“How about if I were to give you the person who killed Antonio and Neverman — plus made you look good to our local office of the FBI.”
“Right. Big talk,” he growled. But he sounded hopeful.
“Okay, Gregory.” I took a deep breath. “There’s an old ironworks at India Basin, near Hunters Point. In the warehouse at the end of the pier, you’ll find a lot of gin, close to two containerloads of it. It’s stolen, from Circle Wharf and Warehouse in Alameda. If you tip the Feds in a hurry, they might find the thieves there with the stuff.”
Greg was silent, but papers shuffled, as if he were making notes.
“Neverman and Antonio were killed because they caught on to the people who plan to fence the gin,” I went on. “There’s a fencing ring operating right in my neighborhood.”
“So who’s the killer?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t... all right, Sharon!”
“I said yet. I need your help.”
“You bet you need help!”
“Greg — give me three hours. It’s almost five o’clock now. Call off the cop on my apartment. By eight o’clock you’ll have your killer.” I hoped my voice sounded more confident than I felt.
He paused. “Goddamn it, Sharon,” he said in a low voice. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me?”
“I realize. Please, Greg. If you have any respect for me as a professional, please give me the time.”
He was silent. Finally he said, “Dammit, Sharon, why I ever wasted all that chocolate on you...”
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“You said three hours?”
“Right.”
“Three hours it is. I’ll call everyone off. But, Sharon...”
“Yes?”
“If you don’t deliver, don’t expect to work in this state again. Not as a private eye.”
His threat, I was certain, was serious, but it did nothing to dampen my spirits. Greg must have faith in my abilities or he wouldn’t have given me this chance. “Don’t worry. I’ll deliver.”
I headed for home in the rented Toyota. Bad as our relationship had become in the past two days, there were some questions I had to ask Linnea.
Carrying my mail — a letter from my mother and a request for alumni contributions from the University of California — I banged the apartment door and walked noisily down the hall, trying to act as if nothing had happened the night before. In the archway to the main room, I stopped, surprised.
Linnea stood by the bed, packing her suitcase. It was an orderly suitcase, and Linnea herself looked tidy: She wore a tan pantsuit, and her hair was clean and shining, her makeup carefully applied.
She looked up and said, “I’m going home to San Diego.”
I put my mail on the table and sat down. The room was neat, the magazines she’d soaked with liquor the night before laid out to dry. Watney, contented once more, curled in the center of the bed.
“When did you decide this?” I asked.
“This morning. The kids have been with Mama long enough. I miss them, and it’s time we had a home of our own again.”
I couldn’t keep the incredulous look off my face.
“I know it’s a shock.” Linnea laughed nervously and shut the suitcase. “The last time you see me, I’m sloppy drunk, blubbering about how the world’s treated me, and now...” She sat in the chair across from me, looking uncertain.
“Listen, Sharon,” she went on, “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you, and I hope it hasn’t damaged our friendship, not permanently.”
“I...” I shook my head in confusion. “I... no, of course it hasn’t. But you must admit this is a startling transformation. What happened?”
She laughed nervously again. “Oh, you know how people have moments of truth. I guess you could say I had mine last night.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Sure. Why not?” She sat back, smoothing her carefully pressed trousers. “You see, I was awfully upset when you walked out of here. Nobody had ever spoken to me like that. Not Mama, not Jim, or anybody. Why, when Jim left me, he barely said a thing — his lawyer did all the talking. You really pulled the rug out from under me.”
“And that shaped you up?”
“No. In fact, it made things worse. I... I decided to kill myself.”
“God, no!”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded solemnly. “It was the whole big horror show: razor blade, bathtub full of warm water, and me, clutching the last bottle of booze in the house. And I couldn’t do it. I was scared you wouldn’t come back and find me in time. Can you imagine: me, who always despised fakers, doing the fakiest thing of all?”
I glanced at her wrists. No bandages. None of the little hesitation marks suicide attempts left.
“Anyway,” Linnea went on, “I realized what a total fraud I was when that cop came to the door. I lay there in the bathtub, thinking it was you and that maybe you’d forgotten your key. I pictured you getting Tim to open the door, and how shocked and sorry you’d be. But the cop kept on pounding, and finally I had to get out of the tub and answer. Then when he said Madame Anya had been murdered... oh, wow!”
“So what did you do?”
“Got angry at myself. I kept thinking about what you’d said — that at least I had life, even if I didn’t have much else. That life hasn’t been worth much to me for a long time now, and I hated myself so much for being such a cowardly fake that I said, ‘Okay, take your lousy life and gamble with it.’ ”
“What?”
“That’s right. Do you remember how we used to ask the cards a question?”
I nodded. The solitaire game we’d played back in San Diego.
“I decided I would play one game,” Linnea said. “And the question would be: ‘Do I live and work things out?’ If the game came out, I’d try. If not...” She slashed a finger across one wrist.
I pressed my hands to my face, shivering. The odds against the game coming out in one try were incredibly high.
Linnea went on, “Anyway, to cut the melodrama short, I played the game, and it came out. And when it did, I realized I had to face up to things and take my life in hand whether I liked it or not. Because I’d been so lucky, so blessed... Sharon!”
I was crying, tears leaking through my fingers and trickling down the backs of my hands. My entire body shook.
“Shar, don’t! It’s okay. The game came out. And I honestly don’t think I would have shaped up without the shock of... oh, hey, come on!”
Linnea moved to the arm of my chair, her hands on my heaving shoulders. “Hey, don’t! Everything’s all right.”
I wished I could believe her. Giving in to this sudden reversal of roles, I buried my wet face against my friend.
When I had calmed down, Linnea went back to her chair and lit a cigarette. Her motions were measured. I could scarcely fathom such a change in less than twenty-four hours.
With my fit of tears behind me, I felt better, though. Too much tension held in check for too long had worn me down.
Linnea said, “Wow, you really came apart for a few minutes there. It can’t all be because of me. What else is bothering you?”
“The image of you floating in a bathtub of bloody water is enough to unhinge anybody.”
“Maybe, but there’s something besides that.”
She was too calm, too dispassionate, for Linnea. I knew this wouldn’t last, but it was a step forward. If I could get her back to San Diego and her kids while she was still in this frame of mind, she might work things out after all.
She asked, “It’s the murders, isn’t it? Molly and Madame Anya?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “You think you’re hardened, you think you’ve seen a lot, and then...” I shook my head.
“I’m sorry,” Linnea said quietly. “Did they find any clues yet?”