Too Close to the Edge (12 page)

I waved a thanks and pulled into the driveway.

It was just quarter to eight when I slid into an empty chair at the conference room table. I glanced at Clayton Jackson, one of the two old-time homicide detectives. Jackson had been in Homicide when I joined the force nearly four years ago. For all I knew that might have been his first day in homicide. But for me, he and Al “Eggs” Eggenberger were institutions.

Jackson grinned and shoved a thermos cup toward me. We had a deal, the Jackson family and I. Once a week I coached Jackson’s fifteen-year-old son, Pernell, who had been cut from the junior varsity swim team. In return, Pernell made me a thermos of Peet’s strongest coffee every morning. There had been a few disasters the first week (after Pernell realized that his mother was not going to make the coffee for him). But compared to the machine coffee, which I never got to work in time to get anyway, Pernell’s brew was superb. This was one of those days I counted on that coffee to get me through.

Howard slid into the seat next to me at the same time the captain took his. Grinning at me, he leaned his elbows on the table. His arm length, fingertip to fingertip, was a foot more than mine. (We had had a bet. We measured, and he won a beer.) I shifted my coffee to the left.

The captain circulated the hot car list. Edison, from Crimes Against Property, gave an update on a VCR theft ring that had been hitting Berkeley stores on and off for three months. Pereira, doing a “guest shot,” reported on the running shoe thief.

“The shoes,” said Ortiz, from Internal Affairs, “are they any particular brand?”

“No,” Pereira snapped. “Just new, expensive running shoes that the owners refuse to take inside with them. They put them outside because they want to think Berkeley is the kind of place where you can leave your door unlocked.”

A groan came from the guys in Burglary.

Howard leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on the rear legs. “Hey Connie, we could set up a Berkeley Marathon and check the shoes of all the runners.” Howard loved stings. But at six foot six, with blue eyes and curly red hair, his picture had graced more newspaper articles than any other officer in the history of the department. His days of leading stings were pretty well over. Like an aged athlete, he satisfied himself by coaching others. And others, like Connie, tried to steer clear.

“Smith, you have a murder,” the captain said.

I summarized the Liz Goldenstern case. Just as the meeting was finishing, Murakawa rushed in to report that his crew had canvassed the entire marina area and hadn’t found one vehicle that didn’t belong there.

As I headed to the door, Magill, the press officer, caught my arm. “Don’t you have anything more than that, Smith? My phone’s been going nonstop, and there were four reporters and a photographer at the door when I got here this morning. This Goldenstern murder is a natural for the papers. The schmaltz will be running like molasses. And unless you come up with the killer pronto, you’re not going to look too sweet.”

“Magill, you’ve been doing news conferences too long. In another month you’ll sound like something out of
Variety.”

“My question, Smith?” he demanded. I wasn’t the first to comment on Magill’s seduction by the press.

“The case isn’t twelve hours old. I’ve been up all night. What do you want? If I had anything else don’t you think I would have told the captain?”

“Well, check in with me before noon.” He turned and strode down the hall.

“If it’s convenient,” I called after as I headed toward my office.

Murakawa came up beside me. Without commenting on my grumblings he said, “I called AC Transit. The driver of the bus with the lift on the Marina route last night knows Liz. She wasn’t on the bus between six and ten. I checked the victim and Stuart and Summerlight through files. Nothing in California Identification Index. None of them has been arrested for a retainable offense in this state. According to Corpus Files they’ve never been arrested at all. There’s nothing in PIN—no warrants out for them. As for Motor Vehicles, they’ve got no record of an Aura Summerlight or”—he flipped open his note pad—“a Penelope Lynn Garrett. No license, no I.D.”

“She could have an out-of-state license. Where’s her truck registered?”

“New Mexico. I sent a request to Motor Vehicles there.”

“Don’t hold your breath. This won’t be top priority for them. What about Stuart?”

“He got a California license last year. Turned in one from British Columbia.”

“And Liz?”

“She’s on file. Took her last test five years ago and reregistered by mail last year.”

I laughed. The motor vehicle department had instituted a new system wherein randomly selected good drivers were allowed to reregister without coming down and taking the test. It was a popular innovation with those who benefited, and maddening for the rest of us who were not among the chosen. But clearly it had its drawbacks. According to Liz Goldenstern’s driver’s license, she had no limitations.

