Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (16 page)

There was a pause, and then the man read the message back to me. I
thanked him and hung up.

I reached for the
lamp on the end table and turned it out, then propped my feet on a
hassock and sat there in the dark, my thoughts moving from Willie to
Don, and back and forth again. Willie—there was nothing I
could do about him. He would either call or not. Don, however…

I was treating Don badly, that I knew. And I was trying to use my
job as an excuse for it. Now I knew why I was doing it, but I still
couldn't stop myself. The trouble was, I was afraid.

I'd been afraid many times before. This afternoon when I'd been
shot at; once when I'd almost been stabbed to death; the time I'd had
to kill a man because a friend's life depended on it. But that was
gut-level physical fear; in response to it you took immediate action.
I'd never been afraid on an emotional level, where feelings that I
hardly understood made me incapable of action.

I told myself I had to get this fear under control. I'd better
talk it out with Don before it fed on itself and destroyed everything
the two of us had. Because it could very well do that—and
losing him was one thing I didn't think I could face.

He'd been asleep when I crawled into bed long after three in the
morning, and was already up when I woke at nine. I lay contemplating
the cracks in the ceiling and thinking about guns—specifically
Selena's.

The Mexican woman had lied to me about how she became acquainted
with Levin, of that I was certain. Why wouldn't she also have lied
about Willie taking her gun? Hank had told me Willie seemed to
recognize the .22 with the chip out of its grip that had been used to
shoot Levin. What if he'd known it was Selena's? What if the reason
she didn't have it anymore was because she—or someone close to
her—had left it in the garage after the killing?

Don appeared in the bedroom door, dressed in a sports coat,
unlikely attire for his casual taste. "I'm going downtown to
meet some of the people at KSUN," he said. "And then I'm
having lunch with my friend Tony. I'll be back by mid-afternoon."

"I'll probably be home for dinner. If not I'll call you."

"Maybe we'll go out."

"Okay."

He turned and left abruptly, without giving me his usual good-bye
kiss. While his words had been cordial, his face had looked a little
pinched, as it did on the infrequent occasions when he was depressed.
Dammit, why was I spoiling everything!

I got up, pulled my robe on, and called Hank. He sounded worried
and irritated. "Where the hell have you been? I left three
messages with your service last night."

"I only got two of them. And I got home very late."

"You should have called anyway. I swear—living with
that guy is making you act like you have three brain cells."

"I'm not living with him. He's a guest."

"We'll see."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. You find out anything about Willie?"

I told him about Willie's message and what little else I knew. "I
take it he hasn't given you a call?"

"Not a word."

"Hank, do you think you could find out some things about
Levin's murder from McFate?"

"I'll try. What do you need?"

"I'm interested in the murder weapon, the twenty-two you
thought Willie might have recognized. Find out the manufacturer and
the type. If it was a High Standard Sentinel Deluxe, we might have a
lead."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Get all the details you can, both on Levin's murder and
Alida's. If McFate won't talk to you, try someone else on Homicide."

"You mean like Greg?" There was a teasing note in Hank's
voice.

I glared at the receiver, wishing he could see my displeasure.
"Yes, like Greg." Why did Hank have to needle me about my
boyfriends—both past and present?

I hung up the phone and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
The day was sunny and warm, so I took my mug to the back porch and
sat on the steps. Watney leaped out from the tangle of an old,
overgrown rose bush to the right of the little cement pathway and
twittered at me, then leapt out of sight again. I stared at the hole
into which he had disappeared.

Watney was unusually vocal, but he had never been much of a
twitterer. A yowler, but never a twitterer. Maybe having a backyard
to stalk through would improve his rather vitriolic nature. After
all, it must look like an absolute wilderness to him…

Wilderness. I thought of Jerry Levin's remarks to Selena, about
having rediscovered his faith in the wilderness and deciding to right
the wrong he had done after his enemies tried to destroy him.
Melodrama, for sure, but it might be based on reality. I went back
inside, got my address book, and called Jack Foxx, a man I knew on
the Arson Squad. Jack listened to my description of the destruction
at Levin's cabin site and then said, "The fire could very well
have been set. With most fires—whether they're accidental or
arson—you can pinpoint a source. What you describe sounds like
someone could have poured a flammable liquid throughout the structure
and then ignited it. There's no way to tell, of course, without going
over the scene."

