Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (48 page)

"Dammit!"

My vehement response made him draw back. "Well," he said, "I'm sure he'd have thought twice about it, had he known how put out you'd be."

"It's not that, and you know it. I'm upset for Rae; Doug's problems are already more than she can handle. What is it that makes you think he tried to kill himself?"

"He was taken to SF General early yesterday morning, but when she called at eight
this
morning, she was as upset as if it had just happened. More upset than you would be over a simple case of food poisoning. Besides, she said something about them having to keep him under observation for seventy-two hours."

"Ah." Seventy-two hours is the length of time hospitals are required to psychologically evaluate would-be suicides. "I suppose I should try to reach her—"

"She said she'd call you at home tonight."

I nodded and took the message slips upstairs, wondering how this turn of events would affect her performance and future at All Souls. Then I pushed the thought to one side and began working my way through the stack of messages.

It was the noon hour; most of the people I tried to call were out at lunch. I dragged the phone book out of the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet and looked up the area code for Hollister, then got numbers from Information for both the Burning Oak Ranch offices and Frank Wilkonson's home. As I'd expected, Wilkonson hadn't come into the office that morning; the secretary's businesslike tone was underscored with uneasiness. When I called his home number, it rang eight times before Jane Wilkonson answered.

"Mrs. Wilkonson, it's Alissa Hernandez."

"Who?"

"Alissa Hernandez. From Allstate. We talked on Friday—"

"Oh, of course I remember." She sounded sluggish, as if I had awakened her, and it made her Texas twang more pronounced.

"I've been trying to reach your husband, but they tell me he didn't report for work this morning. Is he at home? If he's available, I need to speak with him."

"He's… no, he's not here."

"I see. Do you have a number where I can reach him?"

"… No."

"You don't know where he is, then?"

"No, I don't."

"Did he make his weekly trip on Saturday evening?"

Long pause. "Yes. He left at quarter to ten, same as always."

"But he didn't come back this morning."

"No."

"And you have no idea where he intended to go, what he intended to do?"

"I told you he never says anything about that." The sluggishness was gone now, the pitch of her voice sharpened by nervousness, or perhaps fear.

"Did he act differently before he left? Differently than the other times?"

"I don't know what you mean by that."

"Was he excited? In a hurry? Nervous?"

"No. Everything was normal."

Except it was hardly a normal situation to begin with. "Have you contacted the sheriff, Mrs. Wilkonson? The hospitals?"

"… I can't."

"Why not?"

"I can't, that's all." She paused, then added, "Look, Ms. Hernandez, I shouldn't have told you all the things I did on Friday. It's private business, between Frank and me. Will you just forget what I said?"

"It will remain private, yes." I wasn't sure that would be possible in the long run, but there was no point in further alarming her now.

"Thanks. I better get off the phone now. Frank might be trying to call me."

"All right. Why don't I check back with you later this afternoon?"

"What for?"

"I'm concerned for you. I'd just like to know everything's all right."

Jane Wilkonson's reply was tinged with surprise. "Thank you," she said. "It's nice to know
somebody
cares."

Even if that somebody was practically a stranger.

As soon as we were done talking, I dialed the SFPD, so I wouldn't be forced to dwell on the unhappy implications of Jane Wilkonson's last statement. Gallagher was in the squad room.

"Any progress on the Goldring investigation?" I asked.

"What, are you making sure you're getting your taxpayer's dollar's worth?" There was an edge to Ben's words—and I knew all too well why. San Francisco has a very low solution rate for homicides—at last report, the second-worst in urban California. Four out of every ten murders in the last decade have gone unsolved. When you're one of the investigators accountable for such a figure, you naturally become defensive.

I said, "I'm just interested, that's all. The guy was my client."

"Sorry—it's Monday. You know Mondays."

"I sure do. Are you still concentrating on Bob Choteau?"

"Yeah. The son of a bitch has vanished into the park."

"What about other leads? Did you ever find out who Goldring's ten o'clock appointment was with?"

"… No."

