Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (40 page)

"Art goods, huh?" I smiled faintly. "Well, I guess
I'll have to catch him on Friday." I went over and pressed the
elevator button.

"Hey," she said, "do you know who that bum was?"

"Do I look like I would know any bums?"

She eyed me critically, frowning so hard I feared for her makeup
job. "Nowadays you can't tell." Then she went inside and
slammed her door.

I went to my office at All Souls and called the Oasis Bar and
Grill. When I asked whether Willie had picked up my message, the man
on the other end of the line sounded wary. There were no messages
waiting, he said, so Willie must have called in. I left a second one,
repeating the first, then hung up and buzzed Hank on the intercom. He
said he had talked to Greg Marcus about the murders and would come to
my office.

In a minute, he entered, ducking his head to avoid the sharply
slanting ceiling, and sat down in my tattered old armchair. He looked
tired, rumpled, out of sorts. "You heard from Willie?" he
asked.

"Not since his message last night. I've heard
of
him, though. Our paths keep crossing."

"What in hell is he doing?"

"Playing detective."

"Christ! What does he think we have you for?"

"Willie doesn't strike me as the type to sit back and do
nothing, particularly if he thinks he'd be doing that in jail."

Hank merely sighed.

"Tell me what Greg had to say. I assume you talked to him
because you couldn't get through to McFate."

"Right. I'm afraid you don't have a lead; the Levin murder
weapon was something called an RG-14."

"Doesn't matter—now. What else?"

"Alida Edwards was stabbed twice in the neck. There was very
little sign of a struggle. The stabbing was quick and efficient, as
Greg put it; the killer knew what he was doing."

"What time did she die?"

"Within an hour of when she was found. They were able to
establish it by body temperature."

"Who found her? I've assumed it was a passerby."

"Right, a guy from one of those nearby apartment houses who
likes to park his car over by Kezar."

"Hmm." I paused. "Hank—do they really think
Willie followed her down there and killed her?"

"They want to. Two killings, two nights. It fits."

"It's too pat."

"Cops like pat situations. Besides, there's another detail on
the Levin case that makes it look bad for Willie: There was no sign
of forced entry at his house."

"Then Levin must have had a key."

"Or have been let in by someone else who did."

"No." I thought of Selena's story of her meeting with
Levin. "I think he managed to get hold of a key."

"How? Willie told me he's very careful about his keys. Alida
didn't even have one."

"I don't know, but I'll try to find out."

Hank stood up. "I'm due in court in an hour. Try to check
with me later."

"Okay." I swiveled my chair around, propped my feet on
the armchair, and sat staring at the wall. It was painted pale yellow
and was full of thumbtack holes from my various attempts at
decoration. When the travel poster of Greece I'd hung there last
September had gotten torn and curled at the edges, I'd finally
resigned myself to the fact that the office was too small and
cheerless to bother sprucing up. Actually, it looked better
unadorned.

Suppose, I told myself, Selena
had
copied Willie's keys
for Levin. She was a liar; there was no reason to believe she hadn't.
But how could she have gotten hold of them? At the flea market, of
course. And I remembered seeing a key duplicating stand there.

I got out the phone book and looked up Mack Marchetti's number. He
answered on the first ring. "Sharon," he said when I'd
identified myself, "I was just on my way out."

"This will only take a second. How can I reach the vendor who
duplicates keys at the Saltflats?"

"Bill? He works at the Stonestown shopping center during the
week."

"Thanks."

"While I've got you on the line—Selena told me you're a
detective. I don't care for being fooled that way."

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to go into it at the time; I needed
to locate Willie in a hurry."

"I take it you haven't."

"No, but not for lack of trying. Thanks for the information,
Mr. Marchetti." Quickly I depressed the receiver button and
looked up the Stonestown Key Shop in the phone book. The man who
answered my call said his name was Bill and yes, he was the person
who worked at the Saltflats on the weekends. Yes, he knew Selena
Gonzalez. No, she had not duplicated any keys within the past two
weeks. None of the flea market vendors had, as far as he could
remember. In fact, business out there had been lousy and they were
thinking of closing the stand.

