Chocolate Quake (20 page)

My phone rang, news from my Russian snitch. Timatovich evidently liked his vodka and talked too much when he was drinking. He’d let it be known among his closest friends that he’d overheard a telephone conversation where he worked and had the goods on the accountant, who was cooking the books for fun and profit. So the bitch couldn’t get him fired, according to Alexi, because he could get her fired. In fact, he was going to horn in on her scam and get rich, send his kid off to college in style with a car and money for a fraternity. Did they have fraternities at Cal Tech?

That was last week’s news. On Sunday Timatovich was crying in his Smirnoff with his good friends because someone had killed the bitch, so she couldn’t get him fired, but she wasn’t going to make him rich either.

That pretty much wiped him out as a suspect. He’d had good reason to keep her alive. I called Carolyn to say I couldn’t make it until ten. She wasn’t pleased, but since I had a call on another line, I had an excuse to get off before she could enlarge on her displeasure. My next caller was in-house, my second computer hacker. Eric Timberlite was rumored to use mob guys to drive poor tenants out of rent-controlled buildings that he wanted to restore or tear down. The rapidity with which these buildings had cleared supported the rumors, in Simon’s opinion. Also some of Timberlite’s less-successful real estate ventures had burned down in the past. Suspicion of arson. Last, my hacker had heard from a software engineer who worked for the great man that Timberlite had been overheard ordering his wife to make the Women of Color stop protesting. If she didn’t get it done, she’d have to resign, stay home, and give up her connection to the socially prominent Nora Hollis.

Didn’t put him in a very favorable light, but the information didn’t implicate Timberlite in Denise Faulk’s murder. So, mark him off unless others didn’t check out. I told my secretary I was leaving and headed for the Tenderloin. If Carolyn thought the Tres Hermanos neighborhood was scary, she’d have had a heart attack over this one.

Froggie lived and worked in a third-floor walk-up. The halls and stairs smelled like piss, but his place was clean and stuffed with electronics, tools of the modern counterfeiter. He had a bed, unmade, in a second room, which also doubled as a kitchen. Great quarters. “You oughta look into one of those loft-living spaces they built for the dot.commers and never managed to sell,” I advised Froggie after introducing myself. “They’re goin’ cheap.”

“Not cheap enough for me. Anyway, it’s the work I like. I don’t give a shit about the accommodations. So, what can I do for you? You need a passport or something?”

“Information. You know a woman named Bad Girl?”

“Why you wanna know?”

“She’s gone missing. I’m trying to find her for a friend named Corky.” A little timely lying is an important talent for someone in my business.

“Sure, Corky. Runs a shelter in the Haight. If Bad Girl sleeps inside, which she don’t do much, she sleeps there or with me. How long’s she been outa touch?”

“Corky hasn’t seen her since last week.” I didn’t mention that Carolyn had seen her Monday.

“Huh.” Froggie turned to a printer and inspected the slowly emerging product. “I seen her last Tuesday week. She come in for her bus pass and our monthly fuck.”

“Yeah, I heard you get it on with her. That must be something. Doing a schizo.”

“Well, it’s weird ’cause she talks to herself. Even when we’re in bed.” He gestured toward the twin bed in the other room. “An’ I’d like it better if she’d take a bath. I offered her my bathroom, but she don’t like to take her clothes off. Hell, how many girls you know do it wearin’ their sneakers?”

Using a magnifying glass, he examined the finished page. I politely refrained from getting close, being more interested in information than his business activities.

Froggie nodded his head approvingly. “You ever need a passport or a birth certificate, anything like that, I’m your man.”

“Thanks. About the girl.”

“Oh yeah. Well, looking like I do, it’s not as if I can afford to be too choosy. Anyway, I kinda like her. She’s different.”

It was easy to see where Froggie got his nickname. He had the squashed-in face and croaky voice that went with amphibians that spend time sitting on lily pads. Maybe Martina L. King thought he’d turn into a prince one night. “So you got any idea how I could find her?”

“Ridin’ the bus. That’s what she does. That’s why she puts out for me. She’s got no money, an’ she wants to ride the bus.”

