Civil Twilight (6 page)

“Strange how?”

“Called me to meet him for a drink and stood me up. Skipped the Seattle game.”

“Maybe he wanted to save himself the frustration.”

“Yeah, well, team coulda stayed in the locker room and done that for all of us. But last week he missed Sunday dinner without a word to Mom. Of course, later he fell all over himself apologizing and she forgave him like she always does. But you can guess what dinner was like with everyone trying to make conversation to distract her so she wouldn’t have a chance to think what we knew she was thinking anyway.”

I nodded. “That afternoon Mike walked out the door . . .”

It was a moment before he said softly, “Yeah. Gary can be a jerk, but he’d never do that to Mom. Never.”

I pushed a stack of papers aside and sat on the desk. “And yet, he did. So, why?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you figure it’s got to do with Karen Johnson, right?”

He shrugged.

“You know he’s representing her. And you know about her. You could have said, ‘Mom, Gary’s got a big case that involves a woman I’ve been seeing for a month. He can’t show up for dinner because he’s taking her . . . Oh, shit, is that it? Are you both after her? Does Gary have some snazzy new suit, too?”

Now he did go red.

“You let Mom worry? You’re worse than he is!”

“No!”

He scowled this time, but I could see that, however momentarily, I had him on the defensive. I needed to take advantage of it.

“Okay, what’ve you found in here? Anything in the cases?”

“I can’t be going through them! It’d break the chain of custody and produce ongoing chaos. Every bit of evidence’d be compromised. Every opposing counsel would be in court. It’d be a nightmare for him.”

“Then what
are
you doing here? First you say Gary set you up, that he hired Karen to work you. So why are you waiting around here? He’s not coming back. They’re halfway to some lodge in Carmel by now. They’re in Santa Cruz for dinner. They’re drinking margaritas and toasting their success, clicking their glasses and laughing at you. And if they knew you’d been sitting here, in the dark, waiting, they’d be rolling on the floor.”

No reaction.

“But that’s a crock. How do I know? Because, John, you’re sitting here. Because you’re not that sloppy with your car. Because it’s a whole lot more likely you gave her your car—”

“So she could set up a crash in front of Broder’s mistress’s place?”

“Not your—”

“You thought
I
was—”

“No, no.” I was so relieved I could barely corral my thoughts to cover my mental betrayal. “Chief of Detectives Broder? Your boss? His mistress lives in the Victorian? He’s going to be after your tail when this comes out.”

“He’s already eyeing it.”

I nodded. John had a lot of enemies on the force. But Broder seemed to have had it in for him for reasons that had made no sense till right now. “So who’s footing the bill for this love nest? Is it her house? It’s a little pricey for a police salary.”

John shrugged.

“Two police cars crash in front of it, the papers are going to love that! Big front-page expose. Broder may be too busy protecting his own tail to worry about yours.”

“With luck.” But sitting there in Gary’s chair, his stiff body hitting the cushion in the wrong places, John still looked like he wasn’t leveling with me.

“Know what?” I decided to see if I had any advantage left. “Whatever this thing is, it’s yours and Gary’s. It could have cost me a job this evening, but forget it. Forget you ever saw me today. I’m out of here.” I strode toward the door, nearly tripping over a portable TV. Plunking it on the table, I flicked it on. “You’re so great at making up stories, here, enjoy some fiction by the pros!”

The TV burst on. “It’s stopped dead, the whole freeway!” a voice shouted over the clatter of a helicopter. BREAKING . . . BREAKING . . . BREAKING rolled across the bottom of the screen. The screen picture was of a roadway empty but for a few vehicles and something small in the center.

“What is that?”

John leaned closer. “It’s I-80, coming off the Bay Bridge.”

“But no traffic? There’s never
no
traffic.”

“Stopped. Means something major.” He pulled out his cell.

“We’re flying as low as we can, Cindy,” a male voice said on the TV. “Can’t make out exactly what the hold-up is. Traffic’s stopped in both directions. There’s something on the roadway. I’m zooming . . . it’s . . . it’s a body!”

The beating of the copter’s rotors spiked.

“Say that again!”

“A body, Cindy. I can make out blue, light blue, probably slacks. Maybe blonde hair. We’re too high to be clear.”

