Cop Out Page 6

  But print dust was the least of Ott’s problems. I made my way out into the hallway, through a knot of off-duty officers. The garden-variety murder scene is no great draw, but one in the office of the biggest pain-in-the-ass private eye in town is box-office magic. I had just hit the street when I spotted Jason Figueroa leaping from the door of a press van. It said a lot that he had beaten print reporters, particularly the undergraduate from the Daily Californian who probably lived in a dorm a couple of blocks away. I moved on before Figueroa spotted me.

  In an hour a medical examiner would have eye-balled Hemming and given Inspector Doyle a rough estimate of the time of death. Ott’s stuffy office, in a building in which the heat had been turned off for the summer in 1954, provided as controlled conditions you’re likely to find outside. The medical examiner would have no trouble giving us the murderer’s window of opportunity. And when he did, I needed to know if Ott had still been here in Berkeley to look through it. Or if he’d clambered into that dark sedan before then.

  I needed Charles Edward Kidd to be a lot more specific than he’d been before. I headed to Ott’s car again; perhaps Kidd figured that having found him there once, I would cross it off my list. But, alas, he wasn’t that naive. I called in to the university police with a description of Kidd. The campus, with its hillocks and knolls, stream banks and undersides of bridges, its outside stairwells and protected spaces between shrubs and building walls, provided a myriad of lurking spots. I drove on around People’s Park, the focus of decades of demonstrations. It was empty now; the nocturnal curfew prevailed, and it would take a more savvy lurker than Kidd to hide in there. I tried the familiar spots, behind shops, apartments, churches. No Kidd.

  I tried to see through his eyes. I think better in proximity to liquid. The shower’s best, but on the go, a latte’s a close second. I got the latte from the Med and stood outside, with the wind fingering my short hair, the fog slipping its icy mitten around my neck. Kidd was bright; he prided himself on originality. He was brash, impatient; he’d make enemies. No wonder he wasn’t in the normal hiding places. He’d already chosen one unusual sleeping spot tonight, found because of his insider knowledge of Ott. What else, where else—

  I gulped another mouthful of coffee, put a lid on the latte, swung back into the car, and beelined up Telegraph to the street below Ott’s building. If you can’t drive with a full cup of hot coffee, you’ve got no business being a cop. I pulled up, took another swallow, and called the dispatcher.

  “This is Adam sixteen. My ten-twenty’s Channing below Tele. I’m headed into the alley behind the Tele buildings.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Ten-four.”

  In the thirty yards between Telegraph and the alley I spotted two guys scrunched up in dim doorways; one who might have been eighteen looked, in sleep, as if he should have a teddy bear in the curl of his arm. By the alley a man sat against the building, a damp paper cup ever ready for spare change, his foot moving slowly to the beat of that different drummer who still tapped out the drug beat of decades gone by.

  A pedestrian would have dismissed the alley altogether, assuming it was no more than a path to the garbage cans. I would have overlooked it myself if I hadn’t chased more than one suspect down its narrow path.

  I pulled out my flashlight, a hefty metal cylinder fourteen inches long. At least one officer had defended himself with one—and got suspended for a month without pay for improper use of equipment.

  I recalled Leonard’s assessment of the alley: “Getting through here’s like crawling through someone’s intestines.” Had he been talking sudden sharp turns or garbage? If I’d asked, the answer would have been: Both. I aimed my light down and watched for rats. And tried to close my nose against the stink of urine. Twenty feet in I passed two nameless, numberless metal doors—business back doors, sealed tightly against break-ins. The scrapes on them indicated there had been some serious tries. Rats.

  Another ten feet, and the alley angled left. The corner was thick with garbage, a compost of garlic, tomato sauce, and urine. A dash of stomach acid, and it could indeed have been an intestine.

  The alley turned again, revealing a third metal door with a yellow sign above it, and once more till it ended abruptly at a brick wall. Instinctively I stepped back and flashed the light down. The stench here was less intense, the garbage had been swept away, and huddled in the corner of this poor man’s cul-de-sac was Charles Edward Kidd.

