by Susan Dunlap
She nodded. “Kris was on the expedition. He was friends with one of the Sherpas who died. People would believe him.”
“But Bev must have known that.”
“To her, he was just one of the porters, a little more valuable because he spoke English.”
“Bev said they were close friends. She gave Him her new wristwatch.”
Leila laughed. “Bev gave somebody something? Giving is not her style. She figures her presence is gift enough. She gave Kris a wristwatch? Maybe she thought they were friends. No, wait, no, Bev’s not that thick. Kris’s friend was one of the two Sherpas. And Kris blamed her for his friend’s death.”
I jotted down a note and said, “Then it seems very odd indeed that when Kris suddenly turned up here, that she was pleased to have him come and stay at Diamond’s with her.”
Now Leila smiled. “She didn’t have a choice.” She ran her hands down over her thighs in a little self-congratulatory massage. “You know all about my squabbles with Has-Bitched, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, one thing I’ve learned from them is timing. That story about him thinking my client letting out his emotions was a wounded cougar howling in the hills, that wouldn’t have even made the paper if he hadn’t made the call in August when there’s no other news worth printing. I’ve had plenty of time to think about that. So when I brought Kris over here, I made sure it was at the right time—when Bev had just left for a month in the Alps. A month was plenty long enough for Kris to ingratiate himself with Has-Bitched.”
“Wait! How could you be sure Diamond would take to him?”
She looked surprised. “Everyone likes Kris. You knew him.”
“But when you were planning this, before Kris came, you didn’t know what he was like.”
She pressed her front teeth together.
“Or did you?” I asked. “You did, right? You had to know that Kris could charm Diamond. How did you know what Kris was like?”
“Bev told me.”
“Bev, to whom Kris was just another porter? Come on.” I waited, and when she didn’t reply, said, “Our deal here is dependent on your giving me the truth. Don’t put me in the position of telling Humboldt you lied to me.”
In the meeting room what sounded like a battalion of feet trod across the floor. Morning Watch (7:00 A.M.-3:00 P.M.) was winding down. Patrol officers had come in, preparing to write up reports, pass on the word of suspicious cars parked off Sacramento Avenue, of crazies on the Avenue to the Evening Watch guys who’d be rolling soon.
Leila tapped her teeth ever more slowly. Finally, she said, “I know Kris’s cousin.”
I waited till she said his name. The cousin, of course, was Cypress. Cypress, who looked like Kris. I found myself tapping my pencil in rhythm with her tapping teeth. “You’d better tell me about this from the beginning.”
“The beginning with Cypress?”
“Wherever the beginning is.”
She leaned back in the spare wooden chair and pulled her ankle up onto her knee. She looked like the post-massage version of the nervous woman who’d answered my initial question. “Well, I guess the beginning was with Has-Bitched and the tree. I never thought he would actually be able to force me to top my tree. I mean, this is Berkeley, for heaven’s sake; trees do have rights. His winning that ruling took me completely by surprise. There was no recourse, no way to get even with that bastard. So I did the best thing I could think of. Under the law I was the one who chose the tree trimmer. Has-Bitched had to concur, but I chose. So I checked around and found the most irresponsible, least qualified tree trimmer and told him to charge Has-Bitched a fortune. I figured he’d do a lousy job, which he did, and the tree would be an eyesore from Has-Bitched’s deck, which I’ve been told it is.”
“But it’s your tree!” I exclaimed. I did note that Diamond’s assessment of the situation concurred with Sandoval’s story.
Leila laughed. “Eucalypts are hardy. Besides, once a tree is topped, we’re not talking aesthetics anymore. And, since I’m giving you the truth, I don’t care a hang about trees. The only benefit of those eucalypts is that they save me from having to see Has-Bitched parading around in his baggy birthday suit.”
I looked through the window, watching as Murakawa strolled across the meeting room, dark hair disheveled, a disarming smile on his face, not unlike Kris Mouskavachi’s had been. “Since we are dealing with the whole truth here, when did you get the idea of having Cypress gouge out the crotch of the tree and add the bacteria?”
