by Penny Warner
“Why did she want you there?”
“She said my demonstration—I call it performance protest—would help sway the mayor to my side. She was supposed to talk to him right after the gig. Said she’d have it locked in and TI would be turned into a natural habitat for the seals and shit, after all the toxic waste was cleaned up.”
“And for that you paid her? How much?”
Siouxie patted the dog. “A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
She met my eyes. “A lot lot.”
“How does a group like yours get a lot lot?”
She laughed. “Bake sales.”
“Drugs?”
“No!” she snapped. Was she overreacting? She stood, brushed off the back of her dress, and stepped up to the front door. “I mean, well, I work at Pot for Patients, the medical marijuana outlet. Part-time. But that’s not dealing.”
“You get welfare, but you work part-time?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You just have to know how to work the system, you know? Listen, I gotta go. You’re a psychologist, right? So everything I just told you is in confidence, right? I don’t want anyone to know I paid that bee-otch all that money. Someone might start asking the wrong questions.”
I rose and wiped off the back of my black jeans, praying I hadn’t sat in something. Just to make sure, I pulled my T-shirt down over my butt. Ignoring her question, I asked, “So after you paid Ikea, you found out she wasn’t going to help you after all?”
She spun around. “Anything Ikea did, she did for herself. She couldn’t have cared less about doing the right thing for the planet—not even for a bagful of cash. Unfortunately, I figured that out a little too late. Stupid me.”
She turned the knob. I took a step toward her. “Susan, where did you go that night, after your ‘performance’?”
She looked startled. “How did you know my real name?”
“One of the newspaper articles mentioned it.”
Nodding, she pressed her lips tightly together, then said, “I came back here, of course. I wasn’t about to hang around for champagne and cake—” She stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute. You really do think I had something to do with her death. Now you’re asking me if I have an alibi? Fuck off, you psycho headshrinker.”
Siouxie stepped through the front door, then turned to the dog and said, “Cujo! Sic ’er!” before slamming the door shut.
I looked at the dog, ready to run, my heart pounding.
The dog lifted his head, looked at me, then laid his head back down.
And farted.
Chapter 23
PARTY PLANNING TIP #23:
Deal with party crashers quickly, quietly, and discreetly.
You want to read about your event in the society section of the newspaper, not in the police blotter—or the obituaries.
While driving back to TI, I added Susan’s name to my short but growing list of possible suspects. The young woman had a motive—she hated Ikea. And she had opportunity—she’d been invited to “crash” the party. As for method, she could easily have poisoned the chocolates when no one was looking. No one noticed her until she began her “performance.”
And she’d tried to bribe Ikea for control over TI. She’d paid a lot of money—whose money was still in question—but hadn’t gotten what she wanted. Had Siouxie killed her after she learned Ikea wasn’t going to follow through?
As for the money, was Siouxie selling drugs to support her causes? In addition to defrauding the welfare department, she was working part-time at Pot for Patients. Perhaps she also did a little embezzling? Sold some on the side? Her house had certainly reeked of the stuff.
The fog was rolling in over the Bay Bridge, bringing with it an eerie, luminous cast to the evening. I checked my cell phone clock. Good God. It was after seven. Too late to track down anyone else. The rest would have to wait until tomorrow.
I rubbed the back of my neck, stiff from the tension of the day. And I was hungry. I could hear my stomach growling over the Morrissey song on my radio. No doubt I probably had a hundred messages waiting for me back at my office. Passing up the turnoff for Yerba Buena Island, I took Avenue of the Palms to the Snack Shack, bought a crab Louis and a beer to go, and headed for the office barracks.
As I headed into the building, Berkeley was on his way out, camera in tow. “You’re baaaccckkkk!” Berk said, misquoting either The Shining or Poltergeist. He held the door for me. “Thought maybe you’d skipped town, gone to Argen-tin-a.” He sang the last word, à la Evita.
