Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (13 page)

He covered my hand with his. "Don't worry, babe. It'll keep."

"But I think I can explain it now, and I want to—"

"We'll talk. Go do what you have to, and then we'll talk."

Again, it was so easy. Perhaps, when they were this simple and
straightforward, some relationships could work. Perhaps.

It was fairly clear on my side of Twin Peaks, but when I reached
the top of the Seventeenth Street hill, the fog rose up to meet me.
It thickened as I descended into the area near the Medical Center.
The streets were near-deserted and the little stores and cafes seemed
like a backlit stage set, unreal and indistinct. I turned left on
Carl Street and followed the red taillights of an N-Judah streetcar
along the tracks to where they turned at the top of Arguello.

Rounding the corner, I began looking for a parking space, then
slowed almost to a stop. On the other side of the intersection red
and blue lights flashed, their beams highlighting the walls of
crumbling old Kezar Stadium. There were three patrol cars, an
ambulance, and a crowd of onlookers. I took my foot off the brake and
coasted down the hill, past Willie's house. The focus of the crowd's
attention appeared to be under the cypress trees, close to the
stadium.

I didn't like to rubberneck, so I found a parking space between a
motorcycle and a fire hydrant. Then I got out of the car and stood on
the sidewalk, debating about going down. I had just decided there was
no sense in adding one more body to the confusion when a dark sedan
pulled up and a familiar figure emerged—Leo McFate, adjusting
the lapels of his three-piece suit.

McFate's presence meant a homicide—a second homicide in this
vicinity in twenty-four hours. Coincidence? Maybe, but…

I started down the sidewalk, crossed the intersection, and stopped
on the edge of the crowd, next to a tall black man in a ski parka.
"What's happening?" I asked him.

"Looks like some woman got mugged."

A man in the front of me turned and said, "It's a bad place
to be walking at night. People do it anyway, though— cut across
here toward the park. Although why any sensible woman would want to
go into the park at this hour…"

I worked my way deeper into the crowd, toward the stadium.
Normally it would have been pitch dark here under the thick cypress
trees, no floodlights illuminated the high walls of Kezar.

"God knows you won't catch me going out alone at night
anymore," a woman beside me said to her male companion.

"What happened?" I asked again.

"I don't know if it was a rape or a mugging, but either way,
she's dead."

I pushed forward. The crowd was a large one, probably nearby
apartment dwellers and pedestrians who had been going to or from the
Med Center. While the nighttime activity was focused at the top of
Arguello, where the parking garages and streetcar stop were, the
lights from the squad cars would have drawn people down here before
the police had had a chance to cordon off the area. Now they were
starting to move the people back.

I squeezed between two women and stepped into the front row of
onlookers. The ambulance was pulled up near the ticket booth of the
stadium and McFate stood next to it, talking to a patrolman. He held
a fringed leather purse in his hand, and was taking a wallet from it.

A couple of white-coated medics knelt over a figure on the ground,
near the trunk of one of the trees. She wore jeans, boots, and a tan
corduroy jacket. I stepped forward and saw her long blond hair.

I started and put my hand to my mouth, then glanced back at
McFate. He was reading the identification in the wallet. I took a
couple more steps, close enough to see the woman's face, and felt my
stomach tighten. The woman was Alida Edwards.

A patrolman blocked my way. "Stand back, ma'am. You can't go
any closer."

I looked around him at Alida's body.

"Ma'am, please move."

I did as he told me.

Willie, I thought. I've got to tell Willie. He was up there at his
house, waiting for both of us, and Alida was… I turned to go, but
the people formed a solid mass behind me. A sudden motion in the
crowd—some kind of scuffle— attracted my attention and I
looked over to my right. As I did, my glance held on a face about
twenty feet away.

Willie. Pale in the garish light, his expression bleak and
hopeless.

I called his name. His head snapped around. Then his eyes narrowed
and his jaw thrust out defiantly. He whirled and shouldered away
through the crowd.

