The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (69 page)

TOP NOTCH BURGER was a one-room restaurant at the corner of Hyde and O’Farrell. Milton had found it during his exploration of the city after he had taken his room at the El Capitan. It was a small place squeezed between a hair salon and a shoe shop, with frosted windows identified only by the single word BURGER. Inside, the furniture was mismatched and often broken, the misspelt menu was chalked up on a blackboard, and hygiene looked as if it was an afterthought. The chef was a large African-American called Julius and, as Milton had discovered, he was a bona fide genius when it came to burgers. He came in every day for his lunch, sometimes taking the paper bag with his burger and fries and eating it in his car on the way to Mr. Freeze, and on other occasions, if he had the time, he would eat it in the restaurant. There was rarely anyone else in the place at the same time, and Milton liked that; he listened to the gospel music that Julius played through the cheap Sony stereo on a shelf above his griddle, sometimes read his book, sometimes just watched the way the man expertly prepared the food.

“Afternoon, John,” Julius said as he shut the door behind him.

“How’s it going?”

“Going good,” he said. “What can I get for you? The usual?”

“Please.”

Milton almost always had the same thing: bacon and cheddar on an aged beef pattie in a sourdough bun, bone marrow, cucumber pickles, caramelized onions, horseradish aioli, a bag of double-cooked fries and a bottle of ginger beer.

He was getting ready to leave when his phone rang.

He stopped, staring as the phone vibrated on the table.

No one ever called him at this time of day.

“Hello?”

“My name’s Trip Macklemore.”

“Do I know you?”

“Who are you?”

Milton paused, his natural caution imposing itself. “My name’s John,” he said carefully. “John Smith. What can I do for you?”

“You’re a taxi driver?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you drive Madison Clarke last night?”

“I drove a Madison. She didn’t tell me her second name. How do you know that?”

“She texted me your number. Her usual driver wasn’t there, right?”

“So she said. How do you know her?”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Milton swapped the phone to his other ear. “She hasn’t come home?”

“No. That’s why I’m calling.”

“And that’s unusual for her?”

“Very. Did anything happen last night?”

Milton paused uncomfortably. “How much do you know—”

“About what she does?” he interrupted impatiently. “I know everything, so you don’t need to worry about hurting my feelings. Look—I’ve been worried sick about her. Could we meet?”

Milton drummed his fingers against the table.

“Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Can we meet? Please. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Of course.”

“This afternoon?”

“I’m working.”

“After that? When you’re through?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know Mulligan’s? Green and Webster.”

“I can find it.”

“What time?”

Milton said he would see him at six. He ended the call, gave Julius ten bucks, and stepped into the foggy street outside.

THE BUSINESS had its depot in Bayview. It was located in an area of warehouses, a series of concrete boxes with electricity and telephone wires strung overhead and cars and trucks parked haphazardly outside. Milton parked the Explorer in the first space he could find and walked the short distance to Wallace Avenue. Mr. Freeze’s building was on a corner, a two-storey box with two lines of windows and a double-height roller door through which the trucks rolled to be loaded with the ice they would deliver all around the Bay area. Milton went in through the side door, went to the locker room, and changed into the blue overalls with the corporate logo—a block of motion-blurred ice—embroidered on the left lapel. He changed his Timberlands for a pair of steel-capped work boots and went to collect his truck from the line that was arranged in front of the warehouse.

He swung out into the road and then backed into the loading bay. He saw Vassily, the boss, as he went around to the big industrial freezer. His docket was fixed to the door: bags of ice to deliver to half a dozen restaurants in Fisherman’s Wharf and an ice sculpture to a hotel in Presidio. He yanked down the big handle and muscled the heavy freezer door open. The cold hit him at once, just like always, a numbing throb that would sink into the bones and remain there all day if you stayed inside too long. Milton picked up the first big bag of ice and carried it to the truck. It, too, was refrigerated, and he slung it into the back to be arranged for transport when he had loaded them all. There were another twenty bags, and by the time he had finished carrying them into the truck, his biceps, the inside of his forearms and his chest were cold from where he had hugged the ice. He stacked the bags in three neat rows and went back into the freezer. He just had the ice sculpture left to move. It was of a dolphin curled as if it was leaping through the air. It was five feet high and set on a heavy plinth. Vassily paid a guy fifty bucks for each sculpture and sold them for three hundred. It was, as he said, “A big-ticket item.”

