Cop Out (8 page)

I was amazed by this revelation about Ott. I’d known Herman Ott for nearly a decade, and the only piece of electronic equipment in his office was an answering machine. He used that, presumably, so he’d know what calls he was not going to bother to answer. As for computers, Ott was a computer network unto himself. No apartment was burgled near Telegraph without Ott’s hearing, no corpse cold before he knew. I waited till Kidd sawed through the remainder of the bagel and asked, “Did he send anything to an individual or organization?”

“You mean like the International Kidnap Club?”

“Exactly. Or Harry Houdini the Third.”

“Nah. And don’t think I didn’t look all that time I was in the PO line. Old Herman’s no fool. I coulda promised I wouldn’t peek, but it wouldn’t’ve mattered. No way I wasn’t going to see where those envelopes were going.”

“Why didn’t he just have you drop them in the box?”

“Probably would’ve. But he was sending me for stamps.”

“Every time?” Ott’s business may have been marginal, but he’d been there for a quarter century. He should have had the confidence to buy more than one book of stamps at a time.

“He wouldn’t use the flags. Didn’t like the flowers. Wouldn’t paste a memorial for any general or admiral on his letters. Animals were okay. There was a bird commemorative he went crazy over. State stamps he had to think about. Like Minnesota was fine, and Massachusetts. North Carolina he considered because of all the artists and writers, but he couldn’t bring himself to use it. Jesse Helms’s state, you know.”

I laughed. “And people think it’s easy to be an old rad. Did he have any other state preferences?”

“Like the ‘Hideout State’? No. The post office only puts out commemorative ones now and then.” He leaned back, a share-me smirk on his mouth—as if he were ready to offer a bit more free advice. Or keep it to himself.

“Did you go to the library for him?”

“No.”

“Call the newspaper morgues?”

“No.”

“Did you get any information on mines or mining?”

“No.”

“Was he getting any computer printouts from other sources? Newspaper articles from the Internet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did he have any clients in the office while you were there?”

“Nope.” He pulled the edge of the serape in front of him till the fabric was taut and sat staring at it as if the pattern of colors would reveal the truth. At the far end of the table one of the guys from evening watch settled in to write up a report. Behind their double window one of the swing shift sergeants sat talking on the phone; the other perched atop his desk, back to us, reports in hand, ear cocked automatically toward his shoulder radio. Kidd released the red cotton. “Well, Ott may have had one or two clients come in. I was hardly there all the time. You can’t exactly tell who’s a client and who’s just wandered into the building to get warm. But I never saw an ashtray or a scarf or anything around that Herman wouldn’t have himself. His clients, you know they’re more likely to stroll in late. I mean, Herman’s there all the time. He sleeps late. I mean, I lost my last job because I was late so often, and with Herman I woke
him
up a couple times.”

“So are you saying he scheduled meetings in the middle of the night?” As soon as the words were out, I felt foolish.
Schedule
was such a formal word for Ott’s operation.

“Well, actually, yeah. This one guy goes to some group that chants at four
A.M.
Herman saw him on his way there.”

“Do you know what he came for?”

“Wanted Herman to check out his incense importer. He was worried he was breathing in unholy pesticides.” Kidd’s smirk widened into a grin. “If you’re poisoned from burning sandalwood and malathion, do you get a free ride into the next life? Or just the assurance your corpse will be free from Mediterranean fruit flies? I asked Herman but…”

“I know. He hates the idea of pesticides. Besides, he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“Particularly about his clients. He almost fired me over that.”

“Because you laughed?”

“No. Because I talked about the client, even to him.”

I nodded. “Did anyone else stop by? Friends, relatives?”

“Does Ott have relatives?”

It was an odd concept. I couldn’t really picture him with friends, much less relatives. What would he do with them if he had them? I could hardly imagine Ott taking a couple of nephews to the A’s game. “So no one came by?”

“Right.”

“What about Brother Cyril? You know who he is, don’t you? Did you see Ott with him or his followers?”

“Ott? You’re kidding, right?”

“He had a little tin cross not an inch long. Bottom comes to a point, like a sword. Did he ever show it to you?”

“Ott? A cross? You gotta be kidding.”

