A Dinner to Die For (16 page)

“You didn’t grow up in the East, huh?” I said.

“No. San Francisco.”

“So you never put away your winter clothes on Memorial Day and dragged them back out on Labor Day?”

He looked at me as if I were crazy. “What happened if it got hot in October?”

“You sweated. It’s not like here, where you just wear fewer layers in the spring and fall.” And more on the summer nights and mornings like today, when the fog can be thick enough to make Yankowski’s pea jacket an appealing sight, I could have added.

The dresser was empty, as was the tiny refrigerator. On top of the fridge was a mug, and a nearly new bottle of instant coffee.

“Moved out, huh?” I said.

“Looks like it.” Sapolu sat down in the chair. It was coverless, but the black Naugahyde had been ripped and taped back together. “No one used to drinking coffee at Paradise drinks instant at home.”

“Not unless he just wants something here in case he needs a cup when he comes to check on his winter clothes. Did you find any hint of where he’s living now?”

“Nada. The neighbors”—he motioned toward the nearby rooms—“haven’t seen him in two months, and when they did, he didn’t say more than ‘How you doin?’ There wasn’t one scrap of paper in here, not a Kleenex. Your perp travels light. And careful.”

I spotted Howard loping across University Avenue, his long strides seemingly effortless, his curly red hair bobbing with each step. The fog was gone, and the sunlight sparkled off the window panes across the street, off the Volkswagen that cut sharply right to avoid Howard, off the Mercedes convertible that slammed on its brakes three feet from him, and off the big gold ring on the finger next to the one the driver flipped at Howard.

“Hey, fellow, there are laws against jay-running,” I yelled at Howard.

“I’m above the law,” he said as he stepped up on the curb. The light turned amber; the Mercedes driver raced his engine and shot across the intersection, coming as close to a van making a left turn as he had to Howard. Howard winced; no one had to tell him he’d set that up. Then his grin returned. “So, Jill, how was Earth Man’s cloak? Give me the inside story.”

“It really makes you appreciate clean air.” Before he could probe more deeply, I said, “What about your sting last night?”

Howard’s grin widened. “Well, Jill, just let me say that it was a masterwork. Arlo is in cell nine.”

“Whew!” Arlo was Berkeley’s most successful drug dealer. Howard had been after him ever since he was assigned to Vice and Substance Abuse. Arlo hadn’t bitten on two previous sting attempts, a rarity in the history of Howardian setups. This last sting was a grudge match.

“So?” I prompted.

“So.” He was grinning so wide he could barely talk. “I got the word that Arlo had a big shipment in. I kept the heat on Arlo. Tails any hour of the day. Bushy tails.”

“Bushy tails” were the kind the suspect can see—more for show than work.

“He couldn’t open the door without spotting us watching him, much less conduct business. Arlo’s no fool; he isn’t about to take chances. He knows all those tails cost a fortune. So he was laying back, figuring he’d wait me out. But he was also getting antsy. No merchant likes to carry big inventories. But he didn’t figure on the number of favors I called in and the number I asked. I’m in debt all over the department. He also didn’t know that some of the tails were guys taking twenty minutes off patrol. By the end of two months he was doing my work for me, seeing cops everywhere. And he was worrying about his inventory, see?”

“And?”

“I waited till the last moment, I mean the last moment. Another day and he’d have split or been carted off to the Highland psych ward. Then I just eased the word out about a big buyer, a very nervous, suspicious buyer.”

“One who wouldn’t deal with him because he was hot.”

“Right. I trained you well, my woman.”

“And then?”

“And then I reeled him in. But here’s the clincher, Jill. I set up the buy for Telegraph and Ashby. Then at the last minute I had my man change the location to Ashby and Roosevelt, and then again”—the corners of his mouth were tickling his earlobes; he could barely contain himself—“to Roosevelt and Acton.”

“A block from the station! Did you take a car, or just decide to walk him back?” I laughed.

Howard grinned and pushed open the door to Wally’s.

