Karma (17 page)

Howard pulled the picture from my hand. It had come within inches of his nose. He looked down, making a show of studying the photo.

I found myself staring at his expression, again wondering about his interest in my case. Nat, whom I had trusted, had lied, affirming a love that no longer existed for months before I had let myself realize it. And when I did, my cache of trust had dried to a hard lump. Now I begrudged parting with the tiniest portion of that lump. I demanded that my friends and colleagues repeatedly prove their honesty, integrity and loyalty. They were paying for Nat’s betrayal. I knew that. But I couldn’t stop doubting.

My attention had been pulled inward, but when I refocused I realized my eyes were still on Howard and he was staring back.

“You need any help?” he asked.

“Obviously I need all the help I can get.”

“So what can I do?”

“You can give me any ideas you have on that symbol or whatever it is on the knife. Otherwise you know what’s in store.”

He grinned. “Yeah—interviews with every Buddhist in Berkeley, and Lt. Davis might waver and let you delegate that research to me. Okay.” He stared down at the picture of the knife. “Suppose we assume for a moment that it is not a Buddhist symbol?”

“Suppose we do.”

“It looks like a block drawing of a house, a Cape Cod house with the first-floor roof. What it looks like is a Chinese character representing a Cape Cod house.”

“Howard!”

He tried, not very successfully, to swallow his grin. “Okay, okay. I’m serious now. No Cape Cods.” He continued to focus on the picture, his smile fading. His waves of red hair hung forward, nearly obscuring his face. “When I was a kid, I went through a period of marking things, put hearts on tree trunks, that sort of thing. I etched my initials on everything I owned and a good bit of stuff I didn’t own. And one thing I learned—besides how angry my mother could get when I marked her silver bracelet with a big H—is that it’s a lot easier to make block figures, particularly on something that looks as slippery as that knife.”

“So you think they could be block letters?”

“I didn’t say that.” When I looked questioningly at him, he said, “But let me see. You have to allow for a little hand slippage. It could be
A 7
, if the second vertical line of the
A
doubles for the vertical line of the
7
.”

I stared at the photo. “If that could be an
A
, it could also be a
P
or an
F
or even an
R
.”

“Right.”

“
A T
,
P T
,
F T
; or
R T
? That doesn’t help much. The only way it could be initials would be if Padmasvana had had a last name beginning with or if Rexford Braga is really Rexford Braga.”

“Or Fexford Braga. Or Pexford—”

Laughing, I said, “Enough. This is getting me nowhere.”

“Okay, let me look again.
A T
,
P T
, or is it
A F
? Hey, what about
F
?”

“
A F
,
PF
,
FF
,
RF
? Hmm. Pity it’s not
VF.
I don’t suppose Vern Felcher has another name?”

He didn’t have time to reply. The answer must have come to us simultaneously.
R F
—Robert Felcher. Bobby Felcher.

“Bobby Felcher’s knife. Someone killed Paul Lee with Bobby Felcher’s knife, Howard!”

“Which leads us right back to Vernon Felcher.”

“Or Garrett Kleinfeld,” I said. “And I have other things to find out from him.”

“Oh, my God,” Garrett Kleinfeld said. “I’ve seen that knife. Bobby Felcher’s knife. Of course.” His burst of candor was suspiciously sudden, but I decided to withhold comment.

“He had it here, during a class. He flashed it around. You see, Bobby wasn’t any prize as far as stability went. He wasn’t anywhere near in sufficient control of his own being—”

“About the knife.”

Kleinfeld stared. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being interrupted. “The knife. Well, as I said, Bobby waved it around. He obviously felt that since he was involved with his father and me he could get away with whatever he liked. I had to put a stop to that. So I told him firmly to put it away and take it home.”

“And?”

Kleinfeld looked away. It was the first time I had noticed him deliberately avoiding my gaze. “He didn’t. There was a scene. It disrupted the entire class. I told him to get out. He started to scream. Well, I screamed back, and…”

I controlled a smile. There was something amusing about the Self-Over guru’s discomfort. “And?”

“Well, I came close to hitting him. He was furious, nearly out of control. He screamed, ‘Home? I’ll take it
home!
’ and then he stalked out.”

“And then?”

