Fever: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (7 page)

Back to the anteroom, where she found Janice Krochek curled up in a fetal position on the couch. Sound asleep, making little wheezing, moaning noises in her nose and throat. She’d spilled some of the coffee on the low table and carpet and hadn’t bothered to wipe it up.

Oh, yeah, great. Terrific. Just what the agency needed for an advertisement if a client should happen to walk in—a banged-up gambling junkie passed out on the anteroom couch.

Krochek had shed her coat; it was crumpled on the floor. Tamara picked it up, started to drape it over the woman,
and then hesitated. Might as well play detective here, just for practice. She ran her a hand into each of the pockets. One was empty; the other had the agency business card Bill had left for her, and a folded piece of paper torn off a scratch pad. Written in ink on the paper, in a woman’s hand, was:
La Farge—s. 1408.
Below that, heavily underlined several times, was the numeral 9.

One of her johns, or something to do with the money she owed? Not that it mattered; once she was out of here, the agency was through with her and her messed-up life. Tamara put the paper back where she’d found it, spread the coat over the lower half of Krochek’s body. The woman didn’t move, just kept right on snoring.

She sighed. So much for another try at the woman-to-woman thing. And so much for the good mood she’d been in earlier.

She got a towel and cleaned up the coffee spill, washed out the used mug. In her office, waiting for the phone to ring, she answered a couple of e-mails and tracked down an address Jake needed for the pro bono case and then called him on his cell. Voice mail again. Whole damn world was unavailable this morning, it seemed. She left him a message.

An hour passed. Still no callback from Mitchell Krochek. She went out to check on the woman. Hadn’t moved, from the look of her. Her breathing was still noisy and a little labored.

Well, shit.

Tamara called Bill’s home number. Answering machine. So then she called his cell. If she got his voice mail, too …

She didn’t. He answered on the third ring. She said, “I hate to bother you but I’ve got a problem here,” and explained about her sweetheart morning with the Fever Woman.

“She would have to pick on us,” Bill said. “Unpredictable as hell, that’s the trouble with addicts.”

“Probably shouldn’t’ve taken the case in the first place.”

“Hindsight, the great teacher.”

“So what do I do? Keep on waiting for her husband to call back?”

“No. He might not check his messages.”

“She can’t sleep or hang here all day. I’ve got a client coming in for a consultation at one o’clock.”

“Where’s Jake?”

“Busy. He’s not answering his cell and Alex is down in San Jose. I suppose I could cancel the appointment and close up, take her over to Oakland myself …”

“You’ve had enough hassle already. I’ll do it.”

“You sure? If you’re busy …”

“Busy doing nothing,” he said. “Errands, that’s all. It’ll take me twenty minutes or so to get to South Park. If Krochek calls in the meantime, give him my cell number and I’ll work something out with him.”

Bet he doesn’t call, she thought.

He didn’t.

J
Janice Krochek was still sleeping on the anteroom couch when I got there. She’d been pretty badly used, all right. Looking down at her built an impotent anger in me. Violence against women infuriates me every time I encounter it. Nobody, no matter how much they mess up their own lives, deserves to become somebody’s punching bag.

“She won’t see a doctor,” Tamara said. “Just wants to go home.”

“Maybe her husband can talk her into it.”

“If he cares enough. I’ll tell him when he calls, if he calls.”

“She told you she walked here?”

“That’s what she said. Benn woman threw her out, apparently, wouldn’t even let her use the phone.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Didn’t to me, either. Why didn’t she ask the desk clerk or one of the other residents?”

“Maybe it wasn’t the Hillman she walked from.”

“Fifteen blocks, she said.”

“It’s a wonder she made it that far in her condition. And without anybody stopping to help her.”

“In this city?” Tamara said. “Army of
Dawn of the Dead
zombies could march up Market Street and nobody’d pay much attention.”

“Yeah. Come on, let’s wake her up. I’m parked in a loading zone across the Square.”

Together we hoisted Janice Krochek into a sitting position. Tamara shook her a little until one bleary eye popped open and focused on me. “You,” she said.

“Me,” I agreed. “How do you feel?”

“Groggy. Shitty.”

