Sudden Exposure (17 page)

“Okay, okay.”

“I’ll need to have someone identify the body; you can do that tomorrow. And Ellen’s next of kin? Who should we contact?”

Something in her face changed, so fast I almost missed it. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know; I have to think. But if it’s just the courtesy of informing someone, you’ve informed me. No one else is going to care.”

She paused but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to scream at Ellen: How can you be dead? You hadn’t even found what you wanted to do in life; you were still marking time taking care of Bryn. How can you be dead before you’ve even found out why you’re living? And there isn’t even anyone to care.

I’d asked this question before, at other murder scenes, and I’d always reminded myself that the city doesn’t pay me to conduct existential investigations. But tonight, with Ellen Waller, that didn’t work.

“I’ll pay for burying her,” Bryn went on. “That’s what the county needs to know, isn’t it, so they won’t get stuck with the bill for a potter’s field. And what about me? He’s still wandering around out there, gunning for me.” Her arms pressed hard against her sides and her hands bunched into fists. “You better have guards here, day and night. I mean it. If my police force can’t be bothered protecting me, I’ll scream bloody murder. And you will be hearing from a lot of other people, too.”

I didn’t doubt it. Getting an okay for around-the-clock protection was another matter. We weren’t set up to give that kind of service, even to the mayor. “But first answer me this: When did you finish dealing with the media?”

“About seven. Why?”

“And then what did you do?”

“Ott got a pizza and we ate it in the car,” she said with an unreadable expression.

Another time I would have laughed. I knew Ott. In a dark car, sitting next to him with no direct view of his mouth was the least repellent way to dine with Ott. “He got the pizza?”

“Yeah. He’s got a special place that does double everything.” She cringed. “The cheese was oozing over the edge.”

“So no one saw you after seven o’clock.”

“I guess not. Look, why are you—”

“Because, Bryn, the press left here thinking you are dead. The killer thinks you’re dead. Let’s see what the consequences of that ‘death’ are.”

“I can tell you what they’ll be.”

“No! Let the killer do that.” I waited until she gave a small sign of agreement. “In the meantime, you can’t stay here.”

“But if I were dead, Ellen would still … Oh, okay, I’m not Ellen. Okay, so … what then? Where can I go”

“How well do you know Herman Ott?”

Her eyes widened.

Her look of horror told me she knew him well enough. Ott would be appalled, too. But Bryn Wiley had hesitated too long before answering some of my questions. There were things she’d mentally scurried to hide. And Herman Ott, for all his faults, would not overlook dissembling. He would be insulted by it. And by morning, I hoped, he would expose the truth.

P
ERHAPS
B
ERKELEY DOES NOT
have an abnormal number of domestic deficients, but if there were a
Poor Homekeeping
magazine, it could feature a different resident for every cover story. Much of our local slovenliness is the result of youthful rebellion solidified into habit, and a reluctance to admit we’ve become middle-class enough to “exploit the poor” to muck out our tubs. There are, of course, plenty of devotees anxious to underwrite their meditative spiritual and physical practices by mucking at twelve bucks an hour. But it would take a truly enlightened being to cross Herman Ott’s portal, pail in hand. The room he lives in is not much more inviting than Karl Pironnen’s.

Herman Ott reminds me of a tatty old parrot, one of those birds you buy on a whim, and delight in teaching embarrassing phrases, before you realize just how many decades it will be around to annoy you. His particular perch overlooks Telegraph Avenue. Most of his clients are regulars there, but simple longevity has widened his nest of knowledge. By now no one dies in Berkeley without his knowing.

Ott has his code. He never discusses his clients, particularly with us.

Still, in the last two days he had called me twice. And now, with minimal fuss, he had agreed to come to the station to pick up Bryn Wiley.

Across the reception area I eyed Ott’s short, slouched frame. He was glaring at the five plastic stacking chairs lined up across from the unmanned reception window on the second-story walkway. From either side, staircases descended to what might have been a gracious entryway. Instead, a bare cement room reminded entrants that the police department was not a destination of choice. At two in the morning it was ill-lit and so empty that voices echoed. Ott surveyed the area. “No wonder everyone hates the cops, if this is the way you treat citizens who obey your laws.”