“Errands,” I said, to avoid a long explanation. I glanced at his ubiquitous camera and remembered something. “Berkeley, did the cops take all your footage from the party?”
“Yep,” he said, then grinned.
“You made a copy!”
“I soitenly did,” he said, nodding like Curly Howard and beaming with pride at his cleverness.
“Can I borrow it?”
“Help yourself. It’s in my office. Top drawer of the filing cabinet. Not quite ready for your close-up yet, but you’ll get the idea.”
“No problem. I just want to see what you’ve got. Is your door locked?”
“Yeah, but Raj has a key. Tell him I said to let you in.” He gave me Spock’s “Live long and prosper” hand sign.
Remembering the last time I’d asked Raj to open a door, I said, “Would you mind telling him? He’s gotten tight with the keys lately.”
Berkeley nodded and headed out the door to his VW camper, calling back, “E.T., phone Raj. Gotta run, Forrest, run. But I’ll be back,” he said, switching from E.T. to Forrest Gump to Terminator. It was mind-boggling—I didn’t know who I was talking to anymore.
I yelled back the titles, plus The Three Stooges, Sunset Boulevard, and Star Trek, before closing the front door, thankful Name That Movie was over. Glancing at the other offices as I headed for my own, I saw that Delicia was out—who knew where—Raj was just locking up, and the office across from mine was dark.
“Ms. Presley,” Raj called from down the hall. “I am opening Mr. Berkeley’s door for you now. But you must be remembering to lock it. I cannot be responsible for it if it is left unlocked, you see.”
“Thanks, Raj,” I said, unlocking my own office. “I promise. Where are you off to?”
“Actually, the Jack Jason movie is filming at Pier 39 tonight. Perhaps they are having a part for a security guard again. But my cell phone will be available for your call, if you are needing me.”
I nodded as I slung my purse on my desk and set down my salad and beer. “Good luck. Break a leg.”
Raj wrinkled his nose at me.
“It’s just an expression,” I explained.
“Oh, yes, yes. Well, then, you break a leg too. And an arm.” He laughed as he made his way out of the building.
The office grew uncomfortably quiet. I’d never felt unsafe working in my office at night alone. Until now.
Something strange was going on and it had to do with Treasure Island itself—at least in part. I pushed the feeling aside and dug into my crab Louis, hardly tasting it. When the phone rang, cracking the silence, I jumped.
After fumbling for the phone, I said, “Hello?” I could feel my heart racing under my T-shirt. Why was I so nervous? I’d been alone in the building before. Raj was just a phone call away. And I had my plastic sword.
“Hello?” I said again. No answer.
I hung up. It rang again before I could lift my hand from the receiver. I hesitated, letting it ring a few more times, then picked it up.
“Hello?” I said slowly.
I heard a voice whisper something I couldn’t make out.
“What?” I said stupidly when I should have hung up. But something about the whisper kept me on the line. What if it was Rocco calling from the hospital?
“Rocco? Is that you?”
Silence. Then the whispered voice came again. This time, in spite of the low volume, I heard it loud and clear:
“Got chocolate?”<
br />
I slammed down the phone, took a deep breath, then picked it up again, my hand shaking so hard I could barely dial Star-69. Blocked. Of course. What kind of obscene phone caller—or killer—would leave a callback number?
I slammed the phone down again.
What was that about? “Got chocolate?” As in poisoned?
Gathering my purse and food, I was about to get the hell out when I heard a noise at the front door.
Someone was jiggling the door handle.
I froze, listening, waiting for a key to unlock the door, for familiar footsteps to ring out in the reception room—the shuffle of Delicia’s bunny slippers, the squeak of Berk’s skull-covered Vans, the tap of Raj’s steel-toed military boots.
Nothing.
I dropped my food, ducked down behind my desk, hoping whoever was there hadn’t seen me through any of the windows. Of course, my office light was on. In fact, it was the only light on besides reception.
