Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “What did he want with an X-ACTO knife?”

  “He said he was working on a retirement project. He wasn’t rude, exactly. But he made it clear he thought I was a moron.”

  Jean stared into space, thinking hard.

  Gwen looked at her. “What?”

  “Gwen, listen: Do you have keys to the office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you take me there now?”

  “What for?”

  Jean looked at the intelligent face under the makeup and decided to trust her. “Here’s the short version. Martin had blackmail evidence about people. Since he died, someone has searched his office, boat, and house. You just gave me a great idea about where Martin might have hidden evidence.”

  “At the office somewhere?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gwen downed her beer. “Let’s go.”

  They went out to the VW. “OK,” Gwen said over the engine as she drove toward Pier 3, “where are we going to look?”

  “In the model of the Martin Wingo Building. Zeppo told me Martin was going to take it home with him. He probably didn’t want to walk around carrying the evidence in case he had another heart attack. You said he needed an X-ACTO knife for a retirement project. I think his project was more blackmail.”

  “You could be right. I worked on that model—the thing is mostly foam core, but part of it is hollow. It’d be easy to make a slit and slide something in.”

  Gwen used a card to access the empty parking lot. They walked across the Embarcadero to Pier 3. Except for the foyer, the Wingo-Johansen offices were dark. Out the window, the lights on the Bay Bridge looked like strings of luminous pearls.

  Jean examined the Martin Wingo Building while Gwen fetched an X-ACTO knife. The little plastic gargoyles leered at her. Looking closely, Jean noticed a strip of tape along the back of the model.

  Gwen came up next to her. “We’re cool. There’s no one else here. See anything?”

  “Yeah. Right here.”

  “Aha!” Gwen cut through the tape, exposing a six-inch slit in the cardboard. Pushing it open, she used two slender fingers to pull out a Ziploc sandwich bag that contained a mini-DVD in a plastic sleeve and a small beige envelope. The DVD was unmarked; the letter was addressed to Martin Wingo in New York City and the return address was Kay Bennett on 25th Avenue in San Francisco. The postmark was February 3, 1982.

  “There might be fingerprints, so we have to be careful,” Jean said. Gwen gently pulled out the two-page handwritten letter, touching it only with her long black nails, and laid it on the floor. The women sat close on the off-white carpeting, leaning against the model’s Lucite base, and read it together. The sharp backhand writing was easy to make out.

  Dear Martin,

  Sorry to hear you’re struggling with calculus. You should have gone to law school with me—no math required beyond adding up your fees.

  Now for the bad news: The rabbit died, as they say. No wonder I’ve been feeling queasy all the time. I was afraid it was an ulcer. I cut up that fucking useless diaphragm and threw it away. I’m not going to let a goddamned baby ruin everything I’ve planned. I know you’re ambivalent about this, but we have to focus on our goals. For a woman to make it in politics, really make it at the highest level, she can’t be hauling a passel of brats around in a station wagon while her male contemporaries are getting things done. I don’t want to start in my forties what my classmates will start in their twenties. You understand this better than most men—in spite of your male chauvinist tendencies, you do comprehend real politik. And if you wanted a brood mare I don’t think you’d have stuck with me for so long.

  I’ll have the abortion next Thursday. I found a doctor who’ll also perform a tubal ligation. Most of them think just because I’m young I don’t know what I want. I should be fine in a few days, and Barbara will take care of me. I’ve got enough money to cover it, but will let you know if I need more. So there it is: If we get married, you’re out of the gene pool. Sorry about that.

  I really miss you and can’t wait until spring break. Won’t it be nice to fuck without getting spermicide all over everything?

  XXXOOO, Kay

  Jean and Gwen sat back and looked at each other.

  “I’m beginning to have a grudging admiration for Martin,” Jean said. “He kept this letter for thirty years. The guy was prescient. How’d he know she’d turn into Mrs. Rational Right?”

