Of course. If Willie occasionally gave Beck his keys and asked him to get things from the truck, he could just as easily have given them to Adair. “When?”
“I don’t know. He dropped them off here on Saturday night.”
Possibly he’d duplicated them that day, or even the week before, after Selena had reported Levin wanted them. “And when did you give them to Levin?”
“After the flea market on Sunday. We met in the parking lot. Monty told me to tell Levin that Willie was never home from five to seven on Sunday evenings.”
That was the time for which he had refused to give himself an alibi. “Where does he go then?”
“I do not know.”
“Did Monty say why he wanted Levin to have the keys?”
“No. I guess he wanted him to have his Torahs.”
That made no sense at all. “Are you sure he didn’t explain it to you?”
“They never tell me anything.”
They. “Selena, last night you also said that people are always making you do things you don’t want to, by threatening to turn you in to Immigration.”
“That is true. I am in a very delicate position.”
“Is that why you gave the keys to Levin? Because Monty threatened you?”
She was silent, staring down at the spilled corn nuts.
“Did he also make you meet with Levin that day at David’s?”
Again, silence.
“Selena!”
“They wanted to know what Jerry Levin was thinking. They had had some business, and there had been a falling out.”
“What kind of business?”
“They did not tell me.”
“What caused the falling out?”
“I think that happened when Jerry Levin rediscovered his faith. They wanted to know how serious he was about it, and why he was always at the flea market, watching.”
“So you talked to him and found out?”
“Yes. They made me.”
“By ‘they,’ you mean Monty Adair and Mack Marchetti?”
She nodded.
“What’s your relationship with Marchetti?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you called him right away when you heard Alida was dead. And you must have talked to him today because I spoke with him earlier and he said you’d told him I was a detective.”
“Oh.”
“Does he make you do a lot of things, in exchange for not turning you in to Immigration?”
She spread out her hands, palms up, and waved them wearily. “Oh, not so many things. I see him, that is all.”
“’See’ him?”
“Yes. You know.”
I’d suspected as much. “You must really hate Mexico.”
“One does what one has to. I am alone in this country. I need a protector.”
“But for a man to force you—”
“He is a man. He does not know any better. Besides,” she added with a trace of her former sparkle, “I hate Mexico far more than I hate Mack Marchetti.”
I had no answer for that. And since I had found out what I’d come here for, I left her alone amid her plastic bags and banana chips and corn nuts.
20.
I had a fairly good idea now of the way things had happened and why, but it still wasn’t enough to pin the crimes on anyone or to clear Willie. And that was my primary responsibility, wasn’t it – to clear my client? I drove home, turning the facts over in my mind, trying to make concrete connections.
The house looked lonely and abandoned in the dusty light. Don wasn’t there, nor was there any note or other indication he’d returned after his lunch with his friend at KSUN. It was just as well, I told myself. I had too much on my mind right now to deal with personal problems. Still, the place was mighty cheerless, and even Watney rubbing around my legs failed to lift my gloom. I picked him up and sat down on the couch in the living room to think about Monty Adair.
The sharp-eyed flea market vendor had been calm and collected when I’d gone to his apartment last night. How long was that after Alida had been killed? An hour? Two?
Of course, I hadn’t said anything about the murder to Adair. All I’d said was that I wanted to locate Willie. And it had been too early for the story to be on the news; Selena hadn’t heard it until ten, and she had probably had her radio on all evening. So, as far as Adair was concerned, there was no cause to be nervous when I arrived. He might have assumed the body wouldn’t be discovered until morning. And with any luck on his part, it might not have been.
But instead, she had been found, and the police and news reporters had come…
I looked over at my stereo setup and the tape deck with which Don had been recording KSUN’s prime-time show the night before. The tape was still advanced to where it had run out. I set Watney down on the couch and went over to the stereo, turning on the power switch and then rewinding the tape about halfway. I punched the play button, listened to the tail end of a particularly horrible New Wave selection, and then heard the d.j.’s voice announce the time as nine-fifteen. I pushed the fast forward button, played some more, and repeated the procedure several times until I found the ten o’clock news broadcast.
“…And in the local news, the body of a young woman, Alida Edwards of San Francisco, was found stabbed to death in the shrubbery near Kezar Stadium earlier this evening. Ms. Edwards was a jewelry designer and member of a prominent Houston, Texas, family. Police have issued an all-points bulletin for Ms. Edwards’s fiancé, William Whelan, of San Francisco…
I pressed the stop button, stood there for a moment, then started to rewind the tape so I could listen to the news broadcast again. The phone rang, and I glanced at it in irritation. The calls should be transferring over to the service, but after four rings I realized they weren’t. Don must have returned at some point during the day, used the phone, and forgotten to switch it back – and that, plus the lack of a note from him, was a bad sign.
I turned the tape deck off, crossed the room, and answered the phone. There was a lot of noise on the line, background noise like you’d hear if the call came from a bar. I could barely hear what the caller was saying.
“Sharon? It’s Willie.”
