Read The Corporal Works of Murder Online
Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie
The Corporal Works of Murder (17 page)
“Let's get out of here,” Dineen said, helping Olivia into the backseat of the police car.
“What did I do?” she screamed. “I didn't do nothing!” Dineen slammed the door on her. “Help!”
“We just want to talk to you and you look as if you could use a cup of coffee,” he said.
“I don't want no coffee! That coffee they got around here is killing my stomach,” she said. “What I need is a chocolate milk shake. A milk shake is soothing.”
Although it took a little time to find a place that served milk shakes, they finally did. Fortunately it was in the neighborhood so Olivia didn't look too out of place in her black teddy and shorts.
“What do you want now?” she asked once they were settled in a back booth and Dineen had ordered the chocolate shakes.
“First, let me ask you,” Wong began, “have you heard anything more about Junior Johnson? Anything after you talked to us yesterday?”
Olivia pretended to think. “Yeah, I guess it was after I talked to you two guys. Who should pick me up on the corner but himself in that show-off pink Cadillac of his. We rode around the'hood for ten or fifteen minutes.”
“What did he want?” Wong asked, taking a swallow of chocolate shake. Olivia was right. It was soothing.
“He wanted me to give his Auntie Geraldine a message.”
“Which was?”
Olivia shrugged. “It was in code, I think. He said to tell her to meet him at the kiss.”
“Kiss? What is the kiss?”
Olivia looked genuinely baffled. “Damned if I know. Like I said, I think it's a code. Anyway Genie seemed to know exactly what he meant.”
“What time did you talk to Junior?”
“About two o'clock,” she said.
“What time did you give his aunt the message?”
“By the time I found her at the Refuge it was almost closing time. About three. Why so many questions? Why don't you ask Junior?”
The two men stared at her. It never occurred to either one of them that streetwise Olivia didn't know.
“You didn't hear?” Wong asked gently.
“Hear what?” Olivia's eyes jumped nervously from one to the other. “Hear what?” she demanded, her face tightening.
“That Junior is dead. Shot.”
It took a few seconds for her to realize what Wong had said. When she did, Olivia blanched. Tears sprang into her eyes. She moved her mouth but no words came out. She seemed unable to catch enough breath to speak.
“They found him in Golden Gate Park by the windmill,” Dineen said.
Moaning, Olivia leaned her forehead into the palms of her hands and sobbed.
Dineen and Wong looked at one another, wondering what to do. It was obvious that Olivia was in shock and that she didn't know nearly as much as they had thought she might.
“Maybe it's best if we leave her alone,” Dineen whispered to his partner. “She'll probably feel better after a good cry.”
Wong nodded and the two officers left Olivia in the booth with her sadness.
For several blocks, they rode in silence. “I guess we have a frame of about thirty minutes in which the crime could have been committed,” Dineen said.
Wong agreed, frowning.
“What's bothering you, partner?” Dineen asked.
“How did Geraldine know where he was? The word Olivia used was âkiss.' How do you translate âkiss' into the Dutch Windmill in Golden Gate Park?”
Slowly Dineen turned the corner. “Kiss, kiss,” he repeated obviously searching for the connection. “Tulips!” he said with a triumphant laugh. “Kiss ⦠. two lips ⦠tulips ⦠Dutch ⦠Dutch Windmill! Elementary, my dear Watson!”
“Ah, if everything would work out as easily,” Wong said, listening to an incoming call.
Silent now, they flew down the street, siren blaring, heading for a dilapidated hotel on Jones Street. Wong's stomach knotted. There was nothing he hated worse nor that he considered more dangerous than answering a call to domestic violence.
The evening fog had already blotted out much of Geary Boulevard when Inspector Kate Murphy finally pulled up in front of her home. The lights from her living room windows shone like beacons out onto the wet street. The window nearest the front door framed the small, round face of her son John. With an ache of love, she watched him smile and wave when he saw her
car pull up in front. It was amazing how the sight of that cherubic face and those melting brown eyes could set even the most horrific day right.
car pull up in front. It was amazing how the sight of that cherubic face and those melting brown eyes could set even the most horrific day right.
“Hi, Mom,” she heard him calling.
“Hi, John,” she called back and waved. Kate was so happy to be home at last that she almost missed her mother-in-law's car parked in front of Jack's.
What in the world is Mama Bassetti doing here?
she wondered. After a day like today, she didn't need any more aggravation.
What in the world is Mama Bassetti doing here?
she wondered. After a day like today, she didn't need any more aggravation.
Driving home from the Hall of Justice she had envisioned a quiet cozy evening with the two favorite men in her lifeâan evening when she could try to forget her daytime reality.
Mounting the front stairs, Kate struggled to control her disappointment. The poor woman had been so good to them and all she wanted really was a little love in return. Was that too much to ask? Of course not, Kate thought, waiting for John to swing open the front door and greet her with hugs and kisses. With him came the delicious aroma of bubbling marinara sauce.
“Poor girl! It's about time you're home. You must be dead.” She heard her mother-in-law's steady voice coming from the kitchen. “Jackie, hand me that potholder and fix your wife a drink. What kind of man, I ask you, lets his wife work longer hours than he does? Your Papa, God rest him, is probably rolling over in his grave! No! No! More ice, Jackie, more ice. And don't forget a slice of lemon.”
Kate had scarcely finished hiding her gun on the top shelf of the hall closet and hanging up her coat when her husband arrived bearing her tall vodka tonic in one hand and a short bourbon for himself in the other. “Your Coke is on the kitchen table, buddy,” he said to John and the youngster ran into the kitchen.
“Want me to help?” they heard him ask.
“Of course, my darling, I'd love you to help,” Mama Bassetti answered. “Hand Nonie that big spoon, please.”
