by Alan Russell
“Yes, I have a major credit card,” said Gretchen. “Let me give that number to you.”
We’re all multifaceted, he thought. We’re all many people. But most of us aren’t different people. To be laughing and crying at the same time, to be transfixed and scared and bored simultaneously, had to be a frightening existence. Helen was a woman out of control, and she not only knew it, sometimes she could see it.
Gretchen joined him again and looked a little more at ease having made the cleaning arrangements. “Something about Holly’s work,” Gretchen said, “stays with you.”
“Yes,” Cheever said. “She opens doors.” Doors that most would prefer were left closed, he thought.
Cheever bent down and examined the signatures on Helen’s paintings; even they were dissimilar. The only thing consistent about Helen was her differences.
“What’s going to happen to the gallery?” he asked.
“I suppose it will close. I don’t know anyone besides Bonnie who could make a go of it.”
“Bonnie owned this lot, didn’t she?”
A small smile. “She liked to say she owned one percent of it and the bank ninety-nine percent. She didn’t want to go into some safe mall, or have one of those boutique galleries in La Jolla or Del Mar or Rancho Santa Fe. She wanted art to transform a community. That’s why she liked this spot so much. The garden was important to her. It was like the business was a garden too and that things were going to grow from it.”
“Speaking of the garden,” Cheever said, remembering his promise to Flamingo, “someone’s going to have to water the plants.”
“Yes. That can’t really wait, can it? I’ll take care of that tomorrow. I’ll call some of the artists and get them to come out and help me. Tomorrow we can tend to tasks and remember Bonnie informally. Many hands will make light work, right?”
She wasn’t looking for an answer; she was talking to reassure herself. It wasn’t helping. Gretchen started playing with her hair. She had something to ask but was unsure how to say it. “I was wondering,” she said, “if you wouldn’t mind walking me to my car. That is, when you’re ready to leave...I’m not in any rush, mind you,” she added. “I can keep myself busy...”
“Let’s go,” Cheever said.
“I really don’t want to take you away...”
“I’m finished,” he said.
She had probably made the same walk by herself a thousand times, but now everything was changed. As they walked out the entrance they had to once again contend with the bouquets of carnations. Cheever edged the flowers aside with his feet. He was gentle, but couldn’t help but trample some of the petals.
Gretchen led the way, and Cheever stayed at her side. They were silent as they walked. Gretchen didn’t break the silence until she reached her car. She looked around her, saw all the grime and despair that had somehow been hidden from her before, and shook her head.
“This wasn’t the right place for a garden,” she said.
CHAPTER
NINE
Flamingo was standing on the corner of Tenth and J, looking like he was keeping some vigil. Funny, thought Cheever, how you never saw him walking around. He just suddenly appeared doing his one-legged sentry act. Maybe he flew from street corner to street corner. When Flamingo noticed Cheever, he waved for him to come over.
“Flowers looking worse, Captain,” Flamingo reported.
“So am I,” Cheever said. “It’s autumn. It’s almost winter. Maybe their time has passed.”
Flamingo didn’t say anything, just gave him a troubled look. It made Cheever feel like a bully. “Don’t worry,” he said, “help’s on the way. I’ve been told they’ll get a watering tomorrow.”
“That’s good, Captain. Don’t like to see neglect. Don’t like to see it at all.”
Flamingo offered the words without irony. He wasn’t trying to be noble, wasn’t speaking in metaphors describing his own situation, was just trying to get a drink for his friends.
“We got something to talk about besides crocuses, Flamingo?”
He nodded. “You heard about Doc-tah Denton, Captain?”
Cheever debated answering “Who?” or “What?” but instead said, “No.”
“Word is the doc-tah’s saying he’s gonna get a Cadillac. He’s got lotsa plans for that reward money.”
“You mean the Carnation Fund reward?”
Flamingo nodded. “The doc-tah say he seen something the night the Flower Mama got kilt. He called that number and told them all about it. If they catch that lady, he says he’s gonna get fifty thousand dollars.”
“What lady?”
“The one he seen. The one in the garden.”
“What’d he see?”
“Don’t know. Some lady, that’s all he say. I think the doc-tah’s afraid someone might be trying to get his reward money.”
“Tell me about this Dr. Denton.” Perched on one leg, Flamingo did just that.
THE DOCTOR, SAID Flamingo, was a man who liked to move around. His “rounds” included soup lines and shelters, Horton Plaza, the detox center, some of the canyons in Balboa Park, and a half dozen vacant lots in the downtown area. Occasionally Dr. Denton gave plasma on Eighth Street. He was known to panhandle from Harbor Drive to Fifth Avenue, and when he had money the doctor went looking for his pain prescriptions in liquor stores. He usually bedded down on Tenth and K Street, but there were a number of other spots where he dropped his bindle.
