Past Tense Read online

  “I know he’s out, but he wasn’t bailed out, he was let out.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Sweat leached onto the surface of my skin, cool and warm simultaneously, suggestive of terror and tropical illness. “You mean they dismissed the charges against him?”

  “I mean someone helped him break jail.”

  My stomach knotted large, like anchor rope. “You’re kidding.”

  “I don’t kid when the meter’s running.”

  “Charley broke jail?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who helped him?”

  “No one knows. Most of the guys down there owe him big, I imagine. Or he has something on them, more likely. And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “When they saw Sleet didn’t make dinner, they had a lockdown to look for him and they found a dead guy in the John.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know yet. They’re not talking at this point.”

  “What makes you think Charley had—”

  “Come on, Marsh. Don’t get soft on this thing. Coincidence doesn’t fly that far.”

  “What’s the dead guy’s connection to Charley?”

  “Who knows? I thought if you had some time you might look into it.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  THE FIRST THING IN THE MORNING, I WAS ON THE PHONE TO Andy Potter. “I need a favor,” I told him.

  “I may not have time for a favor.”

  “I need you to draw a picture of the courtroom. I need to know where everyone was sitting when Charley pulled the trigger. Particularly spectators.”

  “This wasn’t vaudeville, Marsh. I had more important things to do than count the house.”

  “Just do the best you can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he may have shot the wrong guy.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think he was gunning for Leonard Wints.”

  “Who was he gunning for?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From jail?”

  “Nope. He’s out.”

  “Out? Since when? Where is he?”

  “He won’t say. He didn’t have a beef against you by any chance, did he? He swings the muzzle two inches right and you’re the one hosting the funeral.”

  Andy’s laugh was tense and terse. “Don’t be ridiculous. How soon do you need this map thing?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll fax it to you by noon.”

  “I don’t do fax. Send it by messenger. I’m going to try to get the poker guys together tonight.”

  “I’m not sure that’s particularly appropriate.”

  “Not for poker, Andy; for brainstorming. See if anyone knows where he is or why he did it. Can you make it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Try.”

  “Where and when?”

  “My place. Eight.”

  “I’ll come if I can,” he said, and hung up.

  My next target was the plaintiffs team. Mindy Cartson couldn’t be bothered to speak to me even when I told her secretary that Ms. Cartson couldn’t be ruled out as the target of Charley’s wrath. When I asked if there were any other cases in the office connected to him, she said she’d ask her boss about it and hung up.

  Julian Wints still hadn’t hooked up her phone, probably on the advice of her therapist. Which left me with the selfsame Danielle.

  For some reason, she came on the line even after she knew who it was. “I’d like to see you,” I said. “It won’t take long, but it’s important.”

  “Is this personal or professional?”

  I was more intrigued by the question than I should have been. “Professional. Unless you want to make it otherwise.”

  “Thanks but no thanks.”

  For some reason, I decided to flirt. “But you’re tempted, aren’t you? Just a little? I saw a look in your eye yesterday.”

  She laughed like bubbles in a watercooler. “Even if I was, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “How can I expect my patients to forgo temptation if I can’t do it myself?”

  “With patients, it’s for their own good.”

  “The same with me,” she said, then laughed again, this time with real merriment.

  Although the duration of my current siege of celibacy tempted me to delve deeper, I opted to leave it alone. “When would be a convenient time to get together?”

  “I suppose you’ll hound me until we do this.”

  “Count on it.”

  She sighed. “After work I have an hour before a dinner engagement.”

  “Personal or professional?”

  She hesitated. “Personal.”

  “So only some temptations are off-limits.”

  She laughed. “It’s not that personal. We were in grad school together. We had a fling for a while, but he married his hometown sweetheart, so now we mostly talk shop.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sexual deviancy evaluations. Trance states. Stuff like that.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “It can be.”

  “Too bad.”

  She paused. “Do you want to come by the office later on?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then where? I need to be at Postrio by seven.”

  “How about the Postrio bar at six?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Great. I’ll be the one with the frayed collar.”

  “And I’ll be the one with the décolletage.”

  After we said good-bye, I called Wally Briscoe at the North Station. When he came on the line, I asked if he could widen his focus to see what connections he could come up with between Charley and any of the lawyers or witnesses or anyone else in the courtroom. I gave him as many names as I had. Then I asked if he knew that Charley was out of jail.

  “The whole department’s heard; there’s a manhunt on for the guy. He made the jail deputies look bad and some of them have friends in the PD. Could get dangerous out there.”

  “You involved in the hunt yourself?”

  “Not really.”

  “They know you and Charley were close?”

  “Not really.”

  “Any idea where he might go in this situation?”

  “Not really,” he said again, then heard himself and laughed.