“I can take you to a hospital, get you some medical attention …”

“No. Home.” The other eye was open now; her gaze roamed from side to side. “Where’s Mitch?”

“We couldn’t get hold of him,” I said. “He’s on a job site today.”

“Yeah, sure. Out screwing his latest bimbo.”

“Come on, Mrs. Krochek, on your feet. I’ll take you home.”

We got her upright. Shaky, but she could stand and move all right with my hand on her arm; I didn’t need Tamara’s help to get her downstairs. A couple of people on the sidewalk and in the park strip gave us passing glances and a wide berth.

One of South Park’s many attractions is that a Bay Bridge approach is only a short distance away. We were on the bridge in five or six minutes. Janice Krochek sat
slumped in the seat, her eyes closed, massaging her chafed wrists, unresponsive to the questions I put to her. Whoever had beat her up, for whatever reason, she wasn’t about to confide to me. Or, I’d have been willing to bet, to her husband.

She was asleep again by the time we came off the bridge. I woke her up with a couple of sharp words to get directions; I had the Krocheks’ home address but the street name wasn’t familiar and I wasn’t going to stop to pore over a map. “Highway 24,” she said, “then straight up Claremont, ask me again when you pass the Claremont Hotel.”

My cell phone went off at about the time we reached the Claremont. Had to be Tamara. I pulled over to answer it; unlike most people nowadays, I don’t consider talking on the phone while driving to be safe, and it’s even less so on narrow, hilly streets.

Tamara said, “Mr. Krochek just called. I gave him the news. He’ll meet you at his house—on his way there right now.”

“Reaction?”

“Relieved and pissed off.”

I relayed the message to Janice Krochek, omitting the relieved and pissed off part.

“Be still, my heart,” she said.

We kept climbing. Turn right on this street, left on that one, half a mile and then right again on such-and-such. By then we were well up into the hills. Panoramic views of the bay, San Francisco, three bridges, Alcatraz Island. Expensive living for the financially well-endowed.

What was surprising about the area was how quickly it
had been regenerated, how many new homes had sprung from the ashes of the firestorm that had engulfed these hills in October of 1991. Hardly any signs remained of the devastation along the narrow, winding roads. High winds, brush-clogged canyons, and tinder-dry trees had spawned that fire, and before it was done raging it had reached temperatures as high as two thousand degrees Fahrenheit, hot enough to boil asphalt, burned sixteen hundred acres, destroyed nearly three thousand single-family homes and apartment buildings, left twenty-five people dead, and caused something like a billion and a half dollars in damage.

The Krocheks were too young to have lived up here at that time; they were among the multitude of newcomers who had figured lightning would never strike twice and so bought themselves a chunk of the rebuilt, relandscaped, million-dollar California Dream. They could have it. I preferred the West Bay; despite all its civic and other problems and the lurking threat of the Big One, the predicted earthquake disaster that would make the Oakland Hills fire look like a minor incident, San Francisco was my home and would be as long as I stayed above ground. My city, for better or for worse.

The Krocheks lived on Fox Canyon Circle, at the end of Fox Canyon Road—a rounded cul-de-sac like the bulb on top of a thermometer. It was backed up against one of the short, narrow canyons that threaded the area. Before the fire, these canyons had been clogged with oak, madrone, dry manzanita. Now, short grass and scrub grew down there and in places along the far bank you could see bare patches where the fire had burned and nothing had regrown.

Three large, Mediterranean-style homes, spaced widely apart, occupied the circle. The lower one on the north, away from the canyon, belonged to the Krocheks. The driveway was empty; Krochek hadn’t got there yet. I pulled up in front. The house was set behind a low, gated stucco wall fronted by yew and yucca trees: tile roof, arched windows with heavy wood balconies and ornamental wrought iron trim. The white stucco gave off thin daggerish glints of midday sunlight.

At the middle house next door, slightly higher up, a woman wearing shorts and a dark green sun hat was doing some work in her low-maintenance, cactus-dominated front garden. She stopped and stood staring over at us, shading her eyes with one hand, as Janice Krochek and I got out. As soon as she recognized her neighbor, she started our way.