It’s odd what suspects balk at admitting, often the least incriminating facts, often facts that have nothing to do with the case. I wouldn’t have expected Leila to freeze on this one, but she did. She shook her head slowly and said, “I can’t say what Cypress did. I didn’t watch him on the tree. But I do know bacteria spread from tree to tree, and it’s almost impossible to keep them out of stagnant water.”
“And you do know that Diamond is liable for any expense caused by the tree topping.”
She almost smiled, caught herself, then nodded.
“And after this affair,” I said, “you signed a rental agreement with this man whom you knew to be probably the most unreliable gardener in Berkeley. You gave him control of your land in Humboldt, and agreed to stay off the property so you wouldn’t see what he was doing. And he paid not a cent of rent for a year. That’s quite a hefty thank-you. What was it all for?”
“For Kris. For the chance to warn the people who would otherwise be climbing with Bev.”
I shook my head. “The truth!”
Her face colored just slightly. “That is the truth, or part of it,” she added with a tentative smile. “Bev is a danger. But okay, it wasn’t all altruism on my part. The thousand dollars for travel was a lot of money, and money isn’t something I have much of. But I was pissed off at Bev. After all she was my friend originally, and then when Has-Bitched offered her a free room, she acted like we’d never been friends at all. It appealed to me to do something decent—warn people—and to get her at the same time.”
“And to get Hasbrouck Diamond, your former lover?”
She shut her eyes and didn’t move. Slowly she shook her head and her eyes opened. “The mistake of my life.” All she had said before may have been part of her act. Every reaction may have been fake. But this, I was willing to bet, was bedrock truth. “Climbers talk about the Big Mistake. You can guess what that is.”
From Bev’s lecture, I knew what that was. Bev had also referred to it as the Last Step.
“Well, that dalliance with Hasbrouck Diamond was my Big Mistake. Hasbrouck turned my life upside down. Then he shook me out.” She paused, watching me for reaction.
I had the feeling she’d told this story often enough before to know when to stop and gather in offerings of sympathy, that for her even the truth became part of the act. And the act became the truth. It made her almost impossible to read. I nodded for her to go on.
“And as if that wasn’t enough, then he started on me about my house, and how shabby it was. As if he didn’t know how little money I had, and why. And then his friends parked in front of my driveway—”
“And so, to get back to your bringing Kris over here to expose Bev,” I said, to cut into this rehash of the feud, “it appealed to you to make a mockery of Bev’s presentation, and particularly so because Hasbrouck Diamond had set it up, in his own house?”
Leila couldn’t control the smile. It was a big infectious grin. “The thought did occur to me. I kind of hoped he’d have invited a couple of those Hollywood types he tries to impress.”
“And the bees?”
“The bees,” she said, clearly delighted. “A wonderful touch, don’t you think? See, for Has-Bitched having Bev was like owning the prize pig. And it would have been wonderful to see that pig stumble out all covered in shit.”
“Particularly when it was that pig he left you for?”
I took her quick intake of breath for a yes, and said, “But, of cour
se, none of that would have happened.”
“Why not?” she demanded in a small, tight voice.
I repeated what Bev Zagoya had told me. “Because Kris told Diamond that you paid his way here.”
“Kris wouldn’t have!”
“And he canceled the order for the bees.”
Leila’s face flushed, the lines in it maroon, and her eyes opened so wide that the whites were visible all the way around. “How could he …? He knew about Bev. He was so grateful to get out of Kathmandu, so very grateful to make use of my money, so … The fucking little opportunist!”
“And so,” I prodded, “Diamond got you again, right?”
But she didn’t answer. She just stared.
“And then you got Kris.” Before she could regroup, I said, “I need the key to your house.”
Now she did look up. Her panicked expression was no put-on. “Why? I don’t have to—”
“I need your house key. I can get a search warrant. That’ll just take longer. It’ll just make me angrier. It’ll make me inclined to call Humboldt and give them my theory: A woman needs money. She has ten acres of land in the country. She might be able to sell it, but not for a great deal, and probably not quickly. She couldn’t rent it for much unless she could put a decent house on it, which she can’t afford to do. So what is the one thing for which she could lease ten acres that would bring the kind of money she needs? My theory, Leila, is that Cypress didn’t happen along and seduce you into law breaking; you called the gardening school and discovered that a student had been thrown out of their classes, realized why, and made him an offer, with the tree trimming as a cover.”
