“All right. Did you know Donny Robertson?”
“No.”
“Had you ever heard of him?”
“I didn’t hear about him until yesterday. When I read about it in the papers, and asked friends of mine.”
“How about Karen Forest? Did you know her?”
“Well, I knew about her. But I didn’t know her. See, I haven’t been here very long. Not really. I mean usually—in the summertime—you move around. You—”
“How about John Harper?”
He frowned, thought about it, then nodded. “Yes. He rides a motorcycle, doesn’t he?”
“Right. How’d you happen to know about him?”
“Well, he’s got a Norton. Like I’ve got. I rode it out here. And, well, one day I happened to see his bike parked on Haight Street. And I—I asked around and finally found him.”
“Why’d you want to find him? Just so you could talk about motorcycles?”
He shook his head. “No. I—I was having carburettor trouble. Oh, at least, I thought it was carburettor trouble. And there aren’t many Nortons around; it’s a British bike. So I—I wanted to find out if he knew anything that could help me.”
“And did he?”
“No.”
“Is that the only time you saw John Harper?”
“Yes. At least—” He hesitated.
“At least what?”
“At least, that was the only time I ever talked to him. But I—I saw him again.”
“When?”
“Well, it—it was that night. At the Crushed Chrysanthemum.”
“The night of the Forest murder, you mean?”
“Yes.”
I took a moment to study him. Then: “All right, let’s get to that night. There was a crowd of you—fifty or sixty, I understand—sitting around listening to Indian music and poetry. Is that right?”
He nodded.
“And most of you were high on some kind of a drug, or narcotic. Is that right?”
“Y—yes, I guess so.”
“What were you on, that night?”
“Well, I—I guess I had a little grass, that night. But I just wanted to—”
“How much is a little?”
“One—one stick. A small stick.”
“All right. Now, you say you saw Harper that night, but you didn’t speak to him. Is that right?”
He nodded.
“Don’t just nod, Tomilson. Answer me.”
“All right. Yes. That—that’s right.”
“How far away were you from Harper?”
“Well, he moved around a lot. But most of the time, about ten feet, I’d say.”
“Was it dark in the room?”
“Well, dim.”
“How could you be sure it was Harper, then?”
“Well, I just could, that’s all. I remembered him.”
“All right. Now, you say he moved around. How do you mean?”
“Well, he just did. I remember that he kept leaving the room.”
I sat up straighter. “What do you mean?” I asked, “when you say he kept leaving the room?”
“He kept going out, that’s all. He left the room four, maybe five times.”
“You’re wrong, Tomilson. You were so stoned on pot that you were probably hallucinating. He left the room once. Exactly once.”
Stubbornly, he shook his head. “No, he didn’t. He left more than that. At least four times. I’m positive.”
“How long was he gone, at a time?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“Five minutes, would you say?”
He shrugged. “No longer. It—” He glanced at me sidelong again. “It’s hard to tell, when you’ve been—”
“When you’ve been smoking pot. Is that what you were going to say?”
Mutely, he nodded.
I looked at him for a long moment. I was thinking that to pot smokers, time seemed longer than reality.
I reached across, opening the door. “All right, Tomilson. You can go. But remember: you’re to call me if you talk to Claudia. And tell her that she’s to call me.”
“Y—yes.”
“All right. Now, in addition, I don’t want you to leave town, unless you report to me. And I mean, you aren’t to leave town even for a day. I’m speaking officially, now. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“And if you change your address, you’re to tell me that too.”
“Yessir.”
“All right.” I motioned to the open door. “You can go now. Don’t talk about this interview. Don’t tell anyone. You understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Okay. Go.”
I watched him move off into the crowd.
ELEVEN
FOR MORE THAN AN hour I’d been prowling Haight Ashbury, systematically driving the area block by block. I felt strangely isolated. Even in his worst moments—surrounded by a hostile crowd, searching the darkest alley—a cop feels himself linked to a vast, almost omnipotent organisation. A call on the radio, a whistle blast, a revolver shot, and within minutes help arrives in overwhelming force.
