Read The Corporal Works of Murder Online
Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie
The Corporal Works of Murder (10 page)
“Get that away from me.” Gallagher pushed her hand away. “You smell like a goddamn rain forest.”
Sniffing her own hand, Kate didn't know whether or not to be affronted. She rather liked the woodsy, breezy aroma. Best of all, it had taken Gallagher's mind off Sister Mary Helen. At least she hoped it had. She dreaded telling him about Tim Moran's call. Thank goodness she'd been the one who'd received it.
“What's happened?” Gallagher asked, setting Kate's mug down in front of her. Easing into his desk chair, he leaned forward. “You ought to know by now,” he began, then stopped to blow on his hot coffee, “that changing the subject or even throwing in a diversion like that stinky hand cream isn't going to work.” He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window at the James Lick Freeway, continually crowded with commuters. “Will you never learn, Katie-girl?” He sighed.
Ignoring him, Kate smelled her fingers. “What's stinky about the stuff?” she asked. “It's juniper. Who doesn't like the clean, pungent aroma of juniper? Only some kind of nature hater.”
Gallagher swiveled to face her. “Enough already about the
plants and bushes, Kate,” he said. “Let's get to the point. What were you talking to Sister Mary Helen about?
plants and bushes, Kate,” he said. “Let's get to the point. What were you talking to Sister Mary Helen about?
Kate could tell by the set of his mouth that he was getting angry even before he heard the story. “You are clearly prejudiced, Denny,” she said. “You know as well as I do that the woman has our best interests at heart.”
“That bad, huh?” Gallagher groused. “Spare me the beating around the bush, will you, Katie-girl? What did she put her foot into this time?”
“Nothing,” Kate snapped. She felt Gallagher's eyes on her. “Actually, I called her after Tim Moran called me,” she said.
“Moran?” Gallagher drummed his fingers on his desk. “Moran from Vice?”
Kate nodded. “That's the one.”
“Has he got something that will help us?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe? If he hasn't got anything to help us why did he call? Wait a minute ⦔
Kate could almost hear Gallagher's detective mind snapping facts into place like couplings on a train. He gave a sarcastic chuckle. “Let's seeâthis Moran called us because the old nun called him. Right?”
“She went over to the place where he's working undercover.” Kate clenched her teeth and waited for the explosion. Surprisingly, there wasn't one. She checked her partner's face. Had he heard her?
Gallagher looked puzzled. “Which is?” he asked.
“Which is what?”
“The place where he is working undercover?”
“The New You Tattoo Parlor, a few doors down from where Sarah Spencer was murdered. Seems Sister Mary Helen wanted to ask Moran if he saw anything the day Sarah was shot. He tried as persuasively as he could to explain to her that Sarah's
killers weren't fooling and that it could be very dangerous to go around asking those kinds of questions.”
killers weren't fooling and that it could be very dangerous to go around asking those kinds of questions.”
“Did he get anywhere?” Gallagher asked, loosening his tie.
“As far as anyone could get with Sister Mary Helen, I suspect.”
Gallagher pointed at the phone. “Did you make it clear that she was to stay away from questioning anyone for fear that she might just land on the wrong person and end up as dead as Spencer?”
Kate glared at him. She did not like his tone. He made it sound as if she had encouraged the old nun to get involved. “I gave it my best shot,” she said. “Although I wouldn't swear that it will do any good. Not that your berating her achieves any better results. If you ask me, I think you just make her more determined.”
Gallagher stood abruptly and pulled up the waistband of his trousers to cover his paunch. He glared at her over his homrimmed glasses. “I'll tell you what's going to achieve some results,” he growled. “One of these days I'm going to arrest her. Swear to God, I willâ”
Kate couldn't help laughing. “That would make a great police brutality story. I can see it now on page one of the
Chron.”
Chron.”
Gallagher tried not to grin. “What's going to be on tomorrow's front page,” he said, “is a story about all of San Francisco's finest not being able to locate one cop killer.
“Seems to me that we ought to get over to that tattoo parlor and talk to Moran,” he went on. “Hell! The old nun knows more than we do.”
Kate watched her partner pile all his papers into one stack. Then he put his half-filled coffee mug on top of them like a paperweight.
“What if someone bumps into that and it spills?” she asked.
