Too Close to the Edge Page 8

“Laurence Mayer,” he snapped. “He lives in the cottage behind Liz.”

  At four-thirty in the morning he wasn’t home! He would have a lot of explaining to do.

  CHAPTER 10

  SITUATED BEHIND THE PALM tree, Liz Goldenstern’s building looked very white, very “California.” The sky too was very “California”—no hint of sun, just the backdrop shifting from the deep charcoal of night to the pale gray of morning fog. If this were an average spring day, the fog would lift by ten and the sky would be a clear blue, unbroken by clouds. Nothing appeared to have changed here since I left an hour and a half ago. There was no sign of life, no indication that any of the tenants had returned. I walked down the driveway to the rear cottage and knocked. Now in the light I could see that the cottage had been remodeled from a two-car garage. And there was something odd about the result. It took me a moment to realize that the building was earth-bound. Few Bay Area houses had basements, but underneath most there were crawl spaces three or four feet high that housed gas heaters, pipes, and frequently many boxes of old clothes, school books, and Christmas gifts too appalling to be used but too dear to be thrown out—items that would have been consigned to an attic, if these houses had had attics. But Laurence Mayer’s cottage had no crawl space. His door was at ground level. There wasn’t even a sill.

  I knocked again. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  The man who pulled open the door was wearing red and gray striped nylon shorts and a T-shirt that said “Bay to Breakers.” His graying hair hung in curly wet clumps around a long, intelligent looking face. His body was toned in a way that Brad Butz’s would never be, with the mounds of each muscle and taut tendons on his limbs sleekly defined. His was a body that could have been ten or fifteen years younger than fifty. But the lines in his face betrayed that illusion. They crowded around his eyes and across his brow, the signs of straining to penetrate more deeply, to consider more thoroughly—markers of tensions and frustrations that could not be thrown off. I wondered if the much-touted runner’s euphoria ever pushed his patients’ miseries from his thoughts.

  “I’m Detective Smith, Homicide.” I held out my badge.

  Most people either don’t bother looking at it or they give it a passing glance. But Laurence Mayer leaned toward it and read the inscription and repeated the number. When he had satisfied himself, he said “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so early—”

  “No problem. I just got back from a run. I was just about to jump in the shower.” He stood in the doorway, but unlike Brad Butz who had planted himself defensively on his threshold, Laurence Mayer leaned one hand on the door and waited for me to explain myself. He looked like he had had a lot of experience waiting, and there was something about the pleasant crinkling around his eyes and that expectant half smile that made me feel obliged to get to the point. In reaction, I took a breath and held my silence an extra moment before saying, “Liz Goldenstern has been killed.”

  For a moment his expression didn’t change. Then he flushed. “Liz? Are you sure? Have you checked her flat?” He squeezed his eyes shut, then breathed deeply in and out. “I’m sorry, Officer. It’s such a shock for me. You’d better come in.”

  I walked into a sparsely furnished waiting room without windows but with doors leading from both interior walls. Opening the door at the rear he said, “This way. We could talk in the office, but my flat upstairs is more comfortable.”

  I followed him through a compact kitchen and up a loop of metal circular stairs to a studio that occupied the entirety of the second floor. Unlike the windowless waiting room, here we could look out on a magnolia tree in the neighboring yard, or through French doors to a small porch at the rear. A faint aroma of sandalwood incense permeated the room. Dhurrie rugs covered the hardwood floors, and for heat there was a potbelly stove next to the doors—not the most energy efficient arrangement. I wasn’t surprised to see the double bed, in the other corner, unslept in.

  He plucked a Walkman off the white bamboo sofa facing the French doors, placed it atop the stereo, and sat down, holding out a hand to indicate the other end of the couch for me. “How did Liz die?”

  “She was drowned.”

  “Oh my God.” Again, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, I’m usually better controlled than this. A psychologist is supposed to control his reactions. We can’t be falling apart … but Liz … well, she was much more than just a tenant. She changed my life …” He swallowed, and said so softly that I had to lean in toward him, “And I hers.”

