Bad Scene Page 4

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In her kitchen overlooking a rainy Potrero Hill the next morning, Colleen made extra strong coffee, took it into her office where she sat down, turned on the desk lamp against the gray skies. She pulled her most recent photos from an envelope and flipped them over as she sipped coffee. There was her client’s husband leaving his Polk Street liaison with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Mr. Philanderer had no idea his world was about to come crashing down. Despite Lucky, and Pam, and the rumor about the mayor, Colleen still had paying clients and work to do.

  She called her client, who lived in the Marina. The woman was furious, but at the same time, darkly satisfied to know her suspicions about her husband had been correct. Colleen experienced a swell of relief. An adulterer wasn’t worth getting your heart broken over and it made her job easier if her client wasn’t a teary mess. Colleen arranged a time to meet with her that day.

  She went through her older photos. There was Shuggy Johnston, getting off his chopper in front of the Thunderbird, along with his two compadres. She had little doubt Shuggy and his pals had a hand in Lucky’s savage beating. But she needed hard proof. Lawrence wasn’t going to be any help.

  She made a phone call to Owens at work on the off chance he was in, even though he said he was taking time off. He wasn’t in. With Luck’s recent development, it seemed critical to look into the mayor rumor sooner, if it hadn’t been done so already. Owens said he’d take care of things and was good to his word, but, with Pam in the mix, it added a level of anxiety. She didn’t know Owens well, but she called his house anyway. He lived in West Portal, a middle-class neighborhood by the Muni tunnel.

  A young woman answered, and Colleen recalled hearing that Owens had robbed the cradle. This babe in arms had a harsh tone. Colleen told her she was a colleague and got a simple “he’s not here,” followed by a hang-up before she could leave a message.

  So much for that. For now.

  Colleen threw on her gray rain jacket and drove over to the Marina, met her client in a fancy little coffee shop, gave her photos of her beloved and his dalliance, and went on to explain that although the photos confirmed her husband’s affair, they would most likely be considered hearsay in court, since the two parties were not together in any of them. She suggested that her client mull things over, giving her the standard think-twice speech. Sometimes marriages were worth saving, etcetera. Her client laughed out loud at that, set her cup down with a clank, and said what she wanted was a shot of Mr. Philanderer and his blond squeeze together so she could nail the bastard but good.

  “You say he’s got her stashed over the dry cleaners? Great—because that’s exactly where I’m going to take him—the cleaners. I want that photo.”

  More paid work. Colleen had bills, although her mind was on Lucky, neo-Nazi bikers, and Pam especially. And the curious scrap of newspaper Colleen had found in Lucky’s room. Monday. Ten p.m.

  So she motored over to Polk Street, windshield wipers streaking away rain, and idled across from the dry cleaners for a moment. The apartment upstairs was dark.

  Patience.

  She drove to a bus stop where she parked in the red zone long enough to use a payphone. Parking in San Francisco was not getting any easier. She slipped in a dime, called SF General, learned that Lucky was still in the ICU. She was put through to Nurse Stevens, the head nurse who’d kicked her out. There was minor improvement. Lucky had even mumbled that he was hungry. Good, Colleen thought. Great, in fact.

  “I’d like to stop by,” she asked.

  “The answer is no,” Nurse Stevens said. “He needs his rest. Tomorrow—maybe.”

  “Was there any money in his wallet, by the way?” She’d had to leave before she found out.

  “Twenty-seven dollars.”

  So Lucky hadn’t been robbed. But Colleen already suspected that. Colleen thanked her.

  The puttering of an SPFD meter maid motor cart broke her thoughts. It drew up behind the Torino. Colleen hung up the pay phone, dashed to the car, waving her arms. She managed to talk herself out of a ticket and headed home. It was when she turned left on Gough that she saw the car following her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It wasn’t always easy in a city like San Francisco to tell if someone was following you in a vehicle, especially in the rain. Traffic was a given so someone behind you was a given as well. But an unmarked police car stood out, particularly a new white boxy LTD the size of an aircraft carrier. Everything about this one was as generic as could be, with plain wheels and hubcaps, which she had spotted in the rearview mirror when it turned behind her on Gough. It stayed two cars behind, standard tail procedure. With the rain it was hard to make out who was at the wheel. There might have been two people.

