Courting Disaster

by Joanne Pence

  It gave her an idea. If it worked, she’d be free. But if it didn’t…She wouldn’t think of that now.

  She scooted along the wall to a corner, then twisted herself around and rocked back and forth until she was able to get up onto her knees. Using the walls to brace herself, trying time and again, she managed to maintain her balance and lift herself up to a standing position.

  She pressed close to the wall so she wouldn’t fall and moved by sliding her feet, first toes, then heels, toward where the jug sat.

  When she reached it, she felt the jug with her nose, then used her head to shove it off the shelf. It fell to the cement floor with a crash. Glass shattered around her.

  Carefully, she lowered herself to the floor once again and felt in the rubble for a large piece of glass. The entire bottom of the jug had stayed intact. It was exactly what she needed.

  She braced it against the wall and lowered the duct tape onto a sharp edge, then slid the tape slowly back and forth over the glass until the tape broke in two.

  After tearing the tape from her wrists, she grabbed the glass and used it to cut through the tape at her ankles. Blood streamed from her hands, lots of blood, but it didn’t matter. Freedom was near.

  Sense and feeling pushed aside the overpowering despair and numbness she’d felt, but still it took several moments for her to be able to walk.

  She stumbled toward the door, knowing it would be locked. The good news was that it was just a normal interior door. Nothing especially thick or strong.

  She kicked it. It didn’t budge. Fury filled her as she thought of how he’d tried to kill her, as she thought of never seeing her baby again, and she kicked harder, again and again.

  A panel on the bottom half of the door cracked. She aimed her foot at the crack and struck until it split wide.

  She worked at it, kicking, grabbing it with her hands, rocking the wood back and forth until she made an opening, then tearing at it more until the opening became large enough that she could squeeze her body through it.

  It was amazing, she realized when she calmed down enough to think about it, that no one had heard her breaking the door. No one came to investigate the pounding and crying, for only after it was over had she realized she’d been screaming with fury.

  The need to move slower struck. Freedom was so close, so precious, that she didn’t want to do anything in haste that might jeopardize it.

  After she felt her way to the stairs, then up them, a door at the top caused her heart to sink. It might be locked and far more solid than the one she’d just fought through.

  It opened.

  The main floor of the building had windows that were cloudy with dirt and grime. Only a little light shone into them. It must have been nighttime, she surmised, and the lights were street lamps.

  The building appeared to be filled with old machine parts. She found a door and opened it just a crack, then peeked out. The street was dark and empty. She slipped into the night, staying close to the building as she went, until suddenly it felt safe to run.

  At the corner stood a street sign: Battery and Filbert. She was near the Embarcadero, near the waterfront, but more importantly, she was less than two miles from Stan’s apartment. She could make it.

  Up ahead was Broadway Street. It’d take her around Telegraph Hill, and from there she could quickly climb to the top of Russian Hill and Kaitlyn. Tears filled her eyes as she went, staying close to the buildings, not wanting anyone, not any of the night people, to delay her.

  But then she stopped. The question that had bothered her the entire time she was tied up struck. How had Ty found her? She had just rounded the corner from Stan’s apartment building when she was grabbed. A rag was placed over her mouth—it must have had chloroform or something similar because she was soon out cold.

  When she awoke, she was being pulled from the car. She was too woozy to understand where she was or what was happening.

  Had Stan given her away? Was he involved in this? Or was it Angie? Ty had talked about her. Angie led him to her, he’d said. Had it been a mistake on her part? Or did she do it on purpose?

  No! Angie was a good person, like Stan.

  Wasn’t she?

  And if it was Angie, why would she tell him the building address, but not Stan’s apartment number? Thank goodness it was a twelve-story building, or Tyler might have gone door to door looking for the child.

  Confusion filled her. She’d trusted foolishly once, given a man her heart, lowered all the defenses she’d built up over a lifetime to let him get close to her. Dianne Randle had questioned her judgment about men. Maybe she should question her judgment about women as well.

