Murder Miscalculated

by Andrew Macrae

  Chapter Eleven

  Max Carson may be a hack writer, and Lynn may add that he’s a chauvinist of porcine parentage. Barbara may simply sniff and say he’s a phony from his hat down. But after watching him in action at the book signing that evening, all three of us had to agree that Max Carson was also one heck of a showman.

  He began the event by reading a short selection from his book, and he chose well. Some writers choose the first page or two of their novel. Some choose favorite passages, those they are proud of as a writer. Max was one of the comparatively few writers who know how to choose passages that hook the audience and make them want to buy the book. He picked a passage that began with these words:

  “Theirs were the last covered wagons that summer to leave Independence, Missouri. They knew they needed to push hard to reach the Sierras before winter set in and made the passage impossible. Donner, the man elected by the other settlers as leader, relied on Reed’s experience at traveling through rough terrain. Reed insisted that they make their way through the Wasatch Mountains to the Utah Territories via Hasting’s Cutoff, as it promised to shave critical time and distance from their race against the coming snows. But the eighty-one people, including thirty-five children, soon found themselves struggling to travel through mountains where boulders blocked their way, and across deserts where sand mired their wheels. They were a month behind schedule by the time they reached Jim Bridger’s trading post at the foot of the Sierras. What they didn’t know was that taking that route was Reed’s way to justify his rendezvous with Lanford Hastings at Bridger’s. That is where the conspirators intended to transfer the stolen gold, and what those poor people didn’t know was going to kill more than half of them and cause the memory of those who survived to live in infamy.”

  Max described the research he had conducted when preparing to write his book, how he had studied diaries, letters and other contemporary accounts. He talked about the trips he had taken, arduously retracing the settlers’ route. April Quist passed around photos Max had taken when he’d visited the Alder Creek and Donner Lake where the Donner Party had spent that fateful winter. He held up a piece of a broken ceramic plate that he said he’d found there and, in his expert opinion, must have belonged to the settlers.

  Max admitted he had no irrefutable proof to back his claim of stolen gold being secretly transported by the Donner Party, but I saw more than a few people in the audience nodding as he listed what he claimed were irrefutable pieces of evidence that supported his conjecture.

  However, what regard Max had built up in me for him was tossed away by his answer to an innocuous question by a fan. “Mr. Carson,” gushed a middle-aged woman with dyed hair and too much makeup, “I admire you so much. You go out and live your life to the fullest while the rest of us stay at home and only dream.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he answered. “Yes, I was just saying to young Greg over there,” he pointed to where I was standing behind the counter. “I was just telling him that while he’s lived his life inside of books, I’ve been outside in the real world living life as it really is.”

  I began to speculate about what would happen if Max were to find his wallet missing.

  The question and answer portion of the evening went on for another fifteen minutes. The audience then dispersed to taste the snacks and drink the coffee we’d set out and buy autographed copies of Max’s book. April took one photograph after another of Max with his fans.

  At length the event was over. The chairs were folded and put on carts for rolling back to St. Timothy’s in the morning. I made certain a signed copy of Max’s book was placed with them for the rector. I know The Reverend Cathy Walton and also know of her love for westerns.

  “So, son, I don’t suppose you know a good place where a fella can get a decent drink around here, do you?” I started to answer, but Max cut me off. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got a nose for such things.” He placed one long finger against his nose. “I’m sure I can sniff one out quick enough.” He turned to April, who was hovering nearby. “Come along, little lady. You and I are gonna’ do the town.”

  April protested that they had an early morning guest spot on a local radio show, but Max would have none of it. They left with April trying to get Max to agree to just one drink before going back to the hotel.

  I closed the door behind them, glad to be finished with the Great Max Carson.

  Chapter Twelve

  The woman standing next to me on the bus was an ideal target. She was talking on her cell phone, making plans for that evening, oblivious to what was going on around her. The bus was crowded enough that I was justified in standing only inches away.

  I gave a quick glance to ensure no one was watching and let my arm drop to my side, next to her purse. My fingers worked the latch. I kept my eyes on the woman’s face, watching to see if she noticed me opening her purse. She didn’t. I reached into my own pants pocket and withdrew a business card and slipped it into her purse and then closed it again. At the next stop, I got off the bus.

  The next time she looked in her purse, perhaps when putting her cell phone away, she would find my card. It’s a simple card with a simple message, “Surprise! You’ve been put-pocketed!” In smaller letters at the bottom it says, “Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood pickpockets.”

  It was Saturday afternoon. Although I had told Lynn that I would start picking pockets on Monday, I decided to spend the weekend brushing up on my skills by engaging in some put-pocketing, picking pockets in reverse, so to speak.

  I don’t know who came up with the idea of it, but put-pocketing is a way for pickpockets to keep up their skills without having to worry too much about being arrested. It also serves as a warning to people to keep a better watch over their property.

  I spent Saturday afternoon riding the streetcars and buses, slipping my cards into the purses and pockets of unwitting victims. I kept an eye out for people watching me, fellow practitioners taking note of a competitor, but couldn’t tell if I was seen.