"I suppose you checked his list of customers. You
do
have a list of men who bought their shirts from him?"

"Of course we do."

"Any chance of me getting a look at it?"

"No."

"Ben—"

"Sharon, you forget how long I've known you and how you operate. Maybe you can get away with sticking your nose where it doesn't belong when it's one of the lieutenant's cases, but not when it's mine. No list." And then he hung up on me.

I took the receiver from my ear and raised my eyebrows at it. The years certainly
had
changed Gallagher. In fact, he sounded remarkably like Lieutenant Greg Marcus—with one exception. Greg had respected my instincts almost from the first; had I called
him
asking about the list of Goldring's customers, he'd have wondered what I was on to, and insisted on hearing it all.

Still, I could understand Gallagher's one-track approach to the investigation. Random killings—those where there is no discoverable connection between the victim and the murderer—account for roughly three-quarters of San Francisco's homicides. When an investigator turns up a lead that indicates a link between the victim and his killer, he pursues it relentlessly. Besides, by now Gallagher had more immediate cases to attend to; the Goldring murder had happened a week ago, was old stuff. Most homicide investigations—unless the victim is exceptionally prominent or controversial—are back-burnered after seventy-two hours, simply because the odds of cracking a case have been proven to drop dramatically after three days have elapsed. I knew that from my frequent visits to Greg Marcus's office; I'd seen the boxed case files stacked against the walls of the squad room. The department is too overworked and understaffed to pursue them, unless by some miracle a fresh lead turns up.

It was these problems that were making Gallagher behave as he had with me. And it was the same set of problems that made me reluctant to call him back and tell him why the list of Goldring's customers was important to me, and even less inclined to tell him where Bob Choteau was hiding. The facts I possessed about Frank Wilkonson and Irene Lasser were too nebulous to constitute the fresh lead he needed, and if he made the collar on Choteau, he'd close out the file and turn it over to the district attorney. Once closed, the investigation would be extremely difficult to reopen. Once Choteau was charged, I might never be able to interest Gallagher in an alternate suspect. And worse yet, an innocent man might be convicted. I tapped my fingers on the desk and stared out the window at the line of fog that hovered to the south, somewhere over Daly City. Would the offices of Goldring Clothiers still be open? I wondered. If so, Mrs. Halvorsen, the woman who seemed to run things there, would be able to help me.

Mrs. Halvorsen was, she explained on the phone, staying on until the company could be sold. "The sale was stipulated in Mr. Goldring's will," she added, "since there are no heirs to carry on the business."

"What about Irene and Susan Lasser?"

"Them? Oh, they're not relatives, and those were just small bequests. I know because I witnessed the will."

"You know Irene Lasser, then?"

"Of course. She's a delightful woman, came to visit often. She gave Mr. Goldring all the plants that we have here in the offices, you know."

"I don't quite understand the relationship. If Irene's not family…"

"Well, she practically is. Irene's father and Mr. Goldring were roommates at college, and even after Mr. and Mrs. Lasser died, she kept in touch. Then, after her divorce, when she needed a job, Mr. Goldring arranged for her to work for one of his customers."

"Gerry Cushman."

"Yes. It was an ideal situation; the Cushmans needed someone to look after their little girls, as a live-in; they have plenty of room, and no objection to a woman with a little girl of her own. Also, I've the impression there was some need for security for Irene—a jealous ex-husband, perhaps—and The Castles is about as well protected as anyplace in the city. But here I've been babbling on. What can I help you with?"

I wished I'd thought to talk to Mrs. Halvorsen earlier; it would have saved me a great deal of trouble. "You've already answered my question," I said. "Thank you so much."

It was after one, time to try to return my calls again. But before I started in, I looked up the Abbott School and dialed its number. Classes let out, the switchboard told me, at three-thirty.

At three-twenty I leaned against a plane tree in front of the school. The Cushman BMW, with Irene Lasser at the wheel, had just joined the line of cars idling in the street. Soon a school bus drove up and blocked my view of it—which was fine, because it also blocked Irene's view of me.

