Night Hunter (40 page)

Did Regina know about Corinne and John Davie?

Donna moved to the phone and dialed Regina’s number.

They sat across the street from the Cordes’ three-story house in exclusive Pacific Heights. The house was set back on the property amid a growth of mature shrubs. A narrow driveway on the right led to a three-car garage.

At a market they had bought six pounds of ground meat wrapped in one-pound packages. John had filled a cardboard box with bags of cat litter—for weight — before arranging the packages on top. Regina had called the Corde house and the housekeeper informed her the Cordes were away.

“
Well, here goes,” John said, climbing from the station wagon. With the heavy box, he crossed the street. By the time he traversed the long driveway and reached the back door of the house, he was breathing hard, a thin film of sweat across his forehead.

He rang the bell.

He was about to ring again when it swung open. A young Asian girl stood there looking tiny in the oversized uniform.

“
Special order from Blue Ribbon Meats. Where’s the freezer?” He stepped forward, one foot perched on the doorstep.

The door closed to his foot.

“
You no can come in. Missus no home.”

“
How about the Mister?”

“
Mister no home. You come back later.”

“ ‘
Fraid I can’t do that. This meat needs to be put away now. Here,” he said, thrusting the box at her, “take it yourself then.”

She automatically took the box and nearly buckled from the weight of it.

He grabbed it before it hit the ground.

She looked stricken, then mumbled something under her breath and backed up.

“
Much heavy. There--” She pointed to a room off the service porch. “You put away. Then you go.”

“
No problem. I’m running behind. Can’t stay for tea.”

“
No tea,” she said sharply.

He carried the box into a room that had to be a pantry. Rows upon rows of shelves, stacked with canned, boxed, and packaged goods, covered three walls. The large chest freezer took up the fourth wall. Putting the box on the floor, he lifted the heavy lid. A cloud of frost rose up to sting his eyes and chill his breath.

He reached in and lifted a package wrapped in white butcher paper. The words “prime rib” were stamped on the side The tape holding it together was also white. He brought it close to his face. No markings. No little blue ribbons standing in a row. Just plain white butcher tape.

He felt disappointment course through him. He dropped the roast and picked up another package. The same plain tape. Tossing packages from side to side, he reached deep into the freezer. His hand came up with a package marked “ground sirloin.” It had a strip of tape with blue markings on it. John rubbed frantically at it, erasing the thick layer of frost. He stared at two and one half blue ribbons. His pulse accelerated. Reaching down deep again, he pulled up another small package. Again he saw the blue ribbon trademark. He pulled the tape off and shoved it in the pocket of his jacket.

Hurrying now, he moved aside several layers of meat and stacked the ground round that he had brought. He covered it with the Cordes’ meat. In a deep cupboard to the right of the freezer, he stashed the two bags of cat litter. The empty box he took with him.

The Asian girl was in the kitchen. She saw him, but stayed at the center island, chopping green and red peppers.

John raised a hand and smiled. “Sorry, can’t stay for the tea. Maybe next time.”

This time she giggled, her hand covering her mouth.

John practically ran down the long driveway. At the station wagon, he tossed the box into the back and jumped inside, gesturing for Regina to drive. When they were half a block away, he whooped.

“
It was there?” Regina asked incredulously.

Without answering, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the tape, holding it up. Regina pulled to the curb and stopped. He put it in her hand.

“
I had to dig for it. But it was there. By God, it was there.”

Regina was quiet as she stared at the tape in her hand.

“
That’s pretty concrete, isn’t it? I mean, the odds of finding butcher tape from the scene of a crime and then finding the same tape —not the same tape, but—well, you know what I mean ...”

“
Yes, I know what you mean. And yes, this is very conclusive evidence.”

“
Then the police will have to believe us now, won’t they?”

John looked into her eyes. There was something there he couldn’t quite read. Fear? And if so, fear of what? The assailant? Of finding out for sure who it was? Or fear of him, John Davie?

John looked away. “It’s conclusive, but only to us. I’m afraid we’ve screwed up the evidence. We can prove that Amelia Corde has a freezer full of Blue Ribbon Meats, but so what? The police don’t know about the tape we found at Tammy’s.
We
found it, not they.”

“
I see,” she said quietly. “Then why are we doing this?”

“
Because somebody has to. The police want to write Tammy’s death off as an accidental suicide. I don’t believe that, and neither do you.”

“
What’s in this for you?”

“
I told you. I think there’s a crazy person out there who’s directly or indirectly hurting people. And we’re getting close to finding out who that person is. If Amelia is behind this in some way, then you’re the last of the finalists. She certainly isn’t going to give herself a dose of acid.”

“
And it’s our job to solve this mystery?”

