“No one by the name of Margaret Copeland ever lived in that apartment to my knowledge,” Jonathan Marsh said over the phone. “But the house on Frederick had pretty much turned into a free-for-all during the summer of sixty-seven.”
Colleen had her file folder open and was drawing a square on a sheet of yellow-lined paper under the beam of the desk lamp in her office. It was evening and the rain had eased to intermittent spatters against the office windows. “I’m sure you remember the Margaret Copeland murder.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Marsh said. She could tell by his voice that he was an older gentleman, with a throatiness creeping into his words.
“It’s rumored that Margaret might have stayed there around that time.”
“The police canvassed the neighborhood, but nobody knew of her. Not a surprise. Half of them were kids out of their heads every waking hour. And they moved a lot, here, there, and everywhere, some on a nightly basis. Margaret Copeland might’ve stayed a day, a week, or months, if she stayed at all. But no one knows.”
“Can you tell me whose name was on the lease?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to …”
Colleen jumped at the man’s hesitation. “The victim’s family is trying to reach a point where they can finally put Margaret’s murder behind them. I’m chasing down any possible leads the police might have missed so we can say we’re through, once and for all. Margaret’s father is terminally ill. He’s not expected to live much longer.”
She heard Jonathan Marsh take a deep breath, as if considering a response. “It was some little princess who skipped out on four months’ rent. Did much more than that in damage to the property. Left the place like a garbage dump. Cost me a small fortune trying to find her, all to no avail. So, if you do manage to track her down, I want to know where she is. Off the record, of course.”
“Deal,” Colleen said.
“Lesley Johns was the name,” he said. “No forwarding address.”
“Eleven years later, she could be just about anywhere.”
“I still have a box of her stuff.”
Colleen felt a boost of encouragement. “You know, it would probably come to nothing, but I wonder if I could take a quick look—off the record.”
She could almost hear Jonathan Marsh thinking about it.
“I’m up at Lake Tahoe right now,” he said. “I’ll be back in San Fran Thursday.”
“You pick a time and I’ll be there.”
“Make it around noon on Thursday.” He gave her an address out in the avenues. She jotted it down on the inside of the empty box she had drawn.
“I’ll be there. Thanks again.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said.
She wouldn’t.
She set the phone down in its cradle, contemplated the pack of Virginia Slims on the corner of the desk. She hadn’t had one all day, not even while staking out Dizzy’s. Fresh rain started to pelt the windows. It was getting dark outside and that hole in the fence was still a hole.
Colleen pulled on her poncho, gathered her flashlight. On the way out the door, she picked up her trusty iron pipe. During her perimeter check, she found no new evidence of anybody breaking in. The pallets over the hole in the fence didn’t appear to have been moved. She checked the dead delivery truck down by the water.
No sign of Ramon.
Ramon had stuck his neck out to help her save this worthless structure, and she hadn’t really thanked him. And he was easy to look at. He’d be gone in a couple days, back to El Salvador. To his family. She trudged back up the metal stairs, peeled off her poncho, sat at her desk.
She needed to call Alex, give her an update. Then she wanted to head back to Dizzy’s, do a little more surveillance.
Then the gate buzzer rattled through the office, shaking her thoughts loose. She hit the intercom on the wall by the door. “Security.”
“Hello there, Security.”
Alex. Sounding just a little husky so early in the evening. She probably wanted an update on Margaret.
“I’m upstairs.” Colleen got up, hit the intercom, let Alex in. “Watch your step, stairs wet, all that.”
Colleen met Alex at the door, feeling dowdy in her jeans, V-neck T-shirt, and bomber jacket, when stacked up against Alex’s ensemble, a dark blue one-piece flared trouser suit with capacious bell-bottoms and a matching blue floppy hat on her head, drooping over one eye. All topped off with a short gray fur. Stones shone around her neck. In her hand she carried a paper bag that obviously contained a bottle.
“I was just about to call you,” Colleen said, holding the door.
“Sure you were.” Still playful, but a slight edge. She came in, leaving a whiff of sexy perfume. “Daily updates, right?”
“Wouldn’t have done me much good to call though. You’re obviously not home.”
“Your powers of deduction are stellar.” Alex’s pretty nose wrinkled. “What is that smell?”
Burnt warehouse. “Long story.”
“I see.” Alex went and stood at the windows, looked out at the Bay Bridge.
Colleen took a seat behind her desk, one foot up on it while Alex stared out the window. “I thought you young Bohemians wouldn’t be caught dead going out before midnight.”
“It’s midnight somewhere.” Alex turned around.
“How’s your father?”
Alex yielded a tight sigh. “Been on oxygen most of the day.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Tell me some news, Coll.”
“Okay,” Colleen said, lighting a cigarette. “I’ve learned that, although the landlord at 413 Frederick Street doesn’t remember Margaret, and has no trace of her on a lease, there might still be something.”
Alex turned from the window. “Something like what?”
Colleen weighed what to tell Alex. She felt like she had to give her something. “He’s still got a box of effects from the woman whose name was on the lease back when Margaret was—ah—murdered. I’m to meet with him Thursday and look through it. Probably nothing to get too excited about.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Anything else?”
