USING THE PHONE—I wasn’t about to go through the dispatcher on this—I called Howard.
“Sergeant Howard.”
“What a sexy-sounding sergeant. Berkeley must be a lucky city.”
“Some citizens are luckier than others.” His voice dropped mid-sentence. I was alone in the car; clearly he was not so in his office.
For years Howard and I had shared a tiny office. I still had trouble picturing him in the sergeants’ office that he now shared with someone else. It was as if his curly red hair were too bright for the drab metal desks, and the long, lean body I knew and loved out of place in such a public room—separated from the meeting room, by only a window. When he was grinning, as he would be now, his blue eyes sparkled.
They might have sparkled at me while I ate. Downing a burger on a French bread roll, laughing about the red Miata and the blue van crashing together into their parking spot were just what I needed now. Then I said, “Howard, I’ve got to use lunch break to check on Ott’s car.”
“What?” I could hear the anger in his voice and the muffled sound as he tried to swallow it. “Why? Did something happen to him?”
“He’s still not picking up his damned phone.”
“Now there’s a surprise. Herman Ott doesn’t answer his calls, so you’re racing out to check his car?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, cutting off whatever comment was coming. There was no point in listening to Howard tell me that Ott was a pain in the ass withholding information whenever possible, with the goal of strengthening the hand of his clients, who were also our clients, and who remained on the street longer until they burglarized or boosted or botched things up so that even Ott couldn’t help them. I was checking on Ott in spite of all that.
“Howard, it’s just a welfare check.”
I could almost feel his outtake of breath over the phone. Behind him his fellow sergeant, Stetsky, would have discreetly turned his back and walked his desk chair to the farthest corner of the office. Sotto voce Howard said, “What makes you think he’s faring any less well than his usual high standard?”
Ott’s usual living was done in two rooms—office and home—in a run-down building on Telegraph. His stonewall lips garnered him trust in circles throughout the city. And allowed him to continue breathing. Still, considering the caliber of Ott’s clients, it would take only one breach…“That’s not the point. The—”
“What is your point then?”
“The point, Howard, is that Ott made a deal with me. I can’t let him blow me off.”
Howard was silent. He couldn’t disagree with that. It was a moment before he said, “So you’re assessing his welfare by checking his car?”
I could have explained the logic, could have soothed Howard’s pique. Instead I snapped, “Right.”
“That’s a long way from your beat,” he said icily.
“Not with lights and siren,” I iced back.
“Look, I can’t be making exceptions—”
“Howard, it’s not an exception. If I were on another team, the sergeant wouldn’t think twice.”
His rasp of breath struck my ear. “Fine. Go. But remember your beat.”
“Right,” I said, failing to keep the sarcasm from my voice. I wondered again why Herman Ott infuriated him so much. Any other welfare check would have been fine.
Yanking the wheel, I turned onto Dwight Way.
Had I ever heard of Herman Ott leaving Berkeley overnight? Not on a case; for that he could call on a statewide ring of private eyes who had come of age with the counterculture. His ancient Studebaker could be cited for noise violations any time it moved (which made it clearer why he didn’t tail suspects out of town, or in town for that matter). As for vacation, if Ott ever considered indulging in anything so bourgeois, his leaving Berkeley for pleasure would be like my choosing a resort with bad coffee. For Ott, crossing University Avenue into North Berkeley was a trip worthy of a passport.
I couldn’t picture Herman Ott walking out of his office into his Studebaker and driving to the wine country for a week of mud baths and massage. Certainly not just to avoid me.
I drove up Dwight, made a right on Telegraph, and in a couple of turns came up behind the eight-unit apartment. If the corner slot was vacant, I would forget about Ott and assume he was taking the waters in a spa above his element. I’d be surprised but—
I wasn’t. Ott’s Studebaker sat snugly at the end of the carport. I pulled up by its fender.
Behind me the lights were on in the third-story apartments, but the first two levels were dark and the spotlight that might have illumined the carport in back was out. On the patrol car we’ve got overhead lights, wigwags that blink, “alley lights” on the end of the light bar up top, and swivel lights by the side mirrors. I left the headlights on and aimed the swivel light down the row of stalls. The far two cars—a VW bug and one of those aging Toyotas or Hondas that have taken over the Volkswagen’s place in American society—looked empty.
I walked to the back of the carport and shone the light in front of them and Ott’s Studebaker. In the world of the homeless, carports are a boon, but citizens who are happy to give spare change to a transient on the street don’t want him sleeping in their own backyards. Uninvited guests often have different standards from their hosts. I understand that; still, it doesn’t make rousting the sleepers any more pleasant.
Tonight no one was sleeping against this cement wall, and I turned back to Ott’s car and shone my light in the window.
There was a body on the backseat.