I switched it off, eased up, and tiptoed into the hallway, hoping the old floorboards didn’t give me away. Maybe the would-be intruder knew I was there, but at least he couldn’t see me now. And maybe, if I was careful, I could catch a glimpse of him in the reception room light.
The reception light went off.
Shit!
The building went pitch black. My eyes searched the darkness. I felt rivulets of sweat slalom down my back. My throat went dry. I could hear my heartbeat, amplified in my chest—and hoped the intruder couldn’t hear it too.
Scenes from old movies filled the blackness. I had learned a lot from those old films and had sworn off a few important things:
Never go into the cellar in your lingerie (Prom Night II).
Never call out “Who’s there?” when you’re alone (Halloween 4).
Never go into a dark room unarmed (Urban Legends 3).
Suddenly, in the blackness, the phone rang. An icicle stabbed my heart.
And never answer the phone (Scream 1, 2, and 3).
I whirled around and ran toward the kitchen. As soon as I stepped inside, I heard a loud thud at the back door.
Shit! Surrounded.
Then came more pounding—the sound of someone trying to break down the door. Shit! Shit! Was this the same person who’d been at the front door? Or were there two of them? If the place was surrounded, my only chance was to hide.
Where?
Under my desk? Been there, done that. Too obvious.
In the kitchen? There were several closets and cupboards that I could probably fit into.
Just as I started for the front office, the thudding returned at the front door, jarring my already jangled nerves. I ran back toward the kitchen, the only place I could think of to hide from the lunatic who was trying so hard to break in.
As I reached the kitchen, in the darkness I saw a light flickering from under the closed door. I froze, unable to move or think, just panting with fear.
Then I smelled the smoke!
Chapter 24
PARTY PLANNING TIP #24:
Hosting a party can be stressful for even the most experienced party hostess. Take some time to relax with a flute of champagne, a glass of wine, or, if necessary, a keg of beer.
“Fire!” I screamed to no one. Except maybe the burglar/ arsonist/killer.
Foolishly I opened the door. The kitchen was engulfed. The rest of the old wood-slatted building was a tinderbox waiting to fully ignite. I dashed to my office, already coughing, and grabbed my purse and my cell phone, knocking over the crab Louis.
I started for the front door, but smoke filled the reception area. In seconds it lit up with flames.
Trapped!
Frantic, I ran back to my office, racking my brain for another way out. The only escape I could think of was through one of the narrow office windows. I scanned the room for something to knock out the glass and grabbed a balloon tank filled with helium.
I hoisted the tank up, chest level, and stood back five feet. I was ready to toss it at the window when the glass imploded with an ear-shattering screech.
Reflexively I ducked, dropping the tank as I covered my eyes and face. It hit my foot, and I screamed in pain. As soon as I got my wits back, I spotted a crowbar lying next to me.
The killer had thrown it through my office window!
I had to get out of that room.
Brushing glass shards from my shoulders, I hobbled toward the door.
“Parker! This way!”
Turning back, I could just make out a figure through the smoke. Someone was knocking out the jagged pieces of leftover glass with some kind of stick.
Brad.
What was he doing there?
I had no choice. Smoke had completely filled the hallway. Coughing, my lungs beginning to burn, I grabbed the folding chair opposite my desk and dragged it over. Stepping up on my good foot, I climbed out, holding on to Brad’s outreached hands. Halfway out I lost my balance and started to fall; he caught me, and we both tumbled to the ground.
In the near distance, while lying on top of Brad, I heard the scream of fire engines.
The flames were put out in less than twenty minutes. Brad said he’d called the fire department as soon as he’d arrived and smelled the smoke. Firefighters were crawling all over the place, squirting hoses, chopping walls, clearing out debris. Brad had quickly joined the effort, spraying what he could with the emergency can of extinguishing foam he kept in his SUV.
At least, that’s what he said.
