A Wild & Lonely Place (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  “I’m not too fond of them myself, but they’re probably worth something. You might try selling them.”

  “Really?” He looked at them speculatively and with greater tolerance.

  When I sat on the sofa a telltale puff of dust rose around me. What, I wondered, had the man been doing since last fall, that he’d neither cleaned nor gotten rid of objects that offended him? Perhaps he simply didn’t see the dust and grime, didn’t notice the knickknacks unless someone directed his attention to them. His capacity to connect with his surroundings did seem somewhat limited; his gaze had become remote again, barely acknowledging my presence.

  I asked, “You’ve lived here since your mother passed away?”

  He nodded slowly, coming back from wherever his mind had taken him. “I suppose Leila’s told you that I’m having a hard time of it. Since the bungalow’s paid for and the taxes and upkeep are low, I have no option but to stay here.”

  “You sound as though you’re not too happy about that.”

  “Oh, it’s all right here, I guess. It’s private and quiet. But there are inconveniences: no garbage pickup, and it’s a long drive for groceries.”

  “Blanca told me you also inherited an apartment building in the city. Why not live there?”

  “I don’t really care to live at close quarters with other people and, besides, the building’s got problems. It’s for sale, if you know anyone who’s in the market for rental property.”

  I didn’t, so I continued a line of questioning that would gradually lead up to the subject of Dawud Hamid. “When I spoke with her, Leila went into great detail about how Speed sold Das Glücksspiel. Was it really as sudden as she says?”

  “Yes.” He took a box from beneath the card table and swept the puzzle pieces into it, carelessly undoing his time-consuming work. “She’s bitter, and she’s got a right to be. I at least was employable. Although having worked downstairs from an illegal gambling operation didn’t score me too many points on job interviews.”

  “You must’ve known about the sports book.”

  “No, I didn’t. Speed kept the two businesses strictly segregated. I thought he was running some sort of mailorder outfit up there.”

  I must have looked skeptical because he added, “Hard to believe, isn’t it? The D.A. didn’t credit it, either, but the other employees backed me up.”

  “What did you do after you were fired?”

  “Nothing very impressive.” He stowed the puzzle box in a small bookcase, then sat down on one of the needlepointed chairs. “Speed sold the restaurant in eighty-nine. For a few years I worked for a government contractor setting up management systems for food services on military bases, but with the closings…For a while after that, I worked abroad for a franchise that was establishing itself in Europe. But now I’m down to scrounging odd jobs. Did Leila send you to me about one?”

  “Actually, I’m trying to trace some people you might’ve known when you worked for her husband. Dawud Hamid— is that name familiar?”

  “Hamid.” Something indefinable flickered beneath the surface of his remote gaze, but he simply said, “There was a Dave Hamid who ran with the diplomatic crowd. I believe he and Speed were close friends.”

  “That’s the man. He ran the sports book.”

  Newton nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. At the time of the indictments there were rumors that one of the major players had gone unnamed because he had diplomatic immunity, but his identity never came out.”

  “You didn’t know Hamid, then?”

  “Hardly at all. I didn’t run with Speed’s crowd; they were too rich for my blood—and too corrupt.”

  “What about Chloe Love?”

  “Chloe?” He seemed startled. “What about her?”

  “Leila said Hamid was interested in her. Is there a possibility they might still be in touch?”

  “That I very much doubt.” Newton glanced at the woodstove, which had begun to smoke, and got up to tend it.

  “Do you have any idea where Chloe Love might be living now?” I asked.

  “Living? No, I don’t.” He prodded at the logs with the poker, then set it down and dusted his hands off. “But I do know you won’t find her with Hamid or any of that crowd.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Chloe was a nice person, through and through. She was intelligent and she wasn’t taken in by money or appearance.” He returned to his chair. “Men from the diplomatic crowd were always visiting her in the kitchen and hitting on her, but she’d have nothing to do with them. She was…an impressive woman.”

  “You sound as though you were fond of her.”

