Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (46 page)

I found Sam Thomas at dawn. He was sitting on the hard-packed
earth above the beach near his house, drinking beer and staring olf
at the pier that was part of the sewer project. The sun was coloring
the house on the hills behind me, but the sea was still shrouded in
fog; the end of the long pier disappeared into it.

When my footsteps crunched on the gravel of the parking lot, Sam
turned his head slightly, then looked back to sea.

My fingers closed over the butt of the gun I had in my bag, the
gun I'd picked up at home, tiptoeing so I wouldn't wake Don and alarm
him. I sensed I wouldn't need to use it, however. Sam's slumped
shoulders were those of a man who had lost, and knew it. Perhaps he'd
known it for a long time.

"What took you so long?" He spoke plaintively, as if I'd
broken a promise.

I came up behind him. "Were you expecting me?"

"You, the cops, someone." He drained his beer can and
hurled it down toward the beach. It clattered against the dirt slope
and fell soundlessly to the sand. There was a paper bag that looked
like it contained a six-pack next to him. He pulled out another beer
and popped the tab.

I sat down next to him, my hand still on the gun. I was bone-tired
and sad, and I wanted to get this over with. But it wouldn't come to
an end for many hours; I hadn't yet begun to deal with the police.

After I'd knocked Willie out, I'd dragged him to Sam's van—not
without considerable difficulty—and headed for Boulder Creek.
He came to on the drive and by the time we found a phone booth at a
gas station, he'd started to listen to reason. I called Hank and told
him what had happened and said that I was bringing Willie and one of
the killers in. I told him Marchetti and Adair and the other members
of their group were probably still at the encampment. Hank said he
would alert both the San Francisco police and the Boulder Creek
authorities. He also said I'd damned well better deliver Willie or
we'd be in more trouble than he could handle. I promised I would.
Then we headed north in the van.

I had stopped at home for the gun, and then Willie and I went to
Sam's house. Carolyn, very pale and looking like she hadn't slept in
days, told me where to find Sam. I left Willie with her and walked
over to the beach.

Now Sam said, "Carolyn tell you where I was?"

"Yes."

"I said she should tell anyone who came. I'm not hiding
anything; I'm not trying to avoid responsibility. I just came over
here because I couldn't sleep." He paused. "You guessed all
of it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"From a few things people said. And one you did."

"About Jerry Levin being bald under that skullcap."

"That's right. I should have noticed it at the time. You said
you'd only seen him once, at David's with Selena. He wouldn't have
taken the cap off there; you had to have seen his head the way I
did."

"With his brains blown out and the cap on the floor next to
him. Yeah."

"Carolyn caught it too. Did you tell her about killing him?"

"I had to. It was so pathetic, the way that little cap rolled
off his head after he fell on the floor."

"And that's why you can't sleep."

"I haven't been able to sleep for years." He crumpled
his beer can and stared at its mangled shape. "What else made
you realize I'd done it?"

"Well, it would have been easy for you to get keys to
Willie's house. And Willie told me you suspected he was having an
affair with Carolyn. You knew he wouldn't be home that Sunday
afternoon. I wouldn't have understood how you got hold of Monty
Adair's gun if Adair hadn't told me he kept illegal things—hot
merchandise and controlled substances, he called them—stashed
in Willie's garage."

Sam looked surprised. "So that's whose it was. I went there
looking for some kind of proof about Willie and Carolyn. I know now
that she was telling the truth when she said there was nothing
between them, but at the time I was sure I'd find something. I wanted
to drag it out in front of her, shove it under her self-righteous
nose. Instead, I found this nice little stash. But I couldn't figure
out whose it was; I knew Willie never did drugs and wouldn't own a
gun. Monty's, huh?"

"Yes."

"In a way it's kind of funny." But he didn't look
amused.

"Sam," I said, "why Levin? Why did you have to kill
him?"

"I didn't have to. It just happened."

"How?"

