“You can’t blame me for that-”
“I can and I do,” Mollenhauer said. “Now get off my property before I have you forcibly removed.”
I got off his goddamn property. Telling myself as I did so: You’d better stay clear of the heavy-sugar crowd from now on. You can’t cope with them; they’ll find a way to stick it to you every time. You common, screwed-up, ethnic private eye, you.
TWENTY
Sunday again. A new day, a new week.
I slept until ten, drove down to the foot of Van Ness and watched the bocce players for a while, then came back home and called Kerry. No answer. I opened a beer, turned on the TV, something I seldom do, and tried to watch a movie. None of it made any sense, like my life these days, but at least it was a source of sound and movement in the empty flat.
Eberhardt called at one o’clock. “You crazy bastard,” he said, “you’re all over the papers again today.”
“I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t give a damn anymore what the media is saying about me.”
“What is it with you lately? Why can’t you stay-cm of trouble?”
“You think I plan these things? They just happen, that’s all.”
“Yeah. Much too often.”
“Look, I’m in no mood for another lecture, if that’s why you called.”
“It’s not why I called,” he said. “I’ve got some news for you. You’re off the hook on Carolyn Weeks, at least.”
“She’s been found?”
“Up in Eureka yesterday. Highway patrolman stopped a woman on one-oh-one for driving erratically, and she turned out to be Weeks. She’d just bought the car off a dealer up there, and she wasn’t used to the way it handled.”
“What was she doing in Eureka?”
“Heading north. Seattle. She knows somebody who lives there, and she was planning to hole up fora while.”
“Did she have the money?”
“In the car with her. A hundred and sixteen grand in a suitcase. She’d spent two thousand for the car.”
“How did she get out of San Francisco?”
“Took a Golden Gate Transit bus to Santa Rosa and then hopped a Greyhound for Eureka.”
“What about Hornback’s murder?” I asked. “Did she confess?”
“She did.”
“Why did she kill him?”
“Stupid reason, like most motives behind crimes of passion. Hornback wanted to go to South America, she wanted to stay here in the States. They had an argument about it on the way to her apartment, the argument turned nasty, she stopped her car in the park so they could thrash it out. Hornback ended up slapping her, and she grabbed a butcher knife out of a picnic basket in the backseat. They’d gone on a picnic on Sunday, that was why the basket and the knife were in the car. Screwy, the way things happen sometimes.”
“Yeah,” I said bitterly. “Screwy.”
“So she stuck the knife in him and then dumped the body. She was too scared and upset to do much of anything the next few days; just wandered around in a daze, she said. She was just making up her mind to get the money out of the safe deposit box-it was Hornback’s idea to stash it in there under her name, to cover himself-and split for Seattle when you showed up at the library.”
“Has Mrs. Hornback been told about all this?”
“Sure. Klein notified her.”
“And?”
“She’s happy as a clam. All she cares about is the money.”
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Not a word.”
“So now what happens? Officially, I mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m off today; so is the Chief. But I’ll tell you this: he’s not going to be happy about your involvement in that Ross fiasco yesterday. Or about the big media play this morning. They’re calling you Super-sleuth. One of the columnists even suggested the city hire you and fire all the rest of us. Who needs cops, he said, when we’ve got Sam Spade and Sherlock Holmes all wrapped up in one package, rushing around solving crimes’ in a ripped tuxedo with his ass hanging out.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Was that in the papers, too? About the tuxedo pants being ripped?”
“It was. They played it for laughs.”
I could feel an angry flush coming up out of my collar; I wanted to hit something. Instead I said, “That ought to put me in solid with everybody.”
“I warned you, hotshot.”
“Sure. You warned me.”
“Listen.” he said, “I’d invite you over for a beer, but I don’t think you’d be very good company. Neither would I, for that matter. Just hang in there, okay? I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything from the Chief’s office.”
After he rang off I called Kerry again. Still no answer. The TV was still blaring away; I went out and shut it off and then opened another beer, but I didn’t want that either. About the only activity that appealed to me was a long drive, so I took my car all the way out to the Point Reyes lighthouse, through gray mist and rugged terrain that matched my mood. It was after nine o’clock when I got back, tired and crabby and dull-witted. I tried Kerry once more, but she still wasn’t in. Which left nothing to do except to crawl into bed.
End of Sunday. Beginning of the end.
On Monday morning I took what was left of the rented tuxedo back to its owner. He refused to refund my deposit; the trousers were ruined, he said; he couldn’t mend them; it was people like me who made things difficult for everyone. There was no arguing with that on any level; I didn’t even try.
When I got to my office there were all sorts of messages on my answering machine, mostly from media people. I didn’t return any of the calls. And I left the machine on so I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the other calls that came in. I also went out and locked the outer door; I didn’t want to be bothered by visitors, either.
I made out a bill to Clyde Mollenhauer and put it into an envelope with a copy of the contract Hickox had signed as his agent and a short and not very polite note threatening to take him to small-claims court if he didn’t pay up. After which I did the same thing for Edna Hornback; no matter what she intended to do now, she owed me money and I was going to collect it one way or another.
Later in the morning I called Kayabalian. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said, “but I kept getting your answering machine.”
“I’m not taking calls this morning.”
“You’ve heard about the arrest of Carolyn Weeks?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Well, I’ve been in touch with Ralph Jordan, Mrs. Hornback’s attorney. They’re dropping their plans for a criminal-negligence suit.”
“That’s good news, I suppose.”
“Yes. I warned him we might go ahead with a slander and harassment suit against his client, but he said if we did that, they’d reactivate their suit. I think it would be best if we backed off, too.”
“Whatever you say.”
“As for your situation with the police … well, that robbery you were involved in on Saturday isn’t going to help you any.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I wish that hadn’t happened,” he said. “We’d be on much firmer ground if you’d stayed clear of any more trouble.”
I was tired of defending myself against that particular accusation; I didn’t say anything.
“I’ll plead your case again with the Chief of Police. There’s a chance I can get him to listen to reason in spite of all the publicity.”
“Sure. Do what you think is best.”
“Don’t give up hope,” he-said. “Call me again late this afternoon. I’ll be here until five.”
“All right.”
I went out for a few minutes to mail my letters. When I came back it was eleven-thirty and Kerry was sitting on one of the chairs in the anteroom; I had forgotten to relock the door. “I just got here,” she said. “Your door was open, so I thought I’d wait.”
“Come into my office. I’ll make us some coffee.”