  I waited a moment, but he didn’t go on. “Was Liz Goldenstern a patient of yours after her accident?”

  “No, no. When I said I changed her life, I didn’t mean I helped her.” Cold air blew in beneath the French doors. Under the light thatch of hair his legs shivered, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I know,” he said slowly, directing his gaze out the doors into the fog, “that you will respect my confidence as much as you can in a murder investigation.”

  I nodded.

  Still staring blankly out the doors, he said, “Before the accident, I didn’t treat people with disabilities. Then I led an entirely different life, a very hedonistic life, I’m afraid. I had a private practice that brought me a considerable amount of money, and even considering I have two ex-wives and three children, I still had enough left for sailing, flying, to go to Mazatlan for the hang gliding, and Aspen for skiing. I was obsessed with winning, then. My patients were runners, drag racers, pilots, swimmers; a couple played pro football. They came to me to rid themselves of those personality holdovers that made them flabby in competition. I called it Mental Cellulite. I was fascinated with what made a winner and what was necessary to free a winner from the superficial entrapments of mediocrity. It was a very specialized practice, very upper middle class, I’m afraid. But in fairness, I will say that I was helpful to my clients,” he said, turning toward me. He sounded more relaxed now, discussing his successful past. He hadn’t even winced when he said “Mental Cellulite.”

  I was on the point of prodding him, when he flushed and mumbled a few words.

  “Would you repeat that?”

  He swallowed. “The accident changed everything.”

  “Liz’s accident?”

  “Yes. I want you to know exactly what happened.” His voice sounded as if it were being controlled by will power alone, and one moment of carelessness would allow it to break like an adolescent’s.

  I nodded.

  “She was running to her truck—she had a truck from work. It was dusk. She was in a hurry. A car rounded the corner”—he swallowed—“going too fast.” His hands pressed against his thighs. “The impact threw her against a truck. It snapped her neck.” He swallowed again, staring hard out the window. “The driver was drunk.”

  His face was red, and the effort it took him to turn to face me was evident. “I was that driver.”

  Another time I might have been surprised. But after seeing Liz’s body, hassling with Brad Butz, and racing around all night, it would have taken a lot more to raise a reaction in me. He didn’t comment on my lack of response, but his eyes opened just a bit wider, and I don’t think I was imagining a certain disappointment in them. I let a moment pass before asking, “What was your sentence for that?”

  “Probation and a fine, a stiff fine. But no fine could be enough. No judge could have sentenced me to what I sentenced Liz. Years in jail, loss of my profession, all my money … whatever a judge took, I would still be able to walk out of the courtroom. This sounds mawkish, I know, but there’s no way I can express the horror I felt. For weeks I woke up every morning thinking it had all been a nightmare. If only it …” He shook his head. “As soon as she could have visitors, I went to see Liz. I told her I was the one who had hit her. I told her I would spend the rest of my days doing whatever I could to make her life more comfortable. I promised her I would never drive again. I know that sounds like something out of a soap opera, but I wasn’
t doing it for her, but for me. The accident scarred me—I’d be a fool to say as much as it scarred her—but that one instance changed my life completely.”

  “How did she respond to your offer?”

  “Just as I would have expected if I had known about the psychological sequences of adjustment to the trauma of spinal injury.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “She told me to drop dead.” He shrugged. “I left. But I came back the next day, and the day after that, until eventually she believed me.”

  “And then you redid the front apartment for her?”

  “It wasn’t as simple as that. I didn’t own this building. At the time I was renting the lower flat. There were just two flats then. But I knew Liz would need a place like that, and she’d certainly need it more than I did. I bought the building, and gave it to her so she’d always have a place to live.”

  “The whole building?”

