“OTT, YOU ARE AN ass.”
Ott said nothing. He didn’t even look abashed. What he looked like was a molting canary perched on an ostrich’s egg—and all the time swearing there was nothing in his nest.
“Nothing!” I continued. “When you called me an hour ago, you were sitting on something so big you couldn’t wait to give it to me. Too big to keep till tomorrow when I’m back on patrol and being paid for wild-goose chases like this.”
His arms were bent, and he moved them in and out, winglike, as if he were a giant yellow bird perched precariously on that big egg of what he had decided he couldn’t tell me and had to flap like crazy to keep from falling off.
Which brought me back to my original thought. In fairness Herman Ott, private detective to the counterculture, looked as uncomfortable as I’d ever seen him. And here, on the grounds of Berkeley’s venerable, elegant Claremont Hotel, it was hard to say whether he looked more disdainful-than-thou or just awkward.
I’d been to his sorry Telegraph Avenue office more often than I cared to recall. Never had he let me in before my third knock, never had he answered a question without a battle, and never, never had he been dressed in anything but garments in various hues of yellow—and all from Goodwill. Now he stood in the farthest corner of the landscaped parking lot behind a luxurious fan palm, overlooking two silver Mercedeses. His sparse blond hair was combed back, his white shirt was ironed, and a handkerchief peeked out of his jacket pocket. The man was almost overdressed.
“Ott, don’t tell me you went out and bought a black suit—”
“Used.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, spilling a tiny tin cross that came to a sharp bottom point.
“You got a funeral suit and religion too?” I couldn’t quite conceal a smirk.
Ott stuffed the wee cross back in place and gave a ferocious blow into his white hankie, wadded it back up, and plugged it into the pocket, thus destroying any decent line the trousers might have had.
“You’re dressed to kill—”
“Smith, you been a cop too long.” He glared.
For an instant I took that look to be a sartorial indictment of my jeans and Polartec jacket. Then I remembered to whom I was talking. “You’ve never had the urge to get gussied up and meet a cop at a fancy hotel before. But here you are, decked out like a penguin. All so you can tell me that what you called me here for isn’t important anymore. Come on, Ott.”
Ott shrugged.
“If it’s so unimportant, why not just tell me what it is?”
This time he didn’t even bother with movement.
“Fine,” I snapped. “The next time you’ve got an emergency, when you don’t want to deal with a Berkeley police officer who isn’t as incredibly tolerant as I am, I’ll remember this masquerade.” I turned toward the driveway. “I’m missing the Raiders game, and I’ve got a houseful of guests waiting for me to—”
“Smith, just bear with me, huh?” Ott’s sloping shoulders rose. To the untrained eye he’d have looked almost normal. To mine, his stance shrieked fear. “I, can’t tell you now. Maybe I should’ve waited before I called you. Look, I’m sorry you’re not home to be the perfect hostess—”
“Don’t give me that condescension.”
He shook his head. “You’re a cop; you don’t need a gridiron to watch overpaid brutes shortening each other’s lives.”
I started toward the driveway.
He grabbed my arm and said words I didn’t think his mouth could pronounce: “I’m sorry.” Then he added, “Just give me till tomorrow, and I’ll explain the whole thing.”
He sounded pitiful, desperate, trying his best to hold off overwhelming forces pushing in from all directions. His whole being implored: Surely one day’s grace is little enough to ask.
But I had given him grace periods before. I’d put investigations on hold, and my reputation on the line, only to discover the next day that Herman Ott hadn’t answered his phone or opened his door. I unpeeled his hand. “Wait till tomorrow? Right. That’s the kind of agreement that ends up with someone getting killed before sunrise.”
I said it as a riposte. I never expected it to be true.