Another hour passed before the fire was completely out and most of the crowd had scattered. That’s when I saw Harley, trying to push his way into the building. Not even singed, from what I could see. But when I got up closer to him I could smell the smoke on his clothes. He was clutching his briefcase.
They wouldn’t let him near his office. It wasn’t safe yet and there were things that had to be done before anything could be touched. That’s what they told him. They said he should check back with them in an hour. I offered to buy him a cup of coffee. He fumbled along after me.
“God!” he kept repeating. “God! I couldn’t get anything out of there. I don’t know what’s been destroyed, what’s left. I almost got caught. It was coming from two directions at once.”
I got him calmed down enough to tell his story coherently.
“Those two rooms on either side of me. The storage rooms. It was sudden. This roaring sound and heat, and then I heard someone scream ‘Fire,’ and then my walls, on both sides of me, they were on fire and I barely made it out the door. Someone tried to get me, Samson.” His thin lips bit off those last words like a parakeet nipping at cuttlebone. I cocked my head, still listening to him. “I’m not sure, but I think a few minutes before the fire, I heard someone go into those rooms. First one side and then the other.”
“Why would anyone want to get you, Harley?” I felt, somehow, that the question did not sound sincere.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. “I have a strong liberal reputation. Apparently they think I’m dangerous to their movement.” He patted his briefcase and stuck out his chin, a martyr to righteousness and what he saw as his own fame. “They were probably after this. My manuscript. It’s going to be the definitive work—”
I didn’t care. “Did Rebecca find you?” I interjected. He looked at me, and I saw a flash of anger in his eyes.
“Yes. Can you imagine her, actually coming here?”
I shrugged. “She was worried.”
He nodded, accepting the inevitability of her devotion. “I should have called her, I suppose, if only to keep her away. I made her leave.” I didn’t comment on that but told him I needed to go through his wife’s effects and see if the police had left anything that might be informative. We agreed that I would meet him later at his house.
I left Harley with the cops, who wanted to know why he thought someone might start a fire in his department. There wasn’t much question but that it was arson. Everything flammable in the two storerooms had been piled against the walls connecting with Harley’s office and doused with gasoline. The arsonists had even, obligingly, left their gallon cans behind.
An hour after that the police and several radio and TV stations received a communique from CORPS claiming responsibility for the fire and saying that they meant it as a message to all the corrupters of American youth.
Everyone rushed to broadcast the news. But within a couple more hours there was a second message, also from CORPS, denying that it had anything to do with the fire.
– 9 –
The first announcement was broadcast right around the time I got to the Earthlight Meditation Center. I walked in just in time to hear it on Billy’s office radio. He held up his hand for silence, and we listened together. The announcer liked the word communique. He used it three times.
Billy smiled ruefully at me and shook his head. “A little excitement on the campus, huh?” He paused, shook his head again, and then gave me a politely inquiring look. “What can I do for you today?”
I smiled back at him. “I’ve been hearing some stories about you, Billy.” I hadn’t heard much, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Oh?” he said. No expression at all. Not hostile, not scared, not even puzzled. Just blank.
“About your relationship with Margaret Bursky.”
He rubbed his eyes, long-suffering. “What is it you want? I have work to do, you know.” He turned away, heading toward a bank of file cabinets.
“Just hold it, Billy. I want to talk to you,” I barked. I was gambling that he’d respond to that kind of treatment. He did. He skidded to a stop and turned around.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” He was trying to snarl. He was also trying to cover up, with bravado, the fact that he had followed orders and stopped walking away from me.
“I want to know why you lied to me yesterday. About your friendship with Margaret Bursky.”
He stopped trying to snarl and looked merely offended. “I don’t have to answer your questions. I think you should leave.”
I tossed him my best wolfish grin. “Come on, Billy. Maybe the police don’t have to know how close you were to the woman.”
That got to him. “You can’t blackmail me, you bastard. I told them we were friends.” And now he had told me that the police were already onto the meditation center.
I patted the air with my hand in a calming gesture. “Hey, relax, Billy. It just seems to me that if you knew her all that well you could tell me a lot about her. Anonymously.”
His expression changed again, this time to a funny, sly look that, taken to its extreme, usually indicates a kink in the brain. Cool people like me, we don’t let people catch us looking that way. The look faded quickly, but I knew he was playing a game with me. I gazed at him steadily.
His eyes slid away from mine. “We were friends. That’s all.” The slyness was deliberate, I guessed. He was trying to give me the impression that he was hiding something. I knew that ploy. Artie Perrine used it every time he bluffed at poker.
“That’s what I figured,” I told him, enjoying the quick wash of disappointment that crossed his undistinguished hairy features. “After all…” I narrowed my eyes and gave him a look that fell just short of disgust. He was appropriately insulted.
“As a matter of fact, we were very good friends,” he said huffily.
I raised my eyebrows and pursed my lips. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“What makes you think I tell everyone everything I know?” he snapped. I couldn’t believe how childish this guy was. “I don’t see that it’s anyone’s business.” His voice broke. “It’s so hard to talk about.” He shook his head and covered his eyes. “I just can’t. Not yet. Maybe in a few days.”
