Never Say Die / Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  “To find a phone booth.”

  “Oh. And who are we calling?”

  She turned and the look she gave him was distinctly pained. “Someone we both know and love.”

  Jack was packing his suitcase when the phone rang. He considered not answering it, but something about the sound, an urgency that could only have been imagined, made him pick up the receiver. He was instantly sorry he had.

  “Jack?”

  He sighed. “Tell me I’m hearing things.”

  “Jack, I’m going to talk fast because your phone might be tapped—”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I need my kit. The whole shebang. And some cash. I swear I’ll pay it all back. Get it for me right now. Then drop it off where we shot the last scene of Cretinoid. You know the spot.”

  “Cathy, you wait a minute! I’m in trouble enough as it is!”

  “One hour. That’s all I can wait.”

  “It’s rush hour! I can’t—”

  “It’s the last favor I’ll ask of you.” There was a pause. Then, softly, she added, “Please.”

  He let out a breath. “This is the absolute last time, right?”

  “One hour, Jack. I’ll be waiting.”

  Jack hung up and stared at his suitcase. It was only half packed, but it would have to do. He sure as hell wasn’t coming back here tonight.

  He closed the suitcase and carried it out to the Jaguar. As he drove away it suddenly occurred to him that he’d forgotten to cancel his date with Lulu tonight.

  No time now, he thought. I’ve got more important things on my mind—like getting out of town.

  Lulu would be mad as a hornet, but he’d make it up to her. Maybe a pair of diamond ear studs. Yeah, that would do the trick.

  Good old Lulu, so easy to please. Now there was a woman he could understand.

  The corner of Fifth and Mission was a hunker-down, chew-the-fat sort of gathering place for the street folk. At five forty-five it was even busier than usual. Rumor had it the soup kitchen down the block was fixing to serve beef Bourguignonne, which, as those who remembered better days and better meals could tell you, was made with red wine. No one passed up the chance for a taste of the grape, even if every drop of alcohol was simmered clean out of it. And so they stood around on the corner, talking of other meals they’d had, of the weather, of the long lines at the unemployment office.

  No one noticed the two wretched souls huddled in the doorway of the pawnshop.

  Lucky for us, thought Cathy, burying herself in the folds of the raincoat. The sad truth was, they were both beginning to fit right into this crowd. Just a moment earlier she’d caught sight of her own reflection in the pawnshop window and had almost failed to recognize the disheveled image staring back. Has it been that long since I’ve combed my hair? That long since I’ve had a meal or a decent night’s sleep?

  Victor looked no better. A torn shirt and two days’ worth of stubble on his jaw only emphasized that unmistakable look of exhaustion. He could walk into that soup kitchen down the block and no one would look twice.

  He’s going to look a hell of a lot worse when I get through with him, she thought with a grim sense of humor.

  If Jack ever showed up with the kit.

  “It’s 6:05,” Victor muttered. “He’s had an hour.”

  “Give him time.”

  “We’re running out of time.”

  “We can still make the bus.” She peered up the street, as though by force of will she could conjure up her ex-husband. But only a city bus barreled into view. Come on, Jack, come on! Don’t let me down this time….

  “Will ya lookit that!” came a low growl, followed by general murmurs of admiration from the crowd.

  “Hey, pretty boy!” someone called as the group gathered on the corner to stare. “What’d you have to push to get yerself wheels like that?”

  Through the gathering of men, Cathy spied the bright gleam of chrome and burgundy. “Get away from my car!” demanded a querulous voice. “I just had her waxed!”

  “Looks like Pretty Boy got hisself lost. Turned down the wrong damn street, did ya?”

  Cathy leaped to her feet. “He’s here!”

  She and Victor pushed through the crowd to find Jack standing guard over the Jaguar’s gleaming finish.

  “Don’t—don’t touch her!” he snapped as one man ran a grimy finger across the hood. “Why can’t you people go find yourselves a job or something?”

  “A job?” someone yelled. “What’s that?”

