“Did you see much of her after she began going with Jerry?”
“Not too much. With Jerry a few times and around campus.”
“Did she ever mention anything that might have been bothering her?”
“You mean those threats she’d been getting?” Brodnax shook his massive head. “I didn’t know about them until the police told me. Chris never talked much about herself.”
“Do you know the names Martin Talbot or Laura or Karen Nichols?”
“No. I didn’t recognize them in the papers this morning and I still don’t.”
“How about Bobbie Reid?”
He frowned at that and shifted his helmet from one hand to the other. “Bobbie? What’s she have to do with Chris’ murder?”
“Maybe nothing, but her name came up. You knew her, then?”
“I met her a few times, yeah.”
“Here at the college?”
“No. Steve Farmer used to go with her.”
Now that was interesting. Christine and Bobbie knew each other, Bobbie used to date one of Jerry Carding’s best friends, Bobbie commits suicide and Christine is murdered. Another connection—but where, if anywhere, did it lead?
I asked, “How long ago was this?”
“A year or so. They were pretty involved for a while.”
“Why did they break up?”
“I don’t know. Steve wouldn’t say anything about it afterward; I don’t think it was a friendly split.”
“Was he hurt? Angry?”
“Both, I guess. But he got over it.”
Did he? I wondered. “Did you see Bobbie at any time after the break-up?”
“No, not once.”
“Do you know any of her other friends?”
“Just Steve.”
“Jerry knew her, though?”
“Sure. Same way I did, through Steve.”
“Did he ever talk about her?”
“I can’t remember if he did.”
“Why would she take her own life? Any ideas?”
“No. But she was a spacey chick.”
“How do you mean?”
“Emotional, hyped up all the time.”
“Drugs?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t think she was into that. A little pot, maybe, but that’d be all. She was just . . . I don’t know, intense, freaky. Like she couldn’t get her head together. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
The wind blowing across the floor of the stadium was bitter cold; I could feel my ears and cheeks burning. And I had run out of questions. So I said, “Okay, Dave, thanks. I won’t keep you any longer.”
He nodded solemnly. “I wish there was more I could do to help,” he said. “I keep thinking something’s happened to Jerry too. If he’s all right, why hasn’t he shown up all week? Or why hasn’t somebody found him?”
“Somebody will, son. Sooner or later.”
He nodded again and gave me his hand: his grip was as gentle as his voice. Then he put his helmet on and trotted onto the field, and I turned back toward the stands.
On the way there I noticed that the team’s place-kicker had begun practicing field goals at the north end. He was a soccer-style kicker and pretty good, judging from the forty-yarder he put squarely between the uprights. The second kick I watched him try, from forty-five yards out, hit the crossbar, caromed straight up, hit the crossbar a second time, and fell through: good.
For some reason, my mind being what it is, that made me think of a country-and-western song that had been popular several years ago, a religious novelty item with the more or less unforgettable title of “Drop-Kick Me, Jesus, Through the Goal Posts of Life.” Uh-huh. Well, some of us got drop-kicked through, all right. But some of us missed wide right or wide left, or just by inches, and some of us—like Christine Webster—got blocked at the line of scrimmage.
And then there were the ones like me. We made it through, but not without hitting the damned crossbar a few times on the way. . . .
From the college I drove downtown and stopped at the main library in Civic Center where I spent half an hour looking through month-old issues of the Chronicle and Examiner. I found nothing at all about Bobbie Reid—no news story, no obituary, not even a funeral notice. Which meant that her death, like so many deaths in a city as large as San Francisco, had not been deemed important enough or unusual enough to warrant coverage; and that her body, like Christine Webster’s, had been claimed by out-of-town relatives and her funeral held elsewhere.
There would have to be a police report on file, though, because the Homicide Detail is required by law to investigate all suicides. Eberhardt could look it up and use it to begin digging into Bobbie’s background.
As for me, it seemed that a drive up to Bodega Bay was the next order of business. I had no leads to pursue here, no leads at all except for the tenuous link to Steve Farmer’s involvement with Bobbie Reid; maybe I could find out something by talking to Farmer or by nosing around among the people in Bodega who knew Jerry Carding. On the way out of the library, I decided I would head up the coast first thing in the morning.
It was almost five o’clock by then. I had not been to my office all day and I had been out of touch since before eleven; it was possible that there was a message or two on my answering machine. Better check it out, I thought, and then call Eberhardt from there before he knocks off for the day.
Taylor Street was only a few blocks from the library, but it took me ten minutes to get there because of the rush-hour traffic. I coaxed the car into a narrow parking space near my building, went inside and looked through the slot in the mailbox. Nothing. The elevator was being cranky again: it made grinding noises and shuddered a lot on the way up. But it determined not to break down and strand me between floors, as it had once for twenty minutes a couple of years ago. I got out of it in a hurry, making a mental note to use the stairs until the landlord got the thing fixed again, and moved down the hall to the office door.
And pulled up short when I got to it.
The door was cracked open about six inches.
