Death and Taxes (23 page)

Scookie was halfway up the block. She slowed. She was going to check around. There was no doorway to hide in. I squatted against the wall, head on knees and pulled my collar up over my neck. There were no street people sitting out in the cold fog, but had there been, no one would have been surprised. And peering out through my eyelashes, I could see that Scookie didn’t find my slumped gray mass odd either. She picked up speed again and hurried to the corner.

I poised on the balls of my feet, ready to run if she turned the corner. Already my thigh muscles screamed. Traffic poured across Channing. Clearly, every Berkeleyan who would ordinarily have been on the sidewalk was in a car. Scookie jumped back as a truck shot in front of her. Again she glanced behind her. But by now she wasn’t even looking at my side of the street. For her, the game of tailing had very narrow rules.

The light changed. I stood up as she started across Channing. Now I was beginning to see where she was headed. I could have loped up the empty sidewalk and between the slow-moving cars across Telegraph and into Herman Ott’s building before her, but I waited till she’d entered the door.

She was at the top of the first flight of stairs when I rounded the old elevator cage. I hurried after her, pausing as I came to the landing to let her clamber up the second flight. Then I raced up the stairs and turned north instead of south to Ott’s office. The hallway makes a square. Ott’s rooms are in the southeast corner. I reached the northeast corner just as Scookie was knocking on his door. He didn’t open it on the first knock, of course. Ott opens instantly for no one. She’d have to go through the two-rap, identify-self ritual that was the Ottian equivalent of a welcome mat. I had plenty of time to brace for takeoff before Scookie would start inside.

I waited till the door was full open to make my move. Doubtless, Ott intended to shut it after her, but I was inside before he got the chance.

“Where is she?” I demanded. “Maria Zalles.”

“What the hell are you doing barging into my office?” Ott never misses a chance to be outraged.

Scookie took a step toward the door. “Don’t even think about leaving,” I said. “You’re in enough trouble already. How long has Maria been here?” I stepped in front of her, blocking Ott from her view.

“I don’t know.” Her voice was quavering.

I spun to face Ott. He was so close behind me, I nearly ended up nose-to-forehead with him. “So, Ott, this is the way you deal fairly. I’ll remember that. Has Maria Zalles been here ever since I saw her at the Swallow? There is such a thing as interfering with a police investigation.”

“Smith, you never asked where she was, and I never told you.” The corners of his narrow mouth twitched in triumph.

It hadn’t occurred to me she might have been here, hiding under one of his repulsive piles of blankets, sheets, and yellow garb. Or maybe she’d been behind the bedroom door, squeezed in between the radiator and the hot plate. I glared down at Ott. If Scookie hadn’t been there, I’d have shaken him. I took a step back and waited till my breathing was calmer. “Ott, Maria Zalles was the last person who saw Drem alive. She lied to me. She made me look like a fool. Do I have to explain what that means?”

Ott looked over my shoulder. I should have let Scookie go right away. With her here, I’d put Ott in the position of losing face. But I’d been too mad,
was
too mad. Let him lose face. Let him lose his whole goddamn head! “Ott, if I have to put out an all-points on Maria Zalles, I will. I’ll call in every favor from every patrol officer in the department, and from everyone I know on the street. We will press people. And, Ott, every time any officer does that, he’ll mention your name, because, Ott, you”—I turned around to face Scookie—“and
you
are responsible for this. Now, if you want to save yourselves the hassle, save the people who might have seen Maria Zalles, and keep her from being in a lot worse trouble than she already is, you’ll tell me where to find her. Now!”

Behind me, Ott drew in his breath, ready to retort.

“Where?” I yelled at Scookie as I took a step back into Ott. It pushed him off-balance and against his table.

“Gone,” she said with smug defiance. “Gone where you won’t find her.”’

“To the airport?”

Scookie gasped.

“To Samoa?”

Scookie’s eyes widened.

“When does the flight leave?”

She stared. She could have been Mrs. Lot, dripping grains of salt.

“Abetting a felon is a very serious offense, Scookie.” I turned and glared at Ott. “Tell her what it’s like in jail, Ott.”

Ott didn’t respond, but he didn’t protest either. Looking back at Scookie, I could see that she’d gotten the point. As icing on the point, I added, “You’d make a tasty meal for one of the tough girls. Fresh meat’s always a treat.”

