Kill Signal, page 19
part #1 of Marko Bell Series
“Exquisite,” Senator Banks said finally, with the air of a man whose pronouncements had been eagerly anticipated by people his entire life. He set the glass down on the table carefully.
Christ, thought Cannon. The sonuvabitch isn’t even going to drink it.
Deegan took a long swallow of his scotch-and-soda. “Now you make that story come out nice, Danny.”
Cannon resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. The story had been negotiated as a Q&A, slated to take up two full pages in the Sunday paper, and was little more than a chance for Banks to spout vapid platitudes. The usual boring stuff that no one would even read but would make Chronicle editors feel like they were “covering the issues.”
Cannon drained the last of his post-meal tequila. “Thanks for the time, Senator. I’m sure our readers will find your job training proposal deeply compelling.”
A small tinkling sound emanated from somewhere inside Jim Deegan’s jacket. He reached inside and pulled out a cell phone.
“Hello?”
Cannon was starting to gather his things when he sensed something strange in the silence coming from Deegan. The campaign aide looked as if all the color had drained from his face.
“I’ll call you right back,” Deegan said quietly. He put the phone away and straightened his tie. Then he smoothed the white tablecloth with his hands.
“What is it, Jim?” Senator Banks said.
Deegan cleared his throat and looked at Cannon. “Danny, old friend, do you think you could leave us be? We’ve got some off-the-record campaign strategy to discuss. That is, if you’ve finished your drink.”
“Say no more,” Cannon said. “I pride myself on never overstaying my welcome.”
Cannon picked up his tape recorder and reached under the table to grab his battered satchel. Instead of putting the recorder into the satchel, Cannon dropped the recorder lightly on the soft carpet. He had flipped the cassette over halfway through dinner and it was still rolling.
“Well, so long, gentlemen,” Cannon said.
Ten minutes later, Danny Cannon watched from behind a potted plant in the lobby as Senator Banks and Jim Deegan left the dining room of the Ritz Carlton. He went back into the restaurant and saw a busboy clearing the table.
“Excuse me,” Cannon said, bending down. “I think I left my tape recorder here. Honest to God, I’ve got to be more careful.”
Karen was driving back to the motel when her phone rang.
“Inspector, it’s Marko Bell.”
Karen pulled over, her heart jackhammering in her chest.
She could hear cars rushing by on Marko’s side of the line. It sounded like he was next to a freeway. “Where are you?”
“I’m getting off the phone in less than one minute, so let’s not waste time. What have you found out that links my wife to the Fielding murders?”
“What makes you think I’ve found out anything?”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Where are you? Marko, come in, let’s talk.”
“Twenty-five seconds.”
Karen felt the sweat break out on her forehead. She didn’t want to give Marko anything without getting anything in return, but she had no leverage. And she felt the clock ticking.
“I can’t...Marko, please…”
“You wanted me to trust you. Here’s your chance.”
“I already told you what I know about the Fieldings.”
“I’m not talking about the Fieldings. I want to know what you know about Donna. You have fifteen seconds.”
She took a deep breath.
“This morning I spoke to Donna’s adviser at USF. Donna was looking into a child sleepwalking case from 1969 for her thesis. You must have known the general topic, but maybe she didn’t mention the specific case. Maybe it was wasn’t even that important to her. Just something she was looking into. Due diligence.”
“Five seconds.”
“The child was Rebecca Fielding. She was Baxter and Elaine Fielding’s daughter. She fell off the deck in Telegraph Hill.”
The line went dead.
Karen pulled into the parking lot behind the Cable Car Motel.
Think.
Marko hadn’t cared about any possible link between Donna Bell’s murder and the Fielding murders. He didn’t believe one existed.
But something had happened. He’d learned something that made him want to know the link.
I’m not talking about the Fieldings. I want to know what you know about Donna.
He’d found out something about the Fieldings. He just needed to confirm that there was a link to Donna’s killing.
And as soon as he heard Donna was looking into the Rebecca Fielding case, he had what he needed.
To do what?
To go after whoever killed the Fieldings. And whoever was protecting the secret about what really happened to baby Rebecca.
Karen got another phone call. It was Danny Cannon.
“I’ve got something you might want to know about,” Cannon said. “Maybe your partner should be there to hear this too.”
“What is this about, Cannon?”
“I’d rather tell you in person. You’ll want to help me when you hear what I’ve got.”
“I don’t want to see you, Cannon.”
“Yancey, I’m serious. You want to know this.”
Karen played a hunch that she could trust Danny, at least with her whereabouts. “Alright. I’m at the Cable Car Motel, on Sloat.”
Cannon paused for three seconds. It struck Karen suddenly that she had never heard him go silent for that long.
“So you’re looking into the Fielding case, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s why you’re at a cheap motel by the beach. You’re in hiding. And it’s because I was right all along. This is big, isn’t it, Yancey?”
“Cannon, I told you to be careful. You can deduce anything you want from that. But I don’t want anything on my conscience.”
“I’m on my way.”
Karen hung up and called Shake on his cell phone. She told him about the call from Marko and her theory that Marko had found out who was behind the Fielding murders.
