by Lee Killough
Thinking of Irah…Cole said, “I’d love to stick around for Flaxx peeing himself, Razor, but Irah’s still running loose. I have to go find her.”
“Wait!” Razor said. He laid down the last strip of the confirmation receipt. “I’ve got it.”
After scribbling down the confirmation number on a message pad, he hurried to the computer. Everyone followed. Cole climbed a virtual ladder to peer down past them at the monitor while Razor brought up the Post Office internet site and typed the number into the tracking window.
Cole stared at the delivery results. Son of a bitch.
“Colma?” Dennis grinned. “Well, I’d wonder if she mailed the bodies, except they’d have to go parcel post instead of priority.”
Colma. Where everyone in San Francisco went to be buried. “Razor, when Flaxx fretted about cops digging around the company for clues to my death, Irah treated it like a joke. She said they wouldn’t know where to dig.”
Razor sucked air through his teeth. “What’s the area code there? The same as Daly City, right…650?”
He raced back to the desk where he had been working. Carefully, he set aside the report form with the assembled confirmation receipt on it and dumped the whole bag of shreds on the desk.
“What do you have?” Madrid asked.
“There was something handwritten, in a kind of purple ink…torn into pieces, not shredded.” Razor pawed through the shred strips. “I saw a piece with the numbers 650.”
Hamada, Dennis, and Lima joined him sorting the shreds. When they found a promising piece, however, no one touched it. Using the eraser ends of two pencils like chopsticks, Razor picked the piece up and transferred it to where he was assembling the note. Protecting any fingerprints on it. Slowly, pieces fit together, revealing the beginning of a phone number and the beginning and last letters of a name.
A throat cleared behind them. Kaslin said, “Although Mr. Flaxx had absolutely nothing to do with either murder, some time after the fact he came into possession of information about them. In return for that information, I want any charges relating to the murders dropped against Mr. Flaxx.”
“Dream on,” Hamada said.
Kaslin just smiled. “Get someone from the DA’s office in here and he and I will talk.”
Madrid picked up a phone. “Take your client into the interview room.”
Waiting for the Assistant DA, they continued hunting pieces of the note in purple ink. Shortly after the ADA’s arrival and her disappearance into the interview room with Hamada, Razor completed the note…giving them a phone number and single name: Tankersley.
While Razor checked Irah’s phone records, Dennis grabbed a phone book. “Bingo,” he said shortly. “There’s just one Tankersley in Colma…Gilbert Tankersley.” He headed for the computer. It gave him a hit. “Tankersley did a stretch for forgery.” He took the news in to Madrid, who had returned to his office.
Irah had mailed something to an ex-con living in the cemetery city. Payment for services rendered? A current of hope rippled through Cole. Could they be close to finding Sara and his bodies?
“There’s no record of a call from either Carrasco’s home or cell phone to that number,” Razor said.
She had to call it from somewhere. “Razor, if she didn’t want to risk a link to that number by using her own phone, maybe she went to a- ”
“Pay phone!” Razor finished. “Would you…”
“I’m on my way.”
From a ziptrip to Irah’s house, Cole hopped line-of-sight south to Golden Gate Park and north to Geary in search of pay phones. A few still existed. He brought Razor back numbers for two.
Razor pretended to learn them in a phone call and passed them on to Dennis, who rolled a form into his typewriter to start warrants for the pay phone records.
Razor lowered his voice. “Galentree called while you were gone. No gun in the purse. They did find where she bought the cape and the rest of her getup…with a credit card…but it was Benay’s.”
Cole gritted his teeth. “I’ve got to go find her.”
“Looking where? Even as a ghost you can only be one place at a time. We’ll get her eventually. Now that she’s identified as a cop killer, can’t you leave her to us?”
Cole explored himself for an answer. The leaden discomfort of guilt and unfinished business remained. “I think I have to see her locked up. And find Sara’s and my bodies…to give everyone closure.”
And what about Sherrie? he wondered bleakly. The thought of leaving without getting straight with her wrenched.
