“And that was?”
“His eyes started darting around, but there’s no place to go. Stores closed, too much traffic going by. So he just stopped in his tracks, and then turned around and started scurrying away like a rat. I kind of lost it and went after him.”
“When did you give the wallet to Palmer?”
“He called me one morning. I met him that afternoon.”
“At the Ground Up Coffee Shop?”
Porzolkiewski’s eyes widened. “How do you know that? Palmer tell you?”
“I found the receipt.”
“I didn’t figure he’d tell you about the meeting.”
“Why not?”
“That’s for me to know and you not to find out.”
“You ever see him again?”
“No. And I never will. I saw the obituary. Good riddance.”
Gage extended his hand holding the kitten. Porzolkiewski opened the door the rest of the way, accepted it, and then rubbed its cheek against his own.
“You open the wallet?” Gage asked.
“I’m not a thief.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I was curious.”
“Anything unusual?”
“For a human being or for a scumbag like Meyer?”
“Either.”
“Isn’t he married?”
“Thirty-some years.”
Porzolkiewski smirked.
“There was a condom in there. New. I could tell by the expiration date. I sell them behind the counter. Twice as many as sandwiches. Lots of guys from the financial district slip into the Tenderloin for a nooner with a hooker.”
“Maybe you should have a daily special. Half a sandwich, a cup of soup, and a condom.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Porzolkiewski finally smiled. “Maybe I can franchise it like McDonald’s and KFC.”
“Why didn’t you call the Chronicle? At least embarrass him.”
“Because it would turn into a chess game I couldn’t win.”
Gage imagined lawyers ganging up on a man who’d seen more than his share of pinstriped suits.
“In Poland they say Kowal zawinil, a Cygana powiesili. The blacksmith was guilty, but they hanged the Gypsy-and I didn’t want to be the Gypsy.”
“Anything else in the wallet?”
“Driver’s license, credit cards, about seven hundred dollars, frequent flyer cards, a couple of scraps of paper, stuff like that. It was so thick, I figured it made him taller sitting down than standing up.”
“You make copies?”
Porzolkiewski looked away for a moment, then he smirked again, this time calculated. “You think I’d waste the paper?”
“I think you’re not an idiot.”
“There was no need for copies. It wasn’t like I was going steal his ID and order a bunch of iPads. I told you, I’m not a thief.”
P orzolkiewski isn’t coldblooded enough to shoot Charlie down in the street,” Gage told Faith when he arrived at their hillside home in the East Bay late that night. They stood in the kitchen, her in a robe, him in Levi’s and a sweatshirt and cutting on a smoked ham. Faith leaned back against the counter, her hair hanging loose. “But he lied to me about seeing Charlie only once.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“First. There’s no way Charlie would’ve telephoned Porzolkiewski and asked him whether he robbed Meyer and whether he wanted to give back the wallet. He would’ve either showed up at his house and pushed his way in, or followed him somewhere and corralled him.”
“And second?”
“He flinched at the wrong times.”
“I’d have flunked you in Anthro 101,” Faith said in mock disapproval. “Flinching isn’t considered evidence at UC Berkeley.”
“Unless it’s a lab rat.”
Faith shuddered. She was on the university committee tasked with ensuring the humane treatment of research animals.
“Anyway, investigating isn’t a science.” Gage raised a cupped hand, then blew on his fingernails. “It’s an art.”
“So Van Gogh, what’s next?”
“I’m not sure, I’m waiting for inspiration.”
Faith untied her robe.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“I’m suddenly inspired.”
Chapter 19
The screech of slammed brakes, the squeal of skidding tires, and the crunch of metal on metal propelled Shakir Mohammed out of his chair and toward his second floor office window facing the midnight street. Overhead halogen lights illuminated two cars jammed together nose to nose. A man lay sprawled on the pavement next to an open driver’s door.
Seconds later, a fist pounded on the back door and a man yelled, “Please, help! Please, help!”
The plea drew Shakir two steps at a time down the stairs. Four jabs at the alarm pad and he pushed the door open.
The first punch caught him under his rib cage.
T he call shook Gage and Faith awake at 2 A.M.
“Boss.” Alex Z’s voice was shaking, choking, verging on tears. “It’s about Shakir.”
Gage sat up.
“What happened?”
“He’s hurt. Really hurt. The ambulance is here. I’ll ride with him.”
G age called Viz as he and Faith drove toward San Francisco Medical Center.
“Looks like some crooks faked an accident to trick Shakir into letting them in. Head down to the office. Make sure the police don’t get into anything they shouldn’t. If you can’t control them, call Spike.”
Twenty-five minutes later they walked into the emergency room teeming with the night’s sick and damaged, the air a miasma of sweat and pain and fear. Alex Z sat in a plastic chair, staring at the cell phone in his hand. He looked over as they worked their way down the crowded aisle.
“I called his parents in Boston,” Alex Z said, then glanced at his watch. “They’ll take the first flight out they can get seats on.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“Nothing. They won’t talk to me because I’m not family.”
Faith sat down and reached her arm around Alex Z as Gage strode toward the reception station. He scanned the on-duty board behind the receptionist as he approached. He stood by the counter until he was certain the clerk was ignoring his presence as she made notes in a chart, and then said, “I’d like to speak to Dr. Kishore.”
“I can’t call her,” the woman said, eyes still down.
“I’m her brother-in-law. There’s a family problem I need to talk to her about.”
The woman finally looked up. “Yeah, and I’m Mother Teresa.”
Gage glared at her. “You want to make the call or roll the dice?”
He’d never understood why, but the phrase seemed to unnerve people more than an actual threat.
The woman snorted, then picked up the phone and punched a three-number extension.
“There’s a guy here to see Dr. Kishore.” She smirked at Gage. “What’s your name, brother-in-law?”
“Graham Gage.”
She repeated his name into the receiver.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Ajita Kishore walked through the ICU double doors, still wearing her surgical scrubs. She smiled as she approached Gage. It wasn’t the first time they’d talked in that hallway.
“How was the flight from Mumbai?” Kishore’s British-Indian tone was droll.
“Quick.”
“What can I-”
“Shakir Mohammed.”
Kishore’s smile died. “I didn’t work on him myself. I only saw the before and after. Somebody really beat on him. We had to remove his spleen and sew up a puncture to his left lung. Forty stitches on his face. He’ll remember this night every time he looks in the mirror.”
Gage exhaled. At least Shakir would live to remember it. He nodded at Alex Z, who clasped his hands together.
“He arrived in a lot better shape than your friend Jack Burch,” Kishore said. Gage had first met Kishore when the international corporate lawyer was gunned down in a gangster’s attempt to contain a securities fraud investigation. “And his recovery will be a lot quicker.”
“When can I talk to him?”
“It’ll be a couple of hours.” Kishore glanced back at the double doors. “I’ve got to get back inside. I’ll make sure someone calls you if anything changes.”
Gage turned as Faith and Alex Z walked up after Kishore returned to the ICU.