Ricochet

by Paula Gosling

  Stryker smiled. ‘I know.’ He frowned. ‘Don’t really know what to make of him yet. Sometimes I get the impression he knows a lot more than he lets on.’ He shrugged. ‘Meanwhile, we just have to go on a step at a time, one foot in front of the other. For all the easy ones we wrap up in hours there have to be some stinkers in the pack and this Mayhew case is one of them. We’ll walk the walk, we’ll talk the talk. We’ll get there in the end.’

  ‘By which time we’ll be old and broken,’ Tos said.

  ‘Hell, no. That’s just how we start out.’

  Pinsky was dejected about his experience at the hospital. So he decided to approach it from a different angle and went down to French Street to see if he could get any information. He had no luck there, either. They spotted he was a cop straight off, or worse, some kind of social worker. Either way they gave him nothing at all. He decided to go to Mike Rivera.

  Mike had worked French Street off and on for years. His undercover identity was so good the story went that he dropped back there now and again on his own time just to maintain it. Nobody on French Street questioned that he disappeared for months at a time. They all did it, chasing the warm weather, maybe trying to dry out in a detox programme, perhaps stuck in jail or hospital. But Mike kept his hand in and his ears in, too. He had picked up a lot of stuff on French Street, aside from the dirt and the lice. But when Pinsky enquired he found he was on vacation. He was also told Mike had moved recently and no longer lived in the fairly decent rooming house that had been his home for the past two years.

  To Pinsky’s amazement, Rivera now had a condo in one of the flashy new buildings downtown, overlooking the river. It had a balcony and that was where Rivera had been sitting when Pinsky arrived. He got Ned a beer to match his own and led him back out on to the balcony.

  ‘How the hell did you rate this?’ Pinsky asked, sitting down on one of the chairs placed either side of a fancy wrought-iron table. Far below, the river glittered like a silver snake and one of the big container ships moved slowly along towards the bridge.

  ‘I inherited it,’ Mike said. ‘Out of the blue. My grandmother owned it, rented it out. I didn’t know about it, none of us did until she died. We always wondered where she got her money from, because she lived pretty comfortably. We still have no idea when she got this place. But she willed it to me, to make up for . . . well, the divorce and everything, I guess. She always had a soft spot for me. The others got cash – they’re all settled with families – but I got this and no mortgage, either. Pretty nice, hey?’

  ‘The taxes must be high,’ Pinsky observed.

  ‘Worth every penny,’ Mike said. ‘I think it’s why I haven’t been so eager to go down on the street for the past six months. I find the river so interesting – always something going by.’

  The afternoon was warmer than it had been recently and the view was everything Mike said it was. Pinsky sighed. ‘Lucky bastard.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mike grinned. ‘I know. But I’m worth it,’ he said in imitation of the cosmetic ad.

  Yes, you are, Pinsky thought. For Mike had had a rough time over the past few years, losing a child, then a wife. Sometimes things balance up. Quietly, carefully, he outlined his problem.

  ‘What was the kid doing on French Street?’ Mike asked immediately.

  ‘That’s part of the problem,’ Pinsky explained. ‘I don’t know if he had some reason for being there, or if he was just unlucky. Of course, nobody will talk to me. I need someone like you – hell, I need you – to go down there and find out what’s going on, if anything.’

  Mike scowled. ‘It’s been a while.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘Are you doing OK, Mike?’ Pinsky asked. He sensed a change in Rivera, a sadness, a reluctance.

  Rivera shrugged. ‘Doing better since I got this place.’ He chuckled. ‘That old grandma of mine was a doozy. Do you know she was worth over three million when they totted it all up? Played the market, apparently. Bought property, stuff like that. But she must have known the end was nigh, as they say, because she sold up a lot of stuff a few months before she died, put it all in the bank. Just kept this place for me – like she knew I needed a home. And I did. It’s changed me, having a place like this. I don’t know how much longer I can go down on the street like I used to. Guess I’m getting old.’

  ‘How long until retirement?’ Pinsky asked.

