by John Flynn
Kate cracked her front door open, but kept the security chain latched. “What do you want, Lenny? I’m very tired.”
“Can I come in for a minute?” he asked, trying to force the door, but settling on placing his nose in the crack.
“No, it’s much too late. What do you want?”
“Well, I’ve been really worried about you,” he replied. “You’ve had your lights on all throughout the night for the last couple of days.”
“You’re very observant. I just haven’t been able to sleep in the dark since Frank’s death.”
“I’d be happy to spend the night with you.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
He stared at her through the door for a moment, then shrugged. “You know, I stopped by several times to pay my condolences,” he said. “I really blame myself for his death. If we hadn’t been dealing with all those atmospheric anomalies, then maybe we could have stopped her in time.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Lenny,” she said matter-of-factly. “You did everything that you could do. I really appreciate your help. I’m just glad that your research didn’t get dragged into that three-ring circus at the Black Rose.”
“Thanks for saying that, Kate, but—”
“If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine,” Kate added, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “I talked him into doing it. Just think, if I had kept my big mouth shut, he’d still be alive today. And Miller would be making his plans for moving into that mansion in Pacific Heights he liked so much.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Provolone said, trying to reach her through the door. “I remember a wise man who once said, ‘How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life.’”
Kate hesitated a moment, reflecting upon his statement. “Those are really good words. Are they part of a poem?”
He nodded. “Well, almost,” he replied. “It’s something that Captain Kirk said in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.”
Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . .“That’s the phone ringing,” Kate said, closing the door. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Take care of yourself, Kate.”
Kate sat on the edge of her bed, next to her nightstand, and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah,” she answered, then paused to hear the news of another homicide. “Okay, I’ll be ready by the time the car gets here.”
She hung up, weary.
For a long moment, Kate just sat there, staring at the bottle of Wild Turkey next to the bed. She was very nearly completely shit-faced. But the phone call was enough to sober her up. Fast.
AT THE ENTRANCE to Pioneer Park, Kate climbed out of the patrol car and glanced around the parking lot. An expensive Aston Martin V-12 Vanquish automobile was the only vehicle on the lot she didn’t recognize. Several police cars, their red lights flashing, were parked at strategic spots along Telegraph Hill Boulevard to discourage any curiosity seekers. She glanced up at Coit Tower as she headed for the steps. Author Jack Kerouac had once referred to Coit Tower as one of the great symbols of San Francisco, while many locals still considered it an eyesore and a traffic nuisance. Built in Pioneer Park atop Telegraph Hill in 1933 at the bequest of Lillie Hitchcock Coit to beautify the City, the art deco tower stood 210 feet high. It resembled the nozzle to a fire hose, even though Kate thought it looked vaguely phallic.
As she continued walking to the Tower, Kate saw Lt. Roberts, Clark, several uniformed officers, several guys from forensics and two men in poorly-tailored suits; probably FBI. All were standing around a park bench under a clump of trees on the far side of the entrance. Nearby, Ramirez questioned a young Hispanic male who pointed at her and made several gestures as she walked by. The lieutenant and Clark turned around to look at her, and in doing so, revealed the crime scene. Kate could hardly believe her eyes. Bradley Rutherford III was slumped over the bench, his pants down around his ankles. He had been shot in the head.
“One shot. Fired at close range. Probably a .9 millimeter semi-automatic,” Clark said, reading from his notes.
Kate examined Rutherford’s body. They were all watching her reaction, but she didn’t even bat an eyelash.
“Give me your gun, Dawson,” ordered the lieutenant.
“Christ, fellas. You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”
“I said give me your gun,” Roberts repeated his order.
After a long pause, Kate removed the weapon from her triple-drawn shoulder holster, and handed it to her boss. Lt. Roberts took it in hand, cleared the chamber, and held the barrel to his nose. He nodded with great reluctance, then handed it to one of the uniformed officers.
“Your gun’s been fired recently,” he said, flatly.
“That’s right,” she replied. “I was out on the range yesterday.”
“Well, that’s awfully convenient.”
“But it’s the truth,” Kate fired back.
The lieutenant got right in her face. “You don’t seem all that surprised by the identity of the victim.”
“Bradley Rutherford,” she said, speaking the victim’s name aloud.
“The man you claimed killed your partner.”
Kate shrugged her shoulders. “I knew it was only a matter of time, considering the circle that he was running in.”
“Where were you this evening?” Clark asked, writing in a new notebook.
“Home. Watching television.”
“All night?”
“Yeah, all night.”
“What were you watching?”
“I don’t remember,” she replied hastily to Clark. Kate really didn’t remember watching television. She turned the set on each night, and then turned the volume off to keep her sanity. But she realized that was probably the wrong thing to say at a time like this. “Some stupid show.”
“Were you drinking?” asked Robert.