“That’s ridiculous!” she said, her voice shaking. “It’s all speculation. You’ve got no proof,” she said, in those words giving me all the proof I needed.
“The skill of the police is finding proof. But, as I said, this is only a theory I am considering passing on to the Humboldt sheriff. Perhaps, if I have your key and am involved in my own investigation, the Humboldt sheriff will see your case differently than I might have.”
She continued to stare. Then her breath came faster, she opened her mouth, and spit out one word. “Lawyer.”
“Leila, Kris Mouskavachi is dead, murdered!”
She froze.
“Someone,” I said, staring at her, “pushed the chaise Kris was sleeping on off the end of Hasbrouck Diamond’s deck. And Leila, the runners of that chaise were oiled with patchouli oil.”
Slowly, she reached into her pocket. With a shaking hand she held out the key to me. She was hiding something in her house, something she was gambling I wouldn’t find. And that something was not patchouli oil.
19
I GOT A STATEMENT of whereabouts from Leila Sandoval for the times of the eucalyptus attack and Kris’s death. She had been on the Avenue, doing feet, when the branch fell, she said, and up in Humboldt at a party with Cypress last night. Both alibis could be checked. Both could be faked. Neither meant anything.
Hallstead, the Humboldt County sheriff’s deputy who had brought Sandoval down here, was talking about the new drug laws and conspiracy. There was no way Sandoval would be traveling outside of custody for a while.
Whereas Bev Zagoya could be going anywhere any moment if I didn’t get her now. I thought about that expensive new Swiss watch that she said she had given Kris Mouskavachi, and what that interchange told me. Bev Zagoya had a lot to explain.
I signed out a patrol car and drove back past the few browsers who braved the thickening fog on Telegraph.
At Diamond’s house the fog was dense. And no one was home. I looked over toward San Francisco. By now the entire city was hidden and only the top of Treasure Island was still poking through the gray ooze.
I called into the dispatcher and left word for Hallstead to meet me to search Leila Sandoval’s house. And find whatever it was she had been so anxious to keep hidden. Then I wandered back down onto Hasbrouck Diamond’s deck and looked at the spot where the eucalyptus branch had scraped Diamond. An oval of sun surrounded it. I could picture Diamond sitting there, skinny legs thrust out, pleated tan skin of his torso shining in that island of hot sun surrounded by the shade from Leila Sandoval’s trees.
I walked down to the far end. The gate was shut now. I looked over the edge of the deck. A jolt of dizziness fogged my head and queasiness filled my stomach. I held my gaze. Both those things would pass. And if they didn’t I’d just go on looking down and feeling lousy. The chaise that Kris had been on was gone, of course. Raksen would be savoring fibers and paint chips from it. He’d be doing ever more subtle tests on the patchouli oil from the runners. By now there was little to suggest to the unknowing that a boy had died down below here. Weeds and vines and scrub brush covered the rock where Kris had hit, I wondered how familiar Bev Zagoya was with that rock. Could she have figured that was where Kris would land? Diamond and Leila would have known, of course, but Bev’s bedroom window was closest to that spot.
The dizziness and queasiness eased up. I stepped back, briefly savoring my small victory. I tried to picture Kris asleep on his chaise. But it wasn’t so easy as imagining Hasbrouck Diamond. Kris Mouskavachi covered head to toe with a sleeping bag—why didn’t that seem right? Kris himself told me he slept out there. From his description of his life with his parents in Kathmandu, he would hardly have been offended by the ambience on Hasbrouck Diamond’s deck. For anyone accustomed to sleeping out, this deck was elegance. Gus, the street person who’d taken up residence in Howard’s shed, would have been in heaven, at least in the warm weather. In winter it would have been another story. But Kris had grown up in Nepal, he wouldn’t have been bothered by the prospect of cold. I tried to picture Gus here on that chaise. But that wasn’t right either. Gus was too dirty, too disheveled, too much a street person for Hasbrouck Diamond to allow on his fine deck. But Kris, in his new rugby shirt and still clean running shoes, why couldn’t I picture him here?
