Muller, Marcia - [11] Trophies and Dead Things(v1.0)(html) (22 page)

Willie Whelan's flagship jewelry
store was situated on the south side of Market Street between Seventh
and Eighth— an iffy location at best, and one that had reaped little
benefit from what city planners are fond of calling "the Renaissance of
Market Street." All the rebirth is going on further downtown, where
high-rises have mushroomed and cautious shoppers now venture into what
used to be a minefield in the war between the haves and the have-nots.
Willie's block remained largely unchanged: street people pushed grocery
carts loaded with all their belongings; winos sprawled on the benches
that were part of the beautification project; merchants hawked cut-rate
wares from sidewalk bins; private security guards were stationed at
most of the doorways.

When I entered the store at a few
minutes after five, Willie was already there, extolling the merits of
a
ring with the world's tiniest diamond to a young Asian couple. He'd
point to it and then gesture expansively; the couple would look at one
another and nod dubiously. Then he'd enthuse some more and they'd nod
again, a little more firmly. When both nodded decisively, Willie
flashed his most sincere smile of congratulation and whipped out a
credit application from under the counter. As the couple began filling
it out, he gave me a victory sign.

"Is Hank here yet?" I asked,
casting a sympathetic glance at the latest victims of Willie's
salesmanship.

"He called, said he'd be a few
minutes late."
 

"Just as well. I need to make a
couple of calls of my own."

"Use my office—you know where it
is."

"Thanks." I skirted the central
counter where he stood and went through an opening in a smaller counter
that bordered the showroom on three sides. Numerous customers—none of
them terribly solvent-looking—leaned over its displays of watches and
charm bracelets and pendants and birthstone rings. On the other side of
the counter was a door; beyond it lay the stockroom and Willie's office.

My first call was to Wolf, but I
reached only his machine. That was no surprise; he and his partner
spent more time in the field than at the office. I left a brief
message. Next I called All Souls and caught Rae just as she was on her
way out.

"Oh, good," she said. "I've got
the information you wanted on American Consolidated Services. They're a
government contractor that operates restaurants and cafeterias for the
military on bases all over the world."

"I thought it might be something
like that. Were you able to find out anything about Bob Smith?"

"Unfortunately, no. Personnel
knew he was dead, and the person I talked to became suspicious when I
asked."

"Doesn't matter. I know enough
now, and if the police want to make an official inquiry, it'll only
confirm what I suspect."

"Shar, what's this about?"

"I'll tell you later."

"You keep saying that, but I
never get fully caught up."

"Have patience. Got to go now."
As I replaced the receiver, the door to the office opened and Willie
and Hank entered.

Hank looked around the cramped
cubicle, then sat on a folding chair under the window. Willie perched
on the edge of the desk, swinging one cowboy-booted foot. He said,
"This'd better be important, McCone. I had to cut short my visit to my
Oakland store to get back here on time."
 

"It is." I opened my briefcase
and took out the legal pad I'd made notes on while at the SFPD that
morning.

"Well, aren't you going to
enlighten us?" Hank asked. "I was planning to go home early, but your
message kept me at All Souls just long enough for a client to call with
an emergency, and now I've got to work through the evening again."

I was trying to save their lives,
and they were complaining about me wasting their time! I said, "Did I
ever tell either of you what a pain in the ass you can be?" The words
and their tone were unusually harsh for me; both Hank and Willie looked
taken aback. They exchanged quick looks, but neither spoke.

I said, "First I need to ask you
some questions about Vietnam in nineteen seventy. Both of you were in
Cam Ranh Bay at the same time as Perry Hilderly?"

Hank nodded.

"And Hilderly hung out with a
bunch of you from the base?"

"Yes, at an off-base bar . . .
What was it called, Willie?"

"Something French."

"Moulin Rouge? Rouge et Noir?"

"Rouge et Noir," Willie said.

"Good memory."

I asked, "Who usually hung out
with you?"

Hank looked blank, then glanced
at Willie. Willie shrugged. Hank said, "Well, people came and went a
lot. In a place like Cam Ranh, the personnel fluctuated daily."

"A big base, was it?"

"Cam Ranh itself was a port—built
from the ground up by the U.S. in case Saigon fell. There was the army
supply depot, where Willie and I were stationed, plus navy and air
force bases, an airfield serving the area, a hospital. About twenty
thousand military stationed there, and God knows how many civilians."
He paused, smiling ironically. "Government sunk billions of the
taxpayers' dollars into Cam Ranh; then after the pullout it
became a virtual ghost town. Now it's a port of call for Soviet ships."

"So what you're saying is that it
would be difficult to remember specific individuals whom you hung out
with?"

"Some I probably could, people
who stayed around for a long time. But like I said, they came and went."

I leaned back in the desk chair,
considering what I knew about the military. It was a fair amount; my
father had been a chief petty officer in the navy, a thirty-year man. I
said, "For a minute, let's talk about the people who we know
were
there.
You"—I motioned at Hank—"were politicized by the war, went over there a
liberal and came back a radical. Hilderly was a war protester, a
reporter, and a civilian. And you"—I looked at Willie—"would by no
means have been your ideal enlisted man. In addition, Hank was an
officer. It's fairly unusual for officers and enlisted men to
socialize."

"Well," Hank said, "in a combat
zone it's a little looser. But what you're getting at is correct: we
were a bunch of liberal misfits."

"Then I assume your group caused
comment, might have been resented by the more hawkish element?"