  “You can’t talk, right? Because of who’s around you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Could you help me out if we met somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I want to show you a picture.”

  “Of what?”

  “Charley and a guy he went to the academy with.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “I don’t think I can make it,” he said.

  “This is Charley we’re talking about, Wally. Like you said, if I don’t find him pretty quickly, it could get dangerous out there. Including for anyone who tries to bring Charley in.”

  Wally paused, then murmured something to someone else, then spoke so softly I barely heard him. “I was thinking of the delta thing.”

  “The fishing cabin.”

  “Right.”

  “Is there a phone up there?”

  “Not the last I knew.”

  “Any neighbors you could call who could tell you if anyone’s using it?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ve only gone with him once. Remind me how to get there.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Wally waited, presumably for someone to leave the room, then gave me some quick instructions on how to navigate the complicated series of roads that led to a shady spot south of Rio Vista on the Sacramento River delta. Charley fished there sometimes, along with some buddies from the old days, buddies th
at are mostly long gone; it was as likely a hideout as anywhere I could think of.

  I gave Wally my home number and asked him to call if anything else occurred to him. “Also,” I added, “if the manhunt is closing in, I’d like to know it ahead of time.”

  “Why?”

  “I might be able to bring down enough heat to make sure Charley doesn’t get killed.”

  “Heat? You?”

  “Not me. Some people I know.”

  “Friends in high places.”

  “A few.”

  His chuckle implied I was having delusions of grandeur. “I’m not in the loop on this thing,” he said, “but if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

  I thanked Wally for his help and dialed another number.

  “Anything new?” I asked when Detective Earl Jamette came on the line.

  “On menacing the shrink? Naw. She still won’t open her files.”

  “Been any new threats?”

  “Not that she said.”

  “Check Charley Sleet’s active case log. See if there’s a link between him and Derwinski in connection with someone other than Leonard Wints.”

  “But Wints is the guy he shot.”

  “That might not have been the guy he was aiming for.”

  Jamette thought it over. “I still need a list to match against, don’t I? If the shrink won’t fork it over, I don’t see how it gets me anywhere.”

  “Maybe her name’s in one of Charley’s files. Screen them for psych cases first.”

  “They’re all psych cases; it’ll take weeks to narrow it down.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “I ain’t been lucky since my ex-wife remarried.”

  “And have Gary Hilton call me,” I said before he hung up.

  “I’ll leave word. But he don’t always return his calls.”

  “How does he get any work done?”

  “Who says he does?”

  Jamette’s laugh was bitter and derisive. I wondered what had gone down between him and Gary Hilton.

  I called the poker group one by one—the broker, the pathologist, and the restaurateur—and set things up for eight that evening. I told them to rack their brains in the meantime for any connection between Charley and players in the drama other than Leonard Wints, and also for any ideas of where he might be hiding. They promised to give it a go.

  I was about to head for San Bruno to see what I could learn about Charley’s escape from jail when someone entered the outer office. I ambled over to the coffee machine, where I could look at him without being seen.

  He was wearing a gray worsted suit, shiny black loafers with tassels, and a shirt as white as rice. He looked like a haberdasher but what he was was a cop.

  When I went out to greet him, he stuck out a hand. “Gary Hilton. Detective Sergeant. SFPD.”

  I did what I was supposed to do with his hand. “Marsh Tanner.” I gestured for him to come in my office and sit across from my desk, then I assumed my throne. In the time it took to get there, I decided to be careful with him.

  “I know you by reputation,” he said with easy friendliness. His hair was trim and razor-cut, his flesh was tanned and healthy, his body was sleek and fit, his jewelry was golden and plentiful. I’ll bet Charley hated his guts.

  “I’ve followed some of your cases in the Chronicle,” he went on. “Shutting down that Healthways operation was good work.”

  “I manage to get it right on occasion. What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “Gary. Can I be frank, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Sure, Gary.” He seemed amused that I didn’t invite him to use my given name.

  “I assume you know that Sleet broke jail.”

  “If someone opens the door and lets you out, I’m not sure it amounts to a jailbreak.”

  Hilton shrugged. “Whatever. What I’m wondering is if what you’re doing now is hiding him.”

  We stared each other down for several seconds, the cocky young cop and the grizzled PI. No one cried uncle, but no one raised their arms in triumph either.

  “I don’t know where he is,” I said finally.

  Hilton smiled around nicely capped teeth. “And I’m supposed to just leave it at that?”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  His eyes strayed to the painting on the wall behind me. “Nice art.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Klees cost a fortune.”

  “Not this one.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  He waited for an explanation but he didn’t get one. For the millionth time, I gave thanks to the client who’d given it to me.

  “I’m thinking that even if you knew where he was you wouldn’t tell me,” Hilton went on.

