six

Mallen drove down to Market Street, near where Dreamo had told him Hendrix “lived.” Parking was a bear, and why wouldn’t it be? Daytime, during the week? It would be easier to find a working bathroom at Burning Man. Had to find a spot blocks away, over near a guitar repair place on Lafayette. The parking gods couldn’t be with you all the time, yeah? Hoofed it back to Harriet Street.

There was the station wagon. An old Ford Country Squire. Dark blue in color, complete with luggage rack and the fake wood sides Dreamo had told him about. The windows had makeshift curtains in them, blocking out the sun and the people who walked up and down the sidewalk. The car sat heavily on its wheels. Must be packed with crap; all the shit a person needed to survive on the streets. Maybe the fucker did have a guardian angel, Mallen thought as he stood at the corner, gazing at the vehicle. There were no parking tickets on the windshield. No bright chalk marks on the street-side tires. No nothing. So even the meter maids were keeping away from this particular car. Again, all that tied in with what Dreamo had said. Must be someone in the police watching over this vehicle. Mallen wondered why that might be so, and what it might mean. No matter how much he thought about it as he stood there, the answer that always came back was the question: was Hendrix a snitch?

He walked up to the wagon to get a closer look. Walked all the way around it. The curtain job was a good one; no way could anyone see inside. Mallen glanced up and down the street. There was nobody around, though he knew enough about this part of town to know that nobody would care about what he was about to do. Just another guy who forgot his car keys. He put his ear up against the curbside back passenger window. Listened for a long time. No, there was nothing going on inside. Wished he had a Slim Jim. Would’ve made this a lot easier. He was about to go look for something to help him break the lock with when he stopped suddenly, his gaze caught by something on the ground.

A small pool of blood. Just under the back passenger door.

It’d seeped through the bottom crack of the curbside passenger door. He squatted down and touched it with his index finger. It was sticky, but not dry. Now he really wanted to get inside. Tried each door but of course they were all locked. Thought about calling Gwen first, but he wanted to get what he could from the car before the troops came and did what they had to. He went quickly to the driver’s window. Glanced up and down the street. Took his elbow and smashed the glass. Shards rained down on the asphalt. He unlocked the door and opened it, leaning in to see what was inside. The body of a young man lay inside on its back in the rear seat, face frozen in a grimace of agony. A hypo stuck out from the crook of his left arm like a pin in a pincushion. Blood had flowed from his nose and mouth and dried on his face and clothes. A lot of blood. Mallen also noted a lot of blood under the body, telling him the man had bled from every possible hole. Blue-white skin had turned the man into a strange wax-works figure. He knew immediately this was an overdose. An OD ruptures blood vessels, is like an atom bomb going off in the internal organs. Man … he couldn’t help but wonder at how many times he’d come that close. There were times, more than he wanted to count, that he’d known right as the shit went into his arm that he’d bought something bad. That had been back before Dreamo. Back in the early days of his Tenderloin life.

Mallen glanced around the car’s interior. Found the registration. Yeah, Hendrix. Figured he had only moments before he would have to call it in. Made sure not to touch anything with his fingers. Used a pencil to poke around, or wrapped his hand in his shirt. Hendrix didn’t have a lot of belongings. Most of the wagon was given over to blankets, books, and cans of food. Checked the glove box. Found an expired registration from three years ago, a flashlight, and some matches. Found a piece of paper, torn and crumpled. A name and number had been scribbled on it, but the torn part made it impossible to read. “Kara–” and “725-8­­–” was all he could make out. Maps of Idaho and Michigan were shoved under the front seat. Keys were in the ignition. He turned them to see if there was any juice in the battery. There was, and a faint beeping noise came on. He unlocked the rear door using the electric locks in the armrest. Turned the key back to off and then got out nonchalantly, moving to the rear of the vehicle. Opened the back door just enough to look in. Back here was where Hendrix had done his hoarding. Bags of clothes. Heaps. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when Mallen saw that they were women’s clothes. What the hell did that mean? He’d heard nothing about a serial killer at work. And a guy living in a station wagon just didn’t fit the bill. So, why all the women clothes? Maybe Hendrix had more secrets up his sleeve than shooting H. Mallen shook his head as he looked through the bags of old clothes and garbage. He was beginning to feel that this stuff wouldn’t lead anywhere, but he continued to dig carefully through the piles anyway.

Then he found it.

It’d been carefully hidden, or so its owner hoped, inside a world atlas book that had had its insides cut out with a not so sharp knife.

A pile of child porn.

“Shit … ” he said under his breath. Glanced again over at the body. The OD hadn’t happened long ago. He could tell that by the blood and condition of the body. Sighed again. He couldn’t just leave now and call it in without checking Hendrix for clues.

“Don’t worry, Henny,” he said to the corpse as he climbed closer. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

He gently ran his hands over the body. Found a small bag of horse. Well, this wasn’t a drug thing. Checked for a wallet. There it was. It’d fallen to the floor and was lying by one of Hendrix’s feet. Mallen snatched it up. Inside was almost five hundred dollars. All in twenties. The horse Hendrix had on him was only about thirty-bucks worth. No junkie keeps this kind of money around for long. He checked the marks on Hendrix’s arms. There was a recent track there. Just off center from another recent hole. So, he’d shot, then shot again soon after?

No way. A junkie looking to kill himself wouldn’t have made such an effort to hit the exact same hole in his arm.

