A Dinner to Die For (22 page)

Howard laughed. “Five bucks, lady.”

“He’s sitting right under the ‘Park Closes at Ten’ sign, eating his fucking goose sandwich.”

Howard roared. I was surprised Earth Man couldn’t hear him. “So what are you going to do, Jill, arrest him? Or should we just bring him a bottle of Chardonnay?”

“Not funny,” I muttered. “Maybe tomorrow it’ll be funny. After I figure out a way to explain it to Doyle. But now I’m too furious to laugh.” Across the street, a van screeched to a halt. Taking advantage of the diversion, I pulled to the curb, doused the lights, and adjusted the rear-view mirror. “I’m across the street. I’ve got him in view.”

“I’m at the corner. I could cut in on foot at the far end of the playground, if you promise not to attack me at the slide. Murakawa was good and sore this morning.”

And no one suspected he was too lame to work, I thought. But there was no point in prolonging my complaint. Howard’s silence had said it all. Even he, my closest friend, could understand Doyle’s reaction. I should have felt justified, knowing my assessment was right, but that only made matters worse. I hadn’t even told Howard about my panic driving downhill. I was too ashamed. Now I was glad I had kept silent. And if Doyle ever found out about it, that would be the last straw. He wouldn’t just take me off the case. He’d nod knowingly, mutter a few fatherly words about not risking my safety, and add that city insurance wasn’t about to underwrite a panicky driver. Then he’d ask me if I could type. “Stay in the car, Howard. I’m close enough if Earth Man runs. He’s barely into his sandwich. He’ll be a while.”

“Listen, Jill, what have you got with this case? Give me a rundown.”

How many times had that question offered needed diversion in the last four years? It wouldn’t cover this difference; it would just let us put off dealing with it. This wasn’t the time for a philosophical discussion, much less an argument, I knew that. But I couldn’t let it go, either.

“Yankowski,” Howard speculated. “Why did he run? Because he killed Biekma? Why would he kill Biekma? Biekma had already mentioned him on TV, right? The damage was done. And Yankowski had gotten his revenge foisting Earth Man on him.”

I tapped my finger angrily on the steering wheel.

“Jealousy?”

I didn’t say anything.

“You know not all feelings are obvious, Jill. Yankowski could have been willing to chance incriminating himself like this because he loved Laura. Maybe he just didn’t show it.” Howard paused, and when he continued there was a catch in his voice. “Not everyone gets a chance, Jill.”

“Maybe,” I said, feeling my face flush. “I can’t decide.” I wanted to reach out to him, but I didn’t know whether it was to hug him or throttle him.

“What about Rue Driscoll?”

“Rue Driscoll?” I said slowly, drawing my attention back from Howard to the case. “Listen, I’d almost rather not find Yankowski than discover he was hiding in the house right behind Paradise. But there’s no connection between him and Driscoll. Rue Driscoll’s got a good motive for killing Mitch. With him alive she’d have been kept up six nights a week. Her work, the research that could make her a name in her field, might never get finished.”

“Did you find any monkshood in her garden?”

“No. There was nothing but weeds there. But even if she did have the poison, I don’t see how she’d have gotten it in Mitch’s horseradish jar.”

“How long a time would she have had for that?”

“Since the previous night. Mitch put horseradish in his soup after the last sitting Wednesday night. After that the jar sat in the pantry.”

“Just waiting for the killer to add the poison, right?”

“Presumably so.”

“And once that was done, Jill, then the killer sat back and waited for Mitch to use it, right? Didn’t matter when.”

I hesitated. “That makes sense, Howard. But, somehow, I just can’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t believe that the timing didn’t matter. Earth Man was instructed to come back later; that had never happened before. And when he came back, Mitch died. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”

“So?”

“I don’t know yet, Howard.” Earth Man stared down at the remains of his goose sandwich, held awkwardly in a fold of his cloak. Without rising from the bench, he appeared to shimmy. His beaks and snouts bounced. The dark mounds of his cloak swayed forward. What
was
he doing? When the motion stopped I could see more of the sandwich. He had repositioned it. And having done so, he leaned forward and thrust it into his mouth.

“Okay, what about Prem-Struber?” Howard asked. “He’s my favorite suspect anyway. He was in Paris with Mitch, right? There when Mitch bought his horseradish jar.”

