Samson's Deal: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) (27 page)

When I pulled up, I saw a familiar car parked on the other side of the street. Eddie Cutter’s old heap.
Nice
, I thought.
Sharing
the resources
. But wasn’t that a bit communal? I slammed out of my car and raced up the driveway, stumbling in the ruts. Iris was right behind me. Alice met us a few yards from the cottage. She looked worried but not distraught, so I figured everything was still relatively peaceful. The three of us—dog, woman, and man—crashed in through the cottage door together. Rosie was standing. So were her two companions. I didn’t recognize the one who looked like a weasel, but I knew the other guy. He was Jared’s bodyguard, the one who had escorted him to his meeting with me. I skidded to a stop.

Rosie spoke first. “Hi, Jake. This gentleman is Walter.” She waved her hand at the muscle. “And this is Arthur.”
A
for Arthur, I thought. And he was holding the note I’d left on Rosie’s door.

“The writer, huh?” Walter grunted. “I didn’t know you guys used spies.”

“Get out of here,” I said. “Now.”

He laughed at me. I wondered if he had a gun tucked somewhere under his blue down jacket. He walked across to me, cocky as hell, sure of his superiority. Just because he outweighed me by thirty pounds. Meanwhile, Arthur the weasel had grabbed Rosie’s arm and was trying to twist it around behind her back. She was wearing her cowboy boots. She brought a heel down hard on his instep, and I tried to push past musclehead to go help her. But Walter caught me, wrapped his arm around my neck, and began to bend me backward.
Jesus
, I thought,
there goes my deteriorated disk
. But someone was hitting him from behind. I also heard a growl coming from somewhere around my hip. Alice sprang past me to help Rosie by shouting, dog-fashion, at the weasel. Rosie’s strong, and I knew that if Arthur didn’t listen to reason, Alice would stop barking and get more physical. So I concentrated on Walter. Besides, I was having trouble seeing.

The guy had a steel arm. I was elbowing him and struggling to get out of his stranglehold. He was holding me with one hand and beating on me with the other. At the same time I could feel him being battered from behind by Iris. He was sagging, but he wasn’t letting go. I felt my neck crack in the same spot that had cracked when Frank kicked me on the chin, and took a sharp jab in the kidney that nearly put me out. Then Walter gave one last grunt and fell away from me. My vision cleared. Alice was dragging at the weasel’s arm, sixty-five pounds of outraged pacifist, and I could see blood coming through his shirt. He was screaming, still trying to hold on to Rosie. Rosie got him turned around just enough to punch him and he screamed louder. All the noise was making Alice even madder. Before I could cross the room, the two of them had backed him into a corner, and he was crying as if his heart would break. He shoved Rosie out of his way, kicked out at Alice, straight-armed me, and ran sobbing out the door. I turned around to see what was going on with Iris. The muscle was lying on the floor, his arms flung out at his sides, a pile of hard flesh. Iris, her face flushed and a tiny smile on her lips, was standing over him, holding Rosie’s power drill, the cord dangling. She held up the drill and spoke to Rosie.

“I’m afraid I cracked the casing,” she said. The crack had bloody hairs stuck in it from Walter’s head. Alice had not bothered to pursue the weasel. She was now sniffing importantly at Walter’s body.

“Oh, that’s okay,” Rosie said, laughing with relief.

“Iris,” I said, “this is Rosie.” They grinned at each other. We all told Alice what a good dog she was, and I went to the phone, planning to call the police and ask them to pick up the prostrate Walter. There was a scrambling, rushing sound behind me. I whirled. I didn’t know how long Walter had been conscious, playing possum while we were being self-congratulatory, but he was up now. He sent Iris spinning and was out the door and gone before any of us could catch him.

We didn’t try very hard. My whole body ached, and I thought I might have a pinched nerve in my neck. Rosie could barely move her left arm, the one the weasel had been trying to break off. Alice had a slight limp, probably from being kicked. Iris was unmarked, but she seemed to be having trouble putting down the drill. I pried it out of her hand and noticed that my elbow had somehow gotten wrenched. She sat down on the floor, still grinning.

Rosie went into the tiny kitchen and came back with a dog biscuit and a bottle of red wine. We joined Iris on the floor and passed the bottle around.

