Too Close to the Edge (18 page)

I nodded slowly.

“I figure, Smith, that Liz just got sick of pushy runners thinking everyone should get out of their way, and she came up with this plan. It doesn’t look like she really needed the money, but who knows. Maybe she just wanted to get even.”

If Laurence Mayer had been buying her this building and paying her attendant and the Capellis were underwriting her vacations, Liz shouldn’t have needed money. “Okay, when you dictate it, include every inch of your investigation of the flat. But keep to the facts. Don’t interpret. And make copies, six of them.”

I had seen Pereira at five
A.M.
stake-outs, and after half-hour chases, but I had never seen her look this gray and worn out. She was hunched over Herman Ott’s desk. What had been a shambles of papers this morning was now four tidy piles. What had been a fashionable hairdo then looked like a haystack now. From the other room came rhythmic snores that were audible from the staircase. In all the time I had been coming here, pounding on Ott’s door in the middle of the night, I had never heard a snore. I had assumed Ott was a light and very wary sleeper. Today’s performance could only be a show of trust in Pereira to protect him.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

Pereira did a double take. “Jill, I didn’t even hear you come in. I think my hearing’s gone. Ott must be doing eighty decibels in there. I know my vision is permanently impaired. Jill, I just can’t see how this man runs a detective agency. I can’t see how he runs anything. His records. Jeez. Look at these revolting scraps of paper. I know I’m going to get hepatitis from touching them, and probably black lung from breathing the air above them. Half of them don’t have dates, or addresses. The mileage! I can’t believe it. It took me all morning just to get them into the right piles. I didn’t get to the forty-five sixty-two till half an hour ago. I can’t believe it.”

In the next room Herman Ott snored on.

“Listen to him,” Pereira continued. “It’s like going down into the Sea Lion Caves.”

“How much longer will the taxes take you?”

She leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know, an hour, the rest of my life, who can say?”

“Well, how would you like to take a break—”

“Oh, I can’t, not with—”

“And solve the shoe thief case!”

Resurrection must be a startling event, but hardly more so than the rejuvenation of Connie Pereira. In an instant she turned from a tax-hag back to the infuriated sidewalk-kicker who had just lost her thief. I explained Heling’s find. “It’s hard to believe that Liz was behind this,” I said slowly.

“Jill, you’ve let yourself get too close to her, or her memory. Look at the set-up. She did the books in a running shoe store. She could find out who’d bought what shoe. She could be on the Avenue when she chose. The thieves could steal the shoes and slip them in her bag. No one would suspect her because she was a cripple.”

I had to admit that that irony would have appealed to Liz.

“It’s perfect.”

I nodded, slowly. “She even had a college-age son who could introduce her to his larcenous friends. No wonder we haven’t heard from him. Still,” I said, “I just can’t see her …”

“A little Robin Hooding? Or at least taking from the rich. No one with two-hundred-dollar running shoes can’t afford to replace them.”

“Maybe the adventure appealed to her. She used to fish. She must have missed the excitement.” I leaned back against the wall. What Pereira said made sense. What Heling had said made sense. Why couldn’t I accept the conclusions they reached so easily? It wasn’t a question of breaking the law. Liz had done that in demonstrations. But then there had been a good cause; these thefts were different. They weren’t socially motivated—they were done for greed, or spite. “Connie, can you see Liz Goldenstern setting up these thefts for spite?”

“Sure. Why not?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking of her as a Noble Savage. Maybe I’m so caught up in my outrage about the way she was killed that I’ve lost sight of her as more than a body to fill her chair.”

Pereira nodded. “It’s safe to say that being disabled isn’t likely to make you a nicer person.”

“Maybe you become more patient, of necessity, though Liz didn’t show any signs of that.” But I knew there was more to my discomfort than that. Paralysis was still a subject I didn’t want to think about. If I were forced to consider it, I wanted there to be a silver lining, even if that lining were only patience. But I was too tired to deal with that. “Maybe Liz just enjoyed the thefts,” I said. “Anyway, shall we give Dusty Wilson a call about his New Balance 9-B’s?”

Pereira shoved the phone toward me. “What if he’s already talked to Liz? He’ll recognize a different voice.”

