Past Tense Page 16

  Cops are notoriously tough to locate by anyone but another cop because most of the people who are trying to find them have an agenda: Criminals want to threaten or cajole them and the media wants to make them look bad. But I caught a break in the person of a bartender at the Bohemian Cigar Store who knew Wally from way back and gave me his home number when I told him how crucial it was.

  Wally was about to leave for the ball game, a Saturday meeting between the Warriors and SuperSonics. The Warriors were out of it but the Sonics were not—another chance for the locals to play spoiler—and Wally was primed for the game.

  “Can’t it wait till Monday?” he asked when I told him I needed to see him.

  “I want to show you something. It’ll just take a minute.”

  “I go all the way down to your office, I’ll miss the tip-off.”

  “I’ll meet you somewhere else. What route do you take to the game?”

  He thought about it. “Be at the Union 76 station at Geary and Park Presidio at noon sharp. I can give you five minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and I was, after touching base with Tommy Milano and learning that none of Charley’s old haunts had seen his burly person lately, certainly not since he’d broken out of jail. Tommy fired off a lot of questions that I couldn’t answer, then asked what he should do next. “Pray” was all I could think of to tell him.

  I’d been at the gas station ten minutes when Wally pulled up in his Jeep. There were three buddies in with him, presumably fellow officers, dressed for a game and primed for a good time. The two in back were normal-sized but the one in front was huge. All three wore Giants caps and two wore Warriors jackets as well. They probably had autographs from Barry and Thurmond and Mullin at home, on balls and cards and programs; I bet no more than one of them had a wife. I don’t think I’d have enjoyed sitting near them at the game—one of the biggest mistakes you can make is to cross a cop on his day off when he’s bound and determined to have fun, even if it means being crude and obnoxious.

  Wally got out of the car and came over to mine. Before the door slammed behind him, his friends muttered something I didn’t catch but the tone was snide and insulting. Wally waved for them to shut up, then got in my car and closed the door.

  “I got only a minute.”

  “A minute’s enough.” I gestured. “Any of those guys know Charley?”

  “Naw, they work the Sunset. Charley never went out there much. Said the salt air was bad for his lungs.” Wally laughed. “Only thing bad for his lungs were those honking cigars he used to smoke. God, those things were foul.”

  We shared a memory of Charley and his toxic stogies.

  “What’s this stuff I need to see so bad?” Wally continued, a look of extravagant irritation on his face for the benefit of his traveling companions.

  There were some preliminaries to take care of. “Have you got any more dope on the jailbreak?”

  Wally shrugged. “Not much. They think a deputy named Curtis was the one who let him out. Seems Curtis’s kid got caught in a meth raid out by City College last year but Charley recognized the name and let him skate on the beef. Friday morning, Curtis returned the favor. Now he’s behind bars himself.”

  “And the dead guy’s name is Lumpley, right?”

  Wally blinked. “That’s not public yet.”

  “I know.”

  Wally shook his head. “You got wires into everything, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t got a wire to Charley. Have the manhunters come up with a lead?”

  “Not that I heard,” Wally said. “But I probably wouldn’t.”

  “Gary Hilton came calling on me.”

  “Figured he would.” Wally smiled. “A real jim-dandy, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “He thought I was aiding and abetting.”

  “Gary assumes the worst about people. It’s got him a long way up the ladder—youngest detective in the division.”

  “But not the smartest.”

  “Not far from it. Why? He give you some serious grief?”

  “Not really, but he wanted to. He have anything personal against Charley?”

  Wally’s eyes wandered. “Probably; he isn’t Charley’s type of guy. But I don’t know nothing specific.”

  I gestured toward the Jeep. “In case your buddies over there think otherwise, I don’t know where Charley is either.”

  Wally wriggled uneasily. “You know cops. We think all civilians have something to hide.”

