“You call me ‘bitch’ like it’s a bad thing.”
She slammed the door, walked off into the shadows. She had no idea where she was going to find a cab in this neighborhood, this time of night.
It took a good hour to walk home through some of the city’s less desirable neighborhoods. One positive was that she’d walked off a good deal of her nerves and jet lag. Now it was literally the middle of the night.
But now she knew it hadn’t been Matt Dwight following her that day when an unmarked car first trailed her through SF up by Sears. It had been Ryan and his accomplice, following. Why?
At home, Pam was still nestled under the covers, seemingly unmoved. Colleen tore up the note she’d left for her under the sugar bowl, made tea, poured a shot of brandy in it, took it into her office overlooking the fog lifting over Potrero, sat down, stretched her legs and back. Everything cracked. She called her answering service.
Mrs. Philanderer wanted a status update. Now. The woman was growing impatient. Colleen made a note to call her first thing. She needed paid work, especially now. She’d been plowing through her finances at a clip. Now she had Pam to look after.
Her lawyer, Gus, had called, too. She’d called him, but he was out. She left an update on his message machine. She was tempted to call Matt Dwight again, give him a heads-up on Inspector Ryan, who seemed to be gunning for him. But it wasn’t her business anymore.
Technically.
She was sorely tempted to pay Shuggy a visit.
Lucky had died trying to do the right thing, and that’s all it seemed to get him: dead. Just like the mayor. And Supervisor Harvey Milk.
And dying for nothing didn’t do Lucky justice.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Later that morning, Colleen checked in on Pam again, still bundled in a fetal position under the covers. She prayed that her daughter would return whole from the nightmare of Die Kerk.
Back in her office she called Mr. Philanderer’s wife, informing her that she’d been out of the country and would pick things up where she’d left off. She also mentioned an overdue bill.
“I want that photo of the two of them together first,” Mrs. Philanderer said.
“If you read our contract,” Colleen said coolly, “you’ll find you’re past due for services already rendered—including numerous photos. But I’ll check today and give you an update.”
“You do that.”
Mrs. Philanderer wouldn’t get any more photos until she paid her bill. Divorce work was the worst.
But her mind kept coming back to Lucky and the dead mayor—especially after last night’s car ride with Inspector Ryan.
Fog drizzled down the window. Out there was a city in disarray, with a dead mayor, supervisor, and another ex-supervisor arrested for their murders. The Summer of Love was a long way away in the rearview mirror.
She called Owens at work. Still out. Where was he? She knew he’d moved out of the house but didn’t know where. She felt for him, going through an ugly divorce of his own. But she could really use his help too.
She called Sergeant Matt Dwight, tried to catch him at home. No luck. Probably at work.
She pulled on a jacket, drove over to Polk Street on the off chance Mr. Philanderer might be treating himself to a morning quickie before work. No lights on in the love nest and no baby-blue Dodge Magnum parked in the neighborhood. She made a record of her visit in her notebook. It was all going on the bill.
Colleen headed back home and got caught up around City Hall where a throng of demonstrators with rainbow flags and signs were holding up traffic, protesting former Supervisor Dan White’s supposed special treatment by SFPD. White was the shooter of Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk, an openly gay politician who represented the Castro. News reports claimed White, a former cop, was being regaled with goodie baskets and a cell to himself, complete with color TV. This did not bode well with the gay community. Chants of “When you’re White, it ain’t called murder” filled the air.
She stopped at the Safeway near Castro to pick up meds for Pam and a few groceries. She hit the payphone outside the supermarket on her way back to the car, called Matt Dwight at work one more time. Thankfully, he answered. She heard multiple conversations in the background, all at a high volume.
“I’m pretty busy right now,” he said.
“I have no doubt,” she said. “But I need to talk to you—in private.”
“Give me your number,” he said. “I’ll call you right back.”
While she waited, she fed a quarter into the newspaper vending machine, thinking about Lucky who not too long ago made his living selling papers on the street. No more.
The shooting of the mayor was front page, no surprise. Apparently, an anonymous tip had been filed prior to the shooting, but the police had failed to act upon it. Well, she knew who the tipster was.
The payphone rang.
“I can talk now,” Matt Dwight said. No extraneous conversations. He had moved to a private phone.
“You haven’t been around,” he said. “I tried to stop by last week.”
“I was out of the country.”
“Ah.”
“What the hell happened, Matt?”
“Dan White recently resigned from his position as supervisor but changed his mind. Went to City Hall to ask for his old job back but Mayor Moscone turned him down. Moscone had only been too happy to get rid of White in the first place. White shot him four times.”
“How did White get a gun into City Hall? Through the metal detectors?”
“Someone let him in through a side entrance. Being an ex-cop and a recent employee, no one thought too much of it.”
“And Supervisor Harvey Milk?”
“After he shot Mayor Moscone, White stopped by Milk’s office, shot him, too. He’d never been wild about the guy or what he stood for.”
Jesus. “Meanwhile the wives of SFPD are baking cookies for Dan White,” Colleen said.
“White’s a popular guy. Not everybody in this city is as tolerant as people like to think we are.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
Colleen took a breath, measuring her words. “Whatever happened with my anonymous tip, Matt?”