  He looked up, his face knotted in annoyance. Not anger, or the fear we often see, but the look of a smart guy who’s lost a game he thought he’d won.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, brushing off his serape as he eased to his feet. “How’d you find me?”

  I looked up at the windows two floors above us. “I’ve been in Ott’s office too.” But if I hadn’t been a police officer, I’d never have bothered looking out Ott’s dirt-mottled windows. I had, of course, and noted that the hole outside appeared to be an air shaft. Kidd had gone to some effort to discover otherwise. A good little observer, he.

  “I need to talk to you.” I added, “I’ll take you to the station.” His step was jauntier than mine as I followed him out of the alley. He didn’t mind sleeping in garbage, he seemed to be saying. But I minded for him. I cringed at the thought of his taking this misstep into the quicksand of street life, so easy to sink into, so very hard to yank himself out of. I knew the odds, but still, I didn’t want to believe that the open road led to this.

  The first thing Kidd spotted in the squad room was the box of bagels left over from a class. “Those bagels over there…bribe me.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll give me more information than a stale bagel will buy. But help yourself.”

  I seated him by the table where he would see officers rushing through, hear the copy machine’s hum, smell the coffee brewing—the reminders of the normal life that could once again be his. I had run Kidd’s name and birth date through files earlier and been surprised to find no mention of him. Very surprised. Now I poured a cup of coffee for him and one for myself and sat around the end of the table with him. “You saw Herman Ott getting into a dark car last night. What time was that?”

  “Almost dusk.” He opened his mouth like a baby bird and stuffed a prodigious portion of bagel inside.

  Almost dusk? Was that different from the dusk he’d indicated earlier? “But at what time?”

  He shook his head in answer to my question.

  “Think. What time?”

  Still chewing, he pointed to his empty wrist. Finally he swallowed and said, “I don’t do hours and minutes.”

  I gave up. “Well, we’ll start from go, then. I know you want to help Herman Ott. Maybe you know more than you realize. How long were you working for him?”

  He sipped at the weak coffee, scowled, and put the cup down. It made me think better of him. Hands still clasped on the cup like a crystal ball, he said, “ ’Bout three weeks with Herman. But it was hardly full-time. He’d spot me on the street and say there was some errand he wanted me to run.”

  “Where did he send you?”

  “Out for food. To pick up the Daily Cat, and the Express, and once The New York Times. The post office a buncha times. Sounds like nothing, but lemme tell you, you can kill a lot of time in line in the PO. It’s not like they put on an extra clerk if it’s busy.”

  “Did you notice the names on Ott’s letters or packages?”

  “Computer companies mostly. Herman’s thinking of going on-line. He’s not a man to go into a venture unprepared. When those catalogs start coming in, he’ll have to move out his desk to make room.”

  I was amazed by this revelation about Ott. I’d known Herman Ott for nearly a decade, and the only piece of electronic equipment in his office was an answering machine. He used that, presumably, so he’d know what calls he was not going to bother to answer. As for computers, Ott was a computer network unto himself. No apartment was burgled near Telegraph without Ott’s hearing, no corpse cold before h
e knew. I waited till Kidd sawed through the remainder of the bagel and asked, “Did he send anything to an individual or organization?”

  “You mean like the International Kidnap Club?”

  “Exactly. Or Harry Houdini the Third.”

  “Nah. And don’t think I didn’t look all that time I was in the PO line. Old Herman’s no fool. I coulda promised I wouldn’t peek, but it wouldn’t’ve mattered. No way I wasn’t going to see where those envelopes were going.”

  “Why didn’t he just have you drop them in the box?”

  “Probably would’ve. But he was sending me for stamps.”

  “Every time?” Ott’s business may have been marginal, but he’d been there for a quarter century. He should have had the confidence to buy more than one book of stamps at a time.

