While Other People Sleep

by Marcia Muller

  When I arrived at the building I found a heavyset Nordic-looking man tending to the bedding plants under the glass ceiling of the courtyard. In spite of the rain and the cold, gusting wind, he was bare chested and sweating. I introduced myself and asked if he was the gardener.

  “Yes, miss.” He stood and held out a dirt-caked hand, then thought better of it. “Bud Larsen. I take care of three buildings on this side of the hill.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Going on ten years. It's a grand old place, isn't it?”

  “Certainly is. I suppose you know the people who live here pretty well.”

  “Some of them.”

  “I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

  Larsen frowned, white brows pulling into a straight line. “I don't know. Mrs. Woods, the manager, might not like me talking about her tenants to a stranger.”

  “I have her permission to ask around; you can check with her, if you like.”

  “Oh, that's okay. What is this, some kind of survey?”

  “No.” I handed him one of my cards. “My associates and I are trying to find out who's been harassing Neal Osborn.”

  “Osborn? Bearded guy, apartment 305?”

  “Right.”

  “Somebody's been bothering him? How?”

  “Threatening notes and phone calls, mainly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he's gay.”

  Larsen thought that over. “Well, if that's so, aren't they bothering the other guy—Smalley—too?”

  “The threats, for whatever reason, are directed only at Mr. Osborn. But his partner's been bothered plenty, believe me.”

  “Huh.” The gardener hesitated, then motioned to a green wrought-iron bench near the elevator. “Let's take a load off. What d'you want to ask me?”

  I sat next to him. Up close, he smelled of a combination of freshly turned earth, rain, and sweat. “I'd like your personal impressions of a few of the tenants. Start with George Chu.”

  “Young Chinese guy, jogger. Works for an insurance company. I don't much like him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Has an attitude. Superior.”

  “How so?”

  “Just in general. Like he knows something the rest of us don't.”

  “Anything else?”

  Larsen shook his head.

  “What about Doug and Marlene Kerr?” One of the married couples.

  “He's a banker type. She's pretty and shops a lot. He hits her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “A lot of the time she's got bruises, bad ones. She tries to cover them with makeup and dark glasses, but it doesn't work. People talk about hearing them fight.”

  “Have the police ever been called?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Any other violent episodes on the part of Doug Kerr?”

  “No. His wife is the one who sets him off.”

  “Anything else about either of them?”

  “Uh-uh. They keep to themselves, hiding the family secret.”

  “The other tenants I'd like to ask you about are Al and Doris Mercado.”

  “I like her a lot. She's a gardener too, has helped to start a couple of neighborhood gardens here on the hill. Him … he's okay. Ex-cop. Works in security now. Has a lot of guns. Spent an hour last month showing them to me.”

  “Responsible gun owner?”

  “Yeah. Keeps them locked up but handy. Pity the poor bastard who ever tries to break into his apartment and gets caught, though. Mercado don't like people.”

  “Any particular kind of people?”

  “Most all of them—he don't discriminate.”

  “Does he get along with the other tenants?”

  Larsen thought, shrugged. “I suppose so. The only disagreement I remember between him and anybody else is the time he threw a rock at Karen Cooper's cat because it was prowling around the garbage bins. Karen saw him do it, threatened to call the SPCA. He apologized quick enough. Guess he don't like animals, either.”

  Or maybe he didn't like lesbians—and gays.

  Mona Woods had left a note for me on her door: she'd have to reschedule our appointment because she'd forgotten this was her day to help serve lunch at the San Francisco Senior Center. I smiled at the remarkable energy of the woman, who was probably serving people years her junior. Would I be like her in my seventies? I hoped so.

  Since I was there in the building, I decided to check with the guard on Ted and Neal's apartment and took the stairs to the third floor. Tony Casella, a young single father whom I'd used on jobs before, was glad to see me: he'd just received word that his small son had gotten sick at day care and Tony needed to pick him up, but RKI couldn't get a replacement here till three. Could he take off right away? Of course, I told him. Then I let myself into the apartment.

  I wasn't sure what I expected to find there. I'd been over it thoroughly, but that was more than a week ago. It wouldn't hurt, I supposed, to take another look around.

  In the living room I stood still and did just that. The apartment was orderly and clean, the door that Ted had shot covered in fresh-smelling plywood. A stack of mail addressed to Neal sat on the kitchen counter.

  Neal. Neither he nor his car had been spotted here in the city or in any of the nearby jurisdictions. As time passed, Ted had become increasingly withdrawn and silent—poised on the edge of panic, I supposed. And I had to admit I was seriously worried.

  A key rattled in the front-door lock. Interesting, so soon after the guard had left. I drew back into the kitchen. Maybe I'd gotten lucky; maybe it was the perpetrator, come to leave another grotesque gift.

  Footsteps came along the hall. I slipped my gun from my bag, held it ready.

  Neal appeared, a small duffel bag in hand.

  “Thank God!” I exclaimed.

  He whirled, focused on the gun, and froze. Then he let out a whistle of relief. “Shar! For God's sake!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Of course, why wouldn't I be? What're you doing here? Is Ted all right?”