  “I’m still making payments,” he said. “But Liz didn’t want the whole first floor. She said it would be more trouble than it was worth. So I divided it in two. At first her attendant lived in the rear flat. That way Liz had someone she could call, and she also had her privacy. She wasn’t a person who wanted someone living with her.”

  “Her attendant doesn’t live there now?”

  “Oh, no. It’s not the same attendant. Liz must have been through ten or twelve since then. That’s not unusual. Attendant work is hard and ill-paid. And even though I pay well above the going rate, Liz was still in the position of drawing from the pool of people who are accustomed to working for minimum wage, and who frequently are willing to do that kind of work because it’s a job they can quit whenever they want. It’s a very unusual person who sees attendant work as a career.”

  “You’re saying you paid Liz’s attendant?”

  “I wanted to be sure she had the best. And the rent from the back unit more than covers it. Liz insisted I make use of that, even though as the building’s owner, it’s legally hers. But to get back to Liz’s living situation, Liz was much more independent as the months passed. She didn’t need someone next door. And if she did have a problem, I’m right back here all day, and all night.”

  Except last night, I thought.

  “I understood her difficulties. Now I don’t fill my time seeing athletes. My patients are in chairs or have mental disorders. Three-quarters of the people I see are on MediCal or Social Security. I don’t make near the money I did before, but I provide a much more valuable service.”

  I recalled Liz Goldenstern snapping at me, telling me how much she hated being pushed in her chair. “How did Liz feel about your commitment to her?”

  For the first time he seemed to relax. “She asked me to be on the planning committee of Marina Vista. I’d say that was a pretty clear endorsement.”

  “What was your role on that committee?”

  “To begin with, I found her two of the four backers—two guys I knew from the professional sports scene who were looking for a legitimate investment and looking to clean up their images.” He shrugged. “I will be active on the planning committee until Marina Vista is finished. Then I’ll be on the board. And it’s a good thing I’ve been there. Over the past three years I’ve gained a great understanding, more than I would have wanted. I don’t think I overstate it when I say I understand as well as an unimpaired person can. Let me give you an example. The contractor was planning to construct just another nice looking apartment building. Oh, he was taking wheelchair access into consideration, but he didn’t give a thought to the psychological outlook of the people who would be living there. That’s understandable. He’s a carpenter, not a psychologist. For instance, it didn’t occur to him that social contact with the other tenants is important. The average person can hop in their car and whip over to a friend’s. But for someone in a power chair, that’s a big undertaking. So a community room in the building is important. Many have to have meals cooked for them, so a community kitchen made sense. And people with disabilities need exercise as much, if not more than others. Exercise facilities are important. And a pool. For a number of people with disabilities, gentle calisthenics in the water is excellent conditioning. So I insisted on a pool, a pool as good as anyone else would expect. And a court for wheelchair basketball. The entirety of the first two floors will be devoted to those concerns. And then there’s the outdoor ramp. It will spiral around the building. It’ll be a great way for those who are ambulatory to use the muscles necessary for climbing and descending. And for the people in chairs, it’ll be a pleasant ride. So,” he said, with the self-assurance of one who was comfortable espousing Mental Cellulite, or the riddance of it, “I think I’m safe in saying I’ve made a difference in Marina Vista.”

  “Brad Butz just told me the pool and the exercise room were his ideas.”

  He smiled. “Well, he probably thinks they were.”

  “Were they?”

  “It doesn’t matter who conceived the plan. The important thing is that it will be carried through.”

  I glanced at my watch. Barely an hour to the Detectives’ Morning Meeting. “Did Liz say anything about being afraid, or being threatened?” I asked.

  He thought a moment. “No, nothing. I can’t remember her ever admitting she was afraid.”

  “She died on the site of Marina Vista. Would you like to speculate why Liz was down there?”

