Karma

by Susan Dunlap

  “Right. Thanks.”

  In another ten minutes the courtyard was alive with lights, as warm with uniforms. The photographer and the print man arrived and headed for the tepee. The Penlops were herded into the dining room for questioning, their formerly glazed countenances now sullenly angry. One backup man went to find Braga, two more covered Joe Lee and Leah. And one drove off to keep an eye on Garrett Kleinfeld.

  Another had taken Heather to my car. She was sifting stiffly in the back seat when I arrived. I glanced at the patrolman, but he shook his head to indicate nothing worth reporting had happened.

  I slid in beside Heather. “How are you holding up?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I keep seeing him, with his blood spattered all over my bed and my dressing table and my suitcase and my clothes.” Her hand tightened on her knee.

  “Heather,” I said, “I want you to tell me exactly what happened tonight when you called me, and after.”

  She shook her head. “What do you mean? I called you.”

  “From Braga’s office, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice anyone outside the window?”

  “No. I mean, I didn’t look. You know, I really wasn’t thinking about that. I mean, I just decided to call you. I had to put all my energy on that. It wasn’t easy to get the police station to tell me where you were. I had to tell them it was life or death.”

  Her voice trailed off, and we both sat silent for a moment, thinking of the prophetic value of her words.

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I met you and went to the restaurant.”

  “Before that.”

  “I told you, I bought the rouge. Do you want to see the sales slip?”

  “That’s great, really great, Heather. You realize if you hadn’t waited that hour, we would have got back here sooner and Vernon Felcher wouldn’t be dead.”

  “You can’t blame me! I didn’t ask him to get murdered in my tepee. That’s my home. Where am I going to sleep tonight? What about my suitcases? And my clothes? This is the thanks I get for trying to help you!”

  I had overreacted, but an apology did not seem called for. I sighed. “Vernon Felcher overheard enough of our conversation to know what you’d told me. Why do you think he came here?”

  She thought a moment, then shuddered. “He overheard, and he came to my tepee? He must have been after me.”

  “Wait. You didn’t say you suspected him then. You said that later. Then, you only said you knew who the killer was. So, if Vernon Felcher didn’t stab Paul—and the odds are now that he didn’t—why would he come here?”

  When Heather didn’t answer, I asked, “Was it to see you?”

  “What? No. I told you I didn’t see anyone. Why would Felcher want to see me?”

  “He might want to know what you knew. He might have been worried about you.”

  She laughed. “I doubt that. He wasn’t interested in anything but land.”

  I considered that. “Okay, Heather, after I left you at the restaurant, what did you do till you came back here?”

  “I talked to this guy for a while. You know, the one I told you about. He’s kind of a strange guy, but he’s a great dancer. He’s—”

  “Heather!”

  “Okay, I was with him about ten minutes. I would have stayed longer, but he had his old lady with him, and she was getting very uptight and finally she stood up and made a big deal about wanting to split. So I left and came back here.”

  “I’ll need his name and address.”

  “Okay. I can give you his name—Bill Katz. I don’t know for sure where he lives. Somewhere around the Avenue. Now can I go? I might be able to catch Chattanooga in Eureka.”

  “What?”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Heather,” I said, slamming my note pad shut, “don’t even think about leaving town. You’ve already handed me this line about knowing who the killer was—”

  “I didn’t say I knew. What I told you was true. Felcher was in the temple. He could have slipped through the stage door. He could have done it.”

  “Or you could have. Twenty-five percent of murders are committed by the victim’s husband or wife.”

  She glared at me, her long sandy hair vibrating with her rage. “I wasn’t Paul’s wife, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Close enough. You’re the mother of his child.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m not the mother of his child.”

  I took a breath. This case had been filled with false representations—Paul Lee had not been a guru; the insignia on the murder weapon had not been a Buddhist or Bhutanese symbol—but this was too much for me to accept. “Heather, I can’t believe you’re not Preston’s mother.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “Of course I’m his mother. But Paul wasn’t his father.”

  Before I could ask, she added, “Joe.”

  “I didn’t think she’d ever admit it.” Joe Lee sat back in his desk chair in the attic room. “Yeah, I’m Preston’s father.”

  “Didn’t you mind everyone thinking Paul was his father?”

  “Yeah, I minded. Of course I minded. It wasn’t my idea. All of a sudden Heather was telling everyone that. And Paul didn’t care. That was at the time he was beginning to get into being guru. He said something about everyone being fathers to everyone else.”

  “And you did nothing?”

  “What could I do? Who would have believed me?”

  “There are blood tests.”

  “Paul’s and mine were the same type.”

  “So you did nothing.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe there was more to your inaction than resignation?” When he didn’t respond, I added, “Maybe you saw an advantage to having your son in a position to be Padmasvana’s successor. Maybe you figured that with him dead, even if you didn’t succeed him, your son could.”

  He started to speak, but I held up a hand. “Maybe you realized that if Heather was the regent, she would have that role in name only; that you would be the power behind the throne.”