“I thought of that. I’m prepared to handle it if he did, or if he didn’t. This is known as the Howard Method Three, Dilettante Crook Division, perfected when we cracked that Hindu art ring that had statues of Shiva flying around town like Archangels.” I dialed. “Dusty Wilson?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got your New Bal—Hey, you’re not Dusty Wilson.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You sure?”

“ ’Course I’m sure.”

“You sound … well …”

“Listen, you sound a little odd, too. It must be the connection.”

I held up a thumb. Pereira pursed her lips and nodded approval. “Okay. Well, your shoes are ready,” I said to Wilson. Had Liz worked out the pick-up arrangement with him or would she have waited until now? If there was nothing set, there was no problem, but if Liz had arranged a spot, then we needed to know where.

“What time should I come?” he asked.

“Half an hour.”

“Right.”

“Repeat the address.”

I could hear his swift intake of breath. “How do I know—”

“I’ve had problems with this. One guy forgot the pick-up place. Someone else swiped the shoes. I don’t go to all this trouble to donate shoes to passersby. I want to know you’ll be there.”

“I’m not a moron.”

“Forget the whole thing.”

“Okay, okay. Twenty-seven eighty-six Channing. Good enough?”

D
WARFED BY APARTMENT BUILDINGS
, 2786 Channing Way sat three blocks above Telegraph Avenue. On another street it would have been recognized as a sizable brown shingle house. On another street, its weed-tossed lawn would have caused comment. But here, amidst the dormitories and fraternity houses, it was understood that lawns occupied space more properly covered with decks, deck chairs, and kegs of beer. All three were in evidence.

After a stop at her patrol car to change shoes, fix her hair, and notify the beat officer of our plan, Pereira had settled herself at the bus stop on College Avenue, half a block east of the house. Seeing her in her suit and running shoes, ten out of ten people would have said she was a businesswoman on her way home. Once Dusty Wilson started toward the Channing Way door, she would move in. Pereira might have had a few hours sleep last night, but neither of us was in sprint condition.

At nearly five o’clock, the wind off the bay blew fitfully, bringing with it a covering of fog. Cars raced down Channing, ready to join the rush hour clog on all Berkeley’s main streets. A motor scooter sashayed from lane to lane, its engine ripping through the equilibrium of urban noise. A trail of exhaust fumes hung in its wake. I glanced up the driveway, noting that there was no step up to the side door. Easy access for a wheelchair there. Carrying the New Balance 9-B’s in a brown grocery bag, I climbed to the deck and rang the bell. In five minutes Wilson would be here to get them.

The door opened. The boy who looked out had shaggy dark hair, jeans, sweatshirt. He was the boy who had called to Liz Goldenstern when I was at her door. I remembered her telling him pointedly, “The
officer
is helping me.” But if he was Liz’s son, he resembled his father.

I pulled out my shield. “Detective Smith. I’m investigating a murder. Let’s talk inside?”

His hesitation was long enough for me to describe it as acquiescence, should the question arise. I walked past him into a dark foyer. Through an archway, I could see the living room. Its oak paneling seemed to shrink back against the studs, as if humiliated by the cast-off Danish modern sofa and chairs scattered before it. It was one of those Berkeley houses coveted for its dark wood and charm, a house in which you were never warm enough to take off your sweater. It smelled of dust and stale chili. “You live here, Mr….”

“Yeah. That a crime?”

“Impeding an officer is a crime. Your name?”

“Blaine Horton Morris. One four five, eight six, three …”

“Fine.” I put the bag on a table and pulled out my pad for effect. “Now I’m going to tell you about the aspect of the crime I’m working on now. Have you heard about running shoes being stolen?” I glanced down at his feet. They were wide and long, like the feet of a six-foot duck. They were encased in the largest pair of grey and maroon-striped running shoes I had ever seen.

He followed my gaze. “Hey, you aren’t accusing me …”

“Not now, Blaine. But someone has been making the drops here, and—”

“Here? Passing the hot shoes here?” He laughed. His teeth were too big for his mouth. They overwhelmed his otherwise nondescript face. “The thief is coming here? I’d like to see that.”

“Fine. The buyer is coming. You can see him in a few minutes. Stand back there.” I motioned toward the hallway that led back to the kitchen.

