Coyote

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Coyote Page 5

by Rhonda Roberts


  Big Money pursed his lips and looked at his Rolex. He was about to escape.

  ‘Please, come in.’ I wanted to at least know who he was. I drew on what remnants of manners he had left after seeing me in all my less than professional glory, to suck him through the door. That and my blazing smile.

  For some reason it worked.

  ‘This is my partner, Desmond Carmichael.’ They shook hands. Des’ eyes were alight at the thought of a quarry … I mean ‘client’.

  This guy wasn’t getting away if we could help it.

  He hadn’t introduced himself and was still casting around for a quick way out.

  Des and I must’ve resembled two mangy cats watching a particularly well-fed rat.

  ‘Now who are you, sir, and how can we help you?’ I smiled again for emphasis and waited.

  He scanned the candle-lit chaos as though searching for an indication that the real detectives were tied up out the back, then reluctantly conceded, ‘I’m Seymour Kershaw.’ And stopped. As though that by itself was enough.

  Kershaw? Hmm. My eyes must have lit up like traffic lights. I knew why he was here. ‘You’re related to Hector Kershaw, of course.’

  Seymour’s response was to pull a newspaper from his briefcase and slap it down on the desk. I leant over as Des moved the candle closer. It was a special edition of the local afternoon newspaper — The San Francisco Herald. The headlines screamed about the ‘Portsmouth Square Conflagration’.

  But in the bottom right-hand corner, an article demanded an answer: ‘Did Hector Q. Kershaw really leave a diary that disproves all the history books?’

  ‘I believe, Miss Dupree, that you were present when that …’ He paused delicately. ‘When that River person implicated my ancestor in his crazy claims.’

  Des’ eyes bulged as he read the headlines about the fire in Portsmouth Square then scanned me up and down as if for singes. I shot him a look and he said nothing.

  I said casually, ‘Yes, Mr Kershaw. I was there.’

  Stuff Klaasen and Melnick, if I could just grab this case …

  ‘I need to know if there’s any truth to River’s claim. Whether my ancestor did, in fact, write a diary. And whether it still exists in the present time.’

  ‘I’m sure we could look at your case, Mr Kershaw … Find a way to fit it into my schedule.’ I mentally rubbed my hands in glee. I could deal with a trip to nineteenth-century San Francisco. Just have to steer clear of the Barbary Coast and the Corsairs. ‘Now, if you’ll just come through to my office we can sit down and go through everything.’

  I grabbed a candle and raised it, revealing the full splendour of our office, ripped-open boxes, soggy towels and all.

  Seymour scanned the dim room contemptuously. He shook his head. ‘No. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.’ He shook his head again. ‘This just isn’t good enough …’

  ‘Come back tomorrow,’ said Des.

  ‘When everything’s set up …’ I chimed in.

  ‘No, Miss Dupree. I’m going back to town. One of the other Time Investigators has to have a way of fitting me into their tight schedules.’

  Seymour Kershaw exited like an ambitious greyhound after his next bunny.

  Des and I stood in my corner office watching the rain beat against the big bay windows. To the north we could see the lights of the city skyline shimmer through the watery veil. I’d just finished answering his questions about what’d gone down at Portsmouth Square.

  That conversation hadn’t cheered up either one of us. Too many people had died at the hands of what the San Francisco PD believed may have been the work of a crazed arsonist who’d recently escaped from a high-security prison. Apparently he’d sworn vengeance against the criminologist who’d testified against him. The criminologist had been due to give a paper at the national conference. He was still missing.

  Depressed, Des slumped in my client’s chair and tried to read the newspaper Seymour had abandoned. The candles didn’t shed much light, so he stopped squinting and slapped the paper back on my desk in disgust.

  ‘Maybe it was a mistake to move in here,’ I said glumly. How were we going to open for business tomorrow without electricity?

  Des considered for a moment. ‘No, you were right, Kannon … This place is much classier than any of those dingy rat-holes we looked at.’

  ‘Cornelius Klaasen has the whole fifteenth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid,’ I said with envy.

