I was halfway to Daly City when Tamara called again. She said, “I tried you a little while ago. Not much yet, but a couple of things you be wanting to know.”
“Go ahead.”
“Felicia’s working today and I got her to access the DCPD computer for us. Data’s incomplete, but as of two P.M. they still didn’t have an ID on your perp, and Cohalan and Byers hadn’t come forward or been located. Lieutenant Fuentes put out a BOLO on both of ’em.”
BOLO is police code for a Be on Lookout order. “When?” I asked.
“Around noon.”
“County wide, Bay Area, statewide?”
“Bay Area so far.”
Byers and Cohalan, I thought. On the run together? Unlawful flight to avoid answering for ... what? The extortion scam? Involvement in the money theft and Carolyn Dain’s murder? They’d run if they were accessories to a capital crime; they might also run if they were innocent and afraid they’d be tabbed for it. In any case, a noon BOLO was next to worthless. With an early-morning jump, they could be in Nevada or L.A. or closing in on the Oregon border by now.
“Anything on Byers?” I asked.
“Not much more than what we had before. Born in Lodi, raised there by an alcoholic single mother. Father unknown. Mother died when she was in high school, no other known relatives. First arrest at nineteen, possession of marijuana. Meth bust was her only felony charge.”
“Niall and Bright?”
“Sketchy stuff so far.”
“Keep digging. Addresses, first priority.”
“One other thing,” she said. “I accessed the office machine to check for messages. Man named Melvin Bishop called, said he’s a friend of Carolyn Dain and wants to talk to you.”
Melvin. Mel. Last night’s anxious caller, probably. “He say what about?”
“No. Sounded real shook up.”
“Leave an address or just a phone number?”
“Both. Address is 750 De Montfort. I looked it up—it’s off Ocean out near City College. Said he’d be there all weekend.”
“Okay. Here’s something else for you to look into. See if you can find a link between Byers and somebody or something called Dingo.”
“Dingo? Like the Australian wild dog?”
“D-i-n-g-o.”
“That’s how they spell it Down Under. Kind of appropriate if it’s somebody’s name, huh? Bitch like Annette Byers hanging with a wild dog?”
At the DCPD I left the file with the desk sergeant and beat it out of there as though I was nothing more than a messenger boy. I did not want another session with Fuentes or Erdman or any other cop today, not after my previous visit and not in my frame of mind.
The car phone buzzed as I pulled out of the parking lot. Kerry, this time. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” she said. “You okay?”
“Holding up.”
“Where are you?”
“Driving around at the moment. I went to the office, did a little work.”
“When’re you coming home?”
“Not for a while. Maybe not until tomorrow. I thought I might spend the night at my flat.”
There was a longish pause before she said, “You think that’s a good idea? Being alone tonight?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to see how I feel later.”
“Call before seven and let me know. So we won’t wait dinner if you’re not coming.”
“I will.”
I felt better for having heard her voice. God, I loved that woman. She was the rock-solid center of my life, whether we were together or not. Without her I would be in worse shape right now than I was.
In my head I heard the clicks again.
Yeah. Much worse shape.
NINE
DE MONTFORT WAS A SHORT RESIDENTIAL street of older, lower middle-class homes. Most were two-story wooden affairs with long staircases in front, but number 750 turned out to be a squatty one-story stucco in the pseudo-Spanish style of the thirties. It looked out of place in the neighborhood. So did the man who opened the door to my ring. He was slender, fair-haired, handsome in a sad-eyed, ascetic way. Black-rimmed glasses pushed low over the bridge of an aquiline nose gave him a professorial air. His face was smooth and unlined; he might have been anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five.
“It’s good of you to come by,” he said when I identified myself. Then he said, squinting at me through his glasses, “My God, that bastard did a job on you, didn’t he.”
More of a job than you’ll ever know. But all I said was, “Yes.”
“Come in, come in.”
The interior smelled of flowers, or maybe flower-scented air freshener. The patterned wallpaper in the hallway and in the living room he led me into looked at least fifty years old. Most of the furniture was of the same vintage, but well-preserved. The room was neat, clean; an arrangement of purple and yellow flowers sat atop one of the tables. Family photographs and others depicting antiquated street and cable cars and municipal railway buses adorned two of the walls.
“This was my parents’ home,” Bishop said. “I inherited it when my mother died. My dad worked for Muni for forty years.” He made a vague gesture with one hand. “I really should redecorate. Either that, or sell the place and move into something smaller. But I can’t seem to bring myself to do either one. Changing or leaving the home where you grew up is never easy.”
“I suppose not.”
“Sit down, please. Anywhere you like. Something to drink? Coffee, tea, pop? I have beer or wine....”
“Nothing, thanks.”
I lowered myself into an armchair. Bishop waited until I was settled before occupying a high-backed sofa. He crossed his legs, sighed, shook his head. “I can’t believe Carolyn’s gone,” he said. “Shot that way, in her own home ... Christ.”
“The two of you were close, I take it.”
“Yes, we were. Very close.”
“I figured as much since she spent Thursday night with you.”