Madrid came out of his office smiling. “Good news. The cruiser Carrasco stole has been located at Union Square. Willner and Galentree are on there way over.”
Union square! Cole groaned. “Dying’s turned me stupid, Razor. I should have thought of that.” What better place to go…the parking underground out of sight with every major department store in America around it. In fifteen minutes she could buy herself an entirely new appearance. Alternatively, from there she could just disappear into the Tenderloin. At least it gave him a place to try picking up her trail. “See you later.”
“Wait,” Razor whispered. “I’ll come, too. Two sets of eyes are better than one, and I can carry a radio so you’ll know if Irah’s sighted.”
A good point, Cole reflected. He missed having communications.
Madrid called Hamada out of the interview room and told him about Tankersley. “I just talked to the Colma PD. He’s kept his nose clean there but they know him. Get this. He operates heavy equipment for the Pacific Hills Memorial Gardens. That includes their backhoe.”
Backhoe! So Tankersley could be involved in disposing of the bodies.
Razor shrugged into his coat. “Lieutenant, Hamada, I think I’ll go give Willner and Galentree a hand at Union Square.”
Nodding absently, Madrid asked Hamada, “How’s it going with Flaxx?”
As he and Razor headed for the door, Cole listened to Hamada grunt. “The ADA is dropping all charges related to Dunavan and Benay’s murders in return for Flaxx confessing to the burglaries and arson, and spilling everything Carrasco told him about the murders.”
“Let him spill to Lima and Dennis. You go down to Colma. The CPD is picking up Tankersley. Lean on him to get an admission that Carrasco brought him bodies to dispose of, and find out where they are.”
Cole thought again of the ghost airmen movie. As their bodies were recovered, they faded away. Despite wanting his and Sara’s bodies found, anxiety chilled him. If this did work like that movie, catching up with Irah ASAP became more important than ever.
30
The hunt at Union Square looked well under way when Cola and Razor arrived. Patrol units swept up and down every street in the area like a swarm of black and white bees. Officers on foot checked out pedestrians in the plaza and on the grass tiers along Geary. Down in the parking garage, they passed a cruiser parked behind another cruiser that had officers going through its interior and trunk. After Razor found a parking stall for his own car, they walked back to the unit.
Razor said, “I’m assisting Homicide.”
“I don’t know where the inspectors are. They left here ten minutes ago.”
“What are you finding?” Razor pointed at Yee and Silvela’s unit.
A sergeant smiled. “More than I expected to. Our cop killer trashed the unit…hoping to find a spare handcuff key, I’m thinking…but left all the weapons and locked up behind herself. She took the keys but since we have an old homeboy with us…” She nodded toward an officer by the trunk, who sighed at what was obviously an all-too-familiar joke. “…it didn’t take us long to get in.”
Cole saw what she meant by Irah trashing the unit. Up front, the glove box and clipboard holding citation and report forms had been emptied onto the seat and floor. In the trunk, the plastic case of the first aid kit lay on its side with its contents scattered across the jumble of other trunk items. On top of everything lay a pair of bloody handcuffs, surrounded by opened h
and-wipe packs and the blood-stained wipes themselves…also half-used rolls of gauze and tape, and opened antibiotic ointment packets.
The sergeant said, “It looks like she gave herself a little first aid.”
That might not be all she used the kit for, Cole reflected. The EMT shears had a black thread caught at the pivot. She needed a quick change of appearance before appearing on the street. He had a vision of her whacking the ruffles off her sleeves and shortening the long skirt. The hand wipes resembled what Sherrie used to clean off makeup. Since the Goth eyes changed Irah’s looks so much, so would cleaning them off.
He pointed out the thread to Razor.
Razor lifted the shears up near the trunk light, and pulling the thread loose, twisted it between his fingers. “Do we know if anyone saw her leave the garage?”
The sergeant eyed the thread. “Not that I’ve heard. And no one’s called in a sighting of her in the area.”
Because Irah no longer fit the broadcast description. The portions of sleeves and skirt were probably in the nearest trash barrel, along with the wipes she used to remove the eye makeup. “Let’s see if the attendant remembers a blonde in a miniskirt and platform boots.”