Exactly what I would have said if I hadn’t asked the question. Still, I wondered…“How about on the street? Who did he meet there?”

Kid thrust back in his chair. “You want me to tell you everyone Herman Ott talked to on the street? We’ll be here till next month. Or would if I knew folks here well enough to remember one from the other. I can tell you there’s not a guy sitting on the sidewalk he doesn’t know.”

“Did any contact strike you as unusual?”

He peered at the serape threads again. Finally he looked up, his dark eyes narrowed in concern. “I’ve thought about that: Was there something I should have spotted? But there’s no way to say. Herman didn’t stop and talk to everyone on the Avenue, but it was like he could have if he’d wanted to.”

“What about Serenity Kaetz? She sells jewelry on the street.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Did you see him with a big clean-cut guy in his thirties, with brown hair?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. That’s what I’m telling you. I can’t be sure. But clean-cut…I doubt it.”

“Does the name Bryant Hemming ring a bell?”

“No.” For the first time his shoulders stiffened.

“Are you sure? Give it a little thought.”

“Why? Why is this guy so important?”

I watched Kidd’s face as I said, “Because he’s dead. Because his corpse was in Herman Ott’s office.” Then I added, “But you knew that, didn’t you?” By now everyone on Telegraph would know.

He plunged the last piece of bagel into his mouth.

“Is that a yes?”

He nodded.

“So, Mr. Kidd, you said you saw Herman Ott get into a van or station wagon or RV last night. And then what?”

He was still chewing, a whole lot more slowly than on previous bites.

“Here’s what I’m guessing you did. You went up to Ott’s office to—”

“No!”

“Why not? Why wouldn’t you do that? It’s a whole lot better than sleeping in the car.”

“Ott would’ve killed me if he found out I’ve got a—”

“A key?”

“Yeah, well…”

If he thought Ott hadn’t figured that out, he didn’t know Ott as well as I’d assumed he did. Ott knew his gofers kept keys; when he started out as an assistant to the elderly detective he eventually replaced, he’d been profligate with keys. He’d told me that himself once. He knew keys to his office floated around the Avenue; he knew his lock could be picked. That’s the reason he used his dead bolt.

And the reason it would be left off by someone who had only his door key. I don’t know if Kidd came to that conclusion too, but he said, “Listen, you don’t think that I…I mean, I didn’t even know the guy who bought it. I mean, listen, I had a place to crash last night; there was no reason for me to go to Ott’s anyway.”

I let a moment pass before I said, “I’ve just asked you to come here as a witness. You’re free to go anytime. I’m not accusing you of anything now.” All that was true, but the last word hung in the air between us.

I waited another moment, leaned both elbows on the desk, and looked straight at Charles Kidd. “Ott’s in a bind here. I don’t think he killed Bryant Hemming either. But every moment he’s missing he looks more suspicious. You’re his friend. Help me find him. Think. Did Brother Cyril call Ott? Did Bryant Hemming call him? Did Ott mention either of them? Did anyone else talk about him?”

He stared at the serape, his hand knotted around the fabric. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t remember those names, but that doesn’t mean Ott didn’t know the guys. Why don’t you ask them?”

I tried coming in from a different angle. “What did you do in the office? File things?”

“No.”

“Did you make any calls for him?”

“Nope.”

“Is there anything else you can think of?” When he shook his head, I said, “Weren’t you ever in the office alone? Didn’t the man even go to the bathroom?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s not like I rooted through his files.”

I didn’t say, “But you did copy his key.”

“Wait. I did answer the phone a couple times.”

“Do you remember—”

“Oh, yeah. AT and T offered Herman airline miles. You know Herman hates to fly. Then MCI—”

I almost laughed. I could just picture the old rads around town, a couple of inmates in Santa Rita, the guys in the transient hotels sauntering down the hall to the phone and hearing, “Herman Ott has listed you among his family and friends for a phone discount.” “No personal calls?”

He concentrated on weaving his fingers through the serape fringe, ignoring the fact that the threads were too short to house digits. “Once I came in when he was on the phone with some guy named Bill Loon.”

“Who’s he?”

“Dunno.”

“How do you spell the last name? Lewin? Louwen? Or Loon, like the bird?”

The serape flew out of his hands; he guffawed.