"Christ, yes," Willie said. "Was
like everybody in our corner of the bar had leprosy, except for when
some asshole decided to pick a fight." To Hank he added, "You remember
that night I almost got into it with that fascist lieutenant? For sure
I'd of ended up court-martialed if you hadn't stepped in."

I sat up straighten "Do you
remember the lieutenant's name?"

"... I can't remember. Hank?"

Hank shook his head.

"Do you recall anything about
him?"

"Nothing except the attitude."

"Besides him," I said, "do you
remember anyone else who tried to pick fights or otherwise antagonize
you?"
 

"There were plenty of them, but
after all this time the names and faces aren't clear."

"Hank?"

He shook his head. "Frankly, I've
repressed a lot of things about those days."

"Try to think back to Rouge et
Noir. Picture it, and yourselves there in your corner. Who else is with
you?"

Both of them closed their eyes.
After a moment Willie said, "That radio operator, got killed in the
patrol plane crash."

"Sorry. I should have told you
I'm only interested in people who so far as you know are still living."

More silence. Then Hank said to
Willie, "The guy from Atlanta—the one who'd met Martin Luther King."

"Bernie—nan, he bought it at Da
Nang."

"Mike, the one who always had the
terrific grass?"

"Dead, too."

"What about Chris, from
Philadelphia?"

"Helicopter crash."

If I let them go on, it would
begin to sound like a reading of the names from the Vietnam War
Memorial. I said, "What about John Owens?"

"Owens," Hank said.

Willie frowned, then snapped his
fingers. "Johnny Owens. I should of remembered him. Was a crazy man,
actually wanted to kill the fascist lieutenant. Probably would of, too,
if he hadn't transferred out and got sent up to Saigon. Wonder whatever
happened to the crazy son of a bitch?"

"He was the sniper's third
victim."

Willie's mouth dropped open.
Hank's face went taut and still—the way I've seen it when something
unexpected happens to him in court.

I asked, "Were there any women in
your group?"

Hank said, "A few. Mostly nurses."

"What about a Red Cross nurse
named Mary Johnson?"

". . . It's such a common name."

"I remember her," Willie said.
"She wasn't there long. A blonde with
a
fiance in the marines.
I lusted after her, but she wasn't having any."

Hank looked at me. "Mary, too?"

"The second victim."

"Why didn't I realize it when I
saw the story in the paper? And the one about Johnny?"

"Mary Johnson had married and was
going by the surname Davis. And even if her name had been the same, or
Owens's more distinctive, there would have been no reason for you to
connect them with people you'd known casually in a bar in Vietnam. That
was a long time ago."

They were silent for a moment.
Willie finally asked, "What about the sniper's first victim?"

"He's the one who originally
didn't fit the pattern. Bob Smith. A drifter, worked in restaurants
mainly. But I have an idea about him. Military food services are
usually provided by civilian contractors. What was the name of the one
at your base?"

Hank shook his head. Willie said,
"Damned if I can remember. Ought to, for all the bitching about the
food that I did. What was it we nicknamed them?"

Hank smiled faintly. "American
Constipated."

"American Consolidated Services,"
I said.

"Right!"

"Then there's your link. You may
not remember Bob Smith, but he worked for American Consolidated during
that period, and I'm willing to bet he hung out with you at the Rouge
et Noir, too."

"Okay," Hank said, "I see where
this is leading. Someone who didn't like our political orientation and
disregard for protocol is now—after close to twenty years—tracking down
people from the group and killing them. But why, after all that time?
And how does he find us?"

"In Willie's case, it's
obvious—the TV commercials. And you don't keep all that low a profile.
The others he could have stumbled over by chance, or
by less circumstantial means."

Willie shook his head. "McCone,
this is fuckin' crazy. The
guy
must be crazy."

"When did you hear of a sane
person stalking others with a gun?"

They were silent again. I was
busy formulating an idea that I wanted to run past Greg. After a while
I said, "The important thing right now is for both of you to stay safe.
You're going to have to be extra cautious, even during daylight. He's
missed once, and that might have made him impatient."

"Don't you worry about me none,"
Willie replied. "I'm going home and locking myself in until this is all
over."

"And you," I said to Hank, "are
going back to All Souls?"

"I have to. As I said, an
emergency came up."

"Why don't you stay there
tonight?"

"Where? On the couch? I tried
that last winter when Anne-Marie and I were broken up, and hardly slept
for nights. The case I'm trying is winding up tomorrow; I have to get a
decent rest."

"Okay—go to All Souls, then. But
don't leave until I get there."

"And then what do you intend to
do?"

"Act as your bodyguard on your
way home."

"Shar, that'll make me feel like
an old man being helped across the street by a Girl Scout."

"Like it or not, that's the way
it's going to be."

Hank merely nodded, once again
cowed by my obvious irritation.

I stood up and stuffed the legal
pad into my briefcase. "There's one other thing I want both of you to
do: keep thinking about the hawkish element in that bar. Try to recall
confrontations, threats. Try to remember names. I'll check with you
later about it."
 

As I started for the
door Hank asked, "Where're you going now?"

"To talk with Greg Marcus. I have
an idea that may help him identify the sniper."

Greg said, "Damn, you may have
something there."

I reached for the cup of coffee
I'd set on the edge of his desk and waited for him to go on.

After a moment he added, "The
motive might sound farfetched, but I've encountered stranger ones.
Let's hear your theory on who's responsible."