by Julie Smith
No one had ever done anything like that for me before. Maybe I hadn’t ever been as vulnerable as I was at 8:30 that morning.
She led me into her apartment and put on some water for coffee. Then she called her office and said she wouldn’t be in. She was putting herself way out for a perfect stranger. I didn’t know what to make of it.
I seemed to be slow getting the hang of anything that morning. I guess I was in shock.
Sardis poached eggs and made toast. “Are you insured?” she asked.
Of course I was. I hadn’t even thought of it. I was about to come into a lot of money. So why wasn’t I happy?
A nod was all I could manage.
She sat down and took my hand. “You’ll be okay, Paul. There are other houses.”
I nodded again. But I was starting to feel the least bit hopeful. Something about the way she spoke— the tone of her voice or something— made me feel as if I might be okay.
“There’s something I’m afraid to ask,” she said. Her face was very solemn. “About Spot.”
“How do you know about Spot?”
“You talked about him last night.”
“Oh, shit.”
“It was sweet, actually.”
“I didn’t see him,” I said.
“Oh.” She waited.
“I didn’t look for him.”
“I’ll do it,” she said. “You don’t have to come.”
“No,” I said. I was confused and embarrassed. She seemed to have grasped the situation, and that confused me. I thought people thought I was tough and hard. But she didn’t. She knew how much I cared about a damned cat and I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to know, including myself. It was embarrassing. So I didn’t say the right thing.
“Paul,” she said very gently, “he might be okay.”
“I didn’t mean no, you shouldn’t look. I meant I’ll go with you. It just didn’t come out right.”
She stood up and kissed me on the forehead. “My car or yours?”
“Mine, I think. Driving’ll give me something to do.” It did. At least it kept me from biting off my fingernails. But it failed to fill up the old brainpan. The shock was wearing off and I was starting to wonder about something. The something was how the hell a decently wired, unoccupied house with no glowing embers lurking in its crannies happened to catch fire on a quiet night in a quiet neighborhood like Glen Park. I had a feeling the answer was going to be spectacularly unreassuring.
Sardis sucked in her breath when she saw the house, but she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t control her face, though. She looked so unhappy that this time I kissed her.
I kissed her and then I shrugged and let my eyebrows go up. That was my usual mannerism when I was upset and trying not to show it.
Sardis asked if she should go in alone and I shook my head. I didn’t want to go worth a damn, but I thought I should.
We got out and marched up to the door and opened it. It felt the way it feels when you first get off the plane in Mexico in the winter— so hot it’s hard to breathe. Funny, I hadn’t even noticed the heat earlier that morning. Sardis gasped, maybe at the heat, maybe at the decor, which was early charcoal briquet. I felt sick again. Neither of us went in.
“Spot?” said Sardis. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
Her voice was a little weak, but she sounded almost normal. Here was an ordinary, beautiful, nice lady calling a cat just like any nice lady might, only she was standing in the doorway of a burnt-out shell of a house in which not even a cockroach could survive and the cat wasn’t going to come and it was my cat. Despair hit me like an avalanche.
“He’s not there,” I said gruffly, sounding not nice at all. I started to step away from Sardis, but she stepped away instead.
Maybe Sardis was shocked; maybe she even got teary: I didn’t know. Right then I didn’t give two sticks of gum for her or anybody else. What I had to do was protect my ass. Moments like that— when you feel shitty and another person can see it— can get you into the kind of trouble I didn’t want to be in. You might start feeling something for that person and that’s dangerous as hell.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” I said. “Let’s get the hell away.” From the sound of my voice you’d have thought I was talking to somebody trying to mug me.
I didn’t even look at Sardis. I just turned and walked toward the Toyota. Mrs. Civkulis, damn her, chose that moment to come out and express her sympathy. At least I assumed that was on her mind, and I didn’t need her goddamned sympathy.
“Mr. Mcdonald,” she chirped. “Oh, Mr. Mcdonald.” She was walking fast and waving her hand at me. The sound of her goddam cheery voice made me want to puke.