“What do you think Cannon knows?”
“I don’t know,” Karen said. “He wouldn’t tell me. But he sounded excited. Actually, no. For the first time he sounded serious. It was like he was a little overwhelmed.”
“I’ll be right there. And let’s keep Donna’s research into the Fieldings quiet for now. As well as Marko’s phone call to you.”
Chapter 30
Twenty minutes later, all three of them were sitting at the round imitation oak table in Karen’s room. Cannon had a battered briefcase in his lap. He looked at Shake, who was sitting stiffly in his chair and wincing with every breath.
“I heard Wayne Bordelay was killed down in L.A.,” Cannon said, looking knowingly from Shake to Karen. “Quite a mess, from what I heard. No evidence of anyone else at the scene, though. It was like the place had been cleaned by a pro. You guys know anything about that?”
They stared at him silently and Cannon stared back.
“Alright. Subject for another day. Right now, I want to make a deal with you. This Fielding thing, I’m starting to figure out you guys are hip-deep into it. Just like I am. And we all know there’s something there. Something big. But there’s a missing piece. I don’t know who is doing the killings or what their motive is. It pains me to say this, but I can’t figure it out on my own. The good news is, I don’t think you can figure it out on your own either. So maybe we can help each other.”
Cannon pulled the small tape recorder out of his briefcase and held it in his lap with both hands.
“I want to play something for you, but I want something in return. If this tape leads to an arrest in the Fielding case I want you to let me break the story first. I don’t want to be reporting on an arrest along with every other yokel. I want the scoop.”
“Forget it, Cannon.”
“You don’t understand. Twenty years in newspapers, this is the first time I’m a little scared about what I have. If I walk out of here without you hearing this tape, it will be a tragedy of unimaginable proportions.”
Shake sighed at Cannon’s hyperbole, but Karen could see he wanted to hear the tape.
“Okay, you got a deal,” Shake said. “But the only thing we promise you is that we won’t let other reporters know. And you’ll have a chance to get it in the paper before there are any arrests.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Cannon protested. “If you’re preparing indictments, it’s gonna leak. And I lose my scoop. You’re screwing me.”
“Fine,” Shake said. “Take it elsewhere. And good luck.”
Cannon laid the tape recorder on the table. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. You guys are not fair, not fair at all.”
Then Cannon got a big smile on his face.
“I must admit, I outdid myself this time. The beauty part is, it was a no-lose situation. If they found the tape recorder, who cares. Just a boring forty-five minute recording of Banks saying nothing and sniffing old rusty-tasting wine.”
“What are you talking about, Cannon?” Karen said.
“I had lunch with Senator Cortland Banks and his campaign manager, Jim Deegan. Also known as Emerson Banks’ right-hand man since the beginning of time.”
Karen shrugged. “So?”
“So, at the end of the meal, Deegan gets a phone call. And I mean, his face goes white. I’m finishing my drink and watching this, watching him give little looks to Banks. So Deegan asks me to leave, real nonchalant-like, says they have campaign strategy to go over or something. I mean, it could have been nothing, the latest TV ad might have gotten botched. But there’s something about Deegan’s face. So as I’m reaching under my chair for my briefcase, a little idea just pops into my head.”
Cannon nodded at the tape recorder and chortled, still blown away. “An honest mistake. A few minutes later I happened to see Deegan and the senator leaving the restaurant. I went back and retrieved the tape. And here it is.”
“Play it,” Shake said.
Cannon leaned forward and pressed the button.
The sounds of clinking silverware and soft music. Restaurant sounds, with a voice cutting through. There was a pause of ten seconds and the sounds of a chair scraping softly against carpet. Footsteps walking away.
Then Banks, sounding disinterested.
“What is it?”
“The campaign office just got a call. It was from Nora’s friend. The one who was with her that night. The one that got away.”
“The one you let get away,” Banks said.
“I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t screw up in the first place. You stupid idiot. This could ruin everything.”
“What did the woman say?”
“She said if you don’t pull out of the race in the next 48 hours she’s going to go to the media.”
“But how...” Banks said, sounding shell-shocked.
“Her name is Elizabeth Chandler and she lives in Oakland. She said she knew Nora from the Fillmore District when they were girls. And that she would go to the L.A. Times if you didn’t drop out of the race.”
Cortland Banks’ voice sounded lost and forlorn. “Dad was supposed to take care of this,” he said.
“You’re pathetic,” Deegan hissed. “Now I’ve got to clean up your mess again.” More sounds of chair against carpet. “We don’t have time for the operative to get here. I’m headed to Oakland myself.”
They listened to it three more times, Shake and Cannon taking notes on motel stationary. After Cannon left, Shake made a call and obtained the addresses of every Elizabeth Chandler in Oakland. The list was six names long.
“You want to do it together?”
“Let’s split them up. Faster that way.”
“Three for you and three for me,” Shake said, ripping the paper in half and handing one half to Karen. “Be careful.”
“You too, partner,” Karen said, putting on her jacket and heading out the door.
