Every Move She Makes, page 20
"Voice mail. Yeah," I said, suddenly recalling that her message had come just before Martin's did on the afternoon he was killed in Property. She gave me a strange look, and I added, "My mind was elsewhere. Of course I got your message. I know Aunt Molly will be thrilled.
Thanks."
"Any time. By the way, he's still there." Then she was gone, leaving me there to ponder my next step. One glance in the mirror told me that it would take more than a shade of red on my lips to undo the damage, mostly because my hair hung in wet strands down either side of my face.
Brushing my hair out, then tucking it behind my ears, I exited the rest room feeling confident. As expected, Torrance was right there. I swept past him to the elevators.
"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.
"MacY's."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?" I stopped in front of the elevator, trying my best to ignore him.
"You may not care about your life, but I do."
"Oh, I care. But there's more than just my life at stake," I said, punching the Down, button. "My partner's life. He's out there somewhere, because someone's blaming him for a murder he says he didn't commit-not to mention the accusation of him being the Soma Slasher. If he were your partner, wouldn't you want to know? Now, if you don't mind, I seem to have plenty of free time on my hands. I have some shopping to do." The elevator door opened. I waited a palpable moment for him to say something. When he didn't, I stepped on.
The door started to shut.
At the last moment, he stopped it with his hand.
"What do you want?"
"To work the Slasher case my way."
"Fine." I didn't move.
"There's something else?" he asked. "Since everyone seems to think the Slasher murdered Doctor Mead-Scolari, I want to be included in that investigation as well."
"I already let you look at the file."
"Not enough. I want in. Every meeting, every report all the way." He gave it several seconds of thought, then stepped aside, still holding the door open. "Consider yourself anointed."
"Thank you."
"There will be ground rules."
"Naturally."
"I am your only backup. You go nowhere without me."
"An inconvenience, but I'll manage. Anything else?"
"I want to be apprised of everything you discover as well." "Deal." We returned to his office, and without another word he gave me everything he had on Patricia Mead-Scolari's murder, including the autopsy I still hadn't been able to locate, then sat at his desk, regarding me. Knowing better than to try to guess his feelings on the matter-if I had to, I'd say he wasn't pleased-I removed the autopsy report from the binder, and put the remainder aside. "Why do you want to do this?" he asked.
His question surprised me. "He's my partner."
"And you think he'd do the same for you?" I thought about saying yes, but in truth, I had no idea, even though he'd saved my life at the Twin Palms. "I don't know." There comes a time for every couple when disenchantment sets in. The first disappointment, first fight, whatever.
I felt that we had reached that point, Torrance and I-although I doubted that our rendezvous on my sink constituted a true relationship, or made us a real couple. Regardless, I felt the strain between us, undoubtedly caused by his belief in Scolari's guilt, and my unwavering conviction, at least verbally, of Scolari's innocence. Torrance returned to his work, and so did I. I knew I was missing something simple from the autopsies, and lined the Slasher cases side by side with the doctor's and with McAllen's. I took a tablet, divided it into columns, and listed each of the obvious traits as well as the dates of each murder. Nothing stood out the first time around.
The second time, I stopped on McAllen's case. The date.
How had I missed it? January twenty-fourth. The night I'd been shot. I stared, unbelieving. I wanted to tell Torrance what I'd found, but I heard him pick up his phone and ask to speak with Captain Griffin, his boss. "Just wanted you to know that I've asked Inspector Gillespie to join the Mead-Scolari task force," he said. Silence, then, "No, sir. I believe she'll be an asset." He hung up and said, "He feels you'll be a risk, because you're too close to Scolari." "What do you think?" I asked without turning around. I could see his reflection in one of several framed certificates on the wall. He sat with hands clasped before him, steepled fingers tap-tapping.
"Exactly what I told the captain," he finally said.