Janice Krochek said, “Oh, shit, just what I need. Rebecca.”

I said, “Your husband should be here pretty soon.”

“Do I care? I’m not going to wait around.”

“How’ll you get inside?”

“Spare key on the patio.”

She started away, but she was still shaky on her pins. She faltered after a couple of steps, nearly fell. I went fast around the car and got hold of her arm. She said, “I’m all right,” but she didn’t try to pull away.

“Janice!”

The neighbor, Rebecca, came hurrying up. Mid-thirties, dark wavy hair under the sun hat, attractive in a long-faced, long-chinned way. It was windy and cool up here, not
much of a November day for wearing shorts, but once I had a good look at her legs I knew she was the type who would wear them in the middle of a rainstorm. Long, tanned, beautifully shaped. Even a happily married old fart like me notices and appreciates fine craftsmanship.

Janice Krochek ignored her. Started forward again, dragging me with her. The neighbor changed direction so that she reached the drive just above us. “Janice, I thought you were gone for—” She broke off, her eyes going wide. “My God, your face … what happened to you?”

“Mind your own business, Rebecca.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No.”

“Mitch … does he know …?”

“For Christ’s sake, just leave me alone, will you?”

The dark-haired woman looked at me. I said, “We can manage, thanks,” and let Mrs. Krochek lead me over to the gate in the fence, through it, and across a short tiled patio to the front entrance.

The spare key was under one of several decorative urns lined up along the wall; she told me which one and I got it for her and opened the door. She said, “Put it back where you found it.” I said I would and while I was doing it, she disappeared inside—no thank you for my trouble, not another word.

I went back out through the gate. The neighbor was still standing in the driveway, waiting. She’d taken the sun hat off. She had a lot of hair piled up and pinned haphazardly, thick but very fine. Sunlight made the loose strands glisten like brown cornsilk.

I smiled and nodded and started around her, but she didn’t let me finish the detour. She came over and put out a hand, not quite touching me. “I’ve never seen you before,” she said. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” I lied.

“Of whose? Hers?”

“Both.”

“What happened to her?”

“An accident, she says. Fell down some stairs.”

“Oh, crap. Somebody beat her up. Anyone can see that.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Because of her gambling. Is that how you know her?”

I didn’t say anything.

“She’s a compulsive gambler. You know that, don’t you?”

I was moving again by then, completing the detour, but I didn’t get halfway to my car before sudden noise put an end to the quiet. Motor, exhaust, and gearbox noise. A low-slung sports job, black and silver, came barreling along Fox Canyon Road and into the circle. Tires screeched as the driver braked and slid sideways into the driveway, forcing the neighbor and me to veer to one side.

Mitchell Krochek hopped out. Dark blue sports jacket and slacks, no tie, and a harried expression. He looked at me, looked at Rebecca, looked at me again. “Where is she?”

“In the house.”

“All right?”

“Able to get around under her own power, but just barely. She ought to see a doctor.”

“She hates doctors.”

“See if you can get her to one anyway.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He looked at the neighbor again. “What’re you doing here, Becky?”

“I was working in the garden when this man brought her home.”

“Our neighbor, Rebecca Weaver,” Krochek said to me. Not as if he were introducing her, as if he were apologizing for her showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I’d like to know what’s going on,” she said.

“So would I.I don’t know.”

“She’s been beaten up, for God’s sake. One of those people she associates with. What if they show up here?”

“That won’t happen.”

“It could. I’m here alone day and night, Mitch, I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Jesus,” Krochek said. He looked and sounded half-angry, half-exasperated. “Nobody’s going to bother you or Janice. Just go home, okay? I’ll call you later if there’s anything you need to know.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, yes. Go on. Please.”

The woman jammed her sun hat back on and went, reluctantly, with another distrustful glance in my direction. When she was out of earshot, Krochek said, “Divorced six months, not used to living alone. She got the house and a half-million-dollar settlement. If Janice divorces me, they’ll be like two peas in fucking luxury pods and I’ll be living in some rented apartment.”

Nothing from me. I didn’t want to get into that with him again.

“What happened to her?” he asked. “She tell you?”