Killer Karma

by Lee Killough

  Cole slid through to the front seat. “I hope you’re trying to think how that message could have gotten on the computer. The answer’s easy if you’ll just accept that Holly did see me there. I know I claimed my oh-dark-hundred visit was a dream, but I lied. I was really there. That was a genuine conversation. Hey, amigo!” He waved a hand in front of Razor’s eyes. “Give me some reaction!”

  Razor stared fixedly ahead.

  Cole slouched in disgust. “You’re one hard-headed bastard. I think you can see and hear me, just like you did last night, but the idea’s so crazy, your brain is pretending I don’t exist.”

  Razor had no reaction to that, either. Probably how he would be reacting in Razor’s place, Cole had to admit.

  “But I am here. Somehow I have to make you recognize that.” The sooner the better.

  Following Razor into Homicide a short time later, Cole had no trouble seeing who had his case. Across the room, Norman Leach handed papers to Rafael Hamada, who sat with a hip propped on the edge of his desk. After a glance through the pages, Hamada passed them over to Charlie Dennis, sitting at his desk.

  Razor threaded his way between desks their direction. Cole climbed virtual steps and trotted across the room above the desks.

  Dennis wore half glasses to read the papers, but laid both glasses and papers on his desk as Cole arrived above him, then sat back watching Hamada and Leach. Dennis had seniority, but Hamada likely had the lead in the investigation. After twenty-three years in Homicide, Dennis was burned out and just marking time until retirement. He looked it, with slacks a bad match for the sport coat draped over the back of his chair and his tie, loosened even this early in the morning, as wrinkled as a Goodwill rescue.

  Looking down, Cole recognized the page under the glasses as a phone record. Sara’s. It included his cell number…two calls to it at 19:04 and 19:29, one received from it at 19:39.

  Sweet. Maybe her latest calls could point the direction she had gone. He scanned the list…and started in surprise. At 23:03, the next entry, she called the Flaxx Enterprises number! Why call there?

  “Well now…what brings Night Investigations here at this time of day?”

  He looked up to find Hamada quirking a brow at Razor. While Hamada’s six-five height surprised people who expected Japanese to be small, no one expected that Texas drawl.

  “He and Dunavan are buddies,” Leach said. His mustache twitched. “How’s the fake bullet hole business these days?”

  Behind his glasses, Razor went wide-eyed. “You still think Cole and I did that? Why couldn’t it have been the joker who kept putting fake spiders in my locker and patrol unit and on the sun visor in my car, where they’d fall in my lap?”

  Maybe messages that matched the one at home would get through to Razor. Cole looked around for a idle computer. Homicide’s was already in use. Neil Galentree had a laptop, though…and the way he kept pausing to leaf through file folders and his notebook made Cole hope he might have to leave in search of missing information. Cole headed for Galentree’s desk. At the same time, he continued watching and listening behind him.

  Leach said, “I hope you’re here just to ask how the investigation is going, not thinking of trying to get involved in it.”

  Cole leaned down to Galentree’s ear. “Don’t you have to go look through files or take a leak or something?”

  Razor gave Leach a bland smile. “You mean you’re not interested in information I might have on the Benay woman?”

  Hamada sat up straighter. “I’d like to hear it…if you boys can finish the pissing contest some other time.”

  Razor hesitated.

  “Go on,” Cole called. “Even if you had only dreamed the information, you can see it fits together.”

  Frowning at a page in his notebook, Galentree stood. Hope rose in Cole…only to evaporate as Galentree dropped back into his chair and picked up his phone. He punched in a number Cole recognized as the crime lab’s.

  Razor took a breath. “This is an educated guess, but…I think Benay is an informant of Cole’s who works for Flaxx Enterprises. I know he had an informant he expected to help him crack a big case. And the case he’s been obsessed with is the Flaxx Enterprises burglaries.”

  Cole smiled. Nice logic chain.

  “An informant.” The twitch of Leach’s mustache looked as skeptical as his voice sounded. “And you’re just now mentioning it?”

  Razor shrugged. “Cole never gave me a name or specified it related to Flaxx. The connections didn’t hit me until last night.”

