Читать книгу Civil Twilight - Susan Dunlap - Страница 13

9

IN LESS THAN a minute we were racing for his car. We shot through Broadway, down Columbus and were crossing Market before John had the flasher on his roof. He had his cell on speakerphone. The squawk was coming so fast from so many locations it was almost impossible to make sense of it.

“Freeway’s blocked off at First Street. They’re detouring drivers off there. Anything east of us’ll be a parking lot,” he said, cutting west. “Damn, I wish I had a patrol car. But even . . .” His voice trailed off. I didn’t need to look at him to know he’d been on the verge of griping about his missing unmarked car, but he caught himself. He, too, was trying to square the idea of the living, breathing Karen Johnson with a corpse lying on the roadway. I eyed him, attempting to gauge whether he was mourning the loss of a lover or puzzled by the violent death of a practical joker. Or if he was worrying about his car and career. My cop brother’s a grand master at masking emotion.

Suddenly I was shivering, not from the chill but from shock and loss. “I liked her, when we were running up to Coit Tower. We were planning to go to dinner—‘somewhere above our element,’ she said. It was going to be fun. She was fun. We’d pick a restaurant where you have to bribe the maître d’, you know, the kind of place where you’re paying for the view.”

“Where?”

“She was going to meet me at the set and decide.”

“Last meal, huh? Special place because she knew it’d be her last?”

I stared out the windshield; darkened storefronts flew by. “It didn’t sound like that. But I was with her half an hour, and we were running, then panting, then talking about the hundred-foot pole—”

“What pole?”

“It’s a koan, one that’s always gotten to me. How do you proceed off a hundred-foot pole? Karen said she wasn’t a Buddhist, but she knew the answer, or an answer.”

“A koan that had gotten to you? More than others?”

“Yeah, why?”

He turned left. Ahead we could see the flashing reds on the light bars, the silver-white glare from lines of motionless headlights. “Had you mentioned anything about Buddhism before?”

“No. But when I said a hundred feet made me think of the koan she knew what it was. You’re trying to work out whether Gary primed her, right?”

He didn’t answer, which meant he was.

“I can’t say what Gary’s involvement is in all this, but it’s not with the koan. She recognized it, and more than that, she knew the general answer.”

“Which is?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t have time—”

“Then don’t think, just answer. You’re on a hundred-foot pole. How do you proceed?”

“Easy. We get that every couple months. Top of a pole? Call the fire department.”

“No phone. Just answer.”

He hit the horn, pulling around the car in front. “Okay. How’d you get up? Were there handholds? Like a telephone pole? Step-bars? Then you could climb back down again. If not, you’d have to hug and slide. Damn lot of splinters. But the whole thing makes no sense. What’s the point anyway?”

“You just made it. You had a perfectly sane response. But it’s not the answer. How do you step off a hundred-foot pole? You just do it.”

“And you’ll fall.”

“Yeah.”

“And be killed.”

“Maybe.”

“Dammit, Darcy, look ahead. What do you see? The crime scene for a woman who fell a hundred feet out of a half-constructed high-rise and was killed! What do you Buddhists say to that?”

“I don’t know.” I could barely get the words out. Don’t know is a respected answer on many levels. But neither of us was thinking of the cosmic not-knowing now. I was looking ahead at the mass of red taillights flashing up from the roadbed of the freeway above us. I was imagining and trying desperately not to picture Karen Johnson’s crushed body in the middle of it all. “The truth is I don’t know anything about her, except she said she was here to get a divorce and maybe even that’s not true.”

Traffic shifted. He shot left, up a ramp and into the construction parking area at the base of a skeletal building. He flashed his ID at the patrol officer on guard. “Where’s the scene?”

“Fifth floor. Elevator’s over there, sir.”

All around us were police, fire, ambulance, and coroner’s vehicles. John squeezed his car so tight in between two unmarkeds we had to sidle out and jump back as a patrol car and then a van raced in before we made it to the base of the high-rise.