  Nothing made sense! She couldn’t think, and felt only fear and complete exhaustion. If she rushed to see Kaitlyn and was wrong, she might never see her daughter again.

  She stood on the sidewalk in front of Angie and Stan’s apartment building. She ached to go inside, but she also had to think this through. Who could she trust? What should she do to assure that she and Kaitlyn would never again be in danger?

  Tyler was the biggest threat to her and her daughter. The one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world was to see Kaitlyn’s father dead. Unbidden, the thought came to her—find him and kill him.

  Olympia Pappas tried to concentrate on her job, but the letters and numbers blurred before her eyes.

  She couldn’t stomach it any longer. Not his lies, his deceit. He’d loved her once, but it was over. She had to face it and get on with her life. But the thought of a black, loveless, desolate future brought angry tears to her eyes.

  Why couldn’t he see that she was the best one for him? Why didn’t he understand that she loved him enough for both of them?

  She tried to concentrate on matching the case number on the paper she held with the number written on the folder, but it wasn’t working. All she could see was Tyler.

  She could make him happy if he’d only give her a chance instead of wasting his time on other women. She’d seen how they’d go alone to the restaurant and then throw themselves at him. That skinny blonde whore did it tonight. It made her want to throw up!

  Did he think she hadn’t seen? That she hadn’t known?

  How dare he treat her like this! Take her love and toss it aside as if it were nothing—as if she were nothing.

  She stuffed handfuls of papers into folders, her hands flying, her mind paying no attention to what she was doing.

  She’d show him. She’d make him sorry he ever, ever dared to treat her that way. He’d be hers or he’d be no one’s. She’d rather see him dead.

  Chapter 23

  A crowd gathered on the sidewalk outside a small Stockton Street building that housed four small apartments. Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield scanned the faces as she entered the one downstairs, right. Her partner hadn’t arrived yet, which was hardly a surprise. She should be used to it by now; still, it irked her.

  A male Caucasian lay sprawled face down on the living room floor, the area around him thick with blood.

  The policeman who found the body stepped up to Rebecca. “Officer Dandridge, Inspector. We received a 911 call from this apartment and came by to investigate. The landlady let us in when our knocks received no answer. We found the victim. In his hand is his cell phone—one of those that pressing one number calls 911. That’s how he reached us.” His gaze shifted to the bloodied corpse. “Not that it helped.”

  Rebecca snapped on her rubber gloves and lifted the body so she could see the victim’s face. When she did so, she started. She knew the man; she’d spoken with him in connection with Sherlock Farnsworth’s death. It was Tyler Marsh.

  He’d been stabbed several times in the heart and stomach. It appeared that whoever did it had been very, very angry.

  The last thing Paavo expected when he knocked on Angie’s door was to have it opened by Stan Bonnette wearing nothing but an undershirt and BVDs.

  Stan looked sleepy, but jerked quickly awake at Paavo’s sc
owl. “Uh…”

  “Making yourself at home, aren’t you, Bonnet? Where’s Angie?”

  Stan hurried to put on his pants as Paavo entered the apartment. “It’s Bonnette,” he said automatically. “I was here talking about Hannah, then Kaitlyn fell asleep, then Angie, and I didn’t want to disturb them…and Angie’s couch is more comfortable than mine, which I can hardly find anymore…” He stopped talking.

  The baby was in the stroller, dozing contentedly.

  Angie stepped out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. “I thought I heard voices.” Suddenly, looking at Paavo, at Stan, at the early hour, all the color drained from her face. “Has something happened?”

  Stan saw her reaction and the possible reason for it struck him as well. He dropped onto the sofa, his knees weak. “Hannah?” he murmured.

  “It’s not Hannah,” Paavo said. “We haven’t found her yet.” Both Angie and Stan sighed with relief.

  “This is so much like the morning you came by to tell me about Peter Leong,” Angie said. “I had the feeling something bad had happened.”

  “It’s not exactly the same,” Paavo said with a grimace in Stan’s direction. “But something bad did happen. Does the name Tyler Marsh sound familiar?”