  Hamada glanced over at Dennis. “Look up the Flaxx number. See if it matches anything on Benay’s phone records.”

  Galentree hung up the phone and pushed back from his desk. “Andy, I’m going to the crime lab. They have our gun ready to test fire.”

  At the next desk, Willner nodded.

  Cole cheered silently. Finally. “Go, go. Take your time about coming back.” As soon as Galentree turned his back, Cole sat down on a virtual chair and went to work, typing letter by laborious letter.

  Over at Hamada’s desk, Leach remained looking skeptical. “Why would Dunavan kill an informant?”

  “I don’t think he did. Maybe that’s his blood in the car.”

  Leach shook his head. “It’s on the passenger side.”

  “I know Cole,” Razor said evenly. “If he were alive, no matter what he’d done, by this time he’d have contacted his wife or me, if only to explain himself.”

  Even dead, I’m trying to do that.

  “Tex. There’s a match.” Dennis tapped the phone record. “This eleven o’clock call.”

  Hamada’s brows went up. “She called there at night?” He turned toward Razor, expression going thoughtful. “Tell me what you know about these Flaxx burglaries.”

  Razor gave them a run-down, and included the fires.

  Hamada whistled at Willner and waved him over. “Y’all’re working that firefighter’s death. Come hear this.”

  Cole winced. He could guess Willner’s reaction.

  After listening to Hamada repeat what Razor said about the fires, Willner remained as underwhelmed as Cole feared. “Jesus, Rasgorshek. Don’t tell me Dunavan sold you that cockamamie theory.” He outlined the evidence against Luther Kijurian.

  To Cole’s disgust, Hamada and the others started nodding as they listened.

  “Dunavan doesn’t believe the evidence?” Dennis said.

  Leach grunted. “It’s typical. He can’t give up a chase or an idea he’s got his teeth into. I don’t see how any of this is connected to Dunavan killing the Benay woman, though. Go home, Rasgorshek.” He turned away. “I’ll leave you to it, Hamada. Keep me informed of developments.”

  Cole caught the collective sigh of relief as Leach disappeared out the door.

  Willner started back for his desk. “If you come across other information on Kijurian, let me know.” Passing Galentree’s desk, he stopped short. “What the…”

  He had seen the laptop, Cole realized in disgust. Interrupted again!

  Hamada turned. “Something wrong?”

  “Something crazy. This thing typed a letter by itself.”

  Razor started. Hamada’s brows went up. Dennis’s expression said: Yeah, right.

  Cole sidestepped clear of the laptop. If only he could type faster.

  Coming closer to the screen, Willner stared. “Holy shit. Listen to this. ‘Benay possibly witnessed Dunavan’s shooting- ”

  The rush toward the desk interrupted him. In seconds he was surrounded. Cole backed through the desk to its far side.

  Hamada read the rest of the message over Willner’s shoulder. “‘Dunavan’s shooting in the 2EC garage.”

  His phone rang.

  “Charlie, get that for me, will you?”

  Dennis lumbered back to Hamada’s desk.

  Hamada pursed his lips. “Two EC garage?”

  Razor’s shoulders hunched as though against the cold. “The Flaxx offices are in Two EC.”


  “Interesting.” Hamada continued reading. “‘See Gerald Lockhart, Seacliff, re Benay’s 10–10 or…’” His eyes narrowed. “See Lockhart about her location or…what, do you reckon? Do you have any ideas, Razor?”

  “No.” He eyed the laptop as if it might bite.

  “But you know the name,” Cole said. “It’s the same Lockhart in the message on your computer, old buddy.”

  Razor’s eyes flicked Cole’s direction. He sucked in his breath.

  Electricity shot through Cole. “Razor? You see me?”

  Hamada glanced down at Razor. “Something wrong?”

  Razor pulled his glasses off and polished them on his tie. “No.”

  Cole grinned across the desk in triumph. “Like hell it was nothing! Admit it, you son of a bitch…you saw me! You know you’re awake and you saw me.” He came around beside Razor and punched his shoulder. “Come on, look at me.”

  Razor stiffened but kept polishing the glasses.