  There was no hesitation now. “If Brad Butz needed her help she would have gone. Liz was a sharp woman, Detective, but I’ll tell you, I don’t know what got into her when she chose Brad Butz as the project contractor. Oh, I don’t mean that the man can’t handle the rudiments of building. I’m sure he can read a blueprint as well as the next guy. But he’s got no imagination. If something unexpected comes up, he panics. Lately he’s had trouble with some of the Rainbow Villagers. They’re not doing anything more than petty vandalism, but Butz is completely thrown by it. So, if he asked her to come with him to deal with them, I can’t imagine her saying no.”

  Butz had said he hadn’t seen Liz all evening, but, of course, suspects had been known to lie. “Any other reason?” When he didn’t answer, I stood. “One more thing, Dr. Mayer, I need to know where you were last night.”

  Unlike Brad Butz’s outraged reaction, Laurence Mayer greeted the question with the type of smile that was an answer in itself. “With a lady friend.”

  “I’ll need her name and address.”

  “Of course. It is Greta Tennerud. She lives on Claremont.”

  “Greta Tennerud, the marathon runner?”

  His smile widened. “You’re thinking she’s beautiful, a world class athlete, and half my age, right?”

  That was exactly my reaction.

  “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy.”

  “Is she at home now?”

  “She should be training. The Bay to Breakers is next month. It’s an important race for her. But I think today’s one of her off days. She said she was going in to work early. So you may catch her at Racer’s Edge.”

  “One last thing,” I said, moving toward the staircase. “Who are the tenants in the other flats? And where are they?”

  “Don’t ask,” he said, suddenly looking entirely his age. “My son and his girlfriend have the upstairs. One of his friends is downstairs. The lot of them took off for San Diego over the weekend. In need of some sun and surf, they said. Apparently, it was a greater need than a week of education. But once they’re in college, what can you do?”

  I shrugged and gave him my card and the usual request to call me if he remembered anything useful.

  As I hurried to my car, I recalled what Connie Pereira had said about Racer’s Edge, the running shoe store on Telegraph. Nine of the twelve pairs of stolen shoes came from there.

  CHAPTER 11

  FIVE TIMES THE NUMBER of stolen shoes could have stood in the window of Racer’s Edge. But it held only two cardboard figures dressed for speed. I knocked on the glass door. I was due for some luck in finding a wi
tness where she was supposed to be.

  At 7:20 A.M., Telegraph Avenue looked like an abandoned movie set. Most shopkeepers wouldn’t be here for a couple hours. Students were still eating breakfast or catching a last few minutes of sleep. And for the street people who leaned against the walls watching one minute flow into the next, this time of morning was still yesterday.

  I pounded again.

  A tall, sleekly muscled woman with corn-blond straight hair strode toward the door. I recognized her from pictures in the papers when she won the Bay to Breakers in San Francisco two years ago. Her skin was already tan, even though the rains had been heavy and seemingly constant for the past three months. In red and gray striped nylon running shorts and a T-shirt that said “Racer’s Edge,” she looked as warm as I felt in my wool jacket. Her red headband wasn’t even stained from sweat. “I’m Detective Smith.” I held out my shield.

  She shook her head. “Not another theft?” She pulled the door opened. “Come talk in back, where people from the street cannot see. Even at seven-thirty in the morning, they will bang on the door if they see me.” Greta’s delivery had that pleasant lyric quality of Scandinavian speech. And there was just enough hesitancy in her word choice to suggest a lack of sureness with the idiom.

  She strode past racks of running shorts, shiny lightweight suits, lycra pants, displays of weighted armbands, innersoles, disks offering computerized running programs, and an array of glossy books that must have contained the entirety of collected knowledge on putting one foot before the other. From the shelf beneath the cash register, she drew a manila envelope and plucked out a receipt. “We have to keep these copies from the charge cards. The woman who helps my bookkeeper alphabetizes them for me. But in the year I’ve managed this store, this is the first time I have ever looked at one after the sale. I just stuff them in an envelope for her. Here, you will want to see this. It is good for a detective to be after this craven thief.” She extended the receipt.