  “I was. She was probably the most kind and genuinely decent person I’ve ever known. She went to bat for me with the D.A. when he didn’t believe I hadn’t known about the sports book. I owe her a great deal for that.”

  “And yet you lost touch with her.”

  He shrugged. “After the restaurant closed, we all went our separate ways. The industry was in a bad recession, and we had to scramble for jobs, thanks to Speed.”

  “Tell me about Speed.”

  “As Leila’s fond of saying, he’s a pig.”

  “Leila’s no saint herself.”

  “She’s a naughty little girl and none too bright, but that doesn’t mean she deserved to be abandoned that way.”

  “And yet she welcomes Speed back into her bed whenever he’s in town.”

  “Oh?” The questioning syllable came too quickly.

  “She’s told you about his visits, hasn’t she?”

  “…Yes.”

  “How does Speed get back into the country—on a false passport? And why does he come back?”

  Newton was silent.

  “Mr. Newton, I’m not acting in an official capacity. I don’t care if they ever bring Speed Schechtmann to trial on the gambling indictment. But I do need to locate him.”

  “Why?”

  I explained about the ongoing relationship between Schechtmann and Hamid, about the Azadi Consulate being the latest target of the Diplo-bomber, and about Mavis’s and Habiba’s earlier disappearance. “The consul general seems curiously unworried, so I assume they’re in a safe place, but I want to make sure that they’re not with Hamid or on the way to him.”

  “Why should you concern yourself? They’re his wife and child.”

  “Because I think the Azadis are more than a target of the bomber; I think they’re the primary one. My gut-level instincts tell me that Dave Hamid’s involvement in the sports book and his later disappearance are at the very root of these bombings. If that’s the case, you can understand the danger his wife and child will be in if they’re anywhere near him.”

  “But they were in danger at the consulate.”

  “Yes, and I was about to remove them to a secure place when they disappeared.”

  Newton picked up one of the figurines and turned it round and round in his hands, studying it. “What would you do if it turned out they were with Hamid?”

  “Go after them and bring them back—forcibly, if necessary.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but now the answer seemed obvious.

  “And take them to that secure place you mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if Hamid came after them?”

  “I certainly hope he would. I’d like to get him back here, where the Diplo-bomber Task Force could question him about his involvement in what’s going on.”

  “Not likely—given his diplomatic immunity.”

  “Then maybe I’ll just have to question him myself, using my connection with the consulate’s security firm. At any rate, to do that I need to find him, and to find him I need to locate Speed. You can help, Mr. Newton.”

  He hesitated, then sighed and set the figurine on the table. “All right, I don’t know where Speed has been living. Leila does, I think, but you’ll never force her to reveal it—she likes the money he gives her too much. I do know that Speed moves in and out of the country on a ya
wl that one of his gambler friends, Eric Sparling, keeps berthed at Salt Point Marina. He has his crew pick Speed up at an offshore ship and bring him back to the city.” “This yawl—what’s her name?”

  “The Freia.”

  “And Salt Point Marina is one of those between Candlestick Park and the airport?”

  “Yes.” For the first time Newton’s eyes connected with mine; there was something else he wanted to tell me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “…Yes, all right. Speed visited Leila yesterday. I went there to put up some towel racks for her, and he was just leaving. I heard him say he’d be returning home today.”

  * * *

  Salt Point Marina nestled in the curve of land that bowed out just south of the San Francisco—San Mateo County line. Strong winds are a given there in any kind of weather; tonight they blew the fog like snow and chilled me to the bone. The marina was fronted by a mostly empty parking lot and surrounded by a high electrified fence. I left the MG next to an empty boat trailer and crossed the ramp to the gate. It operated on a key card, and there was no guard or any way of summoning someone. I peered through the eerily blowing mist and saw cruisers and sailboats of all sizes moored in their slips; faint lights shone in the windows of a few.

  Security lights, or evidence of people living aboard?

