An Equal Opportunity Death (18 page)

Perhaps Frank’s partner objected to ransoming the plates. Perhaps the plates were of such religious significance that he did not want them out of Chinese hands once they had come into his possession. Was that the reason Frank was killed?

Or perhaps the partner was willing to surrender the plates to occidental hands only for a higher ransom price—four hundred thousand dollars instead of three. Then, when Walucyk balked, Frank might well have suspected the whole deal would fall through. He might have realized that Walucyk would contact the sheriff and the state police, and not only would he get nothing for the plates, but even his regular housebreaking would become much more difficult and dangerous. Certainly an argument over that could have led to Frank’s death.

And, the fact was that the Chinese Laundry truck was at Frank’s Place after I left there Monday. The driver of the laundry truck didn’t have to slink along South Bank Road or battle the river currents in a canoe. He only had to walk into the Place, as he did daily, and shoot Frank.

I turned onto the Santa Rosa business loop. I’d seen the laundry building when I substituted for a Santa Rosa meter reader months ago. It was only two blocks off the freeway.

As I pulled into the driveway, I noted six trucks parked alongside the building. I pulled in, jumped down from the cab, and headed for the office.

On the door, under the name
CHINESE LAUNDRY
, was a drawing of a hand with the tips of the thumb and first finger meeting. Inside the circle formed was a Chinese pictogram, similar to ones used in pendants, which stands for good luck, long life, or wealth. Taking this as a good omen, I opened the door.

The office was empty except for a woman who sat behind a desk. The laundry handled commercial accounts only, so there was no need for a counter; the napkins and tablecloths were brought in off the trucks.

“Can I help you?” The woman looked up. She was small, blond, and definitely not Chinese. She was also in the process of stuffing something into her purse. I glanced at the clock above her. It was two minutes to five.

“I’m looking for the owner.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I need to speak to him.”

“Our customer service representative—”

“I have to speak to the owner.”

She hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald is in Reno.”

“Fitzgerald!”

“Yes, Mr. James J. Fitzgerald.”

“But this is the Chinese Laundry.”

She laughed. I could tell my reaction was not unique.

“It is,” she said. “Mr. Fitzgerald bought it from the Wu family four years ago. He left the name because”—she eyed me appraisingly—“because how many people are going to send their linens to something called the Irish Laundry? That sounds like something that handles I.R.A. funds.”

“What about drivers? Do you have any Chinese drivers?”

“No.” She looked pointedly at the clock. It was after five. “The drivers will be around back now. You can see for yourself, if you go quickly.”

“Thanks.” I hurried out.

The rain was heavy; the parking lot dotted with puddles. Frank’s partner didn’t have to be the owner of the laundry; he only needed to be the driver on that route. He didn’t even have to be Chinese. Walucyk wasn’t Chinese and he was an expert on Asian art.

By the time I got out back I could see three pickup trucks pulling out, two men talking, and another climbing into a Honda. None of the three were Chinese.

I approached the two standing together. One pulled open the door of an old Chevy and climbed in. The other leaned over to the window and said something; I was still too far away to hear.

“Excuse me,” I said, coming up beside him. “Are any of the drivers here Chinese?”

He turned. “What?”

“Chinese. Are any of the drivers Chinese?”

“Nope. Not a one. Not in the three years I’ve worked here. You seen any Chinese here, Sam?” he asked the man in the Chevy. The man shook his head.

“Who drives the route in Henderson?” I asked the man outside.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I need to talk to him.”

He was middle-aged, a bit given to paunch, and a lot given to trailing brown hair. Without moving his head he looked me up and down. “I guess you can talk to me.”

“You mean you’re the Henderson driver?”

“As much as anyone.”

“Huh?” The rain was smacking on my face. I had to shout.

“We rotate. Fitzgerald’s Rule. We never know what route we’ll be doing until we get to work, see? Pain in the ass, but that’s what the boss wants.”

“How come?”

“Well, you know.”

“No.”