I hung up and leaned back in my chair, once more at a dead end.

Keys. Willie's house keys. Where did he keep them? On a chain,
like I did with mine? A chain with other keys, such as car keys. In
Willie's case, truck keys.

I closed my eyes, blotting out the yellow wall, and pictured a
scene from Sunday. Willie, handing someone his keys and asking him to
get something out of the truck. Willie, saying something about
receipts being in the glove compartment.

"Take them in case you need them," he'd said. And then
he'd handed the keys to Roger Beck.

I sat up straight and reached for the phone. Would Marchetti know
if there was a key duplicating stand at the San Jose market? It was
worth a try. I called his number, but there was no answer. Of course,
he'd said he was just on his way out.

But hadn't Willie said the San Jose market had an office that was
open all week? I called Information, got the number, dialed again.
Yes, the woman in the office told me, there was a key stand at the
market, and the man who ran it owned a key shop in downtown San Jose.
But he was on vacation this week, and the shop was closed.

"Was he also on vacation last Sunday?" I asked.

"No, he was here. But he left yesterday for three weeks'
fishing in Idaho, like he does every year."

"Well, thanks anyway." I sat drumming my fingers on the
desk blotter, then pulled the notebook where I'd scribbled Beck's
phone number and address out of my purse. I called Oakland and talked
to a woman who said she was Beck's landlady. Roger was at work,
delivering bread for the Crescent Bakery; he was usually back home by
three.

I looked at my watch. It was already one-thirty. After Beck
finished his delivery route he would have to return the truck to the
bakery and complete whatever procedures were required of the drivers.
Crescent Bakery was a large plant in West Oakland, visible and easily
accessible from Highway 17; if I left now I might be able to catch
him there.

I grabbed a
sandwich in All Souls' kitchen—making do with the end pieces of
a loaf of whole wheat bread and some highly suspect tuna salad—and
then headed for Oakland. Traffic moved at a crawl over the Bay
Bridge, with one lane blocked for repair work. It was the time of day
when the semis that had made San Francisco deliveries from ships at
the Port of Oakland were returning to the East Bay. They clogged the
bridge, jockeying in and out between passenger cars, and giving off
great blasts of diesel smoke. The fumes combined with the heat to
make me faintly nauseous, and my sinuses began to throb. To keep my
mind off my head and stomach, I tried to concentrate on how to
approach Roger Beck.

Beck actively hated Willie. Even on Sunday, when I hadn't known
the story of Beck and Willie's ex-wife, I had been able to tell that
much. If he assumed I was not on Willie's side, he might tell me much
more than he would if he thought I was out to help his weekend
employer. He might even slip and tell me something really valuable.
Besides, I had to face it—there was no way I was going to force
a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound truck driver to tell me anything he
didn't want to.

The Crescent Bakery occupied a square block between a big
warehousing operation and a furniture factory. A dozen of their white
trucks with the familiar crescent-shaped roll on the side were parked
within a fenced-in area by the loading docks. I pulled up at the curb
and watched as more and more of the trucks drove in. They backed up
to the docks, where workers off-loaded the plastic racks that had
held bread and rolls, then moved to permanent parking spaces. The
white-uniformed drivers emerged with clipboards and went into what
looked like an oifice. It was after two-thirty when I saw Beck's
burly form ambling across the lot.

After a few minutes I got out of my car and started over there.
Several of the drivers were standing around, smoking and talking, and
they looked at me curiously. I sat down on the bottom of the steps of
the office, and they looked away, obviously assuming I was someone's
wife or girlfriend, here to pick him up. When Beck came out and
started down the steps, I stood up.

"Mr. Beck," I said.

He looked at me blankly for a moment, then surprise spread across
his puffy features. "You're Willie's new runner, aren't you?"

"Yes. Sharon McCone." I reached into my purse and took
out the photostat of my license. "Actually, Mr. Beck, I
misrepresented myself the other day—both to you and to Mr.
Whelan." I held out the photostat.