Wrapped in a blanket, I asked him, “How did you happen to show up here when the fire started?” We’d just finished exploring the water-soaked reception area—a total loss, along with the kitchen. The offices were mostly untouched, thanks to fire walls the navy had included when they’d built the structures in the forties. But the place reeked of smoke and the building was no longer secure. We’d have to relocate whatever we could salvage to the similar but unoccupied building next door.
“I had paperwork to do,” Brad said, staring at the building. “When I got here and smelled the smoke, I tried to get in through the front door, then the back. Didn’t you hear me pounding?”
That had been Brad? “Why didn’t you use your key?”
“I tried. The lock was filled with dirt.”
What? Someone had jammed the locks?
“Did you see anyone?”
He shook his head. “Too dark. I was focused on the fire and getting you out.”
“How did you know I was in there?”
He nodded toward my car.
Duh.
I had run out of questions. Except one: Who had done this? It didn’t look like the work of the recent vandals. This was way beyond their MO. What was the fire supposed to accomplish? Obscure evidence? Tie up loose ends?
Loose ends like me?
“I’ll deal with moving my stuff in the morning,” I said, handing the blanket back to the cute firefighter who’d provided it. “Right now, I’m going home to bed.”
“I’m going with you,” Brad said.
I looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”
“I mean . . . I don’t think you should be alone tonight. This may have been meant for you.”
“You think someone tried to . . . kill me?” I felt a wave of dizziness sweep over me at the thought I might have been the next target.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Someone knew you were alone in there. Whoever it was did his best to trap you—setting fires at both ends—to keep you from getting out.”
I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. “Well, I can take care of myself. Really. And you didn’t need to rescue me. I was just about to toss a balloon tank out the window when you threw that crowbar in. You hit my foot, by the way,” I lied. I didn’t intend to tell him I’d dropped the tank on my own foot. For emphasis, I limped a couple of steps.
“What were you thinking, throwing a tank full of helium? Do you know what could have happened if it had landed in the fire?”
I
shivered, trying to remember what was on the warning label. Something like “Rupturing a tank may cause it to explode or to take off like a rocket. . . .”
Whoa.
Brad rubbed his arm. “Well, I’m taking you home. No argument, so let’s go. I’ll follow you in my SUV.”
I looked at him. “You cut yourself. You’re bleeding.” A line of blood ran down his arm.
He shook his arm. “It’s nothing.”
“You need to have that looked at. Get a tetanus shot. Some antibiotics.”
He shrugged. “I’m not much of a drug taker. Don’t like doctors much. Beside, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”
I was too tired to argue. If nothing else, Brad seeing me home might discourage the arsonist/killer from doing anything more tonight.
As I watched him get into his car, I noticed something odd. There was no CRIME SCENE CLEANER sign on the side of his SUV. I called to him, “Where’s your sign?”
“Took it off,” he called back.
“Why?” I said, frowning. If I didn’t stop doing that, I’d need Botox.
“I get too many weirdos asking me about my business. I only put it up there when I’m on duty. Or forget to take it off.”
I flashed on the white SUV that had chased me off the road. Had it sported the sign? Or had it been removed for some reason?
I drove the short distance to my condo, past the usual empty buildings and deserted warehouses, until I entered the former military housing area. My end unit was a one-story /one-bedroom, in an eclectic neighborhood of artists, writers, and musicians, as well as recovering addicts, former homeless people, Job Corps graduates, and grassroots leaders of various causes. Duncan Grant, the geocacher, had a unit nearby, even though he stored most of his stuff in a back office at our building. Berk lived with other artists in a communelike setup a few blocks away. Rocco sometimes crashed at his ex-girlfriend’s place, when he was too tired to drive to his flat in Noe Valley. Dee lived with her mother in the Mission. I had no idea where Brad slept at night.
I drove into the carport. Brad’s white SUV pulled up behind me in the driveway, blocking me in. I got out of the Cooper and locked it with a button on my key.