The Clockwork Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  Being a guy, I was ready in less than forty-five minutes. Ash took much longer but, as always, it was worth the wait. I gave her an appreciative stare when she emerged from the bathroom in her tweed skirt and jacket ensemble with a crimson top and black suede boots.

  “How do I look?” she asked, while slowly pirouetting.

  “Beautiful enough to be worried that Colin might hit on you.”

  Ash smiled shyly and handed me her gold bracelet, which I put on her wrist. Then she adjusted my tie and we were out the door. We drove south toward the city and our destination of the luxurious Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill. Sunday brunch in the hotel’s famous penthouse lounge, the Top of the Mark, was going to cost a king’s ransom, but I couldn’t think of a more romantic place to formally meet the man our daughter loved. I was also relieved when Ash didn’t insist on stopping at the Macy’s to look at the cutlery.

  As we crossed the bridge, I realized that we’d be early and I began contemplating a brief detour. I knew I had no business even considering chasing down leads in a murder investigation, but I felt a need to redeem myself after the previous night’s failures. Besides, I wasn’t planning anything more than a quick rolling recon of Merv’s old stomping grounds.

  We took the same route along Lombard Street that Gregg had driven last night and passed the Paladin Motel. The Chevrolet Celebrity had been towed away and the doorway to Room Four was blocked off with an oversized sheet of plywood. A few minutes later, I turned right onto Van Ness Avenue.

  Ash noticed when I continued south. “Weren’t we supposed to turn there?”

  “Yeah, but we’re way early and I just want to take a second and check something out.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Tenderloin District,” I mumbled.

  “Where all the prostitutes, drug dealers, and crazy street people are, right?”

  “It’s Sunday morning. Maybe they’re in church.”

  Ash rolled her eyes. “That would be my guess, too. Brad, honey, what are we looking for?”

  “Merv the Perv’s pickup truck.”

  “Aren’t the police searching for it?”

  “Probably not. There’s nothing solid to put Bronsey at the murder scene. So there’d be no reasonable suspicion to issue a ‘stop and detain’ on Merv.”

  “Why do you expect to find him in the Tenderloin?”

  “You look for a hyena on the savannah. This is his natural environment.”

  “And what are we going to do if we find his truck?”

  “Call Gregg. Nothing more. We won’t even get out of the car.” We stopped for a red light and I looked at her. “Or we can turn around and go back to the Mark Hopkins.”

  “This is absolutely crazy, you know.” Ash fixed me with her deep blue eyes. However, when she spoke again, there was no mistaking the faint trace of eagerness in her voice. “What’s the description and license on the truck?”

  I leaned over and kissed her nose. “I knew you’d be interested, Deputy Lyon.”

  The Tenderloin District of San Francisco earned its name almost a century ago from the crooked policemen who worked its streets. With its houses of prostitution, gambling dens, and saloons, the graft was so abundant that the old-time cops bragged that they could afford the finest cuts of beef, such as tenderloin. I knew the cops were more honest in the Tenderloin District these days and there was some creeping gentrification, but little else had changed. The streets were dirty and the atmosphere tinged with despair. Fortunately, it was still early, so there weren’t many street people out.

  We’d been searching the neighborhood for about ten minutes when Ash spotted a big Sierra pickup truck parked in a narrow lot across the street from a topless bar. I pulled into the lot and we confirmed it was Merv’s license plate. It didn’t look as if the truck was occupied, but Ash jumped out to check before I could object.

  Climbing back into our van, she said, “Empty.”

  “Then Merv must be in there.” I pointed toward the bar.

  “The Cask and Cleavage?” Ash’s voice was equal parts astonishment and revulsion.

  “Hey, it says it’s a gentleman’s club, so it must be a classy place.”