“Four forty-four,” she muttered. “On United.”

“Four forty-four
today
?” I demanded. It was already 3:00
P.M.

“Yes.”

“That had better be the truth.” But she was too scared to lie. “Be at the station in an hour. You’ve both got statements—factual statements this time—to make.”

I ran to the patrol car. Ott wasn’t going anywhere, and I didn’t expect Scookie Hogan was either. But Maria Zalles certainly was. Her flight would be boarding in an hour and a quarter. SFO was a forty-five-minute drive in the middle of the night. Now, with rush hour beginning, it could take a lot longer. And I had to go back to the station and change cars first. Maria Zalles could be on the beach at Waikiki before I pulled up at passenger drop-off.

At the station I found Pereira. Leonard and Acosta followed in a second car. I called Airport Security, gave them a brief background and a description of Zalles, and hoped they weren’t distracted by suspicious items at the luggage check, or disturbances, or one of those runway “mishaps” that are frighteningly common all over the country. If anything else came up, Maria Zalles would plummet to the bottom of their list.

Pereira drove, code 3, lights and siren, down University, weaving lane to lane, cutting in front of a van at Sacramento, causing three cars to screech to a stop at San Pablo. The siren screamed as we mounted the overpass; cars squeezed left. The fog was getting thicker nearer the Bay. It was clammy inside the car, and I cracked the window. The cold wind only made the contrast greater.

I looked down at the freeway. “It’s packed. Take the frontage road.”

But Pereira was already moving into the left lane. Behind us, brakes squealed, horns honked. Pereira cut left onto the frontage road. It’s one lane there. In front of us, drivers jolted, most swinging onto the edge of the waterfront marsh, but a few froze like deer in headlights. Pereira had to weave around them into the oncoming lane. Sweat coated her face. She drove braced forward, her back an inch from the seat.

I called the dispatcher to alert Highway Patrol of our route and to get United and find out the Hawaii gate number. He’d tell them to hold the flight.

The frontage road stops half a mile before the turnoff to the bridge. Once we got on the freeway, the siren didn’t help. Here drivers might have been willing to move out of our way, but there was no place for them to go. “Use the shoulder.” But even as I said it, I could see a car stopped a hundred yards ahead.

As we came up behind it, Pereira put on the siren again and cut into traffic, Leonard and Acosta right behind us. The fog was thicker here next to the Bay. Pereira had the wipers on, but they cleared the windshield only momentarily, and it was opaque gray by the time they made the next pass.

I grabbed the mike again and called CHP. “Berkeley five two seven,” I said, giving my badge number. “We’re passing the toll plaza.” My voice was strained.

“Take lane five, Berkeley. It’s not fast, but it’s moving. Check back with me at Yerba Buena.”

“Thanks.” We moved up to the far right lane.

“
Moving’s
a euphemism,” Pereira muttered.

“Four o’clock. Forty-four minutes, it’ll be off the ground.”

The dispatcher called. The Hawaii flight would be leaving from gate 12B.

I could see Yerba Buena Island ahead. The Oakland span of the Bay Bridge ends there, and a short tunnel leads through the rock to the San Francisco span. I called CHP before we hit the tunnel.

“Lane four after the tunnel, then ease over into one. You can siren into two before one cuts off at Fifth Street.”

I’d driven to San Francisco enough to plan on that maneuver. “How’s it after that, on one-oh-one?”

“How d’ya think?”

“Like a sit-down dinner.”

“You got it, Berkeley.”

“Okay, how about we get off at Fifth and back on at Seventh?”

“Yeah, sure.” The radio crackled. “I didn’t think you’d know that one.”

Despite the tension, I laughed. “Hey, Chip, I’m always up on the shortcuts. I learned to drive in Jersey.”

I called the dispatcher again to do a courtesy notify to SFPD of our bounce off the freeway into the City, and to San Mateo south of the City. Pereira was already on the off ramp at Fifth Street. She hit the siren again. Cars moved aside grudgingly.

“Four-nineteen, Connie. We can’t count on Airport Security. With the best of intentions—”

“I know, I know. If we could do more than ten miles per hour …” She was nearly on the bumper of a beige Chrysler. “What do these people think when there are sirens blasting in both ears and they see red lights flashing in their rearview mirror?” She rolled down the window and stuck her head out, just as the Chrysler eased around the corner at Seventh Street. Then she wove her way through the slow-clearing intersection, muttering at each driver. It wasn’t till we were back on 101 that she turned off the siren, and using just the pulser, moved into the fast lane.