  Hamada eyed the screen thoughtfully. “Where’s Galentree?”

  “Gone to the crime lab.” Willner’s forehead furrowed. “But if he came across this information, why didn’t he mention it to me, or tell you?”

  “Just what I’d like to know.” Hamada picked up Galentree’s phone.

  As he started punching in the crime lab’s number, Dennis trotted over, face grim. “That was the lab about Dunavan’s car.” He handed Hamada a memo pad filled with notes.

  Razor froze.

  A mask slid over Hamada’s face as he read. He looked up from the notes to Razor. “You might be right about Dunavan being the victim. They’ve typed the blood. It’s the same as his.”

  Their faces all went grim.

  “We don’t know Benay’s blood type, though,” Hamada said. “Did Dunavan carry a backup gun?”

  Razor put back on his glasses. “Just his issued weapon.”

  “Does he own a handgun of his own?”

  “A.22 revolver for target shooting.” Razor frowned. “Why?”

  “They found a 9mm bullet embedded in the carpet of the foot well, possibly from a Glock.”

  The department issued Beretta.40's.

  Hamada hefted the memo pad. “So it looks like someone else brought their own weapon to the party.” He flipped to a new page and copied down the computer message. “Andy, can I get you to ask your partner about this? I need to contact Flaxx Enterprises.” He checked his wrist watch. “They ought to be in the office by this time.”

  Cole gave a thumbs up. Yes! Start hunting Sara. Work fast. The foreboding in him felt even darker.

  Back at their desks, Dennis handed Hamada the phone records. Hamada punched the Flaxx number into his phone and handed the records back. “Try this number and see who she called after Flaxx, will you? And look up a phone number for Gerald Lockhart.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Razor asked.

  Hamada pointed at the chair beside his desk. “Guests are always welcome to sit down and- Hello, this is the San Francisco Police Department.” He shoved a stack of Polaroids toward the edge of the desk, tore the page of lab notes off his memo pad, and laid it on the Polaroids. “May I speak to your personnel director, please.”

  Earl Lamper. Lamper had that job as well as being IT director and head of Bookkeeping. Flaxx wanted just one person having complete access to the computers, Cole suspected. Except, was Lamper there today?

  Razor picked up the crime lab notes and the Polaroids. Cole read the notes over Razor’s shoulder. The car had not been dusted for prints yet, but in going over the seats, they found blonde and black hairs on both the passenger and driver headrests, and — what? Fragments of clear plastic tape and sticky residue on the back of the passenger seat and headrest?

  Cole frowned. Had the shooter left them? He could not remember the kids messing around with tape in the car.

  Hamada introduced himself to someone else before asking: “Do you have a Sara Benay employed there? … Will you transfer me to Bookkeeping, then? I need to speak with her.” His brows rose. “Well, that’s handy.” His brows climbed higher. “She’s where? … Do you have a number where we can reach her? … Yes, sir, I can hold.”

  Razor laid down the memo sheet and began shuffling through the Polaroids.

  Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Hamada said, “No surprise…Benay isn’t there, but this fellow says she flew home for a family emergency. He’s checking to see if she left a number.”

  The Polaroids showed the Taurus…the blood-spattered dash, a blood-soaked headrest. Why blood-soaked, Cole wondered. It was too much for blowback blood.

  Then he thought of the tape pieces and had a vision of his body, too difficult for the shooter to move to the trunk, taped upright in the seat. Had the shooter really risked driving like that? Cole whistled soundlessly. Even at night and with the windows rolled up, it was ballsy. Give the shooter credit for good nerves.

  Another photo showed the front license tag. Which had a different number from his. The shooter must have switched plates. No, not switched plates, Cole realized moments later. A photo of the rear tag showed smeared numbers. In a third photo, some of smeared numbers were gone, revealing his tag numbers. The shooter printed a fake number on label paper — before or after killing him? — and stuck it over the real one.

  Cute. No wonder the ATL failed to locate the car for so long. The fakes would never stand up to a close inspection, but the shooter had gambled on no one looking closely. More evidence of his nerves…though he also probably drove conservatively until he dumped the car. The gamble paid off. Without the tag getting wet and smearing, the car might have sat undiscovered for weeks.