  I pulled the cell phone from my jacket pocket and hit the speed-dial code for Gregg’s home phone. Susie answered and told me that her husband had already returned to work and was likely at the murder victim’s autopsy. Next, I called Gregg’s work cell, but it immediately rolled over to voice mail. That meant he’d turned his phone off during the postmortem. I left a message about “accidentally” finding Merv’s truck on our way to brunch.

  Disconnecting from the call, I said, “I sure hope Gregg gets that message before Merv takes off.”

  “Just how important is it that somebody talks to him?”

  “Very. But hey, I promised that all we’d do is check the area and call Gregg if we found anything.”

  Ash glanced at the dashboard clock and casually said, “We’ve got forty minutes before we’re supposed to be at the Mark and it’s only a few minutes away. So . . .”

  “So, you want to go in and try to talk to Merv? I don’t think that’s such a great idea, my love. That place is a freaking dive and there’s the possibility that Merv will behave like any other cornered animal.”

  “But there’s no way he could know that you were at the Paladin last night. And we could call Heather and her partner to back us up, if you’re worried about it being dangerous.”

  “Which I am. Tell me, why are you so set on me talking to Bronsey?”

  “Because you were the very best interviewer in the SFPD and you can get the information from that creep. Tell me I’m wrong.” Ash jutted her jaw out defiantly.

  “Okay.” I handed her the phone. “But I’ll let you call our daughter and explain why we need backup.”

  Nine

  Ash called Heather and I was a little surprised that our daughter didn’t demand so much as a word of explanation as to why her parents were conducting their own private homicide investigation in one of the most vile and crime-ridden parts of the city.

  Then Ash handed me the phone, saying, “She wants to talk to you.”

  I said, “Hi, Heather honey. Thanks for humoring your strange folks.”

  “Are you kidding, Daddy? I’ve always dreamed of working a One-Eighty-Seven with you.”

  “I know, but this is strictly unofficial and I don’t want you running afoul of your supervisors.”

  “You never worried about that,” Heather said sassily.

  “Which might explain why your dad never made lieutenant.”

  “That’s because you never tested for lieutenant, Daddy. You told me that all you ever wanted to be was a detective and you passed those genes on to me.”

  I felt both humbled and proud, but this wasn’t the time for a Kodak moment, so I said, “Okay, I just don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry. Now, what do you want us to do when we get there?”

  “Does Bronsey know either of you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How about the bar? Will the employees make you as cops?”

  “I’ve never been in there. Let me ask Colin if he’s ever worked the place.” There was a pause and then Heather came back on the line. “Colin says he’s never been there either.”

  “Good. Then pretend to be customers and just keep an eye on us. And unless I signal you, don’t try to stop him if he leaves,” I said. “There’s no probable cause to arrest him. Keep one other thing in mind: Merv is probably armed and a wee bit stressed.”

  “I’d never do anything to put you or Mama in danger.”

  “I know . . . and you’d better have your ballistic vest on, little girl.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she replied in exactly the same half-exasperated tone she’d used years ago when I told her that curfew was eleven P.M. “We’ll be en route.”

  Heather lived in an apartment in Burlingame, which was about fifteen miles south of our locatio
n. Even if she drove like her Uncle Gregg, it would still take a minimum of twenty minutes for Heather and Colin to arrive.

  I hung up and Ash said, “It’s a good thing Colin was already there.”

  “Yeah, we caught a break,” I replied, when what I wanted to say was: Honey, I’ll bet they’re living together.

  Ash watched as I fiddled with the phone’s menu buttons. “What are you doing?”

  “Turning the ringer off. If we get a call while we’re in there, Merv might figure it’s a bust signal and that we’ve set him up.”

  We got out of the van and I scanned the street while tightening my grip on my cane. Dressed as we were for a fancy Sunday brunch, we might as well have been wearing signs that read, PLEASE ROB US. But our luck seemed to be holding. The only street person visible was a leaping fellow down the block who seemed to be performing Rite of Spring, sans orchestra. I took both of Ash’s hands before we headed for the bar.