  “Ted's fine. Where've you been?”

  “Staying at a bed-and-breakfast up the coast. What is this?”

  “We've been so worried, and we asked the police to put out a pickup order on you, but—”

  “On me? Why?”

  “It's a long story—”

  “Tell me anyway. I need to know what's going on.”

  “Okay, sit down and I will.”

  “I can't believe it. I just plain can't believe it.” Neal got up from his chair and began to pace. “He kept all of that from me? From you?”

  “You've got to understand—at first he didn't want to burden you, and then he thought he was in too deep.”

  “What does that say about our relationship? Did he think I'd break up with him just because he'd made a mistake?”

  “Neal, Ted's not used to making mistakes. He's good at just about everything he does. I suspect he was angry with himself because he couldn't handle the situation, and he projected his own feelings onto you.”

  “Well, he and I have some talking to do.”

  “And I'd better cancel the pickup order on you.” I started for the phone. “I wonder why nobody spotted your car out at the coast?”

  “Because it's been parked over on Greenwich since Saturday. As you'll remember, we left that night in your MG. My car was having carburetor problems, and I didn't want to risk moving it till I could get Triple-A out to take a look. On Sunday I didn't want the hassle, so I called a cab from your house, had it take me to a rental-car place, and picked up this bag and a few things I needed at a Wal-Mart on my way north.”

  And of course the one place the police wouldn't search for a missing person's car was in his own neighborhood.

  When I got off the phone with the SFPD, Neal was leafing through the envelopes on the kitchen counter. “Bills,” he muttered, “and there'll be more at the store.”

  “Things're th
at bad?”

  “Grim, but I'll survive.” He set them down and glanced at the boarded-up door. “At least that's taken care of. While I was at the coast I called a glazier I know who works cheap, but he couldn't come out till tomorrow. Shar, about this guy who's threatening me—what's going to happen next?”

  “We're proceeding with our investigation.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “Exercise extra caution away from home. When you're here, there'll be an RKI guard on the door; one will arrive at three this afternoon.”

  “All right to call Triple-A and get my car looked at?”

  “Sure. I don't think the guy'll try anything in daylight; he doesn't want to get caught. Just be careful.”

  “I will. I intend to enjoy life for a long time.”

  After a quick stop for a burger, I drove back to the pier and went directly to Ted's office. “Neal's home,” I announced. “I explained everything. He's getting Triple-A out to look at his car, then will phone the store to see how things are, and come here.”

  Ted looked both relieved and apprehensive. “He's okay?”

  “He's fine. The phone call you got on Monday was designed to panic you. Fortunately, it drove you to do what you should've done two weeks ago.”

  “You're not going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “No more than you're going to let me forget my past transgressions.” I grinned at him and headed for my office.

  “Shar, somebody from Get-a-Bug's insisting on talking with you. Line two.”

  “From where?”

  “Termite service.”

  “I don't have termites—that I know of.” I pressed the second button. “Sharon McCone.”

  “Ms. McCone, this is Ellie from Get-a-Bug. I'm calling to see when we can schedule the extermination—”

  “Extermination!”

  “… The message you left on our machine said you have pests—”

  “I have one pest, and it would take more than your services to get rid of her.”

  “Sharon McCone.”

  “Sharon, this is Ed.”

  “Ed?”

  “Ed Martin, from Gorilla Destruction. We're here at your place and ready to start breaking up the driveway, but I've got to get your signature on the work order.”

  “Don't you touch my driveway!”

  “But you said our estimate—”

  “Don't you let one of your gorillas so much as step on my driveway! Oh, Jesus Christ, what's she going to do to me next?”

  “Ms. McCone.” The voice was low pitched and formal, oily too. Solemnity overlaid a note of great pleasure. “My heartfelt condolences to you and your family.”

  “Condolences? Family? Who is this?”

  “Ah, the person who answered my call didn't identify me to you. This is Bradley Sampson, of Sampson and Sampson Funeral Directors, returning your call.”

  I ground my teeth, said, “My call.”

  “Ms. McCone, we know how distracted you must be in your time of need, but Sampson and Sampson is here to help you. Your message, left on our answering-machine tape over the noon hour, says you anticipate requiring our services imminently.”

  I pressed the point of my pencil into the legal pad I'd been writing on so hard that it broke. “Mr. Sampson—”

  “Ms. McCone, I hear the stress in your voice. The loss or the imminent loss of a loved one—”

  “Mr. Sampson, do you have the tape?”

  “The … tape?”

  “The answering-machine tape!”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Play it for me, please.”

  “A most unusual … certainly.”

  Clicks and whirls as he rewound it, and then a voice whose muffled quality could have been attributed to grief: “My name is Sharon McCone. I expect to need your services within a few days. Please call me—”

  “Enough!” I shouted. I slammed the receiver into its cradle, got up, and rushed out onto the catwalk. “Enough!” I shouted for all the pier to hear.

