Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (50 page)

“Sounds great.”

Carl made way for her and then helped her take off her jacket. It was cool even for a Berkeley January. He had had to scrape frost off the windshield of his Corolla that morning. He led her into his study. Nancy made a beeline for his corkboard display. She pulled a Kleenex out of her purse and teared up staring at the photo of John Yamamoto and the clippings surrounding it. Just like all the other visits.

“Perhaps it's time to let go.” Carl said, as he approached her. She turned and hugged him. “This is the coldest cold case I have ever had to wrestle with,” he added.

She pushed him back, those powerful eyes now demanding his attention, his obedience. “I can't. I never will. That's why I've never remarried. Dates, brief relationships, but there was John still in my head, in my heart. I'll have only one husband.”

“I've been doing my best. But … “

“You're the one who is doing too much,” Nancy said. “I don't know why you pursued such a cold case.”

“It's become personal for me as well. Everyday, when I was working, I felt, as a black officer, I was being held responsible for John's death.”

“That's silly. Like when the government blamed Pearl Harbor on John's parents and all Japanese-Americans.”

“True. Now I don't need to prove anything to anybody. Yet, I feel if we could somehow find the real killers, not just you but the whole Department might have some closure, better relations with the community, among us cops.”

“‘Us?' You view yourself still as a policeman?”

“I always will.”

“John would've liked you.”

“And I him. I guess what I'm saying is that we both need to move on.”

Her whole face lit up. He felt her eyes probing deep into him. “Not yet. There's something that's come up.”

“I'll get you some coffee. Have a seat and then we'll talk.”

“Yes, we'll talk,” he heard Nancy say, almost in a whisper, “and then act.”

They sat in his study. “It's about Ron Bradley,” she said. Nancy had settled into the comfortable leather-cushioned chair at the side of Carl's desk. A gas log fireplace gave the room a warm glow while Destiny's Child played softly in the background. Hargrove lived in his study, saving the living room for the preacher who never visited.

“You have a new idea about where to look?”

“No need to look. He's found me. Called on the phone this morning. Says he can identify one of the men involved in the murder.”

“After all these years? Could he be sure?”

Nancy took a sip from her coffee. “That's what I said to him. I've been disappointed so many times before. He insisted he's sure. He said he'd bring proof.”

“Proof?”

“His words. Wants to meet me this evening at the Platypus on San Pablo. Eight p.m. I told him I would bring you. He agreed. But no cops.”

Carl smiled at her. “You've got a date.”

Silently the two sat in the warm room sipping coffee and listening to the music.
Like we're an old married couple.
Carl glanced up at Nancy who was looking down into her coffee mug as if in its murky grounds lay some message to be decoded, perhaps the solution finally of her husband's murder. Would she ever be free? Be whole?

He said, “Someday … ”

“Yes?”

“Maybe, we could have a date that didn't involve John. As friends.”

“I would like that. But first … ”

“I know. The Platypus.”

After Nancy left, Carl withdrew his old service revolver from its lock box. He never went out carrying. But he was worried. A case this cold could pose danger if it suddenly became hot. And Nancy was his responsibility.

Carl and Nancy found a booth toward the back. He figured it would give them at least some privacy yet they could watch the door for Bradley. He had always liked the Platypus and would've hung out there, if he was the hanging out kind of guy, which he wasn't. And if he liked board games, which he didn't. Around them small knots of twenty-somethings played Scrabble, Monopoly, backgammon, chess, and checkers, as well as games he couldn't identify. Competitive darts had drawn a crowd. He ordered an Anchor Steam for himself and a Chardonnay for Nancy. They didn't serve hard liquor.

“This place was his choice?” Carl asked.

“Yes. I'm not into games.”

Games, yes, but not crime, murder. Perhaps that was why Ron chose it.

“Me, either. Still, there are a lot worse ways to spend an evening.”

“Like sitting at home and drinking.”

“Or not drinking.”

“Could that be him?” Nancy said, nodding in the direction of the door. A large man, wearing a leather jacket walked into the bar. Neat beard tinged with gray, glasses, light-skinned. Carl had seen photos of him at the crime scene in 1970 with a thinner face, afro. No, he wouldn't have recognized him if he'd passed him on the street. He wondered if he still rode a Harley.

“Possibly.”

The man nodded in their direction and snaked his way past the game players to their table. Carl rose and shook his hand. A large warm hand.

“Carl Hargrove,” he said.

Bradley sat down beside Nancy.

“I've been looking for you for years,” Carl said. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Hiding?” He laughed. “Still the cop.”

“I didn't mean it that way. But you've been a difficult man to find.”

“I suppose I really have been hiding since 'Nam. That night stuck with me. I should've returned earlier and tried to help find the killers. Weird really. I remember sitting in a shallow ditch next to a rice paddy in Vietnam, soaking wet, trying to get some sleep. The eyes of the killer on University Avenue stared at me. The smile as he pulled the trigger. Was this what I was fighting in Vietnam to preserve? A system that produced such hatred, twisted people. Dehumanized them. My solution? Run away from it all. It hasn't worked.”

His eyes appeared in Carl to be focused on some distant object. That night? The jungle? Then he snapped out of it. “When I got out of the army, I had nothing here to return to and no idea of where to go. You don't say no to my dad. I had to find my own way.

