Nocturnal (13 page)

“Don’t call me until after it’s done,” she said.

She removed a full clip from her handbag and tossed it on the bed. Then she left the motel room without another word. Leaving me alone with the gun, the bullets, and the silencer.

Everything I needed to save our relationship.

Everything I needed to kill a man.

15. “Are you sure it was his body inside the car?”

Despite the detectives’ prying questions and hostile air, their visit had given me a useful clue. Phone records.

I’d been telling the truth when I said the phone line was shared. My phantom office partner had contributed half the monthly rate, allowing for unlimited local calls, and then paid on top for long distance. Every month I left the phone bill on his desk with the extras highlighted, and the correct money would be waiting for me the following evening. My office partner might have turned out to be a ruthless killer, but he always paid his bills on time.

Energized by the lure of a lead, I dug out the last few months of phone bills from the filing cabinet and began scouring them for yellow marker. There were a number of highlighted calls to Palo Alto under the local toll section. Two, sometimes three calls a month, all to the same number. Obviously the
real
Ralph Emerson. I hadn’t given them a second thought at the time, and why would I? They were such tiny amounts, less than a buck in most cases.

The only other highlighted call was to a Sacramento number, back in July. I remembered pausing over the number at the time, thinking it might belong to me. But of course, I hadn’t spoken to anyone from my home town in eight years.

From memory, the first three digits, 786, indicated a Roseville number. A few miles west of Granite Bay, and a few notches down the desirability scale, but still a reasonably wealthy suburb. Good schools, clean sidewalks, and a long waiting list at the local golf club. I’d never known anyone from Roseville, it was strictly a nuclear family zone, but staring at the number on the bill, I knew the killer hadn’t dialed it by accident.

He’d wanted me to notice.

From the very beginning, his actions had been deliberate and precise. Setting up Ralph Emerson as my bogus office partner, taunting me with the name Johnny, referring to sins of the past in the doctored screenplay – they all held a special meaning, some obvious, others less so. And it seemed I was the reluctant centerpiece in his elaborate design. That’s why I’d been spared – he needed me alive to appreciate his handiwork. My downfall was being set up as the grand finale.

The Sacramento phone number was another carefully inserted clue. And while I hated the thought I was jumping through hoops, with Bruno still missing, I really didn’t have a choice. The number was my only lead.

I quickly conjured up a credible front, took a deep breath, and dialed.

A woman answered on the third ring. Her voice was elderly; mannered. “Good afternoon, Piper residence.”

My brain froze on hearing the name Piper. I forgot my opening line.

“Is someone there?” the woman said.

“Yes, hello,” I said, regaining my composure. “Mrs. Piper?”

“No, I’m afraid Mrs. Piper is indisposed. What is this regarding?”

“It’s an insurance survey we’re conducting, ma’am. Mrs. Piper’s name came up on our database. Every respondent wins a prize, so it’s in her interest to participate. Perhaps I should call back later.”

“I wouldn’t waste your time,” the woman advised. She wasn’t frosty, just matter-of-fact. “I can tell you now, she won’t be interested in answering your questions.”

“Oh. Well, I’d prefer to hear that from Mrs. Piper herself, if you wouldn’t mind. Just so I can tick the right boxes.”

“I’m sorry, but my word will have to do,” she said, a little less cordially.

“It’ll only take a few minutes. There’s no obligation–”

“–Please, don’t call here again.”

She cut me off before I could make an even bigger nuisance of myself. She’d let me off lightly, really. Even I was offended by my pushy salesman’s act. But who was the Mrs. Piper she was protecting?

Right away I logged into an online directory and searched for Piper in Sacramento. There were only nineteen hits, and I quickly spotted the number I’d just dialed. It belonged to Margaret Piper from Romney Drive, Roseville

Margaret
. The name of Sterling’s first wife. I remembered her haunted appearance from the Piper family portraits. But why the hell would the killer want me to contact Sterling’s first wife? A woman I’d never met?

