Every Move She Makes (12 page)

Smith drawled. "It ain't the right stuff?" "It's fine," I said. "I just
wanted to know who asked you to release it."

"Let's see ... was it before or after Bettencourt called?

Something about the defense disputin' the tests run on the drugs. That
was your case, too. Pao]-" He thumbed through the property reports to
look up the name.

"Paolini," I supplied.

"Yeah. Didn't think much of it, since I knew he'd have to come down,
sign for it. But he gave me the impression he was workin'on the case
with you. Told him I'd bring the stuff out as soon as I got back, have
it here waitin'. Figured it was Scolari." "Scolari?" I asked in
disbelief Considering he was A.W.O.L., I didn't think he'd be within
miles of the Hall.

"Well, it was noisy. Maintenance is puttin' up some
new shelves, and their saws were going'. Truthfully, I didn't pay much
attention. I just assumed it was Scolari." I removed four of the seeds,
placed them in a Ziploc bag. "Do me a favor," I said, handing him my
card. "Flag the evidence. If anyone else makes inquiries about the case,
I want you to call or page me, immediately." "Sure thing." He gathered
the remaining evidence, replaced it in the container, and placed that on
a cart with other items intended to be put away. In the hallway a
sensation of being watched hit me, and I glanced at the open elevator
door as it slid shut. I couldn't swear, but I thought it was Zimmerman's
ruddy face I caught a glimpse of. Zim's office was down here-at least it
was before he was temporarily reassigned as my partner. I didn't trust
him, didn't trust why he was avoiding me. I wanted to know if he knew
who called about the evidence. And why. I stuffed the seeds into my
fanny pack and raced to the stairwell door and up the steps two at a
time, dodging a uniformed evidence tech with black hair slicked back off
his pale forehead. He was kneeling on the landing by his briefcase.

Graveyard man, I thought, just as my foot scuffed the briefcase and I
heard something clatter. I didn't stop. "Sorry," I called out. Then I
burst through the door onto the ground floor. Markowski and Shipley were
waiting for the elevator. Shipley jabbed his finger several times on the
DOWN button. "What's taking this thing so long?" Markowski paid him
little heed, regarding me intently while I watched the elevator, my
chest heaving from exertion. Finally the elevator chimed, and the door
opened.

Empty.

"You okay?" Markowski asked. "Yeah," I'said, drawing my gaze from the
vacant portal. "You haven't seen Zim, have you?" "Not since he left
Homicide yesterday. Why, you anxious to work with him?" I refused to
grab the bait. Shipley stepped into the elevator, holding the door for
Markowski. "You coming, Rocky? Or you gonna stand there and yak all
day?" to Keep your gun belt on. I'm coming." I walked off, wondering
what had happened to Zimmerman. Had he been the one to call Property
trying to get the evidence from my case? Had he seen me and hit the STOP

button because he'd guessed I'd be racing up the stairs to catch him?

That would explain why the elevator took so long getting up here. If so,
he was probably in the basement, hiding out somewhere to avoid me. My
pager went off. I pulled it from my belt to read it, saw Betty's
employee number. I was fifteen minutes late. "Damn." Zimmerman could
wait. I had to trust that Smith or Martin would notify me if he or
anyone else tried to secure my evidence. In the meantime, I had some
hookers to wake up.

"Where do you want to start?" Betty asked.

"Ilvin Palms Motel." Had Betty not been driving, she would have been
staring at me, her jaw hanging open. As it was, I felt her intense
glance. "You sure?" she asked, pulling onto 1-80.

"Yes," I said. I kept my gaze fixed out my window.

Anywhere but on her. I didn't want to lose my momentum. I'd made up my
mind. Several seconds of silence, then, "Have you been back there ...

?" She let the question hang, the word since" unspoken. It echoed in my
mind. I watched the guardrail stream past, melting into the freeway exit
as she slowed the vehicle. I took a breath, finally said, "No." She made
a right two blocks later, pulling up in front of a two-story yellow
stucco building with a green and purple neon sign shaped like two palm
trees surrounding the word MOTEL. We both sat there and stared up at the
sign, remembering. Automatically my right elbow pressed against the butt
of my holstered semiauto, the familiar feel of it bringing me little
comfort. The neon sign flickered. "Did I tell you I went out with
Bettencourt?" I asked suddenly, in no hurry to get out of the car.

"Divorce wasn't good enough for the two of you?"

"A lapse of judgment."

"He improve any in the last six months?"

"About the same," was all I said. Ignoring the stiffness in my shoulder,
I reached for the door handle. "Let's do it." Twin Palms probably had
more hookers per capita in its twenty-nine rooms than any other dive
this side of Market Street. One of the drug overdose victims had lived
in room twelve. According to Scolari's notes, everyone denied knowing
anything about her. I was hoping that now, with the press coverage and
others having overdosed, the working girls here at Twin Palms might be
more inclined to recall details that had slipped their attention when
they originally thought it couldn't happen to them.

"How do you want to do this?" Betty asked when we got out of the car.