The doctor covered a lot of territory for a man on foot. In a way, Cheever thought, that was his job. Cheever debated the best way to track him down. The doctor didn’t keep office hours, didn’t have a job, a home, or a phone. But there were reasons, fifty thousand of them, for the doctor to have made his whereabouts known to the Carnation Fund organization. Cheever dialed their number and tested his five-figure hypothesis. A woman who identified herself as Madeline took his call. Cheever explained who he was and who he wanted to talk with.
“Dr. Who?” asked Madeline.
“Denton. But that’s not his real name.”
“What is his real name?”
“I’m not sure. Dr. Denton’s a nickname. His street name. He apparently likes to wear real long pants that hang down over his shoes. They look like Doctor Dentons.”
“But that’s not his real name?”
“No.”
“I’m afraid no Dr. Denton has called today,” she said.
“Did he call yesterday?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t working.”
Cheever tried to ask a question that Madeline couldn’t preface with “I’m afraid.”
“Who can help me?”
“Mr. Adams.”
“Rollo Adams?”
“Yes.”
“Is he available?”
“I’m afraid not. But he does call in for messages.”
“Frequently?”
“Every few hours.”
“Can he be paged?”
“I’m afraid he is not available to be paged today.”
Cheever was afraid he might lose his temper. “What happens if someone calls you, Madeline, and says they know who the killer is?”
“I’m afraid I’m not supposed to give out any information over the phone.”
“You mean you don’t have orders to call the police?”
“I’m af—”
Cheever interrupted her apology. “I need you to take Sergeant Falconi’s cell phone number and have Rollo Adams call him. Tell him it’s urgent.”
Madeline repeated the number, got it right, and Cheever thanked her. Immediately afterward he rang Falconi up. When the sergeant answered, Cheever said, “God save us from amateurs.”
Falconi asked, “What’s up?”
“A potential witness supposedly called the Carnation Fund. He had some story about seeing a woman at the scene of the murder. My version is thirdhand. I called the operator working their phones today. She didn’t know anything about the witness, or anything about any
thing. She’s a professional apologist who answers phones and takes messages. I gave her your name and number and a priority of urgent. Rollo Adams is supposed to call you back. The operator said that Rollo’s the answer man. If that’s the case, I got a question for him: Why the hell didn’t he call us with the witness story?”
“Still applying to the diplomatic corps, Cheever?”
“Shouldn’t we be part of the fifty-thousand-dollar equation?”
“I’ll make that clear to Mr. Adams. And at the same time I’ll remind you that without the offer of a reward this potential witness might not have come forward.”
“I’ll let you be grateful for both of us. In the meantime I’ll be looking for Dr. Denton.”
“What do we have?”
“Black male, thirties, five-seven, weighs one-forty. And he wears pants that come down to his shoes. The doc’s lived in the downtown area on and off for a few years. I’m sure some of the uniforms know him.”
“I’ll get a few assigned to your search party,” Falconi said.
“Great minds think alike.”
DOCTORS ARE USUALLY easier to find on a golf course than in a hospital, but it was more coincidence than not that the two uniforms found Dr. Denton on a golf course. It was a different kind of golf course to be sure, but then he was a different kind of doctor. At Morley Field near Balboa Park, San Diegans play Frisbee golf. The doctor looked quite at home sprawled out on the expansive lawn. He was far enough away from the nearest “hoop”—the cylinder through which discs were tossed—that he didn’t have to worry about too many errant throws hitting him. It was a pleasant setting, unhurried and quiet, a good place to do some California dreaming about fifty thousand dollars.
The doctor acted as if he were expecting Cheever. In his right hand was the ubiquitous brown paper bag that made a mockery of camouflage. Waving his bottle, he asked, “Find that lady?”
He showed Cheever a lot of happy teeth, minus one. The doctor was missing a front tooth, a lateral incisor, which gave him a shifty look, whether or not it was merited. He stayed reclined, his show of independence. He was having his liquid picnic and didn’t feel like being discommoded by a cop.
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Cheever said, his voice neutral. “My name is Detective Cheever. What’s yours?”
“Hell, you found me, you know my name. I’m the doctor.”
Cheever’s tone changed, took on an edge. “Your real name.”
“Calvin.”
“Calvin what?”
“Calvin Jackson.”
“When were you born?”
“What, d’you come to wish me a happy birthday?”
Cheever looked at him. That’s all it took.
“November the twentieth, 1988.”
Every year they were younger, thought Cheever. “Ever been arrested before, Calvin?”
“Whatcha asking that for?”
Another look. “Yeah,” he said, “I was brought up on a coupla jack-shit charges.”
“Ever do time?”
“Coupla months here and there.”
“Where and why?”
“Why’s a good question. Why ya hassling me?”
“Where and why?” asked Cheever again. “And what for?”