  When we glanced their way, the guys in the Jeep beckoned Wally to rejoin them. Wally waved to show he understood. “I got to get moving, Marsh. We got this tailgate thing lined up. Couple of chicks work dispatch for the Alameda sheriff. If they’re primed ahead of time, they get real friendly when the Warriors are winners.” His tone left no doubt what form the friendliness came in.

  I reached for the photo I’d found in the watering can in Flora’s garden, the one of Charley and another young cop fresh from the police academy. I passed it to Wally. “Who’s this?”

  He glanced at it. “Charley.”

  “I know. Who else?”

  He looked at it again. “Don’t know.”

  “Look more closely. And remember, it’s from thirty years ago.”

  He studied the photo for a few seconds. “This looks like Sanchez.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Charley’s first partner. Yeah. That’s Roberto Sanchez for sure.”

  “I thought rookies didn’t partner each other. I thought they put rookies with more experienced men.”

  Wally nodded. “Usually they do, but Sanchez and Charley were partnered up because Ingleside was understaffed when they came in. They worked together more than a year before Charley got assigned to a senior man.”

  “Where’s Sanchez now?”

  Wally hesitated. “He’s dead.”

  “Since when?”

  “Long time ago.”

  “He die on the job?”

  Wally nodded. “He and Charley chased some suspected one-eight-seven into a warehouse down in Visitacion Valley. Charley went around to the rear of the building, Sanchez waited out front for backup. When the backup got there, Charley went in the rear and made lots of noise and the perp came out the front, guns blazing. Sanchez went down from a round in the neck; DOA at General. Charley took it hard. Even when I hooked up with him, you still couldn’t say Sanchez’s name without sending him into a fit.”

  “Why didn’t Sanchez stay behind cover?”

  “Who knows? Rookie courage, probably.”

  “What did Charley have to say about it?”

  Wally hesitated. “Don’t ask me. I didn’t know him back then.”

  “Come on, Wally.”

  “Hey. I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast. What Sleet had a bone-on for thirty years back is the least of my worries.”

  “Was there a shooting inquiry of any kind?”

  “I don’t know, Marsh. Jesus. What’s the problem here? That’s ancient history.”

  “I have a feeling it’s not so ancient.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “So is that it?” Wally asked, his hand on the door handle. “I got a ball game to go to.”

  I put a hand on his arm to stop him. “The guy they found dead in the jail.”

  “Yeah? What about him?”

  “He was in for embezzlement but the paper implied they were looking into other charges. I’d like to know what they were.”

  “I’ll try to find out.” Wally smiled wryly. “They’re figuring Charley took Lumpley out, too, you know. Before they’re through, they’ll hang every open case in the city on him.”

  When I didn’t do anything but shrug, Wally went back to the Jeep. What he said to his buddies made them laugh. I gave them a silent curse and a friendly wave and sent them on their way, then tagged along behind.

  The two in the back kept their eyes on me as they headed down Geary.
They weren’t happy about being tailed by a civilian but they didn’t know how to stop me without missing the game.

  We crossed the bridge, then I took the exit to Highway 24. As the Jeep continued south toward the Nimitz and the Coliseum, one of the guys in back flipped me the bird. I gave him a round of applause.

  CHAPTER

  23

  CONCORD USED TO BE A SMALL SUBURB AT THE HEAD OF THE San Ramon Valley, just south of Suisun Bay in the early morning shade of Mount Diablo. Now it’s a major city that sprawls across lands that were formerly orchards and grasslands the way the tents of an occupying army used to sprawl across a battlefield. Every time I go out there, they’ve added a new lane to the freeway; every time I go out there, the smog is more noxious; every time I go out there, Mount Diablo seems more incongruous, just another obstacle to further development. Someday I expect them to grade it flat and pave it over.

  I joined I-680 going north, then took the Treat Boulevard exit and drove east until I crossed Haynesworth Avenue and found the address of Charley Sleet’s sister-in-law, Emily Hookley.

  I’d phoned ahead to make certain she’d be home when I got there but she was so vague and noncommittal I wasn’t sure how she’d react when 1 actually showed up. Probably the way most people react, with surface friendliness and subdermal trepidation.

