Edwin of the Iron Shoes Page 2

  “Greg Marcus is one of the more cooperative detectives on the force. I saw him letting you in to look at the shop, after all. I think I can work out a deal with him, maybe something to do with the estate, which I’ll be handling. It’s possible you could finish the end-of-year inventory; we’ll need an evaluation for estate purposes. That would give you access to the place, and you could figure out if anything’s missing.”

  I hesitated.

  “Now what’s wrong?” Hank asked.

  “This Lieutenant Marcus, I don’t think he’ll go along with that. He let me in, but he doesn’t seem to like me.”

  Hank snorted. “He doesn’t know you. Greg’s a bachelor and old-fashioned. He probably wonders what a pretty little girl like you is doing out this late at night.”

  I smiled. “Well, okay, if you say so and can work something out.”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  I hoped he was right. I wanted, very badly, to find out who had killed the chubby little antique dealer.

  Charlie broke into the conversation. “Then it’s settled. I’ll meet with the other merchants as soon as I can get them together.”

  I had a sudden thought. “Has anyone notified Joan’s family?”

  Charlie looked bleak. “What family? After her grandson died last summer, I was all she had left. And I’m not much.”

  “I’d forgotten.” Come to think of it, there might be a lot I’d forgotten since the previous fall. In October, Hank had sent me down to Salem Street, San Francisco’s mecca for collectors of both the valuable and the cheap, to talk with Joan Albritton about the fires and vandalisms plaguing the owners of seventeen antique and junk shops located there. The fires, Joan was sure, had been set in an effort to force the merchants out of their rundown buildings, which stood on desirable land near the Civic Center.

  Now I said to Charlie, “Joan told me there were four principal owners of the property in these two blocks, all merchants. Right? There’s you and her, Austin Bigby and Dan Efron.”

  “Right. Joanie and I have the largest holdings, then Austin. Dan has the smallest. When the city condemned our buildings last fall, we decided to sell as a parcel. That’s the way we could get the best price. And since Joanie had the best head for business, we figured whatever she recommended would be okay for the rest of us, providing no one had any serious objections. However you looked at it, we’d get our equity out, plus some.”

  “So the Association accepted bids and was planning to announce a decision by March first?”

  “That’s right. We had to be out by May one, so that left plenty of time for the formalities.”

  “Had Joan decided which bid to accept?” Hank asked. “The deadline was getting close.”

  “She was having a hard time. I figured it was because she had a lot on her mind, like trying to find new space for her shop. But then, this last week, something came over her.” Charlie shook his head and took a long swig of coffee. “I can’t imagine Joanie without her shop, but I got the impression she was thinking of retiring.”

  “Did she actually mention retirement to you?” I asked.

  “No, she didn’t mention it,” he said shortly. “I’ve got the feeling there were a lot of things she wasn’t telling me lately.”

  “Like what?”

  Charlie smiled faintly. “Well, if she wasn’t discussing them with me, I wouldn’t know, would I?”

  I sighed and then turned briskly to Hank. “I think it’s time we got going. Tomorrow’s likely to be a long day, and there’s not much sleeping time left.”

  He got to his feet. “Can you drop me at All Souls? I had to take a cab down here.”

  “Sure.”

  Charlie followed us to the door. “I’ll be in touch as soon as the Association meets.”

  We stepped out into the street. The rain had stopped, and a wind, warm for February, was blowing. Behind us, I heard Charlie turn the double locks on the flimsy door.

  “He’s really broken up,” Hank said as we started down the street.

  “He ought to be. Joan Albritton was the one good thing in his life.”

  “I guess so. It’s not much of a life, living in one room behind that shop full of trash, cooking off a hot plate. How can he stand it?”

  “Maybe he likes trash. You might say he’s made it his life.”

  We got to my car, Hank carefully folding his six-foot frame into the passenger seat of the battered red MG. “You’re really going home to sleep?”

  “Of course not. I’m going to All Souls with you. I want to read over my files on those vandalisms.”

  “Think you’ll find anything there?”

  I don’t know, but it’s the only starting place I’ve got, so I’d better check it out.”

  3

  Eight forty-five in the morning. I stretched my arms above my head and yawned, pushing the swivel chair away from the old office desk. My scribbled notes on the Salem Street vandalisms littered its surface. They had been a place to start, but that was all. Certainly they hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know.

  On the surface, any of the bidders for the condemned buildings might have begun the campaign of harassment, hoping to force the merchants out. After dozens of interviews, though, I’d ruled out three of the four contenders.

  First, Hemphill College of Law, which wanted the land for an expanded campus. Talks with various officials had convinced me that violence wasn’t their style. They might take advantage of political pull, since the college trustees had high standing in the community. But violence? Never.

  The real-estate syndicate headed by a Mrs. Cara Ingalls I ruled out for similar reasons. I hadn’t been able to meet with Mrs. Ingalls herself, but from several of her associates I judged the syndicate had too much financial weight to stoop to petty crime. If their plans to build a complex of shops and condominiums near the Civic Center were that important, they would merely raise their offer until it became irresistible to the merchants. That the property might not be available at any price would never enter their minds.

