For the price, they should hand out earplugs and eyepatches.
Finally, we settle into fantasy. Sarah’s chomping on popcorn. I slump down, head against the back of the seat, my knees against the seat in front of me. I’m as engrossed as Sarah by the time I feel a hand on my shoulder. I straighten up in my seat, and suddenly there’s the hot breath of a whisper next to my ear. “Paul.”
I turn. It’s Harry.
“Please, mister. I’m trying to watch the movie.” The woman behind me is giving Harry irritated looks.
He’s standing in front of her, probably on her toes, pressed between the row of seats.
“Excuse me, madam. This is an emergency.”
“Why don’t you take it outside?”
“I’m trying.” Harry appears breathless. “We’ve gotta talk.” He motions me outside.
Sarah gives me a look, rolls her eyes, as if she knew it was too good to be true.
I pat her knee. “Relax, sweetie. I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.”
I step over people, making my way to the aisle, and follow Harry toward the exit. Outside the door, he doesn’t stop but continues walking, heading toward the lobby.
“Why can’t we talk here?”
“’Cause I’m not alone. We’ve got a problem. The cops found Suade. A few hours ago,” says Harry.
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s dead,” says Harry.
“What? How?”
“Don’t know the details. But I’d be willing to bet it wasn’t a heart attack,” says Harry.
“When did it happen?”
“I don’t know. Late this afternoon. Early this evening. They’re not sure. They found the body a few hours ago. But it gets worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know where Jonah is.”
“He was with you. At Susan’s office.”
“I’m afraid not. It’s why I tried to call you at the house. Jonah stormed out of McKay’s office a few minutes after we got there. One of McKay’s lawyers agreed with you that Jonah’s information was not enough to warrant an OSC, an order to show cause to bring Suade up on charges of contempt. He told Jonah there was nothing the department could do.
“Jonah got pissed off. Said a lotta things he shouldn’t have. That’s when he left. Walked out in a rage.”
“Damn it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. I should have gone with you.”
“Wouldn’t have done any good,” says Harry. “Believe me. When that old man gets up a head of steam there’s not much, short of a two-by-four up about the back of his head, that’s gonna slow him down. By the time I got outside, he was gone. Got into a cab and disappeared.”
“What time was this?”
Harry scratches the back of his head. Thinks for a moment. “About two. Maybe two-fifteen. When I got home, I called his wife. She hadn’t seen him. That’s when I started to get worried. He said some pretty provocative things. You heard him in the office this morning.”
“Did you try his boat?”
“I did. He wasn’t there. No sign of his car, either.”
“That means he must have picked it up,” I tell him. “I took Jonah to the office this morning. He left his car in the parking lot at the marina. I was going to take
him back out there after our meeting. Forgot all about it.”
As we reach the lobby, I see why we have come here. Susan is standing just the other side of the ticket taker with the investigator Brower. She’s wringing her hands, bundle of nerves.
“Did Harry tell you?” she says as soon as she sees me.
“Yes.”
“I tried to talk to him. He wouldn’t see reason. The lawyer told him . . .”
“Yes I know. Harry told me. How did you find out about Suade?”
“It came over the car radio,” Brower answers for her. “Police band. I heard it in my car.”
“When was it? What time?”
“Jeez, I don’t know.” Brower looks at Susan. “I was heading back in from that interview out in the east county. Five-thirty. Maybe six o’clock. I called the office from the cell phone in the car. Talked to Susan, Ms. McKay. Asked her if she’d heard. She hadn’t.”
“I don’t know if anything’s moving on the news yet,” says Susan.
I can tell from their collective expressions they’re all thinking the same thing I am. Where was Jonah?
“Was there any information on cause of death?” I ask Brower.
“At the time, they didn’t know if she was dead,” says Brower. “They were calling in the paramedics. According to the reports, it looked like a possible gunshot.”
“I called your house,” says Susan. “You were out. So I called Harry. He’d just collected his messages, said you were at the show. Where’s Sarah?”
“She’s inside.”
“Do you want me to stay with her? Take her home?” says Susan.
I think for a moment. Sarah is going to be disappointed, but under the circumstances I have no choice.
“That would be great.” I pull Harry off to one side where Susan and Brower can’t hear us. “Go to Jonah’s boat and sit tight. If he shows up, call me on my cell phone.” I make sure Harry has the number. “Don’t go near him.”
Harry looks at me. “You don’t think . . .?”
“I don’t know what to think right now. I’ll call Mary at the house and see if he got back.”
“Save your nickel,” says Harry. “I tried five minutes ago from the pay phone out front. He wasn’t there. She hasn’t seen him all day.”
“Wonderful. Did you tell her what happened?”
“No. I figured no sense worrying her.”
I stop for a moment and think.
“She had a million enemies. Why settle on our client?”
“Tell that to Brower. You saw the look on his face. Besides, if Jonah’s done something truly stupid, a conversation with Suade that turned ugly, what if he goes home? If he’s berserk, panicked, no telling what could happen.” Harry knows what I’m thinking. Murder, then suicide, is not beyond the pale.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Forget the boat,” I tell him. “Try his house again. If he’s come home, call me on the cell line. I’ll be with Brower. If he’s not there, tell Mary we need to talk to her, a meeting at the office.”
“At this hour?” says Harry.
“We’ve got to get her out of that house until we know what’s going on. Offer to pick her up. If you’re sure Jonah’s not there, ring the doorbell. Any pretext. Get her out of the house. Do it quickly. Take her to the office and sit tight. Tell her anything. Tell her I’m going to meet you there. If there are any questions, I’ll explain to Jonah later.”
