by Lois Winston
Okay, so I’m not much of an actress, but I waited and hoped I’d managed to salvage this.
My uncle smiled broadly and continued to stroke the kitten that now rested at his feet.
“Why not?” he asked, obviously delighted. “I can watch the news from here just as well. I will make sure that the little gatito is not lonely. ¿Cómo se llama?”
“What is his name?” I echoed in surprise. “Well, I don’t know, Tío. I haven’t thought about it yet. We can call him anything. How about ‘Cat’ or ‘Hey You?’” I joked.
“Every living thing needs a name, querida,” Tío said, in a tone that was severe and reprimanding, quite unlike him.
“It is a form of value and respect. You should think about it with seriousness and choose a proper name.”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it, promise,” I demurred, and kissed him on the cheek.
Mom said, “I think we should go, Mateo, and let Liana get some rest.”
“Oh, no,” I protested but without much heart. Actually, I wanted to have that bath.
“Oh, si,” said Tío firmly as he rose. “Call me the next time you are leaving, and I will come over and cat sit.” He laughed heartily at his small joke, and we embraced.
After they left, I tried to relax in a bath while watching the kitten play around the bathroom. But dark thoughts flitted in and out of my mind about Portor Wyler.
Sure, bad things happen to people and sometimes we can’t control it. But in truth, how responsible was I for Portor Wyler’s death through negligence, if nothing else?
After a forty-five minute soak, I put on flannel pajamas, and brushed my hair, noticing the small teeth marks in my best brush for the first time.
“Well,” I said to the small form now curled up on the forest green towel. “You can be dangerous.” I made a mental note to put away anything valuable from the teething kitten when I got up.
I put an extra blanket on the bed, feeling the chill in my bones returning, and closed the curtains to keep out the daylight. Even though I was filled with known and unknown angst, I was asleep in minutes, waking only once when I felt the kitten jump onto the bed and curled up on the pillow next to me.
FOUR
They Call It Murder
The phone ringing around noon startled me awake. I made a lunge for it on the first ring, and before I could croak out a greeting, Mom’s voice nearly split my eardrums.
“Frank just got back to me a few minutes ago. I didn’t know you had been the one to find the body! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t know? What did you think I was doing at the police station?”
“I thought you were being a good citizen, and you came forward when you saw all the police cars. My God, he was shot three times in the chest, close range. That could have been you!”
“No, no. I was nowhere near him until after he was…it was all over.”
“To think I sent my own daughter…Good Lord! That could have been you!” she repeated.
I could tell she was working herself up into a good case of hysteria. “Mom, calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she said. Then she actually snorted.
“Okay, okay. But listen to me, I was never in any danger, I swear. You ordered me to keep my distance at all times and I did.” Except, you know, at the end, I thought, but now was not the time to mention that.
I said aloud, “I never went near the warehouse except for when I checked on the locked door. That was long after he was dead.”
“Not so long,” she said, snorting again.
“I was never inside the building or anything. There was no interference, no encounter at any time. I was strictly surveillance.”
I didn’t add I had a gut feeling that maybe, just maybe, if I had interfered in some way, Wyler wouldn’t be dead right now.
“All right. All right, Liana.” I could sense Lila tried to compose herself and become professional. “Did you hear anything strange or suspicious? Maybe that could have been gunfire? Anything?”
“I was already asked that a million times before. The answer is I was too far away, plus it was a very noisy storm. I still can’t believe someone killed…” My voice trailed off in shock and disbelief. “Oh, jeesh, I’ve got to get up to San Francisco. I have to sign that statement.”
“No, you don’t, Liana. Go directly to Frank’s office. He’s made arrangements for you to file your deposition and turn over your firearm to him for inspection instead of going up to the City.”
“Oh, great.” I was not happy.
“Frank will fax the depo to the San Francisco Police and do a check of your revolver, as a courtesy.” Lila added as an afterthought, “Where is your revolver?”
“In my safe. I have to bring it? Why? I didn’t even have it with me yesterday. I never have it with me.”
“You found the body. They have to officially rule you out. You know that.” She paused for a moment. “Are you all right?”
“I guess I’m still a little stunned by all this. I’ll be fine, Mom.”
I kept my overwhelming sense of guilt to myself. No point in talking about it until I got it sorted out.
“Okay. I’ll get over there right away, and then I’ll come to the office soon as I can.”
“Take the day off, Liana. I think you could use it. Just be sure you enter all the information you’ve recorded and anything else you can think of sometime today. We might have to turn it over to the police.” Lila was referring to the computer in my second bedroom connected directly to D.I.’s mainframe.
I hung up the phone and heard the sound of crunching in the bathroom. For a moment, I was startled and then remembered my new roommate.
I put on a robe and followed the noise. Then I watched the one and a half-pound feline ferociously attack a kernel of dry food. Before I left, I reminded myself, I would have to give him his teaspoon of wet food and his vitamins. I looked anxiously into the litter box.
Good, I thought with relief, it had been used.
Grabbing the Pooper Scooper, something I’d never heard of the day before, I took care of the deposit and considered myself a dutiful pet owner.