“Last time she was seen was late afternoon. Does she have any favorite evening buses?” I asked. If she’d been on one last Thursday at the right time, she hadn’t killed Denise Faulk, or if she’d been on one later and had killed Denise, she might have been seen with blood on her by passengers or driver.

“She likes the number eighteen that goes up to the Legion of Honor. The driver don’t hassle her, an’ she says her folks like the view up there. That’s who she talks to, but they ain’t here. They’re dead. Old man died in prison after he killed the mother. Gotta feel sorry for a girl don’t hardly talk to no one but dead people. She’s probably jus’ ridin’ around and sleepin’ up on the golf course. That’s what she does.”

“Thanks.” I bought a fake driver’s license just to be friendly. Then I went back to the street and my bike, which was being circled by two would-be bike thieves. I picked one up by the back of his belt and lifted him, screeching, away from my Harley. The other one ran. Well, I had a bus number. All I had to do was find whoever had been driving last Thursday night. Not that I considered Bad Girl much of a suspect. Too pathetic to be a successful murderer. I glanced at my watch. Almost ten. I’d have to shift out of Froggie language to appease Carolyn.

31

Abuser and Wife

 

Some mornings are
impossible. After that tremor that didn’t wake Jason, he woke me before sunrise to say goodbye, promising to be back by 6:30. Then Paul Labadie called at 7:30 and woke me up again to give me the names of three restaurants he thought I’d want to try for my column. While taking down Paul’s recommendations, I noticed the answering machine blinking, something I’d forgotten to look for last night.

The message was from Vera. “Be sure that they’re expecting Jesusita at the center. She’ll be out of jail by noon and go straight over. And Carolyn, Margaret tells me that you showed up at the center on a motorcycle and joined the Interfaith Women for one of their peculiar meetings. I suppose you know by now that they think they’re witches. Still, I’m relieved to hear that you’ve taken up new interests. Your father-in-law and I enjoyed riding his motorcycle when we were young and foolish.”

That was news to me.

“At least you’ve given up investigating the murder for pursuits less dangerous, although motorcycle riders should wear leather clothing, which protects their skin, if not their bones. Of course, nothing protects the head except a helmet. I hope you have one. I’ll let you know when that female detective arrives to apologize and release me.”

Ah, Vera,
I thought,
how little you know.
I called the center to remind them about Jesusita. Working Women wasn’t open, but the director’s secretary, back from childbirth, took the message. She advised me not to come in myself because the director didn’t like me and was in a foul mood. I had no more than thrown myself back in bed and closed my eyes when my alarm went off. I rose, grumbling, to dress for my nine o’clock appointment with Sam, who called at 9:00 to say he wouldn’t be by until 10:00. So there I was with an hour to waste and nothing in the house for breakfast. Fine. Sam could buy me breakfast to make up for arriving late. I started calling restaurants and got, by using Paul’s name and my profession, reservations at Foreign Cinema—what an odd name—for tonight, La Folie for tomorrow, and Delfina for Friday. Then I called the airline and confirmed our reservation to fly home Saturday evening after the anniversary celebration at the center. With luck Sam and I would have cleared Vera by then.

Sam showed up at 10:10 and took me down the hill to Bob’s Donuts, and here I’d been fantasizing about Eggs Benedict. While we were waiting for said donuts, I told him about one Frank Marrayat, who couldn’t afford eggs for breakfast in San Francisco during the Gold Rush, so ordered the less-expensive “Fricassee de Lapin,” which turned out to be squirrel, not rabbit. “He liked squirrel, can you imagine?”

“Sure,” Sam replied. “He’s the guy who was so hungry he said he wouldn’t have refused a ‘fat Sacramento rat.’ ”

“You know everything, don’t you?”

“Well, I know we have to go next door for coffee.” He picked up the Sam-size bag of donuts, and we left. Next door I discovered that Sam had ordered me an apple fritter; it was large enough to feed a family of four. While I nibbled, he told me of his morning calls and his visit to a counterfeiter named Froggie, who had given him the number of a bus route Bad Girl was known to travel. I complained about being excluded from the Froggie visit, which sounded quite interesting—I’ve never met a counterfeiter—but Sam said he was saving me for Ray Faulk’s wife. He considered the stepson an excellent candidate to take Vera’s place in jail and thought a respectable woman more likely to get information from Mrs. Faulk than a scary man like himself. How could I argue with that?

