The Painted Gun. Bradley Spinelli

      9

      The cop at the door made me jump until I realized it was only Michael, a South City radio-car cop who grew up across the street and often comes by to visit his parents, a sweet couple, Chinese immigrants.

      “Hey, Michael, how are you?”

      “Can I come in?”

      “Please.” I pushed open the screen.

      “Can we sit? This is business, David.”

      I sat him down in the kitchen and offered him the stale coffee that had been in the pot since the day before. He refused. I poured myself a cup—it was still early, I’d come in late from Susan’s, and I felt like I’d slept for about twenty minutes. The coffee was terrible but still coffee.

      “Listen, David, I’m here on about six favors, so I really need you to be straight up with me.”

      “What favors?” I was just waiting to hear the name Ashley.

      “I got a call from an SF inspector. Something tied in to South City, and they wanted me to pick up a possible perp/possible witness, and bring him in for questioning.”

      I sat down across from him, sipped my coffee, and waited. He gave me that cop look. I relented. “And?”

      “You know a woman named Susan Dalton?”

      My heart was in my throat and I didn’t want it to go back down. “Yes, I know her. Why?”

      “Neighbors thought they heard a gunshot in her building last night. Susan was in her bed with a bullet under the chin.”

      I stood up quickly. “Oh, fuck no.” I went to the sink and leaned over it. This was all my fault, somehow. That poor, wonderful, sweet girl.

      “Apparently it was pretty messy.”

      I glared at him. “Save me the details, will you?”

      “Sorry. How did you know her, exactly? See, they found your business card in her apartment. You’ll have to go downtown and make a statement.”

      I shook my head and stared at the errant Cheerios circling in the bottom of the drain. “I . . . I went to this art show south of Market. There was a big hubbub because . . . apparently the owner was shot. Susan’s brother. Anyway, I met her there, and . . . guess you could say I was seeing her.”

      “The guys said she was pretty hot.”

      “Yeah.” I wanted to hit him. “You could say that.”

      “You fuck her?”

      “With all due respect, officer, fuck you and your mother.”

      “Hey, David, I’m just trying to save you some trouble. It’s gonna come out. They did the preliminary autopsy this morning and they found semen in her.”

      Susan had these condoms that were like circus balloons. One broke, and after the initial freakout, when we confirmed that we were both clean and that she was on the pill, we giggled about it and the second time didn’t use anything at all.

      “Yeah,” I confessed, “that would be mine.”

      “Rawdoggin’ it, huh?”

      His smirk made me want to hurt him. He caught my look and I didn’t have to say anything.

      “Well, listen, I’m no inspector, but I’m guessing you were the last person—well, second-to-last—to see her alive. You gotta go down and make a statement. I don’t think you’re really a suspect or they would have come to get you already. Just be honest about what time you left and hope it clears you from the estimated time of death.”

      “Thanks so much for your concern and consideration.”

      He stood up then and came over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.” I liked him for that. “But David, tell me one thing.” I hated him all over again. “Were you working something?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Come on. I told you when you first started this business that you were going to turn into some kind of private dick. Were you working something?”

      “No.” I looked at him slow and steady, like I was trying to guess whether or not he had a flush to beat my full house. “Just having a good time with a sweet lady.”

      “All right. I won’t ask again.” He handed me a business card for an SF inspector at the Northern District Police Station, in the Western Addition. “You gotta go talk to these guys. If they have to come get you it’s gonna look bad. Take it easy, David.”

      “Yeah, thanks.”

      I poured a drink and called the number on the card and told a secretary I was on my way. Guess I knew when this whole thing started that sooner or later I’d be sitting in a police station lying my ass off.

      * * *