I thanked Jack, promised to buy him a drink soon, and hurried to
take my shower and dress. While I stood under the rushing water, I
thought of Jerry Levin and his supposed enemies. If someone had
really tried to burn his cabin, had that person—or persons—been
trying to kill him? Not likely; if they'd spread gasoline around
inside, they would have known he wasn't there. Scare him, then?
Probably, but why? To make him stop searching for the seven missing
Torahs? That didn't seem likely either. From what Ben Cohen had told
me of the findings of the committee's investigators, Levin hadn't
been looking for the Torahs at the time his cabin burned. It was only
after he moved to the hotel in San Francisco's Tenderloin that he
began haunting the flea market.

I decided to drop the knotty matter of Levin's motivations for a
while and concentrate on the murder weapon. Hank might be a long time
in getting the information I'd requested from the police. In the
meantime, I could talk to Fat Herman.

The little shop on Mission Street was empty this morning, except
for the genial fat man, who sat in the same place he'd occupied
yesterday. He smiled when he saw me and stood up. "You decided
to take that gun?"

"No."

"Why not? It's a good deal."

"I'm sure it is, but I already have one of my own. And I'm
afraid I haven't been completely honest with you." I took my
wallet out and showed him the photostat of my license.

Herman's smile faded. "Private cop, huh? Who are you working
for?"

"Willie."

"Doing what?"

"Originally I was to find out why the man who was shot in his
garage was following him. Now I'm trying to prove Willie didn't kill
either Jerry Levin or Alida Edwards."

"Alida." Herman sat down again. "That was one hell
of a thing."

"Are you willing to help me—and help Willie?"

He paused. "I'll do what I can. No guarantees, though. I got
a business to protect."

"I understand. You told me yesterday that you sold a gun to
Selena Gonzalez. Can you describe it, in detail?"

A strange look passed over his fleshy face. "I already did.
High Standard Sentinel Deluxe. Nine-shot."

"I'm interested in anything peculiar about it."

"Like what?"

But I wanted him to remember whether there was a chip out of the
grip by himself. "Anything that would distinguish it from
another gun of the same type."

"You mean, was the grip chipped."

"Yes," I said, surprised.

"No."

"Then why did you mention it?"

Herman's face returned to its usual jovial set. "Because it
looks like Willie's doing your job for you, little girl."

"What does that mean?"

"He was in here not an hour ago. You should see him—somewhere
he's gotten hold of a beat-up raincoat and a
ratty felt hat and some of the most holey shoes you'd ever hope to
see. No one would recognize him as the king of the flea market. Fits
right in with the rest of the derelicts around here."

Dammit, Willie was carrying this detective business too far! "Did
he ask you about the gun with the chipped grip?"

"Yeah, but he didn't ask if it was Selena's. Wanted to know
if I'd ever sold one like that to anyone he knew, though. And it
wasn't a High Standard; it was an RG-14, your Saturday Night Special.
Willie's ahead of you, girl. He knew its make."

I ignored the dig and said, "
Had
you sold it to
anyone he knew?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"That little runner of his, Monty
Adair."

Monty. He wanted to get ahead in
the world. Obviously he felt it required the help of a gun.

"Why did he buy it, did he say?"

"No."

"When was this?"

"About a year ago."

"Do you remember every gun you sell for that long?"

"Naw, but this one I do because I've seen a lot of Monty
lately."

"At the flea market, or here in your store?"

"Both. That lad is real interested in guns."

"What's he bought from you?"

"Nothing. I didn't have what he was looking for. I'm not a
member of the Krupp family." He chuckled. "And I didn't
send him to the competition; I figured he's a smart kid, he can make
his own way in the world."

