by Susan Dunlap
Scookie Hogan was at the same table she’d been at two days ago. Her table? But in contrast to the drab sixties cottons she’d been wearing then, today she sported a soft violet sweater and one of those scarves that cost more than sweaters.
I got a cappuccino and sat down at her table. “Celebrating the bonus you got for Philip Drem’s death?”
“How did you know?” she asked, amazed.
“I’m a cop, Scookie. I’ve got connections all over town.” Before the implications of that statement could fade, I said, “Where is Maria Zalles?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maria was the hotel maid. When she disappeared, you took over. You’d done that job before, right?”
“Well, yes. Someone has to.”
“You trained Maria, right?”
“It’s not a difficult job. I—”
“You were close to her. Of all the people at the hotel, you were the closest, weren’t you?” Pereira would be using this same line with Moon or Takai about now.
“I suppose.”
“When she came looking for the job, you arranged for her to have a room at the hotel, right?”
Scookie hesitated, then nodded a bit too quickly. She looked relieved. There was a step, a slant, something, I’d missed here. What? But I couldn’t afford to slow down to worry about that. The quick pressure was forcing her answers. “What did she say when she left?”
“She didn’t. She just didn’t show up for work.”
“You don’t not show up for work when you work where you live.” Maria hadn’t been in room 3 Saturday. The workman had had it. “Did she sleep in another room at the hotel Saturday night?”
“No.” Again the answer was too quick.
I leaned closer. “Scookie, you are the one person we know of who profited by Phil Drem’s murder. In more ways than one. You got your bonus points.” I shushed her with my hand. “I know you don’t kill just for that, but you liked the idea of Drem dead so much that you singled him out as the person you most wanted to die. Juries are swayed by odd things, and I can promise you, Scookie, a bonus choice in the death game will be a killer with any jury.”
Her face paled.
I went on. “I’ll give you another chance to be straight with me. Where is Maria Zalles?”
She drew her shoulders in protectively. The fringe of her violet sweater shook. I let her think, let her contemplate the ominous possibilities. Finally she said, “She was scared. She came back Friday night and said she was going to get out of town. Go back home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Jersey. Someplace in Jersey.”
I nodded. Then I let her create a story of how Maria Zalles had planned her departure and trip. I grew up in Jersey. I may not be able to spot every ex-Jerseyan, but I can sure as hell tell a woman who has never lived in or near the state. Maria Zalles had a bit of an accent. It wasn’t from Jersey.
I gave Scookie the normal warning about not leaving town. Then I left my cup at the counter, stepped into the bathroom, and peered out through the crack in the door. Scookie Hogan was hiding something. I was betting what she was hiding was Maria Zalles. Chances were she’d take advantage of my absence and rush out to find Maria. If not, I’d have to wait outside until she decided it was safe to leave.
But the door had barely closed when Scookie headed for the street.
CHAPTER 21
TELEGRAPH AVENUE IS NEVER an easy place on which to tail. On sunny days street artists’ tables and display cases line the curbs. Browsers meander beside them, half-looking at mushroom-shaped candles or braided bracelets, half-averting crashes with other distracted browsers. Pressing in against the tables, potential customers finger piles of Peruvian sweaters, displays of feather earrings lavish enough to have turned parrots into fryers, or stars-and-stripes long johns. Shopping is serious business here. And we on the force can make a month’s worth of enemies barging between stained-glass panels and potential buyers.
But today, in the fog, the Avenue was as barren as the day after a closeout sale. Nearer to campus there’d be a sprinkling of the hardier or hungrier street artists and their wares, but here only a few students hurried to coffeehouses or bookstores. I might as well have had a blinking red light on my head and a sign: Police Tail. My only camouflages were my gray jacket and Scookie Hogan’s obliviousness. I wouldn’t even have tried with anyone less glazed than she.
I stood in front of the Med and watched as she meandered bareheaded across the street as if experiencing the first spring day after a Minnesota winter. The mist-laden fog coated her long gray-streaked hair; it matted into her violet sweater. She strolled on, oblivious. At the corner she turned and looked around. I stepped back into the Med’s doorway, brushing against a guy with a cup of espresso who was watching the scene.