  Down below, Hank was fetching something from his car. He straightened and ran his hand through his pad of gray-brown hair, frowning. On the opposite catwalk, Tony Nakayama and one of his partners halted their conversation and stared. And Glenna Stanleigh, about to load some film equipment into her Bronco, called, “Sharon? Maybe you could use a cup of that Natural Serenity herbal tea?”

  Then we all turned our heads as a car shot through the entrance—Neal's Honda, going much too fast. So fast that if I hadn't already notified the police to cancel the pickup order on him, I'd have sworn they were hot on his bumper.

  Neal, Ted, Charlotte, and I stood around the conference room table, staring down at a truly bizarre salad. The wooden bowl that Neal had brought to the pier—one from his own kitchen—contained a mixture of tomatoes, radishes, olives, garbanzo beans, mushrooms—and wilted weeds with dirt clods still attached to their roots. On top of it all was a garnish of dead insects.

  The accompanying block-printed note said: HOW’S THIS FOR A GOURMET MEAL, FAGGOT?

  “About as yummy-looking as barbecued roadkill,” Keim commented.

  “Where'd you find this?” I asked Neal.

  “On the dining room table, when I went home to call the store after Triple-A gave my car a clean bill of health.”

  “You see anybody hanging around the street or the building?”

  He shook his head, then glanced at Ted, who stood a little apart from us. “You okay?” he asked stiffly.

  “… Yeah.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I know.”

  I studied the salad, decided it wasn't worth sending to Richman Labs. Their tormentor struck me as equal to mine in leaving no clues to his identity.

  Charlotte apparently had followed the same reasoning process. “You ever think there might be a connection between the guy who's after Neal and the woman who's after you?” she asked me.

  “No—the M.O.’s too dissimilar. The two of them may be shirttail cousins in the craziness department, but nowadays that's a very big family.”

  She nodded agreement and picked up the bowl. “I'll clean this for you, Neal.”

  “Thanks.” Neal turned to Ted. “I guess Bud explained that the glazier couldn't come by till tomorrow to fix the door? I called him from the coast, asked him to remove the glass and board it up for the interim.”

  “Bud?” Ted frowned.

  “Bud Larsen.”

  “Oh. I could've boarded it up and dealt with the glazier.”

  “Yeah, but I'm the one who usually handles stuff like that, so I went ahead and made the calls.”

  “Well, Bud hadn't boarded up the door by the time I came to work this morning. I haven't even seen him in more than two weeks.”

  “How'd he get in, then?”

  At first the men's conversation had simply served as a background to my thinking about the similarities between my position and theirs, but their final exchanges caught my attention.

  I asked, “You're talking about the gardener at your building?”

  “Not just the gardener,” Neal replied. “Bud's an all-around handyman. Works for two or three other buildings on the hill and runs a locksmith service on the side.”

  “Was he the one who changed the locks when you moved in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bud Larsen: he was smarter than I'd thought. I'd sat on that bench with him this morning and bought into the tales he told about the tenants we'd found suspect. George Chu had a superior attitude; Doug Kerr beat his wife; Al Mercado didn't like anybody. Implying possible prejudice, violence, and hatred. I wondered if any of it was true.

  Bud Larsen …

  Wednesday night

  Our plans were made, and everybody was in place. Soon, maybe, we'd have evidence of yet another hate crime in our supposedly idyllic City-by-the-Bay.

  I'd spent the late afternoon at the Plum Alley building, staging follow-up conversations with various tenants within the hearing of Bud Lar
sen, whom Mrs. Woods—at my request—had asked to touch up the paint on the courtyard walls. Larsen acted as if he wasn't listening, whistling as he worked with his brush, but his body language betrayed him in the same way a cat's does when it swivels its ears. When I announced to Karen Cooper that I couldn't wait to nail the bastard who was bothering my client, he flashed me a quick sidelong look that simmered with rage.

  Larsen was the guilty party—now I was sure of that.

  I also sensed he was ready to take the bait.

  The sidewalk of Montgomery Street sloped steeply from where it intersected Plum Alley, ending in a series of concrete stairways that scaled the side of the hill in switchbacks above the northern waterfront. At one of the landings, the steps turned to the right and passed through an area of low, dense vegetation and cypress trees. It was very dark there, with only footlights to illuminate the cracked pavement, cold and quiet on this damp winter night. And uncomfortable, as Glenna Stanleigh and I were finding out while crouched on the bare ground behind a clump of junipers.

  “Are you sure the video cam'll work when it's this dark?” I whispered.

  “The tape's made for filming under these conditions.”

  “But what if—”

  “For heaven's sake, Sharon, relax! I've a lot of experience with night filming, you know. And spontaneous action like we're hoping for is my specialty.”

  The wind rustled the branches overhead; from the street above I heard faint talk and laughter—late patrons leaving Julius’ Castle. Car doors slammed, engines started. Out beyond the Gate, a foghorn moaned. Close to midnight now—

  My cell phone buzzed. I flipped it open, and Mick's low voice said, “Neal's leaving the building.”

  “You spotted Larsen yet?”

  “No.” Fifteen or twenty seconds went by. “There he is. Must've been lurking down by the retaining wall.”