The Immortal Game (August Riordan Series Book 1)

by Mark Coggins

  “Right. Exhibit A: Roland Teller’s laptop computer.” I set it on the desk in front of him.

  Stockwell stared down at it like it was a ticking bomb. “Just where in the hell did you get this?” he demanded.

  “At a repair shop,” I said. “Where it was being fixed. Because it was broken.”

  “There’s cause and effect for you. It was at a repair shop because it was broken. We’ve been looking all over for this thing. Teller’s wife and the people at Mephisto told us he used it heavily, but nobody could locate it among his other possessions. How did you know to get it from the shop?”

  “I swiped the claim check off his body the night of the murder.”

  Stockwell reddened and pulled savagely at his tie. “That’s it, Riordan. That’s the I-beam that breaks the camel’s back. I’ve turned a blind eye to all your other shenanigans, but tampering with evidence in a murder investigation-I’ll not lie down for that. I’m throwing the book at you.”

  “Calm down, Stockwell. Don’t inflate your air bag. I didn’t tamper with anything, and in a way, I did you a favor. The computer was at a shop in San Francisco. I can just imagine the kind of cooperation you would get from the big, tough SFPD when you called them to retrieve it. They probably would have kept it for weeks and then maybe held a press conference to toot their own horn. And there’s not a thing you could have done about it.”

  Stockwell looked at me sullenly and I could tell I scored a hit. “Okay,” he said. “I’m not saying you’re right, but it could be that this will make things a little easier. But if I find you’ve twiddled so much as a single bit on this computer, I’ll-”

  I cut him off. “I know,” I said. “You’ll have my nuts for neckwear-or something equally colorful. I didn’t touch the computer. But on it you’ll find an e-mail from Terri McCulloch pitching Bishop’s software to Teller.”

  “Ah-ha.”

  “There’s also one back from him that says he needs some proof she’s legit.”

  “Yeah, well, that was before she got to swallowing his sword. After that, he’d be putty in her hands.”

  “So you’re sticking with the theory they had an affair. What does his wife say about that? Did she think Teller was fooling around?”

  Stockwell avoided my eyes. “There we get into a little of that extra helpful SFPD cooperation you were talking about. Teller’s widow lives in the City-in Pacific Heights. I couldn’t get her to come down here so I had to go up there to interview her-in the presence of a San Francisco detective and her high priced lawyer.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So Teller made some big contributions to the mayor’s reelection campaign, and the mayor let it be known that the widow is to be treated nice. I only got a half hour with her and I didn’t get answers to half the questions I asked.”

  “Including the one about the affair?”

  Stockwell ran his fingers through his hair. It didn’t make it any less disheveled. “She says they were separated. She says she wouldn’t know if he was seeing anyone else.”

  “But you didn’t believe her.”

  “No.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Nothing more that I’m going to tell you, Riordan. Now have you shot your wad or are you now going to pull the address where Terri McCulloch’s gone to ground out of your ass?”

  “No, I’m not. But Chuck Hastrup knows.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says him. We had a little, ah, meeting of the minds, and I got that definite impression. It would have taken bamboo under the fingernails to get anything specific, but maybe you’d have more luck with him.”

  “That will involve still more cooperation from the San Francisco cops. They’ve questioned him once already, and they’re supposed to arrange a meet for me tomorrow morning.”

  “Might be a good idea to put a tail on him.”

  Stockwell found a scrap of paper and made scribbles on it. “Let me just write that down so’s I don’t forget,” he said. “Put a t-a-i-l on him. Golly, Riordan, you’re good.”

  “You’ll need a wider tie if you’re going to be witty and debonair, Stockwell.”

  Stockwell picked his tie off his stomach and looked down at it. “What? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. It was a cheap shot. Look, there are a couple of other things I need to tell you and they both pertain to Nagel. First off, he’s still following me around. Like I said before, if we really are at the mopping-up stage with this business, then tell me what’s his angle? And by the way, Hastrup says he doesn’t know anything about Nagel either. Second, he’s flown the coop. I went down to Daly City this morning and he had just moved out of the house he rents there. As in just this morning.”