  “Tex,” Dennis said. “I’ve got Lockhart’s number. The number Benay called is the American Airways desk at SFO. Maybe she did fly home.”

  Willner strolled over. “Neil says he doesn’t know anything about the message on the computer. He swears he didn’t write it. I wonder who could have. There wasn’t anyone near his desk after he left.”

  Razor rubbed his neck.

  Cole grinned at the goosebumps there. “Yeah…no one material. Just the same individual using your computer. And Holly told you who that was.”

  Razor kept staring at the Polaroids, shuffling through them again.

  “Go ahead,” Hamada said into the phone. He jotted a name and number on the memo sheet under his transcription of the computer message. “Thank you, Mr. Lamper.” He jiggled the switch hook and punched in the new number.

  Cole leaned close to hear the other end of the conversation. The warm-voiced woman who answered identified herself as Sara’s mother. No, Sara was not there…nor expected. Nor did her mother know of any family emergency.

  Anxiety crept into the distant voice. “Where did you hear there’s one?”

  Hamada’s drawl thickened. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, ma’am. It was third hand information and I reckon I misunderstood.”

  Top that for soothing an anxious citizen, Cole reflected, and backed off to sit against the edge of the desk. His best Jimmy Stewart imitation never came even close.

  He expected Hamada to hang up, but Hamada went on, his voice going lazily casual, “Oh, one more thing, ma’am…do you happen to know your daughter’s blood type?”

  Of course he needed to see if the blood could be Sara’s.

  The question must have worried the mother. Apology filled Hamada’s voice. “Oh, I didn’t mean to, ma’am. It’s just that the party who asked us to locate your daughter thinks, or maybe that’s hopes, she’s type AB?”

  Dennis gave the lie a thumbs up.

  Hamada listened…shook his head. “Well then maybe I won’t worry about finding her. I thank you very much for your time.” He hung up and sat back in his chair, looking around at them. “Mom doesn’t know her blood type but it can’t be AB. Mom is type O and Dad type B.” He pushed to his feet. “Charlie, contact this Lockhart fellow and see if he has any idea where Benay is. I’d better tell Madrid that instead of a killer cop
, we’ve got a cop killer. We’ll need to change the ATL on Benay to an Alert.” He headed for the lieutenant’s office.

  Even though he knew this would happen, dismay shot through Cole. “No! Damn it, Hamada, she didn’t kill me!”

  Being a suspect did have the benefit of ensuring a concerted hunt for Sara. He hated the idea, though, of her parents hearing their daughter was suspected of murder. He had to prevent that. By the time they found Sara, he better be able to prove who really killed him.

  He slapped Razor’s shoulder. “Start seeing me! We’ve got work to do!”

  Razor’s hand tightened on the Polaroids. After a moment, he returned them to the desk. The one showing the bloody headrest sat on top, Cole saw. Looking from the Polaroids to the phone, Razor sighed.

  Cole felt his chest tighten. Was Razor thinking of calling Sherrie?

  “Dennis, mind if I use the phone?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Definitely calling Sherrie. When Razor punched in the number, Cole recognized the tone sequence for his home phone. “She won’t be home. She’ll be at work.” Staying busy to keep from going crazy. Joanna would tell Razor that. Was the delay going give him the chance to reach Sherrie and be there with her when she heard?

  Cole sprinted through the outside wall and up high enough to see San Francisco General off to the south, and the roof area over the ER. Too much distance to cover on foot and beat a phone call. If only…

  Before the thought finished, he stood on the roof. Staring around in exasperation. Would he ever understand this, he wondered, running for the edge of the roof and down the building.

  He still lost the race with the phone. By the time his search of the ER located Sherrie in the orthopedic room, she stood with her face frozen and her fingers bloodless from their grip on the phone there. A male nurse hovered anxiously at the door.

  In a choked voice, she said, “There’s no chance it’s…someone else’s?”

  Cole’s heart lurched at the mixed hope and fear in her tone. He moved close to hear Razor’s end of the conversation.