Trophies And Dead Things

McFate was not in the squad room, even though his suit coat-a blue pinstripe today-hung on the foolish little rack beside his desk. That, I thought, could be considered the first positive circumstance of the day. I had nothing to say to the inspector, but I was sure he would have had plenty to say to me-most of it barbs about my abilities as a bodyguard, and none of it praise for apprehending the sniper.

As promised, Greg had my statement on his desk. I read through it slowly, made a couple of changes, initialed them, and added my signature.

I said, 'There it is, all wrapped up. I kept thinking it had some connection with Hilderly and his will, but it didn't.'

Greg was shuffling papers, his brow creased in annoyance, and didn't reply. I got up to leave.

'Wait a minute,' he said, motioning for me to shut the door.

I did so, then sat down again.

'How're you coming on the Hilderly matter?' he asked.

'I located all the heirs, and then one was killed-but you know that.'

'Grant.'

'Right. I told McFate I thought there might be a connection between his death and Hilderly's will. Didn't he mention that to you?'

'Only to say he'd found it wasn't relevant. Apparently he's seriously looking at a couple of Grant's clients.' Greg paused, his frown turning to a scowl. 'Brief me on what you've found out about the heirs' connection to Hilderly.'

I did, trying not to omit any details, however tenuous. Greg made a few notes as I talked, then studied them before speaking.

'Interesting thing,' he finally said. 'That gun you brought in for identification-the lab called about it yesterday evening. Technician who owes me a favor processed it on overtime. I initiated a check on the serial number, and the information's come back.'

'And?'

'Gun's one of a half dozen that were stolen from a shop in the Outer Mission in February of sixty-nine. Four of them were found on the persons of a radical group that attempted to bomb the weapons station at Port Chicago the next August: Taylor, Ruhl, and Heikkinen. A fifth was used in the suicide of Ruhl several months later.'

I drew in my breath, let it out in a long sigh. 'And Hilderly had the sixth. I wonder if they actually stole them?'

'Our data's not complete enough to tell.'

'Doesn't really matter. What I'd like to know more about is that bombing attempt and the trial. FBI made the arrests?'

Greg nodded.

'And it would have been a federal prosecution. Probably it would be easier and quicker if I did some library research than if I persuaded you to request information through channels.'

'That's really out of the scope of your investigation for All Souls, isn't it?'

I shrugged. 'It'll keep my mind off worrying about Hank.'

'Well, as long as you're determined to research it, keep me posted. McFate's probably right about Grant being killed by a disgruntled client, but I still don't like him not following up on all lines of inquiry.'

'And if he's wrong about it being irrelevant, you'll use it as ammunition against him.'

'Something like that.'

'Well, I'd better let you get back to work.' I stood up and Greg walked me out the door. 'By the way,' I added, 'how did McFate take my collaring the sniper?'

'Not too well. Huffed about civilians treading on departmental territory-as if it mattered who collared him. Actually he seemed relieved that the Hilderly slaying was solved; maybe he didn't completely believe in the lack of relevancy of that will to Grant's death. And right after that he took off.' Greg glanced across the squad room, where McFate's suit coat still hung on the brass rack. 'Frankly, I'm getting annoyed at the way he keeps disappearing.'

'Where do you suppose he is?'

'Not far away. Usually he puts on his jacket just to go to the can.'

'Well, I think I'll get out of here before he comes back.'

Greg grinned and went back into his office. I rode the elevator down to the lobby and joined the line in front of the bank of pay phones.

The lobby was crowded and noisy, the sounds of footfalls and voices reverberating off the marble walls. Cops in uniform passed by, going to the elevators or the Southern police station, housed just beyond the security station at the entrance. Attorneys in sober suits and carrying briefcases strode toward the municipal courtrooms on the building's eastern side. A poorly dressed man on the uncertain edge of sobriety was eating a sandwich on one of the marble benches. The roles of the other participants in the unfolding drama of justice were less easy to define: Was the sharply dressed black man over by the concession stand a pusher, pimp, or parole officer? Was the woman in the smart black business suit a prosecution witness or a defendant facing charges of prostitution? I spotted another woman with punked-up purple hair wearing tattered jeans and a dirty T-shirt, and recognized her as a nark Greg had once introduced me to.

As I waited for a phone booth to free up, I shifted from foot to foot, listening to snatches of conversation.

'… Hon, I tole you we gonna get the bail money…'

'… case has been continued until next Thursday, so you'll have to shift my calendar around…'

'… Babe, it's me. If you get home before I do, stick that roast in the microwave so it'll defrost…'

'… Can we still make the early edition…?'

When the man with the frozen roast relinquished his phone, I stepped into the booth and dialed Patient Information at S.F. General. No change in Hank's condition. Then I called All Souls for my messages; there were three from media people-none of whom was Goodhue. In light of the fact that she knew me personally, I found it odd that the anchorwoman hadn't tried to contact me for an exclusive story for one of KSTS's reporters on collaring the sniper. Perhaps her resistance to turning the investigator's name over to me had its roots in more than being too busy to look for it? But I couldn't imagine what.

A fourth message, however, was one I'd been hoping for-from Wolf. I dropped two more dimes into the slot and punched out his office number. He answered on the first ring.

'Well, Sharon,' he said when I identified myself. 'What's up?'

'Do you recall a client named Jess Goodhue? The TV news anchorwoman? The job would have been a background check on her mother, Jenny Ruhl, a few years ago-'

'Sure I remember. What about her?'

'She's peripherally involved in a case I'm working, and I need to take a look at your report on the investigation. It's okay with Goodhue,' I added, since I didn't really know that it wasn't, 'but she's been too busy to contact you, so I thought I'd go ahead and request it myself.'

'Funny.'

'How so?'

'She called Tuesday morning and asked for a copy of the report. Picked it up that afternoon.'

So Goodhue, like Ross, had been lying to me. But why didn't she want me to know she already had the report? I said, 'And now I'm unable to reach her. I know that technically you shouldn't give me a copy without her permission, but what are my chances of getting a look at it?'

'Depends. Why do you need it?'

I explained about the Hilderly case, stressing our need to know that Perry had not been under duress or undue influence at the time he made his holograph will.

Wolf said, 'Well, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't have a copy, since you say Jess Goodhue has already agreed to that. I can't get to it until this afternoon, though. If you want I'll drop it off at All Souls around four.'

His mention of All Souls made me realize that Wolf-who makes a point of avoiding the often depressing contents of the morning paper-probably knew nothing about what had gone on there the night before. By the time I'd finished telling him that story, my rage at the sniper had been rekindled, and when Wolf expressed his regrets about Hank being shot, I could hear some of the same anger in his voice. Before I hung up, I thought to ask one last question. 'I don't suppose you recall what you found out about Goodhue's mother?'