The Paul Mcdonald Mystery Series Vol. 1-2: With Bonus Short Story!

by J. Paul Drew

  Park, the street I was on, dead-ended at San Pablo, where there was a traffic light. The fact that it was green probably saved my life. Because when I braked to turn onto San Pablo, nothing happened. That is, nothing I wanted to happen happened. I neither stopped nor started, for I had no brakes. I jerked the emergency brake. It offered no resistance and no comfort. I started taking that turn a lot faster than seemed sensible if I wanted the car to remain on four wheels, so I rethought it, took lightning action, and found myself headed for one of Emeryville’s more venerable poker parlors. I realized I probably wasn’t going to hit it, though. I’d probably hit one of the cars parked in front of it, or if I missed those, I’d go up over the curb and the impact of that would probably flip me over. Or maybe it wouldn’t; maybe I would hit the poker parlor.

  The next few seconds really taught me the meaning of sweaty palms; if I thought I’d had them at my high school prom, I was mistaken. The steering wheel was so slippery I could hardly get a grip on it. And getting a grip on it was about the most important thing I was ever going to have to do.

  I definitely didn’t want to take my chances with the poker parlor. It was a hell of a lot bigger than I was. It probably ate small, light-colored cars for breakfast. So there was nothing to do but change course.

  If I could just get the car going left, there was a sort of alleyway that led to the Bank of America parking lot next door to the poker parlor. It was nearly as wide as a street and perhaps it was one. Maybe it kept on going past the parking lot. Maybe I could just get on it and kind of coast until my car stopped. That is, unless another car was coming out of it toward San Pablo. From where I was, I couldn’t see past the bank’s parking lot and I had no idea what further horrors lay on the other side. However, if I got in there and there was something coming at me, maybe I could just rethink things again and head into the parking lot. It was true that there were a lot of cars parked there, and if I missed those, there was the Bank of America itself, but it would probably be no harder on a Toyota than the poker parlor.

  Frantically, I tried to turn the wheel, all slippery and contrary. I kept trying and it kept slipping, but I didn’t let that bother me. I kept after that son of a bitch.

  And eventually man won out over machine. I got the car going vaguely in the right direction, but it was really a hell of an ambition I had. I had to turn the car left, which I’d just managed to do, and then right again, very fast, going about thirty-five or forty. I’m sure there are drivers that could do it. I’ll bet if I got the chance, even I could probably do it next time, now that I’ve had some practice.

  But the truth is, that time it just didn’t quite work out right. I jumped up on the curb on the poker parlor side of the alleyway and mercifully didn’t flip over. I just went up high and then did it again as my back wheels followed the front ones, leaping over a little triangle of sidewalk and landing in the target alleyway. So far, so good.

  But then I lost control of the car. I couldn’t get the sucker to go right and straighten out, no matter how hard I tried. I was headed right for the parking lot and a little old lady was just backing a forest-green Rabbit out of her space. The Rabbit was the only thing between me and the Bank of America, and in retrospect, thank God for it. But I wasn’t thanking anybody for it at the time. I was wishing like hell I wasn’t about to plow right into it.

  About then it occurred to me simply to turn off the ignition. I don’t know why I thought of it then and not before, but I’d like to think it was good instincts. I think that if I’d turned it off before that, something a lot worse would have happened. But I’d lost a great deal of momentum going over the curb and a sudden stop wouldn’t be quite so devastating. Like I said, I didn’t think that; I just knew it by instinct.

  So I turned it off, but that didn’t mean I stopped. No sirree. It just meant I didn’t hit the Rabbit very hard. Its rear got a bit smashed and so did my front, but neither car turned into an accordion, which was enough to make me want to get down on my knees and shout “Hallelujah!”. But the Rabbit-owner didn’t see it that way.

  I’d guess she was closer to seventy than sixty-five and no more than five feet four, but she came out swinging. I got out of my car as quickly as I could, shaking like I was, and started over to her, all solicitude, but she met me halfway. A right to the solar plexus. A left to the kidney. A foot to the shin. And language! She made Blick look like a Sunday school teacher.