  The New Freedom School, a sort of kindergarten for adults, hoped to buy the parcel for their new facilities. The teachers and administrators treated me to a great deal of rhetoric about getting in touch with my feelings and expressing myself, but they meant emotional and sexual self-expression rather than the violent physical variety. I couldn’t imagine any of them having either the organization or the initiative to carry through a plan of intimidation.

  The Western Addition Credit Union: now there was the group I suspected. Skilled in federal grantmanship, they had started as a shoestring operation and parlayed themselves into a position of wide influence in the black community. WACU grabbed up government funding as soon as it became available, administering an incredible number of programs, from food-stamp distribution to minority business development, and now they hoped to construct a state-funded low-income housing project on Salem Street.

  I’d talked with the credit union leaders long enough to realize they were people who would let nothing stand in the way of their objectives, and when I found some of their pamphlets in a mountain of trash littering Charlie Cornish’s sidewalk, I felt I was on the right track. This, however, was not the concrete proof I needed, and it might just have been evidence of someone else’s cleverness.

  Then, abruptly, the vandalism had stopped, the day before the merchants received notice from the city that the buildings would be condemned. And hours after the notice, it was the WACU that made the first bid for the properties. Still, it could have been a chain of coincidences. It certainly was no basis for bringing charges of arson and vandalism against them.

  After the buildings had been condemned, my involvement with the Salem Street merchants had ended. Ended, that is, until last night, when some unknown person had gone far beyond mere destruction of property.

  I stuffed my notes back into the file and locked it in my desk drawer. At least my memory was refreshed for the meeting with Lt. Marcus. I realized I was
worried about making a good impression on the man, and I felt a flash of annoyance with myself.

  Look, I thought, you’re not normally an anxious-to-please type, so stop fussing over this statement.

  I put the surly lieutenant out of my mind and left my office. Following the smell of coffee and frying bacon, I went down the long hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. These were not smells you’d find around your average law firm, but All Souls was in no way average.

  The cooperative was housed in a big brown Victorian in the Bernal Heights District of San Francisco. On the first floor, in addition to the kitchen and living room, were the offices, and several of the attorneys, including Hank Zahn, lived on the second. A legal services plan that adjusted its fees to its clients’ incomes did not pay princely salaries, so the free room and kitchen privileges were a welcome subsidy. I, for one, doubted I’d last in such a communal situation for more than two days, but I had to admit All Souls was a nice place to hang around, especially at mealtimes.

  This morning, though, I wasn’t hungry, and the excited chatter about “our murder” got on my nerves. I left a note for Hank, still asleep upstairs, and drove the few blocks to my studio apartment on Guerrero Street, in the Mission District.

  I needed to change, since the soft red jumpsuit, the nearest thing at hand when I’d dressed earlier that morning, didn’t seem decorous enough for police headquarters. While my coffee perked, I took a quick shower, then drank a cup as I dressed in a tailored denim pantsuit. I pulled my long black hair back in a tortoise-shell barrette and wondered, as I did several times a week, if I should get it cut. In spite of my almost thirty years and the gray streak that had been there since my teens, the hair still made me look very much the ingenue. Then, annoyed at the conservative notions I was developing, I yanked the barrette out, brushed vigorously, and went off to the SFPD with my hair blowing free in the breeze.

  Might as well be yourself, Sharon, I thought.

  Sneakily, a little voice added, Greg Marcus isn’t going to like you no matter what you do.

  4

  Lt. Marcus leaned back in his chair and waited until the stenographer closed the door as she left the cubicle. He then shifted his blue eyes to me, neutral eyes, neither cold nor friendly. His facial expression was a careful blank.

  We had been on our best behavior as I gave my statement: he listening attentively while I spoke, leaving out none of the details, including my suspicions of the Western Addition Credit Union. I wondered if now was the time for our fragile rapport to fall apart.

  He cleared his throat and began, “I had a call from Hank Zahn earlier.”

  I nodded and waited for him to go on.

  He seemed to pick his next words carefully. “You’ve got to realize that Zahn and the others at All Souls have been very cooperative with the department in the past.

  Otherwise, I wouldn’t even consider Hank’s suggestion, in spite of his being a good personal friend.”

  Marcus’s mention of a friendship with Hank surprised me. On the surface, no two men were more different. Hank had a boyish, accommodating manner that masked his intelligence and stubborn determination. Marcus, on the other hand, projected a rough, no-nonsense image. Hank, in spite of his experience, was still an idealist. Marcus looked as if he had no ideals left.

  He went on, “Hank wants me to allow you access to the Salem Street shop, since he needs the completed inventory for the estate. Now, we all know what he really wants you to do. You’ll be able to come and go freely down there, and considering your familiarity with the neighborhood, you may be able to pick up a few things that we wouldn’t.” He paused to light a cigarette, flicking the match at the ashtray with an irritated motion.

  “We are,” he said, “to be informed of whatever you find out. Immediately. And completely. Do you understand?”

  “You’ve made it clear.”