Razor handed the sergeant the thread. “I better catch up with Galentree and Willner.”
When Razor gave the attendant in the booth the modified description, he got a nod. “Sure, I remember her.”
“Did you see where she went?”
The attendant snorted. “Yeah, crazy broad. She was so anxious to get to Macy’s she ran straight across the street through the traffic.”
Razor, however, walked to the corner and crossed with the light.
When they came into Macy’s, he peered around. “Now where? Ladies wear?”
Straight ahead lay the beauty salon. Cole eyed it. “Irah seems to like doing things with her hair for disguise. She has those wigs in her desk. She used a black one for her tweaker disguise, and a brunette one today. You remember how different Jessie looked when she changed her color or style.”
“Jesus…don’t remind me.” Razor winced. “The hair de jour. And God help me when I didn’t recognize her instantly. How is it something that seems quirky and cute when you’re going together drives you crazy after you’re married? But…” He frowned skeptically. “…I don’t see a fugitive sitting around having her hair done. Besides, you can’t just walk into these places. Jessie made her appointments days and weeks ahead of time.”
“There’s nothing to lose by asking.”
A glossy young blonde behind the salon reception counter turned their direction with an inquiring smile.
Razor smiled back. “I think you’re right. There’s nothing to lose by asking.”
In response to his questions, though, the blonde — Tiffany, according to her name badge — shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen anyone of that description. We don’t have walk-in clients.”
But people did cancel appointments and someone calling in for an appointment could luck into a slot that opened that way. Sherrie had once. A computer sat on a lower side section of the reception desk, a schedule-looking grid on its monitor. Cole waded through the desk for a closer look. “Ask her about this S. Benet who’s scheduled for a cut and color an hour from now.”
Asked, Tiffany checked the monitor, then looked across at Razor in amazement. “How ever did you read that? As a matter of fact, she did just get the appointment. She called begging to know if we could work her in, that she’s a last-minute bridesmaid substitute for a wedding this evening. Lucky for her we had a couple of cancellations this afternoon and will be able to fit her in.”
Razor frowned as they walked away from the salon. “Do you think it’s really Carrasco?”
“A name that can be pronounced Benay can’t be just coincidence.”
“Even if it is her…” Razor shook his head. “An hour. Is there any chance in hell she’ll keep the appointment?”
“There’s one way to find out.”
Razor considered that, then, standing amid the cosmetics counters, he pulled out his cell phone. “This time there’s going to be plenty of backup.”
He might want backup, but when he called Communications and had Willner and Galentree come meet him, convincing them to call Madrid about setting up a stakeout proved another matter. They stared at him in disbelief. “Cops are swarming Union Square and you think she made and will wait around to keep a hair appointment?”
Razor nodded. “I think she’s counting on us never expecting anything like that. What do we have to lose except an hour?”
“The ability to show our faces in the Bureau again if you’re wrong,” Galentree said.
“How long did she hang around Embarcadero Center with that area swarming with cops?”
The partners raised eyebrows at each other, then Willner called Madrid on his cell phone.
“Now just pray we’re not wrong,” Razor muttered.
Amen. “I’ll be back in time to see.”
Razor blinked. “Where are you going?”
“Colma.” A very high Dunavan Diagonal and line-of-sight ought to take him there in fair time. “I want to see how Hamada’s doing.”
31
Gilbert Tankersley looked to Cole as though he wanted his body worthy of his name. His biceps bulged and his shoulders strained at his t-shirt. Heart beating steadily, he looked up in Zen-master serenity at Hamada, who sat with a hip propped on the table in the Colma PD’s interview room. “Sure, I know Irah Carrasco. I wouldn’t call her a friend, but we’ve met, oh, maybe a dozen times at car shows. I run into a lot of people at car shows, even the lieutenant there.” He glanced past Hamada to the uniformed lieutenant lounging in a corner behind Hamada. “Why?”
“She called you Thursday evening.”
Cole wondered whether Hamada knew that for certain or was bluffing.