The skin along my back prickled; I could feel my stomach muscles begin to wire up. I had locked the door last night—I was always careful about locking it when I left the office because of the kind of neighborhood this was. The building had no janitor, and the only other person with a key would be the landlord; but he was not in the habit of paying uninvited calls on his tenants.
It was quiet in the hall except for the muffled, desultory clacking of a typewriter from one of the offices at the far end. But when I edged closer to the door I could hear another sound—a low pulsing beep, the kind a phone makes when it’s been off the hook for more than thirty seconds. The slit between the door and jamb let me see nothing but darkness and the faint smeary glow from the lights in the building across the street.
I stayed where I was for another ten seconds, listening to the beep from the phone. Then I put the heel of my hand against the panel, held a breath, and gave the door a hard shove and went in across the threshold by one step, reaching out for the light switch on the inside wall.
There was nobody in the room or in the little alcove off of it; I could see that and sense the emptiness as soon as the overhead lights blazed. But what I did see made me recoil, stunned me with an impact that was almost physical.
The office had literally been torn apart.
TWELVE
Wanton, senseless destruction. All the drawers in the filing cabinets standing open and their contents strewn across the floor. The magazines from the table in the visitor’s area ripped apart. The Black Mask poster pulled off the wall and shredded out of its frame. Everything swept off the desk, everything emptied out of the desk drawers. The typewriter still on its stand but the ribbon unwound from the spools like twenty feet of jumbled black intestine. The dregs from the coffee pot splashed on one wall; granules from the jar of instant coffee hurled around over the scattered papers. Jagged slash marks in the padded seat and back of my chair. Worm
s of white glue squeezed out over part of the desk and part of the client’s chair. A long deep gouge in the desk top, made with a knife or maybe my letter opener. And in the alcove, all the supplies scraped off the shelves, my spare change of clothes cut into strips, and a can of cleanser sprinkled over the tangle on the floor.
I started to shake, looking at all of that. A savage, impotent rage welled up inside me; I had that ugly feeling you get when something like this happens, this kind of personal violation: a combination of pain and hatred and confusion that makes you want to smash something yourself.
The more I looked at the carnage in there, the wilder I felt. In self-defense I caught hold of the door, backed into the corridor, and shut out the sight of it. It was two or three minutes before the shaking stopped and the black haze cleared out of my head. Before I could trust myself to go talk to anybody.
The office across the hall was vacant and had been for weeks; I went back past the elevator, toward the clacking of the typewriter. A guy named Faber who ran a mail-order business had the office adjacent to mine, but there were no lights on inside and the door was locked. The fourth office, where the typewriter sounds were coming from, belonged to a CPA named Hadley. I opened the door and went in there.
Hadley was sitting at one of two desks across the room, hunt-and-pecking on a small portable. He looked up as I entered and gave me one of his smarmy grins. He was a thin bald-headed guy in his forties, with a fox-face and a wise-ass sense of humor.
“Well, if it isn’t the dago private eye,” he said. “How’s the snooping business these days?”
“Knock it off, Hadley. I’m in no mood for bullshit.”
He took a closer look at my face, and the grin wiped away in a hurry. “Hey,” he said, “what’s the matter with you? You look—” He stopped there, but he did not have to say it; we both knew how I looked.
“You see anybody at my office today?”
“No. Why?”
“Hear anything down there?”
“Like what?”
“Like noise. Like a lot of damn noise.”
“I didn’t hear any noise. What—”
“You been here all day?”
“No. I was out from eleven until about two.”
“What about Faber across the hall? He come in today?”
“I don’t think so; he usually doesn’t on Fridays. Listen, what the hell happened?”
“Somebody busted up my office, that’s what happened.”
“Busted it up? You mean vandalized it?”
“That’s what I mean.”
Hadley began to look worried, but not for my sake. “You know who did it?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here talking to you. You sure you didn’t see anybody or hear anything while you were around?”
“Positive. Busted up your office, huh?” He looked around his own office, as if he were visualizing the same kind of thing happening here. “This building isn’t safe any more,” he said. “Raise the goddamn rent and it isn’t even safe. Maybe we’d better think about moving out.”
“Yeah,” I said, “maybe we’d better.”
I left him and went back along the hall to my door. When I opened it and bent to look at the lock I did not see any fresh scratches or signs of forced entry. But it wasn’t much of a lock; a kid could have picked it with a bubblegum card. I got a tight hold on myself, stepped inside and shut the door behind me.
The destruction was not any easier to look at, but I could face it now without feeling as though I would come unglued. I stood still for a time and asked myself why. For God’s sake, why?
Tenderloin junkie looking for money to buy a fix? Maybe. One of the tenants on the second floor had had his office broken into a few months ago and his petty-cash box looted, and there had been a couple of other break-ins over the years. But never my office, never a detective’s; no money here, even a junkie knew that. Besides, what pawnable items there were, like the typewriter and the answering machine, had not been carried away.
Kids, vandals? More likely. Except that there were none of the vandal’s trademarks: words spray-painted on the walls, puddles of urine or piles of feces. Except that pure vandalism was one of the few crimes that did not happen much in the Tenderloin, and especially not to one office in a building that was locked up at night and full of people during the day.
