Ellipsis (29 page)

“Anytime.”

“Their lawyers will be all over you, too. Trying to break down your testimony.”

“I've dealt with lawyers before. If it gets to be a problem, I'll get one of my own.”

“We could send someone down to advise you, I'm sure.”

“I'll let you know.”

“Well …”

“Well …”

“I should be going.”

I smiled. “Yes, you should.”

Her voice lowered to a lusty hum. “What I'd really like to do is make love.”

“Me, too.”

“Right here, right now.”

“Me, too.”

“Some sort of posttraumatic stress, I guess.”

I laughed.

“Well …”

“Well …”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

This time we got the job done.

I drove home on automatic pilot, glad the ambush had worked out, glad Jill was glad, too, glad the police department might be a shade more upright in the months to come, glad I'd helped put Chandelier and Millicent and Violet and Eleanor out of danger. But my reverie was broken when I turned into my street and saw enough red lights to suggest all of the cops in the city were congregating at my doorstep.

I pulled to the curb and stopped, in the grip of the sudden fear that a gang war of sorts had begun, a struggle between good cops and bad for control of the department and in some sense the soul of the city. I took my gun out of its holster and laid it in my lap. Then I waited to see if the remnants of the Triad had come to exorcise me before I could do any more harm to their cause.

But the longer I waited the less sense it made. If they came for me at all, it would be a sneak attack from cover, an anonymous assault in a city that was full of anonymous assaults, not the obvious extravaganza taking place down the street. Something else must have happened; something other than my hunch.

Normally I park in the garage beneath the building, but the way was blocked by an ambulance and a squad car. As I pulled to the curb for the second time, two EMTs emerged from my building shepherding a body on a gurney. The body was entirely draped in blue blankets, and the flashing lights on the ambulance suddenly went dark—sure signs that someone had died under my roof. With a jolt of anger and adrenaline, it occurred to me that the corpse might have been in the way of a weapon that had been targeted at me.

When I opened the door to the building, I came face-to-face with a uniformed cop. He crossed his arms and inspected me as though I were stark naked. “You have business here, sir?”

Because of the events of the evening, I was sure I looked capable of whatever crime had just been committed. “I live here,” I explained.

“Where?”

I pointed up. “Apartment three.”

“How long have you lived there?”

“Almost twenty years.”

“You know the woman in two?”

“Pearl. Pearl Gibson. Did something happen to her?”

“She's dead.”

I sighed. “Who did it?”

The cop blinked and stepped back and put his hand on his weapon. “Now why would you say something like that?”

“I don't know. It just came to mind.”

“She was an old woman. Seems to me what would come to your mind would be stroke. Or maybe heart attack. Not homicide.”

“I saw her two days ago. She seemed as healthy as you do.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” he said, looking me over even more closely, as if to prove his point.

“I'd like to know what happened to her,” I said while the inventory was still in progress.

He ignored me. “Where were you earlier this evening, Mr.…?”

“Tanner.”

“Tanner.”

I nodded.

Something came to his mind and he voiced it. “You're the guy who killed Sleet.”

“Afraid so.”

“You were his buddy.”

“Yes.”

“He forced your hand.”

I nodded.

The cop stuck out his hand. “Hollingsworth. Central Station. Charley was the best cop in the city.”

“Yes, he was.”

“They say you did him a favor.”

“I hope so.”

In response to some inner rhetoric, the cop made a decision to trust me. “Know anything about the old woman?”

“Not much. She was a little eccentric but she was nice. So it wasn't a violent death?”

He shook his head. “Not according to the ME at this point. Of course it's not official till the PM.”

“When you find out for sure, will you let me know?”

“Sure.”

He started to turn away but I grabbed his arm. “How come you're here, anyway?”

He shrugged. “All I know is someone called it in as possible foul play.”

“Who?”

“Don't know.”

“How long has she been dead?”

“Not more than twelve hours.”

“How did the caller know about it?”

“Don't know that either. You might talk to dispatch at the station.” He touched his hat like someone out of Dickens. “Have a good evening. We should be out of here in a few minutes.”

“Take care. And thanks.”

He turned away, then turned back. “You still didn't tell me where you were this evening.”

“You'll read about it in the morning papers.”

Chapter 31

I slept late and stayed in bed even later. Although I should have been thinking about Jill Coppelia or Chandelier Wells or any number of other people nearer the core of my life, I spent most of my time thinking about Pearl Gibson.

After Hollingsworth had left the scene, another cop asked me if I knew any of Pearl's next of kin. I told him I didn't. Then he asked if I knew if she had any close friends. Although it occurred to me the mailman might qualify, I told him I didn't know of any. After they hauled her off to the morgue, I calculated my liquid assets with a view toward assuming the expense of her burial, since I seemed to be the only option that could keep her out of potter's field.

Inevitably, thinking about Pearl made me think about age and my birthday. And thinking about age and my birthday made me think about the future. More specifically, it made me wonder whether I could, in good conscience, keep doing what I had done for a living the past twenty years.

I had made plenty of mistakes over that time, but they had not usually turned out fatal, or even often embarrassing, until lately. But then I'd shot Charley Sleet. And in the case before this one—the death of a young woman down near Salinas—I'd made so many miscalls the local sheriff thought I was both nuts and inept. And just this week my unprofessionally romantic impulse to do a favor for Jill Coppelia had cost Wally Briscoe his life, not to mention that my tug-of-war with a gang like the Triad could have put my only child in jeopardy. As if that weren't enough, the woman I loved wanted me to quit my job and move somewhere I could cultivate a nice tan.