En route to Mrs. Faulk’s house, Sam actually took a call on his cell phone. If people got killed talking on cell phones while driving cars, how much more dangerous to do so on a motorcycle. I tried to get him to hang up, but by the time I’d secured his attention, we’d stopped at a red light, and Sam told me to shut up—not very polite—because his snitch was reporting on Freddie Piñon.

“We may have lost Freddie,” he admitted gloomily as we parked near the Faulk house. “He was seen standing drinks for some of his gangbanger buddies and bragging that he was going to buy a car and drive to LA.” Sam sighed. “Unless we develop some good evidence against him, we won’t be able to get him back.”

“My poor mother-in-law. She could go to prison because we didn’t catch Freddie Piñon before he left town.”

“We don’t know he’s gone yet. It’s not that easy to buy a car when the cops are looking for you. And if he killed Denise, he’s going to think they are, and living in a vacant building isn’t the place to hear about who’s been arrested instead of you. My snitch says Freddie can’t read, so he’s mostly got no access to news.

“Now about your talk with Mrs. Faulk. Remember he’s abused her so she’s scared of him, and with Denise dead, she’s got no one to protect her. You’ll have to be careful, but what you want to find out is where he was Thursday night. I’ll be in that coffee shop across the street, keeping an eye on who goes in and out of the house. Ask for him. If he’s not there, say you want to talk to her. If he answers the door, say you got the wrong address. If she goes to get him, run. If he comes home, I’ll follow him in to be sure you stay safe. OK?”

It was frightening to think that Mr. Faulk might attack me, but if he was the murderer. . . . Still, I felt reasonably safe with Sam as my protector, and I didn’t have to tell Jason about this. Sam headed for the coffee shop and I, for the narrow row house.

As I climbed the steps, I cast a last glance at the coffee shop that held Sam and then one through the front bay window. San Francisco must have more bay windows per capita than any city in the United States. I could see into the living room where a woman in a gray dress sat on a sofa with her hands folded in her lap. She was perfectly still. I rang the bell twice before she answered. When I asked for the “man of the house,” she replied that he was at work. When I followed my first request with one to speak to her, she nodded and motioned me in without even asking my business. A strange woman.

Glancing at a card I took from my purse, as if consulting the printing there, I said, “Are you Mrs. Teresa Faulk?” She nodded. It’s hard to strike up a conversation with a person who has nothing to say. “I’m from the Union Street Center.” At that she looked up, and her eyes glistened, perhaps with tears. “My name is Carolyn Blue.” She nodded. “My mother-in-law has been arrested for the murder of yours.”
What a subtle approach, Carolyn.
“I’m so sorry about Mrs. Faulk’s demise.”

“Denise was a wonderful woman,” she said. “And I’m sure your mother-in-law is a fine woman. I am sorry for her predicament.”

“Thank you. I wondered if you or your husband have any idea who might have disliked Mrs. Faulk enough to kill her.”

“My husband did not like her. He did not even allow me to go to her memorial service. However, he was at work the night she was killed, as he is every night after dinner.”

“I believe she was attacked between 8:30 and 9:00.”

“Then he was at the Faulk Building south of Market Street. It is still called the Faulk Building although my father-in-law sold the company before his death. Now my husband works harder than ever.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said politely. “I understand that your mother-in-law was very helpful during a time when you had some . . . ah . . . trouble with your husband.”

“Yes, my husband broke my jaw and arm because he was very angry that I went back to work. However, you should understand that we were happy for many years. I came to San Francisco from the Philippines to work as a nurse in a hospital. There I met my husband, who was having his tonsils out. Removal of tonsils can be very troublesome for an adult. I felt very sorry for my husband, and we fell in love.”

She spoke in a monotone, staring at her hands, her face quite expressionless. Was this typical of an abused wife? “But he did not want you to work after you were married?”

“I only found that out when I secured a job as a nurse in a doctor’s office after our second child began school. I did not have enough to do and thought he would be pleased to have the extra income since we had just bought this house. Such was the way in America, I thought. But my husband beat me for displeasing him. The second time this happened, I had to quit my job to keep secret my shame.”