"He came in through that side door from the passageway. This
was right after I found the stash. I heard him coming and hid. He
started poking around in the garage, looking for something—those
Torahs, I know now.

"I'd grabbed the stash bag and taken it with me when I hid.
The gun was there in it. I pulled it out, sneaked up behind Levin.
And then I… I blew him away."

"Why, Sam?"

"I don't know. It was like a flashback. I was trapped there,
and all of a sudden it was like being back in 'Nam. I didn't even
think about it. I just blew him away."

I shuddered, picturing the cold-blooded act.

Sam opened another beer. "I know what you're thinking—
that it was horrible. But it wasn't, not really. I'd done so many
worse things in 'Nam. And he was lying there, kind of peaceful. If it
hadn't been for that hat falling off, and his pathetic little bald
spot…"

"What did you do then?"

"Wiped the gun off so my fingerprints wouldn't be on it.
Messed the house up so it would look like a robbery."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I wasn't thinking so clear. I guess it
occurred to me that if the police thought he was a burglar they
wouldn't look so hard for whoever killed him. Then I got out of
there, but I couldn't go far; I wanted to see what would happen. And,
man, things did."

"Like what?"

"First Mack Marchetti showed up, only about fifteen minutes
later. He went in the same way Levin had, and came out fast. I could
see his face was white, even from where I was parked across the
street. It made me feel good; Marchetti's such a macho
son-of-a-bitch; it's good to know he couldn't take it."

Unfortunately, it also meant he hadn't the presence of mind to
search for the Torahs—the exact location of which Adair had
neglected to tell him—and had to come back the next night, when
Alida spotted him. I didn't want to remind Sam of that, however.
"Then what happened?"

"Marchetti took off. Willie arrived about six-thirty. He
didn't go in, though, just stuck the sign on the door about being at
the Oasis. A few minutes later Roger Beck came by, and right after
him, Monty. They both saw the sign and split."

"And then?"

"Alida showed. That shook me. I figured she had keys to
Willie's house, and I didn't want her going in there and finding
Levin. I mean, Alida could be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she
was really a very nice lady. She didn't deserve that kind of
trouble."

"So you went up there and asked her to take your cash to
Willie at the Oasis."

"Yeah. I watched to make sure she left and then I split too.
I figured Willie would be the next person to go into the house, and I
knew he could do whatever had to be done."

I sighed. There it all was. Senseless. As senseless and sad as the
war that had crippled Sam Thomas's mind and made all of this
possible.

He continued drinking beer and looking out to sea. The sun had
cleared the hills by now, and I could feel its warmth touching my
shoulder. Above us gulls wheeled in the sky, looking for breakfast.

"Sam," I finally said, "why don't you come with me
and we'll talk to the police."

"Not yet. Just let me stay here a little bit more. They're
going to put me away for a long time."

"Maybe someone can help you."

"Nobody can. Carolyn couldn't."

No, I thought, she couldn't. But did she really try?

We sat there, watching the fog lift and the sun highlight the
water. Finally Sam finished his last beer and stood up. He took a
final look at the sea, and then we walked back to his house together.

I lifted the lid of the pot, let the steam clear, and then sniffed
its contents. Something was not right here. "Oregano," I
said, "maybe it needs more oregano."

"I'd be careful; that's powerful stuff." Willie sat at
my kitchen table, drinking beer and—by all intents—supervising.

"Garlic, then?"

He just looked at me.

"Well, I don't know. I wanted to make a nice dinner for Don
when he comes back and announces he's got the job at the radio
station. But I can't make this sauce smell right!"

"Sit down and have some wine." Willie reached for a
bottle of Chianti and poured some in a glass.

I put the lid back on the pot and flopped down at the table.

"How come you can't cook?" Willie asked.

I glared at him and picked up my wine. "I can. I bake
terrific bread."

"So?"

"This is different. With bread it's like playing with a
chemistry set—everything is timed, and the temperature has to
be just so."

"That sounds harder than marinara sauce."