I called Airport Security again. They had no sighting of Zalles. I checked in with the San Mateo Sheriff’s Department.

Traffic on 101 south was packed. Rush hour proper. Ten miles per hour tops. I held the mike, button off, smacking my fingernail against it. Sweat pasted my shirt to my back. Cars pulled to the right for the 280 turnoff. Pereira reached for the siren.

“No!” I barked. “Too crowded. One of these guys panics, and we’ve got a pancake.”

We passed the exit. Connie stepped on the gas—30 mph, 40 mph. By the time we hit Candlestick Park, we were almost up to speed limit.

“Four thirty-five. Give it the trumpets.”

She hit the button, and the siren ripped the air. Cars veered out of our lane. I loved it. I flicked a glance at Pereira—she loved it too. She moved left and stepped on the gas, waiting till the last moment before veering right, across all four lanes onto the airport ramp.

It was 4:42
P.M.
when we pulled up in front of the United counter. The passengers would be on board by now. In two minutes the plane would leave the gate.

“Which way to twelve-B?” I yelled at the baggage handler. He pointed to the right.

If Security hadn’t held the flight it would be gone. I ran through the doors, sidestepping a couple with a luggage carrier. Pereira shot around the other side. Businessmen hurried toward the gates; toddlers wandered unheeded. I pushed in front of a gray-haired man with a briefcase, ran around a mother with two small children, squeezed between a couple, and slowed at the luggage X ray to flash my badge. Before they could decide, I ran on.

Boarding Area B forks halfway down. I nearly ran over a couple in front of me as I tried to read the overhead directions.

“Left,” I called back to Pereira. I could hear her panting behind me. I was panting too. Every time I do this kind of thing, I think I should run in the mornings instead of swim. Why is it one sport does nothing to prepare you for another? Pereira did aerobics. I didn’t know what Acosta did to keep his long, lovely body in shape, but I was surprised he hadn’t passed me already. I hated to think how far back Leonard might be.

The line at 12B was still moving toward the gate. Thank God for airport delays. I pushed through to the front, pulling out my shield as I ran. I extended it toward the stewardess at the gate. “How many passengers have boarded?”

“Just first class. We started boarding a few minutes late.”

No way would Philip Drem have been flying first class.

“Have you gotten word from Security on this flight?”

Her eyes widened. “No. Nothing.”

Behind me, passengers shoved closer. “Hold it up till we check the line.”

I could see Pereira at the far end, Acosta blocking the escape into the terminal. And no Maria Zalles on line.

“Okay,” I said to the stewardess. “Go ahead letting them on.”

Leonard staggered into view. To Acosta I said, “Check the manifest. Get the seat number.”

I moved to the side and watched the line dissolve into the gate’s maw. The past dies quickly at airports. By the time the last few passengers showed their boarding passes, they’d forgotten me. I looked around the boarding area. The only people there now were the ground crew, two families standing by the windows looking toward the lighted portholes of the plane. Had Maria Zalles changed her mind? Or was she in the same hideout I’d used myself? Motioning Pereira to take my spot by the gate, Acosta and Leonard to either side of the aisle, I walked into the ladies’ room. Maria Zalles was standing right inside.

F
REQUENTLY
I
INTERVIEW SUSPECTS
in the station’s glass-windowed booths off the meeting room. I like to seat them so they can look past me at the full force of the department—officers rushing to the communications center, sergeants giving orders. I let them see witnesses being interviewed in the comparative freedom of the tables in the middle of the room, freedom they don’t have in the tiny closed booths, with me between them and the door.

But an even better psychological setting for an interview is the back of the squad car—the cage.

In the airport I read Maria Zalles her rights and led her through the terminal to the patrol car like a stunned but obedient child. She looked gray and shaky in a white cotton dress, suitable for Hawaii or American Samoa or wherever she planned to deplane, but much too thin for San Francisco Airport in April. Huddling in the far corner of the backseat, her arms pressed to her sides, useless protection against cold, despair, and fear, she looked more like Tori Iversen than ever.