  We both eyed the lights of the iconic building through the pouring rain. Our little slum was not that far from the Financial District, the richest and most powerful part of San Francisco. But it might as well have been on another planet.

  The Transamerica Pyramid was the premier address in the Financial District and the building itself was famous throughout the world, almost as much a symbol of San Francisco as the Golden Gate Bridge. The light on the very top of the tall, sleek pyramid seemed to gaze down at us, mockingly.

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll bet Klaasen has a team of researchers and detectives to back him up too.’ Des frowned. He was going to run the Rewind office while I did the fieldwork through the portal.

  ‘Don’t worry, Des, Klaasen won’t know what hit him once we start taking his clients away,’ I said gamely. ‘Him and Melnick. All we have to do is stay ahead of their crap and eventually they’ll turn on each other like hyenas at mealtime.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ muttered Des. He got up to start digging through one of the boxes in the corner. ‘Where’d you put that bottle of Glenfiddich, Kannon?’

  ‘Scotch?’ I shot him a look. ‘You’re still on your heart diet, Des.’ He didn’t listen to his doctor, so I’d taken up nagging him like it was a new hobby. But he just thought it was hilarious that I tried to give him tips about moderation.

  ‘What are you talking about, woman? I’m the healthiest I’ve been in years.’ He thumped his chest with both hands. Then coughed.

  ‘Yeah, sure you are …’ To distract him I said, ‘Come on, Des, let’s talk tactics over dinner. Why don’t we go downstairs and see what the bar and grill is like?’

  Des grimaced. ‘I don’t know if I’ve had all the shots I’d need to survive it.’

  He wasn’t wrong; the place looked pretty dilapidated from the outside.

  ‘If I can just find that scotch then we can use it to sterilise the food …’ He bent over the boxes again.

  ‘Forget it, Des, we need to have clear heads to work out how to swing this one.’

  Des shot me one of his ‘I know what you’re doing’ looks, but stopped rummaging anyway. He swiped Seymour’s newspaper off my desk and stalked to the doorway.

  I grinned.

  ‘Well … what are you waiting for — an engraved invitation?’ he growled. ‘Are you coming or what?’

  I followed him out the door, still grinning.

  According to the sign over the door, the bar and grill was now known as Jake’s Place — but originally it’d been the Zebulon Hotel’s dining room. The real-estate agent said it was the best place to eat in our part of SoMa and that it’d become the local cool place to hang out, drawing in clientele from the surrounding, wealthier neighbourhoods.

  The clinking of glasses and the click of cutlery meeting plates greeted our entrance.

  Like the rest of the Zebulon, the fixtures were original. The bar and grill had an ornately moulded once-white ceiling, wood panelling, and architraves everywhere you’d expect. In here the wall sconces were more risqué than in the lobby; the nymphs had been replaced by naked male discus throwers who suffered from an uncomfortable excess of crotch foliage.

  Also like the rest of the Zebulon, and courtesy of the flaking paint, threadbare carpet and bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, the place had an air of decadent decay. But that was the end of the resemblance to the rest of the hotel. Whoever ran this joint had their own very … er … particular taste in decoration.

  Every spare inch of the walls was covered in nude women.

  They were
of the oil-painted variety and, if the anatomical aberrations were anything to go by, were from an artist who combined his personal interests with a love of Picasso’s cubist technique. The woman hanging on the wall next to me was baring four perfect breasts and smiling with three sets of equally lush red lips.

  I was guessing the artist believed that more was definitely better.

  But the real-estate agent had been telling the truth. As dingy as it was, Jake’s Place was crowded with better-dressed patrons than would normally trudge down our section of Prendergast Street: artsy types, computer geeks playing with their latest high-tech toys and designer-clad couples slumming it.

  The waiters and waitresses looked more like they’d been drafted from the homeless shelter on the corner … They were cleaned up but distinctly frayed at the edges and their worn-down faces showed they’d spent a lot more time on the rougher side of life than the corn-fed people they were serving.

  Des and I made for an empty table near the far wall. It was underneath a painting of a multi-armed woman who was either massaging moisturiser into her five nipples or doing something else entirely.

