Killer Karma

occurring to someone running for her life. But…he needed to find out for certain about Sara.

He was certain Irah shot him. He also knew nothing right now that would make Hamada consider her a suspect. He had zip for motive. That disappeared with the magic words “fruit of the poisoned tree.” Nothing would have come of Sara’s distress call, either, if Irah turned his call into a dismissal… telling him she was all right but fired and anxious to forget ever meeting him. He would have happily forgotten ever meeting Sara Benay.

One possibility remained to check out. Anyone might kill in overwhelming anger or fear, but stone killers did not come out of the blue. There had to be indications elsewhere in her life of a capacity to kill. More than in target shooting or even her enthusiasm for video carnage.

Maybe something would turn up running her through the computer.

“See you in Hell, punk,” Irah said to the computer, and in a voice that sound like some British actor, went on, “Too right, Captain Carrasco. Prepare to clear sector D-9.”

Her glee made Cole want to spoil her fun. What could he do to a regular computer screen? He spread a hand across it and looked away long enough to sink through the surface. A pleasant buzz ran up from his hand. To his satisfaction, the area within the outline of his hand swirled in chaotic color.

Irah started. “What the…”

“Enjoy your game.” Leaning down toward her, he intoned, “I’ll…be…back.”

Then he pulled his hand back and concentrated on a mental image of Homicide. Could he repeat his ziptrip there?

Apparently not. After three tries, he still remained in Irah’s office. Well, he could always go to Burglary first.

That worked. Shaking his head, Cole stumped out into the corridor. Was he ever going to figure this out!

Wait…including the view out Razor’s window finally made that ziptrip work. Maybe it would work for Homicide, too?

They had a view of the Bay Bridge. Though just down the hall, he pictured that along with Homicide and gave the ziptrip a try. The corridor morphed into Homicide. Cole knocked on Hamada’s desk for luck. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

The computer gods smiled anyway. Homicide’s computer sat idle. He hoped it stayed unneeded long enough for him to work.

Standing up at the keyboard, he struggled through menus to the search program. Though it cost him time and the aggravation of extra effort, he ran Irah first as Irah Flaxx. That came up negative. A disappointment but not really surprising. If she had been using Carrasco since returning to San Francisco, all the records in the Flaxx name were from her juvie days.

He typed in Carrasco. Only to be disappointed again. She came up clean…local, state, and NCIC. He expected no felony or misdemeanor convictions prior to her Citizens’ Academy course. They would not have accepted her otherwise. Something later pointing to a homicidal personality would have been nice to find, though. There was nothing…not even a speeding ticket. She had passed the firearms safety course required for gun ownership, which he expected, but of course the permit did not specify what firearms she owned.

The computer did produce one surprise, a hit on her name as the victim of a felony. Seven years ago…a burglary, ironically. The items lost, an antique string of pearls valued at fifteen thousand dollars and a trophy for an amateur stock car race, marked it as one of the Old Spice Burglar’s jobs.

Cole always counted himself lucky that Old Spice ignored the Mission. The bastard had been driving Gayle Harris and Stan Fontaine crazy for almost eight years now. Their only description of him aside from his choice of aftershave — a muscular male of below average height — came from a homeowner who lost a brief wrestling match with him. He typically entered Richmond, Pacific Heights, and Seacliff homes at night. The family woke in the morning to find their security systems defeated, home safes open, and valuables laid out in a display of what could have been stolen if the burglar wished. He took only a few of the most valuable articles that could be easily carried — and easily fenced — and one item at the other end of the spectrum, with little or no value. Presumably as a souvenir.

Rear vision spotted Ellen Bredeson, Homicide’s lone female inspector, heading for the computer. He tracked her progress while working to exit the program, and as it closed, noticed Charlie Dennis across the room beyond her, grinned triumphantly into his phone.

Dennis jiggled the switch hook and punched in a new number, then leaned back in his chair. “Tex, how’s it going?”

Cole stepped out of Bredeson’s way and hurried toward Dennis.

“Shit.” Dennis grimaced. “So maybe it was a lover’s quarrel. You’ll be interested in what I came up with on Benay, then.” He gave Hamada the same information Cole had found on the Narco bust. “But here’s the interesting part. This Tony Novello’s name rang a bell so I ran him, too, and guess what.”

Cole winced at the satisfaction in Dennis’s voice. He obviously thought that an acquaintance who killed her boyfriend made for a case of Sara doing the same.

At the end of his recitation, Dennis listened, then said, “If she does, it isn’t legal. There’s no gun permit for her.”

Cole moved around the desk close to the receiver.

At the other end of the line, Hamada grunted. “Too bad. That would give us probable cause for searching her apartment. With the manager following us around, we couldn’t do more than walk through.”

“‘We’, huh.” Dennis smiled. “How’d you talk your way into her apartment? Welfare check?”

“Well of course,” Hamada said righteously. “Young woman says she’s flying home and doesn’t make it. No one’s heard from her for days. She could’ve had an accident and be lying unconscious in there.” Hamada paused. “The manager was real understanding.”

Dennis and Cole both grinned. If the manager had not been there, Hamada might have checked to see if Sara were lying in a desk drawer. Anything significant he found would be left untouched, of course, until he had a warrant that let him “discover” it legally.

“She took out of here in one hell of a hurry.”

Dennis propped his feet up on the desk. “Would you like to know where to?”

Hope tightened Cole’s chest. Maybe she was who packed?

“That would be helpful, yes,” came Hamada’s dry reply.

“How about Key West…first class ticket on American, one way…”

Cole grinned in relief.

“…Friday morning out of San Jose.”

San Jose! Dismay rocked Cole back. No way could it be coincidence that she flew out of the same airport where his car was found. Shit. Instead of being a victim, she was involved in his death. But then, why the terror? Maybe she was not involved but witnessed his murder and somehow struck a deal with Irah. Irah drove her to San Jose and put her on a plane for the other end of the country.

“With her Mastercard,” Dennis said. He listened, then sighed. “I’ll get on it. Just for the Mastercard, right, until we know what other credit cards she has?”

Another possibility hit Cole. Irah told Flaxx she could pass herself off as Sara. Maybe she was so confident because she had done it once already? If she produced Sara’s driver’s license and credit card at the airline counter, would the ticket agent question her identity or take a close look at the driver’s license? Both were attractive blondes, and attractive women tended to look similar…as the cookie cutter babes in TV shows demonstrated. Most civilians erroneously focused on details like hair color and style in identifying people.

Had Dennis determined whether “Sara Benay”actually took the flight? Damn it, he wished he could ask! If she boarded, it could be Sara, but if not…if Irah had Sara’s ID and credit cards… His gut knotted. Foreboding beat at him.

He had Irah’s address from the computer. Time to see what her home told him about her. He headed for the outside wall and through it.

A small voice in him started to murmur about due process and civil rights, but he stamped it into silence.