Death and Taxes

by Susan Dunlap

  There was a slurring sound on the wire, as if cloth had swished or Lamott had shrugged.

  “Hey, man, you saying one of us killed him?” Moon.

  “I don’t care about killing. I’m just interested in the figures.”

  “Killing, figures—they’re inseparable,” Takai insisted.

  There was a pause. I could picture Lamott looking down his sleek nose with that same smug expression he’d had when he told me he’d parked in the red zone outside the station. It didn’t fill me with confidence.

  “Lamott, any of us who admits to having Drem’s briefcase is giving you a hold over him that could be a lot worse than an IRS audit,” Takai insisted.

  “Maybe. Unless you’re going to jail. Tax avoidance is your right. Tax evasion is illegal. And jail is a dangerous place for innocents like you. Right, Simonov? You’ve been in the can.”

  “Years ago. And that was only a few months in a ‘country club jail.’”

  It was so quiet, I could hear their breathing. Then Scookie Hogan said what they all must have been thinking. “People go to jail for murder, too. Admitting you have Drem’s briefcase would be like calling the cops.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, then silence—no shuffling of feet, not even the soft hiss of their breath. By his presence Lamott was forcing them to sit together in silence, so that each of them had to see his separateness and face the fact that the group couldn’t or wouldn’t support him. Or maybe he was just drawing a blank.

  After a minute or so he said, “No one has to make a statement here now. You’ve all agreed you need my services. The one who has the briefcase needs them most. I don’t care which of you that is. I just want the figures in the briefcase. Let’s choose a drop point for them. I don’t need to know who has them. He or she just leaves them off. I pick them up, then I clean up your books. Simple as that.”

  “Lamott,” Takai said acerbically, “don’t you think it’s a bit damning for one of us to announce we’ll make the drop?”

  So much for scenario B—the killer reveals himself before Lamott leaves. That left C, the last and none too reliable resort.

  “Okay, we’ll protect your anonymity,” Lamott said, easing into C. “I’ll ask each of you for a suggestion about the drop point, each suggestion built on the previous one. That way, no one will be giving him or herself away. Agreed?”

  There was a general murmuring that I took for agreement if not enthusiasm.

  “Scookie, you start.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “A little nervous?” Howard observed.

  “Someone has to be first.” Lamott’s tone was halfway between laughter and exasperation.

  “Well, okay. What exactly do I have to deliver—just a slip of paper with the figures on it or the whole briefcase?”

  “The briefcase.”

  “What do you want that for?” Lyn Takai demanded.

  I held my breath. The chances of getting the IRS to verify any numbers as local TCMP figures was slim. Without that verification, figures typed on a fresh sheet could refer to anything and be valueless as evidence.

  Lamott laughed. “I want Drem’s briefcase to wipe my feet on.”

  There was a shrill sound I took to be Scookie’s laugh. “Okay, if I were choosing a drop point, I’d need someplace nearby.”

  “Ethan?” Lamott asked.

  “Only a fool would chance his freedom on a game like this. Twenty questions chooses the spot? Or is it four suggestions?”

  “We’ll narrow down till you’re all comfortable. As long as it takes.”

  I could hear more grumbles. Then Simonov suggested someplace with a number of entries and exits. Lyn Takai wanted a spot where she could be at least as comfortable as Lamott. The narrowing went on another two rounds, and it was Mason Moon who finally came up with People’s Park. He named a spot at the near end behind the Med. Under the low wooden stage.

  I slammed my fist into my thigh. “Damn!”

  Howard whistled. “What you’ve got here is one of the worst spots in town, Jill. Maybe the worst.”

  “With the connections this crew has,” Pereira said, “they could know a clerk or janitor or dishwasher in any of the businesses, or half the tenants in the motel that faces the park. They could come in from either side of the park, or from the far end. Or around the end of the motel. You’re talking major surveillance.”

  I nodded. Ideally, uniforms in the closed shops, undercovers at either side of the park, by the far end, in the shadows of the shrubs, behind the apartment building, and on every street that led off. I could use up the department’s overtime budget for the season. To get half that many officers, I’d have to get Inspector Doyle to pressure Chief Larkin, maybe to make a deal with the head of one of the other details who owed him. Then it’d still be a question of how many bodies we could pull in on overtime. I didn’t know if we could do all that by tomorrow night.