  “Okay, I already alerted the Daly City cops about him, and they were at least a little more polite than the SFPD. I’ll follow up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me, Riordan, because I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it because it’s my job. Now this is the last time I’m going to warn you: butt out. If I find you sniffing around my heels once more, I’ll run you right in. And you know I’ve got more than enough to make it stick.”

  I stood up and reached my hand over the desk to Stockwell. He hesitated a moment, then shook it. “Thanks for your time, Lieutenant,” I said. “I can thank you for that, can’t I?”

  He looked at me sternly. “You’re still not having any, are you Riordan? You still think you’re going out there to tilt at windmills. So be it. Maybe some time in the sneezer will do you good.”

  I went out of the squad room through the half door to the reception area. The big black woman was still behind the desk. I told her Stockwell would have been happier after all if she had kicked my ass through the Golden Arches. Her face assumed the sympathetic expression of a granite headstone, and I went out of the building to my car.

  PARTY TIME IN PAC HEIGHTS

  I DROVE BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO AND DOUBLE-PARKED on Ellis behind my building. That was definitely thumbing my nose at the parking gods, but I didn’t plan to be in my office long and I hoped the press placard would keep the meter maids at bay for the duration of my visit.

  Mercifully, when I got upstairs Bonacker was nowhere to be seen. I found Gretchen at her desk munching on a tuna fish sandwich with a lot of sprouts and other weedy stuff sticking out of it. She was wearing a black body stocking and a pair of black jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail tied with a gold ribbon.

  “Hi Auggie,” she said between bites. “I see the bruises on your face have turned a lovely putrid green. For you, I believe that’s the equivalent of rosy cheeks and a healthy glow.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” I said dryly. “I wonder what signs your urologist friend looks for in his patients. Rosy cheeks might be one at that.”

  “Don’t start with me, August.”

  I held my hands up in a placating gesture. “Just returning serve. Any messages?”

  “Tony Lutz called about a gig tomorrow night. They’re playing at Undici and he wants you to sub for Howie.”

  “Undici-good. You can’t get a string bass up in that loft, anyway. Electric’s the only choice.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with your bass?”

  “Nothing. I just took it in to have the keel hauled. Do me a favor. Call him back and tell him I’m on for the gig and get all the details.”

  “Okay. And don’t think I’m buying that keel hauling business.”

  I grinned at her and set Nagel’s phone bill and the slip of paper with the landlord’s phone number down next to her tuna sandwich. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re a doll. Just two more things. Go through that phone bill and find out who all the numbers belong to-particularly the ones in the Bay Area. Just dial and ask if you have to. Second, give that other number a call. It’s from a For Rent sign on a vacant house in Daly City. Find out anything you can about the prior tenant, a Mr. Todd Nagel. I especially want to know his forwarding address.”

>   “Oh, joy. Another career enriching assignment.”

  “Better than filing insurance forms for Bonacker.”

  “Barely.”

  I thanked her with more fervor and went into my office. I didn’t expect Teller to be listed in the San Francisco phone directory, and a quick check confirmed my expectations. Plan B in cases like these was to call an acquaintance I had at Pacific Gas and Electric. This was usually cheaper than bribing someone in the Department of Motor Vehicles and didn’t involve suborning a state employee-something I try to avoid. I got my man, Jason Jones, on the line and he looked Roland Teller up on his computer.

  “Sweet,” he said. “You’re rubbing shoulders with a better grade of people, August. The deadbeats you typically have me run are almost always behind on their utility bill-if we haven’t cut ’em off already. This here’s a Pac Heights address. In that part of town they spend more on personal trainers and pet psychologists than they do on electricity. Of course, I should point out that the bill for this little domicile topped $600 last month.”