“I’ll take it up with the municipal decorator.” I cut to the chase. “Where is Sam Johnson?”

“Not in the Fraud Exchange, that’s for sure. He’s never set foot in that scam parlor since it opened.” Now Ott perched on a yellow plastic chair, wearing a gold beaked cap. His little round belly was covered by a mustard-tone polyester shirt and a cream and tan argyle vest.

“Is The Heat Exchange doing much business?”

“Not enough to heat my office. Yeah, yeah, I know I wouldn’t qualify. But the people who do aren’t getting anything off their bills either. They’re barely making it, Smith. They’ve abandoned everything, escaped from wars and famines, and used every cent to get to this country so they have a chance. And then what happens? Johnson promises them help with their utilities. They spend what little they have on other luxuries—like food and clothes—and now they’re huddled together trying to keep warm. We’ve had the fire department out three times in the last month!”

“Why doesn’t the city—”

“Because Johnson keeps telling them it’s just a matter of time. And Smith, the city
wants
to believe. It’d be such an environmental feather in its cap.” He glared at me. “And the city’ll be such a laughingstock if this harebrained scheme fails.”

So Berkeley has become wary of environmental folly. The same city that spent half a million dollars to create a “slow street” with two to three speed bumps per block, three to four foliage islands jutting irregularly in some, and a white line that snakes between them like it was painted by a drunk.

“So what’s with Johnson, Ott? You’ve known him for years. For two decades Sam Johnson is the king of the anarchists. Now suddenly he’s a homeowner and entrepreneur. What happened? Does he think he’s going to make a killing on his exercycles? Use the money to speed up work on his house in the hills? Or does he really believe he’s harnessing the bourgeoisie for the benefit of the oppressed?”

Ott looked away, embarrassed. For a moment I thought his shame was for the fall of a former colleague. Then I realized it was because he couldn’t answer my question. And Ott prides himself on knowing everything about life on the Avenue. “One thing I’ll say, Smith. Sam knew that gym was never going to heat apartments.”

“So it was a scam from the beginning?”

“Yeah.”

“But why, Ott? Has Johnson sold out since he came into money?”

“Yeah, but not the way you think. Sam’s no fool. He knows he’ll be lucky to break even on that gym of his. He’s too dependent on Cal students and faculty. Their devotion to the poor won’t last beyond this semester. When they come back in the fall, they’ll trot right on back to the free university gyms.”

“So if he’s not doing it for the poor, or to make money, and he’s not a fool, then why?”

“Because,” he said, jerking the beak of his cap down, “he got married.”

“Ott, give me a break!”

“Okay, forget it.” He started for the stairs.

“Wait.” I had to get to the bottom of this. “What’s marriage got to do with this?”

Ott turned slowly, but he had no smile of victory. “Here’s the thing, Smith. Fannie is ten or fifteen years younger than Sam. She’s attractive, arty in that European way. Like a young Jackie Kennedy. And Johnson’s crazy about her.” Ott shook his head in bewilderment. “He wants her and he wants his principles. She wants him, but she doesn’t want to live in a movement safe house.”

“She’s not enamored of fugitives arriving in the middle of the night, guys camped out in the kitchen drinking beer and grumbling about the system. Big surprise.”

“Look, Smith, you want to mouth off or you want to listen?”

I smiled. I’d forgotten how hard it was for Ott to
give
me something, with not a thing in return. “I’m all ears.”

“Sam wants the house in the hills to be apartments for him and Fannie, and for the poor. Fannie’s got the money. She’ll give it to him, on the condition that he keep his gym open.”

It had all made sense until now. But this was crazier than any of the other speculative reasons I had heard for Johnson running the gym. “Why does she care?”

Ott mumbled.

“What?”

His answer wasn’t much louder. It took me a moment to realize it was: “I don’t know.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” To not even have a speculation, for Ott that was astounding.

“You tried—”

“Yeah.”

“Ott,” I said, “Sam Johnson said she inherited the money.”

He brightened. “Not a chance. She was on full scholarship at Cal.”

“So where did she get her cash?” The words were barely out of my mouth when I recalled where Fannie Johnson worked. “The public guardian’s office, where she is charged with watching out for the funds of the incompetent.”