  “He wouldn’t use the flags. Didn’t like the flowers. Wouldn’t paste a memorial for any general or admiral on his letters. Animals were okay. There was a bird commemorative he went crazy over. State stamps he had to think about. Like Minnesota was fine, and Massachusetts. North Carolina he considered because of all the artists and writers, but he couldn’t bring himself to use it. Jesse Helms’s state, you know.”

  I laughed. “And people think it’s easy to be an old rad. Did he have any other state preferences?”

  “Like the ‘Hideout State’? No. The post office only puts out commemorative ones now and then.” He leaned back, a share-me smirk on his mouth—as if he were ready to offer a bit more free advice. Or keep it to himself.

  “Did you go to the library for him?”

  “No.”

  “Call the newspaper morgues?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get any information on mines or mining?”

  “No.”

  “Was he getting any computer printouts from other sources? Newspaper articles from the Internet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did he have any clients in the office while you were there?”

  “Nope.” He pulled the edge of the serape in front of him till the fabric was taut and sat staring at it as if the pattern of colors would reveal the truth. At the far end of the table one of the guys from evening watch settled in to write up a report. Behind their double window one of the swing shift sergeants sat talking on the phone; the other perched atop his desk, back to us, reports in hand, ear cocked automatically toward his shoulder radio. Kidd released the red cotton. “Well, Ott may have had one or two clients come in. I was hardly there all the time. You can’t exactly tell who’s a client and who’s just wandered into the building to get warm. But I never saw an ashtray or a scarf or anything around that Herman wouldn’t have himself. His clients, you know they’re more likely to stroll in late. I mean, Herman’s there all the time. He sleeps late. I mean, I lost my last job because I was late so often, and with Herman I woke him up a couple times.”

  “So are you saying he scheduled meetings in the middle of the night?” As soon as the words were out, I felt foolish. Schedule was such a formal word for Ott’s operation.

  “Well, actually, yeah. This one guy goes to some group that chants at four A.M. Herman saw him on his way there.”

  “Do you know what he came for?”

  “Wanted Herman to check out his incense importer. He was worried he was breathing in unholy pesticides.” Kidd’s smirk widened into a grin. “If you’re poisoned from burning sandalwood and malathion, do you get a free ride into the next life? Or just the assurance your corpse will be free from Mediterranean fruit flies? I asked Herman but…”

  “I know. He hates the idea of pesticides. Besides, he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

  “Particularly about his clients. He almost fired me over that.”

  “Because you laughed?”

  “No. Because I talked about the client, even to him.”

  I nodded. “Did anyone else stop by? Friends, relatives?”

  “Does Ott have relatives?”

  It was an odd concept. I couldn’t really picture him with friends, much less relatives. What would he do with them if he had them? I could hardly imagine Ott taking a couple of nephews to the A’s game. “So no one came by?”

  “Right.”

  “What about Brother Cyril? You know who he is, don’t you? Did you see Ott with him or his followers?”

  “Ott? You’re kidding, right?”

  “He had a little tin cross not an inch long. Bottom comes to a point, like a sword. Did he ever show it to you?”

  “Ott? A cross? You gotta be kidding.”

  Exactly what I would have said if I hadn’t asked the question. Still, I wondered…“How about on the street? Who did he meet there?”

  Kid thrust back in his chair. “You want me to tell you everyone Herman Ott talked to on the street? We’ll be here till next month. Or would if I knew folks here well enough to remember one from the other. I can tell you there’s not a guy sitting on the sidewalk he doesn’t know.”

  “Did any contact strike you as unusual?”

  He peered at the serape threads again. Finally he looked up, his dark eyes narrowed in concern. “I’ve thought about that: Was there something I should have spotted? But there’s no way to say. Herman didn’t stop and talk to everyone on the Avenue, but it was like he could have if he’d wanted to.”

  “What about Serenity Kaetz? She sells jewelry on the street.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Did you see him with a big clean-cut guy in his thirties, with brown hair?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. That’s what I’m telling you. I can’t be sure. But clean-cut…I doubt it.”