There was a pause. “It got as far as Jordan Kray.”
“And when you saw he was clean, you thought I was barking up the wrong tree.”
“Not you so much. Your buddy.”
Lucky wasn’t the most reliable source of information. And he had been wrong—well, half wrong. But still, she was disappointed. She’d gone out on a limb and the information had been discounted.
“I’m sorry, Colleen,” Matt said. “Not that it makes much difference now.”
“Not to Mayor Moscone and Harvey Milk, it doesn’t. But it also got Lucky killed, and no one’s giving him a second thought.”
“I am.”
“My big question is,” she said, “how did Shuggy and his pals come by the name Jordan Kray? Not that far from the truth. Jordan Kray is a supervisor and an ex-cop, too.”
“Who knows? By the time Lucky overheard Shuggy and his pals crowing about it, it might’ve been ‘pass the story.’”
Pass the story. The party game where a number of people relate a story told to them to the next person in line. By the time the tale makes its way around the circle, it’s invariably altered.
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe it was deliberate misdirection.”
“Do you really think Shuggy is that central to the shooting?”
“Possibly. He’s a killer. Or maybe it’s someone further up the chain. One of Shuggy’s neo-Nazi or Klan pals. Dr. Lange influences a lot of people.”
“I ran Shuggy’s sheet, as well as his partners. Usual biker stuff. I stopped by the Thunderbird but Shuggy wasn’t home. I looked into your neo-Nazi guy, Dr. Lange, too. Clean.”
“And that was it?”
“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
She would have taken it further. But she wasn�
�t a cop.
“Look, Colleen,” he said, “rest assured that everyone on your list is getting their rat cage shaken now. If White isn’t some lone gunman and there was a coordinated plot, we’ll find it.”
Locking the barn door after the horse had bolted.
Lucky deserved more.
“Shuggy, Stan, and Ace beat Lucky to death. Ace pretty much admitted to it at that Nazi-Klan shindig,” she said. “What’s the status of that?”
“Not my wheelhouse. And Owens is still out.”
Dwight wasn’t Homicide. Owens was.
“I know he’s going through a divorce,” she said.
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Know where I can find him?”
There was another pause. “The Breakers Motel on Lombard. But you didn’t hear it from me. She’s putting him through hell.”
Poor Owens was staying at a motel.
“My lips are sealed,” she said. Then, “I didn’t just call about the case. I need to tell you something—about your senior. Also, in confidence.”
“Of course. What’s it about?”
“Ryan and some little weasel stopped by late last night. Drove me down to the farmers market on Alemany to try and throw a scare into me. They weren’t entirely unsuccessful. They wanted to know all about my anonymous tip. They also wanted to know about you. And not in a good way. That’s why I wanted to mention it.”
“You don’t say. That’s the way Ryan works.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say they might be trying to pin SFPD’s dropping the ball on the Moscone shooting tip on you. It was your case to begin with.”
“You took a risk telling me that, Colleen. I appreciate it.”
“De nada.”
“As much as I hate to say it, we’ve got one or two who think Dan White isn’t that bad.”
“Goodie baskets,” she said. “Color TV.”
“You got it. Watch your back. Steer clear of Ryan. Shuggy and his buddies, too.”
She agreed reluctantly.
Matt said, “When all of this settles down to a dull roar, do we still have a dinner date?”
“I’ll bring a doggie bag.”
“That’s the best news I’ve had in a while. Keep your nose clean, parolee.”
He signed off.
She wondered how Pamela was holding up back at home. After Die Kerk, Colleen had planned to devote her time reconnecting with her daughter. But the Moscone shooting changed that. And Lucky’s murderer was still at large.
She drove home, getting tied up around Castro, where the rainbow flag flapped over Bank of America. Protesters were chanting along to a man with a bullhorn.
When you’re White it ain’t called murder.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Back on Vermont Street, Colleen circled the block, checking for suspicious vehicles before she parked in the back lot. She took the back stairs up to her porch, shifted her bag of groceries, got her keys out, let herself in.
From the kitchen she could hear Pamela getting sick to her stomach in the bathroom again.
Colleen set the groceries on the counter, went to the bathroom. The door was open. Pamela was on her hands and knees in Colleen’s kimono, praying to the porcelain goddess.
“I got some Pepto-Bismol, sweetheart.”
“Kind of late for that,” Pamela gasped.
Colleen let it slide. “How about some tea?”
“Ugh,” Pam panted, her voice echoing from the toilet bowl.
Then another thought flashed through Colleen’s mind. How slow could a woman be?
“Pam—are you having diarrhea?”
“No! Now will you just leave me alone—please?”
No problemo, Colleen thought. She left Pam hunched over the commode, went back out, down the wooden stairs, drove down to the drugstore, picked up an Early Pregnancy Test. They had just come out that year. She drove back up the hill, keeping an eye peeled for suspicious vehicles.
Pam was sitting on the couch in her robe, smoking a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Colleen said.
“Well, now you do.”
“I’m going to make some tea,” Colleen said. “Want some?”
