If Angels Fall (28 page)

Sydowski had found his father sitting on his bed in
his shoebox bungalow at Sea Breeze Villas, staring sadly at the Pacific.

“What’s the matter Pop?” he asked in Polish.

“They won’t let me cut hair anymore. They say I’m too
old.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Is that so? Where’s your kit?”

“The old whore took it.”

“Pop, don’t call Mrs. Doran an old whore.”

“Well, she’s not a young one.”

Sydowski marched to the carpeted, lilac-scented office
of Mrs. Doran, Sea Breeze’s chief administrator. A kind, attractive woman in
her fifties, Elsa Doran managed her “camp for golden kids” with the sternness
of a drill sergeant. Always happy to see Sydowski, her eyes sparkled and she
loved calling him “Inspector.” But the sparkle vanished when he asked her for
his old man’s barber’s kit.

“Mr. Sydowski, your father’s senility is a concern. I
can’t allow him to cut hair and give straight-razor shaves. He could injure
someone. We’d be sued.”

Sydowski made it clear to Elsa Doran that he would not
lose an argument with her over his father’s scissors and razor.

“Give me his kit, or I pull him out.”

She sighed, and retrieved the kit from a locked desk
drawer. He thanked her and returned to his old man.

“How about a trim and a shave, Pop?”

John Sydowski’s eighty-one-year-old face brightened
and he sat his son before his dresser mirror, draping a towel around his
shoulders. They talked sports, birds, politics, crime, and vegetables as he cut
his hair, then lathered his face for a shave. Sydowski loved how his father’s
unit smelled of aftershave, like his old three-chair shop in North Beach. He
loved the feel of his old man’s comb through is hair, the clip of the scissors.
For a warm moment he was a kid again. But when his old man neared him with the
razor in his shaking hand, Sydowski’s stomach quaked. No way out of it, so he
closed his eyes, feeling the blade jerk into this skin again and again as his
father scraped it across his face.

“See. Only a nick or two.” His old man beamed when it
was over, removing the towel stained with Sydowski’s blood before slapping on
the Old Spice. Sydowski damn near passed out from the sting.

“Thanks, Pop,” he managed through gritted teeth, going
to the bathroom to put toilet paper on his wounds.

They talked over tea, then his old man grew drowsy and
fell asleep. Sydowski covered him with a blanket, kissed his head, gathered the
kit, and returned to Elsa Doran’s office. She stared at Sydowski’s face in
disbelief.

“Don’t’ ever give him his kit again,” he ordered,
handing it to her. “If he fusses about it, call me.”

Elsa Doran understood, locked the kit in her desk
drawer and smiled up at Sydowski as he left. “What you did for John was very
tender, Inspector.” Her eyes sparkled. “Very tender.”

Now, returning to San Francisco on the Pacific Coast
Highway, Sydowski reflected on the case. He and Turgeon had squeezed a lead
from Perry Kindhart. After they got a warrant, they tossed his apartment, but
found nothing tying him to Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker. Then IDENT
dissected it. Zip. No prints, hairs, or fibers. Nothing, until they checked
Kindhart’s Polaroid camera and came up with a latent belonging to Franklin
Wallace. The camera had been wiped, but one print was missed—a lost right-thumb
print screaming to be found. It didn’t prove a thing, but it was leverage.

“Let me get this straight, Perry,” Turgeon said. “You
had absolutely nothing to do with Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker.”

“That’s right.” Kindhart stubbed his tenth Lucky
Strike in the ashtray of the Homicide interview room at the Hall of Justice.
Turgeon and Sydowski went at Kindhart, who played the relaxed con, wise to the
program. He knew they could hold him for seventy-two hours before having to
charge or release him. Earlier, on the drive to the hall, Kindhart decided
against a lawyer. “You’re right, I’ve got nothing to hide. Some guys can’t
function in the morning.”

Sydowski sat across from Kindhart in the interview
room, letting Turgeon do most of the asking. Kindhart was taken with her, she’d
struck a rapport with him, letting him believe he had the upper hand, was
controlling the information. Like a practiced snake charmer, she skillfully
coaxed his tongue from his mouth and let him wrap it around his own throat.
Kindhart would roll over—all he needed was a little nudge. When the ramblings
of Kindhart’s empty stomach grew distracting, Sydowski began talking about his
passion for cheeseburgers from Hamburger Mary’s. Hunger was a powerful motivator.

“How ‘bout I send out for a couple of cheeseburgers
and some fries, Perry?” Sydowski offered. Kindhart accepted. Enthusiastically.

Sydowski and Turgeon left. When they returned,
Sydowski had his nose in the report from the search of Kindhart’s apartment.

“Sorry, Perry, we got sidetracked. We’ll order those
burgers soon as we clear something up here.” Sydowski kept his face in the
file, sifting papers.

“What’s to clear up?”

“Perry, we found Franklin Wallace’s prints on your
camera.”

“That’s a fucking lie.” Kindhart looked at Turgeon.

“And, Sydowski continued, with a bluff, “the lab
reports aren’t back yet, but the snapshots you saw of Tanita with Wallace and
the hooded tattooed man, were likely taken with your Polaroid.”

“Bull-fucking-shit.”

“And there’s the note,” Sydowski threw out another
bluff.

“What note?”

“Wallace’s suicide note.”

“What does it say?”

“It’s not good, Perry. That’s all we can tell you. I’m
sorry.”

Kindhart was dead silent.

