by Lee Killough
“Excuse me.”
The woman swivelled her chair…setting the beads braided into her cornrows clicking against each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” She stood and came to the counter. “May I help you?”
“I’m with the San Francisco police. I need to know if you had any burials on Friday or Saturday?”
Pencil thin brows rose. “No, we didn’t. See?” She pointed to the dry erase board. “Like I just told an Inspector Hamada on the phone.”
“Hamada.” Cole pretended to sigh. “Why does he keep doing that…ask me to check on information and then do it himself.” He paused. “May I look at the board?”
She shrugged. “If you want.”
He came around the counter. In the Friday and Saturday columns, the squares of the row labeled Services/burials were empty.
Thursday had a service, he noticed, but listed for 3:00 pm, well before Irah learned Tankersley’s phone number. Could Tankersley have access to other cemeteries? The burial schedules of them all — what were there…fifteen or sixteen? — might have to be checked.
There was a burial on Monday, however, the service at 11:00 am.
“The graves are dug the day of the burial?”
“Yes.”
Then he noticed the row below the burials, labeled Groundskeeping. The Monday square said: Backhoe and crane: PN x 4.
“What’s this notation mean?”
He stepped aside in case she came over, but she barely glanced where he pointed. “That we need to have four graves dug and vaults put in them.”
“But you said the graves are dug the day of the burial and there was only one burial yesterday.”
She frowned for a moment, then gave him an apologetic smile. “There was. Those four weren’t for burials. They’re pre-need graves. That’s what the PN stands for. Some plot owners have us dig the grave now, put in a vault, then cover it up and sod it over. They’ll put up a headstone, too…especially with a family plot…with all the names and birth dates on it. Then, when the grave’s needed, we just have to uncover the vault.”
He stared at the board notation, hope rising…then falling again. “I suppose the crane notation mean the vault goes in immediately after the grave is dug?”
“That’s right.”
The older woman came back into the room. She halted, staring at him. Cole wondered what she saw. Maybe, like Red, she recognized ghosts? She squinted, tilting her head. “Do you know you don’t have an aura? I’ve never see anyone without an aura before.”
The younger woman winced. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s okay. The sixties were just real good to her, is all.” In a normal tone, she went on, “We can’t leave an open hole. It’s unsightly and dangerous. We’d be liable if someone fell in.”
Damn. A grave could not be reopened inconspicuously in the middle of the night, either, not when lifting a vault lid needed several men or a crane.
Still squinting him, the older woman said, “Except only one of those vaults went in yesterday. The rest had to wait until this morning.”
The younger one looked around in surprise. “Why?”
The older woman broke off studying him to grimace at the younger. “The crane broke down again. You were out of the office when Mr. Daniels came in fussing about equipment maintenance and covering up the plywood over the holes to keep an ‘esthetic appearance’. Gilbert was still in the shop working on the crane when I left last night.”
So Tankersley stayed late in the cemetery and three graves stood open all night. Cole wanted to grab the ladies and kiss them. “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”
He strolled toward the door hoping they would go back to what they were doing before. And the younger woman did return to her desk. The older one, though, resumed staring at him. Oh well, what the hell. He went ahead and passed through the door.
From outside, he zipped back to Macy’s.
A different young woman stood behind the reception counter of the salon…just as blonde as Tiffany, glossy in a silk slack suit, but presumably a policewoman. Willner sat in the waiting area, picking through the magazines as if fearing contamination, looking like a put-upon husband waiting for his wife. He called to the receptionist, “Is there anything to read that isn’t about what my man really wants or how to lose weight while making delicious desserts?”
She grinned.
Galentree, nearby, wore work clothes with the Macy’s logo and seemed to be fiddling with lights under a cosmetics counter.
Where was Razor? Finally Cole spotted him at the top of a ladder, his back to the salon area, fiddling with a vertical banner printed with autumn leaves. Oh, right. Tomorrow was the first day of September.
Cole climbed a virtual ladder to join him. “Are you four all that’s waiting for Irah?”
“There are store security officers in plainclothes at all the doors. At this door, they’re the window washers outside.” Razor shook the banner, then began fussing with its attachment again. “How’s it going in Colma?”
“Hamada needs help cracking Tankersley and I think you can give it to him.” Cole briefly recounted the interrogation and his trip to Pacific Hills.
Razor stared at him. “You want me to pass that information on to Hamada? How am I supposed to explain knowing it?”
“You have many and mysterious sources of information.”
Razor snorted. Then he sighed and took out his cell phone. Punching in the number, he said, “You realize that after this everyone will definitely consider I’m a wack job. Yo, Hamada…a little bird tells me that yesterday Tankersley dug four pre-need graves and didn’t put in three of the vaults until this morning.” He paused. “Hamada?”
At the other end of the connection, Hamada said, “Are you down here, too?”
“Nope. I’m up a ladder in Macy’s waiting for Carrasco to keep a hair appointment.”
Another silence, much longer, came over the phone. “You’re shitting me.”
Razor grimaced. “No, I swear.”