  Rivera shrugged. ‘Could take it in five, could go on another ten. Up to me, really. My captain said he wants me to stay, but I don’t know. It’s not the same any more for me. I can’t get into it like I did.’ By ‘it’ he meant his alternative street persona. ‘Here, come and see this.’

  He got up and Ned followed him into one of the bedrooms – the place had three. This one had no furniture but contained only two black plastic refuse sacks. Rivera opened one and a sudden smell of decay and dirt rose into the freshness of the room, defiling it. ‘Would you like to live here and then change into these clothes?’ Rivera asked, pulling out a selection of filthy sweaters, trousers etc.

  ‘Listen, I never understood how you could do it before. I get the point.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mike said, twisting the bag closed again. ‘So I think I’m taking my pay under false pretences, you know? Because I sure as hell am not as good in records as I am on the street, but I’m not so good on the street these days, either. I don’t know what the hell to do.’

  ‘Would you go down there for me?’ Pinsky asked.

  Mike gently kicked the black plastic bag again. ‘I used to enjoy this. Hard to believe.’

  Looking around, Pinsky agreed. The nicest thing that had ever happened to Mike Rivera was also one of the worst things that happened to him in terms of his usefulness to the department. Moving from a soulless room in a boarding house to the street was no great leap, but from this – a jump too far. Pinsky shivered slightly from the thought of climbing into the clothes in one of the black bags. Clothes in which Mike would not be alone for long, as the lice and their assorted friends returned.

  But maybe it was just the cool breeze from the open balcony door. Outside a boat hooted twice and, from far below, traffic rumbled on the streets. Mike had climbed pretty high up from the gutter.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to ask,’ Pinsky said softly. ‘I seem to be pulling in a lot of favours over this, but I let the kid down, Mike. I should have listened, taken five minutes for crying out loud . . . ’

  Rivera looked at him, understanding in his eyes. ‘I’ll try.’

  THIRTEEN

  Jerry Hauck seemed to know he was a genius and made every attempt to live up to the role as Professor Elise Mayhew’s star student. His hair was wild and wiry, his glasses were tiny and wire-framed, his clothes were clean but ill-matched and wrinkled, he was unshaven and he had a pencil behind his ear. An Einstein wannabe, no mistake. He viewed Stryker and Tos with a heavy scowl. ‘This is bad,’ he said. ‘She was brilliant, just brilliant and he goes and shoots her. Jesus wept, what a waste.’

  ‘Who shoots her?’

  ‘Her old man, obviously. He was real jealous, always snarfing around when we were there, giving us the beady eye, making us feel like shit for taking up her time.’

  ‘You think he was jealous of you?’

  ‘Not me personally. All of us. Me, Lois, Chan and Galumph.’

  ‘Galumph?’

  ‘Oh, that’s what we call him. His name is actually Morrie Garrison, but he’s a big bastard and kind of galumphs around. It was Lois who started that. She’s kind of . . . weird. Really intense, but sort of silly, too. She likes nicknames. That’s the only one that really stuck. She tried me with Jez, but I wasn’t having it. No dignity, you know? A person needs their personal dignity.’

  Stryker sighed. How true. ‘Were you often at Professor Mayhew’s house?’

  ‘A couple times a month, not all of us at the same time exce
pt sometimes when she wanted a discussion group.

  Mostly she dealt with us one or two at a time, so as to give our work proper attention. She was real generous with her time and that was tough because she was real pressed with her own book deadline. We’re only MA candidates. She had some real fresh insights into urban tribal units.’

  ‘Urban tribal units?’

  ‘That’s my thesis subject. Gangs. The homeless. Bridge clubs. You know.’

  ‘I don’t, actually, but I’ll take your word for it,’ Stryker said. ‘So her husband was jealous of the time she gave you.’

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t have been, it was part of her job, after all. I mean, she gave more than she needed to, I’ll grant that, but even so, he was a pain in the ass. The girls liked him, though. Pretty boy.’

  ‘You only mentioned one girl, Lois.’