He looked me square in the face, then shrugged. “There was some trouble a couple of years ago. One of the drivers had his own route, if you know what I mean—his own deliveries. Sheriff didn’t like that. Boss didn’t like it either.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “And thanks.”

“Hey,” he called as I started off.

I turned back.

“You want to come for a drink?” he called.

“Another time. Thanks.”

By the time I ran to the truck, I was soaked, tired, hungry, depressed, and angry. I was all those things the sign on the door of the ersatz-Chinese laundry was not.

When I considered Frank’s murder, the Chinese Laundry truck was always an element. It seemed important. How could it be so expendable?

But since there were no Chinese, art experts or not, driving the trucks or in ownership positions, and no drivers on the route long enough or reliably enough to be useful to Frank, then the only reason that the Chinese Laundry truck was at Frank’s Place the day Frank was killed was to deliver laundry.

I backed my own pickup out, pulled onto the road, and headed toward Henderson. In the glove compartment were chocolate bars I kept for emergencies. Added to the toast I’d had at breakfast and the donut later, the chocolate bar would complete a diet I was glad my mother wasn’t aware of.

I realized as I crossed the freeway that I was depressed not only because a promising lead had evaporated, but that in its loss, I had eliminated another chance for Frank’s killer to be a stranger. Like Martin Walucyk, someone at the Chinese Laundry would have made a very acceptable perpetrator. Now I was left with only my friends to suspect.

Not wanting to think about it, I turned on the radio. Waylon Jennings sang a few bars, then faded off.

“The big news here in Russian River country is the river itself. According to unofficial reports the river is expected to crest at Cloverdale late tomorrow morning. As the water rushes downstream the other towns along its banks continue to prepare for the worst.” This was a local station. As the flood neared, I’d been told, high water reports were broadcast on the hour, then on the half-hour, then every fifteen minutes, till the flood water washed out the electricity. “Residents of Guerneville,” the announcer continued, “should expect the river to flood by tomorrow afternoon.”

I turned the report off. At least North Bank Road shouldn’t be under water now.

In the silence I ran through the revelations of the day. Frank had a partner. It could be any of those who’d been at Rosa’s eating fettucini the night of Frank’s death. Every one of us had a suitable vehicle. But one had to be the prime suspect. Who?

Belying the radio report, water covered portions of the road. I slowed, spraying a passing car as I drove by.

Lights were on in the houses on the hillside. Those buildings between the road and the river were dark, deserted. When the river flooded tomorrow the whole Russian River area would be like those houses, except instead of emptiness there would be confusion. There would be enough mud and water and panic to thwart any sleuthing I had in mind, and to cover any moves the killer chose to make. If I were to find Frank’s killer before he’d covered his tracks forever, I’d have to do it while the river was still between its banks.

Which of us was closer to Frank? Who knew something? Who acted different around him? Who was especially upset at the time of his murder?

Frank gave the impression of being everyone’s friend. But there was only one person he met regularly. There was only one person he saw twice a month, deliberately, out of view from the casual observer. Only one person he met intentionally in the state park.

I crossed the bridge to South Bank Road and headed to the canoe rental.

T
HERE HAD BEEN PUDDLES
in the parking lot of Paul and Patsy Fernandez’s canoe rental when I’d left there two days ago. I’d had trouble avoiding the potholes. Now heading through it was more like steering a boat than driving a truck. The water splashed at the doors of the pickup. Twice I drove into a pothole and had to gun the engine to keep going. The canoe rental was on low ground, almost in the river at the best of times. It flooded early, dried late. Had it been run by anyone other than Paul and Patsy, I would have been surprised to see a light in the office window. (Of course, if someone else were running it, they would not be living in the office.)

Even in boots and rain gear I wasn’t prepared for the wade over to the office door. The water topped my boots and soaked my jeans. I knocked hard on the door.

Paul opened it. “Hi, Vejay, how’re things? Sheriff leaving you alone?” he asked before it occurred to him to move aside and let me in. In my haste to confront Patsy I hadn’t considered what to do about Paul. Frank’s meetings had been with Patsy alone. No one had observed him talking to Paul. It was very possible that Paul was entirely innocent of their arrangement, in which case Patsy was not likely to talk in front of him.