“
I have to. I’d like your help. What was Amelia’s maiden name?”

“
Travis.”

“
What’s the name of the business she and Kincade are in?”

“
GME ... Global Model Enterprises.”

She turned the tape in her hands over and over. “What now?”

John stared out the windshield. “How’d you like to go to Napa?”

Amelia rode the elevator to the ninth floor of the California Building, unaware that she was grinding her teeth. The pain along her jaw and neck had been with her for days. It was Friday, eight days since Fletcher had left for Michigan. She hadn’t heard one word from him.

The doors opened. She stepped out, turned right, and in long, even strides, made her way down the wide corridor. The office she and Fletcher had leased for Global Model Enterprises, a corner suite with a spectacular view of the city and bay, was at the very end. As she neared suite 917 her apprehension intensified.

Through the open door, she saw men in coveralls working and a telephone repairman installing phones. She exhaled the pent-up air.
Thank God.
Everything was going to be all right. Fletcher had not lied to her after all. Plans to equip and occupy the office were underway just as he had said.

She stepped over an extension cord and cables and entered the smaller reception office. Several file cabinets and a desk were already in place. The man working on the phone glanced up when she passed him to enter the main suite. A tiny woman in a gray linen suit, clipboard in hand, was instructing two men where to move a massive mahogany desk.

The woman turned to Amelia. “Hello, may I help you?”

“
I’m Amelia Corde.”

“
Yes? What can I do for you?”

“
Who are you?”

“
Janet Swenson.”

The name meant nothing to her. “Janet, have you seen Mr. Kincade?” Amelia asked.

“
Kincade? No,” the woman said shaking her head. “I don’t believe I know the man.” She turned back to the men, “Too close. It’s too close to the wall.”

“
Fletcher Kincade. He leased this office for Global Model.”

The woman turned slowly, her long forehead furrowing. “Oh, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. This space has been leased to Satellite Investors.”

“
That’s not true.” Amelia felt a stabbing pain behind her eyes. “This is Global’s office —my office.”

“
Check for yourself, hon. The papers were signed a week ago today.”

“
But that’s when , . .” The words died away. That’s when Fletch was supposed to sign the papers, she thought, her stomach quaking.

Amelia felt the rush of blood to her head, making her dizzy and nauseated. Don’t panic, she told herself. A misunderstanding, no doubt. Fletcher had rented another office somewhere else. Perhaps in the same building. There was something he didn’t like about this particular suite. That’s right, she remembered him complaining that something had to be fixed or changed. Instead, he had just decided to take another office. Of course, that was all.

What was the name of the real estate outfit that he had worked with? Channing ... Chamber , . . Chamber Properties—yes, that was it. The agent was Rose Arnold. She would just give the agent a call. Clear everything right up.

She whirled and rushed from the office. In the outer room she snatched up the phone. Fletcher had to have leased an office, otherwise he had lied, and if he lied about that then he could have lied about ...

There was no dial tone. She banged on the disconnect button with the side of her hand.

“
Ma’am,” the repairman said, “the phone isn’t hooked up yet.”

She pushed the receiver into his hands and stormed from the office, stumbling over the cables.

She had no recollection of going to the elevators, but she found herself inside, pounding on the G button. The doors closed and she felt her stomach swoop when the elevator began to descend. Her stomach continued to swoop and heave after she rushed out on the ground floor and made her way to a bank of telephones in the lobby.

In the phone book, she found the number for Chamber Properties and dialed. Rose Arnold answered. Amelia, in an effort to control herself, asked her questions in a monotone.

“
I remember you and Mr. Kincade,” the agent said. “No, he did not lease from us. I called Mr. Kincade several days after that and he informed me that something had come up and he was no longer interested in an office. Has that changed? Are you looking again?”

Amelia hung up.

She drove to his apartment and let herself in. Everything was as she had left it the day before. She sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through the phone directory.

She called RAM Electronics and asked to speak to Elia Tapperman. There was no such executive employed with the firm.

She called the Business Licensing Office and was told there had been no new business license issued to a Global Model Enterprises.

There was only one call left to make and she couldn’t bring herself to do it yet. She rose from the bed. Meticulously, she went through every drawer, cupboard, and shelf in his small apartment. She realized now what she hadn’t before. Everything was replaceable. Clothes, inexpensive jewelry, books. Nothing personal. Nothing precious or valuable or important. Nothing with his name on it. The entire contents of the flat could be bought for a couple thousand dollars in one afternoon at any department store.

She called the bank and was told that the joint account had been closed out.

“
All of it?”

“
Closed, Mrs. Corde. Every cent taken out.”

“
When was that?” Amelia said, her voice cracking.