There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of (23 page)

“I hope not,” Carolyn said. “That could be dangerous for you.”

“Besides,” Don said, “he’s not really in the open. You still don’t know who he is.”

I sipped wine. “That’s true. But I have a suspicion.”

They both looked at me.

“I’m going to talk to the police about it,” I added.

Don looked relieved. “You should. Why don’t you use the phone in the studio?”

“No, I think I’ll go back to All Souls.” Frankly, I didn’t want to talk with Greg in front of Don, even with a plate-glass window separating us. I didn’t exactly know why, but it had something to do with keeping my past and my present segregated.

Carolyn finished her wine and stood up. “Well, I’d better get the phone numbers of the people who called in and call them back. I’m going to do it from home, though; I haven’t been there for two days, except to change clothes.”

“Reception will have what you need,” Don said.

“Good.” She looked at me. “Call anytime, if something comes up.”

“I’ll do that.” I watched her leave, then turned to Don.

He said, “Are you really going to talk to the cops?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not going to go off on your own and get in trouble?”

He knew me too well. “No, I promise I won’t. What are you planning to do now?”

“I promised one of the jocks I’d help him edit a tape. I’ll be here for a couple of hours, at any rate.”

“Okay, I’ll call you later ad let you know what the cops said.”

“Do that.”

I gathered up my bag and jacket, gave Don a quick kiss and went outside. The night was cold and crisp, and the Christmas decorations on the front door of the studios made me think—with a pang of guilt—of my undone shopping. But how could I worry about that until Duc was home safe and the murderer had been found? I couldn’t; that was all there was to it.

I drove the short distance to Bernal Heights, realize it would have been just as easy to go home and make my call. But somehow my house on Church Street—proud as I was of it—hadn’t become home yet; I hadn’t lived there long enough to really feel settled in. And All Souls had been my haven for years, the place where I’d always gone when troubled by the confusion and sometimes the brutal reality I faced in my work. Even now, dead as the co-op seemed, it felt better to go there.

Surprisingly, warm light blazed in the bay window of the big Victorian. I parked haphazardly and hurried up the steps into the front hall. A Christmas tree lay on its side in the archway to the left, and on the floor near the window a tree stand had been assembled. I looked around but saw no one.

Feeling a little more sanguine about the co-op—after all, someone had troubled to buy that tree—I went into my office and called SFPD Homicide. Greg was off duty. I tried his home number, and he answered on the first ring.

“Listen, Greg,” I said, “I have a lead for you. I went on the radio tonight—”

“I know.” His voice was grim.

“What?”

“A friend was listening to KSUN. He called me and said the lady I used to go with was on the air. Naturally, I tuned in.”

“Well, then you know about the call I had—”

“Sharon, why are you interfering with my case?”

“I wasn’t interfering. I barely mentioned the murder. What I was trying to do was draw attention to Duc Vang’s disappearance—which everybody else seems to be ignoring.”

“When a missing person report is filed and seventy-two hours have elapsed, it will get plenty of attention.”

“Greg, that call—”

“That call could have been from any of the multitude of nuts who listen to the radio. A show like that brings them out of the woodwork. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

“Greg—”

“And I don’t want to hear any more from you either. As far as you are concerned, the case is closed. Do you understand?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said sullenly.

“Good.” He hung up.

I glared at the receiver, then slammed it into the cradle.
Why
had I ever thought Greg would be reasonable? I had a perfectly good lead for him—as I’d often had in the past. And he was going to ignore it—as he’d ignored other leads I’d given him over the years. And while he ignored it, Duc could be in even more serious danger than before.

Thanks to me. Maybe the broadcast had been a bad idea.

I shut off the light and left the office. I’d just reached the foot of the stairs to the living quarters when the front door burst open. Gilbert Thayer stood there, his bunny-rabbit face red and twitching. He looked around furiously, saw me, and said, “This is an outrage!”

I looked around too, but couldn’t see anything that might have upset him except the Christmas tree. “Why? We all enjoy a tree. Hank’s Jewish, and he gets the biggest kick out of it of anyone—”

“Where is he? I’m not going to stand for this!”