  She turned right on Geary, the main east-west artery out to the beach, even though she wasn’t going that way. The sedan turned as well, hiding in a block of cars.

  She swung over to the left of four lanes, as if heading out to the avenues. Dialed in KSAN, the Jive 95, studying the rearview mirror.

  Big White was a few car lengths behind, one lane over.

  At a yellow light she gunned it, the Torino lifting, leaving most of the traffic behind. Big White picked up enough speed to follow through.

  Up the hill approaching the Geary underpass, where two of four lanes split to the right, she waited until the very last moment, shot over, exited the main thoroughfare, up the hill towards Masonic. Stopped at a green light, briefly, checked the rearview. There was Big White, dawdling along behind, killing time. Following for sure.

  Something to do with her warning about the mayor? Owens wouldn’t have her tailed, but whoever the case had been handed to might. Supervisor Jordan Kray was an ex-cop and SFPD might be checking her out.

  On Masonic she turned left, skidding slightly on wet asphalt, and drove into the upper Sears parking lot, full enough early in the day. She drove around the upper lot, crawled toward the exit, lurking by the wall with the engine running, tucked away.

  And here came the white Ford, bouncing into the lot. With the rain she couldn’t get a good look inside. The car headed back towards the Sears entrance, no doubt looking for her.

  Colleen flew out of the lot, headed home.

  The cops were following her.

  The Jive 95 started playing “Miss You” by the Stones. Colleen changed the station.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Later that morning, Colleen sat at her new, used IBM Selectric, typing up a report for a client. She’d bought a refurbished model, cheaper than paying someone to do her typing, plus no waiting. The typewriter had a correction feature, a white ribbon that was a pain to change but a boon for her typing skills. Right now, she was hunting and pecking.

  Kind of how most of her cases went.

  She finished the report, pulled it from the typewriter, gave it a quick once-over, started on the invoice. She needed to stay solvent so she could chase down Pamela, her reason for coming to California in the first place, fresh out of prison, just over a year ago.

  She still had to check in on Luck at SF General.

  The doorbell rang, pulling her out of her thoughts.

  Colleen pushed her roller chair back, went out to the long front room, pulled the window blind back an inch. It had stopped raining and the street glistened. Down on Vermont, double parked, was a white Ford LTD sedan. An unmarked cop cruiser, the second one today. Or perhaps the same one that had followed her earlier.

  At the intercom in the hallway, Colleen asked who it was.

  A man’s voice, nice, belonging to Sergeant Dwight, who said he was referred to her by Inspector Owens. About time. She buzzed him in, waited at the top of the third-floor landing. She brushed her hair out with her fingers, realized she was slumming it in her chamois-soft denim bell-bottoms, bare feet, and a yellow Smiley Face Have a Nice Day T-shirt Alex had given her because Alex said she needed to smile more. No bra but it was too late to do anything about that.

  A youngish guy came smartly up
the stairs in a slight jog, about thirty, athletic, dressed conservatively in gray slacks, herringbone tweed jacket. He turned at the top of the stairwell and she noticed his steely blue eyes right away, contrasting his brown layered cut, long for a cop, but neat, just off the collar. Understated but hip. Slim blue button-down shirt and dark blue tie. Well-defined facial features, handsome in a supporting actor kind of way. Good-looking but downplaying it, most likely angling for an older look to climb the career ladder.

  But she sure noticed. It had been a while since she’d been out on a date, or whatever they were calling them these days.

  He smiled at Have a Nice Day. “Ms. Hayes?”

  “Colleen.”

  Got his badge out.