“That’d be a kick to see the guy come up hot for his racers and get busted. But you need my permission, right?”

“You’re in a very dicey position here, in a house where someone’s passing stolen goods. If you’re not involved, you can show it now.”

He drew those big incisors up over his lower lip. “Well, I don’t think so. Maybe they need the money. The guys they steal from can afford it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, sure. No one’s panhandling in new Nikes.”

Dusty Wilson would be ringing the bell any moment. I took a breath. “I’m not here to argue sociological theory. Theft is theft. It’s your duty to cooperate with the police.”

He laughed. “Lady, my only duty is to me.”

“Well, then, look at it this way. Do you have classes you have to go to, papers you have to write, quizzes you have to take?”

“So?”

“Questioning about a case like this isn’t over in one day You can spend a lot of time coming down to the station and going over your story. And when you come, Blaine, it isn’t at your convenience, it’s at ours. If you happen to miss a quiz, well …” I shrugged.

“Hey, are you threatening me? My father—”

“Your father would expect you to cooperate. Your father wouldn’t be amused to find his son involved in ring of thieves. You’re an adult now. We’re not talking about your being suspended from school for a couple days. We’re talking felony. Jail.”

The blood drained from his face. He was thinking. I reached in my pocket for the note, ready to answer Dusty Wilson’s ring.

I motioned him back into the hallway.

He started to move, then stopped.

On the deck I could hear steps.

I glared at Blaine.

“No,” he snapped.

The bell rang.

I pulled open the door. “Dusty?”

A tall sandy-haired man in shorts and a T-shirt nodded.

I stepped out, pulling a shoe from the bag.

He reached into his pants pocket.

“Hey man,” Blaine yelled. “She’s a cop.”

Wilson spun, covered the deck in three steps, flung himself over the rail, scrambled to his feet, and headed full-out for Telegraph. Pereira was twenty yards behind.

To Blaine I said, “Stay put or you’re in bigger trouble.” I ran down the steps, up the driveway, and through the tangle of discarded deck furniture to the hedge in the rear. Catching the top, I leapt, thrust my foot up to hook it on the far edge. It fell to the ground with a thud. It hadn’t even come close. I’d done plenty more than that in training. I tried again. No go. I had no reserve left. Shoving my arms forward in diving position, I threaded through the hedge, the branches scratching my arms, the bitter-smelling sap sticking to my skin. The yard on the other side looked like an upscale parking lot. I ran around the clutch of Triumph sports cars and BMW’s to the driveway. At the front edge of the building I stopped and glanced right, onto the sidewalk. Pereira had planned to herd Wilson up here. But there was no one on the sidewalk but four women students lugging books. I sighed. Chasing is not shepherding. If Wilson was not here, he could be mingling in the crowds on Telegraph or hiding in the bushes on campus.

Walking toward Telegraph, I restrained myself from kicking the sidewalk as Pereira had done yesterday.

I turned the corner.

Dusty Wilson was lying spread-eagled on the sidewalk. Connie Pereira was smiling.

T
HE STATION IS OLD,
the paint none too recent. Dusk mutes what colors there are. The institution-beige walls of the bullpen seem to press inward. The walls of my own office look scummy gray. But the holding cells are the worst, with their army drab walls, with the stench of urine that no amount of ammonia ever removes, and with the very public openness that makes a prisoner feel naked even under four layers of shirts and sweaters. The interrogation rooms are a little better, but after a couple hours in a cell, few prisoners appreciate the improvement.

Dusty Wilson was Pereira’s collar. She got first go at him. Coleman, the Avenue beat officer whose case this was, had rousted himself from his sick bed when he got the word. He was on his way to take charge. The Day Watch beat officers were waiting for the other tenants of the Channing house to come home. But Blaine Morris was mine.

Morris bore scant resemblance to the cocky kid who had stood in the doorway, deciding he wouldn’t deign to help me. Now he fidgeted in the plastic chair, nervously running his long fingers through his hair, oblivious to the fact that the combing was thrusting clumps up from his skull.

I sat on the other side of the scarred green table. Between us were the symbols of officialdom—the pen and pad and the tape recorder. “You’re entitled to a lawyer, Blaine,” I said, making a great effort to keep any hint of triumph from my voice.