  In winter, the temperature in the valley can be twenty degrees colder than in the sea-warmed city and today was one of those days. It must have been close to freezing and the heater in my Buick wasn’t up to the task. I was glad to get out of the car and leave it to fend for itself, with only a cottonwood for a windbreaker.

  Emily Fulton Hookley’s house was a fifties suburban box, beige siding with blue shutters, a fenced yard, a one-car garage, and a green composition roof. It was well tended, which gave it a leg up on most of its neighbors, but it was unimaginatively decorated, without flower or shrub or other adornment beyond the blue planks of the shutters and the red brick of the stoop. The drapes were drawn and the gate was closed. It was the house of someone who trusted neither the world nor themselves, who saw danger in the slightest affirmative action, disaster in the reckless lives beyond the fence. There are millions of people just like her in the world; they’re taking over the country and in the name of a wrathful God they’re trying to put a stop to the nascent flights of fancy on the part of everyone else.

  I rang the bell. The door opened. The woman who peered out at me was small and thin and gray-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses and tiny pearl earrings atop a flower-print dress and thick black shoes and a handkerchief stuffed under her belt. She didn’t smile and she didn’t frown; she didn’t do anything but look at me with a blank expectancy: I could be whatever I wanted to be.

  “My name is Tanner, Mrs. Hookley,” I began.

  “Yes?”

  “We spoke on the phone this morning. I told you I’d be dropping by to talk to you this afternoon.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I want to talk about Flora.”

  She blinked. “Flora? Where is she?” She craned her neck to look beyond me. “Is that her out in the car? Why doesn’t she come in? Surely she isn’t still mad about the frosting. You must be Charley.” She stuck out a tiny hand that was as gnarled as a knot. I had no choice but to grasp it. “You’ve certainly changed since I’ve seen you last.”

  “I’m not—”

  She tugged on my hand. “Please come in out of the cold, Charley. Just leave Flora out in the car if that’s how she wants to behave. She’ll come to her senses soon enough. I’ll bet she’s got goose bumps already.”

  To the tune of her brief giggle, I stepped inside the house. It was at least three times as warm as outdoors and smelled of molasses and mint tea. “I’m not Charley Sleet, Mrs. Hookley,” I said as I released her hand. “I’m just a friend of Charley’s.”

  “She must still be mad about the Bundt cake,” Emily Hookley said, her mind far away from mine, her eyes on the window that looked out on the street. “I told her it didn’t matter to me what kind of frosting she put on it. I like white frosting but I certainly don’t demand white frosting. The lemon was fine. A trifle tart, I thought, and the rind wasn’t grated nearly fine enough, but it was perfectly fine if you like that sort of thing.” She lowered her voice. “Not many do, of course. Ethel and Grace made faces when they took their first bite. They wouldn’t tell Flora that, but they told me, don’t think they didn’t. But where’s the harm? That’s what I say. Where’s the harm in a little lemon frosting? Are you still a policeman, Charley?”

  I decided to play along and see where it got me. “Yes, I am.”

  “It must be interesting work.”

  “Sometimes. And sometimes it’s very boring and sometimes it’s pretty confusing.”

  “Flora worries about you, I know that much. She’s afraid you’ll come to some harm.”

  “I know she does, but I’ll be fine. Speaking of Flora, I wonder if—”

  “Would you like some hot tea, Charley?”

  “No, thank you. I—”

  “Maybe you should take some out to Flora. She’ll be freezing in that car.” She giggled once again. “I’ll bet she’s wishing she wasn’t so stubborn about now, don’t you? I hope the neighbor boy doesn’t see her out there. He likes to tease old ladies. It makes him feel important, I guess. You’d think he’d be ashamed of himself but he isn’t. Not many are these days.”

  I tugged her back toward the subject. “I think Flora’s all right; she doesn’t seem to mind the cold that much. And I’ll keep an eye out for the neighbor boy. May I ask you a question, Miss Hookley?”