“I’m on my way to C.I.L.” Murakawa said.

“Wait. What about the hedge by Rainbow Village? Did you find the place that twig in Liz’s sweater came from?”

“Possibly. It’s by the top. The lab’s checking the twig against the broken samples.”

“Good.” But I knew better than to expect the report today, or tomorrow.

Giving him the names of Laurence Mayer and Greta Tennerud to run through files, I walked into my office and slumped in my chair. Settling in his, Howard pushed it against the outer wall and stretched his legs. “You ought to hire Murakawa permanently, Jill,” he said. “He’s been up all night and he looks like he’s ready for a few sets of tennis. While you …” He grinned.

“I know. I look like something grabbed out of the ‘free box.’ I’m counting on Jackson’s coffee to help me pass for a human being,” I said, pouring another cup of coffee. “It would have been gracious of you not to mention my appearance. But I suppose you’re entitled to one free dig after the favor you did me. This isn’t my day for your garage.” I had done Howard a favor a few months back, in return for Monday and Friday use of the garage he rented.

“If that’s the trade-off, I should be able to publicize every defect in your body, and your soul,” Howard said, grinning. That grin had charmed no small number of Berkeley ladies, several of whom, from time to time, had rented him a coveted garage near the station.

“What are you planning to give me for that kind of presumption?” I demanded.

“My parking spot.”

“For how long?”

“Until further notice. Maybe forever.”

“For that you could repeat every malicious word I’ve ever spoken. And a few so damning I’ve only thought them.” I finished the coffee. “How come, Howard? I mean, it’s twice as hard to find a parking spot for your Rover than for my bug. With the size of that thing you could be among the elite in Rainbow Village.”

His smile faded. “Well, I’ve got another parking spot.”

“Another local lady wants you to park in her driveway?”

He shifted in his chair. “Well, actually, it’s Nancy, the woman I’ve been seeing for the last couple months. She lives two blocks away.”

“Oh.” I could feel my face flush. I lifted the coffee cup to my lips, putting it down slowly when I realized it was empty. “Forever, huh?” Howard and I had discussed our various relationships, but it was only when they were on the way out and we needed each other to gripe to. When I had been going through my divorce he had sympathized with a string of complaints that could only have interested another ex-wife. But afterward, when I found an intriguing man, I tended to keep it to myself. And I only suspected Howard had a new lady friend when he seemed preoccupied. Neither of us had talked in terms of forever before. I swallowed. “Pretty serious, huh?”

“I don’t know. We’re going to see what it’s like, my staying at her place. You know what a zoo my house is. There are five other guys living there now and three have their girlfriends staying most nights. And Dwight’s got that Irish Setter, and his girlfriend’s got a parrot that squawks half the night.”

“It’s probably got good reason. Setters are bird dogs.”

“Well, this one’s not too bright. Or at least he hasn’t learned to open a cage.” He drew his legs in toward him so his knees pointed sharply to the transom. Shifting his gaze to the door, he said, “You know I’ve been thinking about moving out of that house for ages, or getting all of
them
out. And then Nancy offered, and well …”

“Oh.” I said. It was more serious than I had thought. “Well, best wishes. I hope it goes really well. My house-warming gift to you is going to be no advice based on my own years of matrimony.”

Now, as Howard laughed, I could see him relaxing. “How about some breakfast?” he asked.

“I had breakfast,” I said, too quickly. “I had a couple of Night Watch’s donuts a few hours ago.”

“I mean real food, or as close to real as Wally’s serves. You can tell me about your murder.”

“Okay, maybe I could use some food.” Maybe hashing out a case, like we’d always done together, was what we both needed now. We stood up and headed out. I said, “I can’t help thinking about Liz yesterday, when I was pushing her chair. She wasn’t like the other times I’d come across her. She was more open, or at least she was sporadically. I didn’t think about it much then, but now, looking back, it seems like she was apprehensive, that she wanted to talk about something, or to be reassured, or even just to connect with someone who …”

“Someone she could trust?” Howard asked as we crossed the street.

