by Lisa King
“What do you think he meant?” she asked.
“No idea. But I can’t believe a famous guy like him would be dumb enough to keep after us now that he thinks we have the manuscript. Unless he thinks he can steal it from us.”
Roman came out of his office. “How did it go with Hugh?”
“Not great,” Zeppo said. “I don’t know if we scared him, but we sure pissed him off.”
“Maybe when he cools down he’ll realize it’s in his best interest to leave us alone,” Jean said. “That’s what we’re hoping.”
“Yet desperate people don’t always act in their own best interests, do they?” Roman said.
When it was time to see Frank, they piled into Roman’s white Prius and he navigated to Pier 3 in heavy traffic. Jean and Zeppo left Roman waiting in a no-parking zone and found Frank in his office.
He looked drawn and had lost some weight, but his ample midsection still bulged in his blue golf shirt. His arms and shoulders showed traces of the construction worker he’d been as a young man. Trigger lay on the floor in a patch of sun. He raised his head and wagged his tail in greeting as Zeppo knelt down to pet him.
Frank motioned them to a couple of chairs and sat on the edge of his desk. “Diane tells me you two are looking into Martin’s death. I think it’s a bad idea, but I’ll help if I can.”
“We appreciate that,” Zeppo said. “Let me ask you something, Frank. How much did you know about Martin’s methods and what I did for him?”
“I knew he manipulated people, but I didn’t want to know how, and after talking to Diane I realize it was much worse than I thought. I’m as anxious as she is to keep things quiet. If it all comes out, I’ll be tarred with the same brush. I should have put a stop to it long ago, but Martin was impossible to derail once he found something that worked. I should have gone back to working alone, but business was too good.” He sighed. “I should have done a lot of things differently.”
“Can you think of anyone who would have been angry enough to kill him?” Zeppo asked.
“You’d know that better than I would.”
“What about that list of people you gave to the cops?” Jean said.
“The police told me not to talk about that.”
“Was Simon Emory on it?” Zeppo asked.
Frank hesitated. “Yes, he was. Martin blamed him for a problem with illegals on a job.”
“What about Armand Setrakian?”
Frank looked blank for a second. “Oh, the sculptor who sold us that land in Sonoma. No, he wasn’t on it. Don’t tell me Martin was blackmailing him, too.”
“Yeah,” Zeppo said. “But don’t lose any sleep over it. I found out that Setrakian—”
Frank put a hand up. “I really don’t want to hear it.”
“OK, if you say so.”
“How’d you become partners in the first place?” Jean asked.
“Years ago he hired my construction company on a housing development. We were having trouble with one of the unions, and Martin came on the site and threatened the union rep. Well, the rep took a swing at Martin. I stopped him and talked everybody down. Martin was grateful. We worked together on a few more projects and finally formed a partnership. I came between him and a black eye more than once over the years.”
There wasn’t anything more to ask, so Jean and Zeppo thanked him and left.
“Frank couldn’t add much,” Zeppo said to Roman as they got in his car. “He says Simon Emory was on the list he gave to the cops, but not Setrakian. Did Jean tell you about Emory?”
Roman turned south on the Embarcadero. “Yes, and about his explanation of Oksana’s disappearance. Do you think it sounds plausible?”
“That she ran off with Martin’s money, with or without a boyfriend?” Zeppo said. “Sure, but there’s another explanation that makes just as much sense. We still don’t know what Oksana sold Martin. There’s a good chance it was information about Emory. What if he found out when she came to pay him off? He might have scared her into running away or even hurt her. That would also explain why someone’s searching all of the places Martin spent time.”
“Could be,” Jean allowed. “I like Simon, but he’s hard to read. He seems to be doing some good for his illegals. He dyes his hair.”
“How do you know?” Roman asked as they inched along Howard toward the Castro.
“His pale roots showed the first time I met him. He’s probably prematurely gray, like me.”
“What color was your hair before, Jeannie?” Zeppo asked.