“Willie! It’s about time. Where the hell are you?”
His reply was muffled.
“What?”
“Can’t talk now. Can you meet me at Oasis? In twenty minutes. There’s a little alley behind, go there. Don’t go inside.”
“Willie, what have you—”
“Twenty minutes.” He hung up.
I glared at the receiver and slammed it down. I’d better get going or I wouldn’t make it on time and then Willie might not wait. I needed to get my hands on him, tell him what I’d found out, and then convince him to turn himself in to the police. When he did that, I’d tell them everything I knew. They could take it from there, but I wasn’t giving them anything until Hank was around to protect Willie.
I grabbed my purse, pulled a heavy sweater from the bedroom closet, and had just started toward the front door when the bell rang. I kept going, jerked the door open, and came face-to-face with Inspector Leo McFate.
“Dammit!” I said.
McFate raised one eyebrow politely. “Is something wrong, Ms. McCone?”
“I was just on my way out. I…I have a date.”
“A date.” He looked quizzically at my Irish knit sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes, as if he couldn’t believe a person would go out of the house dressed this way, let alone on a date.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “What can I do for you?”
He glanced around the front porch, an obvious hint that I should ask him in. I remained in the doorway. Finally he said, “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to check some of the details in your statement on the Levin murder.”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Ms. McCone, this is a homicide investigation. Surely you know we don’t keep regular hours when we’re on a case.”
&
nbsp; “All right. What do you want to know?”
I expected him to take out a notepad, but he didn’t. McFate, I now recalled, was reputed to have a photographic memory and prided himself on it. “You stated that you and Mr. Whelan arrived at his house at eight o’clock that evening.”
“Approximately.” I glanced at my watch. If I didn’t get to the Oasis quickly, Willie might not wait.
“Approximately. And you found the body when?”
“Eight-ten.”
“When you entered the house, which one of you noticed it had been ransacked?”
“Well, we both noticed. It was obvious—”
“Did you or Mr. Whelan first call attention to the fact something was wrong there?”
I shifted impatiently from foot to foot. “He noticed the door to the garage was open. And then he went into the living room, turned on the light, and we both saw—”
“So it was Mr. Whelan who called attention to the ransacking.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“You guess.”
“Yes, it was Mr. Whelan.”
“Good. Now, Ms. McCone, you stated that you were the first to go down to the garage.”
“Yes. Willie…Mr. Whelan was right behind me.”
“And you were the first to notice Mr. Levin’s body.”
“Yes, but again Willie was right there and noticed it almost at the same time.”
“But you first called attention to it.”
“Yes.”
“Did it ever occur to you that Mr. Whelan was letting you find the body first?”
“What does that mean? You think he killed Levin, ransacked his own house, and then let me discover it?”
“It’s possible.”
“It may be possible, but that’s not what happened.”
“How do you know that?”
I hesitated.
“Well?”
“Inspector, are you finished with your questions? Because if you are, I really do have to go.”
“Ah, yes. Your date. It wouldn’t be with Mr. Whelan, by any chance?”
Was it just a shot, or did he know something? “With Willie? You’ve got to be joking.”
“I understand you’ve been pursuing this investigation, talking to people who know him.”
“Of course I’m pursuing it; I work for his attorney; we have to build a defense.”
“I only hope you’re pursuing it in a legal and ethical way. I’ve heard things about you, Ms. McCone.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve heard that sometimes you conduct your investigations in a manner that could be termed obstructive.”
I glared at him, my hand tightening on the doorknob. “Have I ever been charged with obstruction? Have I ever been bought up before the licensing board?”
“Not yet.” He studied my face thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could help you give a more positive direction in your career.”
“In what way?”
“Perhaps we could get together some time and talk about proper procedure, how you can help rather than hinder the department. Nothing formal, you understand, just conversation over drinks or dinner.”
It was a pass. And a backhanded, snotty sort of pass, at that. I stared at him.
He turned and started down the steps. “I’ll give you a call in a few days, set something up.”
I stood there, speechless, and then I noticed a hammer that was lying on the porch next to a pot of geraniums. For a moment I had a violent urge to pick it up and whack McFate on the head with it. Fortunately, I contented myself with slamming the door.
Now I was really late for my appointment with Willie. He’d told me to go to the alley behind the bar rather than inside, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go in, perhaps to check for messages. I hurried down the hall and called the Oasis. I asked the bartender to tell Willie, if he came in, that I still intended to meet him. “Please tell him to wait,” I said. “Tell him I’ll be there soon.”
I slammed down the receiver, looked out the front window to see if McFate was gone, and then ran outside to my MG.
The fog was in on the west side of the hill near the Medical Center, but it was not nearly so thick as on the previous night. I drove toward Irving Street, thinking over what I knew.
Monty Adair, Mack Marchetti, Roger Beck, and God knew how many other denizens of the flea market world had been accustomed to playing weekend soldier at a National Survival Game franchise somewhere in Contra Costa County. For Adair and Marchetti, as well as their unlikely friend Jerry Levin, the game hadn’t been enough. They had told Roger Beck they planned to open their own game site, playing a “rougher and more challenging” version.