This was made to look like an OD. Someone had maybe been looking for Hendrix. Found him here in his car. Had maybe even found him high. Maybe they’d brought the skag, then waited. Came back, even? Came back after they knew that Hendrix had shot up with his own dope?

He sat there for a moment, wondering what to do. A car horn blasted in on his thoughts and he knew it was time to go. Checked the street. Only a few people on it, and those were at the end of the block. Walked quickly away from the vehicle as he pulled out his cell. He paused for a moment. Call Gwen? Or maybe call Oberon first? This wasn’t about a kidnapping anymore. Now it was murder.

He had to call Obie. Tell him what he’d found. He’d call Gwen after. And hell, she never told him to call her first. Dialed Oberon’s number and waited.

“Detective Kane,” came the familiar voice that he had to admit he’d come to rely on.

“It’s Mallen.”

He was sure he heard a sigh on the other end of the phone before the detective said, “Mark? Why is it that you call me at the worst possible moments?”

“You caught another case, man? Sorry.”

“No, not a case,” Oberon replied, “I’m off duty, and don’t have to report in for a few hours. I happen to be entertaining a friend.”

“No shit. Really?”

“Of course, really. You believe that I only exist when you call?”

“Well … ”

“I’m busy, Mark, as I said. Make it fast, please.”

“Well, I hate to break in on your date, Obie, but I’ve found a body.”

Another silence. He heard Oberon move somewhere else. The background sounds faded. Less echo. Oberon said quietly, “Please repeat that. You say you found a body?”

“Yeah. For my sins.” He described what he’d found in Hendrix’s car, and how he’d found him.

“And what, Mark,” Oberon asked patiently, “were you doing there in the first place? In a car belonging to a junkie?”

That hadn’t occurred to him. That people might think that he would be there to buy from, or shoot with, Hendrix. “No, man,” he answered, “I’m just checking into something for a friend. That’s all.”

“Really?”

“Obie,” he replied, “really.”

There was relief in Oberon’s voice when he spoke next. “Okay then.” He paused. “This was over south of Market? An old station wagon?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’d heard something about a stoolie that lived in an old station wagon. It was ‘hands off’ for that vehicle.”

“That’s what I thought when I saw it.”

“Mark, why are you calling me and not 911?”

“It’s the timing of it all.”

“And? I’m not reading you on this.”

Mallen hesitated. Knew that involving Oberon would mean answering questions like this. Wondered now if he should’ve just called Gwen. No, he’d been right to call his friend. “It’s about the Marston kidnapping. You heard about that, yeah?”

“And what would you have to do with that?”

“I know the mother.”

Another pause, then, “And you want to meet and talk, right?”

“Yeah. Can we meet after I call this in to 911?”

“No,” Oberon said, “I’ll call it in. Stay close to your phone. I’ll be down there myself.” And with that, Oberon ended the call.

Mallen stood there a moment. Wondered who Oberon’s friend might be. Funny, he realized he’d never thought of Oberon having a life outside of being a homicide detective. That’s how much being a cop could eat up your life, feast on you. He crossed the street, found a dark alcove to stand in, and hunkered down to wait for the troops to arrive. They weren’t long in coming. A couple black and whites, followed by two unmarked cars. The detectives got out first. Went to the station wagon. One of them crawled inside, but backed out immediately, calling for the uniforms to cordon off the area. That was when Oberon arrived. His friend was dressed for a dinner party, not a murder party. He waited while Oberon looked over the scene. Talked with one of the detectives for a moment. Oberon then walked to the perimeter of the crime scene, pulling out his phone. Mallen moved out from the alcove. Got Oberon’s attention. His friend saw him, came over as he put his phone back in his pocket.

“I agree with your assessment,” Oberon told him. “That man did not shoot himself up that second time. The other detectives feel the same way. That man was murdered.”

And there was that word again. Murder. And yet one more time, Mallen wondered why being sober was better. And the answer always came back the same: Anna.

“You have any leads on this, Mark?” Oberon asked. It was actually the first time that he could think of where the detective actually asked for his input on a case.

“No, man. I don’t. But it’s early days for me, you know?”

“Have you met with the Marsden woman? The mother?”

“Yeah. She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Did you get anything from her? Other than what would be in the report?”

“No. Anything I got was from Gwen Saunders. She—”

“Saunders?” Oberon said. “She approached you on this?”

“Yeah. Why not? We’d met on a case once back when I was in uniform. She knew I’d lived in the Loin. Told me she figured I might be able to help.”

Oberon looked dubious at what he’d just been told. “What?” Mallen said. “What is it?”

The detective considered for a moment, then replied, “Nothing really concrete. She’s a fairly capable detective. Not great, but not bad. Very hungry to move up.”

“Well, who isn’t?”

“Very true. Some cops, though, look for any way to solve a case. Any way possible. Cops like that, Mark? You stay away from. They should be considered dangerous at best.”

“Hey,” Mallen said, “remember who you’re talkin’ to, yeah?”

Oberon smiled. Nodded. “Sorry.” Added, “So how did you leave it with Saunders?”

“That I’d help her as much as I could. Who I really want to help though, is Trina Marston. I want to help her get her kid back.”

The detective eyed him for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess I better go and pay up my life insurance. We know what happens when you get one of those ‘save the world’ feelings.”