Civil Twilight. Susan Dunlap
“Thanks. But, listen, I’d better eat out here with Duffy.”
“Bring ’im!”
“Yeah, he’s one of us!” The crowd, about a dozen strong, surrounded us and we moved inside as one. If the bartender noticed the small black shape, he didn’t let on. We pushed tables together and ate in a single very loud group, with shrimp on the table, beef strips under it. Duffy, who was not the sort to lower himself to beg, or bark in a no-bark area, never had his mouth empty long enough to reconsider. I had grilled calamari and a beer, and enjoyed being part of a crew again, not to mention hearing their praise.
“Hey, guys,” I called out when there was a trough in the noise level, “did you notice a blonde woman in a pale blue linen pantsuit standing by the curb? I thought I spotted her there just as I was starting the gag.”
“And you didn’t pull over and check her out?”
“You’d done another three-sixty maybe you coulda caught ’er.”
Everyone was into it.
“Listen, if you remember you did see her, call me.”
“She a friend?”
I hesitated. “Truth? I don’t know. But I do want to see her again.” “I’ll be going over the dailies,” Jed said, waving the waitress over to get the tab. “I’ll call you if I spot anything.”
“Thanks.” I gave him my card, not that I expected him to have her on film. But it doesn’t hurt for the second unit director to have your card in his pocket.
An early morning call loomed for everyone but me, and by half past nine people were cutting out.
I left Duffy outside while I used the ladies’ room and when I came out the street was empty, or nearly so. Only Brad, the guy in charge of fish removal, was still at work, him and the last of the police detail double-checking to make sure no civilian tried to follow my route down the road. The cops were laughing at the idea of a fish wagon down here in the financial district. Movie location duty was a plum and I wasn’t surprised to see a guy John’s age sitting in his warm car. I tapped on this window.
“Yes?” he said questioningly. “Oh, hey, you’re Lott’s sister. I heard you were working this set. It you that did that drive?”
I nodded, pulling my totally inadequate fleece vest tighter around me.
“You made it look real. Real real! When you hit the pole—great driving.”
“Don’t let on to anyone on the set, but that wasn’t exactly planned.”
He laughed. “What about the fish wagon, you supposed to hit that?”
“Yeah, but not so I ended up wearing it.” I shivered and turned up my collar.
“You need a ride? If you don’t mind riding in the cage.”
“What I need’s a favor. A big one. I need to get my dog home to Mom.”
“John’s mom’s still there? When him and me were tight—years ago—I had some great times out there. She still make that stew?”
“Always has some ready. She’ll be very pleased to see you again. A guy who makes a special trip to bring her her favorite furry child, you’re going to just about be enshrined.”
Duffy hopped in the heated car. I gave my mother a quick call and loped the few blocks to the zendo. The building was dark, as were the steps upstairs to the living quarters, which was fine, since I had no intention of staying. I changed into a heavy sweatshirt and jeans, clipped on my pouch and headed out into the fog.
From the zendo Gary’s office was a ten-minute walk north on Columbus. It’s the second-floor front unit in a small Victorian, on a wedge of corner where two streets meet at Columbus. He could have rented a more impressive office, in a more expensive location, but the charm of this little building suited him. His office was a cupola of windows at the fruit end of the pie slice, like a cherry that’s slipped off the crust. If you stand on his desk you can see the Golden Gate.
I rang the downstairs bell. I’d given him a lot of leeway today. I’d dropped everything to distract his troubled client, even without him explaining why I’d been called upon. And despite his hanging up on me when I asked! I’d left a message telling him Karen had swiped a police car, and another after she crashed it. Now, Gary could damn well tell me what was going on.
He didn’t buzz me in.
I rang again.
No response.
I jumped back and looked up to catch a flicker of guilty movement. But there was no sign of life.
I pulled out my phone and called. He had to be there. I was sure of it. No answer.
“Damn you! Call me!”
There was only one exit. I could have waited. He’d slept in his office before. He’d be likely to spend a more comfortable night in there than I would freezing on his doorstep. But, thanks to Duffy’s previous owner, I was the proud possessor of what looked to be the illegitimate offspring of a door key and a lock pick. I let myself in. If Gary wasn’t going to explain things himself, then I’d let Karen Johnson’s case file do the talking. It was merely a question of finding it.
The last time I’d been here Gary was about to meet with a new client whom for some reason he wanted to impress. So he’d paid his paralegals double time to file away mail, hole-punch documents and put cases back into the file cabinets. Now it was business as usual: the place looked like it’d been burgled. The conference table in the crust end of the wedge held a frightening mountain of cases. Folders were propped against the walls, piled on the floor and in front of the file cabinet, blocking any possibility of putting them away. It was like Gary had forgotten he lived in earthquake country. His apparent belief—not unfounded—was: out of sight out of mind. He had a system, but it was beyond words. What I did know of it was that the most recent case would be on his desk or nearby. Balancing against a padded chair that itself held a stack of files, I stepped over two piles of folders, edged around the desk and almost fell over the body behind it.
8
I LEAPT BACK, swept the pile of cases off the desk onto the rising figure behind it. That bought me just enough time to reach for Gary’s phone and punch in the 9—
“Wait!”
“Huh?” I glared down at the form of my brother John. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting to get a hold of Gary.”
“Back there? You aiming to grab him by the ankles?”
“I wanted to see what kind of amateur it was pulling a b-and-e,” he corrected me, as he stood up. “I could have taken a train to the East Bay in the time you spent attacking the lock.”
“I’ll be quicker next time.” I switched on the light and caught the remnant of something on his face. Once I might have called it a “can’t control her” look. But I’d seen this same expression when the patrol car had picked him up at Coit Tower. After he’d blindsided me about Mike. Before he yelled at me in front of the crash scene.
“John, what the hell is going on?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
He was all cop—we ask, you tell—now. I could have smacked him. But I wanted answers more. With huge effort, I swallowed my rage and steeled myself to play his game. “Your plan went awry when Karen took your car.”
“Your friend stole my car.”
“Not my friend. The woman you’d been meeting at Coit Tower for how long? I barely knew her, but you, John, you knew her very well. Not as well as you wanted to, you, in your hot guy-on-the-make suit. So, just what were those get-togethers