I thought I knew what “rougher and more challenging” meant.
First of course, they needed a method of financing the project. Adair was doing all right as one of Willie’s runners, but he probably spent every cent of it on such front as the Pacific Heights studio. Marchetti made a decent living from running the Saltflats, mainly because he permitted so much illegal dealing there, but still it wouldn’t have been enough. The game – or their new version of it – required a large tract of land, and land was expensive in Northern California. Thus, they needed a way to raise a great deal of money.
Enter Jerry Levin and his stolen Torahs. Perhaps the scheme was developed solely for the purpose of financing their project; the timing fit. Either way, Jerry Levin had become their fund-raiser.
What then? They had purchased land, and I had a good idea where. Jerry Levin owned that cabin in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and he would doubtless know of available sites. I was fairly certain their new playing field was down in the valley that bordered on Levin’s mountain acreage. After all, there was evidence someone had been playing war there, shooting off the Nel-Spot 007. I’d seen the yellow paint streaks on the trees, but at the time had chalked it up to something to do with the fire, perhaps a flame retardant. Also, if that were the site of their new land, it would explain why I’d been shot at. They wouldn’t want strangers snooping around there.
But why had anyone been firing the paint-pellet gun there? Had their whole scheme really started as a variant of the National Survival Game? Or did they train with the Nel-Spot because it was quiet and cheaper to use than a real weapon? It didn’t matter; what did was the fact that their game had quickly turned into something far more serious and deadly than playing war.
“I’m not a member of the Krupp family.”
That was what Fat Herman had said when he’d spoken of Adair’s interest in buying weapons from him. Herman would go outside the law and sell untraceable guns under the counter, but he didn’t supply big guns – machine guns, mortars, the sort of weapon a paramilitary encampment would require.
I pulled into a parking lot a block away from the Oasis, parked the car, and took a shortcut through a pizza restaurant, still pondering.
Had the group gotten their hands on those kinds of weapon? The gun that had been fired at me when I’d been exploring Levin’s former land had probably been an ordinary hunting rifle. What Herman had been alluding to was more firepower than that.
And what had happened with Jerry Levin and the Torahs? He’d rediscovered his religion, Selena had maintained. Maybe it was a genuine religious conversion. If so, he would have reason to hold back the Torahs from the others. But that made no sense; if Levin could have gotten them into Willie’s garage and stashed them with the player piano rolls, he could also have gotten them out. There would have been no need for him to watch Willie and ask Selena to get him keys to the house.
Okay, forget that for a minute. Levin got religion. What then? His enemies – meaning the others in the organization – tried to destroy him. How? By burning his cabin? Probably. After all, Jack Foxx, the Arson Squad inspector, had said the site had the signs of a deliberately set blaze. Why hadn’t Levin gone to the authorities, then? Possibly he couldn’t prove who had done it, and also didn’t want to incriminate himself.
; And then Levin had come to San Francisco, determined to rescue his Torahs. And had been given keys to Willie’s house by Selena. I hadn’t thought to ask her, but it was obvious that Adair had made not one but two sets of keys. Levin had used one – and died. And then, since the keys hadn’t been found on his body, the killer had removed them.
I thought I knew who that killer was, too. But there were loose ends. Too many loose ends…
The alley that ran behind the Oasis opened up onto one of the sidestreets. I rounded the corner and started down there, peering through the darkness for Willie. There were cars pulled up on either side, their wheels on the sidewalks, almost flush against the building so other vehicles could pass. I didn’t see the borrowed van, but that didn’t surprise me. Willie would probably approach on foot, as unobtrusively as possible. I spied the floodlit sign indicating the rear entrance to the bar. No one waited there.
Of course, I thought, Willie would be in disguise, probably wearing his derelict outfit. And he certainly wouldn’t stand out in the open where a passing patrol car might spot him. I went as far as the entrance to the bar and looked up and down the alley again. No sign of anyone.
Damn McFate! If he had only come to my house a few minutes later I would have already been on my way to this appointment. As it was, he had delayed me a good ten minutes and caused me to exercise undue caution, driving here by a circuitous route in case he really suspected my so-called date was with Willie. There was no telling, without going inside, whether Willie had checked the bar for messages when I didn’t show on time. But even if he hadn’t, he might have gone away, intending to return here later. There was nothing to do but wait.
It was cold there in the alley. I pushed my hands into the pockets of my sweater and began to pace. My watch showed close to eight. Had Willie given me up and gone off on another of his tangents?
I’d better go inside and use the phone to check my answering service. Maybe he’d left another message.
But he had specifically said not to go into the bar.
Still…
I started over toward the floodlit sign. There was a sudden rushing noise behind me. Before I could turn, hands gripped me. I tried to wrench away, but they held me tighter. Then an arm hooked around my neck, and a cloth was pressed over my nose and mouth. A rough cloth, damp, reeking of…
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