  I flailed around, thinking if I could catch her wrists, I could stop the terrible hammering pain that I was experiencing, but my palms were still too sweaty to get any purchase, or something. Also, I felt sick and I was seeing double, sort of. Anyway, not seeing very well. Those were some of the factors that contributed to what happened next, I guess. Or it may simply be that I’m big but not tough.

  Because the next thing I remember is lying on the ground and being stomped on.

  Some onlookers must have pulled her off me. Anyway, my next memory is of sitting up, knowing I was about to throw up, realizing that my glasses weren’t on my face, feeling bewildered, and trying to answer the ornery-looking dude who was inquiring about my health.

  I haven’t the least idea what Mrs. Rabbit-Owner looked like, but I can remember my nurse perfectly. He was big, black, and scarred on the right cheek. He was wearing a leather jacket and one of those multicolored, knitted skullcaps tough black guys wear to make them look tougher. The kind of guy I’d expect to mug old ladies, and here he was taking care of me after a mugging administered by an old lady. For about three weeks afterward I hardly thought in stereotypes at all.

  As it happened, I didn’t throw up, did find my glasses, didn’t have anything broken, and regained my powers of speech after ten or fifteen minutes.

  The cops came and went; Mrs. Rabbit-Owner apologized for turning me black and blue; I assured her I was insured, and then I waited for a tow truck, caught a ride to a body shop, and stuck around for a while. I had a pretty good idea why the brakes failed, but I wanted confirmation.

  CHAPTER 15

  My brake lines had been cut. That made three attempts on my life in two days. Some guys get nervous about stuff like that. Me, I merely took leave of my senses.

  Meaning I called Blick to fill him in. You can imagine how that went.

  On the whole, it was rather a discouraging morning. This was the score: one failure to reach Jacob by phone, one failure to find Lindsay at a hospital, half a dozen insults from Blick, one failure to reach Jacob by personal appearance, one sickle-swipe from the grim reaper, one smashed Toyota, one severe beating from one new enemy, and half a dozen more insults from Blick.

  Some guys let stuff like that get them down. Me, I went to the office, crawled under the city desk and arranged my ursine frame in a fetal position.

  I had to lie there twenty minutes before Joey relented and offered to buy me lunch. It was the classic two-martini one and it did me a world of good. That and Joey’s promise to lend me a company car for the time being gave me strength to return my phone calls.

  There were two messages— both from Susanna. I figured I knew what she was calling about and I hated to ruin her day, but it’s rude not to return calls, so I did. And told her Lindsay was still missing.

  “I thought as much, since I hadn’t heard from you.” She sighed. “But I do have a tiny piece of information for you. Two, in fact. One of the cameramen saw her in the Hunan Restaurant the night before she took off.”

  “No kidding! Did he see who she was with?”

  “Yes, but it was no one he knew. It was a woman.”

  “Did he get a good look at her?”

  “Not very, apparently. Dark, curly hair, pink dress.”

  “That’s all?”

  “He’s not a real verbal guy. I got the impression he could recognize her again; he just didn’t know how to describe her.”

  “Terrific. If I find her I’ll bring her right over for an I.D.”

  “What are you so down about?”

  “Oh, not
hing. I mean, I don’t want to talk about it. What’s the other tidbit you mentioned?”

  “I got a threatening phone call. A whispery voice, demanding to know where Lindsay is. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.”

  “What was the threatening part?”

  “It said, ‘Where is Lindsay Hearne?’ and I said, ‘Who is this?’ and it said, ‘You’re next.’ So I said, ‘What the hell do you mean?’ and it said, ‘If you want to live, tell me where Lindsay Hearne is.’ So I hung up.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Why not? I didn’t have anything else to say to the creep.”

  “I mean the whole thing. They guy really said, ‘You’re next’?”

  “I’m not at all sure it was a guy.”