  “I’ll take the address and phone number,” I said. “And hold the jaundiced commentary on the lifestyles of your betters.”

  Jason dictated a phone number and a Lyon Street address to me, finishing with: “And August, please do try to avoid an embarrassing reoccurrence of the sort of problem I alluded to earlier: late payment. I expect to receive my fifty bucks in the next couple of days. Or else.”

  “Or else what?” I said, winding him up.

  “Or else you may experience a sudden and unexplained service outage at your own apartment.”

  “But that would be misuse of your authority.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” he said cheerfully.

  I hung up on him and hustled downstairs to my car. There weren’t any tickets on it, but a bulky UPS driver in those ridiculous brown shorts they make them wear was eyeing the car with uncharitable thoughts in his heart. I had blocked his delivery truck next to the curb.

  “Hey,” he said. “You can’t just double park wherever you like.”

  I said, “Write that one down and tape it to your rear-view mirror.”

  I piled into the car and maneuvered it through downtown traffic to Pine Street. I headed west on Pine all the way to lower Pacific Heights and then went north on Lyon and started up the hill. Pacific Heights wasn’t called that for nothing. As I crested the rise at Pacific Avenue I could see the steel gray waters of the Bay, dotted with sail boats and cut here and there with the white wake of a tugboat or a ferry heading across to the green foothills of Marin County. I had lost track of the street numbers, but I guessed I was in the right vicinity, so I coasted a block further to where Lyon and Broadway both dead-ended and parked at the corner.

  This was quite the neighborhood. Lining Broadway to the right were some of the most expensive houses in Northern California. They were all shapes and styles-like crazy capped teeth done by different dentists in the same mouth. To the left was the boundary of the Presidio, the sparse branches of wispy cypress trees overhanging the rough rock wall that delineated it. In front of me was a stone balustrade with a break in it for stairs that led sharply down the hill and the resumption of Lyon Street. From the head of the stairs I could see the pink-hued rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts, the full sweep of the Marina neighborhood that the 1989 quake had damaged so badly, a thicket of masts from the sailboats tied up at the yacht harbor and so on to the Bay. Runners doing stair work charged up and down the steps, and a couple sat on the balustrade alternatively admiring the view and chewing each other’s faces.

  I trudged back up the hill and soon realized that the rambling Mediterranean style house on the corner was the one I was after. The Broadway Street side was a towering wall of terra cotta that rose up from an ivy covered slope. Screened by eucalyptus and oak, it had a number of false balconies with black-trimmed windows set just under the tile roof to take in the view. Along the Lyon Street side grew more oaks and a monster bottlebrush tree. Coming up the sidewalk, I passed a short drive that led to an opening in the wall for a one-spot garage and following that a stout wooden door with a weathered brass plate that read Tradesmen’s Entrance. I wasn’t settling for that, so I went further along the walk until I came to a broad drive paved in brick leading to a courtyard nestled between the wings of the house. Arcaded galleries ran the length of each wing, and at the far end of the courtyard was another, much larger garage with a Lexus and a BMW parked inside. The front door was positioned midway down the near gallery, through an arch partially covered with ivy.

  There were flashier houses in the neighborhood, but this one had a 1920s elegance that wasn’t breaking a sweat to show its class. I was surprised. I had expected something much more parvenu from Teller.

  I rang the bell and after a long wait a blonde woman holding a wineglass opened the door. A snow-white terrier shot out from behind her and attached itself to my trouser leg. “Who are you?” asked the woman in a soft voice.

  “Buster Brown,” I said. I pulled my foot forward, drawing the dog with it. “And this is my dog Tige.”

  She gave me a weary smile. “I don’t think so. Tige was a pit bull. Not that I’m old enough to remember such things.” She addressed the dog. “Ransom, get back in the house. Right now.”