“Jill!” It was Howard, calling from the archway.
Leaving my speculation unanswered, I walked across the deck. “Couldn’t resist coming here, huh?” I said.
“Hallstead has to have a liaison in Substance Abuse. Someone has to give up his Saturday afternoon”—he lowered his voice—“when he could be doing lots better things with the woman of his choice, if she were around.”
I grinned. “Had nothing to do with the fact that you are the only guy on the force who hasn’t been to the crime scene, huh? Never mind, I like your explanation better.”
Hallstead was waiting on the sidewalk, under the paperbark tree. “For years I kept hearing the old Mark Twain saying, ‘The coldest winter I ever spent—’”
“‘Was one summer in San Francisco,’” Howard and I chimed in as we headed up the bulging, broken sidewalk to Leila Sandoval’s door.
It looked, if anything, even worse than it had two days before. The weeds and shrubs and vines that gathered around every orifice varied in shade from sallow green to downright brown. The caramel-colored goo that coated the cracks looked much darker than I recalled, much darker than the faded paint it had been intended to match. The brown wooden door was scuffed and scraped and its foot-square stained-glass window had three diagonal cracks.
I opened the door and walked in. I had expected the cottage to be stuffy, which it was. I had also assumed it would be cool. But the heat from the last few days hung on in here.
Hallstead groaned. “Wouldn’t you think someone with windows that run the full west side of their house would have the sense to pull the drapes?”
“Or have drapes,” I added. Somehow that didn’t surprise me. The tiny house was exactly what I would have pictured for Leila Sandoval. On the right, a small bedroom crowded by the street. To the left was a narrow kitchen with a counter dividing it from the main room that filled the rest of the house.
Hallstead had already finished with the kitchen when I started. “Nothing there, believe me,” he grumbled. “Nothing but seeds and dried beans and ric
e.”
Still, I checked every drawer and cabinet and the refrigerator. Hallstead had missed the tofu and the Japanese eggplant.
The main room that faced the deck was divided into living room and massage studio. The living room section (the end farthest from Hasbrouck Diamond’s) was about twelve by sixteen with a stone fireplace, a tweed couch, a couple of bucket chairs, and a splattering of magazines, newspapers, a few sweaters and T-shirts, and a variety of sandals, running shoes, and clogs sprinkled like black pepper over a salad.
In contrast the massage area was so tidy it could have been sterile. There was nothing in that half of the room but the massage table, a pile of clean and folded sheets, a wicker basket for the used sheets. And a bookcase with ten bottles of massage oil—almond, sandalwood, and eight other scents. But not patchouli. I was surprised. I would have expected to find patchouli in a massage studio. Its absence was more damning than its presence would have been, unless, of course, that oil could have been differentiated from all other bottles of patchouli and then matched to the oil on the chaise runners. I took samples of the other oils for Raksen, reminding myself as I did so to go back to the kitchen and take samples of the oil there. And not to forget the garage. And to have Raksen up here to see if there was any trace left of patchouli oil flushed down the toilet, or poured down the sink or over her deck railing. A wise murderer would have dumped an incriminating bottle in the Bay. But Leila’s actions in the last twenty-four hours did not bespeak wisdom and forethought.
One thing both sections of the living room had in common—there was no place to hide anything.
After the brightness by the deck windows, Leila Sandoval’s bedroom seemed cavelike. It had only one small window that opened onto Panoramic and admitted no more light than the tiny and none too clean window in my office. The shade was up, but vines covered about half the surface. This was definitely the back-alley room of the house. Definitely a hiding place of choice. A double-bed mattress lay on the floor (where it would be firmer, I guessed). The bed was unmade. A bedside table held the usual things, and a collection of books about feet and foot massage; also, I found to my surprise, a number on anatomy. The dresser contained nothing unexpected. One closet was jammed with Leila’s clothes. I searched through, T-shirt by T-shirt, sweatpants by sweatpants. If she had her crucial secret in here, it was too small or subtle for me.