Sudden Exposure (14 page)

“What day of the week is that?”

“Tuesdays. Three twenty.”

“Always Tuesdays?”

“Of course.”

“Can you remember the move you made the previous week with Oklahoma City?”

“Of course. Knight to queen’s bishop five.”

“While you were thinking about that move, did you see Ellen? Was she with Sam’s wife then? Take a moment. Think.”

“You mean did they do something together every week? No.”

“But why do you”—I chose my term carefully, unwilling to condescend again—“speculate Ellen is with her now?”

He didn’t answer.

“Have you seen them together elsewhere?”

“No.” And then as if he was tired of stringing me along, he added, “She came another Tuesday, waited in her car, then left alone. Blue Volkswagen hatchback, three BKP three seven oh.”

I laughed. “You’re amazing, Mr. Pironnen. If all our citizens were like you, we wouldn’t need a police department. We’d have all our perpetrators in jail.”

“What’s the point of putting them in jail if they don’t understand what they’ve done?”

I was just formulating a question when he added, “They throw the pebble into the water; they’re not splashed by the ripples.”

“The police only apprehend, Mr. Pironnen; the courts deal with justice. Do you—”

The door scraped open. Dogs panted and yipped, toenails scraped on the wood floors. The dogs raced at us, churning up a tornado of hair. I shut my mouth and squinted till I was looking out through the protective shield of my lashes.

Two of the dogs were huge, one merely medium to large—shepherd mixed with springer perhaps. But that one, Ocean, I discovered—had enough long gray and brown hair to thatch a room of his own. Nora was all black, maybe Great Dane and setter. And Pablo, black and brown, looked like a large pi dog, the kind you see in newsreels from the third world. All three scrambled and jumped on Pironnen, licked his face, hands, neck, any accessible patch of skin. And Pironnen himself looked like someone whose switch had been flicked to On. He jostled them as they leapt on him, rubbed his forehead against each of theirs, cooed, and panted in cheerful mockery of their own delight. He could have been his outgoing brother in the photograph.

So taken was I with his transformation that it was a minute before I noticed the door shutting behind me.

“Who walked the dogs?” I asked over the ruckus.

“Down, you dogs! Down!” he said, clearly not expecting any change. “The boy … Jed.”

“Jed?”

“Jed Estler. Downstairs.”

It took me another minute to find out the route to downstairs—outside and around the house. I handed Pironnen my card—no easy task, but leaving it on any surface in the room would have been akin to burying it—and asked him to call me if he remembered anything I should know, and when he saw her to tell Ellen to call me.

Once outside, I checked in with Grayson, and waited while he freed up Murakawa for my backup when I bearded the
boy.
Activity at the scene had narrowed to Raksen combing the area around the Volvo with an extension rake. That meant he had finished photographing but hadn’t gotten to anything that required walking on the frozen area, like looking in the car. The crowd, having been presented this lesson on just how tedious forensic work is, had dwindled to half its earlier number and those still here showed the edginess of short timers. The reporters for the San Francisco papers were glancing at their watches. Only the student from the
Daily Cal
looked to be in it for the duration. His grade probably depended on it.

There had been no word from Acosta at the hospital. Bryn Wiley hadn’t been DOA. I couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad. And still no sign of Ellen Waller.

“I hate to think it’s an assault/kidnap,” I said.

“Or maybe Waller shot Wiley.”

“And escaped on foot? Waller doesn’t drive. Car’s still here.” I didn’t believe Ellen was the perp. It made no sense that the woman who had deflected Bryn’s bark with a scurry and a grin yesterday would lurk behind a tree and shoot her today. Or maybe the truth was that I didn’t
want
to believe that.

“Two women, living together,” Grayson mused. “One with all the money and fame, the other the drudge. Could be the drudge got pushed once too often. Or could be there was more to their living together.”

“All things are possible. But not all love relationships lead to death. And I didn’t get that sense of ownership you do when people are a couple.” Before Grayson could regroup, I went on, “If Ellen did decide to kill Bryn, I doubt she’d do it shooting across the driveway. She lived with her; she could have killed her a hundred easier ways inside the house.” Still, in a homicide investigation everyone is suspect.