  Looking into her eyes, I said, “Okay, here are the rules of engagement. Like I told Heather, Bronsey is probably armed. So, if for some reason this thing goes south, you are to find cover and stay there.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be doing the same thing,” I lied. She didn’t bother to call me on it. We both knew that if someone began busting caps, I’d shield her body with mine. I continued, “Finally, please keep that jacket buttoned.”

  “Why?”

  “That top is a little low-cut. Ordinarily, I like that. A lot. But if Bronsey begins staring there—and he will—I’m going to have this uncontrollable urge to throttle him instead of chat.”

  Ash smiled as she buttoned up the jacket. “I love you, Inspector Lyon.”

  “I love you, too, Deputy Lyon.”

  We started across the street. With each step, I tried to summon forth the ghost of my old homicide inspector swagger. Guns and badges don’t impress many people. It’s that intangible thing called “command presence”—the mixture of quiet confidence, courage, and decisiveness—that gives a cop dominion over the sort of folks that you’ll routinely find in a topless bar.

  At the same time, I was trying to figure out just how I was going to induce Bronsey to talk to us. From past experience, I knew his credo was “Deny everything and demand proof,” and there was no hard evidence linking him to the murder scene. In the end, I could only see one option. I had to pretend that Lauren had asked us to find her son and that I wouldn’t call the cops if Bronsey gave us the straight scoop.

  The Cask and Cleavage was located on the ground floor of a narrow three-story brick building. There was a virtual carpet of cigarette butts on the sidewalk near the front door and the broken Cobra Malt Liquor bottle was a nice decorative accent. Ordinarily, I hold doors open for Ash and let her go through first, but this wasn’t the sort of place for chivalry. I entered first, just in case things went to hell immediately.

  Inside, the lighting was dim and the old Bob Seger song was deafening. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and then scanned the interior of the lounge. There was a bar on the left, upholstered booths on the right, and a narrow elevated stage in the center of the room against the back wall. Fortunately, the stage was empty.

  I was relieved to observe that there were only two other people in the shabby saloon. Standing behind the bar was a sour-looking older guy with a shaggy white moustache-and-goatee combo that gave him the appearance of a dyspeptic West Highland terrier. Bronsey sat in a corner booth, slouched over, as if in deep contemplation of his drink. As we got closer, I could see that he was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket decorated with patches from what I suspected were imaginary fighter squadrons. However, the intervening table and poor light prevented me from seeing whether he had jeans on and, more importantly, if one of the knees was torn.

  I gave Ash a look that said, Here goes nothing, and tapped lightly on the table. “Merv, I think we need to talk.”

  Bronsey slowly lifted his head and regarded us with bleary, bloodshot eyes. It took a second or two for his brain to decipher our images. Then he said in a weary and hopeless voice, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Lyon, but go away before I kick your ass.”

  “I’ll let you get back to your rum-and-coke journey to Nirvana, once you tell me about Kyle Vandenbosch and what happened at the Paladin Motel last night.”

  He stiffened slightly and his eyes darted toward the door and I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to run or whether he was worried about whoever might come into the bar next. Recovering slightly, he said in a dismissive tone, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And even if I did, why would I tell you?”

  I said, “Look, Merv, you don’t like me. I don’t like you, but with all your faults I find it hard to believe that you’re pulling armed Two-Elevens and killing people.”

  “What are you talking about?” The statement wasn’t as much a denial as it was a feeler to find out how much I knew.

  “We talked to Lauren Vandenbosch last night and she told us an interesting story.”

  “Really? Why would she call you?”

  “The teddy bear artist community is very tight. It’s a fur thing—you wouldn’t understand. Anyway, Lauren says that her son called to tell her that you and your partner robbed him at gunpoint last night.”

  “That’s a freaking lie!”

  “But you were there. Unfortunately for you, your partner was thoughtful enough to leave the bear costume in his car before being murdered,” I said, expanding on my bluff and offering supposition as fact.