  “Does the name Bryant Hemming ring a bell?”

  “No.” For the first time his shoulders stiffened.

  “Are you sure? Give it a little thought.”

  “Why? Why is this guy so important?”

  I watched Kidd’s face as I said, “Because he’s dead. Because his corpse was in Herman Ott’s office.” Then I added, “But you knew that, didn’t you?” By now everyone on Telegraph would know.

  He plunged the last piece of bagel into his mouth.

  “Is that a yes?”

  He nodded.

  “So, Mr. Kidd, you said you saw Herman Ott get into a van or station wagon or RV last night. And then what?”

  He was still chewing, a whole lot more slowly than on previous bites.

  “Here’s what I’m guessing you did. You went up to Ott’s office to—”

  “No!”

  “Why not? Why wouldn’t you do that? It’s a whole lot better than sleeping in the car.”

  “Ott would’ve killed me if he found out I’ve got a—”

  “A key?”

  “Yeah, well…”

  If he thought Ott hadn’t figured that out, he didn’t know Ott as well as I’d assumed he did. Ott knew his gofers kept keys; when he started out as an assistant to the elderly detective he eventually replaced, he’d been profligate with keys. He’d told me that himself once. He knew keys to his office floated around the Avenue; he knew his lock could be picked. That’s the reason he used his dead bolt.

  And the reason it would be left off by someone who had only his door key. I don’t know if Kidd came to that conclusion too, but he said, “Listen, you don’t think that I…I mean, I didn’t even know the guy who bought it. I mean, listen, I had a place to crash last night; there was no reason for me to go to Ott’s anyway.”

  I let a moment pass before I said, “I’ve just asked you to come here as a witness. You’re free to go anytime. I’m not accusing you of anything now.” All that was true, but the last word hung in the air between us.

  I waited another moment, leaned both elbows on the desk, and looked straight at Charles Kidd. “Ott’s in a bind here. I don’t think he killed Bryant Hemming either. But every moment he’s missing he looks more suspicious. You’re his friend. Help me find him. Think. Did Brother Cyril call Ott? Did Bryant Hemming ca
ll him? Did Ott mention either of them? Did anyone else talk about him?”

  He stared at the serape, his hand knotted around the fabric. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t remember those names, but that doesn’t mean Ott didn’t know the guys. Why don’t you ask them?”

  I tried coming in from a different angle. “What did you do in the office? File things?”

  “No.”

  “Did you make any calls for him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of?” When he shook his head, I said, “Weren’t you ever in the office alone? Didn’t the man even go to the bathroom?”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s not like I rooted through his files.”

  I didn’t say, “But you did copy his key.”

  “Wait. I did answer the phone a couple times.”

  “Do you remember—”

  “Oh, yeah. AT and T offered Herman airline miles. You know Herman hates to fly. Then MCI—”

  I almost laughed. I could just picture the old rads around town, a couple of inmates in Santa Rita, the guys in the transient hotels sauntering down the hall to the phone and hearing, “Herman Ott has listed you among his family and friends for a phone discount.” “No personal calls?”

  He concentrated on weaving his fingers through the serape fringe, ignoring the fact that the threads were too short to house digits. “Once I came in when he was on the phone with some guy named Bill Loon.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Dunno.”

  “How do you spell the last name? Lewin? Louwen? Or Loon, like the bird?”

  The serape flew out of his hands; he guffawed.

  “Do you really know Ott or are you shitting me? I walk in on that conversation. Ott glares at me like I’m a fed eavesdropping. I back out into the hall so fast I just about trip over the doorsill. Do you think I came back in and asked for a spelling? But look, there was one other call.” A grin crept onto Kidd’s face. I’d seen Howard with that same “gotcha” expression. “Personal. From the blush on Ott’s face, I’d guess it was damned personal.”

  “Really?” I said, amazed. “Did you get a name?”