I pulled over near the Fulton intersection, still inside the park, and used the car phone to call my client.
Cohalan threw a fit when I told him what had happened. He called me all kinds of names, the least offensive of which was “incompetent idiot.” I just let him rant. There were no excuses to be made and no point in wasting my own breath.
He ran out of abuse finally and segued into lament. “What am I going to do now? What am I going to tell Carolyn? All our savings gone and I still don’t have any idea who that blackmailing bastard is. What if he comes back for more? We couldn’t even sell the house, there’s hardly any equity...”
Pretty soon he ran down there too. I waited through about five seconds of dead air. Then, “All right,” followed by a heavy sigh. “But don’t expect me to pay your bill. You can damn well sue me and you can’t get blood out of a turnip.” And he banged the receiver in my ear.
Some Cohalan. Some piece of work.
The apartment building was on Locust Street a half block off California, close to the Presidio. Built in the twenties, judging by its ornate facade; once somebody’s modestly affluent private home, long ago cut up into three floors of studios and one-bedroom apartments. It had no garage, forcing its tenants — like most of those in the neighboring buildings — into street parking. There wasn’t a legal space to be had on that block, or in the next, or anywhere in the vicinity. Back on California, I slotted my car into a bus zone. If I got a ticket I got a ticket.
Not much chance I’d need a weapon for the rest of it, but sometimes trouble comes when you least expect it. So I unclipped the .38 Colt Bodyguard from under the dash, slipped it into my coat pocket before I got out for the walk down Locust.
The building had a tiny foyer with the usual bank of mailboxes. I found the button for 2-C, leaned on it. This was the ticklish part; I was banking on the fact that one voice sounds pretty much like another over an intercom. Turned out not to be an issue at alclass="underline" The squawk box stayed silent and the door release buzzed instead, almost immediately. Confident. Arrogant. Or just plain stupid.
I pushed inside, smiling a little, cynically, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. 2-C was the first apartment on the right. The door opened just as I got to it, and Annette Byers put her head out and said with excitement in her voice, “You made really good—”
The rest of it snapped off when she got a look at me; the excitement gave way to confusion, froze her in the half-open doorway. I had time to move up on her, wedge my shoulder against the door before she could decide to jump back and slam it in my face. She let out a little bleat and tried to kick me as I crowded her inside. I caught her arms, gave her a shove to get clear of her. Then I nudged the door closed with my heel.
“I’ll start screaming,” she said. Shaky bravado, the kind without anything to back it up. Her eyes were frightened now. “These walls are paper thin and I’ve got a neighbor who’s a cop.”
That last part was a lie. I said, “Go ahead. Be my guest.”
“Who the hell do you think you are—”
“We both know who I am, Ms. Byers. And why I’m here. The reason’s on the table over there.”
In spite of herself she glanced to her left. The apartment was a studio and the kitchenette and dining area were over that way. The briefcase sat on the dinette table, its lid raised. I couldn’t see inside from where I was, but then I didn’t need to.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
She hadn’t been back long; she still wore the heavy coat and the head covering, a wool stocking cap that completely hid her blond hair. Her cheeks were flushed-the cold night, money lust, now fear. She was attractive enough in a too-ripe way, intelligent enough to hold down a job with a downtown travel service, and immoral enough to have been in trouble with the San Francisco police before this. She was twenty-three, divorced, and evidently a crankhead: she’d been arrested once for possession and once for trying to sell a small quantity of methamphetamine to an undercover cop.
“Counting the cash, right?” I said.
“...What?”
“What you were doing when I rang the bell. Fifty thousand in fifties and hundreds. It’s all there, according to plan.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You said that already.”
I moved a little to get a better scan of the studio. Her phone was on a breakfast bar that separated the kitchenette from the living room, one of those cordless types with a built-in answering machine. The gadget beside it was clearly a portable cassette player. She hadn’t bothered to put it away before she went out; there’d been no reason to, or so she’d have thought then. The tape would still be inside.
I looked at her again. “I’ve got to admit, you’re a pretty good driver. Reckless as hell, though, the way you went flying out of the park on a red light. You came close to a collision with another car.”
“I don’t know what—” She broke off and backed away a couple of paces, her hand rubbing the side of her face, her tongue making little flicks between her lips. It was sinking in now, how it had all gone wrong, how much trouble she was in. “You couldn’t have followed me. I know you didn’t.”
“That’s right, I couldn’t and I didn’t.”
“Then how—?”
“Think about it. You’ll figure it out.”
A little silence. And, “Oh God, you knew about me all along.”
“About you, the plan, everything.”
“How? How could you? I don’t—”
The downstairs bell made a sudden racket.
Her gaze jerked past me toward the intercom unit next to the door. She sucked in her lower lip, began to gnaw on it.
“You know who it is,” I said. “Don’t use the intercom, just the door release.”
She did what I told her, moving slowly. I went the other way, first to the breakfast bar where I popped the tape out of the cassette player and slipped it into my pocket, then to the dinette table. I lowered the lid on the briefcase, snapped the catches. I had the case in my hand when she turned to face me again.
She said, “What’re you going to do with the money?”
“Give it back to its rightful owner.”
“Jay. It belongs to him.”
I didn’t say anything to that.
“You better not try to keep it for yourself,” she said. “You don’t have any right to that money...”
“You dumb kid,” I said disgustedly, “neither do you.”
She quit looking at me. When she started to open the door I told her no, wait for his knock. She stood with her back to me, shoulders hunched. She was no longer afraid; dull resignation had taken over. For her, I thought, the money was the only thing that had ever mattered.
Knuckles rapped on the door. She opened it without any hesitation, and he blew in talking fast the way he did when he was keyed up. “Oh, baby, baby, we did it, we pulled it off,” and he grabbed her and started to pull her against him. That was when he saw me.
“Hello, Cohalan,” I said.
He went rigid for three or four seconds, his eyes popped wide, then disentangled himself from the woman and stood gawping at me. His mouth worked but nothing came out. Manic as hell in his office, all nerves and talking a blue streak, but now he was speechless. Lies were easy for him; the truth would have to be dragged out.