  “Susanna, for Christ’s sake. You aren’t taking this seriously?”

  “I’ve gotten a lot of crank calls in my life.”

  “You’ve got to tell Blick about this. Promise me.” And I told her about my brakes.

  In the end, she promised to call Blick and to have her husband pick her up after work for a few days so she wouldn’t have to stand at any dark bus stops.

  I rang off, feeling not at all relieved. Feeling worse than ever, in fact. I didn’t like the sound of that “next” at all. I wondered if Brissette and Tillman had gotten similar calls— Brissette, at least, had gotten some kind of call that summoned him to the staircase. If these calls were a pattern, that meant we were dealing with some kind of crazy. If he threatened to kill people unless they told him where Lindsay was, and then did it, that meant he was nuts.

  But the nuts theory didn’t explain either Birnbaum’s murder or the attempts on me. It was probably about as good as all the other theories I’d had in this case. Useless. Which was how I felt.

  I called Joan, half hoping she’d be in distress so I could rescue her. “Are you okay?” I said, as if she’d just lived through a six-car collision.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” She sounded as if she had her own nuts theory.

  “There’s a weirdo about. Someone assaulted Sardis and Susanna got a threatening call.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Paul, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.”

  “The weirdo’s looking for Lindsay.”

  “How do you know it’s the same person?”

  “I don’t. But if it’s two, that doubles the danger. Don’t you see that?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I just thought maybe you could go away for a few days. After all, Susanna’s married and Sardis—” I stopped.

  I was about to say Sardis had me to protect her, but I remembered it was a secret. “I’ll try to get Sardis to go too. Maybe you could stay with a friend.”

  Joan laughed her crazy laugh. “Paul, it’s very sweet of you to be concerned, but I really don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

  A cool customer, that one. “Okay. Whatever you say. Incidentally, did you see Lindsay the night before she left?”

  “Incidentally! Incidentally, my ass. Who do you think you are, calling up and giving me that song and dance to soften me up before you ask what you really want to know?”

  “Joan, I assure you—”

  “How dumb do you think I am, Mr. Hotshot Reporter? I have to deal with people in business every day and I have seen a shabby trick or two in my life. Nobody’s more shameless or has less conscience than your average banker— they’re so used to lying and cheating they’ll tell you it’s midnight while the noon whistle’s blowing and not even get embarrassed about it. That’s just how they operate normally, but in my case they pile it on a little higher because I’m a woman and they think I’m even more gullible than your garden-variety sucker. So I’m used to jerks like you, only a lot more high-powered and smarter. Just what do you think you’re trying to pull?”

  “I’m not trying to pull anything. I just wondered—”

  “You just wondered. Well, you can just wonder some more. It’s none of your damned business, anyway.”

  She hung up.

  Of course, if she were the Hunan mystery woman, I hadn’t really expected her to tell me so. On the other hand, I certainly hadn’t expected to be compared to every huckster in the sordid circles Joan apparently moved in.

  If I’d thought I felt bad before, I was an innocent child. This was shaping up as easily the worst day of my life, and it wasn’t nearly over yet. There was only one thing to do.

  I looked at my watch. Joey and I had gotten back from lunch at three and it was now approaching four. For most people that’s a great time to knock off early, but at the Chronicle it was one hour before deadline. It wasn’t going to be easy to entice Debbie Hofer to the nearest bar.

  That was what I thought, but it wasn’t as hard as all that. She was softened up by the time I got to the car, even before I mentioned the outraged Rabbit-owner. By then she was reaching for her coat.

  I didn’t really want to get drunk, as I was hoping for a cozy evening with Sardis and I didn’t want to make a bad impression. I mean, yet another bad impression.

  But I drank a few beers and tried not to cry in them as I brought Debbie up to date. Of course, no one in the office was supposed to know what I was working on— that was the rule for special assignments— but Debbie was different. Or another way to put it, the pressure was getting to me.