I gritted my teeth. “Perhaps one more question?” He looked up at me, the picture of crucifixion. “Her therapy group. Do you know the name of the therapist?” He shook his head, turned, and walked slowly toward his desk. If he knew anything at all, I couldn’t let him off the hook for “a few days.” I had an idea.
“One more thing?” He raised his shoulders in resignation. “Have a meal with me and just give me your impressions of the woman—as a close friend.” He stood up a little straighter and turned to face me. He was smiling. I should have known from the beginning that the way to this guy’s information, if he had any, was through his stomach. I suspected there’d been times in his life when a free meal was the only kind he could get. The love of handouts was habit-forming.
“Of course,” he said. “Tomorrow night? By then…” He raised his shoulders again, implying that he might, in another thirty hours or so, have his emotions under control. I had the feeling they never had been.
“I’ll call you,” I said. He returned to his desk, looking cheerful. I went to the bulletin board and copied down the names and phone numbers of the four therapists who’d pinned their cards there. One in Berkeley, three in Oakland. With any luck, I could see them all that day and squeeze in a visit to Harley’s, too. Since I was in Berkeley, I called the nearest one first. His name was Harold Feldman. I told him I was doing a magazine article and would like to talk to him. His voice and his telephone manner were pleasant, youthful, and nonthreatening.
“What kind of article, Mr. Samson?”
“I’d rather discuss it with you in person, if you can find the time.” It’s too easy to cut someone short on the phone. Even though face-to-face visits would mean time wasted on dead ends, they also more than doubled the od
ds of coming up with something. Feldman thought it over.
“Tell you what, Mr. Samson. I’ve got a free hour right now. But there’s only about forty-five minutes of it left.”
I told him that would do and I’d be right there.
Feldman plied his practice in a house converted to several small professional offices. There was a lawyer, another therapist, a family counselor, and a consultant, whatever that might mean. He responded immediately to my knock on his half-open door, leaping up from behind a desk and coming to meet me halfway. He shook my hand. A little guy, about my age, but wide-eyed like a kid. Not many lines on his face. Bright blue kid eyes, pinkish tan skin, light brown hair that covered about three-quarters of his head. He looked healthy and he looked like he had a lot of leisure time. We sat in comfortable chairs with no desk between us. Just two pals.
“So, Mr. Samson. What is it you want to talk about?”
I told him what I was after. He looked disappointed and shook his small round head.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t know the poor woman.”
I thanked him, shook his hand again, and left. He’d been startled by my abruptness. I figured he hadn’t had very many two-minute sessions.
The second therapist had her office over an antique shop in North Oakland, a couple of blocks past the Berkeley line. I knew I’d met her before, but I couldn’t remember where.
“You’re Jake,” she said, with a kind of wonder.
“Well, yes…” Then it hit me. A year or so ago. Rosie had gone out with her for about a month. I’d met her once or twice. But the romance had gone the way those things go sometimes. She’d wanted the whole thing with Rosie; Rosie hadn’t wanted the whole thing with her. Her name was Jill. I’d liked her a lot and had been sorry it hadn’t worked out.
She hadn’t known Margaret Bursky either.
“It was nice seeing you again, Jill,” I told her as I got up to leave.
She smiled. A very pretty smile. Rosie had rocks in her head.
“How is she doing, Jake? I see her around sometimes, you know, but we don’t talk much.”
I chewed my lip. I didn’t think Rosie was doing all that great, but I couldn’t very well say that. “She’s fine. Doing fine.”
Jill held out her hand, and I took it briefly in a friendly shake.
Life sure was scummy sometimes.
The third one was the one. Oh, boy, was she the one.
She stood about five foot eight. She had long blond Anglo-Saxon hair. Very pale blond. Maybe even farther north than Anglo-Saxon. She had cheekbones that looked like soft triangles, blue gray eyes, and golden skin tinged with pink highlights. She looked like an ice maiden until she smiled. Her lips were full, her teeth were perfect, and there was this dent that appeared magically in her left cheek. Devastating. She also had a long white neck dipping down into her shirt, the shirt unbuttoned to the top of the gentle swell of breast. She was wearing gray tweed slacks and a mauve silk blouse. She damned near stopped my heart.
I’m not normally a total sucker for good looks. I like good-looking women, of course, but beautiful zombies don’t appeal to me. I’m not a necrophiliac. This woman was so alive, so warm, she vibrated and pulsed and got all kinds of answering vibrations and pulsations from my blasé carcass. Her name was Iris Hughes. She could have been called nasturtium, and it would have been all right with me.
Margaret Bursky had been in her Thursday night group. And she wouldn’t tell me anything else. I thought fast. If she wouldn’t talk to Jake Samson the writer, maybe she’d talk to Jake Samson the investigator. I decided to trust her, since there were no witnesses. I admitted that I was working on Bursky’s death but didn’t tell her who I was working for. Ethics are ethics. I used the word murder just to touch things up a bit.
The word hit her pretty hard, but she recovered quickly. “I’d heard that the police thought it might be homicide,” she said, ice maidenishly. “But what proof is there?”