Gallagher shrugged. “What are the chances of that happening?”
He studied her for a minute. “You know, Kate, you worry about the damnedest things.”
He studied her for a minute. “You know, Kate, you worry about the damnedest things.”
True, she thought, following him out of the Detail. They stood side by side waiting for the elevator.
“Why do you think no one told us about Moran being at that tattoo parlor only yards from where Spencer was murdered?” Gallagher asked. “And I don't mean the nunâI mean Sweeney.”
Kate studied the numbers in a half circle over the elevator. The light didn't seem to be moving either up or down. She twisted a small piece of hair around her index finger, then pushed it against her scalp into a curl.
“What are you thinking?” Gallagher asked, recognizing the sign.
Kate shrugged. “Maybe the Lieut didn't know. Maybe Donaldson didn't tell him.”
“Where the hell is this thing?” Gallagher hit the elevator button again. “Funny thing to withhold,” he said.
“I agree.” Kate offered her partner a butterscotch LifeSaver, which he took. “Makes you wonder why.”
“Maybe if this elevator ever gets here,” Gallagher said, without meeting her eye, “we can ask.”
All morning long, even while Sister Mary Helen went about the business of running the drop-in center, she thought about Kate Murphy's phone call. She could not believe that the policewoman had been so testy. It wasn't like Kateânot at all. She had acted as though Mary Helen wasn't going to return her call. Of course she was. Just as soon as she could.
At the first lull, when the majority of the women had gone to Saint Anthony's dining room for their main meal, Mary Helen escaped to the quiet office. Sitting in the dark, she closed
her eyes and forced herself to relax. Everyone's emotions were running high. In fact, this whole thing was getting way out of hand. They were starting to hiss at one another like so many Halloween cats with hunched backs. Fighting among themselves would never get the “good guys” anywhere. And she considered both the police, and Anne and herself, the “good guys.”
her eyes and forced herself to relax. Everyone's emotions were running high. In fact, this whole thing was getting way out of hand. They were starting to hiss at one another like so many Halloween cats with hunched backs. Fighting among themselves would never get the “good guys” anywhere. And she considered both the police, and Anne and herself, the “good guys.”
It took the old nun several minutes of deep breathing to actually calm herself and begin to think sensibly. Junior Johnsonâyes, she needed to talk to him. His Auntie Geraldine could arrange it if she wanted to. She'd talk to Geraldine.
After that, she probably should talk to Tim, the tattoo man, again. She ought to find out the man's last name. “Tim the tattoo man” was a little too cutesy to be taken seriously. Some of the things that he'd said were gnawing at her. He had hinted that he'd seen something when Sarah Spencer was shot. What exactly was it and why would she be better off if she didn't know?
Mary Helen took another deep breath and tried to sort out the uneasiness that was wrapping around her like a web. She knew that it had something to do with Geraldine warning her to watch her back coupled with Tim's reference to having her chest full of lead. Most especially it had to do with her friend Sister Eileen's reluctance to encourage her to get involved.
Was she in over her head? Had she lost her touch? Yes, she needed time to sort things out, time to think.
The office door swung open, startling her. “Oh, here you are.” Anne sounded relieved. “I wondered where you had run off toâagain.”
Again? Mary Helen felt her hackles rise. Had she detected a slight tone? She glared at Anne, who blinked back innocently.
Calm down
, she warned herself.
Anne didn't mean anything.
“What's up?” she asked, sounding as cheerful as she could.
, she warned herself.
Anne didn't mean anything.
“What's up?” she asked, sounding as cheerful as she could.
Without answering her question, Anne sat in the chair across from her. “The crowd is thinning out and Judy, the volunteer,
can cover for a few minutes,” she said. “We need to talk.”
can cover for a few minutes,” she said. “We need to talk.”
Now what
? Mary Helen thought, studying Anne's face. The young nun's cheeks burned in two red splotches, as though someone had slapped her. Her mouth was drawn up in a tight nervous smile. Her hazel eyes were solemn and Mary Helen was afraid that she might start to cry. What in heaven's name was wrong?
? Mary Helen thought, studying Anne's face. The young nun's cheeks burned in two red splotches, as though someone had slapped her. Her mouth was drawn up in a tight nervous smile. Her hazel eyes were solemn and Mary Helen was afraid that she might start to cry. What in heaven's name was wrong?
