and what he was manipulating, and for what purpose.
I pulled up in front of the Pollexfen home in Sea Cliff a few minutes early. I hate to be late for appointments, so as usual I overcompensated. At the curb ahead of me was a sleek silver Jaguar sedan; in the upslanted driveway, a new, dark red Porsche Boxster. I went up and rang the bell. No answer. Uh-huh. Back to the car, where I sat waiting and trying not to look at my watch.
Brenda Koehler arrived at eight minutes past four, driving a dark blue Buick. She parked behind me, and when we were both out and facing each other, she said, “Mr. Pollexfen is still at Pacific Rim.” She looked and sounded a little harried, a little breathless, as if she’d run instead of driven from downtown. “There was one last lot he wanted to bid on. He should be here shortly.”
“No problem.”
“That’s Jeremy’s Porsche in the driveway,” she said. “And Mrs. Pollexfen’s Jaguar. Didn’t you ring the bell?”
“Twice. Nobody answered.”
“That’s odd. If they’re here, why wouldn’t they answer?”
“Maybe they saw me and don’t want to talk to me.” Or, hell, maybe they were both drunk. Only four o’clock, but cocktail hour came early to that pair-very early.
The front door was locked. Brenda Koehler used her key, and we went into a cool, gloomy hush. In the front parlor, she asked me if I’d like something to drink.
I said, “No, thanks. But I wouldn’t mind talking to either Mrs. Pollexfen or her brother, if you’d tell them I’m here.”
“Certainly.”
Away she went, and I moved over to stare out through the tall front windows. Gray outside-a wall of fog that obliterated ocean, bay, and all except the upper towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog created a murky halflight that made the room seem even gloomier than the closed-in foyer.
Brenda Koehler was gone five minutes or more. When she came back she was wearing a puzzled frown. “I can’t find them anywhere,” she said.
“Neither one?”
“No. I wonder-”
There were sounds at the front door, footsteps and thumps on the tile floor, and Gregory Pollexfen hobbled in blowing on his free hand and looking ruddy-faced and much healthier than the last time I’d seen him. He said hello to me, pumped my hand, allowed as how it was cold outside, and then said to his secretary, “I see that Angelina and Jeremy are both here.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t find them.”
“What’s that? Are you sure?”
“I looked everywhere.”
His expression changed, darkened. “Everywhere? Did you check to see if the library door is locked?”
“No, I didn’t think-”
“That’s right, you didn’t think.”
I said, “I rang the bell when I first got here. If they’d gotten into the library, wouldn’t it have alerted them?”
Pollexfen said, “No. The walls are thick-you can’t always hear the bell with the door shut. Come on, we’d better have a look.”
The three of us went into the central hallway, moving single file with Pollexfen in the lead, when the blast came from the rear of the house. Flat, percussive noise, like a muffled thunderclap, that jerked us to a halt for three or four beats.
Gunshot.
Large-caliber weapon, rifle or shotgun. I’d heard guns go off too often in my life, in too many different circumstances, not to recognize the distinction.
I cut around Pollexfen and broke into a run. He said something I didn’t listen to, came clumping after me. I didn’t bother looking into any of the rooms that opened off the hallway. The shot had come from inside the library. I knew that instinctively, without even having to think about it.
The library door was locked tight. I rattled the knob, beat on the panel with the heel of my hand. Silence from within. Pollexfen was beside me by then; he said, “My key,” and when I turned toward him he shoved it into my hand. I jammed it into the upper lock, turned the bolt, yanked the key out, almost dropped the damn thing before I got it into the second lock and threw that bolt. It seemed to take minutes instead of seconds until I was able to shove the door open.
A wave of burned-powder stink rolled out at me. I plowed ahead, inside, sweeping the room, and then pulled up short with gorge rising into my throat. Behind me Pollexfen said, “Oh my God!” and Brenda Koehler let out a strangled little squeak, gagged, and spun and ran away somewhere with her heels clicking on the tiles.
Bad. As bad as it gets.
Angelina Pollexfen lay on the carpet in front of the desk-alive, her head rocking slowly from side to side, her eyes rolled up, little bubbling noises coming out of her. On the couch was a stack of books that had been pulled from the library shelves, seven or eight of them. Jeremy Cullrane sprawled supine on the floor in front of the fireplace, what was left of his head resting on the hearth, the Parker twelve-gauge shotgun that had been hung above the mantel now lying half across his bent left leg. One barrel in the face at point-blank range. Blood and brain matter and bone fragments and blackened buckshot fouled the inside of the fireplace, the hearth, the carpet. The force of the blast had splattered more blood onto the books on the lower shelves to either side; it gleamed an evil crimson on the Mylar dust jacket protectors, clashing with the gaudy colors of the jacket spines.
I quit looking at Cullrane, swallowed against the rise of bile, and went to kneel by the woman’s side. Conscious, but disoriented; her eyes still rolled up, the whites showing like pudding dribbled with flecks of blood. I’d have to get her out of here right away. No telling what she might do to contaminate the crime scene when she regained her senses.
Pollexfen said in a sick voice, “She killed him. Angelina… Jesus, she blew his head off. Why? Why?”
Yeah. Why?
16
The team of homicide inspectors who responded to Pollexfen’s 911 call was reflective of both the changes in the SFPD’s gender policies and the city’s ethnic diversity. Senior officer: Linda Yin, a forty-plus, no-nonsense Asian woman. Her partner: Sam Davis, an African-American man ten years younger, heavyset and quiet, newly promoted from the way he deferred to Yin. Both seemed tired, a little stressed, a little short-tempered. Working an extended 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. tour, probably, and stuck with this late squeal that would mean even more overtime. I didn’t know either of them and they didn’t know me. But when I dropped Jack Logan’s name, it bought me a certain measure of respect. Jack and I go way back to the days when we were both rookies fresh out of the police academy; he’d climbed the ladder the long, hard way to his present position of assistant chief.
While Yin and Davis and the forensics technicians worked in the library, Pollexfen and I sat in the front parlor waiting for the inspectors to get around to us. Angelina Pollexfen was in a spare bedroom downstairs, where I’d carried her and locked her in-a precaution that hadn’t been necessary; she was still only semiconscious when the law arrived. A matron and a police doctor were with her now. Brenda Koehler, sick and pale, had gone upstairs to lie down in another spare bedroom.
Pollexfen kept rubbing his hands together, a dry, brittle sound that scraped on my nerves. I wasn’t feeling too well myself. Delayed reaction. A bloody homicide like the one I’d just walked in on always leaves me feeling queasy, tight-chested, depressed.
He said for the third or fourth time, “They were stealing more of my collection. Both of them working together. Did you see that pile of books on the couch?”
“I saw it.” The one on top, I remembered now, was The Talking Clock by a writer whose name I knew from the pulps, Frank Gruber.