"A private detective?" He glanced anxiously around at
his co-workers.

"Yes. Is there some place we can talk?"

"Is this about Willie?"

"Yes, it is."

"I don't know anything about him. I haven't seen him since
Sunday night when I met him at the Oasis and we split the take from
the market."

"I didn't expect you had. What I need from you is background
information on Mr. Whelan. You could be a big help to me."

"Help you how?"

"Complete my investigation of him." Beck hesitated. His
eyes, sunk deep in his fleshy face, were thoughtful. "You say
Willie didn't know you're a detective either?"

"I operate under cover most of the time."

"Why are you checking up on him?"

"Well, Mr. Beck—look at the nature of his business. And
now he's evidently killed two people."

Still he paused. "Who are you working for?"

"I'm cooperating with the San Francisco Police Department.
Inspector Leo McFate is in charge of the case."

He nodded, seeming reassured by my naming names.

"Is there somewhere we can talk?" I asked again.

"You got a car?"

"Yes."

"You could give me a ride home. Mine's in the shop. I was
going to get a lift from one of the other guys, but you could save
him the trouble."

"Sure. It's this way." I led him across the lot to the
street. We got in the MG and Beck directed me toward the Lake Merritt
area of Oakland.

"What I'm interested in," I told him as I drove, "is
Mr. Whelan's relationships with his runners. I know there's bad blood
between you two—"

"Who told you that?"

"Mr. Whelan."

"He told you about Barbara?"

"His… I mean, your ex-wife? Yes."

"Thinks it's pretty funny, does he?"

"Yes, I guess he does."

"You'd think he'd have some sympathy, wouldn't you? I mean,
she walked out on him first. He ought to know what it's like, to have
a woman like that use you and then leave you and take everything you
have. But no, he thinks it's funny. What do you want to know about
Willie and his runners?"

I had him where I wanted him. Now I would have to go very
carefully. "Well, let's start with Sam Thomas. What's the
relationship there?"

"Friends, I guess. Do you know Sam?"

"Yes."

"Then you know he's a drunk. Willie makes excuses for him,
calls him a war casualty. Hell, lots of us were over there in 'Nam
and we didn't come home and stay plastered day in and day out. But
Willie feels sorry for Sam and puts up with some of the damnedest
shit. So they
must
be friends."

"What kinds of things does Willie put up with?"

"Oh, like Sam not showing for work. You know, the shit that
would get you fired from any regular job."

"I see. What about Monty Adair? Are he and Willie friends?"

"Hell, no. Monty's too slick for Willie; Willie doesn't trust
him any farther than he can throw him. I'll say this for Willie,
though, he gives credit where credit is due. He always says Monty's
the best man he's got."

"How do you feel about him saying that?"

"Doesn't bother me. I'm okay at the job, but I'm no Monty.
And for me it's only a weekend job to clean up the bills Barbara
stuck me with."

"But you worked for Willie before you married Barbara, didn't
you?"

"Oh yeah. I met her because I was working for Willie. When I
first took the job it was so I could buy a boat. But then I fell for
Barbara and the money all went for cars and clothes and furniture.
All bought on time, and still not paid off." Beck looked away,
out the window at the grimy buildings along Grand Avenue.

"How come Willie kept you on, after you took his wife away
from him?"

"That's his way of doing things. It saved his pride, made it
look like she didn't matter to him."

"Maybe she didn't."

"Maybe."

"To get back to Monty, how would you say he feels about
Willie?"

"About the same as most of the people on the flea market
scene."

"And how's that?"

"Well, they respect him. He's a sharp trader, knows how to
deal. But he's never fit in and he doesn't have any friends."

Except Alida Edwards, I thought.

"No," Beck went on, "Willie was never a friend to
any of us, not the way the rest of us were friends, back in the old
days."

"The rest of you?"

"Monty, Mack, myself. We used to have real good times."

"Doing what?"

"Drinking beer, chasing women, playing games."