  I thought maybe we’d put our heads together and she’d come up with something. I thought she’d be so upset that somebody was trying to kill one of her favorites that she’d solve the thing even as we talked. In a pig’s eye.

  Speaking around a cigarette, she nodded and said: “It sounds good. This could be it.”

  “Could be what, for Christ’s sake? This is my life we’re talking about.”

  “Calm down. Nobody’s going to kill you. It could be love, fool.”

  “Debbie, of course it’s love. Marry me.”

  “Hush, I’m thinking. How long have you been staying with Sardis?”

  “Four days. If you count the night I passed out on her couch.”

  “Have you had any fights yet?”

  “Deb, in case you haven’t been listening, my life may be at stake.”

  “Better yet. That means you’re under stress— fights run statistically higher than average under stress conditions. And you can be a brat. I’ve seen it.” Debbie nodded some more, still evaluating. “She sounds good; I’d go for it.”

  “But—”

  “Paul. Stop a minute. How do you really feel about her?”

  I didn’t answer. I was trying to think.

  “Tell your auntie.”

  I took a deep breath. “She’s terrific.”

  “That’s what you think about her. How do you feel?”

  Another deep breath. “Pretty strongly.”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s 4:30 Friday afternoon, May 7, okay? In a month, let’s have another chat.”

  I didn’t see what she was getting at. “You’ve lost me.”

  “Well, it’s this way— I’ve kind of noticed over the years that you’ve got sort of a selective memory about certain things. A month from now I’m just going to remind you what you said today. That’s all.”

  “Jesus, Debbie. I was hoping for a little sympathy. And all I’m getting is a lecture on something I don’t even understand. You’re not making any sense, you know that?”

  “I’m just saying be a little extra careful with Sardis; you could blow it real easy.”

  “I could die real easy, goddammit!”

  “Nonsense. If they wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

  I stopped staring into my glass and stared at Debbie instead. I didn’t speak, trying to assimilate what she’d said, but she made it easy for me: “They’re trying to scare you off the story, that’s all. Think about it. All the guy in the car had to do was make it look like he was trying to run you down. And a Molotov cocktail in your window— come on! The brakes are sillier still, unless yo
u were parked on Mt. Diablo or something.”

  On reflection, I decided she was right, sort of. If the murderer really wanted to kill me, he’d just do it— like he’d killed Jack and Brissette and Tillman. So Deb was probably right; he probably was just trying to scare me. But the way he was going about it, I felt he harbored a reckless disregard for my health.

  Still, I left Deb feeling somewhat cheered. Somewhat beat my previous cheered level all to hell.

  The mood lasted until I got home and found an empty house. I could have called Sardis to see if she was working late, but I felt that would be interfering in her life. I could have made myself an omelet and some home fries. But hell. I was full of afternoon martinis and evening beer. I’d had the worst day of my life, unless you counted the one three days earlier when I woke up and found my house had ceased being a home.

  I fed Spot and we both went to sleep on Sardis’ bed.

  She shook me awake after a while. “Have you eaten?”

  “No. What time is it?”

  “Nearly nine. I worked late again.” She kissed me.

  And all of a sudden I felt the best I’d felt all day. Considering the kind of day it was, I’d better rephrase that— I actually felt good. Like maybe things were going to get better after all.

  And they did. Right away.

  We had a very late supper, but by that time we were all showered and sated. There never was a better omelet or better home fries.

  While we ate, I told Sardis the bad news and the bad news. First I told her about the brakes, because it was the worst (technically, the worse, if you care). I tempered the story with Debbie’s theory and found it had the same somewhat cheering effect on Sardis that it had on me. And then I ruined her evening a second time by telling her the cops hadn’t found Lindsay. Once again we tried to figure out where she was and failed. So we moved on to the mystery woman. Sardis pointed out that even Susanna matched the description. I added that so did Joan. And Marilyn Markham. And if you stretched curly to mean wavy and dark to mean non-blonde, so did Sardis. So did Booker Kessler’s pal, Denise.