Read The Corporal Works of Murder Online
Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie
The Corporal Works of Murder (16 page)
Raising her head, Geraldine nodded. Her face was soft and soggy from crying. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. “Tomorrow be a better day!”
Once Kate was sure that Geraldine was safely in the patrol car and on her way downtown she called Sister Mary Helen. Studying the old nun's face, Kate was shocked at how tired she looked. Fatigue had deepened the wrinkles around her mouth and behind her bifocals her hazel eyes were as glassy as marbles. Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she climbed into the backseat of the car across from Kate.
She shivered and Kate felt the cold and damp radiating from her body. “I'll try to make this quick,” she said. “First of all, how did you and Sister Anne and Geraldine happen to be out here and stumble upon Junior Johnson?”
Who, by the way, the SFPD has been looking for unsuccessfully all day
, she wanted to add, but thought better of it.
Who, by the way, the SFPD has been looking for unsuccessfully all day
, she wanted to add, but thought better of it.
Adjusting her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, Mary Helen met Kate's gaze, paused for a few seconds as though trying to decide where to begin. “The ladies at the Refuge seem to know everything,” she said at last.
Kate listened as Sister Mary Helen told her about Geraldine
hearing rumors that her nephew had killed Officer Sarah Spencer and that he had disappeared. She filled her in on the woman's reaction and her concern for her nephew, especially her distress over his disappearance. She told Kate about Geraldine's meeting with Olivia who had given her the code name indicating where she could find Junior. She admittedâa difficult admission for herâthat she wanted to go with Geraldine in order to talk with Junior and that poor Sister Anne had really been suckered into it.
hearing rumors that her nephew had killed Officer Sarah Spencer and that he had disappeared. She filled her in on the woman's reaction and her concern for her nephew, especially her distress over his disappearance. She told Kate about Geraldine's meeting with Olivia who had given her the code name indicating where she could find Junior. She admittedâa difficult admission for herâthat she wanted to go with Geraldine in order to talk with Junior and that poor Sister Anne had really been suckered into it.
Kate held her peace, not sure just how long she could.
“I wanted to talk to Junior Johnson,” Mary Helen confessed, “because there is a little undercurrent among some of the women that perhaps the police are looking the other way. I know that can't be true.” Kate felt pinned by the sharp hazel eyes. “So I wanted to find out from Junior how the rumor got started.”
At this the dam of Kate's patience finally broke. “Did it ever occur to you that you were playing a very dangerous game with a very dangerous man?” She leveled her eyes at Mary Helen. “This is the second homicide in two days. And I'm sure they are connected. What we don't need is a third. This is not a television program, Sister. You are not Miss Marple. This is real life and you have put yourself and your companions in extreme danger.” Kate stopped for breath.
Mary Helen's eyebrows shot up like streaks of lightning and she pressed her thin lips into a tight line. “I am very aware of both the reality and the danger, Inspector,” she said crisply. “I was simply trying to be of some assistance.”
Kate thought she detected a little hurt as well as anger in Mary Helen's eyes and softened a bit. “I realize that you are trying to be helpful,” she said, “and I appreciate that. I really do.” She hoped her partner hadn't overheard her. “But what we don't need is a murdered nun or two in the mix. It's bad enough that we have one murdered undercover policewoman and one less suspectâalso murdered. Do you understand?”
“Of course, I understand your concern butâ”
“No buts!” Kate raised her hand and her voice. “I'm asking you, SisterânoâI'm demanding that you not involve yourself in this investigation in any way, at any time, with anybody, for any reason. Do you think you can do that?”
“Of course I can,” Mary Helen said, rather too quickly.
“Ah! Will you please do that?” Kate asked. That was the crux of the matter. “I beg you,” she added.
“There's no need to beg, Kate,” Mary Helen said with an unexpected smile. “âWe, ignorant of ourselves, beg often our own harms, which the wise powers deny us for our good â¦'”
Kate must have looked puzzled.
“Shakespeare,” Mary Helen explained.
“Whatever,” Kate said, eager to get on with it. “Then we understand one another?”
“As always,” Mary Helen said and reached for the door handle. “Have a nice evening, Kate,” she said turning to face her, “and get some rest. You look exhausted.”
Watching the old nun step out onto John F. Kennedy Drive, Kate felt oddly uncomfortable. Was she wrong or had her conversation with Sister Mary Helen gone far too smoothly?