There were subjective aspects to the issue as well. Now that Charley was dead and I no longer had a sidekick, I wasn't all that crazy about the job any longer. Plus, other people's problems, particularly those brought on by stupidity or self-indulgence, which in my experience is most of them, seemed to provoke my ire more than my sympathy these days. Also, by any measure of the concept, I could no longer argue, even to my inner self, that I was much of a success at my trade. All of which would seem to resolve the issue except for one thing—I was broke.

I'd always been broke, more or less, but had usually been content to be thus, given the toll of being otherwise. But I was only a few weeks short of fifty. I needed to create some financial security. IRAs; 401(k)s; mutual funds; annuities. I needed all the stuff they prattle on about on CNBC to become part of my life.

Or maybe that was silly. Maybe my retirement plan was already in place. Ruthie had money to burn. She would pay me a handsome wage just to keep Conrad out of the house most of the day or to water her roses or whatever. And if Jill and I stayed together, I could sit back and let her pay the bills while I fished or played checkers or surfed the Web or did any of a number of other things retired people claim are fascinating. Jill seemed willing to participate in such an arrangement, and she certainly had the wherewithal to support me far beyond the style to which I've become accustomed.

All well and good, except if my life meant anything at all, it meant that morally and philosophically such arrangements were taboo. Under the Tanner Tenets, there are certain things a man doesn't do—lie doesn't cook anything fancier than tuna sandwiches, he doesn't pay more than ten bucks for a haircut, he doesn't drink herbal tea, he doesn't watch PBS, and he doesn't live off of women.

But if Ruthie and Jill were out, where did that leave me? Looking for another line of work, presumably. But what? I had no particular skills, no particular expertise, no particular passions at this stage of the game. I'm not on-line, I'm not into wine, I'm not long in the stock market, I'm not transported by popular music. I'm neither notably energetic nor productively aggressive, and with fewer and fewer exceptions, I don't care for my fellow citizens a whole lot. I couldn't work with someone who thought he was my boss or with someone who believed I was his. So what the hell could I do? As with most questions I pose in the morning hours, nothing comforting came to mind.

In the nature of a diversion, I called Jill at the office. When she answered, I asked how it had gone at the arraignment.

“They all got bail but Hardy.”

“Any of them looking for a deal yet?”

“All of them, almost. Hardy's going to be hit by a ton of adverse testimony. Even Jake Hattie won't get him out of this one.”

“Jake's his lawyer?”

“And proud of it, so he says.”

“How's Hardy affording Jake's tab?”

“We think Hardy made a fortune from his Triad operation. We're trying to trace his assets, but it's going to be tough. Hardy's not stupid and he can afford to pay someone to help him hide them.”

“Do you think the Triad is out of business at this point?”

“Pretty much. Oh. I've been talking with Lark McLaren. I sent one of our computer people over to Ms. Wells's house and he's found stuff under a hidden file named Wally B. that has even more on the Triad than Briscoe gave us at the grand jury. Lots of names; lots of crimes; lots of narrative links. He spilled his guts to the woman for some reason.”

“I think the reason was Charley Sleet. I think Wally figured, with his help, the next Chandelier Wells magnum opus could serve as Charley's memorial.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Not to a moral certainty. But Wally was a good guy and he thought Charley was God.”

“So did you, you know.”

I laughed because I'd just had the same thought myself.

“Want to have lunch?” she asked. “My treat.”

“Can't. I've got things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Call Cleveland, for one. Oh. Remember Pearl, the lady who lived below me?”

“Sure. She's a sweetheart.”

“She died last night.”

“Murdered?” Jill blurted.

“My reaction exactly, but apparently not. Probably natural causes, pending the final PM. My question is, what if she has no friends or no next of kin? Who takes care of her stuff and who arranges for burial?”

“The public administrator, if there's no will and no family. The current administrator's a man named Hardesty. Nice guy.”

“You know him?”

“A little.”

“Would you ask him to look into it for me? Pearl Gibson was her name. I don't want her lying around the morgue any longer than she has to. Tell him if there's a money problem, I'll take care of the funeral.”

“I didn't know you were that close to her.”

“She was a neighbor.”

Jill waited for more, but I didn't have any. “Okay. I'll give Hank a call. You're a good man, Marsh Tanner.”

“Only on special occasions.”

After I hung up, I called the Cleveland number Millicent Colbert had given me. When I told her it was safe for her and Eleanor to come back to the city, her relief was audible. “Are you sure?”

“Reasonably.”

“Is that enough?”

“I think so.”

She hesitated. “Stuart called. He's quite upset.”

“I don't blame him.”

“He wonders if it's a good idea for you to come to the house any longer.”

“I don't blame him,” I repeated as a tremor swept through my veins. I envisioned Stuart blocking the door to his house the way George Wallace had blocked the door to the university.

“Or see Eleanor at all in the future,” Millicent expanded.

My words were desperate and automatic. “I don't blame him. But I'm going to make it all right from now on.”

“How?”

“I'm going to quit my job.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“And do what?”

“No idea.”

“I can't see you working nine to five, somehow.”

“Maybe I could help Stuart dress the models for the fashion shows.”

Millicent wasn't sure I was joking. “I guess we don't need to discuss this now.”

“Probably not.”

“We'll fly back in the morning.”

“Good. I'll meet you at—”

“Stuart can make the arrangements,” she said with uncharacteristic primness. “But thank you. I'll call when we get home.”

“Good.”

“Eleanor's at the grocery with her aunt Margaret, or I'd put her on.”

“Tell her hi for me.”

“I will. Thanks for calling, Marsh. And for doing whatever you did to make things right.”

“Tell Stuart I won't let anything happen. To either of you.”

“I will.”

“He won't believe it, but it will be true.”

In the grip of a wild foreboding that the worst thing that could possibly happen to me might be in danger of actually occurring, I got in the car and drove across the bay to Alta Bates. If the Colberts put Eleanor off limits, the death of Charley Sleet would seem like a tailgate party.