  “Okay,” said Lamott, “the spot’s set. You wanted the drop to be at night. So let’s say three A.M. tomorrow night.”

  “No.” Lyn Takai laughed. “No, you don’t get to choose the time. Three in the morning’s too late. About ten thirty is right. And not tomorrow. We’ll do it tonight.”

  Ten thirty tonight. Two hours from now.

  CHAPTER 26

  A CIVILIAN MIGHT HAVE asked why the Inspiration group chose 10:30 P.M. for the drop instead of 3:00 A.M. The answer is they were smart. At 3:00 A.M. the streets are deserted. The campus cops have swept and reswept People’s Park. It’s empty but for a street person who’s willing to take the chance of being rousted out within the hour. At 3:00 A.M. People’s Park belongs to us.

  But at 10:30 P.M. the Avenue is crowded with students, neighborhood people coming out of cafés, other Berkeleyans who’ve been listening to jazz at Larry Blake’s or strolling around after a reading at Cody’s or a meeting on campus. At that hour it’d be easy for Scookie, Simonov, Takai, or even Mason Moon to make the drop, then fade into the crowd on Telegraph or take cover in a café, such a part of the scenery that everyone there would swear—and believe—he’d been sitting sipping a latte all evening.

  Behind the row of stores on the Avenue, People’s Park was dark. The wind that had rattled the van two hours ago was stronger now. It shook the acacia leaves at the far end, blew sheets of newsprint across the empty grass in the middle of the park, ruffled the shirts and jackets in the free box, and rustled the leaves of the shrubs in the protected area behind the stores where I hunkered down.

  There was no good place to hide here. I wasn’t surprised. The drop site had been chosen by people who knew the area and how to take advantage of it, people who had built a business from flour, raisins, and sweet tooths, a reputation from stealing out under cover of night to plop a corpse bench on public land. The drop site was under a wooden platform, a small stage of sorts, that stood midway between sides of the park and about fifteen feet from the back of the stores. The killer could come from any direction and leave the briefcase beneath any of the four sides of the stage. To make matters worse, two Dumpsters lined the south side, blocking part of my view no matter where I hid.

  On a scale of 1 to 10 of ways I would have liked to set up the catch, this was down close to a 1; 10 would have been half the force entrenched all over the park. But even a 4 would have included backup I could communicate with; 3 would have been backup in places I’d decided on. With 2, I’d have at least been sure there was backup. But 1 left me sure that no patrol officer was the mysterious cop Sierra reported. But not certain enough to have any of them on backup, which left me with only Howard and Pereira, and the whole of People’s Park to cover. As soon as we’d made the plan in the surveillance van, I left the van and headed for the park. I had to make sure I was there before any of the Inspiration crew arrived. I figured I’d need every spare minute to check out the bushes to find a spot near the stage that would give me cover.

  I was right and wrong. Right I’d need the time. Wrong it would be spent eyein
g bushes. There were barely any. It amazes me how different you discover a place is when you need it for a specific purpose. Ask ten middle-class Berkeleyans to describe People’s Park, and they’d all call it a central lawn bordered by trees at one end and thick bushes near the stage at the other. Every one of them would be wrong.

  What foliage there was near the stage was tall, willowy pampas grass or squat shrubs, none likely to conceal a 115-pound woman. Then there were the Dumpsters, big enough to hide all of Homicide-Felony Assault Detail. I held my breath. Surely I wouldn’t have to … But no, the Dumpsters wouldn’t work. As I traipsed over the rotten food and filthy papers, looking for signs of the approaching murderer, I’d be virtually a sideshow.

