“That would be pretty stupid. Unless you didn’t have a chance to do it before they arrived.”
“I was the only one there. No witnesses to the shooting. I was eventually cleared-that wasn’t the issue. But this asshole implied that he had something on me, and that he’d keep it quiet.”
“In exchange for something.”
“See, that’s where it gets muddy. He never asked for anything. But I got the impression that’s what he was saying. It wasn’t until last year that Clay told me he vouched for me and called off the dogs, so to speak. And that was a big deal because Clay doesn’t talk to his former partner anymore.”
“And he’s never brought it up again.”
“Nope. But every time I see him, it’s like it’s there, under the surface.”
“Can it be your imagination?”
Friedberg realized his cigarette had burned a fair amount; he took a long drag, expelled it slowly. “Yeah. Probably is.”
“But really, what could he have done to you? No proof. Just his word against yours.”
“Something like that, no other witnesses, coming from a longtime journalist… He’s not just a Joe on the street who says he saw something.” He nodded knowingly. “Would ruin my career. Even if nothing was done about it, it’d be a thing around my neck for the rest of my career. You think they’d promote a guy who’s been accused of a bad shoot and dropping a piece on the vic? No question, they’d pass me over.”
“Maybe your anger is misplaced. He hasn’t done anything or said anything in all these years. Right?”
Friedberg bobbed his head in agreement.
Vail gave his shoulder a firm pat. “I think you’re okay. Whatever Clay said to him did the trick. And even if this jerkoff were to say something, all these years later, the focus would be on him and why he didn’t come forward as a material witness. Not on you.”
Burden and Allman had parted ways, Burden heading back in their direction, Allman toward his car. Friedberg tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the sole of his dress shoe, then bent over and picked up the butt.
“We’re good,” Burden said. “He’s gonna withhold any details about that key for a while, at least until there’s another victim.”
“If there’s another,” Friedberg said.
“I want to give him that symbolism thing,” Vail said. She moved around Burden and shouted, “Hey. Guitar man.” Allman turned.
“Why didn’t you speak up before?” Burden asked.
“We got more from him this way.”
Allman stepped up to them and nodded at Vail.
“I just wanted you to know that we do appreciate you giving us that tip on the old case. I’ll give you something in return. Interested?”
He pulled out a notepad, then clicked his pen. “You really gotta ask?”
Vail watched as Allman thumbed to a blank page. “The male vic was left in an oceanfront tunnel by the Sutro Baths. There’s symbolism in that. The killer’s got something against the ocean, so this is his way of saying ‘Go to hell’ to people associated with it in some way. I think we’re gonna find that the vic was a former Marine, or he served in the Navy. Something like that.”
Allman looked up from his pad. “He’s got a beef with the ocean. You’re serious.”
“We’re serious. Print it or not, your choice.” Print it, goddamn it. Take the bait.
Allman scanned the faces of Burden and Friedberg, who, Vail thought, gave nothing away.
He flipped his notepad closed. “If you’ve got something else…more substantive, let me know.” Allman nodded at Burden, then walked off toward his car.
When he had moved out of earshot, Burden said, “You couldn’t think of anything better?”
“What was wrong with it?” Vail asked.
“Oh, nothing much. Just concerned the department will come off sounding like idiots.”
“I’ll be sure not to take that the wrong way,” Vail said.
“Don’t be so sure,” Burden said, then stepped into the street en route to his Ford.
Vail looked at Friedberg. “Did you think it was that bad?”
Friedberg shoved an unlit cigarette into his mouth, then shrugged. “Hopefully it won’t matter. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this asshole won’t kill again.”
Vail sighed heavily. “If Allman’s right, and this offender’s the same guy who killed back in ’82, it’s not a matter of if he’s going to kill again. It’s a matter of when.”
19
MacNally closed the door behind him. He stepped over the broken shards of glass and moved to the threshold of the kitchen: and came face to face with a snarling German shepherd.
“Jesus Christ.”
The dog sat there, piercing eyes riveted to his own, powerful shoulder muscles tensing. MacNally smiled and forced his body to relax. “Good dog,” he said, bringing his voice up a few octaves.
He held out the palm of his hand, low, nonthreatening, then stepped forward. The dog did not move his head, but his eyes followed MacNally as he moved slightly to the right so he could enter the kitchen.
“How’s my boy?” MacNally sung. Another step closer. He started to kneel, to get down to dog eye level. He had a feeling this was not a good idea-but he was committed. What was he to do? If he turned and ran, the shepherd would be on his back in half a second. If that.
As he knelt, the dog bared his teeth. Not a good sign. MacNally straightened up and kept his body still, moving his eyes around the kitchen, looking for something-anything-to use as a defensive weapon. Sitting on the stove was an iron skillet. He didn’t want to hurt the dog, but if it came down to him or the pooch, there was not much of a choice.
MacNally inched to his right, closer to the stove. The shepherd, teeth still bared, growled long and low. Clearly, he did not care for that move. Fair enough-but MacNally didn’t have time to screw around with this. He would have to chance it because he wasn’t going to just stand there until Emily returned home and called off the dog. Or told him to attack.
MacNally lunged for the skillet-and, as suspected, the shepherd took offense. He went for MacNally’s left arm-and although he grabbed hold, instantly let go when the heavy iron connected with this skull. The dog slunk to the floor.
“Shit,” MacNally said. “Shouldn’t have done that.” He knelt down and felt the dog’s chest. He was breathing-just unconscious. MacNally stroked his head and apologized-as if the dog would understand-and found the metal leash and choke collar in the hall closet. He slipped it over the shepherd’s head, and then fastened it to the oven handle.
The kitchen was not usually a place people stored cash, other than a cookie jar or coffee can filled with loose change. He wasn’t a snob-money was money-but he didn’t know who, if anyone, was due to walk in the front door, and when-so he wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. And that meant prioritizing his objectives.