The kitten stopped eating, studied me for a moment, uttered one of his silent meows and ran to me. I picked him up, slid him inside my robe, and went into the kitchen.
He seemed to like this carrying method and purred happily. There I started my coffee and opened a can of kitten food. I returned to the bedroom, fed the little guy, and made two calls.
The first one was to the Palo Alto Police Department to see when I had my appointment for the deposition. They told me to come in “as soon as possible.”
Hanging up the phone, I found my hands shaking so much I could hardly hold the cup of coffee without spilling it. I knew I had to get myself under control before I came face to face with Frank. He was tough enough when I had all my faculties about me. The second phone call was to Tío. Without going into much detail, I let him know it would probably be a long day, and any visitation with the kitten would be greatly appreciated.
This was going to be one of those rare days without my ritualistic morning exercises, which was too bad. That would have calmed me down right away, but I didn’t have the time. I drank my coffee, showered, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and went to the walk-in closet to survey the array of expensive, stylish “on-duty” clothing which hung there. Thank God I didn’t have to reach for any of those.
I groped in the back for my comfy jeans and a worn turquoise wool knit turtleneck with matching blazer. I looked presentable. Not great but presentable.
By the time I was dressed and ready to leave, Tío had arrived at the door, ready to take on his new charge. I decided to take the time to run down to the car and retrieve the remaining packages, which included several expensive toys for the kitten.
However, I vowed to return them as soon as I saw my uncle bring out a feather he found in the yard and tied to a string. The little guy was making hilario
us leaps trying to catch the feather, and I closed the door on the sounds of Tio’s chuckles. At least someone was having a good day.
FIVE
Frank’s Lair
I arrived at the Palo Alto Police Station on Forest Avenue, shortly after lunchtime and had some difficulty finding a parking space. Palo Alto, created as a township for Stanford University, which in itself boasts residents of forty thousand plus, never expected to have the population explosion it experienced in the fifties and again in the nineties.
Side streets, still containing lovely stucco houses built in the thirties, were condemned to suffer the constant movement of cars, either coming, going, or searching for parking places. I finally found one of my own after much driving in circles and cursing. Cursing is a major part of finding a spot, I’ve noticed.
Striding beneath a crisp, blue sky, I entered the white building serving as a combo city hall/police station. The desk sergeant on duty, a sweet man due to retire next year, waved me past. I knew exactly which office to go to, I’d been going there since forever.
Captain Frank Thompson is a black man from East Palo Alto who made good. He went to Stanford University on a scholarship, the same as my father, in the mid-seventies.
The moment they met on the first day of registration, they became instant friends. Actually, they were more like brothers. It wasn’t just that a black man and a Latino going to a very “white bread” college, as some people thought.
They looked at life the same way. They liked the same things. They shared the same sense of humor. No one was surprised when they both joined the same police force, on the same day, in the early eighties.
Each one not only stood up for the other at their weddings but also became godfather to each other’s children. When Dad died, it almost killed Frank.
He cried openly and unashamedly for weeks afterward. His wife, Abby, said that he probably would never be the same. I knew what she meant. I wouldn’t be, either.
I knocked softly on the door and heard his bass voice instruct me to come in. I opened the door with dread and went in, knowing this would not be a pleasant interview. Frank always wanted me to become a doctor like his daughter and only child, Faith.
Faith is two years my senior and a practicing pediatrician at Stanford Hospital, as Frank brags to any stranger on the street who asks him the time of day. To top it all off, she’s happily married to a fellow doctor and had recently given birth to the most gorgeous little girl I’ve ever seen. If Faith weren’t so terrific, I’d probably hate her.
When my father was alive, Frank made it clear he thought I was much too good to follow in the footsteps of a mere cop. The fact Dad had left the department and started his own detective agency complete with family in tow made little difference to Frank.
I remember the time he said, “Okay, Bobby. Your wife can answer the phones if you want, and Richard can do the computer stuff, but little Liana has bigger things in store for her.”
I don’t know who was more insulted, Mom or me. At five-eight since puberty, I have never been called little in my life, and Lila Hamilton Alvarez has never answered phones. She may eat them for breakfast, but she doesn’t answer them. That was akin to calling Coco Chanel a seamstress. Even way back when, Mom was in charge of the major operations of the company and did most of the brainwork. Dad had the pizzazz, know-how, and connections. They were a great team.
As my godfather opened his mouth to speak, I jumped in ahead of him.
“Now, Frank, I was never in any danger. I was only doing routine surveillance and that was from about half a block away. Well, maybe it was a little closer, but not much. I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure it was just my bad luck to be there. Maybe it was a botched robbery. It probably didn’t have anything to do with what his wife thought he was up to, which was the only reason I was there.”
I ran out of breath, so I stopped nattering and stood there. He leaned back in his chair and stared at me, ink black eyes boring into mine. He did not speak but gestured with his forefinger for me to sit down. I did.
“Liana, what am I going to do with you?”
He leaned forward and tried to stare me down. I glared back, unblinking, and the contest was on.