In another year it would change the skyline, stab the sky higher than many thought safe in a city that lives under the threat of the next big one. Now only the bottom floors had been walled in. Above, it was a skeleton of structural support beams and crossing supports.

“Fifth floor—first open floor?”

“Looks like it.”

“Like construction in hell,” I said mostly to myself. Flashing red lights dueled, coating the cement in almost constant crimson. Sirens from vehicles trying to slice through the traffic jam and radio squelches fought with shouts from all directions. I kept expecting John to bark at me to get back in the car or away from the scene, but it was almost as if he’d forgotten who I was—or wasn’t. Moving between clumps of uniforms and cops in street clothes, he strode purposefully, as if this was his case. I followed as if I was a part of it, too, into the cage of a freight elevator.

“Look,” a uniformed guy pointed to the front ceiling corner as the door rolled shut. “Bird’s nest? Here?”

“Elevator probably wasn’t moving yet when the mama bird made it,” a tech said.

“Spiffy address.”

“Nah, it’s just the freight elevator. They’ll be blue collar birds.”

“Hey, was that a head? I thought I saw a head in the nest.”

“Birds have ’em. Makes flying easier.”

A couple of guys chuckled. “But how’d they last here?” the uniform insisted. “You’d think the construction outfit would’ve—”

“Endangered species?”

“You better check with—”

The cage eased to a stop. “Fifth floor!” a guy in the rear called out. “Ladies dresses, coats, and intimate apparel!”

A ripple of forced-sounding laughter pushed us out the door.

“How many parking levels are there?” I asked. John shot me a look but said nothing.

Someone answered, “Eight, at least. You can afford to live here, then you got more than one ride. Look at the space markers. They’re not for compacts.”

Level five was an open slab; maybe the walls would be added tomorrow, but tonight there was nothing to keep a determined driver from flying off the edge.

The elevator was in the middle of the square. The southwest quadrant was cordoned. I’d heard John say the biggest cause of trampling a crime scene was off-duty cops rubbernecking. But no one was muddying the scene now. The normal night lighting hadn’t arrived and inadequate lanterns formed two lines as if beckoning all to walk between them into the abyss. Too-bright flashes revealed the slab, empty but for the group inside the lantern lines. Crime lab techs were still putting down markers, snapping shots, moving lights, shooting the same thing from a different angle. Everyone else stood in the dark outside of the yellow tape.

“What’ve you got, Larry?” John asked a guy in a suit.

“Fall. No witnesses, least not yet.”

“Just wait. Everyone’s got camera phones now. They’re all on the horn to TV stations trying for big bucks. You’ve alerted the stations to that, right?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. “But no-one’s going to have a shot of the take-off. Fall took what—a couple of seconds? No time to get the phone flipped open. And before she fell, there was no reason for a picture.”

“Unless there was,” I said. “Unless she was leaning over the edge, fighting someone off.”

“We’re alert to that, too.” He took me in, top to bottom. “I didn’t catch your name and department.”

“Fell onto the freeway?” John demanded.

“Yeah.” Larry’s attention snapped back. A slight catch in his voice said he knew better than to offend him. “See that pile-up down there.” He walked toward the edge of the slab, stopping with a good thirty inches to spare. John and I looked down—almost straight down—onto the freeway. I’d watched this building going up, so close to the roadway that if I’d been a kid I’d’ve been scheming how to get up here to spit on cars. When it was finished, would they allow windows to open, I’d wondered.

“Only three cars in the pile,” Larry was saying. “Miracle it wasn’t lots worse. I-80’s what—the most jammed road in the nation? We’re lucky it’s not a fifty engine smash-up. Body flying out of the sky! Some poor slob’s lucky she didn’t come through his windshield.”

Larry was watching John, who shrugged.