“Okay,” Pam said, puffing away.
Okay. Colleen made tea. Plenty of honey for Pam, whose blood sugar had to be nonexistent.
They sat across from each other in the living room. The atmosphere was decidedly chilly.
“Feeling any better?” Colleen asked, sipping tea.
Pam put her bare feet up on the glass coffee table. She shrugged as she sipped.
“Is that a ‘yes’?” Colleen asked.
“Yes,” Pam said tersely.
“Good.” A little color was starting to return to Pam’s face. There was no time like the present. Colleen set her cup down.
“Pam,” she asked, “when did you last have your period?”
Pam smacked her cup down on the glass coffee table loud enough to make Colleen jump. Tea splashed. Thankfully nothing broke.
“For God’s sake!” Pam stood up, cinched the kimono, marched off into the spare room, slammed the door.
Colleen nodded, stood up, went to the spare room, stood outside the door.
“Pam, I’m on your side. If you’re pregnant, we need to deal with it—the two of us.”
No answer. Good. At least she wasn’t shouting.
“Do you think you might be pregnant?” Colleen said to the door.
She thought she heard Pam crying. She put her ear to the door. Crying. She was taken back to her little girl who cried too much. A wave of remorse filled her. What terrible decisions she had made, the biggest one killing Pam’s father. Not that the bastard didn’t deserve it. But for what it did to Pam, she’d never forgive herself.
She gently opened the door a few inches.
Pam was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor pigeon-toed, hunched over, elbows on her knees, head hung between them. Slowly, she looked up at Colleen. Her blue eyes were red and shiny. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Colleen’s heart melted for her. She gave Pam a sad smile.
“I missed a month,” Pam said quietly. “Maybe two.”
Colleen fought a wave of dread at who the father might be. “I picked up an Early Pregnancy Test. We’ll make sure.”
A weary smirk from Pam. “It’s only going to tell me what I already know.”
“Probably. But then we can get you in to see the doc.” Colleen never went to the doctor, but Alex had a gynecologist she liked.
“And then what?” Pam said.
Colleen shrugged. “There are options.”
“An abortion.”
“That’s one. There are others. But it’s your decision.”
“You’re telling me if I have his kid, you’re gonna be there for me?”
So it was that psycho Adem Lea. Colleen let the shock subside. Told herself that beautiful flowers grew out of manure.
“It’s not going to be easy telling people I’m a grandma,” Colleen said, “and no one’s going to believe me, anyway”—she flipped her hair back with a hand, la-de-dah—“not with my youthful looks and all, but I actually kind of dig the idea.”
“Do you? I call ‘bullshit.’”
Colleen took a breath, let her hand drop. “I’m getting used to the idea,” she said. “How’s that?”
Pam squinted. “Even knowing who the father is?”
“What matters to me is you, Pam.”
Pam sighed. “You really mean that?”
“I got pregnant when I was sixteen. I was scared to death. Your grandfather was going to throw me out of the house if I didn’t marry your father. Worst mistake I ever made. Very worst mistake. Well, maybe killing him was, but one bad decision led to the other. But, Pam—the day I gave birth to you and held you in my arms—that was the happiest day of my life. I was one happy, terrified teenager.”
Pam cracked a frail smile. “Really?”
“Really.” Collee
n let that sink in. “I’m not even going to pretend I know what you’ve been through recently, but I do know what it’s like to be young, alone, and pregnant and not have any good options. But you’re not in that position. I’m here for you. This place is here for you. You can come and go as you please. No strings. You can have an abortion, have a baby, keep it, give it up for adoption—your decision. All fine with me.”
Pam’s face softened. She looked down at the floor, crossed one foot over the other. A tear dropped on the hardwood.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
All Colleen wanted to do was go to her daughter and hug her with ten years’ worth of missed affection. But Pam wasn’t ready. Colleen would bide her time. Being in prison for almost a decade taught her how to wait. She’d wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
After fiddling around with the vial of purified water, medicine dropper, and a test tube that contained sheep blood cells, and waiting two hours, a dark ring appeared at the bottom of the tube. Pam was indeed pregnant. The EPT was almost anticlimactic. Colleen called Alex, got the name of her gynecologist, made an appointment.
It was close to midday. Pam’s morning sickness had passed.
Back in the living room, Pam was smoking another one of her Virginia Slims. Colleen was tempted to yank it out of her hand but struggled with her motherly instincts.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Starving,” Pam said.
“Let’s go to the Cliff House for lunch,” Colleen said. “We’ll celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” Pam said with a wry smile. “Talk about putting a spin on things.”
Celebrate connecting with her daughter.
“I’ll wait while you get cleaned up,” Colleen said.
“Okay,” Pam said, obviously liking the idea.
While Pam took a shower, Colleen threw her pack of cigarettes in the trash. The doorbell rang. She walked over to the front window, pulled the blind open, looked down on Vermont.
No car double-parked. But a familiar beige Ford sedan was parked across the street. An SFPD unmarked. If it was Inspector Ryan again, she was tempted to go get Little Bersalina.
In the hallway she hit the buzzer.
“It’s Matt.”
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