Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (14 page)

“She still could’ve imagined it. Or dreamed it.”

Mrs. Alvarez appealed to me. “It happened; I’m sure it did. She may be a bit fanciful, but she doesn’t see things that aren’t there.”

“Is she up to talking about it?”

“I told her you were coming. She’s waiting.”

“Guess you don’t need me,” Belasco said. He bumped against Crenshaw as he turned, winced, and rubbed at a bandage across the back of his right hand.

Crenshaw asked, “What’d you do to your hand, Ev?”

“Goddamn knife slipped while I was slicing bacon this morning. Hurts like the devil.”

“If it’s a deep cut,” Mrs. Alvarez said, “you better have a doctor look at it.”

“No, it’s not deep. Just painful.” A gust of icy wind swept over the porch. Belasco shivered and said, “Damn, it’s cold out here. Come on, Leonard, I’ve got a pot of fresh coffee made.”

“No thanks,” Crenshaw said, “I got work to do.” He gave me a brief disapproving look and said pointedly to his sister, “Just remember, Helen—chickens always come home to roost.”

“Yes, and you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

“Bah,” he said.

“Silly old fool,” she said.

Mrs. Alvarez and I went into the house. Margaret Abbott was perched on her Boston rocker, a shawl over her lap and Spike, the orange tabby, curled up asleep on the shawl. She looked tired; the rouge she’d applied to her cheeks was like bloody splotches on too-white parchment. Still, she seemed
in good spirits. And she showed no reluctance to discuss her latest ordeal.

“It’s really rather amusing,” she said, “now that I look back on it. A grown man wearing a sheet and moaning and groaning like Casper with a tummy ache.”

“You’re sure it was a man?”

“Oh yes. Definitely a man.”

“You didn’t recognize his voice?”

“Well, he didn’t speak. Just moaned and groaned.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“I believe I asked what he thought he was doing in my bedroom. Yes, and I said that he’d better not have harmed Spike. It was Spike crying that woke me, you see.”

“Not the intruder coming into your bedroom?”

“No. Spike yowling as if he’d been hurt. He must have heard the man come into the house and gone to investigate and the man stepped on him or kicked him. Poor Spike. You’ve been through so much, haven’t you, dear?”

Spike opened one eye and yawned.

I said, “Then what happened, Mrs. Abbott? After you woke up.”

“Well, I saw a flickery sort of light in the hallway. At first I couldn’t imagine what it was.”

“Flashlight,” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“Yes. It came closer, into the doorway, then switched off and the man walked right up to the foot of my bed and began moaning and groaning and jumping around.” She smiled wanly. “Really, it was rather funny.”

“How long did he keep up his act?”

“Not long. Just until I spoke sternly to him.”

“Then he ran out?”

“Still moaning and groaning, yes. I suppose he wanted me to think he was the spirit of my late husband. As if I wouldn’t know a living man from a dead one. Or Carl, in or out of a sheet.”

C
harley Doyle, I was thinking. A stupid ghost stunt was just the sort a pea-brain like him would come up with. He’d deny it, of course. And probably claim he’d spent all of last night with darlin’ Melanie, not that that was a stand-up alibi; she would lie for him just as readily as she drank and slept with him. But I’d have a talk with him just the same. Maybe, if I handled him right, I could rattle his cage enough to make him incriminate himself.

I called Dependable Glass Service. Doyle was out on a job, due back this time before noon and not scheduled to go out again until after the lunch hour. Okay. It was a little after ten now. That gave me time to swing by the agency.

Tamara was busy when I got there, simultaneously talking on the phone and thumping on her computer keyboard. I waited until she finished with the call before I went into her office.

“Got something for you to do when you have time,” I said.

She said, “Doesn’t everybody,” but she didn’t sound grouchy today. Tired and a little distracted but in a reasonably good mood.

“Run a check for me. Whitney Middle School’s enrollment. See if you can find out who belongs to the initials
Z.U.
”

“What case is that for?”

“No case. Personal.”

She made a note of what I’d asked for. Then, “Whitney Middle School? Isn’t that the one Emily goes to?”

“Yes.”

“Something to do with her?”

“I’d rather not discuss it right now. Any more than you want to discuss what’s been bothering you lately.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “How important?”