  ‘Chan, she’s a girl. Chan Mei Mei. She opted for Chan before Lois could get a look in with Mei Mei and maybe change it to Mimi, just for the hell of it. You know, “Your tiny hand is frozen”?’

  ‘La Bohème,’ Tos said. Stryker gave him an odd look – but, of course, Tos was Italian. Opera was in his blood.

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, what do you want to know?’ Jerry leaned back in his chair and regarded them over the top of his glasses. They were in the library, where they’d tracked him down to one of the research carrels. He had been deep in taking notes from a large tome full of pictures of teeth. They didn’t look like human teeth.

  ‘Did Professor Mayhew ever mention any trouble she was having with any students? Any friends? Anybody?’

  ‘You mean, “did she have any enemies”? That’s the way it goes, isn’t it?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Jerry shook his head. ‘No. She never talked about personal stuff, just what we were working on. She was all business, no games. Lately she did seem kind of . . . frazzled, but we figured that was because of the book. We haven’t seen so much of her lately.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Last Saturday, I think it was. Or Sunday. Oh, yeah, Sunday definitely. Because he was there, her husband, and he came back from doing the shopping. He did the shopping. He did a lot of the stuff around the house because she was working on her manuscript and with us and stuff, and teaching, of course. He made his own schedule. He’s some kind of travelling salesman, I think. He was packing to go away that night, and kept coming in to ask where his socks were and stuff like that. He didn’t need to ask, if you ask me, but he did, just to interrupt.’

  ‘So you saw her on Sunday. Just you, or were there others there, too?’

  ‘All of us. It was the first time we had all been there in weeks. All together, I mean. We were deconstructing Chan’s thesis, helping her get it tighter, sharper. Like that. Chan was being brave about it, but it was hard for her. Elise had to give her a cuddle halfway through.’

  ‘Was Professor Mayhew an affectionate person?’

  Jerry grinned. ‘Oh yeah – she was a toucher. A shoulder patter. In a motherly kind of way, even though she wasn’t that much older. She was a really nice person. You felt she really cared if you were doing good or bad, you know?’ His face went a little loose and he cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know who we’ll get now. Maybe Winchester himself. That’ll make a change. Him and his damned hula-hula shirts.’

  ‘Were any of you particularly close to Professor Mayhew?’ Tos asked.

  ‘She liked me,’ Hauck said. He said it in a flat voice, not bragging, just stating a fact. ‘Because I’m difficult. She said she was a difficult student, too.’

  ‘You don’t seem difficult to me,’ Stryker observed.

  ‘You’re not competition,’ Jerry said. ‘And you’re not in my field. I want to help you because I care about what happened to Professor Mayhew, so I’m being very, very nice. Is that so strange?’

  ‘Not at all. Can you tell us where you were on Sunday between midnight and six a.m.?’

  ‘Asleep. Alone. At home. I live with my parents,’ Jerry said simply. ‘Some relatives had been over for the day and when I got back I went out with my cousins for a few drinks. Came back home about nine. Then studied until . . . well, until midnight, I guess it must have been. Then went to bed.’ He peered at them. ‘Was that when . . . when she was killed?’

  ‘Yes, according to the best estimate we can make. Neighbours heard arguing and then the shot and then a car driving away.’

  ‘I don’t drive,’ Jerry said. ‘I never learned. I’m not very well co-ordinated, made a mess of it in driving class, didn’t go on with it. Bus is good enough for me at the moment. I might give it another try after I get this Master’s. In case I have to move someplace else to teach or whatever. Gotta drive in this country, right? Everybody does. Makes me feel out of it, but mostly I get lifts from friends or take the bus.’

  ‘So you don’t own a car?’

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Are you kidding? The price of books in my field being what it is? I’m lucky to still live at home, or I couldn’t take my MA. Or my Ph.D., which I fully intend to do, especially now.’

  ‘Why especially now?’