  ‘Maybe we should buy one of these for the office,’ muttered Des, as he stared up at the well-endowed female. He peered at the price tag on the wall next to her. ‘It’s only the cost of our next month’s rent.’

  ‘Yeah, Des, that’s a steal,’ I replied. Never one to let an opportunity slide by, I added, ‘Promise me you’ll stay on your heart diet for the next year and I’ll give her to you for your birthday.’

  We both snorted at that — but for different reasons.

  ‘So you want to buy one of my paintings?’ An apron-clad, middle-aged man wiped down the table and set out our cutlery and menus. He waited for an answer, but there was the hint of a twinkle in his eye.

  I shot a look up at the painting. It was just signed ‘Jake’. ‘Yeah.’ I pointed at Des. ‘It’s his birthday soon.’

  Then I noticed Des had that peculiar, overly alert look on his face. I hadn’t seen it for a while.

  And that Jake had a similarly intent expression.

  They’d recognised each other … or something like that.

  ‘You’re the detectives that just moved in upstairs, aren’t you?’ asked Jake. He was medium height with a receding hairline.

  Des was still watching him.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, now embarrassed at making fun of his artwork. He had an open, honest face. ‘I’m Kannon Dupree.’ I stuck out my hand and we shook. ‘This my partner, Des Carmichael.’

  They shook too, but it was awkward, forced.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode. Most of the Zebulon eats here.’ He nodded at a table down the aisle from us. ‘Those four guys run the computer software company on the floor directly below you.’

  I perused them. All four looked bleary-eyed and rumpled — like they were wearing a cross between tracksuits and their pyjamas.

  Jake read my expression and chuckled. ‘Yeah, they sleep in their office. They mainline coffee and I make ’em eat a meal every now and again … But if you want anything, I don’t deliver. I’m open seven days a week but not the same hours every day. Opening times are listed next to the cash register.’ He nodded up at the painting above us. ‘Gotta schedule in time for the ladies.’

  Des studied Jake’s face. ‘What did you do?’

  Jake, his expression suddenly frosty, studied Des in return. He decided to answer anyway. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  It was like they were speaking in code.

  Jake left us to read the menu. It was pretty standard fare for a bar and grill.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ I asked Des, after making my choice.

  He was watching Jake tend to another table. ‘He’s an ex-con.’

  I glanced up at the sultry multi-nippled woman above us. ‘Well, that explains a few things … But remember you’re not a cop any more, Des — so play nice.’

  Jake came back and took our orders. I went for coffee and a burger and fries, and managed to blackmail Des into having orange juice and a chicken salad.

  Jake gave Des another once-over then said, ‘I have nothing to be ashamed of in my past. I was charged with fraud. Financial fraud. Like I said, I didn’t do it. Everyone in the Zebulon knows about it.’ He shot a cynical look around at his patrons. ‘No, correction — everyone in San Francisco knows about me.’

  Des studied him, then decided to play nice. He stuck out his hand. ‘Let me do it right this time, Jake.’ They shook with feeling and Jake left to get our orders.

  ‘You’re that sure he’s telling the truth?’ I said in mocking disbelief.

  ‘Oh yeah. He wasn’t lying.’ Des resented my question.

  ‘Really?’ I teased.

  ‘Well, maybe he’s telling the truth …’ he said begrudgingly. ‘Of course, I’ll check out his story. If I’m wrong I’ll let you know.’

  We both snorted again. This time for the same reason.

  If Des was wrong I’d know about it all right. He’d come down here and interrogate Jake to within an inch of his life … until he was satisfied that the poor guy wasn’t any kind of real threat to Rewind Investigations.

  I looked up at the five-nippled subject above us. ‘If you’re wrong I am giving you that painting.’

  Des responded by snapping open the newspaper he’d brought with him and pretending to read it.

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘It’s about time we found an angle to get Seymour Kershaw back. If he dangles enough money in front of their noses, either Klaasen or Melnick will find a way to squeeze him in. We need to find a way to hook him first.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know yet … But we have to find one. Come on!’ I prodded.