  “Man, she’s cold. I know women who’ve had abortions, and it’s always an emotional workout even if they’re really sure about it. She sounds like she’s having her tonsils out.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s not the abortion and the sterilization that’ll finish her. That might have come out any time, because obviously there are other people who know about it—the doctor and nurses, whoever Barbara is. But Kay could say she got religion later, regrets it, wants to prevent others from making the same mistake, bullshit like that. What would finish her is the icy, calculating tone of the letter.”

  “She could say it’s a fake,” Gwen said.

  “I bet it’d do its damage anyway. You know, Martin changed his mind about kids. Diane told me they were going to have a family. That’s why most doctors won’t sterilize people that young—hell, even I might change my mind someday.”

  “I’m going to have kids for sure—everyone says I’m really maternal.” Gwen held up the DVD with her nails. “What about this?”

  Jean wanted to see that particular bit of evidence alone—it almost certainly involved Simon and Oksana. “I’ll take it back to my uncle’s and watch it.”

  Gwen tapped the letter. “What should we do with it?”

  “Give it to the police, of course.” Jean thought for a minute. “I think I’ll fax it to Roman first. I usually don’t believe in violating a woman’s privacy, but this letter will be public soon enough no matter what I do.”

  Gwen picked up the letter and envelope with her nails and led Jean into a small office behind the receptionist’s desk, turned on the copier, and soon had copies. Jean faxed the whole thing to Roman. Gwen returned the letter to its envelope and handed it to Jean, and they put the copy back in the model. Jean slipped the original and the mini-DVD inside her bra.

  Zeppo’s phone was out of juice, so Jean borrowed Gwen’s and tried Roman’s cell again. It was still off, and no one was home at his house or Beau’s. She looked at her watch. Almost eight o’clock. “Where is that man?” she muttered.

  “Do you think something’s really wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. He has a lot of demands on him and lots of sick friends. It could be anything.”

  “Then don’t sweat it,” Gwen said. “I’ll run you home.” They piled into Gwen’s bus and drove to the Castro.

  Jean patted Gwen’s knee as she pulled up to Beau’s house. “Nice work, sister. See you tomorrow.” Jean ran up to the front door. Gwen waited until she was inside before driving off.

  CHAPTER 44

  The alarm was still set, so Jean felt safe once she was inside Beau’s house with the front door relocked. She dropped her purse and jacket on a chair and checked the phone messages. None from Roman. She was getting worried.

  Jean went out the back door and through the garden. Roman wasn’t home, but his car was still in the garage. She was now confused as well as worried. Thinking he may have had a Bash Back emergency, she called Lou Kasden, Nick Rigatos, and a few more of his friends. No one had seen him.

  Back in Beau’s kitchen, Jean thought about calling Zeppo, but was reluctant to tie up the phone—Beau didn’t have call waiting. She’d have to try and find Zeppo’s phone charger. As she wondered what to do next, the phone rang and she raced to answer it.

  “Jean, it’s me.”

  “Oh Roman, thank God. Where are you?”

  “At the Hall of Justice,” he said angrily. “A couple of cops picked me up for questioning about those sailors who got stomped, and they confiscated my phone. I’ll bet anything Davila put them up to i
t.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but it took Elaine, my lawyer, a while to get here, so they’ve been jerking me around for hours.”

  “You didn’t do it, did you?”

  “Not this time. I was teaching a class that night. I have nine witnesses.”

  “Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “No thanks. Elaine will bring me along soon. How did you get home?”

  “A friend of Zeppo’s. Listen, Roman: I found the evidence against Kay—and the DVD. I have them here now.”

  “Say no more. This is a police line. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He hung up.

  Jean sighed with relief and a sense of accomplishment. She just had one more thing to do—watch the DVD. She poured herself a glass of Pinot Gris from the open bottle in the fridge and went into Beau’s study, where she turned on his TV and DVD player, slipped the disk in, and took the remote to an overstuffed chair. She hit play.