  “Yes,” Angie said. “He works at the Athina.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Hmm, several days ago, at least,” Angie answered.

  “Me, too,” Stan added.

  “Why?” She looked from Stan to Paavo.

  “He was murdered last night.”

  Angie glanced again at Stan. “Murdered? My God!” Her eyes saddened. He wasn’t a good man, that she’d learned, but no one deserved that fate. “He was so young, so full of life. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  Stan’s eyes were like an owl’s. “Do you know who did it?” he asked, his voice quavering.

  “He was found in his apartment. It apparently happened around midnight. We’ll know more later. Right now I’d like you both to tell me everything you know about Tyler Marsh and the other people at the restaurant.”

  Rebecca talked to Marsh’s neighbors and wrote down names for follow-ups later. No one admitted to hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary other than the fact that Marsh’s next-door neighbor heard his front door slam a couple of times late at night. Its latch wouldn’t catch unless pulled hard.

  As soon as the Athina opened that morning, Rebecca headed there with Paavo. She’d only worked on a case with him once before and took a moment to brush her hair and freshen her makeup. She had to admit she never felt quite so nervous or upbeat when she rode in the SFPD-issued Ford beside her usual partner.

  At the Athina, they spoke first with Eugene Leer. He believed the killer was Hannah Dzanic. Her disappearance showed how unbalanced she was; she killed Tyler because he wouldn’t marry her.

  Rebecca asked if Leer knew of any other enemies Tyler might have had. He didn’t.

  Michael Zeno was sure Olympia Pappas had killed Marsh. They’d dated before Hannah entered the picture, and Olympia never got over him. She was hot-tempered and insanely jealous. When Hannah left, she tried to get Tyler back, but he wasn’t interested.

  Eleni Pappas thought Michael Zeno killed him out of jealousy and Tyler’s treatment of Hannah, while Gail Leer believed he was simply the victim of a botched robbery attempt.

  Interestingly, Paavo noted, no one seemed particularly upset or troubled by their co-worker’s death.

  Earl and Vinnie sat at Angie’s table at Wings of an Angel. Butch would have joined them as well, but they had a couple of customers who wanted lunch, so he had to stay in the kitchen and cook.

  Angie told them about the Athina waiter’s death, and was eager to hear what they’d learned about the place.

  “Everyone says there’s something not kosher about it.” Vinnie poured chianti for them.

  “We don’t t’ink you should go dere no more, Miss Angie,” Earl added. “An’ dat was before we hoid about da waiter being offed.”

  “For one thing,” Vinnie said, “the restaurant don’t do the kind of business to make enough money to keep up a waterfront restaurant with a pier, not even a dump like that one is. You’re talking big bucks to buy or rent it.” He lifted his glass. “Salute.”

  The others joined the toast. “So where does the money come from?” Angie asked after taking a small sip. Wine in the early afternoon wasn’t a favorite of hers.

  “That’s the thing. It’s got to be something illegal,” Vinnie suggested. “Dope, maybe, but not likely. The big boys who deal dope don’t like little two-bit players like Gene Leer taking a cut. I don’t think that’s it.”

  “What, then?”

  “Who knows?” Vinnie swirled his wine glass. “Back to the murder, word on the street is some woman killed the waiter when he wouldn’t marry her. Everyone says she was a stalker. She’d follow him to work, home, everywhere he went, keeping an eye on him and any other woman he paid any attention to.”

  Angie found that interesting. “Do they mention a name—like Olympia or Hannah?”

  “I didn’t hear no names, but some broad—’scuse me, Miss Angie, I meant some dame—is missing and people say she’s the one who came back and offed him.”

  “I see.” She was surprised others thought Hannah was a killer. To Angie, she seemed too nice. Of course, wasn’t that what everyone always said about killers? She was such a nice woman. “Do they have any proof?” she asked.

  “Not that I heard,” Vinnie said. As more customers entered, he and Earl went into action.