He was my age, maybe younger, and although he could have been in charge here, he just didn’t have that top dog look. “Well, anyway, I haven’t been down there—I’ve been too busy up here keeping the scene clean—but word is she hit the roadway—I mean, what’re the chances of finding a patch of bare road? But she did, smacked down in lane two. Truck ran over her, then a car, then there’s brakes squealing, cars slamming all the hell over. Not much left to identify. A couple of drivers are already in SF General.”

“They say anything, the drivers?”

“What do you think? Body falls out of the sky in front of you? Truck driver just kept crossing himself. They’re lucky to be alive, all of them. We were lucky they didn’t think of that before we got in a few questions. She could’ve killed them. Sheesh, if you’re going to jump, give a little thought to the people below, you know?”

How about a little thought for a woman lying dead on the freeway! “If you were in that good shape, you wouldn’t need to jump, would you?” I controlled myself before that came out, but still Larry was glaring, and John moved himself in between us.

I stepped away, closer to the edge. The wind was stronger, flapping my sweatshirt and jeans the way Karen’s blue linen pants had when she set out across Washington Square Park. I looked down at the freeway, the six empty lanes of this elevated road. I’d driven it a thousand times, easy; every San Franciscan had. I’d sped across the Bay Bridge from Berkeley in the left lane, waiting till the last moment before the Fifth Street off-ramp tunneled down from that lane to cut right. I’d slipped into the middle lane in this area, whipping past slowing drivers eyeing the Civic Center exit, and headed for the Fell Street arm that would shoot me through Golden Gate Park to Mom’s. Everybody’s got their strategy on I-80. They . . .

Stop avoiding! Focus! The flashers swirled red like traffic lights in the fog-blurred night. They glowed against the black of squad cars. Nothing moved down there. For a moment I imagined I saw Karen’s body between them, her bare arms and blue-clad legs stretched out like she was making snow angels, her blonde hair awry. I didn’t—couldn’t—let myself think about what had happened when she hit, of what was left of her. Couldn’t think about her, not yet, not here.

I was looking away. Again I forced myself to stare down at the freeway. It was almost directly below—almost, but not quite. A single lane in the parking area cut between the building and the freeway. I stepped forward. If she—

“Hey, get away from the edge! What’re you, crazy?”

I was the least likely person here to fall, but I wasn’t going to fight about that. I moved back. “Looks like there’s about eight or nine feet between the building and the freeway.”

“Yeah, so?” Larry said.

“Do suicides usually take a running leap?”

“There’s wind.”

“Not enough for that short a drop. If she stepped off the edge, she’d’ve landed next to the building.”

“You forensics?” He eyed me, then John.

“I’m talking the mechanics of falling. To leap that far, you need a running start.”

“Look—”

“No, you look. Look at where the road is. If you wanted to jump would you believe you could jump that far?”

“We’re not talking about me. We’re—”

“A jump like that, it’s Crouching Dragon. If you had to leap that far between buildings you’d be dead. You’d need to run, to get up speed.” You’d need a ramp, a catcher, a dummy, and a damned good editor back in the studio.

“Or you’d need to be pushed,” John said. “Anyone working on that?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the detective.”

“Who is . . . ?”

“Broder.”

Bad, very bad. Bad enough John’s car caused the mess outside of his woman’s house. Broder’d been after John already, but now he’d have live ammunition, too, for his hunt. When he found out John’s brother was the victim’s attorney, that his sister had spent the afternoon with her, and that she’d been able to steal John’s car because he’d left the keys in it, John would be not merely toast, he’d be charred crumbs. As for me, I’d be sitting in an interview booth till sunrise. And Gary, who’d set this whole thing in motion, I didn’t want to think about him. Whatever his reason, I was sure it was no prank. When he learned how Karen died he’d be devastated. He’d need time, before the police caught up with him, to stop feeling guilty and start thinking like a lawyer again.

When Broder asked, John would have to have answers; he’d have to be straight with him. Which meant, we needed to get out of here. Now.