“Well, the class was a mess. I had to do a lot of intensive work with the students—”

“About Bobby…”

“That was a Friday. Bobby usually went to the Valley on the weekends, so by the time Felcher saw him on Monday he had calmed down. Felcher bought off whatever hurt feelings he had, and the kid was back here the next week, sulking, but here.”

“And that was the last time you saw the knife?”

“Yeah. I guess Felcher must have made that point real clear to him.”

“Do you know how Felcher bought him off?”

Kleinfeld shook his head. “No. That was between them.”

“I guess I’ll see Vern Felcher, then.”

“Why?” Kleinfeld’s hands tightened.

“You said Bobby took the knife home.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I guess you should see him.” He looked hopefully toward the door.

“One more thing, Mr. Kleinfeld. The night of the murder, where were you?”

“I told you. I was with—”

“Names.”

He looked at the floor thinking. “Okay, I guess I should have told you the truth.”

“You
were
lying.” This I didn’t look forward to admitting to Lt. Davis.

“Yeah. There wasn’t any woman.”

“Then you were alone?”

“No.”

“You were with a man?”

“It’s not what you think.” Kleinfeld looked truly abashed. Apparently, homosexuality was not something a fully realized person practiced. “I was in the Penlops’ house.”

Great. In proximity to the temple and the stage. Wonderful.

“I was there meeting Walt. You know, that big blond Penlop, the one who looks like he’s still alive.”

“Yes.” The one who had been so eager to hand me the strongbox.

“He was giving us—Vern and me—information,” Kleinfeld went on. “I mean, since Bobby died, we had no one inside. Walt was, well, keeping an eye on things. Or at least supposedly. He never really gave us much of anything. He just said stuff like ‘Chupa-da bought more tea’; ‘Braga looks nervous.’ ” Now the words tumbled out. “I told Felcher it was a waste of money, but he insisted we needed the protection in case anything unlikely happened. And it was his money, so, well, you see…”

“I do see.” Catching his gaze, I repeated, “I do see.” I gave him the same warning I’d given Braga and headed for the car. I called into the station and left word where I was going, then drove across the town to Comfort Realty.

“I don’t got enough problems without you here again?” Felcher slammed his desk drawer shut.

Dispensing with the preliminaries, I pulled out the photo. “Do you recognize this?”

“The knife?”

“Yes.”

He stared at it for almost a minute. “I suppose that must be the knife that killed Paddy-guru.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why else would you be showing it around?”

“Okay. But does it look familiar to you?”

“Hell, no. Listen, lady, what kind of dumbo do you take me for? You think if that were my knife and I’d used it to stab Paddy, I’d be telling you?”

“I didn’t say it was yours. I—”

The phone rang. Felcher jumped for it. “Comfort Realty.” He listened half a minute, his hand reaching for the ever-present ballpoint pen, then said angrily, “Don’t give me that self-sacrificing crap again. Look, I’m in the middle of negotiating a deal, I don’t have time…”

Where had I heard this before, I wondered as I watched him snap the ballpoint in and out?

“All right, all right. Half an hour.” He slammed down the receiver.

“What was all that?”

“The laundry lost my shirt.”

“Really?”

“What about the knife?”

“Never seen it.”

“Mr. Felcher, that knife belonged to your son. It was Bobby’s knife. His initials are scratched on it. I have a witness who remembers seeing him with it.”

Felcher stared at the photo, then at me. “So what are you saying? You think Bobby rose from the grave, grabbed the knife and stabbed Paddy? You think there’s some justice in the world, maybe?”

Ignoring that, I said, “Bobby said in front of several witnesses that he was going to take the knife home. He was living with you.”

“Nice of Bobby to be so cozy in public. Home, huh? He never called it home. He never accepted my apartment as home, even though he had his own room. I worked sixty hours a week to make a place for that kid, and you think he’d call it home? He never…” His voice trailed off.

“The using wasn’t one-sided. You did bring Bobby to Berkeley to have him infiltrate the temple. You set him up.”