"Not really. You just follow directions, plus you get to play
with the dough, kneading it." I stared glumly at the pot on the
stove, then checked my watch. Don had said he would be back by five,
and it was quarter of now.

Willie went to the racing-striped refrigerator and got another
beer. "You were going to tell me the latest word on Marchetti
and Adair."

"Oh right. I got so carried away by my culinary efforts that
I forgot. They caught Marchetti down near Santa Barbara; probably he
was heading for Mexico. He's not talking, but they canvassed the area
around your house and came up with a couple of witnesses who can
place him there at the time of Alida's murder. One even saw her
following him, so I think they can build a pretty strong case. The
police agree with my theory that she saw him leave your house,
followed to see what he'd taken, and he killed her to keep her from
reporting it."

Willie's face darkened and he took a swig of beer, but he didn't
say anything. Characteristically, he was keeping a tight rein on his
emotions regarding Alida's death.

"Anyway," I went on, "the police have also tied
Marchetti to the theft of the Torahs and the Levin business because
he had two sets of keys to your house on him—the one he used,
and the other that he took off Levin's body."

"Why'd he bother to do that?"

"Didn't want any link at all; in case Selena talked, there
wouldn't be any proof Levin had ever had the keys."

"That's another thing I don't understand—if Levin knew
he was going to get those keys, why did he put on that act for you
and make the appointment to meet us?"

I shrugged. "Insurance, probably. If for some reason he
couldn't find the Torahs at your place, he could then try to talk you
into hunting for them and turning them over to him."

"Do you think he was sincere about this religious
conversion?"

"I don't think we'll ever know. Selena thought so, but she's
a romantic and also pretty gullible. But on the other hand, Monty
Adair believed it, and he's as cynical and hard-headed as they come."

"Speaking of Monty, what about him?"

"For starters, the police have him on kidnapping. Plus,
there's his complicity in the thefts."

"Good. I'd like to see the little weasel put away for a long
time."

"He will be."

"A lot of good that'll do me, though. I've lost two runners,
and after this mess, the cops'll be watching every move I make."

"At least you're not in jail for murder."

"There's that." He was silent for a moment, and then his
face brightened. "Actually, I been thinking. Maybe it's about
time I went legit."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I'm a damn sharp trader, and if I didn't have to mess
with phony receipts and deposits—not to mention the kind of
scuzzballs I've got to deal with—well, there's no telling what
kind of bucks I might make."

I was pleased, but I said only, "You should think it over."

"I am. Yes, ma'am, that might be just the way to go. It'd be
sure to put the cops' noses out of joint if they were never able to
get anything on me."

I grinned. "It certainly would."

Finishing my wine, I got up and went back to the stove. The
mixture in the pot smelled the same. I was stirring it, hoping a
little agitation would produce an improvement, when I heard the front
door open. Don called out and came down the hall. He was carrying a
bottle of champagne and a conical package from a florist's shop.

"You got the job!" I dropped the spoon in the pot and
hurried over to him.

"Yes—and it's even better than I thought. Here."
He thrust the flowers at me. They were red-and-white carnations with
one perfect rose in the center.

I set the flowers carefully on the table and hugged him. "I'm
so glad. Really I am."

He kissed me lightly, then studied my face. "You mean that,
don't you?"

"Yes. We'll have that talk soon, and then you'll understand."
It was the truth: the last few days had reminded me that there are
far worse things to fear in this world than the failure of love. I'd
just have to learn to cope with emotional fear the way I did with the
physical variety.

He kissed me again and said, "Let's break out the champagne."

Willie stood up. "I think I better be going."

Don waved him back into his chair. "Stay. You've got reason
to celebrate, too."

He popped the champagne cork while I got glasses. The wine bubbled
over, but he got it poured in time. We toasted—to Willie, to
me, to Don's new job.

"So tell us about it," I said.

He smiled broadly, tipping back his chair. "I'm not going to
be just any d.j."

"Oh no?"

"No indeed. You are looking at the host of KSUN's new
celebrity talk show."