"Willie!"

I began pushing through the people behind me. They protested, some
muttering obscenities, but I kept going. When I reached the
intersection, Willie was halfway up the street, running toward his
truck.

"Willie! Wait!"

He jumped in the truck without looking back. The engine roared,
the headlights flashed, and he backed into the street. I ran uphill,
still hoping to stop him. But it was too late. The tires squealed as
he took off toward the Med Center and turned right on Irving.

I stood on the sidewalk, staring after Willie's truck. Why had he
panicked and run off from me, of all people? Surely he hadn't killed
Alida.

Or could he have? Just to pose an extremely hypothetical
situation, what if Alida had gotten there right after he'd spoken
with me? They might have quarreled, and he might have killed her…
and then dragged her body down a well-traveled street, dumped it
under the trees by Kezar, and stood around waiting for the police?
Sure.

What had she been doing down there anyway? I wondered. It wasn't
on the route she would have taken to Willie's house from her
apartment. If she was driving, she would have come up Irving and
probably parked in front of Willie's. If she was coming on the
streetcar, she would have gotten off at the stop in front of the
hospital parking garage. Even walking, she would not have approached
his house from that direction.

Okay, she might have been coming from somewhere besides her
apartment. But where? There was nothing down there except the park.
Alida had impressed me as a streetwise lady—she wouldn't walk
through Golden Gate Park alone at night.

But the important thing now was to find Willie. The police already
knew Alida's identity; it would only be a matter of time before they
connected the two of them. If Willie turned up missing when he was
already out on bail for another murder charge, it would be rough for
him.

Where had he gone? The only place I could think of was the Oasis
Bar and Grill.

The Oasis was not nearly so crowded on this Monday night as it had
been yesterday. I checked out the drinkers on the stools, then
wandered toward the back. No Willie. The table where we'd sat beyond
the potted palm was empty.

When I got to the pay phone I dug out a dime and called Hank at
All Souls. There was a long silence after I told him what had
happened.

Finally he said, "Damn him, anyway."

"Running like that
was
a pretty stupid move."

"
Stupid
? The man's gone insane. How am I supposed to
defend him when he acts like that?"

"It won't be easy, unless I find him before the cops connect
him with Alida. Do you think he'd go to a friend, maybe? Someone he
could talk to?"

"Willie's basically a loner. He doesn't have many friends,
except for Alida."

"You said the two of you were friends."

"That's different; it's based on something that happened long
ago. But he'd never turn to me in a crisis—and even if he
would, he's had plenty of time to show up here if he was going to."

"Well, what about his acquaintances from the flea markets?
His runners? Would he go to them?"

"I don't know. I'm beginning to realize I don't know Willie
anymore. You might as well try those people if you can find them."

"Okay, I'll check in later."

I hung up and took the phone book from the shelf. There were no
listings for Roger Beck or Sam Thomas in San Francisco. Monty Adair,
however, had an address in Pacific Heights. Mack Marchetti lived out
in the Avenues, in the Sunset district. It wasn't much, but it was a
place to start.

Monty Adair's building was a highrise on upper Broadway. It had an
elegant marble facade to match the elegant neighborhood, and most of
its windows would command a panoramic view of the Bay. I was
surprised at first that a flea market vendor could afford such a
place, but when I saw the number of mailboxes in the foyer, I
realized the building was merely a rabbit warren of studio
apartments, designed for people with not much money who wanted a good
address. Each studio probably rented for as much as an entire house
in my neighborhood, but there are any number of people who prefer
putting on a front to living in comfort. I rang Adair's bell and he
buzzed me in.

He was on the sixth floor, next to the elevator. When I stepped
out of the car, the door to his apartment was already open. Adair
stood in front of it, wearing jeans and a turtleneck, a thick book in
his hand. A fleeting expression of surprise passed over his sharp
features when he recognized me.

"Sharon, what can I do for you?" He made no move to
invite me in.

"I was wondering if you'd heard from Willie in the past
hour."