I turned and headed back down Tamalpais, walking with the sure step of a Homicide Detail Detective, blocking out that it was a fleeting masquerade. Trailed by Murakawa, I passed Pironnen’s front door and came upon a bit of yard covered in ivy. But once I moved beyond a fence and started down the side path, I wondered why I would have assumed Pironnen would keep the ground outside his house better than the inside. He didn’t. In a city—even Berkeley—you don’t often get to find out just how high weeds will grow. Here, doubtless amply fertilized, they reached above my waist. The cement path was like a part in a long crew cut, but it did lead to what might have been a basement door. Inside I could hear the shower going.

I could have knocked immediately, but if Estler was reacting to the sight of a blue uniform upstairs by busily destroying evidence, contraband, or flowerless plants, he would go on doing so under cover of the shower. Murakawa was already flashing his light around the backyard. There the grass was mowed, a lounge chair sat on a level spot, and beyond it was a sliding gate in the fence to the staircase between Pironnen’s and the construction site. I caught Murakawa’s eye and grinned. All the yard needed was a bright flowered border to scream:
Not responsible for the rest of the lot.
Murakawa would appreciate the need to make that distinction.

The shower stopped. I knocked. And in a minute the door snapped open. A head leaned toward me and said, “You the one upstairs with Karl?”

I almost laughed. Garbed in a thick white terry-cloth robe with a white towel around his head, Jed Estler looked like the ugliest girl in the dorm.

I must have shown some reaction. He shrugged. “You’re eyeing the towel, huh? Feels dumb to me, too. But it’s better’n icicles on my scalp. Karl’s not into heat. Come on in.

“I’m from back East,” he went on as I walked into the ten by fourteen room, what in the euphemism of realty lingo would be called a “plus room” or, considering the Lilliputian kitchen and bath at the far end, an “in-law unit.”

“Back there you forget about heat, you die. Here, you don’t die, you just wish.”

“You could get a space heater.”

He shrugged off the idea. Ah, the greater warmth of complaint.

Estler shut the door after Murakawa, hurried across the room, turned the desk chair around, nodded at us, straightened the dark blue plaid blanket on the bed, plopped down, and started to spread his legs and stopped abruptly, obviously remembering his attire. He was like one of those battery-run toys. I’d have thought the friction alone would keep him warm.

I perched on the edge of the chair, flashlight hanging down one side, gun and baton on the other. Murakawa leaned against the door frame, as out of Jed Estler’s sight as was possible in this tiny room. I took a moment to study Estler: Early twenties; not much taller than me, maybe five-nine; thin, little pointy features that made him look like a child, a child you wouldn’t leave unsupervised.
It’s too quiet in there
must have been words he heard like a mantra when he was growing up. He seemed like the last person you’d pick to be caretaker for Karl Pironnen. And considering Karl’s description of shrinking from the push of human contact, I’d have thought one dose of Estler would drive him under the covers for a month.

Estler crossed his legs—pale, almost hairless legs. I eyed them for signs of a rash. The inner right shin was flaky and looked like he’d been scratching it. “Officer, what’s going on out there? I saw all the lights and police cars.”

“A woman’s been injured.”

“How?”

“We’ll talk about that later. But now, tell me how you got this job for Mr. Pironnen.”

“Chess.”

I waited, knowing it wouldn’t be for long. This was one guy who would fill in the blanks to overflowing.

“Karl’s a senior master, did he tell you?”

“What’s a senior master?”

“You know anything about the chess scene?”

“Zip.”

“You’ve heard of grand masters, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s the top ranking. To get it you’ve got to play at tournaments, a lot of them in Europe. Karl could be a grand master, but he won’t do the tournament scene. Compared to the academic scene, grand master is a Ph.D. and senior master’s like a terminal masters.”

“Right. And you?”

“I’m the master of the minute clock. In the sixty-second game I can lay you out.”

“Might money change hands on such a game?”