"Don't let me down." This last was said so quietly, I barely heard. I swiveled my chair to face him, weighing whether or not to tell him what I'd just learned. Then I said, "I think I have the proof that Scolari's not the Slasher." "And that would be?" I held up the McAllen autopsy.
"If my theory proves correct, this is a Slasher case that we missed." I handed it to him. "Look at the date."
"Wasn't that the night you were shot at the Twin Palms?"
"Yes," I said, surprised that the date stood out in his mind.
"Scolari was with you."
"Exactly-,, He returned the autopsy to me. "Get me more facts, a tighter case." Then he nodded, picked up a report, his actions dismissing me. I decided then and there that Torrance was a man I would never understand.
Now, however, was not the time to dwell on it, and I pulled out the autopsy photo packets from each case, spreading them on the table. There were several in each packet, but I concentrated on the neck shots, since that was the Slasher's MO. Looking at the photos reminded me of a conversation I'd overheard as a rookie. Two officers on my shift discussing a throat slashing they'd responded to, one saying something about the suspect cutting a second smile on the victim. At the time I thought it macabre. Still did. But seeing the photos spread out before me, the gaping wounds cleansed of blood, I knew exactly what he meant.
And that was when I realized what I'd missed. The location and severity of the entrance wounds and exit wounds. In black and white. Ask any cop what it's like to fit the missing puzzle pieces, and they'll tell you that's the thing that keeps them coming back for more. I felt that excitement as I scanned each of the reports, starting with McAllen's.
Nothing was going to stop me now. Nothing except a page from Scolari.
wasn't sure what Scolari's motivation was. At the moment I didn't care.
"What do you make of this?" I asked Torrance, showing him Scolari's page, telling me to go to the Gold Ox.
"Why the Gold Ox?"
"The autopsy I just showed you, McAllen. She was killed in a parking lot a couple of blocks away from the Ox." I gave him the particulars on the report.
"How is it that no one made the connection?"
"The case was in limbo for a year. I think it was overlooked because right before the victim died, she led the officer to believe that she knew her attacker. It didn't fit the profile, and there wasn't another Slasher case until six months later." "So for the past six months, Scolari says nothing and suddenly this case takes top billing?" "Look.
I'm not Scolari s, keeper. I don't know why he never mentioned this to me before. But he is now. And I intend to find out why. The question I have for you is, are you coming along?" The sun had disappeared behind the fog bank, and a light drizzle was falling when we pulled out of the parking garage. Torrance was driving. We were probably about a block from the Ox when Torrance nodded at the gray pickup in front of him.
"Isn't that Dex Kermgard?" "Looks like him. Let's follow." The pickup turned right, and then made a left. We dropped a couple of cars back when it became apparent that he was heading straight for the warf area.
"A man on a mission," Torrance said, commenting on the way Dex was driving, weaving in and out of traffic. I didn't think he was trying to lose us-assuming he saw us at all-for the mere fact he didn't turn onto one of the side streets. "Hot date?" "With who?" We found out soon enough. He managed to find a parking space, then walked about half a block to the Buena Vista, a bar immortalized for its Irish coffee by the late San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen. We parked farther up the road, away from his car, and quite illegally, leaving the radio's mike over the rearview mirror to ward off the parking patrol, who were known for eating their young. As we approached I asked, "How do you want to do this? Walk in, see who he's meeting? Or pret we chanced on him coming here for a drink?" Torrance looked at his watch. "Three-thirty. Too early for us to get off and imbibe. Guess we go for the former." He pushed open the door, then stood aside for me to enter. Frequented by locals and tourists alike, the bar was crowded, all the tables taken even at this hour. We found Dex standing at the end of the long polished-wood bar, apparently ordering a drink. As we headed that way, he turned and saw us, his expression never wavering. Behind him, at the table in the corner, sat Nick Paolini, and a man who seemed familiar. I couldn't place him at the moment.
We approached the table.