  ‘Because of her,’ he said simply. ‘She said I should and now she’s dead. Well, I have a kind of obligation, right? I should go for it, like in her memory, sort of. Seems only right. Besides, I want to. And my parents want me to. And so I will. And then I’ll learn to drive. OK?’ He seemed to be getting worked up gradually and his voice was getting louder. Was this what Donald Mayhew meant about his being ‘difficult’?

  ‘Nice,’ Tos said. ‘In her memory. Nice thought.’

  Jerry subsided. ‘Yeah. Right.’

  ‘Anything else you can think of that might help?’

  Jerry shook his head. ‘Are you going to talk to the others?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Maybe they can help. I’m not very observant of people I know, only strangers. She was a good woman, a good teacher, a nice person, that’s all I know. She knew that it was hard to do this work, hard to do it really well. And it has to be done really well, because it’s a crowded field and a very competitive one, no matter what anyone says. Every discovery is important. It’s like poking around with our eyes taped up, so few clues, so little to go on.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Stryker. ‘I hear you.’

  Ned Pinsky drew up in front of the Sanchez house and turned off the engine. The house was a nice ranch-style set in a good amount of ground. It was only a few blocks away from his own home. The front lawn showed patches of mud, summer wear and tear. And some leaves were beginning to fall, studding the green with red and yellow.

  He had rung ahead and knew Mrs Sanchez was at home. Obviously her original idea of going in to work had been overtaken by her grief. And, no doubt, the details of arranging Ricky’s funeral. To say nothing of comforting Ricky’s brother and sister, and seeking comfort from them.

  Even the strongest of us will buckle under sufficient pain, he thought, and she was a very strong woman. Which is why he was shocked when she opened the door. Gone was the elegant lady he’d known before. This was a broken woman, lost in the folds of a loose housecoat, her once shining hair twisted up in an attempt at a chignon that was already coming apart. Her eyes were sunken and without make-up she showed her true age.

  ‘Hello, Ned,’ she said and stepped back to let him in.

  ‘Maria,’ Ned said in a soft voice. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She shrugged as she closed the outer door. ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘So am I. But there is nothing to do. It is done, it is over, Ricky is gone.’ She moved towards the living room. ‘Sit,’ she said. ‘I have made some coffee.’

  He wished she hadn’t. He wished he could just do what he’d come to do and get out again, but he knew he would have to sit down and talk, admit his failure, ask her forgiveness. There was no way out of it.

 
The living room showed signs of misery, too: newspapers scattered on the floor, ashtrays overflowing and unemptied, a stack of photo scrapbooks tilting as if to slide, the curtains half drawn and then abandoned, giving the windows a weary look. Maria Sanchez had always been houseproud. Maybe one day she would be again.

  Maria came in with a tray, mugs of coffee, a pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl, a plate of cookies. Something in her was hanging on to the amenities.

  Ned sank back on the sofa and watched as she laid the tray on the cocktail table, then backed off, taking her own mug, coffee black, and with a minute gesture indicated he should help himself. She sat in a large armchair beside the cold fireplace and sipped her drink. For an instant he caught the scent of brandy and then it was gone. Adding milk but no sugar to his own mug, he sat up straight. ‘About Ricky—’ he began.

  ‘You have found his killer?’ she asked, but not eagerly. It would make no difference to her if they had – Ricky was dead and her grief had taken her beyond revenge.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Ned admitted. ‘I . . . Ricky wanted to talk to me earlier in the week . . .’

  ‘Did he?’ She closed her eyes. ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ned said. ‘That is . . . something was troubling him and he wanted advice. But he wouldn’t tell me exactly what it was, because he wanted to be sure before he did anything that might hurt someone else.’

  Maria nodded. Another long, thin strand of her dark hair escaped from the pins and drifted down beside her cheek. ‘That was Ricky,’ she said. She opened her eyes. ‘He gave no indication?’

  ‘Not really. Just that he thought someone was doing something “wrong” – possibly but not necessarily illegal – and how he should go about dealing with it.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  This was the hard part. ‘I said he should be sure of his facts, and that perhaps he should talk to the person concerned.’