  Which left only one other choice, only slightly better—the free box. The free box, a receptacle for donated clothes, had been a landmark of the park for as long as I could remember. The boxes themselves had changed, but the spirit of the free box continued from incarnation to incarnation. This particular one looked like a summer house for a St. Bernard, a four-foot-square platform raised a couple of feet off the ground with a roof to keep off the rain and open sides to facilitate pawing through the offerings. My joining the heap of clothes in it had a number of drawbacks. The box was next to the sidewalk at the north side of the park, twenty yards from the stage. I’d have to cover myself with clothes and lie unmoving on the platform for an hour or more. The clothes may or may not have been clean, and after taking them, some recipients had donated their own well-worn, not-well-washed raiment. With the inviting odor of sweat and dirt and the crumbs of muffins and enchiladas mixed in, the platform was on its way to being a biologist’s dream.

  But the free box was my only choice. Crouched near the stage, I checked the sidewalks, then the shadows under the trees at the far end. It was ten minutes before the area looked empty enough for me to move. I stood, stretched—likely to be my last stretch for over an hour—sauntered over, and sat on the edge of the free box. Glancing around, I took a deep breath, knelt on shins and elbows, and yanked piles of parkas and scratchy sweaters over me. My shoulder holster jabbed into my ribs, and the weight of the revolver dragged the harness into my back. It must have been a hundred degrees under the pile. My knees and ankles screamed. I stuffed jackets and shirts underneath, but it didn’t help much, and the stench of old sweat was almost overwhelming. It was like a sauna that hadn’t been cleaned since Leif Eriksson left Norway.

  And people call Homicide the glamour job of the department!

  The wind whipped the ends of a shawl near my head. Behind me a radio blared and died as a car passed. The park was a black rectangle, made blacker by the streetlights around it.

  Something bit my ankle. A flea! I steeled myself to keep from slapping at it.

  Footsteps. On the far side of the Dumpster. I held my breath. Feet crunching gravel. Slow, cautious, the walker was invisible in the dark. If the killer moved around the Dumpsters and slid the briefcase under the far side of the stage, I would miss the whole thing. If the footsteps stopped there, I’d have to choose blind and give chase or stay here and wonder if I’d blown the whole case.

  The steps slowed. They were softer. Behind the Dumpsters. They stopped. I leaned forward, stretching my neck, straining to see, to hear leather being shoved along the gritty ground under the Dumpster. Car engines roared on the side streets. Radios cut the night. I forced myself to listen solely for the sound of the briefcase. Something scraped. If only I could see. The sound stopped. Had it gone on long enough for a shove? It seemed eternal. But … no time.

  The footsteps began again, going back toward the far street, shielded by the Dumpsters. “Damn!” I muttered to myself. I’d never see the figure. The footsteps moved slowly. Too slow for an amateur making a drop. Amateurs drop and bolt.

  I looked at my watch: 10:03; 10:05; 10:10. The park seemed too empty, too black. My skin quivered as it does when I wake up at four in the morning and can’t get back to sleep. Something was wrong. I ran through the plan. No, things were okay. There was time. Things were okay.

  I lay in the box sweating, the wood digging into my knees and elbows. Listening for the rustle of grass or cloth, I shifted position, trying to ease the pressure on my elbows and still prop up my head.

  At 10:21 a car sped down Haste Street behind me, windows open, radio blaring, pounding of the bass shaking the box floor. I could feel my shoulders tense and in my chest an ashen cold I hadn’t had since I’d stopped smoking years ago. I wanted to cough. I pressed my lips together hard, and for a moment I was seventeen again in my stalled car on a dark two-lane road with all my mother’s warnings about what can happen to girls alone running through my mind. The heavy wool blankets blocked out the free night wind, leaving only dank airless air like my grandmother’s closed-up house.

  The wind ruffled the coats and sweaters on top of me. It was after 10:30. The killer should be here. Berkeleyans were chronically late, but surely not … I listened for footsteps. The only noises were the reedy whine of the pampas grass and the rumble of voices on the Avenue two hundred yards and a different reality away.

  It was 10:37. A noise coming from the far side of the park. A voice. No, two voices. Could the killer have brought a friend or lover? Quickly I paired the Inspiration owners. Simonov and Scookie Hogan? Takai and Mason Moon? But no two of them would have spent an evening alone together, much less a whole night. And certainly there was not enough love between them for one of the innocents to endanger his freedom for the guilty one.