I contemplated my next move. Calling back wasn’t an option. Margaret’s gatekeeper knew my voice, and she’d sounded as sharp as a tack. She wasn’t going to hand over the phone, no matter what accent I tried on. But
somehow
I had to get in front of Margaret. She was my only link to the killer, my only link to Bruno. All roads led to her door.

Turning away from my computer, I noticed a murky grey light had crept into the office. I wheeled my chair to the window and fingered open a slat. The mid-afternoon sky was a solid charcoal block, hanging over the city like a dark frown. Below me, pedestrians were hugging the inside of the sidewalk, and the road had thickened with taxis. A rare October downpour was just minutes away.

As I watched the hypnotic trails of people and traffic on the cloud darkened street, my vision started to blur. My head gently butted the blinds, and I gave a little start. Rubbing my eyes, I realized sleep needed to be my next priority. It was well past my usual bedtime, and after the tumultuous events of the past twenty-four hours, my body was telling me it had had enough.

The comfort of my own bed beckoned, but I had to see the stakeout through to the end. There was still five hours of daylight left. For Bruno’s sake, I had to clutch at every straw.

I made sure the door was locked, and then retrieved my Glock from the spare desk, tucking it under my belt. Then I slipped off my shoes and lay down on the threadbare carpet, using my duffle coat as a pillow. Closing my eyes, the sound of the rain helped to quieten my thoughts, and the gravity of sleep pulled me under.

My eyes blinked open to a persistent chiming. I lifted my head, straining to read my watch hands in the dark. Nine-fifteen. At least I was back in a familiar time zone.

I staggered to my feet with a groan. My cell was aglow, trembling on my desk. I snatched it just in time, hitting the green button to accept CC’s call. “Hey,” I croaked, my mouth full of sand.

“Hey to you, too. Have you been sleeping all that time?”

“No. Just a few hours. Are you still at the apartment?”

“Of course I am, sweetheart. Where else would your girlfriend be?”

In my half-awake state, I thought she was just being loopy CC. Then I remembered the cops. “Shit, I forgot to warn you.”

“Yeah, you did. I didn’t know what kind of girlfriend you wanted me to play.”

“What kind did you go for?”

“Ex fiancée. Things didn’t work out, but we still like to fool around.”

“Jesus, CC. They can probably check that sort of thing.”

“Let them check. There’s no law against lying to the police. You were with me Wednesday morning, that’s a fact. The rest is none of their business.”

I exhaled deeply, thinking she was probably right. My alibi checked out – that was all that mattered.

CC wasn’t finished. “More to the point, what the fuck is going on? Ralph Emerson’s been murdered? The same guy who was stalking you?”

“It’s complicated…”

“–And now someone
else
is after you?”

“Can we not talk about this over the phone?”

“Whatever. You owe me an explanation, Sam. It sounds like you set me up as bait.”

“You were a decoy, not bait. I’ll explain everything soon, okay? Just not over the phone.”

“
Okay
,” she sighed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

I checked myself. “Sorry. I really appreciate your help, CC.”

“As long as I’m appreciated,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Oh yeah, what should I do with the car.”

I gave it some thought. It would be quickest if CC drove the car back to the office so I could hit the road immediately; but I was also in urgent need of a shower and a change of clothes. With my dark glasses and scarred face, getting a foot in Margaret Piper’s front door was going to be hard enough without smelling like a bum.

“Leave it where it is,” I eventually said. “Unless you’re coming into the city now.”

“Nah, I don’t start till eleven. I haven’t even showered yet.”

“Okay, no problem. I’ll take a cab.”

“Won’t your mystery stalker get suspicious?”

“Probably, but he wasn’t biting anyway. I’ve moved on to plan B.”

“Oh, so now we’re onto plan B. Any chance you’re going to fill me in?”

“Sorry.”

“Figures,” CC mumbled. Despite her weary tone, I could tell that part of her was getting off on the intrigue. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it covered. And CC – try not to mention this to anyone.”