  “Of course you can, Charley. And please call me Emily. I’ve told you that before, I’m sure.”

  I reached in my pocket for the photo of the infant I’d found in Charley’s garden and held it out to her. “Do you know who this is, Emily?”

  She adjusted her glasses on her nose. “It’s a baby, isn’t it?” She lifted the glasses and rubbed her eyes. “These cataracts make things fuzzy, but that looks to me like a little baby.”

  “Yes, it is. But whose baby is it? Do you have any idea?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “They all look alike to me, don’t they to you? Little dough lumps with a few black currants pressed in them. Like scones ready for the oven. Do you like scones, Charley? I think I made some for you once, but I can’t remember for sure.”

  I told her I like scones, then waved the photograph to attract her attention. “Could this be Flora’s baby, Emily?”

  “Flora?” She looked out the window toward my car, which seemed to be shivering in the cold. “I don’t see her out there. Do you suppose she’s gone off somewhere? Maybe you should look for her—it’s not safe for women to walk by themselves in this neighborhood. There have been several incidents.”

  “Flora will be fine. I’m wondering about the baby, Emily.” I showed the picture to her once again.

  She squinted at it, then looked up at me, her eyes flat and sorrowful. “Now I see why you made her stay in the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re not supposed to talk about it in front of her.”

  “The baby?”

  She nodded. “They told me not to and I’ve tried my best to avoid the subject. Maybe a word or two to Ethel and Grace, but that’s all. I swear.”

  “Why didn’t she want you to talk about it?”

  “Because she gets upset. Charley does, too. You probably already know that, since you’re his friend. You probably have to watch what you say, too. But I imagine you’ve slipped a time or two.”

  I was relieved to be back in my own persona. “Charley never brings it up,” I said.

  “It’s just as well. They used to bite my head off if I mentioned it, even just to say how sorry I was.”

  “I’m sure Charley’s gotten over it now.”

  “Well, I’m glad of that. Bygones should be bygones, no matter how tragic the situation.”

  “What was so tr
agic about the situation?”

  “Why, what happened to the baby, of course.” Her lip trembled and her eyes wandered with perplexity. “Isn’t that what we’re talking about? Or am I confused again?”

  I hurried to reassure her. “Yes, it is. We’re talking about what happened to the baby. Did it die? Is that what happened that was so sad?”

  She frowned at me sternly. “Of course it died. What else would have made Flora so upset?”

  “I thought maybe she had given it up for adoption.”

  “Adoption? Now, why would she do a thing like that? Flora dreamed of a baby her whole life. She had more dolls than Grace and me combined. She tried to steal one of mine once but I caught her red-handed.” Her voice dropped and her hands clasped. “I never trusted her after that. Not really.” She looked out the window again, to see if the thief was roaming the neighborhood.

  “So Flora didn’t have a baby girl and give her up for adoption?”

  “No, she did not. And it was a boy, not a girl. Harold Horace Sleet. Horace was our father’s name. He died when I was ten.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was thrown off a horse, out on Stone Valley Road. Hit his head on a stone and split it open. He was dead before they got him to Danville.”

  “I meant how did little Harold die? Flora’s baby.”

  “Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so? Harold died in the fire. Don’t you remember, Charley? It was only a year or two ago. Surely you can’t have forgotten already.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, Emily. I just need some details. How old was Harold when he died, do you think?”

  “Not even a year. I’d already gotten him a present for his first birthday. A little blue blanket. Luckily, the woman at Capwell’s let me return it when I told her what had happened. Flora felt responsible, of course, but it wasn’t her fault in any respect. Surely you don’t accuse her of negligence, Charley. She risked her life as it was.”

  “Of course I don’t accuse her. But whose fault do you think it was?”

  “Why, that man who owned the place on the ground floor. He’s the one that caused it all. They said he bribed the inspectors not to make him improve the wiring.”