Calvin sighed and then started giving out particulars. He’d been up for a B&E, assault, and possession of a deadly weapon...
Cheever interrupted: “What kind of weapon?”
“A shank.”
“A knife?”
The doctor gave him a sideways glance. “Shit, you’re cold, man.”
“I just want to know who I’m talking to, Calvin.”
“I know how that lady died. What you be doing is looking for a convenient nigger to place when and where she got sliced.”
“You know better than that, Calvin.”
“It was a white girl that was there, man. That’s who you should be looking for. But it’s always easier to go after a brother, isn’t it?”
“Tell me about that white girl.”
Calvin shook his head, let out a persecuted sigh. “If I tells what I seen, the next thing I know you try to put me in the picture.”
“I don’t have any agenda, Calvin. I’m just trying to learn what happened.”
“Thass what I hear now, but what about later?”
“Nothing changes, Calvin—”
“Doctor.”
“Doctor,” Cheever agreed. “I just want you to tell me what you saw.”
“Already called up the reward people, you know. Anyone else says they seen the same thing is a liar ’cuz I was the only one there. My story’s worth fifty big ones.”
“Your story’s not worth a damn thing unless we catch the murderer.”
The doctor mulled that one over and then decided to talk. “It was around ten, I figure. I was walking down Tenth and I stopped to take some refreshment in front of that art garden.”
“What were you drinking?”
“Some Colt. Had it in a bag. Figured I better finish it before making camp.”
“Where was camp for the night?”
“K Street.”
A block away from the gallery. “Go on.”
“I was resting against that fence, doing some sipping. Feeling fine, you know. There was a light or two on in that outdoors area and enough moon so’s that I could see pretty good. Wasn’t looking for nothing, though, just sort of taking it easy. I’d seen them statues before, so I was just eyeballing ’em, you know, while I was hanging.
“Almost shit my pants when I seen one of them move.”
“One of the statues?”
He nodded. “Thought that’s what it was at first, leastways. She looked like one, I swear. It was like she was coming to life in slow motion. Spooky, man. Her arm dropping slow, man, and then her head starting to move. I almost run off. But then she started walking around regular and I could see she was no statue. What she was was a crazy woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her face got all ugly and she started yelling.”
“What was she yelling?”
“Couldn’t make out most of the words. But she was pissed. Sounded like she was drunk, and looked like it too. She kept shouting no. Heard her cussing too. Then she fell down and started yelling, ‘Oh my God’ over and over.”
“Did you see anyone else there?”
“No. But that lady did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She kept talking to other people, but I didn’t see none of them. You ever see that invisible man movie? And how he’s there but nobody can see him and he’s making everybody crazy by doing stuff? I kept looking for that invisible man she was so pissed at.”
“Why was she pissed?”
“Who knows? But she was lunging at him. And it was like there were other invisible people around her. She kept shouting for them to get behind her.”
“Them?”
Head nod. “She said ‘girls’ a coupla times.”
“Describe your woman.”
“Red hair. Hard to tell how old. Twenty. Thirty. Maybe even forty. White like a ghost. That’s why she looked like a statue. Tall as me, maybe taller.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
The doctor thought a moment before saying no.
“What was she wearing?”
“One of those spy coats.”
“Trench coat?”
“Yeah.”
“What color?”
“Dark.”
“What was her build?”
“Couldn’t really tell with that coat. But her face was skinny, hard.”
A flying shadow briefly crossed by. And then another. Cheever looked up to see an invasion of the flying discs. The golfers were laughing, enjoying themselves among the palms and the grass. He ignored them.
“What happened after she collapsed?”
“She kept bawling and groaning and her body got the shakes. Then after a few minutes of that she just shut up sudden like
someone pulled the plug.”
“What then?”
“She stopped to pick up a bag, then walked away.”
“A bag?”
“Yeah?”
“What kind of bag? A purse?”
“Bigger. Like a suitcase.”
“A duffel bag?”
“Something like that. A bag about so big.” He indicated something that was about three feet by two.
“What did the woman do then?”
“Guess she just left. I didn’t see her no more.”
“How’d she walk?”
“Whatcha mean?”
“How’d she walk?”
Confused, he answered, “Fine.”
“You said she sounded and acted like she was drunk. Was she that way when she left?”
The doctor thought on that. “She wasn’t making no more noise,” he said, “and she seemed to be walking fine.”
“Was she walking fast?”
“Yeah.”
“Like she wanted to get away?”
A nod.
“Did you see her on the street?”
He shook his head.
“Then what did you do?”
“Finished my drink.”
“What then?”
“Went to sleep.”
“Where?”
“K Street. But a little later I saw the commotion going on all around there. It didn’t look like a good night for sleep, so I picked up and moved.”
“To where?”
“Back of that lighting store on Twelfth.”
“Is that the only reason you moved? To get sleep?”