  Greg Marcus was not a man I cared to tangle with. Everything about him was tough and disciplined: the controlled quality of his speech; his tight, economical movements; the lean, trim body—a damned good body for a man who must be in his early forties. This morning, probably after no more sleep than I’d gotten, Marcus was clear-eyed and immaculately dressed in a conservative blue suit. His only concession to cheerfulness was a wide tie in a red poppy design. I wondered who had picked the tie for him.

  “Just so long as it’s clear to you.” His eyes settled on my face once more, the brows creased in a frown. I thought I saw the ghost of a perplexed expression there, but for no more than an instant.

  He asked, “Do you really have an investigator’s license?”

  “Yes, I do. Would you like to see it?” I reached for my bag.

  He waved a hand at me. “Forget it. I’ll take your word. How’d you get into the business?”

  “I was in security. Department store security. After a couple of years, I couldn’t see spending my life snooping through racks of dresses with a walkie-talkie in my purse. So I went to college and studied sociology.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember my own soc major. And now, because of your studies, you know all there is to know about criminals, right?” He raised an eyebrow mockingly.

  “Very little. When I got out of school, I couldn’t get a job. Nobody wants a college graduate with a lot of vague textbook knowledge. So I went to work in security again, for one of the big outfits here in the city, and eventually they tried me for detective work. But in their kind of business, you don’t see many criminals. What you see are mostly straying husbands and wives.”

  He smiled, a hard smile. “Yeah, a nice business. So now you’re out on your own, on the way to becoming a super-sleuth.”

  He was pushing too hard. I kept my voice level. “I’m not on my own; I’m an employee of All Souls. I joined them after the detective agency fired me for refusing to jump at a special assignment that would have humiliated me and set up an innocent man for a very messy and expensive divorce. And I don’t know about being what you call a ‘super-sleuth.’ I’m competent. I’d say my strong point is knowing how to ask the right questions. Without trying to cram my words into other people’s mouths.”

  He sat up straighter and blinked. “Jesus, what next?” he asked softly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. To get back to the subject, I spoke to that Cornish fellow this morning, and he has an extra set of keys to Albritton’s shop. The contents of the shop are yours to inventory. I hope you know something about antiques.”

  “I don’t, but I’ll learn.”

  “I have no doubt you will.” He lit another cigarette and leaned back. “What do you think of Cornish anyway?” He asked it casually, but there had to be more than a casual interest behind his question.

  Cautiously I said, “Charlie is not an easy person to know. He’s a man without a past, except for the twenty years he’s spent on Salem Street. Joan Albritton was close to him, but how close I don’t know.”

  Marcus nodded and waited for me to go on.

  “I think the relationship had cooled off recently. Joan lost her grandson last summer—he was eighteen and had lived with her most of his life. Charlie told me he felt Joan hadn’t discussed a lot of things with him since.”

  “They were lovers, Charlie and Joan?”

  “I think they had been. They still spent a lot of time together, running back and forth between the two shops, cooking meals on Charlie’s hot plate. I guess Charlie dropped around at Joan’s apartment on Potrero Hill, too. Joan was an amazing woman: cheerful, imaginative, a bundle of energy. Charlie said her grandson’s death had slowed her down, but I can’t imagine how she could have been more … vital.”

  “How did the grandson die?”

  “Of a drug overdose. I understand he had musical talent and had been accepted at Juilliard for the fall. He and Joan were saving the money so he could go, and he had a part-time job with a rock group. That’s where the drug trouble came in: he’d already been picked up on
ce for possession and was waiting trial on that charge. It—his death—was a terrible blow to Joan—she’d been sort of reliving her dreams through him.”

  “How so?”

  “Joan had wanted to be an artist. I think she had a fine arts degree from Cal. But she made a bad marriage and ended up an antique dealer. The grandson was like her second chance.”

  “What about the kid’s parents?”

  “Died when he was a baby. I don’t know the details. He was Joan’s last living relative. Charlie’s about the closest thing to family she had left, and I guess Joan was all he had, too.”

  Marcus looked thoughtful. “You picked all that up from asking the right questions? Without cramming words in their mouths, of course.”

  I shrugged. “I look like someone people can confide in, I guess.”

  “Do you now?” Marcus paused, studying my face. “You’re part Indian, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “I’m what they call a ‘throwback.’ I’ve only got about an eighth Shoshone blood, but for some reason it all came out in me.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “It didn’t come out in anyone else in your family?”

  “No. My brothers and sisters are all fair and look like the Scotch-Irish brats they are.”

  Marcus sat there in silence, his eyes still on my face. I wanted to glance away, but I held my ground. Was he seeing me? Or was he seeing someone else, someone labeled for a private reason of his own as “adversary”?

  Marcus broke eye contact first and stood up, indicating dismissal. I stood up, too.

  “I’ll have the preliminary report from the medical examiner later today, if you’re interested,” he said. “You’ll be in touch?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good luck learning all about antiques.” He held out his hand.

  I clasped it briefly. “Thank you. I have the feeling it will be quite a job.” And an unwelcome one at that, I thought ruefully, since I had no interest at all in antiques, except as a possible motive for murder.