“Among other things,” Bell said. “Three months now, and your former colleagues at the Berkeley PD still can't find the guy. They had to reopen the trail to the public. They're interviewing all the partners and staff again. They act like they suspect one of us. We're talking major PR problems. The Berkeley press is frothing at the mouth.”
“Bring in a few clients,” Fleck said.
Bell took him seriously. “This kind of coverage doesn't bring in the right kind of clients. Pete's upset. He got the okay to hire you to look into the murder at the last partners' meeting.”
“I'm sorry to hear all this. But I don't want to come back right now, Frank.”
“I'm authorized to offer a further bonus of ten grand if you locate the killer,” Bell said, squeezing each word out as if it hurt him.
“Unless it's somebody at the firm,” Fleck said.
“Would we be bringing you in if we thought that? Look, you know us; you know Berkeley.” Another pause. Bell couldn't resist. “Come on, John, what's the big deal? You need the money, I happen to know.”
“I'll call you back,” Fleck said. The money, he needed. The job… it was wrong to go back there. Stupid, even. He hung up, thought a minute, then called Charisse, waiting impatiently for her line to clear. Finally she said, “Hello?” with that breathy Southern voice she had, and he said, “How about you fly to California with me?” She surprised the hell out of him when she said yes.
They flew out Sunday at midnight, first class. Charisse slept the whole way with her head against his shoulder. He froze his arm, not wanting to wake her up. While he sat there, he memorized her, her dark springy hair brushing his face, her full lips parted like a child's, her smooth broad forehead, her long eyelashes resting peacefully on her cheeks. The emptiness in him receded, to be replaced by something he was afraid to name.
He left her in the hotel room in San Francisco, driving his rental car against the traffic over the Bay Bridge the next day, morning sun assaulting his eyes the whole way. Atlanta had been warm and humid, but above downtown Berkeley, the East Bay hills shimmered dry yellow, the brush desiccating in the August heat. Sun baking him through the driver's window sucked the moisture out of him.
Stevenson Safik & Morris occupied the third floor of a downtown office building on Shattuck, half a mile from the UC campus. Inside, it felt too cold, too dark.
Franklin Bell hadn't changed. The smooth pasty face was crowned with a short TV-interview haircut and the muddy eyes appraised Fleck coolly. He didn't offer to shake hands. He'd done the job, brought Fleck in. There was no need to make nice anymore. He motioned at the secretary to bring some coffee, and strode off to find Pete Altschuler.
The two white lawyers came into Bell 's office together a few minutes later. Pete Altschuler pumped his hand, saying how glad he was to see him. Altschuler had lost weight since the heart attack. When he smiled, the folds in his cheeks made deep parentheses; his lips had turned purplish. He sat down carefully in the other client chair. Bell frowned at both of them, then slid a heavy brown accordion folder stuffed with papers across his wide desk toward Fleck.
“The police reports. Autopsy. Photos. Lab stuff. It's all there. Take it with you,” Altschuler said.
“We want you to clear the firm's name,” added Bell. “Tamp the rumors. So she worked here; it's not like she got killed at her desk. No, she had to go marching around by herself out there in the hills until a crazy got at her. So much for the feminists.”
A note of triumph sounded in his voice. Fleck thought, His wife's left him.
“Are the police focusing on anybody in particular here?” he asked Altschuler.
Altschuler seemed to have used up all his energy shaking hands. “Pete was just about to let her go,” Bell interposed. “Her work performance wasn't up to par. She had told some of the other secretaries. She threatened to sue.”
“So?” Fleck said.
“She was a flake. She told stories,” Bell went on. “Never considered the consequences of her mouth.”
“Ah, let's get it over with,” Altschuler said in a weary voice. “You might as well hear it from me, John. We were having an affair. She wanted to break it off with me and I wanted to keep her. There were scenes. Everyone here knew about it.”
“Why was she breaking it up?” Fleck said.
Altschuler shrugged. “Who knows? They never tell you the truth when they want to dump you.” His voice was light, but his hands patted his thighs as if he needed comforting.
“Did you kill her?”
Altschuler's smile had turned into a grimace. “No. Guilty? Hell, yes. But not of murder.”
“What about your wife?”
“You've got to be kidding. Anne never knew.”
Franklin Bell's expression said, Yeah, sure. “Who else might have done it?” Fleck asked Bell. “Any ideas, Frank? Not that you knew her well, right?”
“It's no use looking for a motive,” Bell said smoothly, leaning back in his swivel chair, clasping his hands behind his head, elaborately casual. “You of all people know this town, John. Every misfit with a grudge comes to Berkeley. Nobody follows the rules. Nobody leashes 'em. It was somebody she didn't even know. She met him on the trail, he had it in his head to kill somebody that morning, and there she was.”
“She lived alone,” Altschuler said. “Her mother lives in the city, teaches anthro at San Francisco State. She played piano, liked Japanese food, worried about her weight, decorated her desk with bottlebrush in a vase. This was a good, decent, fine girl, John.”
“Have there been any other killings, attacks, anything like that, on that trail?”