“There’s no danger of that,” she laughed. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

The rain had stopped when I walked out of my office building onto Ellis Street. The sidewalks glistened under the streetlamps and neon signs, car tires flicked through the light sheen on the roads, and the smell of wet concrete clung to the cool night air. Preparing to hail a cab, my stomach suddenly growled like a bear stirring from a long hibernation. I hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and now that my hunger had my full attention, food quickly replaced hot water as my first priority.

Seeking instant gratification, I drew up my collar and walked a couple of blocks to a greasy spoon that served a $6.99 all day breakfast. I planned to wolf down a year’s worth of cholesterol and drain a pot of coffee before heading home to change.

The Ellis Street Diner was run by a Cuban couple who specialized in fatty American classics, embracing everything that Californian Europhiles and health-obsessed TV chefs ignored, from biscuits and gravy to deep fried catfish. The padded booths, faux-marble tabletops and peeling linoleum floor might have been retro diner clichés, but there was nothing cute or ironic about the Ellis Street Diner. It was about good food and basic service, not hipster fashion.

Accordingly, the diner attracted a downbeat nighttime crowd – beggars, drunks and chronic insomniacs; security guards, cleaners and parking attendants. Even the pimps and hookers steered clear – it wasn’t a lively meeting place for the city’s wild and wacky characters. It catered for people who ate alone and in silence, chewing slowly, staring into their coffee mugs, and savoring the warmth coming from the kitchen

The diner was nearly full when I entered. I wasn’t the only customer wearing dark glasses, but my scarred face attracted the usual combination of squints, scowls and second glances The truly downtrodden didn’t care who they offended, and I actually preferred their bare-faced stares to the people who nervously looked away or widened their eyes in horror, like I was about to go for their necks.

I slid into a booth and nodded a silent hello to my favorite waitress, Iris, who was busy wiping down a nearby table. Her wide face grew wider. “The usual?”

I nodded. My order never changed – the full American with eggs over-easy, black coffee, orange juice. I didn’t usually make it through the hash browns, but tonight I was catching up on three missed meals and I intended to suck down every last, fat-soaked string. 

Iris returned quickly with the coffee pot, humming cheerfully to herself. I pretended to read an old text on my cell. Sometimes I sensed Iris wanted to engage me in conversation, especially when I was reading a script or writing in my journal. But unlike the other waitresses at the diner, Iris could read body language. So when she returned with my steaming breakfast plate, I lowered my head and mumbled a thank you, keeping her questions at bay.

I’d just salted my eggs when I heard the entrance bell tinkle. My eyes lifted to the door. A rangy young man with gingery hair and a camel overcoat walked in, pausing just inside the doorway to survey the room. I looked down and started tearing into my bacon rashers, wondering where I’d seen him before. 

It came to me quickly. Two nights ago, at the pub in Russian Hill. I recalled the young man’s hawkish nose and pale skin. He’d been wearing a shell jacket inside a warm pub, rousing my suspicion until I realized he was about to leave. But now I’d seen him twice in two days. It couldn’t just be a coincidence.

When I glanced up at the entrance, the young man’s narrow-set eyes were aimed straight at me. He turned away too late, pretending to fuss over his coat. But I’d caught the ripple of panic that passed over his face. He knew who I was, alright. He just hadn’t expected to find me here
.

Since I’d already spotted him, Hawk Nose had no choice but to scrape back a chair and act as if everything was hunky dory. I did the same, tucking into my breakfast while I considered my next move.

I couldn’t be certain, but my gut instinct told me that Hawk Nose wasn’t the killer. First off, he was a baby – barely into his twenties. The sinister voice on the phone had sounded ten years older, at least. And secondly, he just didn’t look the part. Any coward was capable of pulling a trigger, but I couldn’t imagine Hawk Nose beating a man to death with a golf club. That particular style of violence required ice cold blood and a steady nerve.

I looked over as Hawk Nose gave his order to Iris in a guarded voice. When she headed to the kitchen, his gaze slowly slid towards my table, checking to see if I was watching. Again, he saw the whites of my eyes a second too late, and his head whipped back in line with his body, like he’d been stuck with a cattle prod.