At eleven, only two customers were sitting at one of the Formica tables by the windows. The counter, which filled two thirds of the floor space, was empty. Behind it Wally perched, Raksen-like, on a short stepladder, leaning precariously over the grill while balancing a four-by-three blackboard framed in orange. Wally’s was to Wally what Paradise was to Mitch Biekma. Whereas Mitch spent his time charming the viewers of television talk shows, Wally devoted his free moments to redecorating and redefining. None of his dishes were so pedestrian as to be called “Two Eggs, Any Style.” On Wally’s menus, two eggs might be a “Pair of Specs”; two eggs with ham, a “Groucho”; a jelly donut, a “Gusher.” The names were rarely inspired, but it didn’t matter, because Wally changed them at least once a month. He replaced the menu boards nearly as often. One week he had had three different signs out front. I couldn’t imagine how the man turned a profit.

We walked in silently and sat at a table. But if we’d had any fear of startling Wally, we’d misjudged him. He was entranced with his blackboard.

“We could have
driven
in unnoticed,” I whispered.

“We could have called that health equipment company that tried to deliver to Paradise. They could have unloaded their whole truck in here without worrying about being interrupted.”

Howard picked up the salt cellar, assessed it, and set it down. Wally continued to shift the menu board. Howard moved the pepper shaker. His blue eyes sat deep in his head. Above them a wrinkle moved up from the bridge of his nose. There were wispy lines around his eyes I hadn’t noticed before—smile lines, but lines nevertheless. Had they etched themselves in during the last month? Howard asked, “Your trip back okay?” He sounded different, too formal for Howard.

I hesitated, recalling that sweaty landing. “Fine.”

“I’ve got your clothes in my Land Rover.”

“Great. All I’ve got with me are loud flowered shirts and white shorts.”

“You’d make quite a hit with the press. You do have good legs. And quite a tan.”

“I’ll give it some thought. I can use all the help with the press I can get now.” I felt like I was making conversation with a stranger. It would be a relief when Wally took our orders.

“That bad, huh? Look, Yankowski’s not someone who’d get lost in a crowd. If he stays in Berkeley you’ll get him.”

“That’s a big if. Yankowski’s no amateur who panicked and ran last night. He watched what he said to his neighbors at the Hillvue, which is not exactly a place where residents are dying to chat up the cops, anyway. His room was a roadblock to anyone looking for him. A dead end.”

Howard shoved his chair back and leaned his elbows on the table. “He must have done that before Mitch Biekma’s murder, right?”

“He hasn’t been back there since.”

“So he cleared everything out before. In preparation for hiding out after murdering Biekma?”

“The thing is, Howard, if Yankowski had planned to kill Mitch Biekma, he would have been prepared for the questioning that followed.” This was the same type of conversation we’d had at breakfast, at dinner, in our office, on the phone for years. At times when we weren’t sure where we stood with each other, we had slipped into the tell-me-about-your-case talks for security. But this time it wasn’t bridging the distance.

“But suppose he killed Biekma on the spur of the moment?”

“Possible,” I said slowly. “Yankowski didn’t strike me as a spur-of-the-moment guy. But even if the murder was unpremeditated, I don’t see him losing his cool in the middle of an interview. I wasn’t pressing him that hard.”

A bang came from behind the counter as Wally aimed the menu board for the two support nails. The hanging-from-nails look was too indecorous for Wally; Wally’s nails would be hidden behind the board. And it would take more luck than Wally had to find them.

Howard jumped up. “Let me give you a hand, Wally.”

“Over here,” Wally said, without turning around. When it came to his first love, the identity of his proposed helper was secondary to the project.

Standing, I watched as Wally reached up trying to balance the menu board with the aid of Howard, who had to be nearly a foot taller. Howard could easily have done the job himself, but he didn’t. He eased the board back and forth across the elusive nails, the sun highlighting his green turtleneck and his jeans, the movement accenting his lean back, his long muscular legs, and his not-half-bad buns.

“There it is,” Wally exclaimed, releasing the board and stepping back with proprietary appreciation. “What do you think?”

“Looks good. Now how about a little service in this joint,” Howard said, turning toward me.

I jerked my gaze away from his derriere. Maybe I had been convalescing too long.

“Hey, you’re back,” Wally called to me. “Bet he’s glad to see you, huh?” he said, eyeing Howard. To him he said, “She looks pretty good, huh? All tan. A little thin, maybe.” Wally followed Howard out around the counter, his gaze steady on my face. “Tired, that’s what she looks. You been keeping her out too late?”

“We’ve got criminals for that,” Howard said, careful not to meet my gaze.

“What’ll you have?” Wally demanded. “We have two fine specials today.” Wally pointed to the menu board. On it was “Wally’s Daily Specials” in baby blue letters. Underneath were four lines, well smudged in the hanging-up process.