“Pretty important. But you don’t have to drop everything else to do it. Sometime today.”

“No problem. If I come up with a name for
Z.U.,
you want a full package on whoever it is?”

“As much as you can get. Address, parentage, school record, ever in trouble of any kind.”

She nodded and went back to tapping on the keyboard. The printer on her workstation thumped and began to ratchet a printout.

Dismissed.

C
harley Doyle was not happy to see me. He was sitting in his pickup in Dependable’s side yard, eating a sandwich that had both mayonnaise and mustard in it; I knew that because of the yellow-white smear on one side of his mouth. He scowled at me through the open driver’s window.

“You again,” he said.

“Me again.”

“Now what you want? I told you last time—”

“There was another incident at your aunt’s last night.”

“Incident? What the hell you mean, incident?”

“Another home invasion. Intruder at three a.m. dressed up in a sheet and making noises like a ghost.”

“. . . You kidding me?”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

“She okay? Auntie?”

“Fine. She scared him off.”

“Scared him? How?”

“She’s a tough old lady. She doesn’t really believe in ghosts.” Doyle grunted, looked at his sandwich, took another bite out of it; the bite and the way he chewed indicated he was angry, whether at me, his aunt, or the home invasion I couldn’t tell.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Doyle?”

“Me? Christ, you think I’m the guy? Bust into my aunt’s place dressed up in a fuckin’ sheet?”

“I asked you a question, that’s all.”

“Yeah, sure. Well, it wasn’t me. I was with my woman all night, at her place.”

“Melanie.”

“Yeah, Melanie. All night. Ask her, you don’t believe me.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Goddamn snoop,” he said. “Coming around where I work, accusing me. If you wasn’t an old man, I’d push your face in.”

“Welcome to try anyway. Assault is a bigger crime than malicious mischief.”

“Fuck your mischief,” he said cleverly. He dumped the rest of his sandwich into a paper sack on the seat beside him. “Now I lost my appetite.”

“That’s too bad. I’ll bet your aunt lost hers, too.”

Doyle opened the truck’s door and climbed out. I backed up a step to give him room—just the one step, so he wouldn’t get the idea I was retreating from him. But he had no intention of following up on his threat to push my face in. He stood flat-footed, glaring at me out of his little piggish eyes.

“Listen,” he said. “I told you before, I didn’t have nothing to do with what’s been going on at her place, that ghost crap and the rest.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You did mention ghosts the other day, didn’t you.”

“Huh?”

“ ‘Her dead-husband’s friggin’ ghost,’ I think you said. How’d you know?”

“Huh?”

“That your aunt had a fanciful notion about Carl visiting her from the Other Side.”

“. . . What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“The notion only came to her three days ago. You said you hadn’t seen or talked to her for some time before that. So how’d you know about it?”

“I, uh . . .” Doyle’s blocky face had developed a burgundy flush. “Wasn’t just two days ago she started in about ghosts. She said it to me the last time I seen her.”

“Did she? I’ll ask her about that.”

“You don’t ask her nothing. Stay away from her.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I don’t have to tell you nothing, you hear? I don’t have to talk to you no more at all.”

“Not to me, maybe. How about the police?”

The piggish eyes narrowed. He made a fist and waved it in my direction, not too close. I knew what was coming next. When guys like him are stuck for answers or caught out on something or other, they quit what passes for thinking and go straight to belligerent anger.

“I had enough of your bullshit,” he said. “You leave me alone from now on, man. Don’t come around bugging me no more. You do and I’ll bust you up good, old bastard or not.”

I showed him my wolf’s smile, to see if it would have any effect on him. The madder they get, the more likely they are
to let something slip. Not Doyle, though. He fixed me with a black look and then stalked past me, not quite touching me on the way, and disappeared inside Dependable Glass’s warehouse.

I went and sat in my car, with my hands resting on the wheel. And then I just sat, staring, while things happened inside my head—plunk, plunk, plunk, like pinballs dropping into holes and slots.

Well, hell, I thought.

Getting old, all right. And real slow on the uptake.

She’d been in better spirits come morning. The feelings of loneliness and isolation were night creatures that crawled away in the daylight and left her focused again on Lucas and Alisha.