  “You through? Forget it. You’d love to pin this murder on me, on a Chinese. I suppose you think I stuck on a braid and made like the tong wars.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  His short hair bristled. “Yeah, I’m no fool. I thought of the advantages. After Paul was dead. I did not kill my brother.”

  “And Felcher?”

  He snorted. “Why would I bother killing that old man?”

  “For starters, because with Paul dead, you had a good chance of taking over. Unless Felcher bought the land. Then Braga would get the money, and you would be out with nothing. You had a lot to lose if Felcher had lived.”

  Joe Lee smirked, a definitely unpleasant expression. “And Braga’s got a lot to lose now,” he said. “Oh, yeah, I know about his debts to his ‘friends’ in L.A. What’ll he tell them when his time’s up?”

  If I had any delusions about a bond between Braga and Joe Lee, they were gone. Had Joe, I wondered, thought he could throw Braga to the wolves—to his bloodthirsty creditors—by killing Felcher?

  “Where were you tonight? For the last two hours?”

  The smirk disappeared. “Right here. Ask the Penlops. They’ll tell you.”

  “You’d better come up with a stronger alibi than that. The days of the Penlops obeying you are over.”

  “No, I didn’t see Chupa-da—Joe—leave,” Leah said. “Of course, I wouldn’t have. I was in the basement. There are washtubs down there. I was washing out some diapers.” She glanced at Preston, sleeping in his basket. This was a new variety of alibi.

  “I have to wash them out,” Leah explained. “It would be easier to use the disposable ones, but I can’t spend the boys’ food money just to save me work.”

  “Why were you washing so late?”

  “I had just realized that diapers had run out. I knew I’d need some the
next day. Since Padma’s death, my hours have become a bit irregular.”

  “Did you see anyone that night? Maybe you looked out through the basement window and saw someone?”

  “No.”

  “Vernon Felcher? Maybe you saw him hanging around outside?”

  She laughed, then stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Vernon Felcher was such a pushy man and yet he was truly squeamish about being outside. The man had some sort of allergy—you know how those people are? They worry about anything that grows. And, to answer your question, I didn’t see him or anyone else that night.”

  “So, then, no one can verify that you were in the basement that night, either?”

  She shook her head.

  Outside, I could hear the angry grumblings of Penlops who were waiting to be questioned.

  “Leah,” I continued, “according to Heather, you did see Vernon Felcher in the audience the night that Paul was killed.”

  She nodded.

  “You and Heather agreed that he could have gone through the door under the stage and up through the trapdoor to kill Paul. In all that commotion he could have gone through the door unnoticed, right?”

  “It’s awful. I didn’t like the man, but it’s just awful to think that.”

  “But it is possible?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it would have been possible for you to do the same thing.”

  Her eyes opened wider. She stared at me silently. She shook her head. “You can’t mean that? Me? Kill Paul?” She shrank back, and I felt truly distressed that I had mentioned the possibility. Again, I reminded myself that criminals were not always those easily labeled as such.

  “It would have been easier for you than for Felcher. You had on a red robe. You were so much a part of the operation here that you could move about unnoticed. If anyone did see you, they would have recalled a figure in a red robe, a Penlop robe. In the dark they wouldn’t have associated it particularly with you.”

  She sat, shaking her head.

  I felt like a class-A heel. Did I really think Leah had killed Paul? Could she have seen Felcher as the ultimate threat to the ashram? Was she unbalanced enough to kill him in a vain attempt to keep the house for her boys? I couldn’t believe that. The motive was too thin.

  There was nothing more to say. I stood up slowly and walked across the courtyard.

  Rexford Braga sat slumped behind his desk. He didn’t look up when I entered the office.

  “Did you get a statement?” I asked the patrolman.

  “He hasn’t said anything. I understood I was to wait for you.”

  “Fine.”

  He looked at me questioningly, silently asking if he were being relieved. I shook my head. “I won’t be long.” To Braga, I said, “Where were you tonight?”

  He continued to stare at the desk.

  “Mr. Braga?”

  Still no movement. This was certainly not the Braga I was used to. What event could be so earthshaking as to reduce Braga to silence? Felcher’s murder? I doubted it.

  I sat on the desk, in his line of vision. “What did you do after five tonight?”

  He looked up, glowering. “What difference does it make? Leave me alone.”

  “As soon as you answer my questions.”

  “Oh, all right. I was driving around, alone, all evening. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

  “Anyone see you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “No alibi, then?”

  “Look, if you don’t believe me, put me in jail. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What are you taking so hard?”

  “Felcher’s dead.”

  Sarcastically, I said, “I didn’t think you cared so much.”

  “Care?” He looked up, genuinely surprised. “I don’t give a damn about Felcher. I care about my hundred thou. You know where this leaves me? I’ve got a little more than a month to come up with a hundred thou.”

  “But you still own the property. Maybe some other realtor will want the land.”

  Braga shook his head. “The variance runs out in ten days, and it’s not transferable, anyway.”

  Motioning to the patrolman, I left Braga with his dilemma.

  Chapter 22

  I WALKED SLOWLY BACK to my car. The rain still held off, but the wind raked the trees.