  The screen showed a skinny young woman with pale blond hair and bright blue eyes. She was beautiful and exuded a powerful sexuality. So this was Oksana. She sat in a desk chair in Martin’s office—Jean recognized his view of the bridge over her right shoulder.

  “What do you have to sell?” Martin’s voice said offscreen.

  “When I come to this country my English is terrible,” she said, looking directly into the camera. She had a strong accent. “So I work in a sweatshop in Manhattan making purses and learn English.”

  “Go on.”

  “Later, when I am speaking better English, my boss made me be a prostitute. It was like hell.” She glanced away from the camera for a moment. “Then a girl told me about a man in San Francisco named Simon Emory who will pay my boss, and then I can work for him as a waitress until I pay him back. I wouldn’t be a prostitute. So that’s what happened. I work in Simon’s club.

  “Then I meet Spider, a bartender there who is very sweet and funny and likes me a lot. He buys me pretty things and takes care of me. He is so different from the other men I know.”

  Martin made encouraging noises off-camera.

  “Spider found a better job in San Jose, but he must go right away. He says I should come with him.” Her smile was an odd mix of happiness and disbelief. “He wants to marry me. So I say I’ll go with him.”

  “And why is this important?” Jean heard an impatient note in Martin’s voice.

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” Oksana said sharply. “Simon has papers . . . files on all of us, so if we run away he tells Immigration and they come get us. I want to find my file and burn it. I took a key and when he is gone I search his office. I don’t find any files on people, but I find a big envelope full of articles from the newspaper. The articles are about a thing I remember in New York. A container came from Rotterdam. It sat on the dock and it started to smell bad. They open it and it is full of dead people. Illegals like me. I came in that way, by container.”

  “I read about that,” Martin said. “They died from the heat, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. It was summer. The man who should let them out never came. I saw pictures of him in the articles. He used a different name, his hair is longer and blond, with a beard, but I know him. Simon Emory.”

  “Simon Emory is the man who let those people die?” Martin’s voice was almost gleeful.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Well, well, well,” Martin said. “You needed money and knew I’d pay for information about Emory. Does your boyfriend know about this?”

  “No. He’s very sweet, but not so smart. Only I know. And now you.”

  Martin was silent for a few moments while Oksana fidgeted in her chair and studied her short pink nails.

  “So you’re willing to sell out your savior just to leave town,” Martin said.

  “No one is my savior,” Oksana said coldly. “I am on my own since I am ten years old. I see a chance, so I take it.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” Martin said. Jean heard a rustling sound and the screen went blank.

  Jean turned off the TV and stared at the screen. She’d seen the container story on TV a couple of years back, footage of police bringing the bodies out. She remembered being horrified by the incident. What a ghastly way to die—trapped in an oven with a hundred other people, waiting to be set free in the promised land.

  Jean felt a deep surge of elemental female rage at what men had done to Oksana. Big dumb Spider had won her heart simply by being kind to her. And Simon—Jean had no doubts that he’d killed her. She popped the mini-DVD out and returned it to her bra. Time to call Hallock.

  The doorbell and loud banging on the front door startled her. She crept to the door and looked through the peephole. It was Spider, weeping aloud, his face red and wet with tears.

  “Spider!” she called. “What’s wrong?”

  “They found her. Oksana. She’s dead!”

  “Who found her?”

  “The cops. They found her in the bay.” He wiped at his nose with the back of a hand.

  Jean felt a rush of sympathy and an equally strong rush of curiosity. Besides, Oksana had put to rest any fear or suspicion she might have had of Spider. “You’d better come in.” She unlocked the locks and led him to the living room, where he collapsed onto the sofa and put his head in his hands, sobbing.

  Jean sat next to him and laid an arm around his heaving shoulders. “Do you want a drink?” He nodded.