In truth, I felt a bit like a pervert lurking around the schoolyard; when the Cushman kids appeared it probably would be all I could do to keep myself from asking if they wanted to see my Walnetto. I found myself grinning, then glanced guiltily around to see if anyone was staring at me. Why, at tense times such as this, did I often lapse into mental silliness—such as recalling the old gag from the long-dead TV show
Laugh-In
?

At three-thirty kids began to emerge from the school. I don't know why I expected them to be sedate; kids of affluent families don't hold any more of an option on good behavior than the working-class McCones had. But the exuberance with which these leapt and bounded out the doors and raced toward the buses and expensive automobiles caught me off guard. In the confusion I almost missed Betsy Cushman coming along the sidewalk in the company of a slightly older girl who resembled her so closely that she had to be her sister Lindy. Betsy's green uniform skirt was badly wrinkled, and her white blouse hung untucked on one side. Her lackadaisical walk emphasized her chunkiness. Lindy was taller and more slender, but she hunched her shoulders; her long blond hair looked greasy and snarled. Both of them seemed as downcast as if they'd just received bad report cards.

I shook my head, feeling for them. Mom was too busy to notice their appearance. But what about Irene—Rina, to them? Wasn't it her job to see that these kids were properly groomed and clothed? The entire Cushman household seemed to be on a downslide, with Lindy and Betsy its innocent victims.

Quickly I moved away from the tree and went to greet Betsy. "Hi," I said. "Remember me—your mom's friend Sharon?"

The girl's face brightened and she turned to her sister. "Lindy, remember I told you, the other day…"

Lindy, however, was her mother's daughter. She stopped and looked me up and down critically. "You came to see Mom on Thursday. She yelled at Betsy because we wanted to make popcorn, and later that night she threw a fit."

"I guess you're pretty tired of that, huh?"

"You bet we are. So is Dad. She's driving him crazy, and us crazy, and we're afraid if it keeps up Rina will quit—" She broke off, scanning the street. "Where
is
Rina?"

"Over there, behind the bus." I started shepherding them that way. "What do you think is wrong with your mom?"

Lindy shrugged. "She's going nuts. It happens. My friend Judy's mother went bananas and cut her wrists and there was blood all over the bathroom before they could break down the door. Gross."

I thought of my own childhood; at the time it had seemed I had innumerable crosses to bear. My father had been a Chief Petty Officer in the Navy, and at sea a good deal of the time; Ma had had to hold the family together pretty much on her own. We'd never had enough money for the things each of us thought he or she needed. The house had seemed far too small for all seven of us, and I'd spent my teens praying for peace and quiet. But nobody had ever cut her wrists in the bathroom; nobody had gone bananas.

I said gently, "Well, I'm sure it won't come to that with your mom."

"You don't know that," Betsy said. We were at the curb now. I was surprised to feel her hand slip into mine preparatory to crossing the street. "Mom's getting worse all the time," she added. "She threw a real bad fit Saturday night."

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody's got to tell us." Lindy's voice was bitter and years older than the eleven or twelve I judged her to be. "We can
hear
when they leave a window open."

"What exactly did you hear?" I slowed my pace, giving her time to talk before we got to the car.

"The usual stuff. Mom was screaming at Dad about him having an affair." At my swift glance, she added, "Yeah, we know all about affairs. He said he wasn't. She screamed some more and said he was behaving like a fool, that he was going to ruin everything. She said he wouldn't have done what he did for
her
. Then she threatened to tell where… then there was glass breaking. When she really gets going she throws stuff."

It fit with what Vicky had told me—that the argument had been merely another episode in the soap opera of their marriage—and yet in a way it didn't. This affair must be more important than most of Gerry's, for Vicky to claim he was going to "ruin everything." Important, or perhaps too close to home…

"Lindy," I said, "exactly what did she threaten?"

The girls exchanged conspiratorial glances.
We promised each other not to tell
.

"Was she going to tell somebody where Rina is?" I asked.

Lindy nodded.

"Who?"

"I don't know. She just said she would tell."