“Hey, you want in or out?” he demanded.
“Sorry,” I muttered irritably, wiping a drop of his coffee off my sleeve. I couldn’t afford to get involved in a territorial dispute here. I looked back at Scookie. She was crossing Haste Street and heading toward campus. When she stepped up on the sidewalk kitty-corner from me, she took another look, and then, satisfied she wasn’t being followed, moved on at a faster clip.
I darted through traffic to the other side of Haste Street and hurried along the empty Telegraph sidewalk. There are no convenient doorways there. I had to count on the meager camouflage of my jacket. Single-man tailing is a sucker’s job. On the force we always use at least two officers. I’d had no chance to call in help, but that didn’t make me feel any better.
Scookie was halfway up the block. She slowed. She was going to check around. There was no doorway to hide in. I squatted against the wall, head on knees and pulled my collar up over my neck. There were no street people sitting out in the cold fog, but had there been, no one would have been surprised. And peering out through my eyelashes, I could see that Scookie didn’t find my slumped gray mass odd either. She picked up speed again and hurried to the corner.
I poised on the balls of my feet, ready to run if she turned the corner. Already my thigh muscles screamed. Traffic poured across Channing. Clearly, every Berkeleyan who would ordinarily have been on the sidewalk was in a car. Scookie jumped back as a truck shot in front of her. Again she glanced behind her. But by now she wasn’t even looking at my side of the street. For her, the game of tailing had very narrow rules.
The light changed. I stood up as she started across Channing. Now I was beginning to see where she was headed. I could have loped up the empty sidewalk and between the slow-moving cars across Telegraph and into Herman Ott’s building before her, but I waited till she’d entered the door.
She was at the top of the first flight of stairs when I rounded the old elevator cage. I hurried after her, pausing as I came to the landing to let her clamber up the second flight. Then I raced up the stairs and turned north instead of south to Ott’s office. The hallway makes a square. Ott’s rooms are in the southeast corner. I reached the northeast corner just as Scookie was knocking on his door. He didn’t open it on the first knock, of course. Ott opens instantly for no one. She’d have to go through the two-rap, identify-self ritual that was the Ottian equivalent of a welcome mat. I had plenty of time to brace for takeoff before Scookie would start inside.
I waited till the door was full open to make my move. Doubtless, Ott intended to shut it after her, but I was inside before he got the chance.
“Where is she?” I demanded. “Maria Zalles.”
“What the hell are you doing barging into my office?” Ott never misses a chance to be outraged.
Scookie took a step toward the door. “Don’t even think about leaving,” I said. “You’re in enough trouble already. How long has Maria been here?” I stepped in front of her, blocking Ott from her view.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was quavering.
I spun to face Ott. He was so close behind me, I nearly ended up nose-to-forehead with him. “So, Ott, this is the way you deal fairly.
I’ll remember that. Has Maria Zalles been here ever since I saw her at the Swallow? There is such a thing as interfering with a police investigation.”
“Smith, you never asked where she was, and I never told you.” The corners of his narrow mouth twitched in triumph.
It hadn’t occurred to me she might have been here, hiding under one of his repulsive piles of blankets, sheets, and yellow garb. Or maybe she’d been behind the bedroom door, squeezed in between the radiator and the hot plate. I glared down at Ott. If Scookie hadn’t been there, I’d have shaken him. I took a step back and waited till my breathing was calmer. “Ott, Maria Zalles was the last person who saw Drem alive. She lied to me. She made me look like a fool. Do I have to explain what that means?”
Ott looked over my shoulder. I should have let Scookie go right away. With her here, I’d put Ott in the position of losing face. But I’d been too mad, was too mad. Let him lose face. Let him lose his whole goddamn head! “Ott, if I have to put out an all-points on Maria Zalles, I will. I’ll call in every favor from every patrol officer in the department, and from everyone I know on the street. We will press people. And, Ott, every time any officer does that, he’ll mention your name, because, Ott, you”—I turned around to face Scookie—“and you are responsible for this. Now, if you want to save yourselves the hassle, save the people who might have seen Maria Zalles, and keep her from being in a lot worse trouble than she already is, you’ll tell me where to find her. Now!”