Milton couldn’t keep his mind off what had happened last night. He kept replaying it all: the house, the party, the girl’s blind panic, the town car that only just arrived before it had pulled away, the motorcycles, the Cadillac. Was there anything else he could have done? He was embarrassed that he had let her get away from him so easily when it was so obvious that she needed help. She wasn’t his responsibility. He knew that she was an adult, but he also knew he would blame himself if anything had happened to her.

He pressed his fingers beneath the plinth, and bending his knees and straining his arms and thighs, he hefted the sculpture into the air, balancing it against his shoulder. It was heavy, surely two hundred pounds, and it was all he could manage to get it off the floor. He turned around and started forwards, his fingers straining and the muscles in his arms and shoulders burning from the effort.

He thought about the call from her boyfriend and the meeting that they had scheduled. He would tell him exactly what had happened. Maybe he would know something. Maybe Milton could help him find her.

He made his way to the door of the freezer. The unit had a raised lip, and Milton was distracted; he forgot that it was there and stubbed the toe of his right foot against it. The sudden surprise unbalanced him, and he caught his left boot on the lip too as he stumbled over it. The sculpture tipped away from his body, and even as Milton tried to follow after it, trying to bring his right arm up to corral it, he knew there was nothing he could do. The sculpture tipped forwards faster and faster, and then he dropped it completely. It fell to the concrete floor of the depot, shattering into a million tiny pieces.

Even in the noisy depot, the noise was loud and shocking. There was a moment of silence before some of the others started to clap, others whooping sardonically. Milton stood with the glistening fragments spread around him, helpless. He felt the colour rising in his cheeks.

Vassily came out of the office. “What the fuck, John?”

“Sorry.”

“What happened?”

“I tripped. Dropped it.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You already said that. It’s not going to put it back together again, is it?”

“I was distracted.”

“I don’t pay you to be distracted.”

“No, you don’t. I’m sorry, Vassily. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s coming out of your wages. Three hundred bucks.”

“Come on, Vassily. It doesn’t cost you that.”

“No, but that’s money I’m going to have to pay back. Three hundred. If you don’t like it, you know where to find the door.”

Milton felt the old, familiar flare of anger. Five years ago, he would not have been able to hold it all in. His fists clenched and unclenched, but he remembered what he had learnt in the rooms—that there were some things that you just couldn’t control, and that there was no point in worrying about them—and with that in mind, the flames flickered and died. It was better that way. Better for Vassily. Better for him.

“Fine,” he said. “That’s fine. You’re right.”

“Clean it up,” Vassily snapped, stabbing an angry finger at the mess on the floor, “and then get that ice delivered. You’re going to be late.”

MILTON DROVE the Explorer back across town and arrived ten minutes early for his appointment at six with Trip Macklemore. Mulligan’s was at 330 Townsend Street. There was a small park opposite the entrance, and he found a bench that offered an uninterrupted view. He put the girl’s rucksack on the ground next to his feet, picked up a discarded copy of the
Chronicle
, and watched the comings and goings. The fog had lifted a little during the afternoon, but it looked as if it was going to thicken again for the evening. He didn’t know what Trip looked like, but he guessed the anxious-looking young man who arrived three minutes before they were due to meet was as good a candidate as any. Milton waited for another five minutes, watching the street. There was no sign that Trip had been followed and none that any surveillance had been set up. The people looking for him were good, but that had been Milton’s job for ten years, too, and he was confident that they would not be able to hide from him. He had taught most of them, after all. Satisfied, he got up, dropped the newspaper into the trash can next to the seat, collected the rucksack, crossed the road, and went inside.