Finally, he said, “Is this what your father would have wanted? I know he encouraged you into this line of work but he never meant for you to start following stray husbands, I know that.” He thrust that same finger at me.
“If you were my daughter, and you practically are?.”
“Yes, yes. I know; I know. But I’m all grown up, married, and divorced, and I’m old enough?”
Frank ignored my protests and interrupted my interruption. “Did I say you could speak? I’ll let you know when you can speak. What kind of life is this, standing out in the rain spying on some strange man?”
He looked at me expectantly, but I was silent, as instructed. “Now you may speak.”
“It’s the same kind of life you led until you got promoted to a cushy job behind a polished oak desk,” I shot back.
He put the palms of both his hands out toward me as if to ward off the impending argument that inevitably followed. He changed the subject.
“You brought your handgun, I take it, and the answer better be ‘yes,’” he said.
“Of course.” I took the holstered revolver out of my handbag and set both on his desk.
He changed the subject again and grinned at me warmly. “Faith asked about you yesterday. Wanted to know when you’re going over to her house for dinner. She and Stu want you to meet a couple of their friends from the hospital.”
I laughed in relief. Frank might be the occasional pain in the derriere, but I did adore him. “Faith just wants to play Cupid, Frank.”
“What’s wrong with that?” he demanded, smiling one of his dazzling smiles.
He removed the revolver from the holster, glanced at it, and replaced it again in one swift movement, before putting his hands behind the nape of his neck and leaning back in his chair. His voice lost its warmth and his eyes narrowed. “So what happened, Lee?”
“I don’t know. Nothing odd or unusual happened at any time that I could tell. Then the storm hit. I was on my way home when I doubled back and went to the warehouse. I found him dead on the back walkway. That’s it.”
Upon Frank’s insistence, I gave him a detailed report of the entire day’s happenings, just as I’d done for SFPD. I left out the part of falling on my butt. When I was finished, his black eyes bored into mine. Frank could peel the skin off an onion with those eyes.
“Okay,” he said, after he’d searched my face for moment. “Let me call someone in so you can make a statement. We’ll test your weapon even though the prelim says what was used on Wyler was smaller.”
“Like what?”
He got up, went to the door and signaled to someone waiting outside. “Maybe a derringer. Something about a bullet they found lodged in his spinal column. We’ll know more in a couple of hours.”
An officer entered the room on silent feet.
“Officer Jackson, this is Liana Alvarez. You’re going to take her statement.”
The young man, not more than twenty-two and already balding, carried a laptop. He stoically nodded to me and sat down in a corner of the room. I followed.
A half-hour later he left to print out my statement and returned several minutes later. I read and signed it.
During all this time, Frank ignored me and tackled a foot high pile of paperwork on his desk. After Officer Jackson left the room, I not so subtlety returned to our previous conversation.
“Can I see the initial report or is that breaking any rules?” I asked.
I prepared myself for more boring of eyes or lectures, but he shrugged and said, “I don’t suppose there’s anything in there you can’t see.” Swivelling his chair around, he searched through another pile of papers, this time on the file cabinet behind him.
“Here it is.” He glanced at it with a quick eye. “Doesn’t say much,
really.”
It was only two pages long, mostly typed but with a few handwritten comments. I read it through, as Frank began to open the day’s mail with occasional glances in my direction.
The two pages contained a detailed report of where the body was found, who found it—me?—and a list of the contents of his pockets and not much else. Nothing useful or important jumped out at me, unfortunately. A formal autopsy would have to be done sometime that day or the day after to determine cause of death, it noted, although in my mind it might have had something to do with the three bullet holes in his chest.
“No, it doesn’t say much,” I finally agreed. “But, may I have a copy of this?” I asked as I held up the papers. Frank smiled, reached across, and snatched them from my hand.
“No,” he said through clenched teeth. “And if they ask me, I didn’t even show it to you. You want a copy? Drive up to the City and get one from them.”
“Maybe I’ll just do that.” I stood up. “When do I get my revolver back?”
“Tomorrow. Next day. Can’t say for sure. Why? Do you think you’ll need it?” he asked, fatherly concern written all over his face.
“Frank, it’s been in my safe for the last eight months except for practice sessions and the occasional cleaning. I don’t like those things. They’re too noisy.”
He visibly relaxed, got up and steered me by the arm to his office door. “Liana, save this old man a heart attack and become a doctor, please, or an airline pilot. Anything! Be a ballet dancer. Lord knows you’ve spent enough of your childhood leaping around on your tiptoes. You seem to love it.”
“I was never good enough to do it for a living. You know that.”My voice was filled with annoyance. He’d hit a sore spot.
Frank put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Whatever you say. I want you to be happy, that’s all. I had hoped this PI thing was a passing fancy. I was so sure once Bobby was gone and Lila had been made CEO, she’d…”
He stopped himself. He and Mom had never gotten along. It’s not that they disliked each other. It was more that they had nothing in common other than Dad. I suspect it was never clear to Frank why Bobby picked a woman so obviously different from himself and their friends.