♦
THREE
♦
Water his sister, pure and clean and inviolate.
The woman who entered a few minutes later wasn’t quite what Kate had expected. She was quite tidy, for one thing, her graying hair gathered into a snug bun at the nape of her neck,- her eyes darted nervously about, but they were clear, and her spine was straight. She wore the inevitable eclectic jumble, long skirt with trouser cuffs underneath, blouse, vest, knitted shawl, and rings on five fingers, but she wrapped her clothes around her with dignity and sat without hesitation in the chair Hawkin indicated. Kate turned another chair around to the desk and took out her pen. Hawkin looked down at the paper he’d just been given and then up at her, a smile of singular sweetness on his rugged face.
“Your name is Beatrice?” he asked, giving the name two syllables.
“Beatrice,” she corrected, giving it the Italian four.
“Any last name?”
“Not for many years.”
“What was it then?”
“The men downstairs asked me that, too.”
“And you didn’t give it to them.”
“I was not impressed by the manners of your police department.”
“I apologize for them. Their youth does not excuse them.”
She studied him thoughtfully.
“Forgive them,- for they know not what they do. That’s what Brother Erasmus would say, I suppose.”
“Who is this Brother Erasmus?” he asked her.
“Jankowski.”
“Erasmus Jankowski?” Hawkin said, polite but amazed.
“No! I hardly know the man,” Beatrice protested. Kate rested her elbow on the desk and pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. “Well, no, I admit I do know him, as well as anyone you brought in this morning, which isn’t saying much.”
“It’s your last name, then? Beatrice Jankowski?”
“You can see why I gave up the last part.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Hawkin, rising to gallantry. “It has a certain ring to it.”
“Like a funeral toll,” she said expressively. Hawkin abandoned his flirtation.
“What do you know about what happened in Golden Gate Park this morning, Miss—is it Miss Jankowski?”
“Call me Beatrice. I told them they were imbeciles, but even men who fry their brains on cheap wine don’t listen to women.”
“You tried to dissuade them… from the cremation.”
“There is a difference between a man and a dog, after all.”
“You were there when the dog was cremated—what was it, three or four weeks ago?” Hawkin asked.
“That had a certain beauty,” Beatrice said wistfully. “It was appropriate. It was also—well, perhaps not strictly legal, but hardly criminal. Wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, and blinked her eyes gently at Al Hawkin. He avoided the question.
“Did you know the dead man?”
“I knew the dog, quite well.”
“And the man?”
“Oh dear. He was…” For the first time Beatrice Jankowski looked uncomfortable. “You don’t really want to know about him.”
“I do, you know.”
She met his eyes briefly, looked down at her strong fingers with their swollen knuckles, twisting and turning one ring after another, and sighed.
“Yes, I suppose you do. I’d rather talk about the dog.”
“Tell us about the dog first, then,” Hawkin relented. Relief blossomed on the woman’s weathered face and her hands lay still.
“He was a real sweetheart, white, with a black patch over his left eye. His coat looked wiry, but he was actually quite soft, picked up foxtails terribly. John—that’s his owner—had to brush him every day. Very intelligent, particularly when you consider the size of his skull. I saw him cross the road once, looking both ways first.”
“So how did he die?”
“We… They… No one saw. He must have made a mistake crossing the road. John found him, in the morning. He’d hit his head on something.”
“Or something had hit him.” She nodded. “Or kicked him.” Her face contracted slowly and her fingers began to wring each other over and over.
“How did John die?”
“I don’t have any idea. I didn’t even see him.”
“How did you hear about his death?”
“Mouse told me late last night. He was sorting through the bins behind a restaurant on Stanyon Street.”
“Which one is Mouse?”
“They call him Mouse because he used to be in computers, before his breakdown. Lovely man. His other name is Richard, I believe.”
“Richard Delgadio. Tall black man, hair going gray, short beard?”
“Is that his last name? Delgadio. What a lovely sound.”
“What time did he tell you about John’s death?”
In answer, the woman pushed her left sleeve up her arm and looked eloquently at the bare wrist.
“Roughly what time, then?” Hawkin asked patiently.
“Time,” she mused. “Time takes on rather a different aspect on the streets. However, I do remember that the dress shop was closed, but the bookstore was still open, so that would make it between nine and eleven. Is it of any importance to your investigation?”
“Probably not.” Beatrice giggled, and Hawkin gave her a smile. “But you didn’t go to the—what did they call it? The cremation?”
“I did not. I told Mouse then and there he was a cretin and a dunderhead, and that he should tell Officer Michaels about John.”
“Michaels is one of the local patrolmen?”
“He’s a hunk.”
“Sorry?” Hawkins asked, startled at the unlikely word.
“He is. Gorgeous legs, just the right amount of hair on them. Don’t tell him I said anything, though. He might be embarrassed.”
Kate thought she recognized the description.
“Is this one of the bicycle patrol officers?” she asked.
“Gorgeous,” Beatrice repeated in agreement. Al Hawkin’s mouth twitched.
“But you didn’t report John’s death?” he asked.
“It was not my place.”
“You knew they were planning on burning the body first thing in the morning.”
“Mouse found a half-empty bottle of paint thinner and asked me if it would burn. And I saw Mr. Lazari at the grocer’s giving Doc and Salvatore a couple of old wooden crates. I told him, too.”
“Mr. Lazari?”
“Of course not. He’s quite sensible.”
“You told Doc. That John was dead?”
“Inspector, are you listening to me?”
“I am trying, Ms. Jankowski. Beatrice.”
“Ah, you are tired, of course. I apologize for keeping you. No, I told Doc that he and Harry and the rest were a parcel of half-wits and were going to find themselves in trouble. I told them Brother Erasmus would be unhappy. Doc listened, Salvatore didn’t. He even had a Bible, although I didn’t think much of his choice of readings. Song of Songs is hardly funereal.”
“Salvatore had the Bible? So Salvatore led the… funeral service.”
“I was surprised, too, considering.”
“Considering what, Beatrice?”
“Well, you know.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Oh, of course, how silly of me. You never met the man.”
“Salvatore Benito? I spoke with him earlier.”
She sat in her chair and gave him a look of sad disappointment.
“Or do you mean John? No, I never met him.”
“Lucky old you,” she muttered.
“You didn’t like John?”
“He did not deserve a dog like Theophilus.”
“That surprises me. The others seemed to think he was a nice guy.”
“One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. Did Erasmus say that, or did I read it somewhere? Oh dear, I am getting old.”
“John was friendly on the surface but not when you got to know him? Is that what you mean?”