  Most people didn’t look twice at a badge, but Colleen wasn’t one of them. Matthew Dwight was an SFPD sergeant, Special Operations.

  She showed him in. He chose to stand, his back to her, looking out the kitchen window at the fog breaking over her deck facing an invisible Potrero Hill.

  “Nice old place,” he said.

  “I like it.”

  “Just you, is it?”

  Professional or personal? He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “I just moved in,” she said.

  He turned from the window, giving her a smile to possibly make up for the nosy question. “Inspector Owens passed along some information,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. There was the telltale bulge of a gun under his right arm. A lefty.

  “That’s right,” she said. She wanted to hear him say it first. Due diligence.

  “An alleged threat to a member of city government. The mayor, to be exact.”

  She nodded.

  “Supervisor Jordan Kray’s name was mentioned,” he continued.

  “And you’ve been assigned.”

  “Unofficially.”

  “Just unofficially?”

  “These kinds of investigations are kept under the radar—unless they go somewhere.”

  “And what makes them go somewhere?”

  He rubbed his chin. “The first step is establishing the validity of the tip.”

  She leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossed her arms. She had promised Lucky anonymity, even if that didn’t mean too much to him now. But she still had a responsibility to protect him and he’d gotten into enough trouble already. She never quite trusted SFPD. Especially when unmarked cars followed her around. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it to Owens if I didn’t think it was serious.”

  “I’m sure you might think that, but it’s my job.”

  “Didn’t Owens give you the photos? Shuggy Johnston and his two blood brothers?”

  “He did.”

  “My source heard them talking about the mayor. Those are the ones to look at first.”

  “But your guidelines and mine might be different,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Which is a nice way of saying you don’t quite believe me.”

  “With all due respect,” he said, “you’ve got a history.”

  “You looked into my record.”

  “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “Same here,” she said. “But I’m sure Owens vouched for me.”

  “He did.”

  “Then let me ask you this,” she said. “If I wasn’t a woman, with a history, would you still want to talk to my source?”

  “I need all the information before I can proceed.”

  She took a breath. How to handle this? “What I can say is that my source is in the hospital right now and might not make it. And the reason he’s there is that those bikers throwing Jordan Kray’s name around in connection with shooting the mayor put him there.”

  He frowned. “You have proof they beat up your friend?”

  “Ninety-nine percent.”

  “So, give me his name.”

  “You’ve got plenty to go on—if you want to pursue it.”

  He let it go. “The assertion is that these bikers have a connection to neo-Nazis and the Ku Klux Klan.”

  “Swastikas and Confederate flags on their bikes.” She mentioned Shuggy Johnston’s drug dealing.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “And what does ‘okay’ mean?”

  “It means I look into it,” he said.

  “Excellent. Look into it, how?”

  “I thank you for coming forward, Colleen, but this is where your involvement stops. It’s our case from now on.” He got out a business card, a gold cross pen, and jotted a number on the back of the card. He handed it to her. “My home number is on the back. If you have any more information, give me a call. In the meantime, you’re done with this case. Owens told me that you’re hands on—and that doesn’t work with me.”

  She took the card. “I want to be kept in the loop. I’m the one who brought it to your attention. And my client paid for it with a beating.”

  He put his pen away. “I can’t promise anything.”

  She wanted to ask him about SFPD following her that afternoon. It might have even been him. She trusted Owens but Sergeant Dwight she didn’t know.

  “‘Have a nice day.’” He smiled at her shirt.

  She showed Dwight out, sat back down at her typewriter.

  Screw this. She could leave the mayor thing alone—maybe—if Pamela wasn’t in the picture.

  She got up, went to her closet, slid hangers, looking for an outfit that might bait a biker.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It wasn’t until early evening that Shuggy’s Harley came roaring down O’Farrell. Colleen was parked across the street, a few car-lengths up, smoking a Virginia Slim, the window half open. Decked out in a black leather mini and platform sling-back heels, the SF cold goose-bumped her bare legs after a day of stakeout, in between checking Mr. Philanderer’s love nest and calling SF General. Lucky was still in the ICU and she wasn’t allowed to visit. She had her leather car coat on, which looked great, but wasn’t exactly warm.

