Early next morning, the sun not up yet, Alex stood at the door to Colleen’s flat, decked out in a short paisley boho dress with a swirling dark red-and-purple flower pattern on a white background. Her outfit was accentuated by tan platform boots and a light brown floppy-brimmed felt hat. A matching handbag hung over her shoulder on a long strap. In contrast, Colleen wore a white fluffy bathrobe. Barefoot, she rubbed her eyes. She had just woken up to the doorbell.
“Hey there,” Colleen said, giving Alex a peck on the cheek as she held the door open. “I was going to call you as soon as I got up. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since that fiasco at the Transbay Terminal.”
“Antonia’s birthday party last night.” Alex entered the large living room. “Oh,” she said, seeing Steve sitting up on the sofa, blinking himself awake, the leopard print blanket wrapped around him. She turned to Colleen with a frown. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Alex had thought that she and Colleen might have been an item at one time. Colleen had contemplated it, given that her own history with men was a disaster—her ex in particular. Now her liaisons with the opposite sex tended to be occasional and brief. No strings. She and Alex were close, and there was a level of intimacy and trust she hadn’t found elsewhere. But ultimately Colleen’s personal landscape was much too conventional. Try boring, Alex had said with a smile.
“Alex,” Colleen said, “this is Steve. Steve—Alex.”
“How do.” Steve nodded. Alex said hello.
“I’ll make coffee,” Colleen said, heading into the kitchen, grabbing the kettle off the stove. Alex tailed her.
“I won’t stay,” she said. “Did Steve get his daughter back?”
“Not even close.”
“I’m so sorry, Coll.”
“I spent most of yesterday getting grilled by the cops.”
“So he’s having trouble with his wife and is staying with you?” She eyed Colleen.
“Alex, you have got your wires crossed. And it’s his ex-wife.”
Alex unhooked her bag, dug around, came out with a Polaroid photo. “I didn’t actually come over to pry. I took this yesterday from the car when you were chasing that short character out of the Transbay Terminal. I was parked across Mission. That was the last I saw of you. I was going to give it to you at Antonia’s party.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I called, but Harold said you had left. Meanwhile, the kidnappers have made another demand.”
Alex grimaced, handed the photo to Colleen. “Maybe this will help.”
Colleen took the photo, studied it as she leaned back against the counter. A blurry picture of crowded 1st Street next to the Transbay Terminal. You could just see, partially blocked by a jaywalker, the little man in his Giants cap handing something—a bag?—to someone astride a motorcycle. It was hard to make out as the photo wasn’t clear and the man wore a helmet. Colleen recalled again the popping of a motorcycle engine as she had chased the little guy out of the terminal.
“This is really helpful, Alex.” Colleen held the photo up. “Thanks so much.”
Alex reached over, gave her hand a squeeze. “Good luck, Coll.”
Alex left. Back in her kitchen, Colleen examined the photo again.
No license plate. The driver took a risk with that, but no doubt didn’t want to be ID’d. Colleen couldn’t quite make out what kind of bike it was. It wasn’t a Harley—too small. Too big for a Japanese bike. Colleen knew something about bikes.
But it explained the ransom money now.
She made coffee, took cups out for her and Steve.
Colleen pulled a Virginia Slim from the pack, lit it up, sat in the armchair, crossed her legs, took a sip of coffee. She pulled the Polaroid photo out of the pocket of her robe, leaned over, handed it to Steve. “Know this guy?”
He examined the photo, shook his head no. “Not much to see.”
“Well, that’s where your money went.”
He gave the photo back. “Christ,” he said. The tone in his voice was distinctly cool.
“Steve, about SFPD … we need to bring them in.”
“Coll,” he said, looking away. “I appreciate everything you’ve done …”
Colleen felt a “but” coming. She drank coffee. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Steve?”
He drank some coffee, too, looked at her. “Now that I’ve had some sleep, time to think, I can see things a bit more clearly, yeah?”
She set her cup down. “And you’ve decided I’m making all of this up?”
“No, Colleen, but I can’t afford for you to be wrong.”
“Steve, I am not wrong on this. Bear with me.”
He gave a frown. “I reckon I know Lynda a bit better than you do. And I just can’t risk it.”
Colleen smashed her cigarette out. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” She’d broken a cardinal rule, giving out information before it was solid. And now she’d pay the price.
“You were trying to make me feel better, yeah?” Steve said. “I appreciate it. But I can’t afford to be wrong.”
Damn it! “Well, we’ve got three days to see if I’m right. Prove that I’m right.”
Steve downed most of his coffee. “No, I’ve got enough time to talk to Lynda’s old man, borrow that cash.”
“And lose your damn catalog.”
He shrugged. “Easy come, easy go, eh?”
“Don’t be a fool, Steve. Can’t you see what they’re trying to do?”
“Mel’s my daughter, Coll. I’ve done nothing but let her down. I’m not going to let her down now.”
“How can I talk you out of this?”
Steve drained his cup, put it on the glass coffee table, stood up. “Send me your bill. I’ll pay it when I can. But I’m going to have to sort this out on my own. Thanks for all your help, Coll. Really.”
“If you don’t want me on this, Steve, I get it. But you need the police. Inspector Owens is the cop assigned to the case. He’s a good guy. And I don’t say that about cops in general. Let me get you his number.”
“No,” Steve said. “No police. And I appreciate you not telling him either.”
She took a deep breath through her nose. “I can’t promise that.”
“Understood.” He looked around. “Where are my clothes, please?”
“In the dryer.” She stood up. “Steve, you really need to think this over.”
Christ. She went out to the porch, got Steve’s clothes out of the dryer, shook the wrinkles out, stacked them. She brought the clothes back in the living room, handed them over.
“Thanks,” he said sheepishly. He went into the bathroom to change.
He returned a few minutes later, dressed in clean jeans and work shirt.
“Have some more coffee,” she said.
“No,” he said, going over to his shoes by the door, stepping into them. “I’ll be on my way. I’ve taken too much for your time.”
“No, you haven’t. Let me get changed and I’ll run you home.” She might be able to swing him back to her way of thinking.
“No, thanks, love. I’m good. It’s only over the hill. I could do with the walk.”
“I need to caution you about going back to your place. Watch out for anyone suspicious.”
He nodded. He found his jacket, threw it on. “Send me the bill, please.”
And then he was gone, stepping down the stairs to the front of her building. She heard the big old front door on the ground floor open and shut.
What a start to the day.
A slew of expletives flowed from her mouth, freely and without remorse. She went back into the kitchen, poured herself more coffee, got another cigarette, stepped out on the porch where the San Francisco morning fog hung like a gray cloud. She drank coffee and smoked.
If this was meant to stop her, it wasn’t working.
In fact, she had a pretty good idea what to do next.
Colleen mashed her cigarette out, took the phone on its long cord into the shower, and set it on the black-and-white hexagonal tiles by the claw-foot bathtub, so that she could hear it in case somebody called. And then she got in the shower.