"Willie?" He rested the book on his hip. It looked like
a college text, and on the far wall of the apartment, visible through
the open door, were shelves that overflowed with similar volumes. "I
thought Willie was in jail."

"He's out on bail." I debated telling him about Alida's
murder, but decided it would take too much explaining and merely
added, "I need to locate him, but he's not home. I thought he
might be visiting you or one of his other friends."

"You'd never find him here."

"Oh?"

"Willie and I aren't friends. Business associates, yes. But
not friends."

"I see. Do you know anyone he might visit?"

"Alida, of course. Maybe Sam."

"He's not with Alida. And I couldn't find an address for Sam.
Do you know it?"

"No. He lives with a woman. Carolyn something. I can't recall
her last name."

"Oh." I glanced down at the book he held, wondering if
there was anything else I could ask him that might help me. The book
was a history of World War II, and must have run at least eight
hundred pages. "Heavy reading," I said. "Are you a
student?"

"Not in the literal sense. I don't go to school. But I read a
lot of history and political science."

"That looks like more than I'd tackle for an evening's
entertainment."

"I guess most people would feel that way. But I look at it
like this, Sharon: In order to get ahead in this world, you have to
understand why it is the way it is. The best method of doing that is
to understand the past."

"That's very interesting."

"Yes. Perhaps it's one reason Willie and I aren't friends. He
doesn't attempt to understand or control things. He's not going
anywhere. All he does is exist from day to day."

"And you are going somewhere?"

"Very definitely."

"Well, in the meantime, if you hear from Willie, would you
tell him to call me?"

Adair nodded, his white scalp showing through his clipped hair.
"I'll tell him."

"Thanks."

Adair's door was closed before I could ring for the elevator. I
paused, realizing I should have asked him where I could reach Roger
Beck. The hell with it, I decided; I'd ask Mack Marchetti and, if the
flea market vendor didn't know, I'd call Adair later.

Unlike Adair, Marchetti clearly did not believe in putting on a
front. The yard of his small stucco house on Twenty-seventh Avenue
was weed-choked and sun-browned, and the house itself was badly in
need of repair. Although a faint light shone behind the shade on the
front room window, it was at least three minutes before Marchetti
responded to my knock. When he did he just stood there, staring at
me. He wore a plaid bathrobe and his irongray crewcut was wet and
slicked down, as if he had just gotten out of the shower.

"I'm Sharon McCone, Mr. Marchetti. One of Willie Whelan's
runners."

"Oh, yes. I saw you with him on Sunday. Somebody—
Selena Gonzalez, I think—told me he had hired another person."

"I wonder if I could talk with you for a few minutes."

"What about?"

"Willie."

He glanced down at his robe. "Will it take long?"

"As I said, just a few minutes."

"All right. Let me change first, though." He opened the
door wider and I followed him into a living room that was furnished
with a cheap suite you might have found at one of the discount
outlets on Mission Street. Its plaid upholstery clashed violently
with Marchetti's robe.

"Make yourself at home; I'll be right back." He went off
down the hallway.

I stood looking around. The couch, two chairs, and coffee table
were arranged formally in front of a small fireplace. The lamps on
the end tables were green ceramic and reminded me of the kind you
always see in motels. I have a theory about these motel lamps: They
are made as ugly as possible to discourage people from stealing them.
The only attractive lamp I've ever seen in a motel room was bolted
down.

The surfaces of the tables were empty except for a layer of dust.
There were no magazines, pictures, books, or knick-knacks. The only
personal object in the room, in fact, was not exactly a homey touch;
it was a glass-fronted cabinet full of hunting rifles and shotguns. I
went over to take a closer look. There was a lone handgun in the
case, probably a .45 caliber military-type pistol, but there was
something odd about it. I was still trying to figure it out when
Marchetti came back, fully dressed.

"You like my collection?"

I turned. "It's impressive, if you're into hunting. I was
wondering, what's this one here, the handgun?"