  She sat up as Shuggy backed his chopper into a spot in front of the Thunderbird.

  On his own.

  Colleen tossed her cig out the window, rolled it up, hopped out of the car, clumped across O’Farrell, dodging a Yellow cab blaring its horn. Shuggy stood at the top of the half dozen stairs to the Thunderbird, his keys out.

  “Hey, Shuggy!”

  He turned, his unblinking eyes scouring Colleen in her tight white lace stretch top under her leather coat. No bra. Not too subtle, but she hadn’t figured Shuggy for the subtle type.

  “Hey there,” he said in a gravelly voice, reminding her of her ex, taking her back to darker days for a moment. “I don’t know you, do I? I sure think I would have remembered.”

  She looked away coyly, then back, meeting his gaze with a come-hither smirk. She introduced herself as Carol Anne, a variation of her go-to alias. “I used to live here a while back.”

  “Well, all I can say is that it’s too bad I wasn’t around at the time, Carol Anne. What can I do you for?”

  She dropped her voice. “I heard you might have a little Lucy.” Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds—LSD.

  “Oh, yeah?” He squinted a smile. “Where’d you hear that?”

  She was fishing. Shuggy was known for dealing acid and Moon Ranch were known for making same. And Lucky’s note had mentioned them. Monday. 10 p.m. “Oh, word gets around.”

  “I wish.” He dropped his voice, too. “Waiting on a shipment.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, one platform on the next step up, exposing some side thigh. Nine years of working out in Denver Women’s Correctional Facility gym hadn’t hurt her legs. “But I’m up for anything else you got.” She laid the innuendo on with a trowel.

  His eyes darted to her bare thigh. “Got some wicked Jamaican if you care to smoke a Jay.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say.”

  “Sure—why not?”

  A minute later, they were on the third floor, Shuggy unlocking the combination padlock to ro
om 312. She was able to only get two of the three numbers.

  Shuggy’s room didn’t disappoint as a biker drug-dealing lair, with an American flag as a bedspread and at least a thousand dollars’ worth of stereo equipment stacked up against one wall. The turntable sat on top of a huge Pioneer speaker cabinet. A dorm fridge buzzed by the bathroom door. A 17” RCA color TV teetered on a dresser. On a mirrored mantelpiece she noticed a set of scales and a bong. Tools of the trade. The place reeked of stale dope.

  “Park your tush,” Shuggy said, tearing off his biker jacket within its sleeveless denim jacket as a single item of clothing, revealing a muscular torso and big arms. He unplugged the phone. He had his own phone, in a place like this. But it made sense for a dope dealer.

  Colleen adjusted her miniskirt and sat perched on a grimy green love seat under the window. One arm was torn and tufted. While Shuggy got a couple of tall cans of Schlitz Malt Liquor out of the dorm fridge, she studied the posters on the wall: from psychedelic optical eye play to R. Crumb’s Stoned Again with the melting face, to a reproduction Waffen SS recruiting poster, a stoic German soldier in a Stahlhelm helmet looking off into the distance.

  Shuggy flicked off the overhead light, leaving the two of them in semi darkness for a moment, making Colleen wonder before he flipped on a black light over a psychedelic poster that began to move with waves of electric color. He handed Colleen a beer, turned, dropped a tonearm on a record already on the turntable. She was able to make out a spider web tattoo on one elbow. If it was legit, he had killed someone. Her concern for Pam only grew. The Stooges came on. “Search and Destroy.” Standard biker fare. Shuggy came over, sat right next to her on the sofa, the rough denim of his big leg not quite touching hers. She waited a sec, gave him a tight smile, moved as if he might be on the right track but perhaps moving a little too fast. He smelled like motor oil. He tore the pop top off his beer, gave the unopened can in her hand a questioning look.