  I spent Sunday afternoon at City Center where crowds of tourists filled the enormous expanse of concrete, replacing the office workers and other working stiffs of weekday afternoons. Sidewalk venders hawked their wares, street musicians competed with each other for volume and tips, and pigeons enjoyed the visitors’ largesse. If I wanted word to spread on the street that I had returned to picking pockets, and I did, this was the place to do it. Over the afternoon I left a couple of dozen cards, and as I did I was aware of more than a few pairs of eyes watching me.

  I paused for a moment outside a bookstore on the plaza. It’s a local chain and well regarded, as they do a good job of promoting local authors. To my chagrin, there was a large display of Max Carson’s book in the window with posters for a signing there by Max on Thursday evening. I remembered that April had mentioned Max was staying in town for ten days, working the bookstore circuit, giving interviews and making public appearances. His appearance at our store had been only a warm-up for the larger venues. I shook my head. There was just no escaping the guy.

  As I studied the window display I became aware of someone standing about forty feet behind me. I could see him in the window’s reflection. He was noticeable, as he was standing still while others walked past him. He was too far away for me to make out his face.

  I turned halfway and began to walk across the plaza at an angle that let me keep my watcher visible in the corner of my eye without it being obvious I was aware of him. By the time I passed him I had a pretty good idea who it was—Chad, the pickpocket from the book fair. Well, I wanted word to get out that I had returned to the street, and now I knew that Doris Whitaker would hear of it soon.

  Mission accomplished, I headed back to The Book Nook.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Hey, Kid, good to see you. I heard you were back working the street.”

  “Hello, Jay, long time no see.” We shook hands. Jay motioned in the direction of some shade by the side of a nearby building, and we walk
ed a few steps over to its shelter. We leaned our backs against the wall, talking sideways to each other. Pedestrians streamed by on the busy downtown sidewalk.

  Jay was a street fence, someone who buys and sells stolen credit cards and such from people like me on the street.

  It was mid-morning on Tuesday, the second day of my return to a life of crime. In the last twenty-four hours I had relieved a couple of dozen people of their wallets and gleaned a handful of watches from their owners. I tried to target people who could get along without those items for a few days until the feds quietly returned them as found property. That didn’t mean I felt good about it.

  “How’s Lynn and married life?” Jay asked.

  “Lynn’s fine,” I answered. “How’s Dave?” Dave is Jay’s partner and runs a small dog grooming business.

  “Dave’s fine. The shop’s keeping him pretty busy these days. I’ve been helping out when I can.” The edges of his mouth dropped. “I might as well. It’s getting harder and harder to work the street.”

  “How so?”

  “Doris Whitaker is making a heavy play to take charge of pickpocketing in the city. She’s dictating who works where and what we fences can charge.”

  I made a note of that.

  Jay surveyed the crowd. “So if you’re back in business, Kid, where are you dropping your merchandise? I’m always willing to deal with you, you know.”

  “Here and there,” I answered. I didn’t want to bring too much scrutiny to the fed’s tame fence. Plus, I had to keep up appearances. “What are you looking for?”

  “The usual. Credit cards, gift cards, driver’s licenses. There’s a couple of outfits from out of town, Russian, I think, that are buying them up as quick as they can.”

  I nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We chatted a few more minutes and then shook hands. Jay left, and after a moment I did the same.

  I was half a block down the street from the federal building. I liked the idea of targeting fellow employees of the man who was forcing me back to working the street.

  I spotted a likely mark after a couple of minutes.

  The man wore a nice suit and was walking toward me, perhaps forty feet away and closing fast. He held a cell phone to his ear. Just what the doctor ordered. When a person is talking on a cell phone, fully fifty percent of his attention is on the person at the other end of the connection, making it much easier for me. I made a subtle correction to the course my feet were taking and brushed against the man as we passed.

  “Sorry,” I said as I recovered from a near fall, then continued on my way, his wallet tucked up my sleeve. When he noticed it missing, he would probably have no memory of my bumping into him, let alone be able to describe me.

  I still had an hour to kill before I was due to meet my fence, and to tell the truth I was getting bored. I decided to ratchet things up a notch. I searched the plaza and spotted a man and woman walking together. Both carried slim attaché cases and wore conservative business suits. They were talking to each other in an animated fashion as they walked. I walked straight toward them, a wide smile filling my innocent face.

  “Glenn? Glenn Raeder? How the heck are you?” The man’s surprise was obvious as I shook his hand.

  “No,” he protested. “No, that’s not my name. You have me confused with someone else.” The woman watched with amusement.

  I turned to her in appeal. “Glenn’s always doing that, always pretending to be someone else, especially when he’s with a beautiful woman who’s not his wife.”

  Her smile became a laugh. “Sorry, but he really isn’t Glenn Raeder. His name is Tom. Tom Driscol.”

  I feigned incredulity.

  “Not Glenn?” I stood back a step, and took his left hand by the wrist and held his arm out as though examining him. In reality I was slipping my index finger between the tail of his watchband and the clasp and pushing it back through. In a second I had it free. I dropped his wrist.