  If Felcher had not come in search of Heather, then he had been lured to the tepee by the killer—in the call that I overheard in his office, the one after which he had said the laundry had lost his shirt. At the time, his conversation with the unknown caller had seemed to echo something else I’d heard recently. “Don’t give me that self-sacrificing crap again. Look, I’m in the middle of negotiating a deal, I don’t have time…” And who would want Felcher killed in the tepee? Who would benefit by Felcher’s death? Not Braga, certainly. He would only lose the money he could have made on the land. Where would Felcher’s money go? His son was dead. Felcher didn’t seem the sort to leave it to his ex-wife. I could go through his office to find his lawyer’s name, but it was now after nine on Saturday night, and the lawyer might well be out. Trying to get information from a lawyer without a warrant is a small-percentage proposition at the best of times.

  Who would benefit?

  Going with the odds, I headed toward Self-Over.

  Garrett Kleinfeld and a new man on my shift, Martinez, whom I knew from a case several months ago, sat silently against the wall. As I walked in, Martinez scrambled to his feet. He extended his notes.

  “Not much,” he said, and yawned.

  I read through the page of half-words and symbols, some familiar and some I had to have Martinez interpret. When I handed him back the notebook, he took me aside and said, “Listen, Smith, I have had one hard shift. I really need coffee. Like this guy could have walked over me on the way out and I would have shrugged, you know?”

  “Okay, take ten. But either way, I’ll need you then.”

  “Sure.” He ambled to the door.

  Garrett Kleinfeld watched Martinez’s retreating form with disdain. For me he chose an expression of long suffering, of a man stretched nearly to breaking point.

  “So you say you’ve been here all evening?” I asked.

  “That’s what the man wrote.”

  “Doing exercises? All evening?”

  “Right again.” The lines around his mouth stretched downward. “You want to see?” he demanded.

  Before I could protest, he wrapped his feet around his back so that he resembled a turtle balanced on the back edge of its shell.

  “Sit up,” I said. “I don’t have time for show-and-tell. I want some answers, and I want them now.”

  He unwound himself and sat.

  I squatted in front of him.

  “Now that Felcher’s dead, do you inherit the rights to the building?”

  Kleinfeld stared, then almost laughed. “Obviously you don’t understand Vernon Felcher.”

  “Fine. Then you tell me about him and what plans he made for the disposition of his property.”

  “I don’t know that!”

  “Come on, Mr. Kleinfeld. Felcher was middle-aged, over-weight. He ticked like a time bomb. Don’t tell me you never considered that he might die.”

  “Well, I…”

  “You…?” I prodded.

  “Yeah, okay. I thought about it. It’s written into his will that if he dies before the building is completed and the tenants take occupancy, the first floor will be mine.”

  “For how much?”

  Kleinfeld appeared to wage a brief and futile battle against the smug expression that took possession of his face. “For free.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as the building stands. It’ll be like owning a condominium. When I move on, I’ll rent the space.”

  I leaned back against the wall. “So, Mr. Kleinfeld, Vernon Felcher’s death would not only save you money, but would give you a security you could never count on with him alive.”

  K
leinfeld said nothing.

  “Except for the fact that he had not completed the deal for the land. Or didn’t you know that?”

  The smug expression hardened into a mask.

  Rolling onto the balls of my feet, I said, “Vernon Felcher was killed on the temple grounds. That appears to implicate everyone involved in this case, except you. Very convenient.”

  I waited.

  Kleinfeld remained motionless.

  “He got a call from his murderer, to arrange the meeting. Tonight, when you were alone, exercising.” I let the sarcasm ring through.

  Kleinfeld still sat behind his mask, but he had an air of coiling inward.

  “Vernon Felcher said to the killer, ‘Don’t give me that self-sacrificing crap again. I’m—’ ”

  “Wait! And you thought he was talking to me?”

  Now I waited.

  “Well, that just shows how little you comprehended about what I’ve told you. No wonder the crime rate in Berkeley’s what it is, if this is the level of police we have. Self-sacrifice! That’s what I’m working against. That’s what I tell my students. There are too many goddamn martyrs. What they need is to lift the self up. To the Self first—not to be a slave to anyone else. Self-Over. Over!”

  I had to admit to myself that the concept of Kleinfeld sacrificing was a hard one to see. Suddenly I remembered what Felcher’s words had reminded me of—it was almost exactly what I’d said when I thought I was talking to Nat on the phone yesterday: “I’m in the middle of a murder case, I don’t have time to…” And Felcher had said, “I’m in the middle of negotiating a deal. I don’t have time to…” The same, down to the exasperated tone. And now I didn’t have time to think through the implications.

  I asked, “What about Bobby’s knife? Did he really take it away from here?”

  “What? Of course.”

  “Do you have any proof? Do you have more than your word?”

  “You don’t believe me! What’s the sense in talking? Jesus!” He grabbed my arm.

  Twisting it free and jumping up, I said, “You lied before. I need proof. Were there any witnesses?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Yes, there were witnesses. There was a whole class. They heard the argument.”