“Well, yes. Liz knew enough of me from our encounters on the Avenue to have some sense of me. I’d always been straight with her.”

“And you
were
pushing her home yesterday. That has to count for something.”

We headed into Wally’s and settled on stools at the counter. Without asking, Wally filled two cups with coffee and set them in front of us. It wasn’t Peet’s, it wasn’t even good, but as Howard had said early on, “We’re cops; we’re tough. It’ll take more than Wally to make us give up caffeine.”

I considered ordering pancakes, the nearest thing to respectable junk food, but decided on a fried egg sandwich.

Wally nodded. “Your body will thank you, Smith.”

“My sweater will thank me. At least a sandwich I can hold in my hand while I eat.” I had been known to get too caught up in pondering a case. It wasn’t a thing to do with maple syrup dripping from your fork.

Howard ordered the Wallaroo—three eggs, a waffle, sausage, home fries, toast, and a couple pieces of fruit. Wally had been to Australia over Christmas. To commemorate the trip he had renamed his specials. The standard two eggs, home fries, and toast was now the Wallyrag (runt of the litter). The large breakfast was the Wallaby (small to medium sized kangaroo). And Howard’s Wallaroo was the former Gigantic Breakfast. But Wally hadn’t been sated with his menu changes. Over the counter in bright red letters he had painted, “WALLY—1. Fine, first-rate. 2. Ample, large, strong, or robust. 3. Pleasing or agreeable.” When pressed, he had admitted that Wally and Wallyrag were not Australian but Scottish. But he was so proud of his sign that neither Howard nor I could bring ourselves to mention the other definition of Wally, the noun: a toy, gimcrack, or bauble.

“If Liz Goldenstern drove her chair to the waterfront, it must have been quite a trip,” I said. “There’s no sidewalk on the freeway overpass. And according to Murakawa she didn’t take the bus.”

“And no suspicious vehicles down at the marina, right?”

“Right. No one I interrogated turned up on any of the files. And the only question mark now is Liz’s son, and he hasn’t surfaced.”

“So where does that leave you, Jill?”

I took a swallow of coffee. “I don’t know. I’m not the best person to be handling this case.”

Howard nodded. I had told him as much about my fears as I was willing to admit to anyone. “I wasn’t surprised you hadn’t been home. Didn’t think you could sleep, huh?”

“The chance didn’t arise, but if it had I would have been staring at the ceiling.”

“Jill, the idea of paralysis is awful. Most of us just don’t think about it. Why this big thing with you?”

I took a long swallow of coffee, picked up my sandwich, looked at it, and put it back down. “I told you about my father’s cousin, John.”

He nodded. “A little. Were you very close to him?”

“No, on the contrary, I only saw him twice a year—at his birthday in June and sometime around Christmas. I resented him every moment of each visit and for days before and after. He died the summer I was fourteen. I was at camp when they held the funeral. I didn’t realize he was dead till after New Year’s, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t had to see him. Then I didn’t bring it up for two weeks, in case my parents had forgotten and we might still have to go.”

Howard fingered his cup. “So this guilt is what’s been eating you all these years?”

“No, no. I did feel bad, but it passed. No, Howard. I guess I never mentioned what happened to cousin John. I know I didn’t. My father told me one Sunday in August when we were watching the white caps break on the beach at Asbury Park. We’d just eaten lunch, so of course we couldn’t go in the water for an hour. That was a strict rule in those days. The water was calm that day. Beyond the breakers, people were lying on air mattresses, barely moving any more than if they’d been stretched out on a blanket on the sand. Even under the umbrella it was scorching. A hundred and three. I remember that. It was the hottest day of the year. My father opened a beer, leaned back on one elbow, and stared out at the ocean. The beer foamed over the edge of the can and ran across his hand. When he spoke it was like he was talking to himself. He said, ‘I came here with John on a day like this. Hot. He was sweating. We both were. He had his clothes half off before we put the blanket down. He flung them at me. His shirt landed on my head. He looked at me and laughed. He had a big, booming laugh then. He was still laughing as he ran down to the water. He dived in through the breakers. His head hit the bottom. He snapped his neck.’ Howard, Cousin John was eighteen years old then. He never moved an arm or leg again.”