She caught up with me halfway down the walk and put her hands on me. Actually grabbed me by the arm. I shook her off and kept walking, not even looking in her direction. I got in the Toyota and hollered, “Sardis, come on, goddammit!”
But Sardis didn’t. She went over and talked to Mrs. Civkulis, apologizing for me, no doubt. It made me mad as hell. So I started up the Toyota and drove away. I just left the bitch, that’s all. I figured she could find her own damn way home. I didn’t need her in my life and she could get the fuck out of it.
I left the bitch, all right, but I didn’t have anywhere to go. That dawned on me after two or three blocks. I started feeling bad again. Another two or three blocks and I felt awful. Also guilty as hell and thoroughly ashamed of myself.
About half a mile later I started facing facts— I had to go back and get her. She’d been terrific to me and I’d been an asshole to her and she’d probably never speak to me again, but at least I had to offer to take her home. If she spit in my face, as she damn well ought to, I could just go home as usual and brood about yet another failure with yet another woman.
Only I couldn’t. I didn’t have any home.
That’s what I was thinking when I drove up in front of my house-shell, and I was feeling mighty low.
But I experienced what the shrinks call a sudden mood swing when I saw what was on the step— Sardis with a big fat smile on her face and a large cardboard box beside her. The box had holes in it. It said Porta-Pet on its side.
Summoning forgotten reserves of mathematical genius, I put two and two together. I jumped out of the car; Sardis jumped into my arms and I picked her up and swung her around, just like guys do in the movies.
I don’t think I’d ever been that happy. There’s something about hitting rock bottom that makes two inches higher seem like Mount Diablo. I’d still lost my house and my typewriter and my blue-green sofa, but by God I had my cat. And Sardis not only didn’t hate me but actually seemed a little bit fond of me. I felt like a goddam zillionaire.
It was scary, though, because I still hadn’t sold a book. Would it feel this good? Was I ever going to feel this good again? I started worrying almost immediately and that got me a little less happy, which was a more natural feeling. I relaxed a little.
I went over and spoke to Spot, and he answered me in Cat-speak. Then I spoke to Sardis: “I suppose I ought to go and thank Mrs. Civkulis.”
She shrugged. “You could call her later— I think she understands that you aren’t exactly feeling sociable this morning. Anyway, she didn’t have to enter any burning buildings to save Spot. He came to her door and asked to be let in.”
I spoke to the box. “Good thinking, Spot-o.”
Sardis spoke to both of us: “Do you guys have a place to stay?”
We didn’t, and that was the truth. There might have been this old buddy or that old pal or maybe Debbie Hofer wouldn’t mind, but there wasn’t what you’d call an obvious choice. I was mulling that over when Sardis spoke again: “You can sleep on my couch if you like.”
“No, thanks. I can—”
“Stop being a jerk.” She was angry, and that got me angry.
“Why would you want to open your house to a perfect stranger?” I spoke a little more loudly and belligerently than was completely necessary.<
br />
She smiled, going from anger to amusement. “I like you. You remind me of me, sort of. You have the same bad qualities.”
“Thanks.”
“Remember when you got mean?”
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me. I had to move away to keep from hitting you. Any asshole that turns mean on me can find his own goddam cat.”
“You were great.”
“I was rather good, wasn’t I? Usually I’m not. When people piss me off, I generally hit them or run away. Or both. But there was something about the way you got nasty because you were scared that made me think— I don’t know, I felt like I could see into your soul or something. It’s because I’m like that, too, I think. Or is that too dumb to make any sense?”
“I don’t know.” That was the truth. I wasn’t sure if it was or wasn’t, but I was damn sure it was spooky and weird. I also knew exactly what she meant.
Sardis looked embarrassed. “Anyway, that’s why I asked you to stay with me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, thanks.” Mr. Gracious.
“You mean yes?”