“Do you really know Ott or are you shitting me? I walk in on that conversation. Ott glares at me like I’m a fed eavesdropping. I back out into the hall so fast I just about trip over the doorsill. Do you think I came back in and asked for a spelling? But look, there was one other call.” A grin crept onto Kidd’s face. I’d seen Howard with that same “gotcha” expression. “Personal. From the blush on Ott’s face, I’d guess it was damned personal.”

“Really?” I said, amazed. “Did you get a name?”

“Oh, yeah. And I remember it because it didn’t fit the voice. The woman had one of those gravelly voices, like maybe she’d smoked years back or maybe she’d just
lived
years back. Like she was old, I mean.” He grinned. “You want this a lot, don’t you? How much? I mean all advice isn’t free.”

My hands curled into fists. I shoved them under the desk.

His grin widened. “Okay. The old lady was named Daisy. Daisy Culligan.”

The name meant nothing to me. But it was unusual enough to run through files without a date of birth. No Daisy Culligan had been arrested in Alameda County, had an outstanding warrant in California or the rest of the nation, or had contacted our department to report a theft or complain about a neighbor’s stereo. Nothing.

But there in the phone book was
CULLIGAN D.
And the address listed was in the Berkeley hills, hardly one I would have expected for an inamorata of Herman Ott’s.

I
T WAS LATE TO
be calling an “old lady”—close to midnight—but Daisy Culligan didn’t sound sleepy, and she didn’t sound antiquated. She seemed delighted with the prospect of a visit and more delighted yet that it was to be from a police officer.

“Leave your red and blue lights on. I do like to intrigue the neighbors.”

“I’ll be by in a few minutes, but I can’t promise flashing decorations.”

I dropped Kidd up at Telegraph, near one of the shelters I knew he wouldn’t use, and popped into Ott’s office to give Doyle an update and check when the scene would be clear.

I took the crowd outside by surprise when I raced into the building. Leaving it was like walking into a wall. Jason Figueroa and his cameraman were at the front of a pack of new people. I didn’t stop to note faces, but Figueroa knew mine. The camera light glazed my face. “Officer Smith, what can you tell us about Bryant Hemming’s murder?”

“Ask the press officer.”

“Execution style?”

It wasn’t, but I didn’t stop to illuminate him on that.

“Hemming was all set to go to Washington and mediate between powerful forces who could have a lot to lose, right?”

I kept moving, the camera operator polkaing alongside. Figueroa popped in front of me. “Officer, this is an important story. Bay Area viewers are very distressed about Bryant Hemming’s murder. They’re anxious to know what’s being done to find the man…or
men
…who slew him. What leads are you pursuing?”

“Gosh, isn’t that what the Channel Five guys asked an hour ago?” I said straight-faced. The camera light left my face mid-sentence, and as I loped into the dark sidewalk beyond, I could hear Figueroa talking in news cadence about breaking in with the latest developments.

Had Bryant Hemming still been alive, he would have delighted in reminding Figueroa that the average viewer hates having his program commandeered by a teaser for the next newscast. But alas, Hemming wasn’t alive, and Figueroa had too much invested in Hemming to let go.

I couldn’t park outside Daisy Culligan’s house, with my lights flashing or not. Daisy Culligan’s address was not on a street but on one of Berkeley’s paths that bisect the long blocks of north Berkeley.

There are paths all over town and staircases cutting from street to street in the hills, but north Berkeley is the only section in which the paths actually were part of the street plan when the development was built after the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Then the selling point was that the new homeowner could leave his car for the little woman and stroll down the paths to the Alameda, catch the streetcar to the ferry, and on to the office in San Francisco.

The streetcars are long gone, the ferry resurrected only briefly after the Bay Bridge collapsed in the Loma Prieta earthquake, and the paths are used not by harried commuters but by hill dwellers on their way to Peet’s, or on their way home caffè latte cup in hand.

When I realized which path was Daisy Culligan’s, I considered calling Inspector Doyle and removing myself from Ott Patrol. I thought I knew the man, his principles, the circles in which he traveled. If Daisy Culligan, the lovebird of his lustful hopes, the woman who raised a blush to his sallow cheeks, could afford to live
here
, then the real Herman Ott had eluded me all these years.