  “Jack!” called Cathy.

  Jack let out a sigh of relief when he spotted her. “This is the last favor. The absolute last favor—”

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  Jack walked around to the trunk, where he slapped away another hand as it stroked the Jaguar’s burgundy flank. “It’s right here. The whole kit and kaboodle.” He swung out the makeup case and handed it over. “Delivered as promised. Now I gotta run.”

  “Where are you going?” she called.

  “I don’t know.” He climbed back into the car. “Somewhere. Anywhere!”

  “Sounds like we’re headed in the same direction.”

  “God, I hope not.” He started the engine and revved it up a few times.

  Someone yelled, “So long, Pretty Boy!”

  Jack gazed out dryly at Cathy. “You know, you really should do something about the company you keep. Ciao, sweetcakes.”

  The Jaguar lurched away. With a screech of tires, it spun around the corner and vanished into traffic.

  Cathy turned and saw that every eye was watching her. Automatically, Victor moved close beside her, one tired and hungry man facing a tired and hungry crowd.

  Someone called out, “So who’s the jerk in the Jag?”

  “My ex-husband,” said Cathy.

  “Doin’ a lot better than you are, honey.”

  “No kidding.” She held up the makeup case and managed a careless laugh. “I ask the creep for my clothes, he throws me a change of underwear.”

  “Babe, now ain’t that just the way it works?”

  Already, the men were wandering away, regrouping in doorways, or over by the corner newsstands. The Jaguar was gone, and so was their interest.

  Only one man stood before Cathy and Victor, and the look he gave them was distinctly sympathetic. “That’s all he left you, huh? Him with that nice, fancy car?” He turned to leave, then glanced back at them. “Say, you two need a place to stay or somethin’? I got a lot of friends. And I hate to see a lady out in the cold.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” said Victor, taking Cathy’s hand. “But we’ve got a bus to catch.”

  The man nodded and shuffled away, a kind but unfortunate soul whom the streets had not robbed of decency.

  “We have a half hour to get on that bus,” said Victor, hurrying Cathy along. “Better get to work.”

  They were headed up the street, toward the cover of an alley, when Cathy suddenly halted. “Victor—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look.” She pointed at the newsstand, her hand shaking.

  Beneath the plastic cover was the afternoon edition of the San Francisco Examiner. The headline read: “Two Victims, Same Name. Police Probe Coincidence.” Beside it was a photo of a young blond woman. The caption was hidden by the fold, but Cathy didn’t need to read it. She could already guess the woman’s name.

  “Two of them,” she whispered. “Victor, you were right….”

  “All the more reason for us to get out of town.” He pulled on her arm. “Hurry.”

  She let him lead her away. But even as they headed down the street, even as they left the newsstand behind them, she carried that image in her mind: the photograph of a blond woman, the second victim.

  The second Catherine Weaver.

  Patrolman O’Hanley was a helpful soul. Unlike too many of his colleagues, O’Hanley had joined the force out of a true desire to serve and protect. The “Boy Scout” was what the other m
en called him behind his back. The epithet both annoyed and pleased him. It told him he didn’t fit in with the rough-and-tumble gang on the force. It also told him he was above it all, above the petty bribe-taking and backbiting and maneuverings for promotion. He wasn’t out to glorify the badge on his chest. What he wanted was the chance to pat a kid on the head, rescue an old granny from a mugging.

  That’s why he found this particular assignment so frustrating. All this standing around in the bus depot, watching for a man some witness might have spotted a few hours ago. O’Hanley hadn’t noticed any such character. He’d eyeballed every person who’d walked in the door. A sorry lot, most of them. Not surprising since, these days, anyone with the cash to spare took a plane. By the looks of these folks, none of ’em could spare much more than pennies. Take that pair over there, huddled together in the waiting area. A father and daughter, he figured, and both of ’em down on their luck. The daughter was bundled up in an old raincoat, the collar pulled up to reveal only a mop of windblown hair. The father was an even sorrier sight, gaunt-faced, white-whiskered, about as old as Methuselah. Still, there was a remnant of pride in the old codger—O’Hanley could see it in the way the man held himself, stiff and straight. Must’ve been an impressive fellow in his younger years since he was still well over six feet tall.