“A hair appointment? And you know what’s what’s happening down here in Colma? What the hell is going on?”
“Ask me again some night when this is over and we’re both half blitzed. Gotta go.” He jammed the phone back in his work pants.
“How much time do we have?” Cole asked.
Razor checked his watch. “Ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Then I want to see how Tankersley reacts.”
He zipped to the interview room.
Hamada stood hefting his phone and shaking his head. After a few moments he raised a brow at Tankersley. “What was that number for the Pacific Hills office?”
Tankersley recited it.
Hamada punched it in. “This is Inspector Hamada again. I need to verify some information I just received. Did you have three graves sitting open last night?”
Tankersley froze.
On the cemetery end of Hamada’s phone, the voice of the younger woman in the office said, “Yes. Didn’t the other detective tell you?”
Hamada’s eyebrows rose. “What other detective?”
“The one just here, that we told about the pre-need graves.”
Hamada frowned. “I think he told someone else. What was his name?”
“Come to think of it, he didn’t say his name.”
In the background, the older woman said, “He looked a little like Jimmy Stewart.”
Hamada eyed the telephone as if it had turned into a bomb. Disconnecting, he gingerly dropped it back in his pocket, then shook himself hard and pinned Tankersley with a grim stare. “You think I’m jerking you around? Just keep lying to me, amigo, and see what I do. Which of those graves did you put Inspector Dunavan and the woman into?”
Tankersley yawned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now either arrest me for something or I’m leaving.”
Hamada bared his teeth. “If we have to pull all those vaults up, I’ll charge you with everything I can think of, starting with being
an accessory after the fact in the murder of a police officer. I will, in fact, make your life a living hell. So why don’t you cooperate and not piss me off any more than I am already?”
Tankersley stared up at him for a long minute, then dropped his head. Despite his muscles, he seemed to shrivel in the chair. “She never told me he was a cop. She said they were her husband and a bimbo she’d caught him fooling around with. I–I never did anything like that before.”
In a pig’s eye, Cole reflected. He was lying through his teeth. Which hardly mattered at the moment.
“I needed the bread and a friend in L.A. knew that, so he suggested I help the lady out. She brought ‘em down Thursday night and I stashed ‘em in an old mausoleum until- ”
“Cut to the chase, amigo,” Hamada said. “Where do we dig?”
Tankersley sighed. “I’ll show you.”
32
A ziptrip to his virtual ladder at Macy’s found Razor still on the real one fussing with fall banners. In the salon area, Willner continued playing the waiting husband.
“How’s our time?” Cole asked.
“Almost there.” Excitement ran under the quiet words. Cole heard Razor’s heart speeding up. “What happened in Colma?”
“Tankersley’s going to lead them to my body.” Urgency beat at him. Lead Hamada, but not too quickly. Please let them capture Irah first.
Please let her show up.
He looked down, checking out all females near the salon, hoping he recognized her. She was bound to have changed her appearance again. He just hoped those model’s bones gave her away.
His gaze started to slid past a stocky, butch woman carrying shopping bags and a suit bag, then jerked back, feeling a prickle. Not stocky. Her baggy cargo pants and heavy knit turtleneck, with sleeves coming down her hands to her fingers, just made her look that way. So did her square jaw. But the ears revealed by hair slicked back and darkened by gel had no lobes.
Relief matched a chill at how easily she might have gone unrecognized. He had guessed right. She really was arrogant enough to keep her appointment.
“She’s here!” he whispered, and scrambled to the floor.
Above him, Razor murmured into his radio. Willner peered over the top of his magazine, catching the eye of the policewoman at the reception desk.
She gave Irah a radiant smile. “Welcome. Are you Miss Benet?”
“Yes.” Irah eyed her. “What happened to Tiffany?” Her voice sounded different, as if she were talking through clenched teeth.
Cole’s antenna vibrated, seeing tension in her body. “Watch it,” he called to Razor, backing down the ladder. “I think she smells the trap.”
“Tiff had a doctor’s appointment,” the policewoman said easily. “I’m Lexie. You’re having a cut and color, right? Michael will be taking care of you. This way.”
“Will you take these, please?” Irah held her bags out toward Lexie.
At Lexie’s momentary hesitation, of course reluctant to tie up both hands, Irah threw the bags in her face and spun away. Lexie fought free of the suit bag, clawing for the gun tucked in the small of her back under her suit jacket. Willner leaped to his feet and in front of Irah. Galentree and Razor closed on her from the sides…all with guns drawn. In the salon, customers in a position to see the scene gasped.
Irah stopped short, glanced around at them, then laughed. “Get real. You’re not going to shoot in here, with a store full of civilians and all of you in each other’s crossfire.” Reaching into her mouth, she pulled a roll of gauze from between each lower gum and cheek. Her jaw shape returned to normal. She worked her lips. “I’m glad to get rid of those.”
There was the deceptive passivity again. “Watch her, Razor!”
“Get down on your knees,” Galentree said.