Officer Mark Wong walked into the Vice Crimes Section of the Hall of Justice well before his shift began. He wasn't surprised to find his partner Brian Dineen there ahead of him. “Howdy, big guy,” he said, looking up at the tall redhead.
Brian yawned in response.
“Same to you,” Mark said, noticing that if anything Brian looked as though he'd slept less than Mark himself had. “I see you've got your bags packed.” Mark pointed to the charcoal puffs under each of Dineen's bloodshot eyes.
“Everybody's a comedian,” Dineen grumbled.
“You guys are in early.” It was Jack Bassetti.
“Yeah,” Mark answered for the two of them.
Jack's shift was over and he was finishing up the last of his paperwork. He looked eager to get going. In fact, most of the day shift looked as if they could hardly wait to go home. And why not? It had been a long and frustrating couple of days for all of them.
The room rang with their banter and jokes. “How about a drink before we hit the road?” someone asked Jack.
Shaking his head, Jack declined. “Let me take a rain check on that,” he said. “Tonight I have to pick up the heir apparent. The Queen Mum just called.”
“A royal summons cannot be ignored,” someone announced solemnly.
Mark knew that Jack's wife, Kate Murphy, was a homicide detective. He had wondered, when he thought about Susie Chang and himself, how that would work out. Two in the SFPD. It seemed to be panning out just fine for the Bassettis. Better than a lot of marriages on the force. Donaldson, for example, and Sweeney from Homicideâboth divorced. And even his partner. Brian had hinted lately that he and his wife were having problems, although he didn't come right out and say so. It was not something you asked a guy, even if he was your partner.
“Anything new on Sarah's homicide?” Mark heard his partner ask.
“Not that I know of,” Jack said, “although it's not for lack of trying. We've been beating the bushes all day long, weeding out every lowlife, needling every snitch in town. If anybody knows anything about the kid's death, sooner or later we're bound to uncover it.”
“Did anyone locate Junior Johnson?” Mark asked.
Jack had already started to shake his head when Lieutenant Donaldson stepped out of his office. “Did I hear someone ask about Junior Johnson?” He leaned against the door jamb. Donaldson
was a big man with a full head of steel gray hair whose mother, for some reason, had named him Don. Wong assumed it was her overactive sense of whimsy and not sheer meanness which had caused her to light upon the name. Whichever it was, the poor guy had put up with years of the other kids stuttering, “Don, Don, Don, Don Donaldson,” as if it were a great joke.
was a big man with a full head of steel gray hair whose mother, for some reason, had named him Don. Wong assumed it was her overactive sense of whimsy and not sheer meanness which had caused her to light upon the name. Whichever it was, the poor guy had put up with years of the other kids stuttering, “Don, Don, Don, Don Donaldson,” as if it were a great joke.
In college he had played football for a small local school. Unfortunately, some of his muscle had turned to fat, especially around his gut.
“Yeah, Lieutenant, I asked about Junior,” Mark spoke up.
Donaldson turned toward him. He looked worn out. His squared jaw seemed even more angular than usual and the lines that bad temper had etched at the corners of his mouth were even deeper.
“I just got a call from Sweeney in Homicide,” he said, his voice flat. “They found him at the Dutch Windmill in Golden Gate Park.”
The room went silent waiting for the bad news they all sensed was coming.
“Seems they found the guy dead. Shot behind the windmill. A couple of homicide inspectors are on the scene now.”
For several seconds no one spoke. The Lieutenant put his hands on his hips. Wong tried not to notice the hourglass stains of perspiration under each of Donaldson's arms. It happened so consistently that as a rookie he had been nicknamed “Dripping Don.” With his promotion came another moniker. Although none of his squad ever called him this to his face, some wag had hit upon “Hot Pits” Donaldson. Naturally it had caught on and was shortened by some to “Pits” and “Pittie.”
“I'd like you all to stay a couple of minutes so I can bring you up to date on the latest developments,” Donaldson said, “and on tomorrow's funeral arrangements for Officer Spencer.”
While the others pulled up chairs or sat on the edges of desks,
Mark noticed Jack Bassetti make a quick phone call. You didn't have to be a crack detective to deduce that his wife was the homicide inspector at the scene and since he, too, was tied up the third in line was being asked to perform the royal pickup duty.