There were footsteps on the stairs behind me. I turned and saw Hank descending, carrying a box labeled XMAS ORNAMENTS.

“Something the matter, Gilbert?” he said unconcernedly.

Gilbert raised his right fist and shook it. It clutched a piece of white paper that looked like an All Souls letterhead. “You’ll never get away with this!”

Hank came the rest of the way down and set the box next to the tree. “Actually, I think I will.”

“Never! You can’t dissolve the partnership! Not without everyone’s consent! And I’ll never give mine! Neither will—”

Hank straightened, casually dusting off his hands. “Your trouble, Gilbert is that you don’t read carefully. Like you didn’t read the regulation about who the driveway is reserved for. Probably that’s what accounts for your mediocre grade in law school.”

That stopped Gilbert, temporarily.

Hank went on, “You see, in our partnership agreement there’s a provision for dissolution, as there is in all such agreements. And what it provides is that the partnership can be dissolved by a majority vote.”

Gilbert’s little eyes darted from right to left. Obviously he was calculating which partners would be for him and which against. I felt a bubble of glee rising inside me.

Hank said, “Don’t bother to count. I’ve got the edge on you, by one person. The meeting that that letter informs you of will be held, the partnership will be dissolved, and the assets will be divided.”

Gilbert’s face began to twitch even more furiously. “The
assets?
What assets?”

Hank grinned. “Well, there’s the office equipment—that’s a damned good Selectric II Ted uses. File cabinets area kind of battered, furniture’s not so hot, most of the volumes in the law library belong to individuals. But there’re some of the assets. There’s the hundred-dollar cleaning deposit on the house—if anybody bothers to clean. There’s goodwill, of course, and that entails use of the name. But you and your cohorts don’t want the name, do you? Too sixties-ish, wasn’t that what you said?”

He paused, looking elaborately thoughtful. “Oh yes—there’s the trophy we won two years ago in the ABA intercity tennis tournament. It’s kind of tacky, but it might fetch ten dollars. Of course, when you stack those assets up against the debts. . . I’m not sure we’ve even paid the latest bill for stationery yet.”

Gilbert balled up the letter he held and flung it on the floor. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“Oh, moderately. More clever than you, perhaps.”

“I want to see that clause in the partnership agreement.” But the fight had gone out of Gilbert; already he was resigning himself to defeat.

Hank extended his arm toward the office. “Sure. Come on and I’ll show you. I happen to have a copy right on my desk.” He winked at me and escorted the bunny rabbit down the hall.

I went over and picked up the letter, smoothing it out so I could read it. It was from Hank, in standard legalese, informing the partners of a meeting to be held at ten o’clock next Monday morning. The purpose of said meeting would be to take a vote on dissolving the partnership.

I smiled, willing to bet that Gilbert and his cronies were the only partners who received copies of this letter. And I was also willing to be there would be no dissolution, merely a few resignations and a quiet resolution of any remaining problems. At the bottom of the page Hank had added a postscript that said, “Of course, All Souls has always operated informally. Should there be consensus in the interim between now and Monday morning that this time-consuming meeting is unnecessary, I am sure we will be able to dispense with it and get on with the more important work of this law firm—
namely, helping our clients.”

I liked the italics. They were a nice touch. The letter had been typed and initialed by Ted, and he might even have suggested them, since his “damned good Selectric II” had an italicized element that he was very proud of. Yes, they were a nice touch indeed.

From Hank’s office I could hear conversation. Gilbert’s voice was subdued, a trifle whiny.

I started down the hall, smiling to myself. It was going to be all right. All Souls would survive, and probably be stronger for all this conflict. And my job would be secure. My job . . .

Halfway to the living room, I stopped, realizing I was still carrying the letter. Something made me look at it again, read it through carefully.

“Those italics . . .

My smile became a frown, and I stood still for a minute or two, my thoughts in confusion, facts refusing to connect. Then I ran the rest of the way to the back of the house—and in a couple more minutes all the facts did connect.