  ‘Who is this Hector Q. Kershaw anyway?’ asked Des. ‘And what’s he got to do with the massacre at Dry Gulch?’

  Des had been in the States an even shorter time than I had. But everyone had at least heard of the Dry Gulch massacre, even if they didn’t know the details. It was a famous legend of the Wild West.

  I swiped Seymour’s newspaper from Des and scanned the article that had brought him to our door — the text on Hector’s diary. I read aloud, ‘In 1867 the governor of New Mexico, his family and his entourage were murdered in a renegade Indian attack led by Coyote Jack. Hector Kershaw was the only survivor.’

  Des frowned. ‘There was a survivor? I thought they all died?’

  I ignored that. ‘Hector was found the next day, struggling back to Santa Fe covered in blood.’

  ‘But why is his name plastered all over San Francisco?’ asked Des. He was right — there were statues of Hector Kershaw everywhere.

  I scanned the article again. ‘Hector was out west on business for his wealthy Boston banking family — checking their investments.’ I paraphrased the article and added in bits of Wauhope’s lecture. ‘Anyway, surviving the massacre changed Hector — he may’ve started out a sedate banker’s kid, but by the time he arrived here he’d turned into a man of action. When he reached San Francisco he became a deputised lawman and risked his life cleaning the place up. In the end he gave his own life saving the city from the Corsairs.’

  Des looked at me, one bushy eyebrow raised.

  I answered his unspoken question. ‘The Corsairs ran the underworld of old San Francisco.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Des. ‘So Hector survived the infamous Dry Gulch in New Mexico to later become a big hero here.’

  ‘So it seems. And that’s why we have to nab this one, Des. It’s just the sensational first case we need.’

  ‘Didn’t you say that there was a professor interested in Hector’s diary?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nodded. ‘Jackson River said it will clear the name of his ancestor, Coyote Jack. That Coyote Jack wasn’t responsible for Dry Gulch.’

  Des whistled. ‘This may be a piece of luck after all, Kannon.’

  ‘That’s right, Des. I intend to corner Jackson River ASAP and find out what he knows.’<
br />
  Jake arrived with our food and drink.

  I ordered another coffee, drained the one sitting in front of me, and then started my dinner. It smelt so good my mouth watered. I tucked in. It may only have been a burger and fries but they were the best I’d ever had. Fresh, crisp in the right places … and there was a tasty sauce I didn’t recognise. From the noises Des was making, his chicken salad must’ve been just as good.

  ‘I’ll head out to Berkeley tomorrow,’ I muttered, wiping my mouth. We’d both finished everything off in record time. ‘River had said he was a criminologist at UC Berkeley. I’ll see what I can squeeze out of him about our hero Hector’s diary.’

  ‘Speaking of heroes,’ said Des, casually scanning my face. ‘When does Marshal Honeycutt hit town again? It must be soon.’

  I covered my reaction. When Des made casual remarks it was time to watch out.

  Daniel Honeycutt was a Time Marshal — the National Time Administration’s version of an astronaut. While Klaasen, Melnick and I were Time Investigators — that is, for private hire — the marshals were sent through the time portal strictly on government missions.

  Daniel was away on one now.

  ‘You must be looking forward to seeing him again?’ asked Des. ‘After what he did …’

  I looked away.

  Jake arrived with my second coffee so I fiddled with that, mentally willing Des to drop the subject.

  But as usual Des kept pushing. ‘It’s six months since you last saw him, isn’t it?’

  Earlier this year, Daniel had been my supervisor on my first training assignment through the time portal. We were sent on a mission to solve a cold case that turned out to be very hot indeed. At the end of it, Daniel had planted himself in front of me when the suspect we’d been tracking had shot to kill.

  The suspect blasted a hole through Daniel’s chest, but he’d been aiming for my head.

  Des was right, I hadn’t seen Daniel since the hospital. Six long months ago. The National Time Administration, freaked out by the secrets we’d both accidentally uncovered — secrets that could destroy the NTA and shake up the FBI — had first hidden Honeycutt away while he recovered, then sent him on a mission that, by all accounts, could finish him off.

 

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