“I drifted for awhile, played my guitar. Pick-up bands in Europe, largely Paris. Jazz, blues, rock, acoustic folk, whatever people wanted to hear. And girls. No problem in France in the seventies. I drank too much, and smoked one hell of a lot of hashish. Going no place, really. I knew I wasn't that good as a musician. Adequate. Adequate's not good enough in the music scene.”

He stopped talking to order a Guinness from a roaming waitress.

“I got sick of the Paris scene. Drinking more. Performing less. That's when I met Nicole Moureau. Half Chinese. Sang cabaret music, gypsy jazz like Django. I joined her back-up group. I played bass. Not a big deal, but she was a big deal. She got me off the booze and dope. We travelled the European circuit. Then the United States. Settled in Vancouver. We opened this club. Django's. We make a living. I never returned to the Bay Area. Until this week.”

“Why now?” Carl asked. He was growing to like this man. If he'd been interviewing him thirty years ago, Carl believed he would've gotten somewhere.

“My father died. I never had a chance to make my peace with him. I planned to help with funeral arrangements then get back to Nicole. We had the viewing this morning. I hardly knew anyone there. The place was packed. I didn't realize how important and well-regarded my father was in Berkeley. He had used his longshoremen's union connections to become active in local politics. Ever hear of Malik Robeson?”

“Hear?” Carl said. “He's all over the news. Lawn signs everywhere in the flatlands. They say he's a shoo-in for mayor.”

“My relatives told me he was coming to the viewing. My father had been a big supporter over the years when he was on the City Council. Before I left for the funeral home, I read a copy of the
Trib
with a feature on him.”

Ron pulled a section of rolled up newspaper out of his jacket pocket, opened it to an inside page and flattened it out on the table. “This feature on Robeson. Look at the montage of photos. His face struck me like a sledgehammer.”

He pointed to an earnest young man with an afro holding a sign supporting the Soledad Brothers. It was dated 1971.

“That's the driver of the Studebaker. I decided then and there I was not going to allow this slick politician get away with murder.” He turned to Nancy, “I called you on my cell when I arrived at the funeral home. Robeson approached me as I wound up the call. I confronted him. He told me I was crazy. That if I made that accusation publicly, he would sue me for slander. I walked away from him.”

“What do you think Ron should do?” Nancy asked Carl.

Carl turned to Ron, “You should be careful. I doubt if Robeson would be stupid enough to try anything rash right in the middle of an election campaign. Still,” he considered. “Are you going public on him?”

“I'm not sure. At least I wanted Nancy to know. I may have acted rashly blurting out my suspicions to Robeson. I can't really prove anything. He's a powerful and respected figure. And me? A nobody. But, damn it, I'm right. Robeson was the driver back in '70. I haven't the slightest doubt about that.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Nancy said. She reached over and placed her hand on Ron's arm. “I don't want you to do anything that would endanger you. I want the truth to come out about my husband's death, but not if it means further needless violence.”

“Don't go to the cops or the press quite yet,” Carl said to Ron, “but stick around a few days. There may be a way. Yes, there may be a way.”

“Okay, Nancy has my number.” Ron took a gulp of the Guinness he had barely touched, rose, shook their hands and headed for the door.

“You have a plan?” Nancy asked. “You don't need to pretend if you don't. I meant what I said to Ron. No more deaths.”

Carl heard an explosion coming from the street. No one in the place reacted. Probably figured it was a car backfiring. But not Carl. He knew the sound of a gun when he heard it.

He jumped out of his seat. “Stay here.”
I was wrong. Somebody is that stupid or that desperate.

He rushed between tables, knocking over game boards. Checkers, score cards, chess pieces, dice flew in the air. Beer spilled, customers cursed. But he just plowed ahead, dashing through a dart game. Then out the front entrance.

After thirty years of nothing, this was one cold case that was warming up.
Burning hot. Too much, too fast.
If anything happened to Ron, he would be responsible. Carl looked both ways.
There.
Ron's crumpled body lay on the sidewalk no more than ten feet away. He saw a figure wearing a red fez, tunic flying, running toward Ashby. Carl ran to Ron. Still alive, for now. The shooter stopped in the middle of San Pablo Avenue. Car brakes screeched. He turned to face them. Ron moved. The shooter raised his gun.
I am too old for this.

Carl crouched, held his gun in both hands.
Aim toward the center of the body mass.
Like they taught him in the Department. An explosion. Another bullet entered Ron on his side on the pavement. More blood. Third round whizzed past Carl's head.
My turn.
Carl shot. The tall killer fell. Blood spurted from his chest. The red fez on his head flew off and rolled into the gutter. Sirens.

Carl turned back toward Bradley. Ron was trying to say something.

“Don't speak. Not now. Rest. You're going to be fine.”

Ron nodded out. Carl looked up. Nancy stood over them, shaking. That's when the cops arrived in force.

Ron Bradley, bandaged, post-op, propped up in bed by pillows, smiled weakly as Carl and Nancy entered his room at Alta Bates Hospital. Nancy carried a vase filled with yellow roses. He had just been released from intensive care. He had lost too much blood. For a while he had hovered between life and death. Life won.