I now knew where Duc was—and who had murdered his friend, Hoa Dinh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Don said, “You’d better let me go with you.”

I gripped the phone receiver harder. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my job, not yours.”

“But it might be dangerous.”

“No!”

My exasperation was apparent, and on the other end of the line Don fell silent. He’d called All Souls just as I had been on my way out the door, hoping we could have a quiet drink or two. Instead I had presented him with the solution to a murder—possibly two—and a rescue plan. Now he was worried about my safety.

“Sharon,” he said grimly, “go to the cops.”

“I can’t.” But again I considered it. Maybe, given what I’d figured out, Greg would listen to me. If I called him back and explained. . . . But I knew Greg; he wouldn’t listen. The only way to wrap this matter up was to free Duc. Greg couldn’t refuse to hear
his
story. “I can’t,” I said again. “I’m counting on you to ensure that everything goes okay. If I don’t call you in exactly an hour, I want you to call the cops. Tell them you want to report a homicide in progress and give them the address—”

“Homicide!”

“It’s only a police code designation. It’ll get them there in a hurry.”

“Sharon, for God’s sake, wait—”

“Remember, exactly an hour from now.” I hung up and ran for the door.

I pulled my car close to the scaffolding that flanked the Crystal Palace Theatre and shut off the engine and the lights. I took my flashlight from my bag, checked to make sure the gun was secure in the side pocket, and got out of the car. The night was still clear and even colder; the outlines of the old theatre were more hard-edged than they’d seemed in the post-rain mist the night before. I looked up and down the street, saw no one, and ran for the opening in the scaffolding. When I reached it, I stopped, listening. I could hear nothing but muted traffic sounds.

The bare bulbs in the walkway beside the building were lit, and the narrow space was as eerie as a deserted stage set. Moving along close to the scaffolding, one hand holding the flashlight, the other poised above my gun, I approached the side door where Dolly and I had entered the night before. But when I tugged on the handle it wouldn’t open.

All right, I thought, this can’t be the only entrance. The theatre would have a stage door, closer to the rear. I retraced my steps, stopping at the opening in the scaffolding to look out. The street was still deserted. I went on about twenty feet, into the shadow where the light from the string of bulbs didn’t reach, and found a small stairway that led up to another door. But when I climbed it and pulled on the knob, it wouldn’t budge.

Of course after Otis Knox’s murder—and now I was pretty sure it had been murder—the police would have secured the premises. But there must be another way in, one that hadn’t been apparent to them. The person I was after had gotten inside many times, had taken Duc there. I’d continue to skirt the building until I found it.

This last section of walkway was very dark. I switched on the flashlight and heard a quick scurrying sound. Rats. The city had a problem with them; not so bad as a few years before, but still a problem. I swung the light around to further scare them, then edged along the wall toward the rear of the building.

It backed up on an alley where there was a loading dock. I boosted myself up on it and checked the door. It was the kind that raised up, and like the others it was secure. Sitting on the edge of the dock preparatory to jumping to the ground, I pondered the problem.

Was it possible, I wondered, that he had previously been getting in by one of these three doors that were now locked? One that had never been secured until after the murder? If so, it meant that Duc had been trapped in there for over twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours without food or water, in a strange, dark place. I jumped down and continued my search.

Halfway along the back wall of the theatre, I noticed a window at ground level. It appeared to open into the basement where the dressing rooms were—and where Knox had planned to located his sound stage. I knelt and examined it, found it was covered with heavy iron bars that were imbedded in the concrete frame. I shone the flashlight on the glass, but saw only the accumulated grime of decades.

There were similar windows all the way down the alley, and I checked each carefully. All were barred, all were dark and begrimed. Once again I retraced my steps, pausing beside a garbage dumpster and staring up at the brick wall of the building on the other side of the alley. The wall was honeycombed with windows, but none of them was lighted, and some were boarded up. Not a sound—not even the movement of rats—broke the stillness in the alley.