  The public speaker announced final boarding for number fourteen to Palo Alto.

  The old man and his daughter rose to their feet.

  O’Hanley watched with concern as the pair shuffled across the terminal toward the departure gate. The woman was carrying only one small case, but it appeared to be a heavy one. And she already had her hands full, trying to guide the old man in the right direction. But they were making progress, and O’Hanley figured they’d make it to the bus okay.

  That is, until the kid ran into them.

  He was about six, the kind of kid no mother wants to admit she produced, the kind of kid who gives all six-year-olds a bad name. For the last half hour the boy had been tearing around the terminal, scattering ashtray sand, tipping over suitcases, banging locker doors. Now he was running. Only this kid was doing it backward.

  O’Hanley saw it coming. The old man and his daughter were crossing slowly toward the departure gate. The kid was scuttling toward them. Intersecting paths, inevitable collision. The kid slammed into the woman’s knees; the case flew out of her grasp. She stumbled against her companion. O’Hanley, paralyzed, expected the codger to keel over. To his surprise, the old man simply caught the woman in his arms and handily set her back on her feet.

  By now O’Hanley was hurrying to their aid. He got to the woman just as she’d regained her footing. “You folks okay?” he asked.

  The woman reacted as though he’d slapped her. She stared up at him with the eyes of a terrified animal. “What?” she said.

  “Are you okay? Looked to me like he hit you pretty hard.”

  She nodded.

  “How ’bout you, Gramps?”

  The woman glanced at her companion. It seemed to O’Hanley that there was a lot being said in that glance, a lot he wasn’t privy to.

  “We’re both fine,” the woman said quickly. “Come on, Pop. We’ll miss our bus.”

  “Can I give you a hand with him?”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, officer, but we’ll do fine.” The woman smiled at O’Hanley. Something about that smile wasn’t right. As he watched the pair shuffle off toward bus number fourteen, O’Hanley kept trying to figure it out. Kept trying to put his finger on what was wrong with that pair of travelers.

  He turned away and almost tripped over the fallen case. The woman had forgotten it. He snatched it up and started to run for the bus. Too late; the number fourteen to Palo Alto was already pulling away. O’Hanley stood helplessly on the curb, watching the taillights vanish around the corner.

  Oh, well.

  He turned in the makeup case at Lost and Found. Then he stationed himself once again at the entrance. Seven o’clock already and still no sighting of the suspect Victor Holland.

  O’Hanley sighed. What a waste of a policeman’s time.

  Five minutes out of San Francisco, aboard the number fourteen bus, the old man turned to the woman in the raincoat and said, “This beard is killing me.”

  Laughing, Cathy reached up and gave the fake whiskers a tug. “It did the trick, didn’t it?”

  “No kidding. We practically got a police escort to the getaway bus.” He scratched furiously at his chin. “Geez, how do those actors stand this stuff, anyway? The itch is driving me up a wall.”

  “Want me to take it off?”

  “Better not. Not till we get to Palo Alto.”

  Another hour, she thought. She sat back and gazed out at the highway gliding past the bus window. “Then what?” she asked softly.

  “I’ll knock on a few doors. See if I can dig up an old friend or two. It’s been a long time, but I think there are still a few in town.”

  “You used to live there?”

  “Years ago. Back when I was in college.”

  “Oh.” She sat up straight. “A Stanford man.”

  “Why do you make it sound just a tad disreputable?”

  “I rooted for the Bears, myself.”

  “I’m consorting with the arch enemy?”

  Giggling, she burrowed against his chest and inhaled the warm, familiar scent of his body. “It seems like another lifetime. Berkeley and blue jeans.”

  “Football. Wild parties.”

  “Wild parties?” she asked. “You?”