What had happened was this: The creep Arthur had really liked Rosie. So much so, that he’d followed her home the night of the meeting to see where she lived. Unlike Frank Shane and Eddie Cutter, he hadn’t known my address, so he’d made no immediate connection. But he’d stopped by again that very day, hoping to catch her at home. He hadn’t found her, but he had found the note I’d left. And he had read it. Then he’d called for reinforcements—Walter—and come back and waited for Rosie to show up, pickup truck, cowboy boots, and all. They’d been questioning her when I called. She hadn’t told them anything. I didn’t really think they’d come back and decided to let well enough alone as far as the police were concerned. Rosie was still out of it from their viewpoint, and she might as well stay that way.

After about half an hour of chat and wine, Iris spoke up. “Jake,” she said, “this has been a very exciting date, and I’m delighted to meet you, Rosie, but tonight I knocked a man out for the first time in my life and I feel a little strange. Not bad, just strange.” I nodded and winced. My neck hurt like hell. “You’re hurt, aren’t you?” she asked gently.

“No, no, I’m fine. Just a little stiffness.”

She went to the phone and called a cab, ignoring my protests.

“Jake,” she said firmly, “I’m going home to bed, and I think you should do the same.” I must have shown how I felt about her decision because she added, “When can I see you again so we can finish the date?”

Then I remembered that she’d paid for the dinner we’d never eaten. When I mentioned it, she laughed at me. “You can get the next one. But I haven’t gotten an answer yet.”

“Friday,” I said.

When her cab came, I walked her out to the street. She took my head in her hands and gave me a long sweet kiss that damned near finished me off.

The first item on the next day’s agenda was nonphysical: calling the real estate agents who had houses for sale in Harley’s neighborhood. I used the same line with all of them. I was interested in the house; could I talk to the agent who was working on it?

The first agency I called was Frank Shane’s. I recognized the voice of the nice woman who’d been working in the office the day I’d gone there. She said none of the salespeople were in yet, but she’d leave a message if I’d give her my name and number. I said I’d call back.

Two hours later, when I’d learned everything I could over the telephone, it was time to drag myself out of bed, crawl out of the house and do some legwork. I’d picked up some very interesting information, but it had to be taken a step further.

I was glad to see that the day was clear and very warm and that winter was holding off for a while. I didn’t feel too great as it was.

Jake Samson, writer, drove up to Virgo Street and vicinity to talk to the owners of the houses. My approach would have to be oblique. A direct question, even one as basic as “Did you know Margaret Bursky?” could lead to a quick “No” and a quick dead end. I was just looking for background information. We would chat about the violent death of their neighbor and see where that went. What were people in the neighborhood—such a charming neighborhood—thinking about it all?
What a beautiful house this
is, and are you happy with your agent, because I know someone… have you had many offers? I’m looking for something like this myself.
I couldn’t be sure how I was going to work my way around to questions like “Were you showing the house on the day Margaret Bursky died?” and “Did you notice anyone on the street who looked murderous?” But I had a lot of confidence in my ability to get the most out of a conversation.

Only two of the householders were home, but I was lucky. One of those two gave me a big chunk of information to chew on. I wasn’t sure it would take me where I wanted to go, but it gave me a good line of attack.

Then I went home and went back to bed until my cocktail hour with Rebecca.

This time, when Rebecca buzzed me in, I didn’t take the stairs. My neck still hurt every time I moved my head, the left shoulder was cramped, and my elbow was not working properly. I used the elevator.

She was standing at the open door to her apartment waiting for me. When I passed apartment 14, the one where the nice old guy lived, I could hear the muted sounds of television from within. I glanced at the name card on his door. It said simply:
LINDSTROM
. I wondered again why anyone would choose to live all jammed together this way.

Rebecca gave me a big smile of greeting and led me into the living room. I sat down.

“It’s nice to see you, Jake.” I nodded at her. “What would you like to drink? I’ve got Scotch and vodka and I can make some margaritas if you want.”

I told her the margaritas sounded terrific, and she set to work with her blender. I got up, wandered around the small living room, looked out at the balcony with its view of the Bay Bridge and, beyond, San Francisco. It was a clear afternoon, and The City seemed to glow in the distance as though dirt, crime, and misery did not exist on its streets. The glass doors were slightly open to let in the breeze. I turned toward the kitchen. Rebecca was concentrating pretty hard on carrying our drinks, and I wondered if she’d already had a couple of something.