“We’ve got a report—unsubstantiated—of a shoe falling into the parking area, a woman’s running shoe. We don’t know if it’s connected, but it came down from the same location.

“Blonde hair, light blue pants and top. That’s what Karen had on . . . and the running shoes . . . Omigod, John!”

IN LESS THAN a minute we were racing for his car. We shot through Broadway, down Columbus and were crossing Market before John had the flasher on his roof. He had his cell on speakerphone. The squawk was coming so fast from so many locations it was almost impossible to make sense of it.

“Freeway’s blocked off at First Street. They’re detouring drivers off there. Anything east of us’ll be a parking lot,” he said, cutting west. “Damn, I wish I had a patrol car. But even . . .” His voice trailed off. I didn’t need to look at him to know he’d been on the verge of griping about his missing unmarked car, but he caught himself. He, too, was trying to square the idea of the living, breathing Karen Johnson with a corpse lying on the roadway. I eyed him, attempting to gauge whether he was mourning the loss of a lover or puzzled by the violent death of a practical joker. Or if he was worrying about his car and career. My cop brother’s a grand master at masking emotion.

Suddenly I was shivering, not from the chill but from shock and loss. “I liked her, when we were running up to Coit Tower. We were planning to go to dinner—‘somewhere above our element,’ she said. It was going to be fun. She was fun. We’d pick a restaurant where you have to bribe the maître d’, you know, the kind of place where you’re paying for the view.”

“Where?”

“She was going to meet me at the set and decide.”

“Last meal, huh? Special place because she knew it’d be her last?”

I stared out the windshield; darkened storefronts flew by. “It didn’t sound like that. But I was with her half an hour, and we were running, then panting, then talking about the hundred-foot pole—”

“What pole?”

“It’s a koan, one that’s always gotten to me. How do you proceed off a hundred-foot pole? Karen said she wasn’t a Buddhist, but she knew the answer, or
an
answer.”

“A koan that had gotten to you? More than others?”

“Yeah, why?”

He turned left. Ahead we could see the flashing reds on the light bars, the silver-white glare from lines of motionless headlights. “Had you mentioned anything about Buddhism before?”

“No. But when I said a hundred feet made me think of the koan she knew what it was. You’re trying to work out whether Gary primed her, right?”

He didn’t answer, which meant he was.

“I can’t say what Gary’s involvement is in all this, but it’s not with the koan. She recognized it, and more than that, she knew the general answer.”

“Which is?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t have time—”

“Then don’t think, just answer. You’re on a hundred-foot pole. How do you proceed?”

“Easy. We get that every couple months. Top of a pole? Call the fire department.”

“No phone. Just answer.”

He hit the horn, pulling around the car in front. “Okay. How’d you get up? Were there handholds? Like a telephone pole? Step-bars? Then you could climb back down again. If not, you’d have to hug and slide. Damn lot of splinters. But the whole thing makes no sense. What’s the point anyway?”

“You just made it. You had a perfectly sane response. But it’s not the answer. How do you step off a hundred-foot pole? You just do it.”

“And you’ll fall.”

“Yeah.”

“And be killed.”

“Maybe.”

“Dammit, Darcy, look ahead. What do you see? The crime scene for a woman who fell a hundred feet out of a half-constructed high-rise and was killed! What do you Buddhists say to that?”

“I don’t know.” I could barely get the words out.
Don’t know
is a respected answer on many levels. But neither of us was thinking of the cosmic not-knowing now. I was looking ahead at the mass of red taillights flashing up from the roadbed of the freeway above us. I was imagining and trying desperately not to picture Karen Johnson’s crushed body in the middle of it all. “The truth is I don’t know anything about her, except she said she was here to get a divorce and maybe even that’s not true.”

Traffic shifted. He shot left, up a ramp and into the construction parking area at the base of a skeletal building. He flashed his ID at the patrol officer on guard. “Where’s the scene?”

“Fifth floor. Elevator’s over there, sir.”

All around us were police, fire, ambulance, and coroner’s vehicles. John squeezed his car so tight in between two unmarkeds we had to sidle out and jump back as a patrol car and then a van raced in before we made it to the base of the high-rise.