  “Wow, I am sorry,” I said to the man, then to the woman. “He’s the spitting image of someone I went to school with.” I named the school, a prestigious law school on the other side of the country.

  The woman smiled again, clearly amused by her colleague’s predicament. “That’s quite all right.”

  The two walked away, and I melted back into the crowd, the man’s watch safely in my pocket.

  It was time to go see my favorite fence.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sammie the Louse was the only fence I’d trusted back when I worked the streets. I took the 51 bus from downtown toward the old Tenderloin District. Once there, I walked a couple of quick blocks along cracked sidewalks and past derelict shops and businesses where once bright windows were now protected by iron bars, and doors had steel shutters that rolled down at night. Even in the middle of the day the air stank of decay and neglect. I’m no fan of urban renewal, but if ever a neighborhood qualified as being blighted, the Tenderloin was it.

  I reached Sammie’s storefront and pushed open the door. Although it had been over a year since I last visited, the place was still the same. Faded cardboard containers cluttered the shelves along with a bewildering assortment of old toasters, radios, phonograph players and the like. A thin sheen of dust lay on all the exposed flat surfaces.

  The floor creaked as I walked up to the gated sales counter. The girl behind the counter, Sammie’s daughter, looked up from her book. Her eyes, thick with mascara and eye shadow, widened as she recognized me.

  “Hello Mary.”

  She nodded in return. Still as talkative as ever.

  I stole a look at the book she was reading. Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. “Moved on from existentialism, I see.”

  Her eyes flickered to the book and back to me. “I guess you want to see my dad.”

  It was my turn to nod.

  She pressed a button with her foot, and there was a soft click from the shelves to my left. I went over to them and pulled. The wall, complete with shelves full of merchandise, swung open silently, and I stepped through. I sensed rather than heard the secret door close behind me.

  “Kid! Right on time.” Sammie got up from his desk and came toward me.

  “Hello, Sammie,” I answered. “I have to admit I didn’t expect to find myself here again.”

  “Yeah, life can take some strange turns, ain’t that the truth.” Sammie went back to his desk.

  I watched him, overcome by déjà vu. How many times before had I arrived here with stolen wallets and watches to sell? How many times had Sammie sat behind that desk as he was now, waiting for me to pour out the contents of my pockets?

  Everything was the same and yet at the same time, everything was different. In a rundown building in a rundown neighborhood, Sammie’s office was an oasis of taste. The carpet was both expensive and tasteful. The lighting was subdued and brought out the richness of the wood paneling. A Julie London recording played softly on hidden speakers.

  Short and round-faced, Sammie looked at me with an open honesty that belied his occupation. Everything was as it used to be except for me. I had changed, and there was no going back.

  “So you’re Talbot’s tame fence,” I said as I took the chair in front of the desk. Sammie lifted his arms halfway and dropped them.

  “What can I say? Talbot made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I help them run a sting in return for complete immunity. I don’t like doing it, but I’ve got my daughter to think of, too. If I go to jail, what happens to her?”

  “Talbot really knows how to put the screws on, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah. When I added it up, I really didn’t have a choice.” He shook his head. “And what about you, Kid? I thought you quit the business for good.”

  “So did I. Talbot got to me, too, and there were no good choices.” I didn’t volunteer any details, and Sammie didn’t ask.

  I dumped my collection of stolen goods on Sammie’s desk. Sorting through the wallets and watches wasn’t as much fun as it had been in the old da
ys, knowing it was all going to be returned. Sammie took notes on each item as I matched the watches and wallets. The only watch without a wallet belonged to Tom Driscol. Sammie raised his eyebrows when I gave him the name. “I couldn’t help it,” I admitted.

  He smiled a knowing smile.

  “Well, that’s it,” he said at last, putting the list with the stuff and sweeping it all into a cloth bag. “I’ll pass this on to Talbot’s people, and they’ll get it returned to the rightful owners in a week or so.”

  Our business concluded, I got up to leave. Sammie walked me over to the secret door and triggered it to open.

  “Kid,” he said, as I made to step through the door. Concern was written across Sammie’s chubby face. “Watch out for Doris Whitaker. She’s got all the pickpockets in town working for her now. She’s not going to like you being back in business and not working for her.”

  “You’re the second person to tell me that this morning. She really has all the dips under her control?”

  “Yeah, and she’s got enough muscle working for her that no one’s going to cross her.”

  I thanked Sammie for the warning. Just what I needed as I went back to my life of crime. I tried to give him some assurance.

  “I can handle Doris and her crew,” I told Sammie and left.

  I doubted Sammie believed it any more than I did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I’ve got bad news, Kid.” Cochran and I were having coffee at a little shop down near the wharves. It was early Tuesday afternoon. Wolfe’s courier was due to arrive the next morning.

  “What is it this time?”

  “Wolfe’s courier isn’t coming in tomorrow. He’s not due until the day after.”

  Another day of working the street. I considered the ramifications.

  “You know that Lynn really hates I’m picking pockets again, don’t you?”