Somebody looking for something in my files? But I had no information that anyone could want, or at least none I could imagine anyone wanting; just a lot of case-report carbons, most of which were old and nearly all of which were mundane. That sort of thief, looking for something he couldn’t find, might take out his frustration on the office itself—only this was not an act of frustration. It had taken time, a lot of time, to do all this damage. And that made it an act of frenzy, done by somebody with——a sick mind. And whoever had been threatening Christine Webster, who had maybe killed her, had a sick mind; the anonymous letter Lainey Madden had shown me confirmed that. The same person? Possible—and yet it didn’t seem to make much sense. Why come after me? My involvement was minimal enough and I knew even less and posed a far smaller threat than the police. And what would destroying my office accomplish in any case?
Still. The time was right: somebody vandalizes the office while I’m in the middle of two linked murder cases. It could be one of the people I had met and talked to in the past few days. Or it could be somebody I had yet to meet and talk to; my name had been all over the papers. Jerry Carding? Steve Farmer?
Somebody.
Why?
The beeping from the disabled phone penetrated and sent me wading through the debris on the floor, around to the far side of the desk. The phone was lying there in two pieces, the receiver hooked over one of the chair legs. I picked it up and put it back together and set it down on the slashed chair seat. The answering machine was upside-down under the window; I picked that up too and laid it on top of the typewriter.
I dialed the Hall of Justice and asked for Eberhardt. Got him half a minute later. “It’s me again,” I said.
“Now what? I was just on my way home.”
I told him what now. There was a silence. Then he said, “Christ, can’t you stay out of trouble for one day?” but he no longer sounded annoyed or irascible.
“Lecture me some other time, will you? This isn’t my fault.”
“Bad, huh?”
“It couldn’t be much worse.”
“You think it’s connected with the Webster and Carding cases?”
“I don’t know what to think. Maybe.”
“All right. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Bring a couple of lab boys with you. There might be prints.”
“Twenty minutes.”
I hung up and fiddled with the switches on the answering machine. It seemed to be working okay—and there was a message on it, from Donleavy. His voice said I should call him at his office in Redwood City and then proceeded to give the number.
The message told me something else, too: my office had been vandalized sometime today, during business hours. If it had happened last night Donleavy would not have been able to reach me because of the disabled phone.
I dialed his number right away; it was better to be doing something constructive than brooding at what was left of this place. And it turned out that he was also still in.
“Thought you’d want to know,” he said. “I had a couple of my men make another search of the Carding garage and the grounds around it; they found the second bullet.”
“Good. Where?”
“Outside the garage window, in a bush.”
“So that’s what happened to it. Sure, the window was part way open, now that I think about it; I should have remembered that before. You going to withdraw the charges against Talbot now?”
“Not yet. Chances are he fired the bullet through the open window, considering where it was found and a Ballistics report confirming that it came from the murder weapon; but there’s no way of proving he did
. Carding could have fired it himself, sometime prior to his death.”
“But you do believe Talbot is innocent?”
Donleavy made a sighing sound. “What I believe doesn’t seem to hold much water around here. The DA’s still planning to prosecute.”
“Has Talbot’s condition changed any?”
“Status quo. He’s been under sedation most of the day. That’s a preliminary treatment in cases of suicidal depression, the doctors tell me.”
“No other developments, I guess?”
“Nope. How about with you? I talked to Laura Nichols this afternoon at the hospital; she said she’d hired you to do some investigating of your own.”
“Yeah. I was going to call you about that tonight. You mind?”
“Your buddy Eberhardt doesn’t mind. Why should I?”
I told him about Bobbie Reid and her connection with Christine Webster and Jerry Carding. “Might be something in that, at least where the Webster case is concerned; I’ll pass it along to Eberhardt. I don’t see how it could tie in with the Carding homicide, though.”
“Neither do I,” Donleavy said. “Anything else?”
“My office was vandalized today. Torn apart. I’m standing here in the wreckage right now, waiting for Eberhardt.”
“Rough. Any idea who did it?”
“No. But I’m not so sure it’s coincidence.”
“How come?”
“Nothing stolen, for one thing. What time did you leave your message on my machine?”
“About eleven. Why?”
“Whoever did it knocked the phone off the hook,” I said. “So it had to have happened sometime between your call and when I got here a little after five. Which pretty much lets out street kids; they don’t vandalize business offices in broad daylight.”
“So you think it ties in with the two homicide cases?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
After we rang off I looked around at the destruction again, in spite of myself. My gaze settled on the shredded Black Mask poster. It was no special loss; I could get another one made from the magazine cover. But it made me think of my collection of pulps. The damage here would amount to no more than a few hundred dollars—but what if the same kind of thing happened at my flat? Those six thousand pulps had to be worth more than thirty thousand dollars at the current market prices; most were irreplacable, at least where I was concerned, and I had damned little personal property insurance. The thought of them being demolished started me shaking all over again.
Labyrinth (The Nameless Detective) Page 9