move off square one. Some sort of crime had been or was being perpetrated here, but what kind? Theft? Insurance fraud? Filing a false police report for an unknown purpose?
Any of the three principals could be responsible. Pollexfen was reputedly devious, manipulative, and ruthless. Jeremy Cullrane and Angelina Pollexfen were money-grubbing alcoholics with secrets and manipulative behavior patterns of their own. None of the trio liked one another; accusations flew back and forth, none backed by solid evidence. Pollexfen had the means and opportunity to steal his own books, but no apparent motive. His wife and her brother had opportunity and motive, but no apparent means. Brenda Koehler? Opportunity, but no means and no apparent motive, given her spotless history and simple lifestyle. Julian Iverson? Neither means nor opportunity nor motive.
There was nothing to catch hold of, to follow through to a definite conclusion. One big confusing tangle of possibilities, half-truths, lies, secrets.
Where to go from here? The only option, unless Tamara uncovered something new, was for me to start over again: another visit to the Pollexfen house, to ask more questions, have another look around the library and maybe the rest of the place this time. If that didn’t produce a lead, then another crack at the wife and her brother and Brenda Koehler-push them, play a little bad cop. And if that failed… quit beating my head against the wall, admit defeat, and file a report that would effectively approve Pollexfen’s claim.
It would also prove Barney Rivera right and make him happy as hell, even if it cost Great Western Insurance the half-million-dollar bundle. The needle would come out, long and sharp, and he’d find ways to keep jabbing it into me for a long time afterward. The prospect was galling.
13
TAMARA
On the way home after work she detoured to Home Depot and bought some shelving, shelf paper, and a few other hardware items. The new crib on Connecticut on Potrero Hill had come furnished, but there were things that needed to be done to make it her own. She expected to be there awhile, and the small alterations she planned were the kind that would make any landlord smile.
The flat took up the second floor of a two-story Stick Victorian that’d been renovated and repainted four years ago. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, laundry room, high-ceilinged living room big enough to hold a dance party in. Good old San Francisco neighborhood, businesses and restaurants within walking distance-uphill from the flat so she could get plenty of exercise when she felt like it. Hefty rent, but not high enough to put a strain on the salary she drew from the agency. On the rental market just a few days when she looked at it. Pure luck no one else had snapped it up. She’d signed the lease on the spot.
The phone rang about two minutes after she let herself in. Probably Vonda. They hadn’t talked since the weekend before last, when Vonda and Ben helped her move her stuff from the old apartment on 27th Avenue. Meant to call her last night, brag a little on Lucas and the solving of her little problem, but one thing and another had kept her from doing it. Young ho stuff, anyhow, bragging on getting laid. Vonda was married and five months’ pregnant and all wrapped up in Ben and the baby. No more goodnatured competition between them like there had been in their badass days. All grown up and respectable now. More or less.
Still, she’d probably have thrown out some details if it were Vonda on the phone. Only it wasn’t. It was Lucas.
The sound of his voice put a smile on her mouth. When he left on Monday morning he’d said he would call, and she’d been hoping he would, that he wasn’t just talking the usual man talk after bed games. But hey, this soon? All right!
“Thought I’d see how you’re doing,” he said.
“Doing fine. How about you?”
“The same. Any plans for tonight?”
“Put up some shelves, that’s about all.”
“I could come over and give you a hand.”
Uh-huh. Give her a hand right into bed. The thought brought back memories of Sunday night and yesterday morning, and the prospect of a repeat performance or two made her tingle. “I wouldn’t mind,” she said.
“You eaten yet?”
“Not yet.”
“How about I bring something with me? Pizza, Chinese takeout, whatever you’d like.”
“Chinese sounds good.”
“Any dish you’re partial to?”
“Nope, I like it all. Surprise me.”
“That’s me at your door, in about an hour.”
She put the phone down, still smiling, still tingling. Oh, Lordy, that man was good in bed. Better than Horace, she thought with a little satisfied malice. Better than anybody she could remember. He must’ve felt the same about her, wanting to come back for more this soon.
Sex was all it was, though. Each of them scratching itches. That was what she’d told Bill and that was the way it was. What she felt for Lucas was all below the neck. He said it was the same for him and she hoped he meant it. Last thing she needed in her life right now was another heavy relationship like she’d had with Horace. Love wasn’t any big deal anyway. Overrated. Too many complications, too much chance of getting hurt again. Uh- uh. No, thank you.
She went out to the car for the rest of the shelving. Another nice thing about this new place: plenty of close- by street parking. The car sat there at the curb like a fat scabby bug: Horace’s eleven-year-old Toyota. She hated that damn car-another of Horace’s hand-me-downs, like the apartment on 27th Avenue. Get herself a new ride, that was the next change she’d make. And do it soon. Wash the last of Horace Fields right out of her life.
Back inside, she put the shelving and the other hardware items in the kitchen and then went around the flat straightening up. Lucas hadn’t said anything, but she had a feeling he liked things tidy. Mama’s influence, probably. She wondered again what Mama was like, how come a stud like Lucas lived with her and talked about her nonstop with that little glow in his eyes. Couldn’t be anything kinky going on there, could it? Oh, come on, Tamara. Don’t let the job make you suspicious of everybody. Man just loves his mother, that’s all.
The flat was pretty clean, everything in the moving boxes put away the day after she took possession. Hadn’t been much-clothing, computer equipment, books, CDs, personal items. When she’d packed it up she’d been surprised at how little she owned. Not much to show for twenty-six years of living. Well, so what? She’d never been all that materialistic. Money was nice, possessions were cool, but living was what mattered.
Making changes-that was important, too. Funny how one positive change could start a chain reaction. For her it’d been the decision to finally haul her booty out of that Horace-haunted apartment. Then she’d gone and gotten herself firearms qualified with Pop’s help, as a safety precaution and so she could start doing some fieldwork again. Then, after weeks of hunting all around the city, she’d found just the right new place. And one week after that, she’d met Lucas and put an end to the long, frustrating months of unsatisfying sessions with battery-operated Mr. V. Next positive change: dump the Toyota for a new set of wheels, one that suited her and not that celloplaying chump in Philadelphia.
Happy again, life cool again? Yes! For the first time in over a year, maybe for the first time period, because now everything was in sync, coming together at last. The new Tamara. Tamara Corbin, reinvented.
She put on a Dixie Chicks CD. “Not Ready to Make Nice”-God, she loved that song. Into the bedroom then, to put clean sheets on the bed. Nothing like clean sheets when you had somebody to snuggle down with. She dabbed some Chanel Allure under her ears and in the hollow of her throat. Not too much, just a sexy hint. Put on a nightie and a robe? Too obvious. Just let the evening play out like it had on Sunday.
She was sipping a glass of wine, listening to the Chicks, when the bell rang. Lucas came in with two sacks of Chinese takeout and a big smile. Kissed her, but easy, not aggressive. He wasn’t in any hurry, either-something else she liked about him. Big and easy. Big all over, oh yeah! She always had been partial to big men. Ugly handsome. Blocky head, hook nose, hair starting to recede a little, but he had nice quiet eyes and a bushy mustache that felt like fur sliding over her skin. Thirty-four, he’d told her. Not too old. Mature. Exactly the kind of man she wanted and