“A very boring shade of light brown. Silver is far superior. It was rough at first, though—I got my first gray hair at eighteen.”
Roman ran a hand over his bald head. “I started losing my hair at about the same age.”
“At least you don’t have any gray yet, Roman” Jean said. “If all your hair turns my color, you’ll look like a yeti.”
“Another possibility is that Martin had something on Kay and she’s looking for it,” Roman said. “But I can’t believe Kay would do the searching herself. She must have had help.”
“She’s got this big guy who drives her around,” Zeppo said. “Donald Grimes.”
“What do you know about him?” Roman asked.
“Nothing,” Jean said, “except that he’s a self-righteous Christian.”
“It’s obvious why Martin would have kept something on Kay—she’s moving up politically,” Roman said.
“But her enemies would dig up any dirt from her past,” Zeppo said. “She’s pissed off a lot of people with the Rational Right movement.”
“That she has,” Roman said. “Zeppo, what were Martin’s politics?”
“I guess you’d say he was a libertarian. He believed in personal freedom, like he supported abortion rights and gay rights and that kind of thing. But he also thought just about every aspect of business should be deregulated. Kay was a narrow-minded fanatic as far as he was concerned. Hey, maybe she’s screwing Donald.”
Jean shook her head. “No way. No fornicating for him. He probably doesn’t even masturbate. Besides, if she were screwing him she’d dress him better.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“So we can assume there are at least two pieces of evidence still out there,” Roman said. “Any ideas where else Martin might have hidden something?”
“I’ve thought a lot about that, and I can’t come up with anyplace new,” Zeppo said. “I searched the Jag myself. Nothing.”
Back at his house, Roman let them in. “Come with me, children,” he said. “We have to be ready in case of enemy assault, so let’s distribute the hardware.”
Zeppo looked questioningly at Jean. “He means guns,” she said. They followed Roman to his office. Even though Roman had taught Jean to shoot years ago, she’d never enjoyed going to the practice range and guns still made her very nervous.
Roman unlocked his gun safe. “Zeppo, have you ever fired a gun?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, don’t be shy. Guns are as American as Applequist.” He took out a revolver. “This is a thirty-eight caliber double-action Colt Agent Special. It’s a nice little gun. They don’t make them anymore. You get six shots with this one.” Roman emptied the chamber and checked the barrel, handling the gun with easy familiarity. He held it out to Zeppo, who took it reluctantly. “Now it’s empty,” Roman said. “Hold it like this. Squeeze gently, don’t jerk. Try it.”
Zeppo pulled the trigger twice. “I thought it would be heavier.”
“Most of them are. This one has an alloy frame. Now remember, since you’re probably not much of a shot, aim for the torso. That’s where you have the best chance of hitting something important.”
“I don’t think I could actually shoot anybody,” Zeppo said, handing the gun back.
“You’d be amazed what you can do if you’re cornered.” Roman took two blue steel automatics out of the safe. “These are nine-millimeter Berettas. Very reliable. Here’s the safety—it has to be
off to shoot. Chamber a round like this.” He unloaded one of them and let Zeppo pull the trigger.
“That’s all the training you get right now. I’ll take you to the firing range later.” Roman reloaded the guns. “Let’s put these where they’ll do some good.”
Roman placed one of the Berettas in the drawer of an end table in his living room. They all walked over to Beau’s, and he put the second Beretta in a desk drawer in Beau’s office and the Colt upstairs in the leather-topped nightstand.
“If anyone breaks in, which would be very difficult, get out of the house and go to a neighbor’s or down to the main street,” Roman said. “But if you’re trapped, use one of these. There’s a bullet already chambered in the Berettas. If the intruder is armed and you’re in immediate danger, don’t hesitate to shoot. If not, have him lie face down on the floor with his hands behind his head while you call the cops. The guns are all legal, registered to me, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
Zeppo put his arm around Jean’s shoulders. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined the investigation ending up, with us hiding out in a house full of guns.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t last long,” Roman said. “Things will get tricky when you have to go back to work, Jean, or if Beau comes home before it’s settled. Now that we’re all set up for safety, how about dinner?”