Kate looked at her boss, and nodded. “Sure, I had a few drinks. But I swear I never left my apartment.”
Clark glanced up from his notes. “Can anyone verify that?”
“No, I was home alone. My neighbor stopped by late for a few minutes. I was talking to him when you called.”
“I’ll ask you once, Dawson,” said the lieutenant. “For the record: Did you kill Rutherford?”
“No,” she replied without hesitation.
“Are you sure?” Roberts pressed her.
“Come on, guys, this is me,” she exclaimed, looking from man to man. “You’ve known me for years.” Kate paused when she reached the lieutenant, and looked straight into his eyes. “I loved Frank. We all did. He was the best partner, the best friend a cop could have ever had. But I didn’t kill Rutherford. Hell, we don’t even know if Rutherford was responsible for Miller’s death.”
Roberts returned her look. “You seemed pretty convinced of it that night at the Black Rose.”
“Yeah, maybe I was,” she confessed. “Maybe I still am. But that doesn’t mean that I was crazy enough to come charging up here in the middle of the night, and kill him with my own service pistol.”
“People do crazy things when they’re drinking.”
“I wasn’t that drunk.”
Ramirez scrambled up the stairs and joined them. He said, “According to our only eyewitness, Rafael Hernandez was too busy giving Rutherford a blow job on the park bench to get a good look at the woman.”
Kate stared at Ramirez, looking for some kind of proof that she was in the clear, but he had nothing to give her. She exchanged glances and smirks with Clark and the other policemen. But Lt. Roberts stood silent, brooding, his arms folded over his chest.
“You know, the really weird thing is that she let Hernandez go,” the Hispanic detective continued his report. “Like the killer knew that some str
ung-out junkie would never be able to identify her.”
“Did he remember anything about the woman?” asked Clark.
Ramirez shook his head. “Just her red hair.”
“Crystal Rose,” Kate muttered under her breath.
Roberts shot her a sidelong glance. “You’re off the case,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “And pending a full investigation by Internal Affairs, I don’t even want to see your face down at the station. Unless you’re cleaning out your desk.”
“Lieutenant!”
“You’re lucky I don’t put your ass behind bars for your own protection.”
“Lieutenant!” she protested again.
“Go home, and dry out,” Roberts ordered, signaling two patrolmen to take her home with just a single nod. “We’ll catch Frank’s killer, and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a place for you back on the force.”
Kate walked away, trembling. She didn’t want to admit it, particularly not to Roberts, but she was exhausted. The events of the last few days had taken their toll. But she wasn’t quite ready to “go home and dry out.” She still had a killer to catch, and she felt determined, even if it meant using every last ounce of strength left in her body.
SEVERAL HOURS later, Kate felt a rush of adrenaline as she slipped out of the shadows in the basement of the Hall of Justice, and made a quick scan of the records center. The dark room, which was only illuminated by light shining through the doors from the outer corridor, looked like a tornado had touched down, and whirled all of its extensive files and file cabinets into a twisted mess of metal and paper. She had managed to slip past the building’s security guards during their routine shift change—something that she knew all too well from having worked there for a couple of years—and now found herself scanning the room for a single file folder. But nothing looked like she had left it years before. Of course, everything had been scanned into the computer, but she didn’t dare to log on without risk of discovery.
Stepping carefully over the broken chairs and discarded boxes that no one had ever cleaned up, she waded through the piles and piles of folders. Then she rifled through several overturned file drawers and saw nothing of interest. She forced open several file cabinets and performed a cursory examination, but she was just not finding what she was looking for. After she closed the last cabinet drawer, she looked around for any boxes that might be labeled “Consultants.” She was about to climb on top of a file cabinet when she heard footsteps approaching. She ducked quickly down behind the unit just as the door opened, but not quickly enough.
“All right, come out of there,” the security guard ordered, cautiously taking his gun out of its holster and clicking on the overhead lights.
Reluctantly, she climbed to her feet, and came out from behind the cabinet.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? This is a restricted area. Off limits to all except police personnel.”
“I’m Detective Dawson,” she said, raising her hands above her head. “I’m from Homicide. If you give me a moment, I can show you my badge.”
The security guard still looked suspicious. “Just keep your hands where I can see them,” he instructed her.
“That won’t be necessary, sergeant,” Jawara said, as he walked into the records room with a handful of folders. “I know this detective personally. We’ve worked together in Homicide.”
“As long as you can vouch for her, sir, that’s good enough for me,” the guard replied, holstering his weapon. He lingered for only another moment, then went out the same door that he had come in.
Kate walked over to Jawara, and gave him a big hug. “Thanks, Mikhail, I owe you one.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, moving her back away from the entrance. “If the lieutenant finds out you’re here, you won’t just get busted down to a clerk in the records center.”