“Rare and unique horseradish jar, Howard.”

“Maybe so. Maybe that’s just what the merchant told him. Or maybe rare, but not quite unique. Maybe instead of just one in existence there were two.”

“Or three. Adrienne was there too. And for motive, it’s a real toss-up between those two.” The mound of Earth Man’s cloak pressed against his face, then fell to his lap. “Earth Man’s finished his sandwich.”

“Jill, don’t forget what Jackson always says.”

“What?”

“ ‘Yet and still, Smith, you’ve got the wife.’ ”

I smiled. Jackson was indeed famous for his devotion to mariticide.

Earth Man stood up and shook. His cloak looked like a cupola from which a flock of pigeons was about to take flight. “He’s up.” I said. “Wait. He’s not going into the playground, he’s coming back to the street, starting down toward you. He’s moving fast. Looks like he’s made his decision. I can cover him for a while.”

“Right.”

“He’s going in, through the next gate, the one between the pool and the playground.” Leaving the lights and engine off, I released the brake. “There, I’m rolling. Okay, I can see him. He’s using the phone.”

“How? What’s he using to dial?” Howard asked, amazed.

“Hand coming out through the neck hole. The hole’s not that big; it must be just about choking him. He’s hung up the receiver.”

“Either he warned Yankowski in a minimum of words, or he told him where to meet him.”

In contrast to his purposeful stride of the last couple of minutes, Earth Man ambled slowly to the curb. I pushed the seat back and scrunched down below the windows. “He’s right across the street.”

“Maybe he wants a ride.”

“Keep me posted.” The wind rustled the leaves. What sounded like a Styrofoam cup clattered up Hopkins. From the residential side of the street came a dog’s howling. I shifted, taking the weight off the injured spot in my back. Who was hiding Yankowski? It wasn’t Laura, not in Paradise. And there was no record of her having any other property. If she could be believed, Yankowski had no outside friends. He didn’t have friends at his hotel. He wasn’t even living there. The only things in his closet were winter clothes, and not even all of them. His wool cap, at least, he kept with him. He had had that in his pocket when I first saw him. Of course, for a bald man in Berkeley, a wool cap can be an all-season garment.

“A cab, Jill,” Howard exclaimed. “Earth Man’s called a cab!” Howard laughed. “You think you had problems before. Wait till Doyle hears you authorized two hundred dollars for Earth Man’s cab fare!”

“Damn, damn, damn!” I smashed my fist into the seat, pushed myself up, and whacked the steering wheel. It quivered, and for a moment I thought it was going to crack and allow me to add a broken steering wheel to the rest of the night’s misspent expenses.

“He’s turning south at Sacramento, Jill.”

I started the engine. Yankowski’s wool cap was tan. It had bleach spots. There couldn’t be two like that.

“Due south, Jill. He’s passing the BART station. Too flush to take rapid transit, huh? Made the light at Hearst. He’s turning on University. Okay, he could be headed to the freeway,” Howard said, getting into the spirit of the chase.

I stopped wondering about Earth Man. I had seen a tan wool cap this afternoon, one with the bleach spots.

“Jill, the cab’s slowing. It’s making a U. Ah, shit. You know where he’s going?”

I was still on Sacramento, but I knew. “La Maison. Earth Man’s riding home in style. I’ll pass the word to the guy on surveillance, not that they’d miss a sight like that. I doubt Earth Man’s going out again tonight.”

“Damn. There he is climbing out of the cab, and Jill, every one of those snouts and beaks is laughing at us.”

“It’s okay,” I said, recalling just where I had seen that wool cap. “Betcha that five and five more I know where Yankowski is.”

A
DRIENNE
J
ENKS HAD FILLED
her flat with splashy hot pinks and purples, South Seas blues and greens. Her clothes echoed the theme. A plain tan wool cap was something she wouldn’t use to clean her car, much less put on her head. With her thick mane of curly hair, she’d need outside help to pull it on.

But Frank Yankowski’s head was a different matter. He had a thin fringe of blond hair around his sizable bald pate. His was a head in danger of sunburn in spring, windburn in summer, and being damned cold any night of the year. His head needed a cap. He had had one in his pocket when I interviewed him, a tan wool cap marked with bleach spots. How could I have missed that? I was looking all over Berkeley for the guy and there he had been, probably hiding in the bathroom while I interrogated Adrienne on the sofa.