Behind me, Ott drew in his breath, ready to retort.
“Where?” I yelled at Scookie as I took a step back into Ott. It pushed him off-balance and against his table.
“Gone,” she said with smug defiance. “Gone where you won’t find her.”’
“To the airport?”
Scookie gasped.
“To Samoa?”
Scookie’s eyes widened.
“When does the flight leave?”
She stared. She could have been Mrs. Lot, dripping grains of salt.
“Abetting a felon is a very serious offense, Scookie.” I turned and glared at Ott. “Tell her what it’s like in jail, Ott.”
Ott didn’t respond, but he didn’t protest either. Looking back at Scookie, I could see that she’d gotten the point. As icing on the point, I added, “You’d make a tasty meal for one of the tough girls. Fresh meat’s always a treat.”
“Four forty-four,” she muttered. “On United.”
“Four forty-four today?” I demanded. It was already 3:00 P.M.
“Yes.”
“That had better be the truth.” But she was too scared to lie. “Be at the station in an hour. You’ve both got statements—factual statements this time—to make.”
I ran to the patrol car. Ott wasn’t going anywhere, and I didn’t expect Scookie Hogan was either. But Maria Zalles certainly was. Her flight would be boarding in an hour and a quarter. SFO was a forty-five-minute drive in the middle of the night. Now, with rush hour beginning, it could take a lot longer. And I had to go back to the station and change cars first. Maria Zalles could be on the beach at Waikiki before I pulled up at passenger drop-off.
At the station I found Pereira. Leonard and Acosta followed in a second car. I called Airport Security, gave them a brief background and a description of Zalles, and hoped they weren’t distracted by suspicious items at the luggage check, or disturbances, or one of those runway “mishaps” that are frighteningly common all over the country. If anything else came up, Maria Zalles would plummet to the bottom of their list.
Pereira drove, code 3, lights and siren, down University, weaving lane to lane, cutting in front of a van at Sacramento, causing three cars to screech to a stop at San Pablo. The siren screamed as we mounted the overpass; cars squeezed left. The fog was getting thicker nearer the Bay. It was clammy inside the car, and I cracked the window. The cold wind only made the contrast greater.
I looked down at the freeway. “It’s packed. Take the frontage road.”
But Pereira was already moving into the left lane. Behind us, brakes squealed, horns honked. Pereira cut left onto the frontage road. It’s one lane there. In front of us, drivers jolted, most swinging onto the edge of the waterfront marsh, but a few froze like deer in headlights. Pereira had to weave around them into the oncoming lane. Sweat coated her face. She drove braced forward, her back an inch from the seat.
I called the dispatcher to alert Highway Patrol of our route and to get United and find out the Hawaii gate number. He’d tell them to hold the flight.
The frontage road stops half a mile before the turnoff to the bridge. Once we got on the freeway, the siren didn’t help. Here drivers might have been willing to move out of our way, but there was no place for them to go. “Use the shoulder.” But even as I said it, I could see a car stopped a hundred yards ahead.
As we came up behind it, Pereira put on the siren again and cut into traffic, Leonard and Acosta right behind us. The fog was thicker here next to the Bay. Pereira had the wipers on, but they cleared the windshield only momentarily, and it was opaque gray by the time they made the next pass.
I grabbed the mike again and called CHP. “Berkeley five two seven,” I said, giving my badge number. “We’re passing the toll plaza.” My voice was strained.
“Take lane five, Berkeley. It’s not fast, but it’s moving. Check back with me at Yerba Buena.”
“Thanks.” We moved up to the far right lane.
“Moving’s a euphemism,” Pereira muttered.
“Four o’clock. Forty-four minutes, it’ll be off the ground.”
The dispatcher called. The Hawaii flight would be leaving from gate 12B.