“ ... How did you know that? Did she tell you?”
“No. Educated guess. I was there when you called last night. How long have you been seeing her?”
“Seeing her?”
“Having the affair with her.”
His eyes, a watery blue, blinked at me in a startled way. “Affair? Good Lord, is that what you think?” He drew himself up and said, “You couldn’t be more wrong. As a matter of fact, I’m gay.”
I should have seen it coming; the signs were obvious enough. But my powers of observation, like my thinking, were subpar today. I said, “Oh,” because that was the only thing that came into my head.
“Why do you say it like that? Does it bother you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Well, your expression and your tone....”
“Took me by surprise, that’s all.”
He peered at me for a few seconds; then his body slumped again. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said. “I’m not usually one who sees homophobia everywhere he looks.” He repeated the vague gesture. “I guess I’m overly sensitive and defensive today. Angry and feeling vulnerable.”
“I feel the same way.”
“Yes, of course you do. In my case ... I’m just so sick and tired of losing people I care about. My parents, two friends to AIDS, Roger, and now Carolyn.”
“Roger?”
“A man with whom I had a long-term relationship.” He said it matter-of-factly, but the words were underscored with bitterness. “He’s not really dead, but he might as well be as far as I’m concerned.”
There was nothing for me to say to that.
“Lost love, shattered dreams,” Bishop said. It sounded self-pitying, but I had the feeling it wasn’t. “Carolyn understood. All too well. That’s one of the bonds we had. More than once we cried on each other’s shoulders.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
“White Rock School. I’m also an instructor there—history, social studies, political science.”
“A
nd she confided in you about her marriage?”
“Oh, yes. She had no one else to talk to, you see. No close friends, no living relatives. That was another bond we shared. Lonely people naturally gravitate to each other, particularly those in the same line of work.”
“About her marriage, Mr. Bishop.”
“Well, it was difficult for her. Very difficult. I told her she would be much better off if she left Jay, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She believed in seeing a commitment through, no matter how unpleasant it became. I understood that. I doubt I could have left Roger if he hadn’t walked out. Love makes fools of us all.”
“Sometimes.”
“Not always, that’s true. We were just two of the unlucky ones. But my God, I never thought he’d do anything to cause her to die.”
“He may not be the one who caused her death, except indirectly.”
“That crazy scheme of his to take away her inheritance ... I warned her that’s what it was, a scheme, but she needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Until it became too obvious for her to ignore and she went to see you. But even then....”
“There’s no evidence yet to prove that Cohalan was involved in what happened last night.”
Bishop frowned. “You mean you don’t believe he was?”
“I didn’t say that. Just that there’s no evidence yet.”
“But who else, if not Jay?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping that was why you wanted to see me—that you have some information that might help me find out who’s responsible.”
“No. I wish I did, but ... no.”
“Then why did you ask to see me?”
“I thought you could tell me something.” The vague gesture again; it was obviously habitual with him. “I needed to talk to someone and you ... I thought ... I’m sorry if I misled you.”
“Don’t apologize, Mr. Bishop. I understand.”
“Do you?”
I nodded. He was a bleeder, too. Not the Cohalan and Byers leech variety—the sensitive, empathetic type like me who leaks soul blood when deeply wounded. The difference between us was that his reaction was passive, his anger impotent; he had to reach out to others to help staunch the flow and cauterize the wound. I had to do the job directly, with minimal aid from others. Bleeder, heal thyself.
“Do you know if Carolyn told anyone besides you about the cash?” I asked him. “That I had it and was going to deliver it to her yesterday?”
“No, I’m sure she didn’t. She came straight here after she spoke to you Thursday night.”
“She didn’t call anyone, talk to anyone?”
“Just me. We sat up most of the night talking.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t let it slip to anybody?”
“Oh, God, no. I’d never betray a confidence like that, not even accidentally. I’m too cautious for that.”
I said, “I understand Cohalan was chronically unfaithful.”
“Chronically is the right word.”
“Did she know any of the women?”
“I doubt it. She never mentioned any specific person.”
“I have to ask this. Did she ever retaliate in kind?”
“Take a lover of her own? Not Carolyn. She was the most moral person I’ve ever known.” He added sadly, “And the most forgiving.”
“Did you know Cohalan uses methamphetamines?”
“She told me, yes,” Bishop said. “Another chronic fault. I swear, she was a saint to have put up with that man.”
“Would you have any idea who supplied him?”
“With drugs? No.”
“Would Carolyn have revealed a name if she’d known?”
“She might have. Yes.”
“Charles Bright. That name ring any bells?”
He thought about it before shaking his head.
“Steve Niall?”
Same consideration, same negative.
“How about Dingo?”
“I don’t ... Dingo?”
“Like the Australian wild dog.”
“No. I’m sure I’ve never heard that name from Carolyn or anyone else. All these people ... who are they?”
I said, “Possible drug connections,” and let it go at that. “Anything else you can tell me? Anything at all she might have confided about her husband, his affairs, his drug use?”