I was certain of that. "Did you tell Willie all this?"

"Oh, yes. He was most interested."

"How did he react—angry, upset, what?"

Herman's smile grew wider, his eyes almost disappearing into the
surrounding fleshy pouches. "Cold, little girl. Cold and
furious."

In the morning light, Monty Adair's Pacific Heights highrise
looked even less elegant; the marble facade was grimy and advertising
circulars littered the floor of the foyer. I rang Adair's apartment,
and when I didn't receive an answer, pressed another buzzer at
random. After two more tries, the door lock was tripped and I went
inside and took the elevator to the sixth floor.

The hallway was empty. I went up to Adair's door and knocked.
There was no sound within. I knocked again, harder, and as I waited I
glanced down. There were fresh gouges in the wood of both the door
and frame that looked as if someone had been kicking them. I didn't
remember seeing them last night.

Behind me I heard another door open, and a woman's strident voice
said, "I told you to go away. If you don't, I'm calling the
cops."

I turned. She was a plump woman who wore so much makeup that her
face looked like a mask. She stood, feet apart, hands on hips, her
thickly penciled eyebrows raised at the sight of me. "Oh,"
she said, "you're someone else."

"I'm looking for Mr. Adair."

"You ought to be able to tell he isn't home. You people don't
give up easy, do you?"

"People?"

"You and the guy who was here before. Although I got to admit
you're a better class of visitor."

"There was someone else here? What did he look like?"

"A bum, that's what. In a raincoat and a floppy old hat.
Looked like he ought to be hanging out at Wino Park. He kicked the
door." She motioned at the gouges. "See?"

"I see. Did you talk with him?"

"Sure I talked with him. What do you think I'd do, with him
kicking the door and yelling? I told him it wouldn't do no good.
Monty's gone to his country place, left early this morning like he
always does."

Adair
must
be getting ahead in the world, if he had a
country place. "Where is the place? Near here?"

She shrugged. "Who knows?"

"What did the bum do when you told him Mr. Adair wasn't
home?"

"Growled at me. But he left. I tell you, when people like
that start coming into the nice neighborhoods! And me, needing my
mornings quiet. I mean, I got to be downtown at the department store
pushing cosmetics at one, and the morning's the only time I got—"

"Does Mr. Adair go away to the country every week?"

"Huh?"

"You said he went away like he always does."

"Oh, yeah. Tuesday through Friday, regular as clockwork. Then
he's back here on the weekends. He's a dealer in art goods, and
that's when he does most of his business."

"Art goods, huh?" I smiled faintly. "Well, I guess
I'll have to catch him on Friday." I went over and pressed the
elevator button.

"Hey," she said, "do you know who that bum was?"

"Do I look like I would know any bums?"

She eyed me critically, frowning so hard I feared for her makeup
job. "Nowadays you can't tell." Then she went inside and
slammed her door.

I went to my office at All Souls and called the Oasis Bar and
Grill. When I asked whether Willie had picked up my message, the man
on the other end of the line sounded wary. There were no messages
waiting, he said, so Willie must have called in. I left a second one,
repeating the first, then hung up and buzzed Hank on the intercom. He
said he had talked to Greg Marcus about the murders and would come to
my office.

In a minute, he entered, ducking his head to avoid the sharply
slanting ceiling, and sat down in my tattered old armchair. He looked
tired, rumpled, out of sorts. "You heard from Willie?" he
asked.

"Not since his message last night. I've heard
of
him, though. Our paths keep crossing."

"What in hell is he doing?"

"Playing detective."

"Christ! What does he think we have you for?"

"Willie doesn't strike me as the type to sit back and do
nothing, particularly if he thinks he'd be doing that in jail."

Hank merely sighed.

"Tell me what Greg had to say. I assume you talked to him
because you couldn't get through to McFate."

"Right. I'm afraid you don't have a lead; the Levin murder
weapon was something called an RG-14."