“Not this one,” Bell said. “But all those hill trails, bad things happen now and then. Berkeley 's no exception. There was the Hillside Strangler in Santa Cruz. The Tamalpais trails are really dangerous. Hikers find bodies there every year.”
“What about this trail-what is it called?”
“The college kids call it The Long Walk,” Bell said. “It's about five miles, winding up from the UC stadium behind Strawberry Canyon. It's popular with the students, of course, and the hikers and the runners. At the top there's a stretch of flat granite and a rocky place they call The Cave, with a spring. They sunbathe there, rest up before going back down. It happened on a side path near The Cave.”
“No witnesses.”
“No witnesses, no weapon, no evidence. Somebody just grabbed her and bashed her brains in,” Altschuler said. “It's not just for the firm, John. It's for her.”
“She was a flake,” Bell repeated, “and we really don't need this kind of attention.”
“Why did you call me?” Fleck said. “Why do you think I can step in, when the Berkeley PD can't close it?”
“You worked there all those years. You know how it is,” Altschuler said. “Other priorities. Drugs, runaways, domestic violence, foreign students getting robbed and killed, political demonstrations, the annual riots on Telegraph, the big murders, the orders to keep a low profile…”
Bell looked bored. He hauled himself out of the chair, said, “It's in the reports,” looked at his watch. On cue, his phone buzzed. “Take care,” he said. The meeting was over.
“Call me in a day or two, John,” Altschuler said at the door into the hall. “Where are you going to start?”
“The Long Walk,” Fleck said. He hefted the file under his arm. “You ever been there, Pete?”
“Not me,” Altschuler said. His mouth opened in his long mournful face like he was about to say more, but the door closed, and Fleck was shut out.
Charisse had never been to the huge amusement park of San Francisco. That night they climbed the Coit Tower hill in a balmy sunset and ate at an Italian restaurant in North Beach. Then they drove across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito and had a few drinks on the outside deck at the Reef, looking back over the dark brilliant water toward the glowing city.
Some kids leaned too far over the railing, tossing bits of sourdough. A sea lion barked itself hoarse in the shallows below the deck and Charisse ran over to look. Pelicans and gulls circled and dove. Fleck sat there, too big for the flimsy wicker chair, finishing his drink, the sharp aromatic fumes of the brandy blending with the salt tang of the air. He had read the reports. He should not be on this case.
“So beautiful,” she said, pulling her chair out. Her thin dress with its full skirt poufed around her as she sat down and he caught her perfume. “John-”
“Um-hmm.” He tossed off the last of his drink.
“Why'd you leave California?”
“Because it smells like death to me,” he said. He hadn't meant to say it that way. He didn't want her to be afraid of him. But he wanted her to understand him. She deserved to know what she was getting. It smells like fifteen years of crime scenes, corpses, court, he said to himself, swirling the ice in his glass. Finding the victims in bed, in old abandoned buildings, in the ashes of their homes, in the gutters, on the playgrounds, under the dirt. Always too late to save them. Trying to be satisfied locking up the pathetic killers.
“Working homicide, every day was the same,” he went on. “Somebody killed somebody. I found out who was dead, and who did the killing. I found out why they did the killing. More and more, there was no reason. You know, some kid would say, he got in my face, he looked at my girl. Or, I needed a few bucks to buy crack. Or, I just exploded, I can't explain why. Everybody dying, and I couldn't stop it. I come back here and it's just the same.”
Charisse covered his hand with hers, shivering. “You're only here for a little bit, and you and me, we're apart from all that.”
“ Atlanta 's still got some of that… innocence,” he said. “Like you. Not spoiled.”
“Maybe you shouldn't have come back so soon, feeling like you do.” She turned his hand over, kissed the palm, her lips a bird's wing brushing his skin.
“I came back for the money. There's so much money here. Maybe when I go back to Atlanta, I can buy a little house. Get over it.”
“You wouldn't be leaving… family here?”
“No. No family. Not anymore. And you? Who do you come with?”
“Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, dozens of cousins. You should see the party on the Fourth of July.”
“If I'm in Atlanta,” Fleck said.
“I hope you will be.” She was bold, but her voice was so gentle it sent a root down into his soul. “Listen, John. Let's fly back right now,” Charisse went on, her voice half-playful, half-serious. “I feel like-this isn't good for you. Our business is in Atlanta.”
“I'll be fine,” he said. Fifteen, eighteen thousand, he said to himself. Make me worth knowing, maybe. “Tomorrow I have to get up early. I'll be back to take you to dinner.”
“Are you going to take The Long Walk?”
“Yeah. I have to leave San Francisco before dawn and get over to Berkeley. The girl was killed in the morning. I want to check it out at about the same time of day.” He stood up abruptly. “Let's get out of here.”
While they drove back to the hotel, Charisse rested her hand on his leg. They lay down on the bed as soon as the hotel door closed and kissed for a long time.
Once more he didn't sleep well. He wasn't used to having a warm solid woman pressed against him.
He shifted and her arm swept across his bare chest. Damn her. The only sane thing was not to care.