She looked sort of happy, so I smiled. “You’re nice,” I said. “I hope you won’t be sorry.”
I sure did. I hoped she wouldn’t get to know me a little better and decide I was a jerk and get sorry she ever met me. At that moment I hoped that a lot.
On the way back to her place, we stopped for a litter box for Spot and some clothes for me— some regular jeans, some white jeans, and some shirts. Then I made a phone call I didn’t want to make— to the fire department. And I learned what I was afraid of learning— somebody’d set my house on fire. Probably with a Molotov cocktail.
CHAPTER 10
The conclusion was inescapable: whoever killed Jack Birnbaum pretty much had his heart set on killing me next. You’d be surprised how that sort of thing can cause a real sag of the spirits.
The worst thing about it was that I was going to have to find yet another place to live— I couldn’t endanger Sardis’s life by being in it. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly.
“I’ve gotta leave,” I said. “I can’t have you harboring a marked man.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “And too late. Both of us already knew somebody wanted to kill you when I offered to put you up, and neither of us backed out then.”
She was right. I wanted to stay with her and I’d been too chickenshit to bring up the danger before, and now I was trying to cover up by being macho. Face it, Mcdonald, I said to myself, you’re full of it.
To Sardis I said, “You’re a princess.”
“True,” she said. “Very true.” And she got a kind of smug look like Spot gets when things are going his way.
“I don’t want you dead,” I said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“So let’s get this jerk before he gets us.”
“My thought exactly.” She put some water on for tea and sat down at her kitchen table. I joined her.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night— about Jack and his ‘background checking.’ And whether or not he did it routinely. Jack had a list of people to talk to about Lindsay. You and Brissette were on it. So were Joan Hearne, Susanna Flores, and Peter Tillman. Do you know any of them?”
She nodded. “Susanna and Joan, yes. Tillman, a little, but not through Lindsay. I met him at a party once.”
“Lindsay was seeing him and he was married.”
“So?”
“So he was vulnerable to blackmail. So was Brissette. He had a coke habit, and you had Mr. A&L. Is there anything in either Susanna’s or Joan’s life that could be used against either of them?”
“Joan’s, definitely. She’s a former mental patient— took too much acid about fifteen years ago and wound up in the bin. In and out of the bin, matter of fact. Lousy press for a bank veep.”
“What about Susanna?”
“I don’t know her very well, but she’s absolutely straight as far as I know. She and Lindsay and I have been known to have a few drinks and talk a certain amount of girl talk, but she’s never let anything slip that could make her vulnerable.”
“Do you like her?”
“A lot. Listen, why don’t we just ask her? If Jack tried to blackmail her, she’ll probably be pretty pissed off and glad to talk about it. Also, she has a vested interest in this thing— two, in fact. She’s worried about Lindsay on a personal level and she needs her back for the show.”
“Okay, let’s ask her.”
Sardis made us both some tea and then she reached for the phone. “Susanna? It’s Sardis Kincannon.” There was a pause.
“No. I haven’t heard from her, either. But I’ve found somebody else who’s interested in finding her. I’m afraid it’s your competition— a guy named Paul Mcdonald; he works for the Chronicle.” Pause. “Yeah, he did quit, but he’s back for the time being. Anyway, he worked for Jack Birnbaum and he thinks the way Birnbaum got his information was by blackmailing people.” Long pause. “We thought it might be something like that. Thanks, Susanna. I’ll be in touch.”
“Well?”
“She knows you.”
“I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember.”
“I mean your work. She says you’re okay.”
“That’s gratifying.” It was, but I was getting impatient. “Did Birnbaum try something with her?”
“Sure did. Her husband’s a lawyer who represents some company that was involved in a scandal that Bay Currents didn’t do a story about. You follow? Anyway, Susanna says she turned down the story without knowing it was a firm her husband represented— one of those deals with a lot of d.b.a’s and a.k.a.’s. So it wasn’t really a conflict at all, and even if it was, it’s pretty weak stuff. But I guess it’s all Jack could get. Anyway, he tried that on her and she gave him a piece of her mind and threw him out.”