“Where are you going?” asks Harry.
“Since we don’t know where our client is, I’m gonna see if I can get Brower to escort me down to Suade’s office. Maybe get me through the police lines.”
“What for?”
“To find out what the hell’s goin’ on.”
“Can we help?” Susan’s moved closer, to a point where she might be able to hear.
I smack Harry on the back. “Go.”
I turn to Susan and Brower. “You can,” I tell her. I fish for the theater ticket stub in my pocket and give it to Susan. Her hands are trembling. She gives me a hug, a kiss on the cheek. “I hope it’s okay, Mr. Hale I mean. I’m sure he had nothing to do with it. I’ll take Sarah to my place when the movie’s over. The girls are there with a sitter. They can play for a while.”
I thank her, check my watch. It’s now eight-twenty. I prevail on Brower. Any hesitation is quickly crushed by Susan, who directs him to do whatever he can to assist. It’s nice having a woman with a private police force.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Brower’s county car as we pull into the same parking lot where earlier in the day I’d sat and watched Suade play hit-and-run with the homeless.
So much has happened that it seems as if a month has passed since witnessing those events.
Cops seem to have a sixth sense, a traction beam that carries them to the scene of violent death, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. If it is anywhere within fifty miles, they will find their way there. The place looks like a motorcycle convention. Cops in leather jackets and riding boots, black-and-whites everywhere.
It has an otherworldly appearance about it. The parking lot at the strip mall across the street from Suade’s shop is filled with emergency vehicles, flashing lights from patrol cars and paramedic units, a fire truck, cops controlling traffic on Palm at the cross streets. People are slowing down to rubberneck. Kids cruising, seeing where the action is.
Across the street the entire building that houses the Copy Shop, from the corner on Palm to the neighbor’s fence behind the rear parking lot of Suade’s office, is quarantined behind yellow police tape. Cops, some in uniform, others in plainclothes, are milling everywhere, most of them outside the tape.
“You let me do the talking,” says Brower.
“You got it.”
“This is crazy,” he whispers under his breath as he shakes his head and gets out of the car. Brower is not a happy camper playing safari guide to a defense lawyer, escorting the enemy into the cops’ camp. I exit from the passenger side and together we walk through the crush of cops and media, cam crews with their vans, satellite dishes aimed skyward. We cross the street.
A large blue van with white letters a foot high emblazoned on the side
SDCSID
is parked just outside the tape. Its two rear doors, guarded by a cop in uniform, are open.
“County’s Scientific Investigation Division,” Brower whispers under his breath.
“I see ’em.”
“If they’re here, you can be sure she didn’t die of natural causes,” he says.
They are gathering trace evidence as we approach.
The large blue town car, the one I’d seen Suade driving that morning, is parked in the same place I had seen it earlier. Near its left rear fender, several figures, a woman and two men, seem to be crouching under bright lights. One of them is videotaping. I can see a single foot: the sole of a shoe, what appears to be a woman’s high heel, protruding just beyond the rear wheel of the town car. The rest of the body I cannot see.
“Johnnie Brower. What brings you out on a night like this?” The husky voice comes from a uniformed cop, a big man with a beefy smile, shoulders like a bull, with sergeant’s stripes on them. He is standing at the tape offering a ready hand to Brower, who seizes it.
I stand in close, riding on coattails so that I can follow Brower under the tape if he makes his move.
“Just makin’ sure you guys don’t step in the evidence,” says Brower. “Sam, meet Paul. Paul Madriani, Sam Jenson, one of San Diego’s finest.”
Sam shakes my hand and gives me the once-over, one eyebrow raised as if Brower’s okay, but he’s not so sure about me.
“We were just drivin’ by. What’s goin’ on?” says Brower.
“They’re gettin’
ready to put the body in the bag,” says Jenson. “As for me, it can’t happen soon enough.” He rolls his toes in his shoes and rocks back on his heels. “Feet are starting to go flat,” he says.
“You just noticed?” says Brower.
“Yeah, well, us real cops gotta work for a living. Not like some truant officers I know. Please, Mr. Policeman, don’t slap me with that ruler.” Jenson looks at Brower, then winks at me and offers up a beefy laugh.
“I’ll have to remember that next time I get called to a domestic dispute,” says Brower. “Be sure to let one of you real cops go through the door first.”
“That’s us, fuckin’ bullet fodder with flat feet,” says Jenson.
“So, what happened here?” says Brower.
“Looks like she bought it as she was gettin’ ready to go home from work. Just outside the back to her shop there.”
“Not a good way to end your day,” says Brower.
“No.”
“So, what are they thinking?”
“Probably a robbery,” says Jenson. “SID’s working the area over pretty good. Still can’t find no weapon, though. At least not so far.”
“How’d she get it?” says Brower.
“Gunshot. Small caliber. That’s what the paramedics who got here before us said. They probably kicked the fuckin’ gun down the alley into the next block. You know the EMTs with all that shit,” he says. “Tramp through the evidence. By the time we get on the scene, you can’t tell what the hell was where. You’re looking for a bullet hole, they got a fucking tracheotomy in it.”
“Sounds like a vote against first aid,” says Brower.
“That’s a thought. All the good it did her,” says Jenson.
“Who called it in?”
“Do-gooder citizen with a cell phone,” says the cop. “Some rummy stepped out in front of her car, flagged her down. God knows why she stopped. You should get a load of this guy.” Jenson’s got a big grin on his face, looks around, first one way, then the other, sees what he’s looking for off behind us, in the back of one of the parked squad cars.
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