There was nothing else for me here. After I put the garbage bag back where I’d found it, I made one more pass through the studio just to make sure and then got out of there.
Downstairs I knocked on Timmerman’s door. He said when he opened up, “All through?” He didn’t seem particularly interested; he had one ear cocked to the football game blaring away behind him, the crowd and the announcers engaging in the kind of frenzy that follows a touchdown.
“All through. You can lock up any time.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
On my way to the car I wondered if he would mention me if the police contacted him again. If he did, they could make trouble for me with the State Board of Licenses. Worry about that if and when. Right now it didn’t seem to matter much.
I was halfway to Daly City when Tamara called again. She said, “I tried you a little while ago. Not much yet, but a couple of things you be wanting to know.”
“Go ahead.”
“Felicia’s working today and I got her to access the DCPD computer for us. Data’s incomplete, but as of two P.M. they still didn’t have an ID on your perp, and Cohalan and Byers hadn’t come forward or been located. Lieutenant Fuentes put out a BOLO on both of ’em.”
BOLO is police code for a Be on Lookout order. “When?” I asked.
“Around noon.”
“County wide, Bay Area, statewide?”
“Bay Area so far.”
Byers and Cohalan, I thought. On the run together? Unlawful flight to avoid answering for... what? The extortion scam? Involvement in the money theft and Carolyn Dain’s murder? They’d run if they were accessories to a capital crime; they might also run if they were innocent and afraid they’d be tabbed for it. In any case, a noon BOLO was next to worthless. With an early-morning jump, they could be in Nevada or L.A. or closing in on the Oregon border by now.
“Anything on Byers?” I asked.
“Not much more than what we had before. Born in Lodi, raised there by an alcoholic single mother. Father unknown. Mother died when she was in high school, no other known relatives. First arrest at nineteen, possession of marijuana. Meth bust was her only felony charge.”
“Niall and Bright?”
“Sketchy stuff so far.”
“Keep digging. Addresses, first priority.”
“One other thing,” she said. “I accessed the office machine to check for messages. Man named Melvin Bishop called, said he’s a friend of Carolyn Dain and wants to talk to you.”
Melvin. Mel. Last night’s anxious caller, probably. “He say what about?”
“No. Sounded real shook up.”
“Leave an address or just a phone number?”
“Both. Address is 750 De Montfort. I looked it up — it’s off Ocean out near City College. Said he’d be there all weekend.”
“Okay. Here’s something else for you to look into. See if you can find a link between Byers and somebody or something called Dingo.”
“Dingo? Like the Australian wild dog?”
“D-i-n-g-o.”
“That’s how they spell it Down Under. Kind of appropriate if it’s somebody’s name, huh? Bitch like Annette Byers hanging with a wild dog?”
At the DCPD I left the file with the desk sergeant and beat it out of there as though I was nothing more than a messenger boy. I did not want another session with Fuentes or Erdman or any other cop today, not after my previous visit and not in my frame of mind.
The car phone buzzed as I pulled out of the parking lot. Kerry, this time. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” she said. “You okay?”
“Holding up.”
“Where are you?”
“Driving around at the moment. I went to the office, did a little work.”
“When’re you coming home?”
“Not for a while. Maybe not until tomorrow. I thought I might spend the night at my flat.”
There was a longish pause before she said, “You think that’s a good idea? Being alone tonight?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to see how I feel later.”
“Call before seven and let me know. So we won’t wait dinner if you’re not coming.”
“I will.”
I felt better for having heard her voice. God, I loved that woman. She was the rock-solid center of my life, whether we were together or not. Without her I would be in worse shape right now than I was.
In my head I heard the clicks again.
Yeah. Much worse shape.
9
De Montfort was a short residential street of older, lower middle-class homes. Most were two-story wooden affairs with long staircases in front, but number 750 turned out to be a squatty one-story stucco in the pseudo-Spanish style of the thirties. It looked out of place in the neighborhood. So did the man who opened the door to my ring. He was slender, fair-haired, handsome in a sad-eyed, ascetic way. Black-rimmed glasses pushed low over the bridge of an aquiline nose gave him a professorial air. His face was smooth and unlined; he might have been anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five.
“It’s good of you to come by,” he said when I identified myself. Then he said, squinting at me through his glasses, “My God, that bastard did a job on you, didn’t he.”
More of a job than you’ll ever know. But all I said was, “Yes.”
“Come in, come in.”
The interior smelled of flowers, or maybe flower-scented air freshener. The patterned wallpaper in the hallway and in the living room he led me into looked at least fifty years old. Most of the furniture was of the same vintage, but well-preserved. The room was neat, clean; an arrangement of purple and yellow flowers sat atop one of the tables. Family photographs and others depicting antiquated street and cable cars and municipal railway buses adorned two of the walls.
“This was my parents’ home,” Bishop said. “I inherited it when my mother died. My dad worked for Muni for forty years.” He made a vague gesture with one hand. “I really should redecorate. Either that, or sell the place and move into something smaller. But I can’t seem to bring myself to do either one. Changing or leaving the home where you grew up is never easy.”
“I suppose not.”
“Sit down, please. Anywhere you like. Something to drink? Coffee, tea, pop? I have beer or wine...”
“Nothing, thanks.”
I lowered myself into an armchair. Bishop waited until I was settled before occupying a high-backed sofa. He crossed his legs, sighed, shook his head. “I can’t believe Carolyn’s gone,” he said. “Shot that way, in her own home... Christ.”
“The two of you were close, I take it.”
“Yes, we were. Very close.”
“I figured as much since she spent Thursday night with you.”
“... How did you know that? Did she tell you?”
“No. Educated guess. I was there when you called last night. How long have you been seeing her?”
“Seeing her?”
“Having the affair with her.”
His eyes, a watery blue, blinked at me in a startled way. “Affair? Good Lord, is that what you think?” He drew himself up and said, “You couldn’t be more wrong. As a matter of fact, I’m gay.”
I should have seen it coming; the signs were obvious enough. But my powers of observation, like my thinking, were subpar today. I said, “Oh,” because that was the only thing that came into my head.
“Why do you say it like that? Does it bother you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Well, your expression and your tone...”
“Took me by surprise, that’s all.”
He peered at me for a few seconds; then his body slumped again. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said. “I’m not usually one who sees homophobia everywhere he looks.” He repeated the vague gesture. “I guess I’m overly sensitive and defensive today. Angry and feeling vulnerable.”