Paolini stood, his gray silk suit impeccable. Ile was a smooth talker, very formal, and when he wanted he could turn on the charm. He reminded me of the glamorous crooks portrayed in the Gotather movies. Al Pacing with tattoos. "Inspector Gillespie. I understand you are assigned to Homicide now." Yes. Funny I should run into you. I have a few things I need to discuss." His dark brows raised a fraction. "I admit to a fascination for your new assignment, and would love to stay, but Tony and I are late for a very important meeting." Tony? Of course. Antonio Foust. I glanced at Foust, who stood, and without a word, turned toward the door. With that, the pair wove their way through the myriad of chairs, tables, people, then out the door. Not once did they acknowledge Dex's presence, which I found more odd than their "chance" meeting here in the first place.
"Hello, Dex," I said, eyeing him.
"Kate." Ile nodded in greeting to Torrance.
"You here to meet Paoliiii?"
"Actually, I'm waiting for Josie." He looked at his watch. "She's late.
Buy you a drink?
"Sure," I said. "Coffee, black. "'lbrrance declined the offer.
Dex went to the bar to order, and I sat in the chair Paolini had vacated. Six empty glass mugs littered the table, giving testament that Paolini and Foust had probably sat there awhile, drinking. Torrance took a seat, keeping an eye on the window and the door while I watched Dex.
"You don't really expect me to believe you weren't here to meet with Paolini?" I asked him when he brought my coffee. I didn't drink it.
"I suppose you'll believe what you want."
"I read the old fa reports about the informant and the missing drug investigation. What's with you and Foust?"
"You have that conversation with Scolari, too? He was there."
"Really?" "You read the report. You know that one of the slugs dug out of the dirtbag's heart was never identified. Maybe you ought to ask Scolari what the hell he did with that old thirty-eight he used to carry back then. You think it was stolen like he said? Or conveniently lost?"
"You're saying Scolari killed the guy?"
"I'm saving I'm grateful I'm alive. just like it says in the IA. But you might want to ask Scolari how he put his wife through medical school." I crossed my arms, leaned back, tried not to show my surprise. "Why do I think you're trying to distract me from the real issue? That you were here to meet with Paolini?" "Look, Inspector. I'm here to meet with Josephine Hilliard. By coincidence, Paolini and Foust happened to be sitting here when I arrived. You ask Paotini, he'll tell you. I haven't spoken to him in years. But don't take my word for it. You wait long enough, you can ask Mrs. Hilliard herself. She's getting out of that cab now." He tilted his head to the window, where out in the street, sure enough, josie Hilliard was exiting a Yellow Cab.
Dex's gaze held mine. Any more questions, Inspector?"
"For now, no," I said, rising. I had enough to think about, and we still needed to get to the Gold Ox. "I'll be in touch." "I'm sure you will."
Once the door closed behind us, I said, "I'd like to know who's lying.
Scolati did report his gun missing the night before the shooting. Which was why he was cleared." I thought about what Dex implied, that Scolari had faked the theft, then lied about the shooting. "Had it occurred to me sooner that that was Foust, I might have asked him about Dex's shooting. I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place why."
"You think he would have told you the truth?"
"Never hurts to ask." We entered the Gold Ox, stepping into a long, narrow room lit by amber-hued lights that helped to camouflage the peeling paint. The Ox was everything the Buena Vista wasn't. Typical beer signs littered the wall to our right, the bar ran along to our left. A man, stout, fiftyish, with brown hair that looked like it came out of a spray can, stood behind the counter, wiping the wood surface down with a towel. At the far end sat a woman, thin, red nose, sagging features of a classic alcoholic, sipping on something clear from a tall glass. Farther down, through an opening in the wall, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be another room, perhaps the dance floor where Spider Sherwood had played in the band. The woman looked up, her gaze lingering on Torrance a moment before settling on me, and then just as quickly dismissed us.
"Something I can get fer ya?" the bartender asked.
