Milo came back pretty soon, carrying the .38 tucked into its belt holster. When he gave it over to me he said, “It’s loaded. You want any extra ammo?”
“If six rounds aren’t enough, I won’t be around to worry about extras.”
“Well, I hope you don’t have to use it.”
“So do I,” I said.
I declined his offer of another cup of coffee, said I would keep in touch, and got out of there. There was a chance he would report the loan of the gun, if he thought I was up to something, but I doubted it. Milo was the type to mind his own business. And even if he did report it, it wouldn’t be a problem. I had a right to protect myself, just as he’d said, and nobody at the Hall was going to hassle me on that score.
It was after four by the time I entered my flat. I stripped off my overcoat and jacket and went into the bathroom. Wrapped inside the sling, my left arm was like something that no longer belonged to me, a prosthetic device where the arm used to be. The fingers were cramped up so that the hand resembled a claw; I could barely move them.
Cripple, I thought. One-armed bandit with a gun.
I went back into the bedroom and dialed Ben Chadwick’s number in Hollywood. “I’ve got the information you wanted,” he said. “Get yourself something to write with.”
“Just a second.” I rummaged around in the nightstand drawer, found a pen and a notepad, and then tucked the receiver between my chin and shoulder so I could write. “Okay, shoot.”
“Carl Emerson. Thirty-seven Camelia Drive, Burlingame. Divorced, four years. Ex-wife’s name is Jeanne Emerson; she lives in San Francisco, twenty-eight sixty Vallejo, apartment four-B. I figured you’d want her address too.”
“I do. Does Emerson have a criminal record?”
“Not even a traffic citation.”
“Uh-huh. Go ahead.”
“Philip Bexley. Thirty-four nineteen North Point, San Francisco. Married, two children. One arrest, in 1969, for assault; charges dropped. Bar fight, no big deal.”
“Got it.”
“Orin Tedescu. Eighty Cypress Lane, Pacifica. Married, no children. Three arrests for drunk driving, all in the past four years, the latest one ten months ago; had his license suspended for half a year. Nothing else.”
When I finished writing I asked, “Did you find out anything about Mid-Pacific Electronics?”
“Not much. Emerson, Bexley, and Tedescu own the company; you already know that. Successful outfit, respectable, no hint of anything going on under the table.”
“Have any of the three got a sideline? Another business, anything like that?”
“I didn’t turn it up, if so,” Chadwick said. “But I didn’t dig all that deep. You want me to do some more checking?”
“If you would.”
“Sure. You’re into me big in the favor department, you know that?”
“I know it. Just say the word if you need anything.”
“Even though you don’t have a license?”
“Even though I don’t have a license.”
“Call me tomorrow,” he said. And added meaningfully, “If you’re still out and around.”
After we rang off I took another look at what he’d given me. Not much there, aside from the addresses. The link between one of those three men and Mau Yee, if there was a link, was buried. I still did not know enough even to speculate on what it was.
I went and got my notebook out of my coat and then dialed Kam Fong’s number. Eight rings, no answer. The description of Jimmy Quon, the background data, would have to wait until tomorrow.
In the kitchen, I opened a can of soup and dumped it into a saucepan. While it was heating I set out some cheese and crackers, a package of mortadella, an overripe tomato. I didn’t want any of it, but I kept telling myself I had to have the nourishment. The first few bites seemed to want to lodge in my throat; after that everything went down all right.
Fatigue had begun to drag at me, winding me down like an old clock. There were things I could do yet tonight, but the smart thing was to get into bed and rest. And the smart thing, after a not very smart day, was what I had better do.
Off the kitchen was a small utility porch; I went out there to make sure the back door, which opened onto a flight of stairs tacked onto the Victorian’s side wall, and the porch windows were secure. Then I came back into the living room to put the chain on the front door and the lights out. Only I did not get a chance to do either of those things because in the hallway outside, somebody started scraping around in the door latch.
I stopped, tensing, and dragged the .38 out of its holster. The scraping sounds continued — either a key or a lock pick. I backed over toward the couch, half bent in the middle, with the gun out in front of me and my heart slugging away in my chest.
And the door opened and Kerry walked in.
When she saw me standing there with the gun she made a frightened bleating noise and dropped the ring of keys she had in her hand. “My God!” she said. “What are you doing?”
The tension fled all at once, leaving me limp. The .38 felt hot now, as if it had already gone off in silence, and my hand was shaking enough to make it wobble; I shoved it into the holster as I straightened up. On the carpet between us, the keys glinted in the room light. I had given her a key some time back; that was how she’d got into the building without buzzing from downstairs, how she’d got into the flat.
“Christ,” I said, “I might have shot you. Why the hell didn’t you ring the bell?”
“I thought you might be in bed. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Why have you got that gun?”
Dull anger made my head pound. I moved around the couch and sat down, panting a little; something had gone wrong with my breathing. Kerry shut the door, bent to pick up the keys, and then came over and perched on the far side of the couch. She was no longer frightened, but her face was full of concern. The green chameleon eyes were almost black with it.
I said, “Why did you come here unannounced like that?”
“I wanted to see you. I drove straight over from work.”
“You could have called first.”
“I did call, twice this afternoon. You weren’t here.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Answer my question,” she said.
“What question?”
“About that gun. Why are you wearing a gun?”
“For protection,” I said.
“Protection from what?”
“I got shot last week, remember?”
“And you think the gunman might come after you again? That’s ridiculous. He wasn’t after you, he was after Eberhardt.”
“You don’t know that for sure. Neither do I.”
“Is that who you thought I was? The gunman?”
“What else was I supposed to think? I wasn’t expecting you. I told you I’d call when I was ready to see you again.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “There’s something else going on, something you’re hiding.”
I was still having trouble with my breathing. Hyperventilation, maybe. I lay my head against the back of the couch and made myself take air in slow inhalations through my mouth.
Kerry said, “Will you please, for God’s sake, tell me what’s happening!”
“No. There’s nothing to tell.”
“You think I’m blind? Look at you: you’re exhausted, you’re tense, you’re white as a sheet. You’ve been acting funny for days, you went out somewhere yesterday and you were gone all day today. And now you’re wearing a gun. I may not be a detective, but I can figure out what all of that means.”
My lungs were working better now. I lifted my head and looked at her. “Can you?”
“You’re hunting that gunman,” she said.
“No, I’m not.”
“I think you are. What I can’t understand is why. Vengeance, is that it? Some sort of crazy vendetta?”