  “I’d like to see you prove I was there.”

  Noting that Bronsey had never actually denied being at the Paladin, I continued with my disinformation campaign. “Dude, don’t worry about me proving anything. You need to be concerned with Kyle Vandenbosch. His mom called us to ask whether we thought the cops would go light on Kyle for the theft charges if he came forward to be a helpful homicide witness.”

  “Against me?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  “That double-dealing little son of a bitch.” Bronsey didn’t sound angry now, so much as scared. “And he’s still got his mommy fooled, too.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Before I say anything else, what do I get for cooperating?”

  “Time,” I lied. “I promise to give you twenty-four hours from the end of the interview before contacting the police. You can either get a good lawyer or, if you’ve got a passport, you might consider flying someplace that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.”

  “Jesus. It’s that bad, huh?” Bronsey emptied his glass with two gulps.

  “Yep. Kyle’s version of the story is that you gunned your partner down during the commission of a robbery. That’s first degree with special circs.” Since Bronsey was a former cop, there was no need to add that the district attorney could ask for the death penalty in such a case.

  There are times when silence is the most effective interrogation tool, so I kept quiet and waited for Bronsey to say something.

  Finally, Bronsey said, “Sit down.”

  Ash and I slid onto the bench on the opposite side of the table while Bronsey signaled the bartender for a refill. Once the drink was delivered, I said, “Okay Merv, why don’t we start with how Lycaon picked you to do their dirty work.”

  “I’m not working for Lycaon.”

  “That’s not what Kyle told his mom.”

  “That’s because that little backstabber has been lying to her from the very beginning.”

  “Interesting. So, who is your client?”

  “I don’t know and that’s the truth.”

  “Did they contact you?”

  “Yeah. On Thursday afternoon I get a call from a number with a blocked ID. It’s a guy asking if I want to make two grand for a couple days’ work.”

  “And you said?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to say anything. The guy tells me that if I’m interested I should go up to the old Nike pla
ce on Bunker Road at six o’clock and look for a car with one of those Jack-in-the-Box heads on the antenna. Then he hangs up.”

  Bronsey was referring to the decommissioned 1960s-era Nike missile base on the hilly Marin headlands north of the city. Once upon a time, it existed as an antiaircraft battery to protect San Francisco from Soviet bombers. But now the facility was a museum dedicated to the Cold War, which made it an ideal place to stage an apparent chance meeting.

  I said, “Sounds pretty cloak-and-dagger. Obviously, you went.”

  “Yeah. I got there early, but the car was already there. Two guys inside.”

  “Make? Model?”

  “A new Saturn Aura. It had Nevada plates. I found out later that the plates were reported stolen from Las Vegas back in June.”

  “Somebody at the PD still runs license numbers for you, huh?”

  “I have friends,” Bronsey said petulantly. “Anyway, the guys in the Saturn knew what kind of truck I drove, because the minute I pull up, the passenger comes over carrying a gym bag.”

  “What did this guy look like?”

  “White, in his forties, clean-shaven, kind of going bald in front. Eyes as cold as a freaking lizard’s.”

  “You get his name?”

  “Rule number one was ‘no names.’ He told me to stay in the truck and then he got inside.” Bronsey took a sip of his drink. “I knew right then I was in over my head, because the first thing the guy does is whip out this little device and waves it around the inside of the truck. He tells me that our conversation is confidential and he wants to make sure that we’re not going to be overheard or recorded.”

  “There’s usually a good or, more likely, really bad reason why someone would worry about listening devices. That should’ve made warning bells go off in your head.”

  Bronsey held up his hand to forestall me from making any further judgmental observations. “I know. I know. But two thousand dollars for a few hours’ work? The finance company is looking to repo my truck, so I couldn’t pass it up.”

  Ash folded her arms and you didn’t need to be an expert in body language to know what she thought of Bronsey’s rationalizations.