  “That’s certainly possible.”

  Hilton stood up and began to pace. I stood behind the desk and watched him.

  “There’s a lot of heat on to find the guy,” he said when he got to the window.

  “I imagine so.”

  “The sheriff and the department don’t look so good in this.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “So you’d be earning big points by helping us out. Points that could come in handy down the road.”

  “I’m sure they could.”

  “Then there’s the personality part of it.”

  “What part is that?”

  “Some of the guys working this thing wouldn’t mind seeing Sleet cut down.”

  “All the way down, you mean.”

  He nodded. “If I get to him first, I can keep that from happening.”

  “Or you could take him down and win points with the guys yourself. Provided you’re good enough to take him.”

  Hilton’s smile ossified. “Except I wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “And I’m supposed to leave it like that?” He didn’t like his words thrown back at him. His voice darkened. “I asked around. What I heard is that if anyone knows where he is, you do.”

  I shrugged and thought of an exception in the person of Marjie Finnerty. “Even if it’s true, it doesn’t mean I know anything.”

  “You’re saying you don’t?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “We can make life real complicated if we find out you’re holding back in this.”

  “If I was holding back, I imagine I’d be worried about it.” I glanced toward the door to show Hilton I’d had enough with badinage. “What if we turn it around, Gary? If you let me be the one who finds him, I could give someone like you the kind of answers I’ve given Charley over the years. It hasn’t hurt his career any.”

  Hilton shook his head and rebuttoned his jacket. “We’re not getting anywhere, Mr. Tanner.”

  “You’re right, Sergeant Hilton.”

  “You could change it with a phone call.” He tossed his card on my desk.

  “So could you,” I said, then told him I was in the book.

  CHAPTER

  19

  I SPENT THE NEXT TWO HOURS HIGH IN THE HILLS ABOVE SAN Bruno, pleading my way through the gate, begging access to as many jail personnel as would talk to me, but getting nothing out of anyone. If they knew how Charley had gotten out, they weren’t talking. If someone was suspected of helping him, they weren’t telling me who it was. If they knew where he was going, they didn’t say. If they wanted my help in finding him, they didn’t ask for it. If they suspected him of killing a prisoner, they didn’t let on.

  Discouraged and downhearted, I drove back to the office and looked at the courtroom map Andy Potter had sent over. I didn’t find anything helpful there either. In as bad a mood as I can muster, I trudged up to my apartment to freshen up for my meeting with Danielle.

  My wardrobe is in the nature of a natural disaster, so I was surprised that fifteen minutes went by before I settled on the ensemble that seemed appropriate. What was appropriate was not too sharp and not too s
cruffy, a shade above neutral but several shades below avid, a statement of interest but not a confession of lust. I had a tweed jacket that hit it just right, but true to my word, the only shirt that matched the coat was fluffy at the collar and cuffs. Maybe she’d think it was satire.

  I got to Postrio early and was on my second scotch by the time she swept into the room. Since most of the walls were mirrors, her entrance created a stir. All the masculine eyes in the place were popped as wide as windows and all the females were squinting down their powdered noses in the manner of distaff assassins. Danielle hadn’t been kidding about the décolletage.

  “Mr. Tanner.” She extended a bejeweled hand. At its tip her nails were the color of eggplant, a match for the gloss on her lips.

  I stood up, took her hand, and kissed it.

  She smiled at our turn of burlesque, then settled into her chair the way cats settle into their baskets. The waiter was there in a flash—he must have had seniority. She ordered a Campari and soda and shook her head a single time when he eagerly proffered a menu. His expression was a precise definition of crestfallen.

  After he’d gone, I told Danielle I liked her dress. It was more a gown than a dress, crushed velvet in a dark kelly green, as far off the shoulder as it could slide, with a trim of burgundy satin at the bodice and hem. The gold chain at her neck supported a pendant in the shape of the universal sign for women that glowed like a brand just below the crevasse that was formed by her breasts. The college chum was going to get an eyeful and probably an earful as well. I was glad to be an hors d’oeuvre.

  “You keep the glamorous part of yourself nicely under wraps at the office,” I said, just to get things underway.

  “At the office I see lots of women who have had sex used against them like a bullwhip. In public, I like to help reclaim our share of the playing field.”

  “You’ve claimed about ninety percent of it in the place.”

  “Thank you. I do what I can.”

  The waiter brought the drinks and we made a silent toast to whatever each of us wanted the fates to deliver to us. At the moment what I wanted was more women like Danielle Derwinski in my life. What she wanted was probably close to the polar opposite.

  A breeze blew in the door, unseasonably balmy and romantic. As if on order, a jazz piano tinkled to life somewhere down the block in a decent imitation of Garner.