Now, though, unwilling to admit that my child was a runaway, I had cut myself off. I was no more effectual than any other father, alone in the night.
Did I really expect to find her? Did I really want to find her? She’d left Detroit to meet one boy, stayed with him for less than a week, then found someone else. A so-called Poet. A man, twenty-five years old.
I pulled over to the kerb and glanced at my watch. It was eight fifteen; the night was raw and gusty, chilled by the summer fog. Technically, I was off duty. I could go home, make dinner, watch T.V.
Did I want to find her?
I watched them passing; the strolling hippies, so strangely silent as they walked. Some of them seemed sad; others oblivious—inwardly listening, secretly smiling. How many were high on drugs or marijuana?
Was Claudia, at that moment, on some kind of drug?
Unless I was willing to ask about her, I’d never succeed. Although the hippie community was centred in Haight Ashbury, they lived everywhere in the city, widely scattered.
Purely from reflex, without hope, I was scanning every passing face.
Did I want to find her?
When she’d been a small child, not more than three or four, she’d wandered away. I’d spent hours driving the neighbourhood. The police, too, had joined the search. Just at dusk I’d found her, sitting alone in the high grass of a vacant lot, calmly picking dandelions. For hours, searching, I’d been seething. But when I saw her—finally saw her—I’d had to sit for several moments in the car, blinking. And then I’d—
Diagonally across the street a familiar figure stood expectantly on the kerb. It was Cecile Franks. She wore a slim-cut leather dress; her dark, smooth hair was pulled close to her head, accentuating the lean, taut contours of her face. Her chin was lifted with a kind of arch impatience as she scanned the street. The line of her young, slender body was vital and exciting, yet aloof and indifferent.
I turned the key, starting the engine.
At that moment I had three choices: hundreds of policemen, Vannuchi or Cecile Franks. Of the three, it seemed suddenly as if my secret might be safest with the restless, wilful girl in the leather dress.
I drove to the next intersection, made a U turn, and pulled to the kerb before her. She glanced at me once, briefly, then looked away, chin higher, exasperation plain in her stance. Inside the darkened car, she hadn’t recognised me.
I slid across to the passenger side, lowering the window.
“Are you waiting for someone, Miss Franks?”
Recognition involuntarily widened her eyes.
“I’m waiting for a cab.” The voice was controlled. As always.
“Can I drop you somewhere? I’d be glad to.”
Uncertain, she looked at me. “Is that an order, Sergeant?”
“No, Miss Franks. It’s an offer. I’m off duty.”
A cab w
as coming. I saw her glance at it, hesitate, then decide. As she moved to the door, I swung it open. She slid into the passenger seat with a single lithe, quick movement. As I reached across with my left hand to close the door, I was conscious of her physical presence, close and compelling. She was staring straight ahead, her chin lifted another wilful fraction.
“Where’re you going?”
“Downtown. Broadway first.”
“North Beach, you mean?”
“Yes,” she answered firmly. Then, less defensively, she added, “I’m going to Alfredo’s Sidewalk Café, actually. Then to a movie.”
“I thought your night off was Friday.”
“Usually it is. Tonight, though, I—I feel like getting away.”
“I hope your, ah, disagreement with Maxine Summers didn’t upset you.” I decided not to mention the anonymous phone call. “Have you heard from her, by the way?”
“I thought you said you were off duty.” Her voice was neutral; her manner was still remote, composed.
I smiled. “I am off duty. As much as a cop’s ever off duty.”
We drove for several moments in silence. I felt that she expected me to pursue the matter of Maxine Summers. When I didn’t, she seemed to relax, leaning back in her seat. Finally she said, “Is it true that policemen carry guns all the time? Even off duty?”
“That’s right. All the time.”
