Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (38 page)

No, I thought, you certainly don't. "Sam, did you tell Willie
about this?"

"Not until tonight. I'd forgotten about it until he started
talking about this Levin. You know, maybe that was what made him take
off; he asked a whole lot of questions and then he left."

I stood up, nearly knocking my coffee over.

Both Sam and Carolyn looked surprised. "You taking off too?"
he asked.

"Yes. Thanks for the coffee. I'll be in touch."

Now that I'd heard Sam's story about Levin and Selena, I thought I
knew where Willie had gone. And I wanted to catch up with him in a
hurry. Willie might be smart, and he might be tough, but he was an
amateur at the business of detection.

When I'd been at Alida's the previous night, Selena had said she
lived next door on the ground floor and had motioned at the north
wall of the apartment. That meant her building was the Spanish-style
stucco two doors from the corner. It was a house, but there was a
small entry to one side of the garage, and Selena's name was on a
mailbox next to it. Probably what she had was an in-law apartment.

There was no knocker or buzzer, so I tried the knob. The door
swung open into a narrow passageway similar to the one Willie had
described at his house. It was dark in there, and the damp air
smelled of cats, but at the far end I could hear rock music and see a
shaft of light spilling from under another door. I felt my way back
there and knocked hard, hoping to be heard above the music.

In a few seconds the volume decreased and Selena's voice said,
"Who is it?"

"Sharon McCone. I need to talk to you."

"Go away. It's late."

"I have to talk now. It's important."

"I was asleep. Come back tomorrow."

How could she sleep with that music playing? "Please; it
can't wait."

There was a pause and then I heard a deadbolt turn. Selena's face
peered over a security chain. Her thick hair tumbled down around her
shoulders, and her face was pale, her eyes red. She stared at me for
a moment, then unhooked the chain and let me in.

The apartment was only one room, the small kitchen separated from
the rest of it by a formica counter. A couple of rickety-looking
stools stood in front of it and there was a mattress on the floor in
one corner, but otherwise the place was devoid of furnishings.
Selena, who was wrapped in a multicolored afghan, regarded me for an
instant and then went to the counter and turned the radio up again. A
raucous jingle announced that KSUN was "the light of the Bay,"
and then the disc jockey began babbling about a sixties nostalgia
party.

I resented the notion of the sixties as nostalgia. After all, I
could
remember
the sixties; I had been almost an adult then.
And the station sounded even more frantic than KPSM, where Don worked
in Port San Marco. Whey couldn't he be offered a job at a decent
station, for Lord's sake?

Selena sat down on the mattress, pulling the afghan closer around
her. In spite of its protection, she shivered. I took a good look at
her and realized she was not only upset, but scared. Perching on one
of the rickety stools, I said, "Are you okay?"

She shrugged.

"I know it must have been an awful shock about Alida."

She started to speak, but it came out a croak, and she cleared her
throat. "It was horrible. To hear it that way, on the radio. She
was so young and alive, and now this. It makes me wonder when they
will come for me."

"They?"

"Death's messengers."

Marchetti had said she was dramatic, and he'd been right. "I
wouldn't worry, Selena. You're safe here."

"There is no safety anywhere in this world."

I didn't want to argue with her; she was probably right. "Did
Willie come here tonight?"

The shift in subject startled her. "How did you know? He was
like a madman. Grief…"

"Grief and suspicion. Sam Thomas told him about seeing you
with Jerry Levin."

"I know." She shivered again and pulled the afghan
tighter.

The loud music was beginning to set me on edge. "Selena, can
I turn this radio down?"

"No, leave it. It keeps the demons away."

Demons, madmen, death's messengers—what next? I raised my
voice and began to talk over the sound. "Why did you meet with
Jerry Levin that day, Selena?"

"I knew him a little bit."

"But you pretended you didn't."

She looked down at the granny squares that covered her lap.

"What were you and Levin talking about that day, when Sam saw
you at David's delicatessen?"

"We… I was trying to help him."

"Help him how?"

She was silent.

"How?"

She looked up, tears in her eyes, then covered her face with her
hands. I suspected it was merely more dramatics, so I got down off
the stool, snapped the radio off, and went to stand over her.

"All right, Selena. You can tell me about it now, or you can
get dressed and come to the Hall of Justice with me and talk to a
Homicide inspector I know. He's not a very nice man, and he's likely
to be a lot rougher on you than I am. He might even start asking
questions about your status with Immigration."

She took her hands away from her face. The tears were gone, and
her eyes flashed with fury. "You and everyone else! Always
threatening me with the Immigration. People are always forcing me to
do things I don't want to—"

"Selena, what did you and Levin talk about?"

She jumped up, stalked to the counter, and turned the radio back
on. Then she stood against the ledge, afghan gathered defiantly
around her.

"All right! I will tell you, but only to keep out of trouble
with the Immigration. Willie had something belonging to Jerry Levin.
And Jerry Levin wanted it back. That is all."

"Do you mean the Torahs?"

"Yes."

"And you were going to help Levin get them back?"

"I did not say yes or no. He wanted me to get him the keys to
Willie's house. I said I would think about it."

"And did you get them?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure!"

"Did Levin say how the Torahs had gotten into Willie's
hands?"

"No. He said Willie had them. He wanted them back so he could
return them to their rightful owners."

"Did he tell you he was from something called the Torah
Recovery Committee?"

"The what? I have never heard of such a thing."

"He didn't mention it?"

"No. All he said was that he had to right a wrong."

I sat down on the edge of the mattress. "What kind of wrong?"

"He had committed a crime against his people. Many crimes. I
think he meant he had stolen those Torahs. And he had used the fruits
of his misdeeds to further a false cause. Then, later on, he
rediscovered his faith, and he knew he must set the thing right."

"By giving back the Torahs?"