The first thing she’d done was drive over to the Western Addition. Scouting mission this time. Figure Lucas was living with Mama in that apartment above Psychic Readings by Alisha; figure he still drove that light brown Buick LeSabre. Then chances were, it’d be parked somewhere in the vicinity. Private garages cost a bundle in the city, public lots weren’t cheap, either, and it’d be costing him and Mama enough as it was to live and work their con. So it had to be street parking whenever he was in the neighborhood.

She’d thought of this last night, but driving around and trying to pick out a light brown Buick in the dark didn’t make much sense. Lot easier to identify colors and models in daylight. There wouldn’t be many brown Buick LeSabres parked in that neighborhood, and only one with a scrape and dent on the right front fender.

Turned out there weren’t any.

She drove around there for an hour, roaming two and three times over every street within a six-block radius of the Fillmore address. Just one Buick compact and it was white, not light brown, and it didn’t have any fender dents.

Bust.

She consoled herself with the thought that maybe she’d just missed him; maybe he’d gotten up as early as she had and gone off on some business or other. Worth coming back again, unless she turned up a better lead in the meantime. Even if Lucas wasn’t living with Mama, he’d come visit her at some point, wouldn’t he? Sooner or later she was bound to get lucky.

A
lisha’s last name was Jones.

And she was Jamaican.

Sure. Right. And the Pope was Jewish and the oil companies cared deeply about the environment and true love was waiting for Tamara just around the corner.

At 10:00 a.m., when Eldon Management Company opened for business, she called them up and identified herself as a representative of the city treasurer and tax collector’s office. Every now and then when you used a ploy like that, the person you talked to was leery enough to ask for a callback number and you had to either improvise or blow it off. Usually it worked with no hassle, though, and it did this time; the nasal-voiced woman at Eldon didn’t question Tamara when she fed out her line: calling because it had come to the office’s attention that one of the company’s Fillmore Street tenants had failed to apply for a business license. Information, please, on the proprietor of Psychic Readings by Alisha.

Alisha Jones. Jamaican by birth, immigrated to the United
States two years ago. Occupied the space, which also had a small apartment at the rear, for the past three months on a one-year lease. Paid first and last month’s rent in cash. Was anyone else’s name on the lease? No. Had Eldon checked Alisha Jones’s references or examined her green card? The woman hemmed and hawed and finally admitted that they “hadn’t found it necessary” to do either one. Did they have any other information on their tenant, such as a relative who might be living with her? Sorry, no, they didn’t.

The woman asked then if Eldon should take action against Ms. Jones for her noncompliance with the city’s business practice laws. Tamara said, “No, don’t say anything to Ms. Jones. We’ll contact her directly,” and managed not to bang the receiver down.

Running a search on Alisha Jones would be a waste of time. Too many Joneses in the world, even if by some miracle that was Mama’s real name. Instead Tamara called Marjorie, the agency’s contact at the DMV, gave her the BMW’s license plate number. Ten minutes later she had the name and address of the registered owner.

Which wasn’t anybody named Roland. Or even a man.

Viveca Adams Inman, 4719 North Point, San Francisco.

Viveca—Vi for short.

Married to Roland? Back on the Net to find out. And the answer was no.

Widow of Jason K. Inman, who’d made a pile of bucks in the marine salvage business and died four years ago of complications from gallbladder surgery, age fifty-five. No children. Her age now: forty-one. And judging from her address, she’d inherited a nice piece of city real estate close to the Marina Green and the yacht harbor.

She was also white.

So what was a black switch-hitter named Roland doing driving a Beamer registered in her name? Friend? Neighbor? Lover? How about chauffeur or trusty black gofer?

Tamara sifted through the Google hits on Viveca Inman. Most were mentions of her in connection with her husband; those since his death were mostly from
Chronicle
social columns. Arts patron, regular at social and charity events, hosted this or that dinner party. One brief mention of interest, a little over a year ago: with the aid of a “psychic consultation” she’d decided to authorize the writing and publication of a university press book about her husband and his salvage operations. So were Vi and Roland both into psychics? Could be Inman was a potential investor, too, and she was the one who needed “another reading” before making up her mind. Her charity work and dependance on psychics fit that explanation.