“We were stopped for a red light at Van Ness and McAllister. We were halfway to Alfredo’s, and I hadn’t yet asked her about Claudia. Like a hesitant sophomore, I couldn’t find the opening—and would never find it, waiting and hoping.
I’d always hated to ask favours.
Was I reluctant to step from behind the anonymity of the badge? To a policeman, the process of politely asking seemed strange—unnatural, unnecessary. A policeman demanded; he didn’t ask. To demand was a necessity—a job requirement. A policeman was a lonely hunter, endlessly searching among faceless, hostile strangers. It had happened to me, even before I became a cop. My wife was a stranger, and my children. Even my friends often seemed strangers now. Most of them were policemen, living behind their badges like actors behind masks—strangers to each other’s hopes and dreams, yet closely bound by the constant knowledge of dangers shared, sometimes in courage, more often in fear.
“—very pensive, Sergeant,” she was saying.
“Wh—what?”
“I said, you seem very pensive.”
I didn’t reply. I’d been a fool to pick her up. I’d decided on an impulse, unassessed. A rookie could have done better. I’d been thinking of Claudia—remembering her surrounded by dandelions in a distant, sunny field. Then I’d seen Cecile, slim in her leather dress. Somehow the two images had fused into a single wishful illusion.
Van Ness and Broadway. I was turning right, heading through the tunnel. We were passing beneath Russian Hill, and would soon emerge in North Beach.
“How long have you owned the Crushed Chrysanthemum?” I heard myself asking.
“About a year and a half.” I realised that she was half turned in her seat, looking at me as she answered.
“I understand it’s the centre of everything. Everyone who comes to town—the hippies, I mean—they all head for the Crushed Chrysanthemum. Is that right?”
“I suppose so.”
We were emerging from the tunnel. Ahead was Alfredo’s, two blocks away. Outside the tunnel-darkness, the night was suddenly garish with the glow of neon and plastic signs. Every show was topless. The sidewalk crowds jostled each other, avidly rushing to enjoy themselves. Alfredo’s was an exception: a European-style café, with small potted trees and white-painted iron tables and chairs.
I pulled to the kerb in a no-parking zone. I switched off the motor and set the brake.
“Thank you,” she was saying, reaching for the door handle. Yet, tentatively, she hesitated. Her eyes seemed faintly puzzled.
I realised that I was taking a deep, hesitant breath.
“Would you like a drink?” I said. “I mean, if you’d like one, I’d like to—to buy you one.”
Her dark, often brooding eyes lighted with the quick, reflected lilt of a wide, suddenly irrepressible smile.
“You are off duty, then.” She looked at me for a long moment with her mischievously smiling eyes, then nodded with a decisive bob of her head. “In that case, I accept.”
“Good.” I circled around the car and let her out. We found a good table, close to the railing.
“You’re liable to get a traffic ticket,” she said, after we ordered our drinks.
“No. Not with that car.”
“Is that what they call a cruiser?”
“Yes. An unmarked car.”
“How long have you been a policeman?”
“Six years.”
“You started late, then.”
“Yes. Very late.”
“What did you do before?”
I sighed. “Mostly, I was a football player. A professional football player.”
“Here? In San Francisco?”
“No. In Detroit. You never heard of me.”
“You say that with a certain wry bitterness, Sergeant.” Now a playful mockery in her voice joined the muted sarcasm of her smile. “Weren’t you happy as a football star?”
“I didn’t say ‘star’. I said ‘player’. There’s quite a difference.”
“Between being happy and not-so-happy? Are stars happier than mere players—like rich people are happier than poor people?”
I didn’t reply; I had no desire to discuss it, and she seemed to sense my reluctance. Now she was staring off across the street, her chin propped on her fist, her expression distant, pensive.
“My father,” she said softly, “was a star. A big tennis star.” A regretful undertone was plain in her voice. “I don’t really think it did him much good.”