“Nothing concrete.”
“It sounds like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Like I said last night, I’m not happy telling you something that doesn’t pan out. So please, just sit tight and let me move ahead.”
Alex came over, pulled out a chair, sat down. She set the bottle in the bag on the edge of the desk.
“You can tell me, Colleen. I’m not Father.”
“I don’t want you—or your father—getting your hopes up.”
“Maybe I want to get my hopes up.”
“You’re paying me to figure this out—not feed your insecurities.”
“Feed my insecurities? Don’t treat me like a damn child.”
“Then stop acting like one. I told you I’d give you updates, but that doesn’t include every single thing I’m chasing down.”
“If I want to hear every little thing you’re doing, that’s up to me. Not you.”
It had been a long day. Colleen took a puff, blew a smoke ring. “I’m sorry you feel that way. If you can’t handle a simple rule, feel free to hire someone else.”
“Hey!” Alex said, alarmed. “Calm down. I didn’t mean it.”
Colleen let out a breath. “Neither did I. I had a lousy night. I know this is awful for you. And it’s being dredged up again after eleven years.”
Alex nodded at the bottle. “How about a little joy juice?”
“I hate to pee in your cheerios, but a condition of my parole is no booze on the premises. I’m already pushing it by just living here.”
“It figures.” Alex stood up, picked up the bottle in the bag by the neck, came around to Colleen’s side of the desk, stood there. “Not that you need a reason to be a wet blanket.”
“I am a wet blanket. Soaking wet.”
Alex came closer, brushed a strand of hair out of Colleen’s face. “We can go out for a drink, if you like. I can ask you to dance and you can turn me down. Sound like fun?”
Colleen could almost feel the heat from Alex’s fingers. She set her cigarette down in the ashtray. “You’re a client, Alex.”
“Right. Which means you have to do what I say. So I’ll wait while you change. Or I can help you pick something out.” She continued to play with Colleen’s hair. “You’ve got such nice hair.”
Colleen’s face was warm. She gently moved Alex’s hand aside. “Believe it or not, I have something I need to do tonight.”
Alex picked up Colleen’s cigarette, smoked. She leaned back on one hip, scrutinizing Colleen. “Really?” She took a sip on the cigarette. “Or are you just not sure?”
A flash of irritation nicked Colleen. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Boys or girls, Colleen? Or both?”
Colleen sat up, took the cigarette from Alex’s fingers, smashed it out in the ashtray, left it smoldering. “Now that’s definitely none of your damn business.”
“A-ha! Maybe we have a masquerader in our midst.”
Colleen stood up. “Tell you what, Alex: I’ll focus on Margaret. Maybe you can spend a few minutes with your father—while he’s still alive. If you can squeeze it in with your club-hopping.”
Alex stood there, hurt, her eyes turning glassy. “Fuck. You. I was just trying to be friends. I figure we could both use one right about now.”
Colleen flinched, put her hands on her hips. “Sorry, Alex. I’m tired. And there’s some shit I really don’t want you part of right now. For your own good.”
“Shit like what?”
Jesus. “I didn’t want to tell you, but this place was broken into last night. SFPD were here. The fire department, too. So excuse me if I don’t want to go hang out with the In Crowd tonight.”
“Somebody broke in? Christ! Is that what that smell is?”
“You mean someone tried to set fire to the place?”
Colleen let out a sigh. “Don’t tell your father. Or you’re off the daily update list.”
“Christ, Colleen. That’s serious! You need to be careful.”
“Yep.” Colleen raised her eyebrows. “You, too. Probably not a great idea to come around for the time being.”
“So it’s something to do with Margaret?”
“I don’t know,” Colleen said.
“But you think so. You think someone is trying to get at you for looking into Margaret?”
Colleen found herself nodding again. “I don’t have enough to confirm that yet. See how much fun this is, Alex? You not knowing what I don’t know for sure either? I’m trying to shield you from this—you and your father. You don’t need to know what doesn’t definitely pertain to Margaret.”
“Okay,” Alex said. “Point taken. But if someone is threatening you, that’s not cool. Maybe Christian can help.”
The less people knew of what she was up to, the better. “I’ve got this one covered, Alex. Let me just do what I need to do first.”
“Okay.” Alex gave a crooked smile. “Next time just tell me, please.”
“Don’t stay out late,” Colleen said. “Don’t drink too much. Please don’t drink and drive. Etcetera. Etcetera.”
“Now you sound like Margaret.”
A sudden chill ran down Colleen’s back. Maybe that was the connection. Alex wanted her big sister back. And Colleen fit the bill. And then some.
“The lecture is now over,” Colleen said. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Alex took her bottle and left, clumping down the metal stairs.
And Colleen felt herself getting confused. And then a bunch of the things she just didn’t want to feel. Not right now.
Maybe she was just shattered. The thought of climbing into bed.
But she tore off a paper match and lit another cigarette instead, stood in her crummy office for a moment, in her broken-down warehouse, the perfect backdrop to her fucked-up life. She smoked her cigarette all the way down this time, savoring the rich burn of the second half, smashed out the butt, grabbed her keys, went out, pounded down the metal stairs, got in her car, and drove back to Dizzy’s.