A smile flickered at the corners of Ott’s pale, narrow mouth.

The Johnson house was just what I would have expected for the long-term leader of the movement—a small, stucco bungalow in a neighborhood we on the force knew too well. The shrubbery in front of the streaked picture window was virtually mummified, and the cracked and dirty white paint attested to more important commitments than home maintenance. It was not a dwelling that a young Jacqueline Kennedy would have chosen. Especially not with the old Rambler and Nova parked on the lawn.

Every light in the house was on. The front door was open, and music and men’s voices flowed out. At this hour, in beat two up on Tamalpais, neighbors on both sides would have called in complaints. The screen door opened before I could knock.

“What do you want now?” a guy demanded. I recognized him from demonstrations on the Avenue. “You can’t wait to hassle us, can you? Some rich, white woman gets offed in the hills and the first thing you cops think is: let’s shake down the movement. You got a warrant?”

I wasn’t surprised he’d heard about the murder. “You living here now?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Right. You’re not. Tell Fannie I’m here.”

“What is this, the local doughnut shop? You cops have been here every hour all night.”

“Fannie,” I insisted.

“Hey, leave her alone. She’s had a hard day.”

“Oh, really? Why is that?”

“Every day is hard for her,” he said after a moment. Behind him, the music had stopped and the voices had gone quiet. I had told the dispatcher I wouldn’t need backup on this call. Had I made a mistake? Over his shoulder I could see two sets of male legs. But there could be ten guys sitting inside, having spent hours bitching about the system and its protectors.

“Tell Fannie I’m here.”

“You’ve got no—”

“Do it! A woman can make up her own mind.”

He hesitated a moment then, apparently failing to raise an objection, trudged off.

I moved back down the two steps to the path, stood beside the old Nova in the driveway, and called the dispatcher for backup. As I waited I heard her call 6 Victor 8. I’d never worked graveyard. At this hour the eighteen beats we worked in swing shift were condensed into nine. I had no idea who Victor 8 was or how far away he was likely to be.

“Whatsamatter?”

I turned, startled. Whoever had spoken was behind the Nova.

“You worried we’re going to take you, cop?”

I couldn’t see him, but his voice was edged with hysteria like he was on something. In the light from the windows I was virtually spotlighted. “Should I be worried?” I sounded way more offhand than I felt. This could be the kind of situation Pereira and Leonard had warned me about: a crackhead or crazy coming out of nowhere, where logic is useless and there’s no place to run. It was like facing down a growling dog: I couldn’t back off without giving him the go-ahead to attack. I wasn’t about to retreat back up the steps, not and find myself surrounded. I needed to lay the framework here, to set the rules. “I know you, don’t I?” I bluffed.

“Huh?”

“From the Avenue, right? You’re—”

“You don’t know—”

“Sure I do. If I see you, I’ll remember your name.”

Silence. Inside the house I could hear muffled voices, a man’s and a woman’s, arguing. Not in the living room, though; farther away. My throat was dry. On my shoulder my radio crackled—the dispatcher calling 6 Victor 4 for a 911 hang-up.

“Not again,” Victor 4 said. “I’ve been out there twice this week. They’ve got ten people there. No one knows anything about the call. But I’m on my way.”

I strained, listening for street noises, for the sound of my backup. This kid was probably harmless; if I hadn’t just seen Ellen Waller dying for no reason, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him. But God, I didn’t want to get shot.

I pushed back that thought, and said, “Come on. Walk out here.”

“Hey, I don’t have to—”

“Yeah, you do.” I flipped the flashlight up, still in its loop, and aimed it at the car. It turned night to day and the anonymous speaker into a skinny guy in his twenties with a greasy blond ponytail.

Simultaneously the backup car pulled up and the door to the house opened. I spun toward the door, hand on gun.

The woman behind the screen pulled both of her hands shoulder high.

“Just a minute,” I called to her. To Victor 8, I said, “Our blond friend here thinks I should be afraid of him. Let’s see what we’ve got on him?” Then I turned to the woman. “Open the door, please.”

“Hey, I don’t—”

“Please,” I repeated. For the first time I realized I was shaking. I stepped up to the screen door.