It was not Laura Biekma but Adrienne Jenks who was Frank Yankowski’s friend or lover. That explained why Adrienne wouldn’t allow Mitch in the kitchen for the last three months—to keep him away from Yankowski. It explained why Mitch hadn’t fired him. And while it told me where Yankowski might well be hiding, it did nothing to shed light on why he had fled.

Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to get a chance to try it again. I turned onto Spruce, flipped on the pulsers, and hit the gas.

I turned off the pulsers a block before Adrienne’s flat, and stopped the car on the side street. Howard arrived less than a minute later. He had a wary half smile—the smile for the prospect of a collar, the wariness for me. “You got your Ramey warrant?”

“I haven’t been without it all day. This asshole is not going to run out on me again.”

“Let him try,” Howard said.

“Yeah.” I hoped he would try. We were ready for him. I could almost feel my knees in his back, and the victory of yanking his arms behind him and snapping on the cuffs.

“We’ll get him,” Howard said. “See what Doyle says about this one.”

“Ready?” I asked. He followed me through the break in the hedge, across the tree-shaded backyard, and up the six steps to Adrienne’s door. The flat was dark, but I had the feeling that Adrienne and Yankowski were awake. Standing to one side of the door, I knocked. “Police!”

I was just about to knock again when Adrienne called, “It’s the middle of the night. What do you want now?”

“Yankowski.”

“He’s not here.”

“Open the door.”

From inside I could hear cloth rubbing cloth, then bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. The feet stopped, then moved quickly back the way they had come. Did I hear whispers or was I imagining the scene I hoped was being played out in there? “Do you have a warrant?” Adrienne called, her voice defiant, but not controlled enough subdue a noticeable quiver.

“You bet!” I called. “Now get this door open!”

There was silence inside the flat. Across from me, Howard bent into a slight crouch, ready.

“We can kick this door in!” I shouted. “You want that? You’ve got five seconds to decide, Yankowski.” I crouched down, ready for him. “One … two … three … four ...”

The door opened and Yankowski walked out, hands raised. I pushed the door shut after him, banging it against the moldings with all my unspent anger. Howard moved down two steps. “Okay, Yankowski,” I shouted, “turn around, hands high on the door!” I patted him down, crisply. Then I yanked his hands back and slammed on the cuffs.

“Hey, not so tight. You’re going to cut off the circulation.”

“You’ll live. Turn around, down the stairs.” I knew what I was doing, taking out my revenge in petty bullying. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Howard, looking straight ahead; he knew too. Leaving him to deal with Adrienne Jenks, I followed Yankowski down the steps and gave him a shove, a restrained shove, because I was already feeling like a jerk, and because Yankowski was so much bigger than me.

The process of booking him took less time than the usual half hour. I had run him through files last night. I knew we had nothing. Still, when it came time to take his prints, he yanked his hand back.

“Worried about the prints, huh?” I said. “You’re not Frank Yankowski. Who are you?”

“You’re disgusting,” he said. The hiss accompanied his words. “Look at my wrists; they’ve still got marks.”

“You want to see a doctor?” I said, controlling my sarcasm. “It’s your right to file charges, say I roughed you up.”

“Yeah sure.” His pale eyes narrowed, leaving his sharply twisted nose the only marker on his big, pale round face. “I’m still not answering your questions,” he said.

“Look,” I snapped, “you can make every step of this more difficult, but that’s not going to change the outcome. You’re in jail. You’re going to stay there till we find out who you are. You’re going to stay till we know why you killed Mitch Biekma.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“You ran.”

“I didn’t poison Mitch.”

“You’re guilty, Yankowski.”

“I knew you’d think that. As soon as I saw you there in Paradise, I knew you’d come after me.”

“You were just a witness, like any of the others, until you ran. You made yourself stand out.”

He shrugged.

“So explain. But first the prints.”

With a sigh, he held out his fingers and allowed them to be pressed into the ink pad. Then I took him to one of the interview booths, sat him down across the table, and started the tape. “Detective Jill Smith, interviewing Caucasian male calling himself Frank Yankowski.”

“Okay, it’s Martin Goodpastor.”

“And where did you get the name Yankowski?”

“From a cemetery. A dead child in a cemetery.”