  The hum of rush-hour traffic on the Bayshore Freeway was at my back; the only sounds in the marina were the water’s gentle swell and the creak of lines. After a moment I got back in the car and sat in the gathering darkness, drumming my fingers on the wheel as I tried to decide what to do next. Headlights flared behind me and I watched a dark-colored Porsche pull up on the other side of the boat trailer. A man in a business suit got out, locked the car, and headed toward the gate.

  People living aboard, then.

  I was out of the MG immediately, but before I could get to the gate the man used his key card and shut it behind him. Chances were he wouldn’t have let me in, anyway; when he locked the Porsche he’d activated an alarm—the security-conscious type. I needed to create the impression I belonged here.

  I got back into the car and drove into Brisbane, avoiding the clogged freeway. There I found a market and bought a sack of groceries, including the sourdough I’d promised Hy I’d bring home. When I returned to the marina a few more vehicles were parked in the lot. I waited.

  After about ten minutes a Mustang drove in and parked a few spaces away from me. A tall woman in a tan suit got out and hurried toward the gate, hugging her jacket around her. I followed, pretended to stumble on the canted ramp, and dropped the grocery bag.

  “Oh, no!” I fell to my knees and began running my hands over the ramp.

  The woman turned. “Your groceries! Let me help you.” She squatted and started gathering up apples that had rolled from the bag.

  “It’s not the groceries I’m worried about,” I said. “I dropped my key card. Oh, dammit, you know what? I think it fell in the water.”

  She put the apples in the bag and set it upright. “Well, you can get a new one from Evans tomorrow. I’ll let you in.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate your help. I just couldn’t see where I was stepping.”

  “Who could? It got dark so early tonight, and it looks like nobody thought to turn on the pierside lights.” She shivered as she held the gate for me. “Damned fog. I knew that stretch of good weather couldn’t last.”

  I thanked her again and waited till she started off to the left. Then I went to the right and turned down one of the finger piers, checking the names of the boats that were berthed there, looking for the Freia. Lazy Daze, Marguerite, The Money Pit, Roger’s Jolly, Ms. Freedom—

  A high keening scream cut through the mist. Cut through me and set my flesh to rippling.

  I slued around and ran back along the dock. The scream was a woman’s and it came from the direction that my Good Samaritan had gone. The dock swayed beneath my feet, throwing my balance off. I dumped the cumbersome sack of food, spread my arms to steady myself.

  Now I heard voices, excited and distressed. A line of lights on the main pier had come on, and under one of them I saw the woman. She leaned against a tall man, her face pressed against his brown leather jacket, rolling her head back and forth in denial. A second man was looking into the water.

  I ran up to them. “What’s wrong?”

  The second man motioned down, looking sick. “Rosalie turned on the lights and saw it.”

  It. I went to the edge of the pier, squatted, and scanned the shiny blackness.

  A body floated face down, bobbing on the slight swell, one bare foot caught by a loop in a mooring line. A small body, a woman’s, clad in a loose garment that billowed out around her. A black garment with white piping on the sleeves and collar. Dark tangled hair swirled across her shoulders.

  I moaned. Dropped my bag, shrugged out of my jacket, toed off my athletic shoes.

  “Hey,” the man said, “don’t—”

  I braced myself for the shock, took a breath, jumped in feet first.

  Cold! Heart-stopping cold and deep, I keep sinking. Air, I need air—

  My feet touched bottom. I pushed hard, shot up, and broke the surface. The body was about four yards away. I thrashed over, grabbed its shoulders. Turned it on its back and got it in a lifeguard’s hold.

  Heart-stopping cold for her, too. But her heart’s stopped for good. I’ll never forget this cold. I’ll feel it in my nightmares to my dying day.

  I began towing her toward the dock. Death made her slight frame heavy and ungainly.

  Cold and still and God those blank forever eyes. She ought to be at home in front of her fireplace with her solitaire game spread out and her glass of vodka to hand. Even that’s better than this. No, she ought to be talking about her poetry, forgetting the booze for a little while—

  Stop it, McCone!