She went down, but not on her knees. Abruptly, she dived down and forward, arrowing between Galentree and Willner. They dropped to tackle her. Only to find her no longer stretched out but curled in a tight ball, somersaulting forward and onto her feet again. She sprinted for the doors.
Cole hurled himself through Willner and after her. He might not be able to stop her, but if she eluded the store security officers outside the doors and managed to pull off another escape, he would be with her every step. Once she went to ground somewhere, he could report her location.
Behind, Razor yelled into his radio. Through the glass ahead Cole saw the two window washers drop their squeegees and move in front of the doors.
Irah swerved to a door in the set where a middle-aged woman had just entered. She grabbed the woman’s arms, spun her around, and as the startled woman yelped in protest, slammed her forward…back out the door.
Alarm shot through Cole. Was she taking a hostage?
No…a weapon. Irah shoved the woman at the nearest security officer. While he scrambled to catch the woman, Irah dodged past. The other officer lunged for her. His fingers closed on the shoulder of her sweater. She instantly spun and rammed a foot into his knee. He reeled backward, yelling in pain.
The moment his hold released, Irah whirled again. She charged across the sidewalk and off the curb into the traffic of Geary Street.
Where she spun once more, this time to face them and raise both hands in one-finger salutes, smirking triumphantly.
The world froze.
Twice Cole had experienced the sensation of things happening in slow motion. The time a drug dealer shot at him, he swore he saw the bullet emerge from the muzzle flash and float toward him, moving so leisurely he could count its rotations. But never before had motion stopped altogether.
He was the only moving object in a world of statues…pedestrians petrified between one step and the next, birds immobile in midair. One security officer had congealed in mid-collapse of his leg. The other officer had his arms under those of the woman shoved at him, keeping her on her feet. Inside the store, Razor reached for the doors, Willner and Galentree just behind him. Irah stood planted in the street flipping them off. And fifteen feet away, a delivery truck sat in the same lane, its driver’s face just starting to contort in horror. His foot, Cole knew, would be headed toward the brake.
Then he saw the driver’s eyes widen a fraction more, and the truck shift forward slightly. Turning, he found Razor closer to the door. The officer with the woman had begun swinging his head Irah’s direction. The world continued to move…just at a glacial crawl, in eerie silence.
Cole grabbed for Irah. “No! I won’t let you get away this easy!”
He might as well be catching fog. His hands passed right though her. He could only watch…furious, despairing, impotent…while the truck inched toward her.
In real time the brakes must be screaming, but the truck had no chance to stop. On both sides of the street, pedestrians oozed around in the direction of the sound. Horror spread across the faces of the security officers.
The engine passed through Cole in machine gun heat bursts. Then the truck hit Irah. Her body leisurely contorted, the near side of it moving forward under the impact with the grille and compressing against the far side. Her head tilted back toward the truck. She floated into the air and arced toward the sidewalk…where she landed like a rag doll, limbs sprawled unnatural directions.
Abruptly, time came unstuck. Normal motion exploded around him. Razor burst through the store doors. Cole scrambled clear of the truck, which skidded to a halt in a screech of brakes and tires. Around him everything seemed to be screeching — the woman Irah had used as a battering ram, pedestrians, the brakes of other vehicles. Metal screeched, too…shrieking and crumpling as another vehicle piled into the back of the delivery truck, and a third vehicle into that one.
One of the screams, Cole realized, was his own…a howl of pure rage. Irah had eluded them yet again…this time escaped forever!
Razor dropped to his knees by the motionless form and felt her neck for a pulse. Looking up at Cole, he shook his head.
Cole cursed vehemently.
Then Razor’s eyes widen
ed. “Wait!” He looked over his shoulder at Willner and Galentree. “Call an ambulance! She’s still alive.”
33
Cole stood with the everyone else clustered outside the exam room doors in SF General’s ER…Razor, Willner, Galentree, Lexie, several uniformed officers…watching through the windows while doctors and nurses worked over Irah amid a web of IV and oxygen lines, ECG and blood pressure leads. The head of a portable x-ray machine darted in and out over her, recording the bony trauma.
“Isn’t that a waste of medical resources?” one of the uniformed officers said.
A number of expressions agreed.
“Razor!”
Warmth flooded Cole at the voice. He turned happily. “Sherrie!”
She walked past him to Razor. “What are you doing here?” Her voice sharpened in concern. “Who’s been hurt?”
“Not an officer,” Razor reassured her.
“She’s a cop killer,” Willner said.
Sherrie caught her breath and looked quickly at Razor. “The Benay woman?”
“No.” He reached out to put an arm around her. “Someone else, who really killed Cole.”
He might as well have dropped a match into gasoline. Stiffening, she knocked the arm away. Her eyes flamed, and the heat of her fury crackled out through her hair. “And you brought her here? Trying to keep her alive?”
“You want her to stand trial for his murder, don’t you?” Razor said.
Her hands clenched. “I want her dead!”
“Why don’t you let us drive you to pick up the kids and take you all home.” Razor caught the eye of a uniformed officer, who nodded. “We know where Cole’s body is and are going after it.”