Chapter 31
Karen’s list included two addresses in the hills and one in the flatlands. In Oakland, the rich whites lived in the hills and the poor blacks lived in the flatlands. Karen thought about the kind of person who would have known Nora Stanton in 1969. She would be older, in her sixties at least. They knew each other from the Fillmore, which from Shake’s ongoing San Francisco history monologues Karen knew was a thriving African American neighborhood until the 1950s. And Nora was going to Stanford.
Karen thought back to the pictures of Nora she’d seen in Vicky Talib’s office and remembered her hairstyle. Mainstream. Like Diana Ross and the Supremes. It felt like a girl trying to leave the Fillmore behind. Making friends with white girls.
Karen played a hunch and started with the addresses in the hills.
She struck out on the first one. This Elizabeth Chandler was too young, in her late thirties, and stared blankly when Karen asked her the question she already knew the answers to: Did you grow up in the Fillmore? Did you know anyone named Nora Stanton?
A half-mile away lived the second Elizabeth Chandler, a fit blonde woman wearing yoga clothing and with her hair in a ponytail. She had a similar blank expression when Karen asked her the questions. Karen thanked her. As she turned to go, the woman paused before closing the door.
“You know, I was considering calling the Oakland police, but maybe I should tell you.”
Karen turned around. “Tell me what?”
“Well, just a few minutes ago, a man came to my door. Well-dressed. Older. I usually don’t open the door for strangers but he seemed, I don’t know, professional. So I opened it. He looked me up and down and asked if I was Elizabeth Chandler. I asked him who was asking. He took a last look at me, then he turned and left.”
She thanked the woman again and drove down into the flatlands. She parked her car down the street from the final address on her list, under the humming freeway overpass. When she got out she buttoned her coat against the chill of the shadows. She saw a ragged row of liquor stores and nail salons with hand-painted signs and awnings and a small group of older black men sitting on blue plastic milk crates on the corner. In the middle of the block was a light blue clapboard house surrounded by a waist-high chain-link fence.
Karen looked around for anything out of place as she approached the house. A car that was too expensive for the neighborhood. An older white man in a suit. It would have been Deegan, she figured. By now he had called in his connections and surely had the same list they did.
A gate swayed open and Karen pushed it, walking through a small front yard with patches of weeds poking through. Three wooden steps brought her to a screen door with ripped mesh. As she mounted the steps she heard jazz music playing in the house at a low volume.
She knocked on the screen door. After a few seconds it opened.
A woman appeared. “Yes?”
“Good afternoon. I’m Karen Yancey of the San Francisco Police Department. Elizabeth Chandler?”
Karen looked over the woman’s shoulder and saw a small living room piled high with newspapers and books. A tattered couch took up most of the room. An incense stick was burning atop a small wicker table, under a framed photograph of a man with dark skin and white hair. The woman saw Karen looking at it.
“That’s my guru, Vivekenanda,” the woman said. “My guiding light. After my conversion to Hinduism, I changed my name from Elizabeth Chandler to a new dharma, Abhijna. Not officially, of course, but that hardly matters. I chose the name because it means Remembrance in Sanskrit. I feel I’ve traveled a lifetime to begin this journey of remembering.”
“I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”
“I’m not sure. Do you have a warrant or something?”
“Do I need one?”
“You do if you want to come in.”
Abhijna was in her sixties. A round face and unkempt curly hair, now gone gray.
Karen felt her heart rate quicken and reminded herself to go slow. “I was hoping I could just ask you a few questions. I’d rather not do it out here on the porch, but we can go that way if you want.”
Abhijna looked at her and thought about it. “It’s just that I don’t know what it’s about.”
“It’s about Nora Stanton.”
Abhijna looked out into the street and then peered at Karen through the half-closed door. “What do you think I know about Nora?”
“I think you know what happened the night she died. In fact, I think you were there. You’re not in trouble, Elizabeth. I just want to know what happened to Nora and the little girl.”
“I don’t know what happened to the little girl.”
“But you know what happened to Nora, don’t you?”
Karen saw her hesitating and just wanted to keep her talking. “Right? You were there that night? Something happened and it scared you. I just want to know the truth. Nora deserves that much.”
“Nora didn’t deserve to die, I know that.”
“I know she didn’t. She had a secret, didn’t she? I think you were the only one she told. It’s a good thing she told you, otherwise the secret would have died with her. Thank God that doesn’t have to happen. Thank God she told you.”
Abhijna looked past Karen, up and down the street. “I’m scared.”
“You should be. Has anyone else been by to see you today?”
“No. Only you.”
“Good. We have to leave right now. Trust me, it’s for your safety. You can tell me your story while we’re driving.”
“I need my bag.”
“Quickly, please, Abhijna.”
She went inside and was gone for an agonizing two minutes as Karen kept an eye on the street. Once she was ready Karen took her arm and walked her quickly to the car, looking around to make sure they were safe.
Once they got in, Karen started the car and drove off. She waited until they were on the freeway headed toward the Bay Bridge and San Francisco. She watched her rearview mirror every few seconds, before finally turning to Abhijna, nee Elizabeth Chandler.