Felcher pressed his thumb against the already limp end of the pen. “Look, I may not have been the best father in the world. It may look like I brought Bobby here just to increase my odds on the deal. That’s what Bobby thought. It’s what his mother thought. But I’ll tell you”—he looked away from me—“that was my way of getting him here, with me. He didn’t understand any more than you do.” Felcher’s face was flushed. “I had this nice place for him, and he never brought a thing here. No magazines, not even a hairbrush. And, lady, no knife!” His fist smashed into the desk.

As if by reaction, the phone rang. Felcher snatched it up. “Yeah? What? Who? Oh, yeah.”

He held out the phone to me.

“Hello?”

“Officer Smith, this is Heather Lee. You know, from the temple?”

“Yes, Heather. Why are you calling me here?”

“I called the police station. They told me where you were. It’s important.”

“I’m talking to someone.”

“Well, this is important. You said something about not leaving town. Well, I have to go. I have to go tonight.”

“You can’t leave until the investigation is completed.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“Why?”

“Because of Chattanooga,” she said with a triumphant finality.

“Chattanooga?”

“Yeah, Chattanooga Charlie Spotts. He’s heading for Eureka to do a gig there. He wants me to go with him. He’s going tonight.”

“I’m sorry, Heather, but I can’t let you leave Berkeley.”

There was a noise as if she’d started to protest, then reconsidered. “You mean as soon as Padma’s murder is solved I can go?”

“Right.”

“Well, then, I think I can tell you who killed him.”

“You know who the murderer is?”

“I think so.”

“Well, who is it?”

“Wait. If I help you, will you get them to make sure I can leave right away? I won’t be involved in anything about Padma not being a real guru, will I?”

“I’m sure something can be worked out.”

“You’re sure?”

“I said I was. Who killed him, Heather?”

I could hear her breathing. “I want to check on something. Meet me in an hour.”

“Heather, where are you?”

“In the temple office.”

“Is anyone there with you? Heather, you’d better tell me what you know now. It’s dangerous to have that kind of secret. You don’t know if someone’s overheard you. You can hear a lot through that office window.” I knew that from my own experience.

“No, I—”

“Heather, you could be killed.”

She laughed. “Meet me in an hour. Meet me someplace real. You have an expense account, don’t you? For informers?” She laughed again. “Meet me at Priester’s, on the Avenue. I could use a hamburger.”

“Heather—”

But the phone had gone dead. I stood staring at it, wondering if I could count on Heather’s meeting me at Priester’s restaurant. I’d meant to scare her, but recalling the ease with which I’d overheard Felcher and Braga’s conversation in that room, I realized that what I’d told Heather was too true to be taken lightly.

I ran for my car.

T
HE RAIN HAD STOPPED
temporarily, but dark clouds sagged down from the sky, intensifying the dim gray of dusk. Now, at five o’clock, the wet Berkeley streets looked like night.

Even with the flasher and siren on, it took me twenty minutes to get back to the temple. I raced down the steps to Braga’s office. Empty. Up, through the door under the stage, into the temple proper. It held only a group of Penlops. Spotting me, they turned silent.

“Have you seen Heather in the last half hour?” I asked.

The blond Penlop spoke for the group. “No.”

Running out the back door, I headed across the courtyard to the tepee and pulled the flap half open. The marble oil lamp was lit, but there was no sign of Heather. Only her matching leather suitcases stood there, lined up by the door, ready to go to Eureka.

The ashram was no better. Leah wasn’t there. Two Penlops were asleep. Chupa-da’s attic room was empty. I tried to think where else Heather could be. Maybe she’d found what she wanted and gone on to Priester’s early.

I ran back to the car, headed through the one-way traffic on the Avenue and double-parked in front of the restaurant, ignoring the angry drivers behind me. Moving through the restaurant, I generated a fair amount of uneasiness among the customers but didn’t find Heather.

If she was not at the temple, not in her tepee, not in the ashram, not here, where was she? Had someone overheard our conversation and got to her already?

There was no way to tell. There was no sense in staying here. If she made it to the restaurant, she’d be okay.

I walked back to the car, started to call in for the beat officers to watch for her, and realized I didn’t know what she was wearing. The description I could give was so general as to fit a quarter of the girls on the Avenue.

I drove back to the temple, got out of the car and moved toward the dimly lit building. Forty-five minutes had passed since Heather’s call. Anything could have happened.