They spent a convivial evening making and devouring lasagna and green salad, washed down with bottles of good Italian wine.
THE NEXT morning, Jean and Zeppo were eating leftover lasagna for breakfast when Roman knocked on the kitchen door. He carried a small gun case.
“I’m at a stopping point now, so why don’t we go to the firing range?” he said.
“Good idea,” Zeppo said. “I really should try it a few times so I don’t shoot off my dick if I have to do it for real.”
“You’re right to be concerned,” Roman said. “Jean would discard you in an instant if that happened.”
Jean made a face. “I hate the firing range. It always gives me a headache. Do I have to go?”
Roman shrugged. “I suppose you’ve practiced recently enough. You can stay here with the doors locked. While we’re out, we’ll stop at the market. Any requests?”
“Will you make Mexican food tonight?” Jean said. “I’ll help.”
“Certainly,” Roman said. “I’d like that.”
He and Zeppo went down the back steps while Jean locked up and set the alarm.
Jean, in sweat pants and an old T-shirt, curled up on the sofa and read the morning newspaper. As she had for the past couple of days, she searched for a mention of Armand Setrakian. Nothing so far. She finished her Bangkok mystery—Thailand was now at the top of her travel wish list. Feeling restless, she moved the coffee table so she could do some sit-ups and a little yoga, being careful of her healing bruises. Halfway through her second sun salutation, the doorbell rang.
Jean looked through the peephole. A man she’d never seen before stood on the threshold. She could make out a round head, completely bald on top, surrounded by frizzy gray curls that blended into a shaggy beard. Wire-rimmed glasses rested on a small nose. She thought of ignoring him, but for all she knew he was one of Beau’s neighbors wanting to borrow an egg. “Yes?” she called.
“You Jean Applequist?” His voice was deep and rumbling.
How in hell did he know she was here? “Who’s asking?”
“I’m the guy pulled Martin Wingo out of the bay.”
CHAPTER 33
Jean gripped the doorknob. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
He held something up to the peephole. “I’ve got the man’s watch.”
Jean could make out a black and white watch, but not much else. If it really was Martin’s, this guy was important. She looked at her own watch—Roman and Zeppo should be home soon. “Look, can you come back in an hour? I’m alone, and I don’t feel comfortable letting you in.”
“Sorry, I can’t wait around.”
“How about if I call the detectives on the case? You can talk to them.”
“No way—no cops. That’s why I’m here and not down at the Hall.”
Jean was at a loss. She couldn’t let him get away, yet knew how dangerous it might be to open the door.
“You got a gun in there?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Then we don’t have a problem. You can hold the gun while we talk about my ten grand.”
Jean had to know if he was telling the truth, and she was confident enough in her nerve and her shooting skills to chance it. “OK, just a minute.” She hurried to Beau’s study and got the Beretta from the desk drawer. She flicked off the safety and held it in her right hand, unfastening the locks with her left. As she opened the door, she stepped back and raised the gun.
The man on the stoop was about Jean’s height but must have weighed eighty pounds more, a lot of it muscle. His massive shoulders strained against an old brown plaid flannel shirt, which hung loose over his gut. A Grateful Dead patch, a gaping rose-crowned skull, adorned his breast pocket. His sleeves were rolled up, and Jean could see a faded tattoo on a muscular forearm, the letters “U.S.M.C.” His camouflage trousers were tucked into combat boots that had come partly unlaced over his huge calves. When he grinned, his small brown eyes nearly disappeared behind his cheeks. Jean put his age at around sixty.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now be cool, because I don’t want to get shot by accident.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Ivan. Can I come in?”
In spite of his size, his vibe was nonthreatening. “I guess so.” Jean moved out of the way. “Two of my friends will be here any minute, though,” she warned.