  “Well, rumors of wild parties.”

  “Frisbee. Classes on the lawn…”

  “Innocence,” he said softly.

  They both fell silent.

  “Victor?” she asked. “What if your friends aren’t there any longer? Or what if they won’t take us in?”

  “One step at a time. That’s how we have to take it. Otherwise it’ll all seem too overwhelming.”

  “It already does.”

  He squeezed her tightly against him. “Hey, we’re doing okay. We made it out of the city. In fact, we waltzed out right under the nose of a cop. I’d call that pretty damn impressive.”

  Cathy couldn’t help grinning at the memory of the earnest young Patrolman O’Hanley. “All policemen should be so helpful.”

  “Or blind,” Victor snorted. “I can’t believe he called me Gramps.”

  “When I set out to change a face, I do it right.”

  “Apparently.”

  She looped her arm through his and pressed a kiss to one scowling, bewhiskered cheek. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m crazy about older men.”

  The scowl melted away, slowly reformed into a dubious smile. “How much older are we talking about?”

  She kissed him again, this time full on the lips. “Much older.”

  “Hm. Maybe these whiskers aren’t so bad, after all.” He took her face in his hands. This time he was the one kissing her, long and deeply, with no thought of where they were or where they were going. Cathy felt herself sliding back against the seat, into a space that was inescapable and infinitely safe.

  Someone behind them hooted: “Way to go, Gramps!”

  Reluctantly, they pulled apart. Through the flickering shadows of the bus, Cathy could see the twinkle in Victor’s eyes, the gleam of a wry smile.

  She smiled back and whispered, “Way to go, Gramps.”

  The posters with Victor Holland’s face were plastered all over the bus station.

  Polowski couldn’t help a snort of irritation as he gazed at that unflattering visage of what he knew in his gut was an innocent man. A damn witchhunt, that’s what this’d turned into. If Holland wasn’t already scared enough, this public stalking would surely send him diving for cover, beyond the reach of those who could help him. Polowski only hoped it’d also be beyond the reach of those with less benign intentions.

  With all these posters staring him in the face, H
olland would’ve been a fool to stroll through this bus depot. Still, Polowski had an instinct about these things, a sense of how people behaved when they were desperate. If he were in Holland’s shoes, a killer on his trail and a woman companion to worry about, he knew what he’d do—get the hell out of San Francisco. A plane was unlikely. According to Jack Zuckerman, Holland was operating on a thin wallet. A credit card would’ve been out of the question. That also knocked out a rental car. What was left? It was either hitchhike or take the bus.

  Polowski was betting on the bus.

  His last piece of info supported that hunch. The tap on Zuckerman’s phone had picked up a call from Cathy Weaver. She’d arranged some sort of drop-off at a site Polowski couldn’t identify at first. He’d spent a frustrating hour asking around the office, trying to locate someone who’d not only seen Zuckerman’s forgettable film, Cretinoid, but could also pinpoint where the last scene was filmed. The Mission District, some movie nut file clerk had finally told him. Yeah, she was sure of it. The monster came up through the manhole cover right at the corner of Fifth and Mission and slurped down a derelict or two just before the hero smashed him with a crated piano. Polowski hadn’t stayed to hear the rest; he’d made a run for his car.

  By that time, it was too late. Holland and the woman were gone, and Zuckerman had vanished. Polowski found himself cruising down Mission, his doors locked, his windows rolled up, wondering when the local police were going to clean up the damn streets.

  That’s when he remembered the bus depot was only a few blocks away.

  Now, standing among the tired and slack-jawed travelers at the bus station, he was beginning to think he’d wasted his time. All those wanted posters staring him in the face. And there was a cop standing over by the coffee machine, taking furtive sips from a foam cup.

  Polowski strolled over to the cop. “FBI,” he said, flashing his badge.

  The cop—he was scarcely more than a boy—instantly straightened. “Patrolman O’Hanley, sir.”

  “Seeing much action?”

  “Uh—you mean today?”