  The voices grew louder, the words longer, melting together. Slurring together. Slurring period. Damn! Neither of these was the killer. What I had here was a pair of drunks. Now I could make out their figures, weaving slightly like cars avoiding the potholes on Henry Street. Tall, heavy. They veered toward the Dumpsters. One peered over the edge and said something incomprehensible to me but infuriating to his companion, who yanked the climber back. They fell on the stage. The old boards squealed at the impact. Together they looked like a dark furry ball. Arms flung out. Fists hit the boards. One of them groaned, then the other. The ball rolled again, this time slower.

  I looked at my watch: 10:40. The killer certainly wasn’t going to break up a fight to leave the briefcase. I just hoped they’d end their tussle quickly and be in decent enough shape to walk off. If one decided to sleep it off on the stage, the whole sting was shot.

  The ball separated into halves. Slowly the two men stood. They veered toward each other and entwined arms, their squabble apparently forgotten. They staggered across the grass, two steps to the right toward the trees, two toward the free box, toward me. The dry cave of cold pressed out against my breastbone. The drunks weaved closer. Slowly they headed toward the free box, their voices low-pitched, almost growling now.

  The wind stopped. I was sweating. The coats and shirts and blankets weighed down on me, imprisoning my legs and arms. My ribs shook from the gnawing cold inside while my skin cringed against the heat, and the hard edge of the shoulder holster dug into my side. Where were Pereira and Howard? Were they at the far end of the park? Was I alone here, with these two huge men, drunk …

  I pressed my forearm against the holster and shoved it hard against my ribs. Why was I frightened? I was a police detective. I’d been trained in self-defense, in taking out suspects. I was in a lot better shape than these two men, I was sober, and I had a gun. I turned my toes under, soles down to the box, ready to push off.

  The two veered closer, grumbling now. I poised, ready to jump up. Probably the shock of seeing me would do these guys in. I knew that, but the icy hollow in my chest didn’t shrink. Howard and Pereira were on the street. There was no reason to be afraid. But I couldn’t shake the fear; it was too deeply embedded in my body. Be careful, little girl! Watch out for strange men! Don’t go there alone!

  Dammit, it had been over twenty years since I was a little girl. How could I, a police detective, still be captive after all these years? Would those fears I thought I’d banished run me for
ever? Be careful! Find someone to protect you!

  Suddenly I was shaking, but now with fury. I’d damn well protect myself. I could jump up, grab the drunks, and slam them to the ground.

  But I couldn’t, not without blowing the sting.

  In that flashback of panic, I’d almost forgotten about the sting. The two were ten feet away, clinging to each other, stumbling toward me. Trying to block them out, I looked toward the stage. It still seemed dark.

  They veered to the right, beside the box. Maybe they’d amble on to the sidewalk. I held my breath. They stopped.

  “Hey, Gray, looka this.” Cloth swished. I could feel a sleeve being pulled up through the pile. “Whadaya think?”

  “Dunno.”

  “This?” He lifted another garment.

  “Dunno.” How long before they got down to me? I kept my eyes on the stage. Nothing moved there.

  “Whadaya mean, ya don’ know? This iss great.”

  “Dunno.”

  Dust from the clothes got in my eyes. I blinked, desperately trying to focus between blinks. Failing, I forced myself to keep my eyes open. My eyes stung. That was when I spotted the figure shoving something under the stage.

  I kicked the clothes off and started for the stage.

  “Hey, who-do-you …” One of the drunks grabbed my ankle.

  By the stage, the killer was shoving the briefcase underneath. He jerked toward the commotion, then reached back under and grabbed the briefcase.

  I kicked the drunk. He screamed and let go. But now the killer was running full out, nearly to the sidewalk. The streetlights showed the figure clearly now. Tan pants, tan jacket. Above the collar, dark hair. A cop? No. But close enough to pass for one.

  I ran after, shouting, “Stop! Stop or you’ll lose more than Drem’s briefcase!”

  The tan legs moved faster, racing into the street, cutting in front of a Jeep.

  My gun clanked against my ribs. It might as well have been a hammer for all the use it was going to be in a crowded area like this. I ran faster, but I wasn’t gaining. I raced into the street. A sedan screeched to a halt, but the pickup in the next lane didn’t. It came within an inch of mowing me down.