“Read them to us,” I said.

“You can’t see that? That’s what happens when you leave your vegetables on your plate, if you order them at all.”

I didn’t bother to acknowledge that. Wally didn’t expect me to. From him, chidings about my eating habits were akin to “Hi, how are you.”

“First up, we have the ‘Cow in the Pasture.’ That’s a third of a pound of beef mixed with lettuce, tomato, carrot, red cabbage, and cucumber. Your choice of dressing.”

Back before I left, Wally had offered it with Thousand Island dressing and called it “Mexicana Suprema Salud.”

“And the second?” Howard asked.

“ ‘Fox in the Hen House’—”

“Let me guess,” Howard said. “Egg salad.”

Wally’s face dropped. “With pimento.”

I kicked Howard under the table. “Give me the cow, with Thousand Island, and a Coke,” I said.

“Guacamoleburger, large order of fries, salad, and a Coke.”

“No pie?” Wally demanded, clearly insulted.

“Later.”

To me Howard said, “So Yankowski?”

I picked up the fork, fingering the points of the tines. “Yankowski. Maybe I pressed him harder than I thought. What was it I said to him just before he shoved me into the counter?” I hadn’t thought I was tired. I’d slept all last evening. But now, trying to recall that interchange with Yankowski, my mind flitted over the surface. I pressed the tines into my fingertips. “I told him we would check his background, question his friends, find out all about him.”

“Sounds like that was what he wanted to avoid.”

“Howard, if you want to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you don’t plan to kill a man.”

“So you’re saying it was spur of the moment?”

I pressed the tines harder. Why didn’t that seem right? “He didn’t strike me as the spontaneous type. And anyway, it’s hard to poison someone on the spur of the moment. Even the best prepared of us don’t carry packets of aconite around just in case.”

Howard fingered the ketchup bottle, steering it between the metal cream pitcher and the salt and pepper. He nodded thoughtfully, his blue eyes half closed. I knew that look, it was the one he had when he got down to the issue. “So how’s your house-sitting working out?”

I felt myself tense, unsure about leaving the safety of shop talk. “Okay,” I said tentatively. “It’s just going to take me a while to figure how all the electric gadgets work. They’ve got every comfort electricity can provide.”

“You need help with all those stimuli?” His eyes had opened and his grin was the same one he’d had as he started to describe his sting. It was the old Howard grin.

“You angling for an invitation?”

Wally set down the drinks. “Entrees coming up pronto.”

Howard fingered his glass, the grin set. “I could—”

The door slammed. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here.” Connie Pereira rushed in, grabbed a chair from the next table, and plopped down in it at ours. “I called the station. When you were both out I took a chance. Then, I was afraid you’d have come and gone, and I’d have to call the station again.”

“Hey, calm down,” Howard snapped. “We’re here.” He stared in amazement at Pereira. In three years I had seen Connie Pereira this agitated only a few times.

Ignoring him, she said to me, “When I looked at those books at Paradise, I could see there was something a little odd. Another time I might not have caught it so soon, but we’d just been talking, and I was thinking about the string of poisonings and why anyone would poison Rue Driscoll and Earth Man, and maybe those were just practice runs to see how much they’d need to kill Biekma. I mean, we don’t know if they used more in Earth Man’s food than in Rue Driscoll’s, do we?”

“No. I never considered that.”

“Well, I was thinking that if the killer did a couple of practice runs, he couldn’t have learned much, because Earth Man, at least, didn’t tell anyone how sick he was. So the killer probably figured, ‘Screw it,’ and tossed the rest of the poison in Biekma’s horseradish. I mean, if Biekma got too much, so what, right?”

I nodded.

“So it seemed like the best thing to do was to see what had happened around those dates. I mean, I was checking the books anyway.”

Wally set down the dishes. Howard’s guacamoleburger filled his plate. The fries covered another. His salad a third. It looked like a smorgasbord.

Wally eyed Pereira. She waved him away.

Picking up the burger, Howard said, “What did happen, Pereira?”

“Nothing. Then. But listen to this. Driscoll was poisoned the third of April. Earth Man, the fifth of May. On April eighteenth, the books indicate two free dinners, on May third two more. Then on May twentieth and twenty-first, two each. And six in June. And,” she said, picking up one of Howard’s fries, “those dinners are carried as a loss.”