  More people on the pier now. Hands reaching to lift the body. Somebody was saying that he knew CPR. They hauled her up and he set to work. I supposed he had to try, but it wouldn’t do any good. I’d been too late to save Mavis.

  The hands reached for me now. I grasped them. Gained the dock but fell to my knees. Somebody wrapped me in a blanket.

  Too late to save Mavis.

  And where, oh God where, was Habiba?

  Thirteen

  When I made my statement to a San Mateo County sheriff’s deputy some thirty minutes later, I knew that my fears of becoming like Gage Renshaw and his cohorts were one step closer to being realized. I said nothing about Klaus Schechtmann, Dawud Hamid, or Habiba. I denied knowing Mavis’s identity. I did not admit to being a private investigator. I did not mention Eric Sparling or the Freia.

  One of the men on the pier had called 911 and then contacted the marina’s manager, a Mr. Evans. When Evans arrived and saw me wet and shivering in the borrowed blanket, he offered me the loan of his office to change into the emergency clothes I kept in the trunk of the MG. But by the time I’d changed, Evans had thought the situation over and realized I was on the premises without authorization. Quickly I confessed to employing subterfuge. I’d planned a dinner to surprise a friend who berthed his yawl there, so I’d tricked Rosalie into letting me through the gate. The friend’s name? Eric Sparling.

  “Mr. Sparling don’t live aboard,” Evans said.

  “I know, but I thought he’d be here tonight.”

  “Well, the Freia set sail late this afternoon. I know, because the crew was getting her ready at three-thirty when I went home.”

  “I must’ve got my dates mixed up. You didn’t see Eric…Mr. Sparling?”

  “Just the crew and a fellow who’s used the yawl before—blond-haired man with a German accent.”

  Klaus Schechtmann. “He have a woman and a little girl with him?”

  Evans frowned; I was asking too many questions. “I didn’t see no woman or kid, no. And listen, you, don’t go sneaking in here again, surprise or no surprise. That’s why we got the gate—to keep out potent
ial insurance problems like yourself.”

  I promised not to commit future trespass, and Evans left me alone. Then I gave my brief duplicitous statement to the sheriff’s deputy and got out of there. I consoled myself both for my sins of omission and commission by telling myself that the deputy wasn’t really interested in my story anyway. Twice he’d referred to Mavis as the victim of an accidental drowning, and he seemed to find nothing unusual about me leaping into the Bay to recover the body of a total stranger. Perhaps he thought I got my kicks by courting pneumonia.

  From the MG I called Renshaw at the consulate and broke the news. When I finished he asked, “Murder?”

  “Hard to say. So far, the sheriff’s department is leaning toward accident.”

  “You didn’t tell them anything, then.”

  “I thought about it, but I was afraid they’d send the Coast Guard after the Freia. Schechtmann’s a fugitive and, however she ended up there, I’m sure he’s the one who left Mavis dead in the Bay. I doubt he’d allow himself to be taken. If Habiba’s aboard that yawl, I don’t want to jeopardize her.”

  “Good judgment call.”

  “You’d better get on to the sheriff down here with whatever cover story you can think of. I don’t like the idea of Mavis lying unidentified in the morgue. And you’d better break the news to Mrs. Hamid.”

  “Yeah. If I know her she’ll take it stoically, no matter what she feels. And explain nothing.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “What’re you going to do now?”

  “Find out where Schechtmann’s headed.”

  * * *

  The fog completely blanketed San Bruno Mountain now; it dimmed the lights of the small dwellings to faint glows, wrapped thick around the trunks of the eucalyptus. Once again I left my car by Langley Newton’s mailbox and crossed the plank bridge. Once again my hand rested on the .38 in my purse. Newton might be a remote, harmless-appearing recluse, but he was also a man with a secret.

  When I knocked on the bungalow’s door, it took him well over a minute to answer. Footsteps came from the rear and an overhead bulb flashed on. Newton looked out; surprise flared in his eyes and he recoiled.