“I wouldn’t call it proof. But there are some very good indications. Did you like her, Dr. Hughes?”
“Not doctor,” she answered absently. “Just a master’s degree at the moment. Yes, I liked her. She was a troubled woman and her troubles had caused some bitterness. But she was a good woman. A lost one, Mr. Samson.”
“Jake. Do I call you Master?”
She gazed at me for a moment and decided to be amused. “Only if you really want to.” She paused. “Maybe she killed herself.”
“Hell of a stupid way to do it. She might not have died.”
She nodded, still gazing at me, Lord. “Why should I help you, Jake? I’m willing to cooperate with the police as far as I can, but why you?”
I didn’t answer, just looked back at her and tried not to wreck my composure on those sharp iceberg eyes.
“The thing is,” she continued, “I don’t really know anything that would be useful. I certainly wasn’t aware of any threat to her life.”
“Could I join your group? Get to know some of the people who knew her? I’d drop out again—”
“No.”
“Is there any other way I could meet them? I’ve trusted you enough to blow my cover. You can trust me.”
She was thinking. “It is possible that some of the members of the group might be of some help.” She was thinking about it hard, studying my face.
“Someone tried to kill her husband today, too,” I added. “I don’t know who might be next.” I didn’t really think we were dealing with a mass murderer, but I hoped that implication might push her over the line. It did. She stood up and walked to a file cabinet in the corner, opened a drawer, took out a sheet of paper, and carried it back to her desk.
“This is a list of the names and addresses of the people in the group. I could be coy and go out and get a drink of water or something, but if I’m going to do that I might as well just hand you the list. Should I be expecting the police to visit me, too?”
“Yes.”
She pursed her lips. Somehow, on her, it looked good. “If they really want this list, they can get it,” she said thoughtfully. “Of course, you’re not the police.”
“I’m cuter.”
She smiled gently. “Do you really think so?” I’d asked for that. Then she took a pen and a piece of paper and began to copy the list. It wasn’t very long. She slid it across the desk to me.
Five names, not including Margaret Bursky. Addresses and phone numbers for four of them, address only for the fifth.
“I am trusting you, Jake. If I find out it was a mistake you’re going to be in trouble for operating without a license. And for breaking and entering and rifling my files. Clear?”
“Very.” I tucked the list in my wallet. “Now tell me, do you like movies?”
She grinned. “You are kind of cute at that. But I can’t go out with you.” She waved the list at me. “I can’t afford to get involved. I can’t afford to lose clients. I may anyway, when you start nosing around.”
“I don’t expect this investigation to last forever,” I said stubbornly.
“Okay,” she laughed. “Call me when it’s over.”
I walked down the carpeted stairs wondering how I could get her to change her mind, climbed into my car, turned the ignition key, and sat there stupidly for a moment, listening to the radio.
It was then that I heard the second message from CORPS. The one that said they’d had nothing to do with the fire.
– 10 –
The denial from CORPS brought me back down to earth, down as far as Harley. It was time to meet him at his house.
Harley was drinking what looked like a whisky and soda. He wasn’t holding up well. I noticed the faint smell of smoke still coming from his tweed jacket. He offered me a drink and I turned it down.
“Where did she keep her personal things, Harley?”
My businesslike approach straightened him up a little.
“In her desk, of course. In her room.”
“Her own bedroom?”
&
nbsp; He flushed slightly. “Sometimes it was that, yes.” He led me to it and stood in the doorway. The room held a single bed covered with a blue chenille spread, a nightstand, a reading lamp, a few prints and two Margaret Bursky paintings on the walls, an oval braided rug, a small bookcase, a desk, and an empty easel near the window. One of the paintings was a landscape, the other an unrecognizable mass of primary colors that I liked very much. Both were dated 1970.
I started with the bookcase. Several art history books, a dozen or so books about individual artists, mostly dead ones, complete with color plates, and a few novels of the best-seller variety. Nothing there. I tried the desk. A few snapshots of the happy couple in better times, a lot of odds and ends like old checking statements and check registers, out-of-date auto-insurance policies, a few letters that were years old, a few travel brochures, a file folder that contained tax returns from 1969 to 1972. The kind of detritus everyone collects and forgets to throw away. The only thing I found that was unique to her was an old drawing pad with yellowed pages that contained what looked like studies for a landscape. If there had been anything more significant in those drawers, the police had it now.
The nightstand came next. Nothing in there but a box of tissues and a bottle of aspirin. I tried the closet. Two robes on hangers, one heavy and one lightweight, and one nightgown. A pair of slippers. And something I’d been looking for. The canvas shoulder bag that Alana had described to me. I pulled it out into the light. Harley was still standing in the doorway, watching me. He seemed reluctant to actually enter the room, and I wondered if he ever had.
Alana said the bag had contained notebooks or drawing pads. Not anymore. All I found were half a dozen drawing pencils, two pens, and a couple of those erasers that artists use, the kind that look and feel like silly putty.
“Did the police take anything out of this bag?” I asked Harley, hoping he’d noticed.
Samson's Deal: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) Page 7