I could see Yerba Buena Island ahead. The Oakland span of the Bay Bridge ends there, and a short tunnel leads through the rock to the San Francisco span. I called CHP before we hit the tunnel.
“Lane four after the tunnel, then ease over into one. You can siren into two before one cuts off at Fifth Street.”
I’d driven to San Francisco enough to plan on that maneuver. “How’s it after that, on one-oh-one?”
“How d’ya think?”
“Like a sit-down dinner.”
“You got it, Berkeley.”
“Okay, how about we get off at Fifth and back on at Seventh?”
“Yeah, sure.” The radio crackled. “I didn’t think you’d know that one.”
Despite the tension, I laughed. “Hey, Chip, I’m always up on the shortcuts. I learned to drive in Jersey.”
I called the dispatcher again to do a courtesy notify to SFPD of our bounce off the freeway into the City, and to San Mateo south of the City. Pereira was already on the off ramp at Fifth Street. She hit the siren again. Cars moved aside grudgingly.
“Four-nineteen, Connie. We can’t count on Airport Security. With the best of intentions—”
“I know, I know. If we could do more than ten miles per hour …” She was nearly on the bumper of a beige Chrysler. “What do these people think when there are sirens blasting in both ears and they see red lights flashing in their rearview mirror?” She rolled down the window and stuck her head out, just as the Chrysler eased around the corner at Seventh Street. Then she wove her way through the slow-clearing intersection, muttering at each driver. It wasn’t till we were back on 101 that she turned off the siren, and using just the pulser, moved into the fast lane.
I called Airport Security again. They had no sighting of Zalles. I checked in with the San Mateo Sheriff’s Department.
Traffic on 101 south was packed. Rush hour proper. Ten miles per hour tops. I held the mike, button off, smacking my fingernail against it. Sweat pasted my shirt to my back. Cars pulled to the right for the 280 turnoff. Pereira reached for the siren.
“No!” I barked. “Too crowded. One of these guys panics, and we’ve got a pancake.”
We passed the exit. Connie stepped on the gas—30 mph, 40 mph. By the time we hit Candlestick Park, we were almost up to speed limit.
“Four thirty-five. Give it the t
rumpets.”
She hit the button, and the siren ripped the air. Cars veered out of our lane. I loved it. I flicked a glance at Pereira—she loved it too. She moved left and stepped on the gas, waiting till the last moment before veering right, across all four lanes onto the airport ramp.
It was 4:42 P.M. when we pulled up in front of the United counter. The passengers would be on board by now. In two minutes the plane would leave the gate.
“Which way to twelve-B?” I yelled at the baggage handler. He pointed to the right.
If Security hadn’t held the flight it would be gone. I ran through the doors, sidestepping a couple with a luggage carrier. Pereira shot around the other side. Businessmen hurried toward the gates; toddlers wandered unheeded. I pushed in front of a gray-haired man with a briefcase, ran around a mother with two small children, squeezed between a couple, and slowed at the luggage X ray to flash my badge. Before they could decide, I ran on.
Boarding Area B forks halfway down. I nearly ran over a couple in front of me as I tried to read the overhead directions.
“Left,” I called back to Pereira. I could hear her panting behind me. I was panting too. Every time I do this kind of thing, I think I should run in the mornings instead of swim. Why is it one sport does nothing to prepare you for another? Pereira did aerobics. I didn’t know what Acosta did to keep his long, lovely body in shape, but I was surprised he hadn’t passed me already. I hated to think how far back Leonard might be.
The line at 12B was still moving toward the gate. Thank God for airport delays. I pushed through to the front, pulling out my shield as I ran. I extended it toward the stewardess at the gate. “How many passengers have boarded?”
“Just first class. We started boarding a few minutes late.”
No way would Philip Drem have been flying first class.
“Have you gotten word from Security on this flight?”
Her eyes widened. “No. Nothing.”
Behind me, passengers shoved closer. “Hold it up till we check the line.”
I could see Pereira at the far end, Acosta blocking the escape into the terminal. And no Maria Zalles on line.