  She went to the kitchen and poured a slug of Roman’s Bourbon into a tumbler, adding a few ice cubes. On the way back she grabbed a box of tissues from the bathroom. She handed him the drink and sat down. He blew his nose loudly and took a gulp of Bourbon, which seemed to help.

  “Tell me what happened,” Jean said.

  Spider let out a shaky breath. “I know this cop from the gym, and I told him she was missing. He called today and said they found a woman in the bay that might be her, but she was all messed up on account of being in the water so long. I asked did she have a spiderweb tattoo on her lower back.” Spider started to sob again. “He said she did. It’s her.”

  “I’m so sorry, Spider.”

  Spider wiped his face and finished his drink. “He said she was strangled. She had broken bones. Her nose and both wrists.”

  “My God.” Jean felt sick to her stomach. “Spider, why did you come here?” Another important question occurred to her. “And how did you find me?”

  “When I heard she was dead, I couldn’t call Zeppo because he was in the hospital, so I went to your apartment. You weren’t there, so my cop friend asked around and found out you were here. I need to find who killed her, but I’m not good at stuff like that. You and Zeppo have to help me.” He took some deep, gasping breaths. “I loved her more than anything. Now my life is shit.” His face twisted up and he began to cry again.

  He was in such agony that Jean decided to offer him some comfort—the certainty that Emory would be punished. “Spider,” she said. “Listen to me: I have a DVD that shows Oksana telling Martin Wingo that Emory caused the deaths of some illegals in New York. That’s what she sold. When she went to pay Emory off, he must have suspected something. He must have hurt her to make her say where she got the money, and then killed her.”

  “Emory killed her?”

  “I’m sure of it. He must have taken her things from her apartment so you’d think she left town. I’ll call the police right now and give them the DVD. They’ll arrest him tonight.”

  “She was so small, and he broke her bones.” He stood abruptly.

  Jean noted with dread that Spider had the same look on his face that Edward had that night in the ICU. “Spider,” she said, getting up and moving between him and the door. “Stay with me. You have to tell the police what you know. Let them take care of it.”

  Spider pushed her aside and charged out the door. “I’m gonna tear him apart!”

  “Spider, no!” Jean watched helplessly as he ran down the stairs and out toward Castro Street. With a
sigh she closed the door and locked it, realizing that she’d neglected to lock up when she let Spider in.

  She never should have told Spider all this. When would she learn to stop blurting things out? Roman was right—she had really shitty impulse control. As a detective she was still a hopeless amateur.

  She had to call the police. As much as Simon deserved whatever Spider would do to him, she didn’t want Spider hurt. She hurried down the hall to the phone, but a whiff of something in the air stopped her short—Simon’s cologne.

  Jean spun around, remembering Roman’s advice: Get out of the house. The closest exit was the front door. As she ran for it, Simon stepped out of the dark dining room directly into her path. He held a slim silver automatic.

  “Hello, Jean,” he said softly. His expression was complicated—equal parts sadness, regret, and rage. His beige eyes were unnerving.

  She backed up against the wall, her heart pounding and her breathing shallow. He must have let himself in the unlocked door while she was dealing with Spider. Why had she told Spider the truth? Why hadn’t she invited Gwen in for a drink? And where the hell was Roman? “I’m not afraid of you,” she said with a lot more conviction than she felt.

  He came toward her. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The DVD. I heard what you said to Spider.” Simon, inches from her, grabbed her arm. Jean struggled, but stopped when he shoved the gun barrel under her chin. “Where is it?” he demanded.

  Jean concentrated hard on forcing down her rising panic. “It won’t do you any good. Too many people know about it now.”

  “Only you and that moron Spider.” Simon pulled her into the living room and pushed her into the straight-backed chair, training the gun on her. “Jean. No more games. Give me the DVD.”

  “Why should I? You’ll kill me either way, just like Oksana. And Martin.”

  “For the last time, Wingo was already dead when I got back from Vegas,” he said angrily. “Someone saved me the trouble.”