He didn’t answer immediately; his expression said he was working his memory. And he pinched something out of it that brought a sudden glint to his eyes. “There is one thing. I don’t know if it’s important, but....” He got abruptly to his feet. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
I stayed in the armchair for about a minute before restlessness drove me out of it. I paced around, looking at the framed photographs without really seeing what was in them. On my third circuit, Bishop reappeared and came quickly to where I was.
“Carolyn found this about three weeks ago,” he said, holding out a small, round object. “In a pair of Jay’s trousers. She thought I might know what it is and brought it to school and forgot it when she left my office. I meant to return it, but she didn’t ask for it, and I forgot it, too, until just now.”
The object was brown, made of smooth, shiny plastic, about the size of a poker chip. On one side, in black, were the words Lucky Buffalo Chip. On the other side, a red line drawing of a grinning horned bull wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat; underneath, in a half circle along the edge, more black printing: Remember the Alamo!
Bishop asked hopefully, “Does it mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Nor to me. It reminds me of those tokens they give out in Nevada casinos, good for free plays on the blackjack and roulette tables. But gambling isn’t one of Jay’s vices—the only one he doesn’t have, I’m sure.”
“Doesn’t look like a casino token,” I said, “despite the ’lucky.’ Some kind of advertising gimmick, maybe.”
“I can’t imagine what for.”
Neither could I at the moment. I said, “Do you mind if I keep this?”
“By all means, if you think it might help.”
I tucked it into my wallet with the note scraps from Byers’ studio. Bishop showed me to the door and then said, “May I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“When you find the man who killed Carolyn and hurt you ... will you be all right?”
I didn’t have to ask him what he meant. He was a perceptive man; he had me pegged, too. “For that part of it, yes.”
“And afterward?”
“I think so.”
“A survivor,” he said.
“I have been so far.”
“As have I. So far.”
We shook hands solemnly, like brothers saying good-bye.
Tamara said, “Where you at? Sounds noisy.”
It was noisy. I was in a busy service station on Ocean Avenue, feeding another load of black gold into the gas tank. Two trucks and an M line street car were rumbling by just then. And at the pumps ahead of me, a woman was loudly complaining to her passenger about the outrageous gas prices, saying that what they amounted to was consumer rape. She’d get no argument from me.
“Just a second,” I said to Tamara, and rolled up the window. “Okay, better. What have you got?”
“Current address for Steve Niall. Seven-twelve Natoma. The Southwick Hotel.”
“Skid Row.”
“Crime doesn’t pay, huh?”
“Neither does stupidity, in the long run. You call the Southwick to make sure he’s still living there?”
“My mama didn’t raise no incompetent babies,” she said. “I called, he’s registered. Clerk doesn’t seem to like the man much. Sneered all over himself when I asked.”
“Anything on Charles Bright?”
“Goes by Charlie, first of all. Paroled last March. No hit on his current whereabouts. I did get the name of his parole officer, but civil servants don’t work weekends, right? Want me to try to get hold of the PO at home?”
&n
bsp; “Not much point. He wouldn’t give out any information over the phone. What’s the name?”
“Ben Duryea.”
“Good, I know Ben. I’ll look him up if necessary.”
“Still checking Bright’s personal life and drug BG,” she said. “Born in Texas, home of Dubya and those other Cowboys. Broken home, father died of a heroin overdose. Genetic disposition to controlled substances, you know what I’m saying? Moved out here when he was sixteen, got his ass in trouble right away, been there ever since.”
“History of violence?”
“None on his record. User and small-time dealer, strictly—meth, blow, whatever. Walking pharmaceutical company.”
“What’s his relationship with Annette Byers?”
“Only connection I can find so far is they were both busted on the meth sting.”
I signed off and went to pay the gas tariff. Thirty-two bucks for fifteen gallons. If the prices kept climbing, as was being predicted, there were going to be riots one day. You could get away with disarming Californians, and taking away social services and most vices, and raising taxes to the limit, and jacking up gas and electric bills 10 percent or more, but the one thing they wouldn’t stand for was pricing them out of their cars.
TEN
SKID ROW WAS A BAD PLACE FOR ME TODAY. On my best days its filthy sidewalks and gallery of bleak, wasted lives creates a dark and depressive mood in me. And this was anything but one of my best days.
A few years ago I’d come down here to see a small-time bleeder, ex-con, and self-proclaimed religious convert named Eddie Quinlan. One of the shadow men without substance or purpose who drift along the narrow catwalk that separates conventional society from the underworld. When he’d asked to see me, I thought it was because he had something he wanted to sell; I’d bought information from him from time to time for a few dollars a pop, in the days before Tamara and the Internet. But that wasn’t what he wanted that time. He bent my ear for half an hour about the things and the people he saw every day from the window of his Sixth Street hotel room—the crack and smack deals, the drunk-rolling and mugging, the petty thievery, the acts of sexual degradation. “Souls burning everywhere you go,” was the way he’d described the hookers, pimps, addicts, dealers, drunks, and worse. Doomed souls who were dooming others to burn with them.
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