“That settles it then. If he tried to blackmail her, he probably did it with everyone. And that gives just about everyone a motive to kill him.”
“But what about Brissette?”
“Good question. Let’s try this: Brissette knew something about Lindsay which, under carefully applied pressure, he told Birnbaum. Whatever it was made Birnbaum dangerous to someone. That someone found out he knew and how he found out and killed both him and Brissette.”
“And the someone read in the Examiner that you were Jack’s assistant and figured you knew too. So he tried to kill you.”
“We’ve got to find Lindsay.”
“She would seem to be the key.”
“Brissette told Jack that Lindsay called him the Wednesday before she disappeared. On a legal matter. But he wouldn’t tell Jack what it was.”
“You mean that’s what Jack said.”
“Yes, and what I wrote in the report. So if he did know, he didn’t want the client to know. I don’t get it.”
“Look, let’s forget it for a minute. The fact is, Lindsay called him on a legal matter. Unless I’m a little far behind in the Lindsay saga, they weren’t close anymore.”
“Right. Brissette said he hadn’t heard from her in months.”
“Okay, she calls him on Wednesday and disappears the following Saturday. Whatever they talked about is something Brissette doesn’t want to talk about to anyone else, even a guy who’s trying to find her. Maybe she disappeared because she was spooked about something.”
“Sounds right.”
“So if she was scared, that means she was in danger— or maybe still is.”
“But why take Terry? It makes no sense if she’s somebody’s target.”
“I don’t know. Could Terry be in danger, too?”
“Possibly. If the threat came from Jacob, then she’d want to take Terry away. But then why would Jacob hire a detective who might find out what he was up to?”
“I’ve got it! It had something to do with a story she was working on.”
I shook my head. �
�I don’t think so. Susanna would have mentioned it.”
“Oh.” She looked downcast, and then she brightened. “Not necessarily. She might have made up the whole story about Lindsay writing the letter and everything if Lindsay was really undercover or something. So of course she wouldn’t have told Birnbaum the truth. And she’d have no reason to know his death was connected with Lindsay, so she wouldn’t have told the cops.”
I considered.
“Let’s go talk to her, Paul. Maybe we can get her to help us.”
I couldn’t see it, what with her being my professional rival and all, but I had to admit there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot else to do— I had to retrace Jack’s steps and that was all there was to it. If Sardis could get me an entrée with Susanna, was I going to turn her down?
I wasn’t. When she said who we were, the station security guard phoned Susanna and sent us right up. Susanna had a wonderful view of the bay and the Bay Bridge, but that wasn’t the exciting part. The Embarcadero Freeway was right outside her window, maybe forty feet away and exactly at eye level.
It’s a good thing it was there, too, because everything inside the building was unbelievably depressing. It was a converted warehouse, spiffed up with sweeping stairways, giant photos, and primary colors. It could have been nice. The problem was, the work spaces had no furniture in them— only plastic modular things that seemed to double as desks and partitions. Everyone had his own three-sided module exactly the right size for a moderately slender person, and there were about a million of these half-closets. The place was a high-tech anthill. But that freeway out there was something else again. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
Eventually I had to, though, because staring is rude and ignoring your hostess ruder still. I turned the old baby blues on Susanna. She was fairly short and maybe twenty pounds overweight, but she carried the weight just right, like pregnant women sometimes do. Her complexion was quite fair and her lips were fullish. Her face was round and very soft. Her breasts were round and looked very soft. Her hair was dark, wavy, and very soft. She was wearing some sort of dress with a flouncy skirt, very soft.
Media, my former field, is full of terrifically interesting people, but not people you’d especially call nice. Susanna Flores looked like she might be about the nicest person in northern California. She looked simple and straightforward— not full of kinks and contradictions like Sardis and me. But that’s just how she looked. No telling what she was actually like.