The man he had seen coming inside was waiting at a table. Milton scanned the bar; it was a reflex action drilled into him by long experience and reinforced by several occasions where advance planning had saved his life. He noted the exits and the other customers. It was early, and the place was quiet. Milton liked that. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

He allowed himself to relax a little and approached. “Mr. Macklemore?”

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right. But you can call me John.”

“Can I get you a beer?”

“That’s all right. I don’t drink.”

“Something else?”

“That’s all right—I’m fine.”

“You don’t mind if I do?”

“No. Of course not.”

The boy went to the bar, and Milton checked him out. He guessed he was in his early twenties. He had a fresh complexion that made him look even younger and a leonine aspect, with a high clear brow and plenty of soft black curls eddying over his ears and along his collar. He had a compact, powerful build. A good-looking boy with a healthy colour to his skin. Milton guessed he worked outside, a trade that involved plenty of physical work. He was nervous, fingering the edge of his wallet as he tried to get the bartender’s attention.

“Thanks for coming,” he said when he came back with his beer.

“No problem.”

“You mind me asking—that accent?”

“I’m English.”

“That’s what I thought. What are you doing in San Francisco?”

Milton had no wish to get into a discussion about that. “Working,” he said, closing it off.

Trip put his thumb and forefinger around the neck of the bottle and drank.

“So,” Milton said, “shall we talk about Madison?”

“Yes.”

“She hasn’t come back?”

“No. And I’m starting to get worried about it. Like—seriously worried. I was going to give it until ten and then call the police.”

“She’s never done this before?”

“Been out of touch as long as this?” The boy shook his head. “No. Never.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Last night. We went to see an early movie. It finished at eightish, she said she was going out to work, so I kissed her goodnight and went home.”

“She seemed all right to you?”

“Same as ever. Normal.”

“And you’ve tried to call her?”

“Course I have, man. Dozens of times. I got voicemail first of all, but now I don’t even get that. The phone’s been shut off. That’s when I really started to worry. She’s never done that before. She gave me your number last night—”

“Why did she do that?”

“She’s careful when she’s working. She didn’t know you.”

Milton was as sure as he could be that Trip was telling the truth.

The boy drank off half of his beer and placed the bottle on the table. “Where did you take her?”

“Up to Belvedere. Do you know it?”

“Not really.”

“There’s a gated community up there. She said she’d been up there before.”

“She’s never mentioned it.”

“There’s a couple of dozen houses. Big places. Plenty of money. There was a party there. A big house just inside the gate. She didn’t tell you about it?”

He shook his head. “She never told me anything. Can’t say it’s something I really want to know about, really, so I never ask. I don’t like her doing it, but she’s making money, thousand bucks a night, sometimes—what am I gonna do about that? She makes more in a night than I make in two weeks.”

“Doing what?”

“I work for the electric company—fix power lines, maintenance, that kind of thing.”

“What does she do with the money?”

“She saves it.”

“She have a kid?”

“No,” he said.

Milton nodded to himself: suckered.

“She’s saving as much as she can so she can write. That’s her dream. I suppose I could ask her to stop, but I don’t think she’d pay much attention. She’s strong willed, Mr. Smith. You probably saw that.”

“I did.”

“And anyway, it’s only going to be a temporary thing—just until she’s got the money she needs.” He took another swig from the bottle. Milton noticed his hands were shaking. “What happened?”

“I dropped her off, and then I waited for her to finish.”

“And?”

“And then I heard a scream.”

“Her?”

“Yes. I went inside to get her.” He paused, wondering how much he should tell the boy. He didn’t want to frighten him more than he already was, but he figured he needed to know everything. “She was in a state,” he continued. “She looked terrified. She was out of it, too. Wouldn’t speak to me. I don’t even know if she saw me.”