“I thought we’d sit out on the balcony for a while, since it’s so warm.” She handed me my salt-rimmed glass, pushed the sliding door farther open, and led the way onto the tiny concession to California living. The whole balcony was about four by eight, with duplicates above, below, and off to either side. She had a couple of plants out there and a small table and two chairs. We sat at the table, sipping.

“Well, Jake, how’s life treating you?” I almost expected her to reach over and slap me on the back. She ignored my lack of response. “Any interesting women in the offing? You must not work all the time.” She chuckled. It really was a chuckle.

“Of course, I’ve been working all the time, Rebecca,” I retorted. “Your boyfriend’s been paying me to work.” I regretted my flippancy immediately. Mention of Harley put her on edge, which was not where I wanted her to be.

“I talked to Harley,” she said. “Very briefly. He says you’re not working for him anymore. Because the case is solved. After all, you turned Cutter in.”

“Yeah, for trying to kidnap me.”

She shrugged as if kidnapping were pretty trivial stuff. “The police found his fingerprints at Harley’s house.”

“That doesn’t prove he killed her,” I said, although I knew that enough circumstantial evidence against the man could convict him.

“My God,” she hissed, “he started the fire. He was involved with Margaret. He was at her house. What more do you want?” Then she looked at me wide-eyed. “You’re not still working at it, are you? On your own?”

“Look, Rebecca,” I said quietly, “maybe he did it, maybe he didn’t. There seem to be a lot of ramifications.”

She snorted at me and swallowed half her drink. “Want another one?” I agreed and she went inside. I got up and leaned against the railing, looking at the view some more. When she returned with our second drinks, she stood next to me.

“Jake,” she said, “if the police are satisfied, why aren’t you? You’ve earned your money. Why don’t you drop this intuition kick you’re on?” She hesitated, walked a couple of feet away from me, and leaned against the table. “The police are satisfied, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know. They may be.”

Her lips formed an etched line across her face. “Then drop it. He was there. He did it.” She was talking to me like I was a little kid. She’d spent a lot of time throughout the case trying to push and maneuver me, as though I were not quite bright enough to get from here to there.

“He was there at some point,” I admitted, “because he left his prints. But I don’t know when he was there.”

“He was there! That day,” she rasped. “You know damned well he was.”

“If you say so,” I answered softly. “You should know.”

She stood up straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you were on Virgo Street that day.” She was very pale, and she didn’t say anything. “I talked to the woman down the block, Rebecca. The one whose house you sold. She told me you’d sold a couple of houses recently. You were doing well. Why did you lie to me about that?”

She shrugged. “I guess I just wanted your sympathy.”

“Right,” I said. “The more the better. So I wouldn’t look too closely at you. But I did anyway, finally. The same woman told me about the day Bursky died. She remembered that day well. She remembered the police cars and the wagon that came for the body. You don’t see that much action on a street like that one very often. So she remembered. And she remembered that you had stopped by that morning with some papers for her.”

“So what? I do a lot of business in that area. You didn’t expect me to volunteer the information, did you?”

“You were there. You saw Cutter. You knew who he was, didn’t you?”

She was studying her margarita.

“Of course, maybe you were afraid to tell me, afraid I’d tell the police.” Remembering Debbi, I added, “I guess you just didn’t want to have to deal with the police. Was that it?”

She nodded energetically. “That’s right.” She was nodding too energetically. She didn’t stop. She was gripping the back of a chair as if she needed something to hold her up.

“So you didn’t trust me. But why should you? You always thought I was a loser.” I watched, fascinated, as her head continued to move up and down.

“Tell me this, Rebecca. If you thought so little of me, why did you tell Harley to hire me? He wanted to hire a professional, and you convinced him to hire me, instead. A jerk.” I could feel my own head trying to nod along with hers. I controlled it, telling myself that I was sane. I couldn’t look at her face anymore. I half-turned away and set my empty glass on the railing. “Maybe you thought I was still interested in you. Maybe you thought I’d never suspect an old friend. But when I wouldn’t let you maneuver me, when I kept on looking for the killer, you tried to get me to drop the case. Harley did, too. Was he beginning to suspect you?”