  The dog relented and trotted back into the dark interior. I leaned down to put the cuff of my trouser leg right, and gave the woman a once over as I straightened up. She was fairly tall and thin-with hips that were a little wider and an ass that was a little flatter than she probably would have liked. Her skin was pale, her mouth and nose small, but her eyes seemed very wide and very green. I had a sudden flash of her as a child, and I guessed that she had been beautiful, but that time and hormones had taken her away from that innocent perfection. She was still a handsome woman. On closer inspection I realized that her hair was not a solid blonde, but was more of an ash blonde with blonder highlights. She held her wineglass in both hands, and there was something curious and graceful about how her long fingers curled around the bowl of it. She was wearing a black and white silk dress with a pair of black flats and sheer white stockings. I guessed she was about forty.

  “Actually,” I said. “My name is Riordan. August Riordan. Are you Mrs. Teller?”

  She hesitated a moment before speaking. “Yes,” she said. “Please excuse the dog, Mr. Riordan. He doesn’t get enough exercise. I do hope you’re not selling anything.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m investigating the death of your husband.”

  More hesitation, then: “But I’ve already spoken with several of your colleagues. The most recent, I believe, was a Detective Stockwell.”

  “I know. I met with him earlier today. I’m not a member of the police force, Mrs. Teller. I was hired by Edwin Bishop. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Bishop had some business dealings with your husband-dealings of a somewhat disputed nature. The McCulloch woman, in whose apartment your husband’s body was found, was a former employee of Mr. Bishop.”

  The woman in front of me sighed, and her face took on a faraway look. For the first time I realized she was tranquilized to the gills. “And you are the detective that found my husband. I understand now.”

  “Yes. I know this must be a very difficult time for you, Mrs. Teller, but I was hoping you could see your way clear to answer a few questions. I can’t change what’s happened, but there’s some reason to believe that the interpretation of events the police have is not correct. I’m not convinced that your husband, well, that your husband-”

  “Was sleeping with Ms. McCulloch? It was clear Detective Stockwell thought so.” She brushed a non-existent hair from her face. “I’ve promised to go to this wretched open house. I’d sooner walk barefoot over hot coals, but I’m very active on several charitable boards and in spite of what’s happened, I can’t afford to drop out of the circuit altogether. And, to be brutally honest, I don’t want people gossiping about me in my absence. Anyway, I must leave in another fifteen minutes. I’ll give yo
u that much time if you like.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it very much.”

  “Please come in, then. I’m having some wine and cheese to fortify myself for the party. Would you care to join me?”

  I made a show of glancing at my watch. “I don’t know,” I said. “It is a little early in the day for cheese.”

  She laughed. It was a pleasant sounding laugh but it seemed to take a lot out of her. She looked at me thoughtfully. “I have a better idea. Come with me to the open house. We can talk there.”

  “Would that be a good idea?” I sputtered. “I’m sure your friends would think it odd that I came.”

  “They might think it odd, but you would be ever so helpful as protection. So, what do you say? I’m leaving now with or without you. Your only chance to talk is to come along.”

  “You want to use me for protection? From what?”

  “From the Pacific Heights Inquisition. From the false pity and sympathy that will flood over me the moment I walk through the door. I guess you could call that using you, Mr. Riordan, but after all, you wish to use me as well. A fair exchange of services-that will be our goal. And from what I’ve seen of your rather rough-hewn wit, I don’t think you will disappoint.”

  “Great. Just let me know when to spit on the carpet. That ought to be rough-hewn enough for them. Are we walking or driving?”

  “I suppose we could walk, but I’m not really in the mood for fresh air. Do you have a car? Would you mind driving us?”

  “Yes to the first question and no to the second,” I said.

  She went back into the house, leaving the door open. I waited outside. She returned a moment later with a purse and a long coat, which she had draped over her arm. She locked up and we walked down to the Galaxie, where I opened the passenger door for her.

  “What in the world happened to your back seat?” she asked as she sat down.

  “Back seat?” I said. “There’s no back seat on these babies, Mrs. Teller. It’s a two-seater sport model.”