In another year it would change the skyline, stab the sky higher than many thought safe in a city that lives under the threat of the next big one. Now only the bottom floors had been walled in. Above, it was a skeleton of structural support beams and crossing supports.

“Fifth floor—first open floor?”

“Looks like it.”

“Like construction in hell,” I said mostly to myself. Flashing red lights dueled, coating the cement in almost constant crimson. Sirens from vehicles trying to slice through the traffic jam and radio squelches fought with shouts from all directions. I kept expecting John to bark at me to get back in the car or away from the scene, but it was almost as if he’d forgotten who I was—or wasn’t. Moving between clumps of uniforms and cops in street clothes, he strode purposefully, as if this was his case. I followed as if I was a part of it, too, into the cage of a freight elevator.

“Look,” a uniformed guy pointed to the front ceiling corner as the door rolled shut. “Bird’s nest? Here?”

“Elevator probably wasn’t moving yet when the mama bird made it,” a tech said.

“Spiffy address.”

“Nah, it’s just the freight elevator. They’ll be blue collar birds.”

“Hey, was that a head? I thought I saw a head in the nest.”

“Birds have ’em. Makes flying easier.”

A couple of guys chuckled. “But how’d they last here?” the uniform insisted. “You’d think the construction outfit would’ve—”

“Endangered species?”

“You better check with—”

The cage eased to a stop. “Fifth floor!” a guy in the rear called out. “Ladies dresses, coats, and intimate apparel!”

A ripple of forced-sounding laughter pushed us out the door.

“How many parking levels are there?” I asked. John shot me a look but said nothing.

Someone answered, “Eight, at least. You can afford to live here, then you got more than one ride. Look at the space markers. They’re not for compacts.”

Level five was an open slab; maybe the walls would be added tomorrow, but tonight there was nothing to keep a determined driver from flying off the edge.

The elevator was in the middle of the square. The southwest quadrant was cordoned. I’d heard John say the biggest cause of trampling a crime scene was off-duty cops rubbernecking. But no one was muddying the scene now. The normal night lighting hadn’t arrived and inadequate lanterns formed two lines as if beckoning all to walk between them into the abyss. Too-bright flashes revealed the slab, empty but for the group inside the lantern lines. Crime lab techs were still putting down markers, snapping shots, moving lights, shooting the same thing from a different angle. Everyone else stood in the dark outside of the yellow tape.

“What’ve you got, Larry?” John asked a guy in a suit.

“Fall. No witnesses, least not yet.”

“Just wait. Everyone’s got camera phones now. They’re all on the horn to TV stations trying for big bucks. You’ve alerted the stations to that, right?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. “But no-one’s going to have a shot of the take-off. Fall took what—a couple of seconds? No time to get the phone flipped open. And before she fell, there was no reason for a picture.”

“Unless there was,” I said. “Unless she was leaning over the edge, fighting someone off.”

“We’re alert to that, too.” He took me in, top to bottom. “I didn’t catch your name and department.”

“Fell onto the freeway?” John demanded.

“Yeah.” Larry’s attention snapped back. A slight catch in his voice said he knew better than to offend him. “See that pile-up down there.” He walked toward the edge of the slab, stopping with a good thirty inches to spare. John and I looked down—almost
straight
down—onto the freeway. I’d watched this building going up, so close to the roadway that if I’d been a kid I’d’ve been scheming how to get up here to spit on cars. When it was finished, would they allow windows to open, I’d wondered.

“Only three cars in the pile,” Larry was saying. “Miracle it wasn’t lots worse. I-80’s what—the most jammed road in the nation? We’re lucky it’s not a fifty engine smash-up. Body flying out of the sky! Some poor slob’s lucky she didn’t come through his windshield.”

Larry was watching John, who shrugged.

He was my age, maybe younger, and although he could have been in charge here, he just didn’t have that top dog look. “Well, anyway, I haven’t been down there—I’ve been too busy up here keeping the scene clean—but word is she hit the roadway—I mean, what’re the chances of finding a patch of bare road? But she did, smacked down in lane two. Truck ran over her, then a car, then there’s brakes squealing, cars slamming all the hell over. Not much left to identify. A couple of drivers are already in SF General.”