"How about I do one side of the hallway, you do the other." "Fine by
me." She clipped her star on a chain around her neck. We both turned our
radios down, knowing most of the hookers wouldn't open if they heard
them. "Ready when you are." Side by side we strode up the walk. I opened
the door, and she stepped in first. I followed. The hallway, long and
narrow, was lit by a single tenement bulb. Threadbare carpet, worn
through to the wood subflooring at the center, was gray, gritty with
dirt and cigarette butts. The walls were an unidentifiable color, more a
canvas for smudges, stains, and smashed cockroaches. Betty took the
right side, while I took the left. I told myself I could do this. There
was no horror left in this building. I had almost convinced myself when,
a half hour later, we both stood at the opposite end, near the back
entrance.

"You get anything?" I asked.

"Nothing. You?"

"Yeah, a lot of curses for coming at such an ungodly hour."

"Like we want to be here?"

"My fondest dreams," I said, entering the stairwell.

Betty saw the direction of my gaze. Neither of us moved. "So," she said,
and I guessed she was allowing me to get up my nerve. "How'd it go with
IA?"

"I don't know. You can never tell with those guys.

They think Scolari's guilty." My throat felt constricted, and it had
nothing to do with her question or my answer.

I moved to the bottom step, avoiding the crushed malt
liquor can and the used condom. Just climb to the top.

"What do you know about Torrance? You think he's gay?" "Torrid Torrance?

What makes you ask that?" Because I needed to talk about something.

Anything besides what's at the top of the stairs. "No reason," I said,
my voice sounding calm but slightly higher than normal.

"He might have my pantyhose."

"You mind running that by me again?" I neared the top, not answering her
right away, my heart pounding, but not from the exertion of climbing the
stairs. My lungs wouldn't fill, and I refused to look at the wall near
the top step to see if it had been painted over, afraid I'd see the
smeared stain of dried blood. My blood. My elbow again sought the
reassurance of my weapon holstered snugly at my waist. Unconsciously I
reached up, rubbed the ache from my left shoulder. January
twenty-fourth. Thirteen months ago, someone had shot me right there at
the top of the stairs. A drug raid. Paolini's building. Though never
proven, word on the street was that his man, Foust, was responsible. The
suspect was still at large, however, and I thought of the rumor that
some SFPD inspectors were on Paolini's payroll. I refused to believe it.

Scolari had dragged me from the hallway and down the stairs that night
... He alone had helped me, when no one else had. I decided the
pantyhose story would be a good distraction right about now, and told
Betty how that particular piece of clothing ended up on Torrance's
windshield the night he was following me, and then what he said
yesterday in his office.

Betty laughed, and I found myself smiling in return.

"Not one of your better moves," she said, guiding me deeper into the
hallway, away from the stairs. I appreciated her subtlety. "Yeah, well,
it still doesn't answer my question. Is he or isn't he?" Betty regarded
me seriously. "What do you want him to be?"

"I'm not sure I care. It just helps talking about something else."

"Then let him remain a mystery. More fun that way." "For who?" I asked,
turning to a new page in my notebook. I'd gotten past the worst of it. I
was ready to move on.

"Everyone in the department who's lusting after him.

You ever watch them? They practically drool when he walks past. I
suppose if I weren't happily married, I'd drool right along with them."

I knocked on door number fourteen. "The guy's a cold fish." "An act,"

Betty said, knocking on door fifteen on the opposite side of the hall.

"My brother's the same way. MacHo cop thing. If I had to bet money on
it, I'd say Torrance was straight as an arrow." Door fourteen opened
about two inches. I flashed my star. "Inspector Gillespie. Homicide."

"Someone else get killed?" a sleepy voice asked. I saw only her nose and
one eye, she refused to open the door farther. "Not yet. I was wondering
if you might know anything about the girl who OD'd downstairs. Who she
was with the night she died. Her supplier." As if anyone here would give
up that piece of information.

"I ain't seen nothing."

She tried to shut the door, but I wedged my foot in the crack.

"Look, if anyone you know is using, it could be them next."

"Hey, no one's holding a gun to them people's heads. Seems to me you'd
be more worried about someone what gets murdered like Tanya in number
eighteen, not someone what takes some bad shit." She kicked my foot from
the door and slammed it shut. As far as I knew, apartment eighteen
wasn't listed on any of Scolari's notes or the reports. Neither was the
name Tanya. While Betty spoke to the resident in fifteen, I knocked on
door eighteen. No one answered. I knocked again , and heard a click
behind me. I spun, drew my weapon. In seconds, I realized I'd drawn on
an unarmed woman peeking from apartment nineteen. She stood frozen, her
wide gaze focused on my gun. "Christ," I said. I lowered my firearm,
holstered it. In my peripheral vision I saw Betty, her weapon drawn in
response to mine. She holstered hers, came to my side.

"I'm sorry," I told the woman.

"What happened?" Betty asked.

"I thought I heard a weapon cocking. I guess it was the door."

"It sticks," the woman said. Her voice sounded as shaky as my hands were
at the moment. Betty leaned down, picked up my notebook, handed it to
me. "I'm sorry," I said again. "Are you okay?" She nodded, as if being
at the wrong end of a gun were commonplace for her, a possibility in
this neighborhood. She opened her door, looked up and down the hallway
before stepping out, clutching her tattered blue terry robe. "No one's
there." She indicated the apartment door I'd knocked on. "It's been
vacant for a few weeks now." "The girl that lived there, Tanya, did you
know her?" I showed her my star. "Inspector (' Gillespie, Homicide." She
eyed the shield, then me, as though unsure what she should do.