  Angie drank the wine, lost in thought about the way she’d helped Hannah leave the hospital, and how she’d driven her around in her car. Could Hannah be a killer? It was odd how she went missing. Paavo had gotten Missing Persons involved, but still there was no trace of her. And now Tyler’s murder…

  Angie finished her glass. Why did she get involved with people with such complicated lives when all she wanted to do was enjoy her engagement party?

  Just as she was about to leave, Nona Farraday charged into the restaurant. She looked like hell with bags under her eyes, her skin a sickly sallow color, and her hair flat and lank. “I thought I’d find you here! Never again, Angie. Never again!”

  “What?”

  All heads swiveled toward Nona as she stood over Angie. “You sent me on a wild goose chase to talk to a man who plies me with liquor for no good reason, and then I find out the Casanova is a murder victim! You can just keep your sick male friends to yourself. I’m giving up on men altogether!”

  With that, Nona turned on her heel and marched out the door. The other customers buzzed over her words.

  Angie had no idea what the crazy woman was talking about, but she grabbed her purse, threw money on the table, and left. She needed to get home to warn Stan about Hannah. And maybe Nona, while she was at it.

  Before rushing home, Angie realized she knew one person who could answer a lot of her questions. One person who also wanted answers. She phoned Gail Leer, and they agreed to meet at Ghirardelli Square for coffee.

  Gail was standing by the door waiting as Angie entered the ice-cream and coffee shop. They ordered lattes, then found themselves a table.

  As soon as they were seated, Angie opened her small handbag and pretended to switch off the cell phone so they could talk undisturbed. Instead, she switched on the new mini-tape recorder she’d bought on the way over. She wasn’t a Homicide inspector’s fiancée for nothing. The purchase, she was sure, would get plenty of use.

  She then propped her purse on the table against the wall, halfway between herself and Gail.

  “So tell me,” she asked after the waitress brought their coffee, “what do you think is going on? Hannah is missing. Tyler is dead.”

  “I don’t know,” Gail clasped her hands, elbows on the table. “It’s such a worry. I assumed Hannah was safe and staying with your friend Stan, but you said I was wrong about that. And now Tyler. I don’t know who could have killed him.”<
br />
  “What about a jealous girlfriend?” Angie asked.

  “Olympia?” Gail shook her head. “She’s got a terrible temper, but I don’t see her as a murderer.”

  “What about Michael Zeno?” Angie asked.

  “I hope not,” Gail murmured. She stirred the latte, lost in thought. “From the moment he looked at Hannah, though, when I first hired her, he was like a lovesick puppy. She saw him more as a father figure or older brother—a friend, nothing more.”

  “Tell me about Hannah and Tyler,” Angie said.

  Gail told her how Hannah had been interested in Tyler from the moment he first started working at the restaurant. A couple of times before that she’d gone out with Michael Zeno, but he was too old, and far too serious. Michael loved her—it was obvious to everyone—but Hannah wasn’t interested in him. He got mad when she broke it off. He told everyone that someday he was going to be rich, “Rich as Eugene Leer,” was how he put it, and then Hannah would be sorry she didn’t love him.

  Hannah didn’t care, though, because Tyler was working side by side with her, all charm and sparkling handsomeness. For months she’d pined for him while he dated Olympia Pappas. Then, one day, he asked her out.

  She was in love, and soon she was pregnant as well. She clung to the dream that when he learned about the baby he would propose or do something, anything, to show he cared for her, the mother of his child. But he didn’t, and life continued as it had been.

  “When did the two break up?” Angie asked.

  “I guess it was right before she disappeared. She was unhappy, but we all thought they were still seeing each other. When Tyler said she was gone, we were shocked.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “The baby. Apparently they had an agreement to put it up for adoption. But then Hannah started having thoughts about keeping it. That was the last thing Tyler wanted.”

  “Why did Hannah feel she and the baby had to hide from Tyler? It sounds like more than a simple disagreement.”

  Gail’s brows lifted. “You make it sound as if she already had the child.”