“Subpoena me or leave me alone,” the man said. “My lawyer told you assholes that already.”
A gap appeared between the frame of the window on the right side of the door and the blue wool blanket that served as its curtain. Brown fingers gripped the material, the fingernails ragged and yellowed, and two eyes looked out from the shadowed interior.
Donnally took off his Giants cap as if disarming himself, then scratched his head and said, “I’m not here about anything that involves subpoenas.”
A wry smile exposed tar-stained teeth. “But you’re a cop, right?”
There was no point in pretending. Once you’ve got a cop’s eyes, a cop’s walk, and a cop’s face, no one is going to mistake you for anything else.
“Once,” Donnally said, “but not anymore.” He then made a show of glancing back toward the sidewalk, where a handful of crack and marijuana dealers were waiting for the mid-afternoon rush, then side to side at the apartment buildings flanking the house and framing the yard like the walls of a box canyon. “You think a cop would’ve come here alone?”
The gap widened and the rest of the face appeared. Mid-sixties. Long, thin. The scleras of his jaundiced eyes were just a shade lighter than his skin, and there was too much of that, as though he’d suffered a sudden weight loss. The man pulled the curtain further aside, then looked to Donnally’s left, checking for a second person.
Donnally spotted the man’s right elbow extending from behind his body, but his hand was concealed. He couldn’t stop his mind from transforming itself into a booking sheet. 12021 of the California Penal Code. Felon in possession of a firearm.
“What do you want?” the man said.
“I’m trying to get a hold of Willie Goldstine, the guy they used to call Sonny.”
The man’s face didn’t change expression.
“How come?”
“About the New Sky Commune.”
“Son of a bitch. Another asshole writing a book.”
“That’s not it,” Donnally said. “I’m trying to locate a girl, I mean a woman. Her name is Anna. She was dropped off there by her brother in 1965.”
The man’s eyes flickered. Donnally couldn’t tell whether it was recognition or calculation.
“What’s it to you?”
“Somebody in her family left her some money.”
“So you’re a PI.”
“Just playing the part to help a buddy.”
“Maybe he should’ve come himself.”
“He would’ve, but he’s dead.”
Donnally watched the man’s smile fade.
“Then he should’ve come sooner.”
“Look, man, I need to know if you’re Sonny. If not, I’ve got to move along.”
“How do I know you’re not really here about Tsukamata?”
Donnally repeated the name, then said, “I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s not a that. It’s a him. The cop who got killed.” The man laughed. “You stupid or do you think I’m stupid?”
“Neither. I’m just not from around here.” Donnally pointed north. “I’m from Shasta. I didn’t even know a cop got killed. Haven’t even read the paper since I arrived and didn’t hear it on the radio driving down. When did it happen?”
“Nineteen seventy-five.”
Donnally threw up his hands. “How am I supposed to know what happened over thirty years ago?”
“It’s been on the news a lot lately.”
“And it had something to do with you?”
The man shook his head.
“You lost me. Then why are we-” Donnally then understood the why. “I get it. Somebody’s now saying you did it and you’re thinking I’m somehow trying to box you in?”
The man flashed a smile. “If I was Sonny.”
Donnally didn’t smile back. “Yeah. If you were Sonny.”
More of the picture came into focus.
“Let me guess,” Donnally said. “People have been trying to break your alibi. And you’re thinking I’m one of them… if you were Sonny.”
“About every five years some retired cop gets a bug up his ass, wanting to be some kind of cold case hero. Get his face on 60 Minutes or a cable TV crime show, then make a buck selling his memoirs.”
Donnally folded his arms across his chest and exhaled. “How do we get around this roadblock? I really want to find this gal.”
Sonny let go of the blanket. A moment later the door opened.
“Wait here,” Sonny said. “I’m gonna call my lawyer. He’s in the city.”
“Who’s that?”
Sonny narrowed his eyebrows. “I thought you wasn’t from around here.”
“I was a cop in San Francisco.”
“Mark Hamlin.”
Donnally felt his stomach tighten. Hamlin hated cops, loved money, and made every case into a political cause. Ten years earlier, he was on TV almost daily. Rimless glasses. Black hair slicked back like snake scales. Just an hour after the shootout that ended Donnally’s career, Hamlin was on television claiming that the cops-Donnally and his police department conspirators-had instigated it in order to start a Mexican gang war.
“You don’t need to call-”
But Sonny was already dialing.
Sonny glanced back and forth between a business card on the coffee table and the number pad on his cell phone, then waited as the call connected.
“It’s Sonny… doin’ okay… Look, a guy’s here about the old days… no… New Sky… I don’t know.”
Sonny looked back toward the door. “What’s your name?”
Donnally told him and Sonny repeated it. He listened for a moment, then handed over the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
Donnally put it to his ear. “This is Donnally.”
“How you doing, man?”
Donnally recognized the nasal whine, but not the tone. Hamlin sounded like he meant it.
“I felt really bad about you getting shot,” Hamlin said. “What do you want with my client?”
Donnally said as much as he’d already told Sonny.
“How’d you end up knocking on his door?” Hamlin asked.
“I found a bunch of names in an old book about Berkeley communes and he’s the first one I got a lead on who wasn’t dead, drugged, or deranged.”
The old Hamlin voice returned. Half question. Half accusation. “Is this for real?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know how to prove it.” Donnally looked over at Sonny. He could see the outline of a small revolver in his front pants pocket. “Wait. Maybe I can.” He held his palm up toward Sonny, telling him not to panic. “I checked over at the courthouse. Sonny’s got two felony convictions, and he’s got a gun on him. The feds could lock him up in Leavenworth for twenty years.”
Sonny glared at Donnally, clenching his fists.
Donnally kept his hand up. “But I’m not interested in hurting the guy.”
“Shit,” Hamlin said. “I told him to get rid of that thing. One of these days his door’s gonna get kicked in. They won’t even need to convict him on the murder. At his age, twenty years on a federal gun beef would be a life sentence.” Hamlin fell silent for a moment. “I’ve got an idea. How about you work for me?”
“I thought you hated-”
“Just so you can’t use anything he tells you to hurt him. Attorney-client privilege. You had a reputation as a straight shooter. I’ll trust you in this.”
“But if he killed a cop-”
“He didn’t kill Tsukamata. Back then Sonny was so doped up he’d fall over trying to pull on his pants. He could barely hit a vein with a needle much less shoot a cop in the head from two hundred yards away. Give him the phone.”
Donnally extended it toward Sonny, who reached back as though he expected handcuffs to emerge and snap around his wrist.
Sonny took the phone into the kitchen. He returned a couple of minutes later, then walked over to the dining table and removed a dollar from his wallet. He was nodding as he crossed the room and handed it to Donnally. “I gave him the money… yeah, I’ll talk to you later.”
Sonny disconnected and looked up at Donnally, who was still standing in the doorway.
“She’s dead. Murdered in nineteen eighty-six.”
“What?” Donnally felt himself flush. “Then why’d we do this stupid dance? Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?”