If a bluff, it worked. After a moment of hesitation, in which his heart rate jumped, Tankersley said, “So?”
Hamada eased his tone from accusatory to casual. “What did you talk about?”
“Cars.” Tankersley’s tone added. “It’s what we always talk about when we run into each other.”
The Hamada raised his brows. “She called you from a pay phone to talk about cars.”
Tankersley stared steadily back at him, heart rate a little faster yet. “Was it a pay phone? She said she was at a bookstore where she’d seen a book she remembered me mentioning I wanting. She said if I’d like, she’d pick it up for me. I made sure it was the right book, then called her back and said sure, get it.”
“How is she getting it to you?”
He smiled. “She already did. It came in the mail yesterday afternoon. If you want to see it, I’ll have my wife bring it over.”
Tankersley had the story down pat. He made it sound good. The lieutenant was beginning to give Hamada that are you sure about this look. Which made Cole wonder if practice had perfected this performance. How often did Tankersley provide disposal services?
“Yes, I would like to see it,” Hamada said.
If he thought he was calling a bluff, Tankersley fooled him. “I need a phone.” Tankersley took Hamada’s and punched in the number Irah had written in purple ink. “Hey, it’s me. … Hell, I don’t know. They’re jerking me around. Now they want to see the book that came in the mail yesterday. Bring it over, will you? … Thanks, hon.” He hung up. “She’s on her way.”
Cole had no doubt that Irah sent the book. A book raised no eyebrows if a corner of the package were damaged in route. Did a stack of hundred dollar bookmarks come with it?
“You haven’t asked what this is about,” Hamada said.
Tankersley leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “I haven’t done anything wrong and I don’t figure you’d give me a straight answer, so why bother.”
“Then I’ll surprise you.” Hamada leaned down toward him. “This is about Irah Carrasco killing a cop.”
That jolted Tankersley. He came stiffl
y upright in the chair. “A cop!” His heart galloped.
Hamada sat back again, folding his arms. “She then spent a portion of Thursday calling friends in L.A. One of them gave her your number.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Hold it.” Tankersley waved his hands back and forth in front of him. “I gave her my number, and that was several years ago.”
Hamada paused. “You’re not in her Rolodex.”
Tankersley shrugged. “That ain’t my fault. Anyway, what does- Oh, I see.” His tone went bitter. “You think because I work in a cemetery, I did something with the body for her. Once you have a record, you’re guilty of everything from then on, right? Well I did my time and I’ve gone straight since. You check with my parole officer. I make every appointment and meet all the conditions of my parole.”
Give Tankersley credit. He put just the right amount of indignation and injured innocence into his performance. The lieutenant looked increasingly doubtful. Too bad the lieutenant could not hear Tankersley’s heart thundering.
“So what…you think she brought me the cop’s body Thursday night and I slipped it into a grave ahead of whoever was going in Friday? For your information.” Tankersley said, “we didn’t have any burials on Friday, or Saturday, and I couldn’t have arranged a double occupancy even if I wanted to. Unless you think I could drop in a body in broad daylight in the middle of all the preparations for the graveside service. Because we dig the graves the day of the funeral. Check with the cemetery office.”
Cole felt a chill. That had to be the truth, because he knew they would check. But with no burials, what happened to the bodies?
Maybe he could find something at the cemetery.
Cole oriented the interview room on his internal map, then jogged out of City Hall and down the southbound lane of the highway. This time he worked the moving traffic, but watched the vehicles coming up behind him, ready to jump aside if one of the drivers blew his horn or gave any other sign of seeing him. By the time he reached the Pacific Hills gates, he had amassed enough heat for a materialization.
The cemetery driveway forked, with sign pointing toward the cemetery office…tucked up among trees out of sight with a small barn and several other out-buildings. A counter in the office ran halfway across the room. The wall behind it held a big dry-erase board marked off in calendar-like columns and rows. Two women sat at desks between the board and lateral files on the opposite wall. Cole waited until one of the women, middle-aged, walked into another room and the other looked occupied with her computer. Then, since no one here knew him, he materialized as himself.