“I've been thinking about what you said,” Anne began in a quivering voice.
Which thing that I said
? Mary Helen wondered, determined not to interrupt. She nodded encouragingly, knowing from Anne's demeanor that it was important to let her have her say.
? Mary Helen wondered, determined not to interrupt. She nodded encouragingly, knowing from Anne's demeanor that it was important to let her have her say.
“About being spurred on by fear,” Anne continued. “And ⦔
Mary Helen waited. It took all the patience she had left not to say, “Get to the point, will you?”
“And,” Anne swallowed hard, controlling her voice, “it scares me to death.” She reached out for Mary Helen's hand and squeezed the bottom of it. “I don't want anything to happen to you.”
Sister Mary Helen's heart sank. She had never intended to upset Anne. “Do you want me to let it go?” she asked, hoping that she didn't sound too much like a martyr. The thing she had always noticed about martyrs was that they died very lonely deaths.
“No, that's not it. What I want is for you to be careful.”
“Not to worry,” Mary Helen said reassuringly. “Nobody wants me not to get hurt more than I do.”
Anne frowned, looking as if she were trying to translate. “Right!” she said finally.
“Is that all?” Mary Helen asked, sure that it wasn't. One can always hope.
“No.” Anne took another deep breath. “I think we need to solve this thing,” she paused.
Mary Helen waited for the “but.” She was pleasantly surprised
when the word that came from Anne's mouth in a throaty whisper was not “but.” It was “together.”
when the word that came from Anne's mouth in a throaty whisper was not “but.” It was “together.”
When Officer Mark Wong fell into bed in his flat off Judah Street he was dog-tired. And he had every right to be. With his partner, Brian Dineen, he had spent the entire night combing the Tenderloin, then spreading out to the area around it. Methodically they had stopped pimps and prostitutes and drug dealers. Some they knew by name, some only by face.
“What can you tell us about the murder of the young bag lady?” they had asked over and over. And over and over they had received only blank stares with muttered pleas of ignorance.
Most admitted that they had heard about the murder and that they had heard that she was an undercover cop. All denied that they had known it before she was killed.
Pulling the bed covers up around his shoulders, Wong lay in the cool, dark bedroom. His eyes closed, he tried to blot everything out of his mind, not that there was much to blot. The entire shift had been more or less a bust. They had come up with nadaânothingâzilchâthat would lead them anywhere.
Street noises floated in from Judahâthe rattle of the N street car rocking along the tracks; the shrill conversation of two Asian women lugging home their shopping bags from the Twenty-second and Irving Street market; the inevitable impatient blare of a car horn. Overall, his flat was quiet during the day. He was lucky to have rented it when he did, before prices in the city skyrocketed. With rent control he was paying only a fraction of what it would cost him now.
His landlords, an elderly couple, lived upstairs and seemed to like him. If his luck held, he wouldn't have to move until he had saved enough money for the down payment on a house. Maybe if he and Susie Chang ever really had time to get to
know one anotherâbut with him on nights and her on days, what were the odds?
know one anotherâbut with him on nights and her on days, what were the odds?
In the distance Wong heard the scream of a police siren. Some hotshot on the day shift probably doing the same thing that Dineen and he had been doing all nightârousting everybody they could, hoping to apprehend Sarah Spencer's killer as soon as possible.
A brisk ocean breeze riffled the bedroom curtains and sent the Venetian blinds tapping against the window frame. Wong took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Relaxed after his hot shower, his limbs felt numb and heavy, yet tired as he was he could not seem to fall asleep.
For some reason he could not put his shift to rest. Something was wrong. He had sensed it, but he and Dineen had been so busy that they had not had the time to put a finger on it. Reluctantly Wong pulled himself out of bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Maybe he was just hungry.
Opening the refrigerator he was surprised to discover, buried deep in the back of the bottom shelf, a leftover piece of cherry pie, still in its pie tin. He tried not to figure out how long it had been there. He poured himself a glass of milk, then perched on a kitchen chair. A little soggy but not bad, he thought, swallowing the pie in four bites. Not bad at all. He scraped the tin. Just like Olivia scraping her ice-cream dish, he thought, putting it into the sink and adding a little water, in case of ants.
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