Sydowski locked his eyes on him and waited. Kindhart
looked at Turgeon, at her beautiful, patient face. She waited. Kindhart’s
stomach grumbled. He lit another Lucky Strike and blinked thoughtfully. The
wheels were turning.

Here it comes, Sydowski knew.

“Did that little fuck try to implicate me? After what
I did for him in Virginia? Is that what this is about?”

“Where were you on the Saturday Danny Becker was
kidnapped from his father off BART?” Turgeon sat down.

“Modesto. I told you.”

“Can you prove it?”

“People saw me there.”

“Where were you last year when Tanita Marie Donner was
abducted, then found in Golden Gate?” Sydowski asked.

“I can’t remember. I think I was in town.” Kindhart
dragged hard on his cigarette, squinting.

“Uh-hh.” Sydowski slipped on his glasses and studied
the file. He let a minute of silence pass, then said, “Before we go on here,
Perry, there are certain rights we have to advise you of. I’m sure you know
them.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he continued in a friendly tone.
“You have the right to remain silent—“

“Hold every-fucking-thing.”

Sydowski stopped. “Are you waiving your Miranda
rights?”

Kindhart nodded. Sydowski wanted him to speak because
the room was wired, they were recording the interview.

“We have to be clear, Perry. Are you waiving your
rights?”

“I’m waiving my fucking rights because I was not
involved with those kids. I don’t know what you think you got on me, but it’s
not what you think. It’s not the truth.”

“Then tell us the truth, Perry,” Turgeon added.

Kindhart’s breathing quickened and he eyed both of
them. “Franklin wanted me to join a party. Just the three of us. Me, him and
his new friend. He said they were going to pick up a little date, play for a
day, then let her go.”

“When was this?” Turgeon asked.

“Around the time the Donner kid went missing.”

“What was the date?” Sydowski asked.

“I don’t know. I figured it was the Donner kid.”

“Why?”
“Franklin said it would be a little one who couldn’t ID anybody.”

“What happened?” Sydowski asked.

“I never went.”

“Why?”
“I had to see my parole officer that day.”

“What day?” Turgeon asked?

“The day Tanita Donner went missing. I know you can
check it out. I know from the news reports the time she was grabbed, and I was
with my parole officer.”

“Convenient, Perry,” Sydowski said. “Ever call a guy
by the name of Tom Reed?”

“Who’s that?”

“You just said you followed the news reports.”

“I’m supposed to know this guy?”

“How do we know you weren’t involved?” Turgeon said.

“Because I wasn’t. Franklin came to me that night and
asked me if I wanted to come to their party. I said no. I didn’t like his
friend. He scared me. An iceman.”

“The friend came to your place, too, that night?”
Sydowski said.

“No.”

“So what happened?” Turgeon asked.

“I let Franklin borrow my camera, which was stupid. He
dropped it off the next day and that was the last time I ever saw him. After
the news on the girl and Franklin’s suicide, I wiped my camera clean.”

“Where were they holding her?” Sydowski said.

“All he said was that it was a safe place.”

“What about the mystery man, Mr. Tattoo?” Turgeon
asked.

“I only met him the one time at the bookstore about a
month before it happened. I swear.”

“Why didn’t you tell police this last year?” Sydowski
said.

“Because with my record, I was afraid. And I was
afraid Franklin’s friend might come after me.”

“Can you tell me anything more about Franklin’s
mystery friend?”

“All I know, and I swear this is all I remember, is
that he is a skinner con from Canada and Franklin once called him ‘Verge’.”

They released Kindhart, put him under surveillance,
then called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Correctional Service of
Canada. It was a government holiday in Canada and with only a first name as an
identifier, it was going to take several hours before the Canadians could run
checks and start faxing files on possible suspects. Sydowski used the break to
see his old man.

Sydowski was optimistic about the lead. It could be
the turning point. Usually he dismissed the mysterious-person-did-it alibi, but
there
was
a mystery man involved in this. Kindhart was in Modesto when
Becker was grabbed, that checked out. And Kindhart didn’t fit the suspect’s
description. No tattoo. Not even close. Sydowski was driving north, passing
Sharp Park when his cell phone rang.

Maybe the Canadian faxes had arrived. “Sydowski.”

“Walt, it’s bad.” Turgeon said. “We’ve got another
abduction.”

“Another one!”

“Five-year-old girl, from her mother in Golden Gate
Park. A man in a pickup. Bearded. Fits with the Becker case.”

“I’m on my way.”

Sydowski hit his emergency lights and siren.

“Gabrielle.
The girl’s name is Gabrielle. Her mother kept screaming her name,”
seventy-three-year-old Fay Osborne from Ottumwa, Iowa, said as Tom Reed wrote
quickly in his notepad.

He had taken Fay and Arthur, her seventy-five-year-old
husband, a retired farmer, aside.

“This is a son-of-a-bitchin’ thing to do to a little
girl.” Arthur repositioned his John Deere ball cap each time he patted his
sweating head with his handkerchief. Reed hid the Osbornes from the other
reporters who swarmed Golden Gate Park.

The
Star
had sent Reed, Molly Wilson, and two
photographers to the park. Other staff were en route. Wilson was at the
carousel with the two teenage girls who saw the kidnapper, getting their
accounts just before police took them away for statements.

Reed was having trouble hearing Fay and Jack Osborne
over the TV news helicopters and satellite trucks roaring into the parking lot.
Local stations were taking the story live. Shielding her eyes, Fay regarded a
hovering chopper. The cradle-to-grave tribulations of a life bound to Iowa soil
were written in her face, eyes, and sturdy hands. Probably attended church
every Sunday, Reed figured.