“Am I free to go?” Colleen asked.
“No,” Inspector Owens said to Colleen. “You’re still not telling me the whole story.”
She sat at a table in a windowless interrogation room on the fifth floor of 850 Bryant, where she’d spent most of the day. Her torn jeans had been cut away at the knee, which wavered between aching and stinging. But the wound had been cleaned up and bandaged.
On the other side of the table from Colleen sat SFPD Inspector Owens, in a trendy brown suit with big lapels, big-knotted blue tie, red-and-white striped shirt with a long-pointed collar. When the disco look finally infiltrated Owens’ wardrobe, its time had come. His Prussian crew cut, graying at the temples, was freshly trimmed. He shook his head, and his jowls shook slightly.
“There’s not much more I can tell you,” she said, leaning forward. She craved a cigarette. “I have no idea who the guy was—apart from the fact that he was working with the kidnappers.” The little guy who had grabbed the gym bag full of money, which had somehow disappeared during the pursuit, had died in the ambulance on the way to SF General. He’d had an illegal .38 but no ID.
Owens continued: “You need to see how serious this is. A man killed running from an investigator who doesn’t have her license … shots fired. And no gym bag containing twenty K anywhere.” Owens eyed Colleen suspiciously. “Unless you grabbed it.”
No, it was gone. “If I was playing games, would I even mention the twenty thousand dollars?” She had lost Moran in the terminal after he’d gone after the big guy in the duffle coat. She had left that part of the story out in her statement to Owens, not wanting to implicate Moran in something that could land him in hot water. She hadn’t had time to follow up with Steve or Alex. They had been told to disperse if any trouble with the police arose.
So where had the money gone? The little guy either dumped it—or handed it off. Colleen recalled the roaring of a motorcycle when she chased the guy across 1st Street, by the Wagon Wheel Café. So the motorcycle was looking like a factor. She mentioned it to Owens.
“This shouldn’t have happened.” Owens tapped his pencil on a yellow lined pad. “When your client hired you to get his child back from a suspected kidnapper, you should have called SFPD immediately.”
“I wanted to, believe me. But he and his wife were—are—adamant about no police. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t work with me if you were involved. So I decided to do what I could. I was planning to bring you in at some point.”
Owens gave a frown, but it was one that said her comment made some kind of sense. “I’ll ask you again: Who is your client?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.” She imagined the little man, staring at her with terrified eyes as the life drained out of him when she got down on the asphalt and peered under the bus. Melanie was still gone. They’d outsmarted her.
“Sorry doesn’t work,” Owens said.
“Look, I want you on board. But I need my client’s okay.”
Owens frowned, tapped his pencil on the yellow pad. “If I book you for obstruction of a criminal investigation, how will that play with your parole?”
Colleen sat back, exhaling with frustration. “I have to honor my client’s confidentiality. Give me a chance to talk to him.” Her eyes connected with Owens’. “Give me one day.”
Owens tapped his pencil. Let out a breath. Rubbed his face. “You’ve helped us in the past so okay. Talk to your client. Tell him how much trouble he could be in. And how much trouble you’re in if I don’t hear from you within twenty-four hours.” Owens looked at his watch. “Tomorrow afternoon by five p.m. at the latest.”
A trickle of relief flowed through her. She stood up, pushing her chair back with a squeak. Her knee throbbed, but she wouldn’t let it slow her down. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Just do it. Tomorrow by five. Or I’ll have someone come and get you.”
Downstairs in the lobby of 850 Bryant, Colleen called her answering service. Two messages, one from Moran, one from Alex. Both said they would check back later.
Nothing from Steve.
She called Steve from a pay phone. No answer. Where had he gotten to?
She called Moran’s house and, as usual, Daphne answered, livid when Colleen wouldn’t divulge where he might be, which meant he wasn’t home yet. He lived in Santa Cruz, a ways away. She’d let Moran handle his own wife.
“Feel free not to call here anymore!” Daphne slammed the phone down. Colleen took a calming breath, called Alex in Half Moon Bay. Harold the butler told her Alex had come home, changed, and left. That’s when Colleen remembered—they were supposed to go to Antonia’s surprise birthday party that night.
“Please tell Alex I’m sorry to miss Antonia’s party, Harold,” Colleen said. “But I’ve really got my hands full right now.”
Harold said that he would. She thanked him.
On Bryant Street, outside the Hall of Justice, gray fog hung low, the late afternoon air damp. Squad cars were double-parked, and people were coming and going, none of them smiling. There was never a happy reason to come to 850.
Tomorrow. She had until tomorrow to get back to Owens. There was a lot to do. Get in touch with Steve Cook—if he was still talking to her—then Moran and Alex.
Deal with the kidnappers. Find Melanie.
First thing she did was flag a Yellow Cab and head down to the Transbay Terminal. It was a short ride, but long enough to listen to most of “Afternoon Delight” on the radio, so it felt longer. She got a receipt for the fare and went into the station. Not as busy as that morning but busy enough, with evening commute approaching.
She went to the snack bar. No Moran. It had been a long shot.
She retraced her path down to 2nd and Mission, where the little guy had been hit by the bus. She scoped out trash bins, doorways, anywhere a gray gym bag with twenty K might have gone. She got some peculiar looks when she hoisted herself up onto a small dumpster and stood on a mountain of reeking trash, kicking garbage around. No gym bag.
She climbed back down, lit a Slim to mask the stench. She smoked, ran through the events of that morning.
The bag of money must have been handed off. She again recalled the sound of a motorcycle, the one she’d heard when she chased the little guy across 1st Street.
Steve Cook’s daughter was still being held by kidnappers—if she was alive. On top of it, Steve now owed the wrong people twenty K plus interest that doubled by the week.
Hayes Confidential, she thought: when you really need to hose things up.