“The kid will probably grow up to be a chef,” Jack remarked, handing Kate her glass.
“Maybe that's better than being a cop.” Exhausted, Kate sank into the overstuffed living-room couch. “Looks as if you and your mother have made up,” Kate whispered. “Is that why she came over?”
Sitting down beside her, Jack smiled sheepishly. “Not really,” he said. “Donaldson, who by the way had the good grace not to refer to his conversation with my mother, asked us to stay after our shift for a few minutes. I was afraid that John might be upset if I didn't pick him up on time. So I called my mother and asked her to do the duty. I fully intended to pick him up from her house.” He sipped his drink. “I should have realized that nothing with Ma is that simple.
“From picking him up, she jumped right into feeding him and us, too, of course. She rambled on about eating properly, quoting some nutrition program she'd heard on television. By the time she finished she made us out to be prime candidates for ricketsâwhich, of course, her spaghetti and meat sauce would instantly combat. When she finally paused for breath, I surrendered.”
“If you hadn't, you'd probably still be on the phone,” Kate said.
The two sat quietly for a few minutes relaxing, each hoping to let go of the day. “To be honest,” Kate said finally, “it does smell delicious. I'll bet we are the only people in San Francisco who complain about somebody making them dinner.”
“Right,” her husband agreed. “Maybe in the whole state of California.”
They heard small footsteps hurrying down the hall. “It's almost ready,” John announced from the doorway. “Nonie says there's just time for another drink, so come on, Dad.”
“Here I come,” Jack said, heaving himself up from the couch and taking Kate's glass.
“Thanks,” she said, watching him go. It always amazed her that he was so patient and good-natured about his mother's nagging.
It must be a special gene, she thought, one that I'm missing.
Kate closed her eyes. They burned. Probably from the salt water at the beach, she thought, trying to block the scene behind the windmill from her mind.
It must be a special gene, she thought, one that I'm missing.
Kate closed her eyes. They burned. Probably from the salt water at the beach, she thought, trying to block the scene behind the windmill from her mind.
“Beware of the garlic bread,” Jack said when he returned from the kitchen with their drinks. “My mother is letting the kid make it.”
Kate smiled. “Which is more than she lets you and me do.”
“Go figure!” Jack raised his glass. “Salute!”
“Salute!” Kate answered, still struggling to keep the grisly discovery at the park at bay, resolved not to let it invade her at home.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
Kate nodded, but he wasn't fooled.
“Much as I hate to agree with my mother,” he said, “you really do look beat. From what Pits told us I gather you and Gallagher are the two who caught the Junior Johnson homicide.”
“Yeah,” Kate said, wishing that will power alone could banish the haunting memory. “Somebody shot him,” she said simply, “in the head. From the look of it, Gallagher and I think it might be the same perp as shot Sarah Spencer.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The size of the bullet wound and the fact that we didn't find any shells. We will have to wait until we get the forensic report to be sure.”
“Any idea who the perp could be?” Jack asked.
“None whatsoever,” Kate said. “I was kind of favoring Junior Johnson.” She gave a half smile. “Obviously, it wasn't he. Unless he was in on it with someone else and there was a falling out among thieves. Anyway, with every cop in the city on a mission to find the perp, he doesn't have a prayer. We'll get the bastard.”
During dinner the conversation was light and pleasant. Little John talked about his day at nursery school and what went on at daycare with his pals and Sheila, the babysitter. Mama Bassetti talked about what her neighbors said and thought. If she could be believed there was scarcely a subject from the mayor to the Muni on which they didn't have a strong and vocal opinion. Loretta Bassetti was still annoyed about her conversation with Lieutenant Don Donaldson. “Sassy,” she had called him, and she said it again as she served chocolate biscotti and coffee.
Stirring in a few drops of cream, Kate wondered what adjective she'd use to describe the man.
At the mention of Don Donaldson, Jack, who seemed to have tuned out, re-joined the party. “One reason I was late,” he said, then rushed on before his mother could comment, “is that Donaldson wanted to make some announcements about the service for Sarah Spencer tomorrow.”
“Where is it?” Loretta Bassetti asked.
“St. Mary's Cathedral. We need to be there at nine-thirty,” he said.
Kate was glad when little John asked to be excused. He was awfully young. She wasn't really sure how much he understood about death and funerals or what was the right age to try to explain them to him, but she was relieved that tonight wouldn't be the night that she'd have to make that decision. The familiar music from
Wheel of Fortune
floated in from the living room.
Wheel of Fortune
floated in from the living room.
“Do you think the kid has a thing for Vanna White?” Jack asked.
His mother's eyes flashed. “Shame on you!” she said. “What a thing for a father to say! He is a very intelligent little boy. He likes to see if he can read the words.”
“Just kidding,” Jack said.
“Not funny!” his mother snapped back and rose from the table, starting to clear it.
“No, Loretta,” Kate said more emphatically than she intended. “Jack and I will clean up. You have done enough. Sit down. Let me warm your coffee.”
To Kate's amazement Loretta Bassetti did as she was told. “What time did you say that you have to be there tomorrow? Nine-thirty?” she asked.
Jack nodded.
“Why don't I take John home with me tonight? That way you can be free in the morning.”
“What about nursery school?” Kate said.
“It's summer,” her mother-in-law reasoned. “What about a day off?
Kate must have looked a little dubious.
“Millions of kids never went to nursery school at all,” her mother-in-law said, “and they lived long and productive lives. Did Einstein go to nursery school?” Her brown eyes searched both her son and her daughter-in-law for an answer. “Did Michelangelo? Did Pope John XXIII? As a matter of fact, did either of you?”
“Ma, I think you've made your point,” Jack said finally.
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