“You’re soaking,” Paul said.

“No other way to get here.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, as if those two words were an explanation. “How about some brandy to warm you up? We still have a little.”

“Thanks.”

Patsy was sitting on the leather sofa, her long black hair falling over the thick cowl of a wool sweater and the collar of a down jacket. She had a blanket pulled around her legs. She merely nodded in my direction.

For the first time I noticed the kerosene lamps, four of them, burning in groups of twos. “How long has your power been off?” I asked her.

“Since noon. It’s a bummer.”

“Cold,” I said.

“Cold and boring. No music. No television. All you can do is think about how cold you are.”

Paul handed me a glass and took another to Patsy. The discussion of temperature reminded me that my wet jeans were becoming icy. The heat of the brandy going down my throat felt good. If only it could travel to my feet.

“Why don’t you leave?” I asked. “Park your van on high ground, or go to one of the shelters. It’s only going to get worse here.”

“Can’t,” Paul said, sitting on the couch next to Patsy and pulling the blanket over his legs.

I waited.

It was Patsy who explained. “We don’t dare go because of the canoes. The lock’s broken on the main door. Anyone could take them.”

“Very few people are thinking of canoeing right now,” I said.

“There’s always someone looking for the main chance.” Paul swallowed a fair amount of his brandy. I was surprised the bottle had lasted this long.

Brandy glass in hand, Paul did not look uncomfortable under the blanket. I suspected he’d lived in more primitive conditions than this and was resigned to waiting out the worst.

I said, “You know the sheriff’s been questioning me.”

“Uh-huh.” Paul leaned forward. Patsy didn’t move.

“He was by today.”

“And?”

“Well, he really didn’t know anything new, except that Frank’s Place had been broken into.”

Paul leaned even farther forward. But Patsy showed no sign of interest.

“The sheriff doesn’t have any idea why,” I said. “Or at least if he does, he wasn’t telling me.”

“They never tell you anything. They try to catch you, see what you know,” Paul said.

“Right,” I agreed. “But what he did ask was if I would be seeing you.”

Both of them looked surprised and wary.

“I said I might.”

Paul nodded, still cautious.

“He needs to talk to you about the canoes.”

Their relief was obvious.

“Tonight.”

When Paul didn’t move, I embellished the lie by adding, “I spoke to him this morning, so he expected you earlier than this. You’d better go now. At least it’ll be warm there.”

Paul hesitated, but Patsy didn’t. She gave him a shove.

“Bring some more brandy on your way back,” she said.

“And I’ll see what kind of money I can get up front this year.” To me, he added, “You know the county didn’t pay anything for the canoes last year.”

“I know.”

Since he was wearing virtually everything he owned, it took Paul no time to get ready to leave. He threw on a slicker, stepped into his boots, and was gone.

I waited till I heard the van drive off before saying to Patsy, “Tell me about the illegal business you and Frank had.”

She stared at me, silently.

“You and Frank met, sometimes in town, more frequently in the state park. You were seen.”

Still she didn’t speak.

“You were very upset when Frank was killed, much more so than the people who had been his friends for years.”

She sipped her brandy, looking down into the glass as she drank.

“This boat rental is a marginal business, as Paul has said many times. But across from you is a new television, on that wall”—I gestured at the wall to her left—“is a stereo system that cost plenty. The floor is covered with an oriental carpet. You’re sitting on a real leather couch. And your boots alone cost more than you earn in a week.”

“So?”

“So, the money came from the illegal venture you and Frank had going. You can tell me about it, or you can tell the sheriff.”

I expected the threat of the sheriff to suffice, but Patsy didn’t crumble. She pulled the blanket tighter around her and said, “Possessing material goods isn’t a crime. Meeting with friends is legal. What is this scoop you’re going to give the sheriff, Vejay?”

“I’ll tell him, Patsy, that you came here with nothing. Both you and Frank lived in the city. Frank had a burglary ring going. He worked with a partner, a partner who had a van to cart off the goods. And you are that partner.”