“I take it you’ve already heard?”
“Are you kidding me? You’re prime-time news. Everybody from the chief’s office on down to records is talking about you.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Kate said.
“Hell, girl, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had,” he said, with a smirk. “That rich sonuvabitch had it coming. Him and that guy from Westmore, they both had it coming. Do you have any idea how many African-American families he’s displaced under the guise of urban renewal? Hundreds. They call it ‘gentrification,’ but it’s really just a fancy word for stealing people’s homes out from under them.”
“I had no idea . . .”
“The rich get richer, and the poor always get it right up the ass.”
“I really didn’t know,” she said honestly, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t kill him.”
“Okay, I believe you,” Jawara replied. “But I gotta tell you, I got the feeling that I’m in the minority around here.”
Kate looked at him, and said, “That’s why I need your help.”
“Just name it, and it’s yours.”
She took a deep breath. “I need a file.”
After a moment or two of indecision, the former detective replied, “Okay, as long as it’s not mine.”
“The name’s John Monroe. He’s a consultant, or something like that, who works with internal affairs, from time to time.”
“IA? Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
Kate kissed him quickly, softly, on the cheek, then headed for the door. “Thanks, I knew that I could count on you, Jawara.”
“No promises,” he said, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Eleven
AT NINE O’CLOCK on a weeknight, with school the next day, Kate figured that Monroe would be home.
According to the file that Jawara had emailed her, Monroe lived in a modest apartment, numbered 401, on the fourth floor of an apartment building at 891 Post Street. The apartment was actually a famous literary landmark, but few people today knew of its importance. Friends of Libraries USA had placed an official marker on the outside of the building in 2005, but in a city as large as San Francisco, the plaque was quickly forgotten amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday lives. Only members of Don Herron’s famous Dashiell Hammett tour ever seemed to stop there, and then, only to admire the plaque and take souvenir photographs of the building.
After Kate had climbed the four flights of stairs, with the elevator out of service, she expected a warm and cordial welcome. Of course, she was drunk, and had been drinking Wild Turkey from the bottle in the brown paper bag for several blocks. She kept banging on the door to Apartment 401 until Monroe opened it, still scrambling to tie his bathrobe.
“You live in the Tenderloin,” she said, with disdain.
“Well, actually, I live in the apartment that was Dashiell Hammett’s home when he lived in the Tenderloin in 1926,” Monroe corrected her. “This was also the office of Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon.”
He raked the hair back from his forehead with his fingertips, and turned on the main light, as if throwing a switch at Wonderland. Once illuminated, his apartment danced alive with props and standees, toys and books, movie posters and Hollywood memorabilia from Vertigo, Dark Passage, Bullitt, Dirty Harry, Time After Time, Basic Instinct, The Maltese Falcon, and dozens of other films. Monroe’s apartment was actually a museum, a shrine to movies set in San Francisco. Kate was overwhelmed as she walked down the L-shaped hallway, looking at the autographed pictures framed on the wall.
“I’ve got a friend on the force that collects stuff like this. They say he’s worth over half a million dollars,” she said, still in a state of awe. “Is any of this stuff worth anything?”
“Yes, perhaps thousands of dollars,” Monroe replied, pointing out several of his more cherished items, “but I don’t collect these items just because of their value on the collector’s market. I could care less about that. I collec
t these items for their aesthetic value, what they mean to me.”
“All of this fantasy stuff is real to you, isn’t it?”
“This is my hobby,” he said simply. “I collect movie memorabilia from films set in San Francisco, but I specialize in items from The Maltese Falcon and any of the filmed works of Dashiell Hammett.”
Kate shook her head. She knew better. “No, no, this is very real. In fact, you’d live in a movie if you could. That’s the reason why you’re always disappearing. End of scene. Fade Out.”
“I can see that you’re still upset about the death of your partner.”
“Or maybe I should just call you the Invisible Man?” Kate asked, as she headed down the long corridor to his bedroom.
Monroe caught her midway, and directed her to the kitchen. “Why don’t you let me get you some coffee?”
“I got my own drink.”
“I can see that, but I think I’ve got something that you’d enjoy better,” he replied, reaching for the bottle in her hand. She held tight, and kept walking around his place, looking and drinking.
“I always wondered why a good-looking, smart, intelligent guy like you wasn’t married,” she said.
“I really don’t think this is the time . . .”
Kate pulled one of his autographed plaques off the wall. The signed photo of Kim Novak from Vertigo was perfectly preserved under Plexiglas with a small brass plate identifying the name of the actress.
“You’re already married to Kim Novak.”
Annoyed, he took the plaque out of her hands and returned it to the wall.
“Or is it Sharon Stone?” she asked, pointing at plaques, continually moving away from him. “Or Mary Astor or Lauren Bacall? Okay, Johnny-Boy, which one is it?”