“Probably not. Being a star, for a man, is like being very beautiful, for a girl. Usually you don’t know how to handle it. And by the time you figure it all out, you’re too late.”
“How do you mean, too late?”
“If you’re a boy, you can end up with a swelled head—and no visible means of support at age thirty-five. If you’re a girl—” I shrugged. “You can end up pregnant, I suppose. By the wrong man. Always the wrong man.” And, as I said it, I thought of Claudia, somewhere in the city. shacked up.
“That can happen to any girl, beautiful or not.”
“I suppose so.” I was absently fingering the picture of Claudia I carried in my pocket—the picture I’d taken from the small silver frame on my dresser.
Suddenly without conscious thought, I placed the picture on the table between us.
“Do you know her?”
She looked down at the picture.
“What’s her name?” she asked, studying the picture.
“Her name is Claudia Hastings.”
She glanced once more down at the picture, then again up into my face, comparing the two.
“Your daughter.”
I nodded.
“I didn’t—somehow I didn’t think you had a family.”
“I don’t, not really. They—my ex-wife and the children—they live in Detroit.”
“Is she a runaway?”
“Let’s just say that I’m trying to find her.”
She nodded, staring at me with her dark eyes, now inscrutable. Then, finally, she picked up the picture with a grave little gesture, handing it to me as a diplomat might present his calling card.
“I haven’t seen her, Sergeant.” She paused, then said, “That’s why you offered me a lift. To find out about your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to go through your own department, unless you have to. And you don’t want to ask at the obvious places: The Switchboard, and Huckleberry House. Because you don’t want to run into your own people.”
I nodded, looking away involuntarily. For the second time that day, I realised how a suspect must feel
during interrogation.
Finally, in a brisker, more businesslike voice, she said, “If you want me to, Sergeant, I’ll see if I can find her. I’ll check around, and I won’t mention your name. I promise.”
“Thanks, Miss Franks. I’d appreciate it.”
“And in return,” she said, still with the same brisk manner, “I wish you’d tell me something. Two things really.”
I shrugged. “If I can, I will.”
“First, I’d like to know why, for God’s sake, your detectives are checking both my bank account and my father’s bank account.”
“I imagine it’s because of that anonymous tip. We have to take tips seriously, unless we know, absolutely, that a crackpot’s involved.”
“I can understand that. But why my bank account? And why my father’s bank account?”
“Because the tip concerned Karen Forest’s murder. And we’re pretty sure she was murdered for gain. Money. You obviously don’t need money. When the figures verify it, you’ll be in good shape.”
“But what about my father’s financial affairs? I don’t see why—”
“You said that your father was backing you,” I replied, signalling for a fresh round. “We’d just want to check it out. If he’s rich, and he’s backing you, then you’d have no need for money. It’s all part of the same process. It’s the way investigations are always handled. You check and double check, then start checking all over again. You don’t take anything for granted; you can’t. Sooner or later you find a couple of discrepancies, and usually those discrepancies lead to other discrepancies. Finally, if you’re lucky, you find yourself a murderer.” As I said it, I smiled at her. But her eyes slid aside, frowning.
“A policeman checking on my father’s financial affairs can do irreparable damage,” she said in a low voice.
“I doubt it. No one likes to have the law checking on him. That’s natural. It’s uncomfortable; a nuisance, just like jury duty. Still—” I spread my hands. “Sometimes they’re both necessary: a police check and service on a jury.”
“It all sounds very pat; I’ll bet you’ve used that speech a hundred times.”
I grinned, pointing to her glass. “You’d better drink up. Now that we’ve got the business out of the way, let’s enjoy ourselves.”
She didn’t answer the smile. Instead, picking up the glass with both hands, she stared down into the amber liquid as she said, “What would your fellow officers think, if they knew you were drinking with someone who’s been accused of murder?” Her face was curiously frozen, as if she were keeping some new, secret emotion painfully suppressed.
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 11