I was about to pull my star when Torrance stopped me. "Do you have a telephone?" he asked. "Down there, next to the rest rooms," he said, nodding past the dance floor to a narrow, dim hallway. "Thanks." We strolled over, not in any great hurry. "NVHY no ID?" I asked Torrance when we were out of earshot. "Just a feeling." He poked his head out the back door, then checked the men's room while I looked into the women's room. Nothing but a single toilet, sink, and warped faux marble wall paneling. No sign of Scolari or an ambush. Not that I expected Scolari to be present.
I let the door swing shut. "Empty."
"Same here." We leaned against the wall by the phone. Torrance called his desk. After two minutes we wandered back to the bar, taking a seat.
The woman eyed us with a glazed curiosity. "What are you guys? Like the potty police?" At first I thought she'd made us, which surprised me-her slow, deliberate voice told me she'd been drinking the afternoon away.
But then she continued on. "I mean, you walk right in, and without even buying a drink, you check the goddamn rest rooms out. Figure ya gotta be from the Department of Health, the way yer all dressed. What'dya think, Joe?" Joe the bartender made a sound that could have been a sign of agreement. He straightened out some glasses, then looked over at us. So remind me never to wear tan wool slacks and blazer with a white blouse to a dive bar.
"Buy you a drink?" Torrance asked.
I shrugged. "Two margaritas," he ordered. "Over ice." Without a word the bartender polished up a couple of glasses, filled them with ice, tequila, and Margarita nlix. He stirred them, dropped a quarter of lime in each, then slid them toward us. Torrance laid a twenty on the counter. I waited to see if he was really going to drink. Lifting the glass to his lips, he took a long sip. No doubt about it. I did the same, curious.
"You work here long?" Torrance asked.
"Twelve years. Own the place," Joe said, running the towel over the drip marks left while concocting our drinks. Torrance drank some more. "That you?" he asked, pointing to a framed photograph on a shelf behind the bar. The owner turned, gave a thorough appraisal of the picture of a much younger version of himself standing next to a yellow race car. His chest swelled with pride. "Sure is. Used to be pretty damn good. Got that trophy up there at Sears Point. Came in second," he said, returning to his cleaning and polishing, glasses clinking as he returned them to their shelves. "That was my last race. My wife didn't want me ending up dead." For the next several minutes they discussed racing while I nursed my drink. "How's business been these past few months?" Torrance asked during a lull.
"Not bad."
"Hasn't sloughed off any with all that Soma Slasher stuff you hear in the news?"
"People get immune to hearin' about it."
"You here that night the first one got killed?" "You two Police?" he queried, looking us over. I took a long sip. Everyone knew cops didn't drink on duty.
"Why do you ask?" Torrance countered.
"The way I see it, the cops ain't done shit. And there's already been one PI here the last week. Who hired you?" "We're looking into Christy McAllen s death." He wiped down the counter again, avoiding our gaze. "I thought you were lookin' into the Soma Slasher stuff." Torrance swirled his drink, then sipped. "Read it in the paper. Might be related." "No kiddin'?" he said, tossing the towel over his shoulder, then picking up a couple of bottles from the counter behind him. "Don't know nothin'
about it." Torrance lifted his glass as if to say, You're up. Although Joe's back was to us, from the angle where I sat, I had a clear view of his actions. He proceeded to pour whiskey from a generic bottle into a Seagram's bottle, then did the same with generic gin into a Tanqueray bottle. Despite that I wasn't experienced enough with gin to distinguish real Tanqueray from lighter fluid, I knew any agent from Alcoholic Beverage Control would have a field day inspecting this place. "Hey, what's the name of that friend of ours that works for the ABC?" I asked Torrance, nodding toward Joe. The bartender looked up, his gaze catching mine in the mirror. He seemed to be waiting for Torrance's answer, as though to ensure I wasn't bluffing. I kicked Torrance's shin. "Henry,"