Mark noticed Jack Bassetti make a quick phone call. You didn't have to be a crack detective to deduce that his wife was the homicide inspector at the scene and since he, too, was tied up the third in line was being asked to perform the royal pickup duty.
Without any preliminaries, Donaldson launched into what details he knew about the murder of Junior Johnson, a man with whom the Vice Squad was very familiar. Junior represented the real underbelly of San Francisco's criminal society. In fact, he had been their number one choice for Sarah Spencer's murderer. Although most seemed relieved that he was off the streets, his death brought up other question. If he had murdered Sarah, who had killed him and why?
Halfway through the Lieutenant's briefing, the squad door cracked open and a tough-looking character wearing Levis and a T-shirt let himself in. It took Wong several seconds to realize that the scraggly Abraham Lincoln beard camouflaged the face of Officer Tim Moran. If it hadn't been for his bright blue eyes and the word
MOTHER
on his knuckles, Wong wasn't sure that he would have recognized him at all.
MOTHER
on his knuckles, Wong wasn't sure that he would have recognized him at all.
“What you doing here?” Donaldson asked gruffly. “Aren't you supposed to be someplace?”
Moran's face froze into an angry mask. “We need to talk,” he muttered.
“Later, Moran. I'll talk to you later,” Donaldson said, ignoring Moran's fiery eyes fastened on him.
If looks could kill, Mark thought, scarcely hearing what the Lieutenant was saying.
“I'll see you all tomorrow then at St. Mary's Cathedral for Officer Spencer's funeral. Nine-thirty sharp,” he said, then motioned Moran to follow him into his office.
From the bang of the door, Wong knew that the meeting was going to be stormy.
“If you ask me, partner, the streets figure to be safer tonight
than a meeting with Pits,” Brian Dineen said, his eyes twinkling.
than a meeting with Pits,” Brian Dineen said, his eyes twinkling.
The room exploded in laughter that stopped abruptly when the door to Donaldson's office flew open. Without a sideward glance, Moran stormed out of the Section. It didn't take long for the place to clear out.
“What now?” Dineen asked as he drove toward the Tenderloin. Although it would be light for another couple of hours, the neighborhood was beginning to come alive. Bars and liquor stores were already doing rapid business and there was an unsettling kind of electricity in the air. Prostitutes emerged from the old hotels in twos and threes, laughing and gossiping as they sauntered toward their corners. A group of working girls waved to Wong and Dineen. “Hi, fellas,” one called. “Isn't it a beautiful night for a stroll?”
“As long as you just keep on strollin',” Dineen called out and the women giggled.
“Slow down. Let's see if we can find Olivia,” Wong said, straining to look down the alley that Dineen was passing.
“My thought exactly,” Dineen agreed. “If anyone has the skinny on Johnson, it'll be our girl, Olivia.”
It didn't take long for the officers to spot her. Olivia's platinum hair was a beacon. Dressed in a black lace teddy and snug, black velvet shorts, she was leaned against a lamppost, her hand on her hip. Her knee-high black boots were laced with a silver cord and she played seductively with several long silver chains around her neck. Her broad shoulders, thin body, and shapely legs gave her a youthful look. To tell the truth, Wong thought, it wasn't until you actually looked at her face that you realized she was middle-aged.
“Olivia!” Wong called, getting out of the police car.
Her brown eyes hardened as she turned toward him. “Not you
two, again,” she screeched. “Get the hell away from me or I'll report you for harassment.”
two, again,” she screeched. “Get the hell away from me or I'll report you for harassment.”
“Harassment?” Wong asked. “After we bought you dinner last night?”
“Big deal!” Olivia sneered and tried to walk away from him, but Wong caught her arm.
“Is there someplace we can talk?” he asked, noticing that several of the other girls were gathering around, willing to protect Olivia if she needed it.
“Is everything all right, sweetie?” one of them asked.
“You need help, sister?” another voice called.
“We got rights,” a tall blonde cross-dresser protested.
Olivia looked around wildly. Slowly Dineen pulled his large frame from the car. The sight of the big man seemed to calm down the situation immediately.
Thank goodness,
Wong thought. What they didn't need tonight was a riot in the Tenderloin.
Thank goodness,
Wong thought. What they didn't need tonight was a riot in the Tenderloin.
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