"Yes. He had rediscovered his faith while he was alone in the
wilderness. He used those exact words—'alone in the
wilderness.' And when his enemies tried to destroy him, he knew he
must atone for what he had done."

Levin's story was as melodramatic as Selena herself. I wondered if
he had been putting on an act for her benefit. The man seemed to have
been able to adapt his poses to the people he was dealing with. If
he'd sensed that Selena was a superstitious Old World Catholic, he
might have used the ploy of repentance in order to enlist her
sympathies. Or, oddly enough, he might have been telling the truth.

"So he asked you to steal Willie's keys for him," I
said.

"Yes. I said I would think about it, but I had no intention
of doing so."

"Did he ask you to do anything else for him?"

"No. He merely talked of his religion and how he had
rediscovered his faith. It was very interesting to me."

"I'm sure it was. How did you and Levin get together in the
first place?"

She looked away from me. "What do you mean?"

"How did he approach you? How did you meet?"

"Oh, he bought some dried apricots from me and then began
talking."

But from the look on her face, I knew she was lying. "About
what? His religion?"

"No. About… about the fruit."

"What about it?"

"It…it was particularly good. The fruit, you know, must be
dried under certain conditions—"

"I am going to ask you again: How did you meet Levin?"

"I told you!"

"Are you sure you told the truth?"

"Yes!" She stamped her foot. "Why do you doubt me?
Why does everyone doubt me?"

"There's probably a good reason for that."

She looked at me, her lower lip trembling. When confronted, cry.

In a moment I said, "Did you tell Willie all this when he
came here tonight?"

"Yes. He was like a madman, yelling at me and shaking me. You
would think
I
had killed Alida."

"Did you?"

Instead of the rage I expected, her face twitched with sadness.
One hand moved involuntarily in the sign of the cross. "I loved
Alida. She was the only person here who was really nice to me. I
would never have done anything to hurt her."

"Someone did, though."

"Yes. I am afraid…"

"Of what?"

"Of death. It has touched me. And I feel guilt."

"Why?"

"I… I should have been a better friend."

"That wouldn't have helped her."

"No, but it would have helped me."

I couldn't think of an answer.

"Are you through with your questions now?" she asked.

"Almost. Do you know where Willie was going when he left
here?"

"No. He was calmer, and he looked very tired. Possibly he was
going home to sleep."

But he wouldn't have, because he would know the police would be
watching his house. "And he said nothing about his plans?"

"No." Selena went to the door and unhooked the chain,
then unlocked the deadbolt. It was a strong one, and there was
another below the doorknob. I remembered how she'd said she was
afraid of living alone in a ground-floor apartment. She'd bought a
gun from Fat Herman for protection…

"Selena," I said, "why didn't you have your gun
handy when you answered my knock? You said last night that you'd
bought one for protection."

Her face paled. "I did. I had a gun—until tonight."

"What happened to it?"

"Do you remember what Alida said—that the gun could be
taken away from me?"

"Yes."

"She was right. It was taken. By Willie."

I liked the idea of Willie running around with Selena's gun even
less than I liked the idea of him playing amateur detective. Although
the .22 was what Fat Herman referred to as "a plinker," it
was just as lethal as my own .38. And while Willie had undoubtedly
handled weapons in Vietnam, armed combat in a war zone was very
different from a personal vendetta here in the streets of San
Francisco. I left Selena's apartment and drove the few blocks to
Willie's house. While logic dictated that he wouldn't have returned
there after hearing about the APB, I told myself that his actions up
to this point hadn't been exactly rational. The old van that I
remembered Sam having at the flea market was nowhere in sight,
however. There was a vehicle that looked like an unmarked police car
parked at the corner.

Where now? I wondered. Roger Beck was the last of Willie's
acquaintances I knew, and, as Sam had said, it was unlikely the fence
would show up on Beck's doorstep. Perhaps Selena was right; Willie
had been tired and had gone some place to sleep. He could have parked
the van in any number of spots throughout the city and climbed into
the back to rest. At any rate, it wouldn't do me any good to continue
driving around looking for him.

I headed home to Church Street.

There were lights on in my living room, but the house was quiet
except for a crackling sound that I identified as coming from my
stereo speakers. I went in there and turned the set off, then noticed
Don asleep on the couch. His knees were drawn up like a child's and
there was a hole in one of his socks. I felt a wave of tenderness and
stood watching him for a moment before I touched his shoulder. He
jerked and looked at me, hazel eyes unfocused.

"Were you waiting up for me?" I said.

"I was, but obviously I didn't succeed." He struggled to
a sitting position and looked at his watch. "Jesus, it's almost
one o'clock. The last I remember it was nine-thirty."

"What'd you do—fall asleep listening to music?"

"If you can call it that. I was taping the evening show on
KSUN, so I could study their format." He glanced at the stereo.
"The tape's run out."

"Why were you doing that?"

"To get a feel for how they handle their programs."

"You
want
a show of yours to sound like that?"

"Not exactly." He yawned. "I'm hoping there's
something new or different that I could do, within the established
format."

"Anything would help. From what I've heard, that station is
loud and obnoxious and caters to people with the mentality of a
twelve-year-old." Even to myself, I sounded prickly and out of
sorts.

Don stood up, frowning. "Have you had a bad night?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Do you want to talk about us?"

"Not now."

"Then I'm going to bed." He started across the room, but
paused in the doorway. "But babe, we've got to talk soon."

I was silent.

"This job possibility means a lot to me," he added. "I'm
happy about it, and I hoped you would be, too. Let's not spoil it for
both of us."

He went into the bedroom and I sat down on the couch. Didn't he
understand how rough my night had been? Didn't he know how difficult
it was dealing with yet another murder?

Of course he didn't. I hadn't even told him about Alida.