He uncrossed his legs, rubbing the right shin over the left as he moved. “It’s a unique skill, half chess smarts, half intuition. I’m not ranked—can’t be bothered—but I’ll take on any ranked player in the minute game. Beat him nine times often. More than that.” He recrossed his legs. “See, with guys like Karl, he’s never met any of his opponents, but he’s played their games in his head until he knows how they think, how they plan their strategies, how they’ll react to what he does. He talks about tossing a pebble in the water and watching where the ripples splash. He says if you throw the pebble, you should feel the splash. When he tosses the pebble, he knows where these guys will get wet. When they toss back, he knows they know he’s wet.” He uncrossed, reaching toward his shin and then apparently catching himself before he let himself scratch. If he had the urge to check my reaction, he caught himself in time. Then, as if nothing had happened, he looked up and grinned. “In minute chess you don’t deal with the small stuff. Moves too fast. Guy sits down across from you. You eyeball ’im and mow ’im down! One after another.”

I took that with a tablespoon of salt. Estler might be as good as he said, he could be hustling games daily, but clearly he was not making enough to support himself in more than a Sheetrock cubicle in a hermit’s basement. What was he doing here? A live wire like him wouldn’t be satisfied stored in a basement. Was it the proximity to Sam Johnson he wanted? There was something of the younger Johnson I recognized in Estler—always on the outlook for an angle, charming you while he sized you up and edged you out. I sat silent a few moments to throw him off his rhythm, then said, “You and Karl don’t seem compatible.”

“Think I’m too lively for ol’ Karl, huh? Brightens him up,” he said, choosing the most favorable interpretation of my comment. “No, really. He perks up when I come in. I was surprised too. Not everyone can keep up with me. And the slow ones, they say I suck out their energy—like I’d need that little mouthful, huh?”

“But Karl Pironnen doesn’t feel that way?”

“I remind him of his brother. Life of the party. Made Karl go out, see people. Pulled him out of his shell. He’s the one who got Karl to go to tournaments. Only reason why he’s ranked at all.”

“And this similarity, who noticed that? Karl Pironnen or, Mr. Estler, was it you who brought it up? Did you point it out and then convince him to give you this room?”

If I thought I was going to jolt Jed Estler that easily, I was wrong. He grinned. Just like a younger Sam Johnson would have grinned. “Yeah, right. I’m on top of things. Guy up the street told me Karl’s story, and I thought: ‘Hey! There’s something for both of us here!’ And right I was. Best—”

“Guy up the street? Who?”

He paused, startled. “Just some guy. I don’t remember his name.”

“Try Sam Johnson.”

His reaction was instantaneous—the slightest widening of the eyes, mouth opening just a little—then he was back under control. “Wasn’t Sam. I’ve only talked to Sam a couple of times—about the noise.”

“Nothing else?” I said, eyeing the towel on his head.

He didn’t shake his head—too dangerous. “No, nothing. But getting back to Karl, the best thing that’s happened to him is me! I make it possible for Karl to live alone. I make his appointments with Dr. Kendall, the dentist, Dr. Orris, the internist, Dr. Abbey, the regular vet. I make sure he gets places so he’s not missing medical appointments, or pissing off the emergency vet because he’s afraid to show up—and getting charged a bundle for a no-show.” He was back in his stride now. The younger Sam Johnson couldn’t have done better.

“And the dogs,” I asked, “when do you take them out?”

“When Karl doesn’t.”

“Today?”

“Just tonight.”

“How long were you out with them?”

“About half an hour.”

“Was Bryn’s car in the driveway when you left?”

“Don’t know. I went the other way, down Tamalpais.”

Good save. “Do you take the dogs to the vet?”

“Yeah. I’ve been to Dr. Abbey so often I could be a dog.”

“So why was Ellen doing that? Was she afraid Karl would miss another appointment?”

“Maybe. Look, it was an emergency. I’m an assistant, not a slave. I get my room free, nothing else. For that I’m not here twenty four hours a day. Ellen wants to help out, fine with me.”

I let a beat pass. “You don’t like Ellen then.”

“No, Ellen’s fine. Actually she’s real nice. Willing to help.”

“Compared to Bryn Wiley, you mean?”

“Yeah, well, that one, she’s got her nose too far up her ass to care about anyone but herself.” An observation from familiar ground. “She the one who was ‘injured’?”

“Yes.”

He was on edge; doubtless, he was always on edge. I’d have to press harder. I put down my note pad and stared first at his bathrobe. I wished I had had a chance to observe him from the back. But with the bathrobe covering his memorable features, it wouldn’t have helped much. Police can request many things, but we can’t ask a citizen to disrobe in his own apartment. I asked one of the things I could. “Where were you Wednesday night?”