“OK with me, as long as they’re not cops.” He stepped into the foyer. “Now, you don’t want to pat me down, because if I’m any good I’ll disarm you. So I’ll just show you that I’m clean.” He pulled his shirt up over his barrel chest, showing weathered, hairy skin as he turned in a circle. Generous love handles spilled over his belt. He emptied his pants pockets and pulled them inside out. “OK?” he said. He returned wallet and keys to his pockets.
“OK.” Jean gestured with the automatic. “Go into the living room and sit on the straight-back chair.” She sat across the room, training the gun on him. “Let’s see that watch.”
Ivan took the watch from his breast pocket and tossed it to her. She examined it, one eye on Ivan. It was a top-ofthe-line Patek Philippe, platinum with a white face and a black alligator band. The band showed a little water damage, but the watch still ran. The monogram on the bezel read “MNW.”
“It’s his watch, all right,” Jean said. “How’d you get it?”
“I warmed him up, fed him, gave him dry clothes, and took him where he wanted to go. He was grateful. Can I have it back now?”
She threw him the watch. “Where’d you take him?”
Ivan shook his head. “Money first.”
“That’s not up to me,” Jean said. “His wife’s offering the reward.”
“Yeah, but there are pigs and reporters crawling all over her. I saw you going in and out of her house, so I figure you’re a friend. You can broker the exchange.”
“Let me see if I understand. You want the reward but don’t want to talk to the cops.”
“On TV they said she’d pay ten grand to find out who picked him up and where they dropped him off. What you do with the info’s up to you.” He shifted on the chair, which was too small for him. “Anyway, you and that redheaded kid have been going all around town talking to people. A couple of junior detectives. I tell you where he went, you figure out the rest.”
“You’ve been following us?”
“Sure.” He grinned again. “I like following good-looking women.”
Someone unlocked the back door, and Jean heard Zeppo and Roman come into the kitchen, talking and laughing.
“Guys,” she called. “Come here. I want you to meet someone.”
The two me
n stopped abruptly when they saw Ivan and the gun in Jean’s hand. “What’s going on?” Roman demanded.
“These are my friends Roman and Zeppo. Guys, this is Ivan. He rescued Martin. The gun is just insurance. Can I put it away now?”
“I’ll take it,” Roman said. She handed it to him, glad to be rid of it. He frowned down at her. “You’ll hear from me later about the foolishness of letting him in.”
Ivan gave a rumbling chuckle. “Don’t be too hard on her—she did OK. Had the safety off from the get-go and kept her distance.”
Zeppo sat next to Jean and Roman took a chair near Ivan, putting the automatic on an end table. Jean summarized the negotiations so far.
“Ivan, will you please expound on the events of that evening up until you dropped Martin off?” Roman said.
“Sure. That afternoon I motored down from up north and came into the bay after dark. I heard the man-overboard on the radio. About half an hour later I fished Wingo out with a boat hook. He slept for a while. Later on I took him to Marina Green, where he made some calls from a pay phone, and then he got back on board and I dropped him somewhere else. I’ll tell you where when I get the ten grand.”
“What type of boat do you have?” Roman asked.
“A forty-foot fishing trawler.”
“What took you so long to get him back on shore?” Zeppo asked.
Ivan grinned. “I had a business commitment. They were late.”
“At that hour?” Jean said. “What sort of work do you do?”
“I’m in the agricultural sector.”
“Ah,” Roman said. “That would explain why Martin was stoned when he died and why he called you a pirate.”
“A pirate, huh? Nah, I’m not into pillaging and looting. I’m a farmer.”
Roman smiled. “Don’t worry, we’re not interested in your dope business. But I can see why you won’t go to the police.”
“You got it,” Ivan said, nodding. “They’ll want to check my boat, and I’ve been hauling herb in it for so many years it’ll never get clean. So if anyone tells the cops about me, I’m gone. If they track me down, I’ll have witnesses who’ll say I never left Humboldt County. Either way, you’ll never find out what happened to Wingo.”