Джо Горес: Mostly Murder: A Short Story Collection

Kearny said sharply, “What about the Continental?”

“It set here to the weekend, then it was gone.”

“What’s your husband’s current residence address?”

She waved a vague arm. “He never said.” Her eyes widened. “He gave me a phone number, but I never did call it; knew it wouldn’t do no good.” Behind her the baby began crying; the big man went away. Her eyes were round with the effort of remembering. “Yeah. 860-4645.”

Back in the agency car, Kearny lit a cigarette. “If it’s any consolation, there’s the reason for her broken promise. He gets busted Wednesday night, gets word to Mayfield Thursday, on Friday she quits her job. Saturday she sees him at the county jail, finds out where he left the car, drops it into dead storage somewhere near his apartment, and holes up there to wait until he gets out. Find her, you find the car.”

“Can’t we trace the phone number this one gave us?”

Kearny gestured impatiently. “That’ll just be some gin mill.”

The next day the Mayfield folder went into the SKIP tub and a request went to the client for a copy of the subject’s credit application. Skiptracing began on the case. The phone number proved to be that of a tough Valencia Street bar. DKA’s Peninsula agent found that Stuber had drawn a thirty-to-ninety-day rap in the county jail, the heavy sentence resulting from a prior arrest on the same charge. Stuber still said he lived at Eighteenth Street and denied knowing the subject. A stakeout of the jail’s parking lot during visiting hours was negative.

Police contacts reported that the Continental had not been impounded, nor was it picking up parking tags anywhere in San Francisco. Stuber had no current utilities service, no phone listing. The time involved in checking dead-storage garages would have been excessive. By phone Giselle covered Welfare, neighbors around the Edith Alley and Eighteenth Street addresses, the subject’s former contacts at Stanford, Bartender’s Local Number 41, all the references on the credit application. Ballard supplemented with field contact of postmen, gas station attendants, newsboys, and small store owners.

None of it did any good.

Thursday, June 9th: 7:15 p.m.

Ballard was typing reports at home when his phone rang. He had worked thirteen cases that day, including two skips besides Mayfield; it took him a few moments to realize that it was her voice.

“What have I done to make you hate me so?” she asked.

“I’m all for you personally, Josie, but I’ve got a job to do. Anyway, if I let up it just would mean that someone else would keep looking.”

“I love him.” She said it without emotion — a fact by which she lived. “I love him and he said he would leave me if I let them take his car while he’s — away. I couldn’t stand that. It’s the first thing of beauty he’s ever possessed, and he can’t give it up.”

Ballard was swept by a sudden wave of sympathy, almost of desire for her; he could picture her, wearing something soft, probably cashmere, her face serious, her mouth a pink bud. How could Stuber have such a woman bestowed on him, yet keep thinking of a damned automobile? How could he make Jocelyn see Stuber as he really was?

“Josie, the bank objects so strongly to Stuber that they’ve declared the contract void; as long as he has possession, they’ll hold the account in jeopardy. Surrender it. Get him something you can afford.”

“I couldn’t do that,” she said gravely, and hung up.

Ballard got a beer from the refrigerator and sat down at the kitchen table to drink it. After only one meeting and a single phone conversation, was he falling for Jocelyn Mayfield? He felt a deep physical attraction, sure; but it wasn’t unsatisfied desire which was oppressing him now. It was the knowledge that he was going to keep looking for the car, that there was no way to close the case without Jocelyn being badly hurt emotionally.

Friday, June 17: 10:15 a.m.

“If I see her mother once more, she’ll call the cops,” Ballard objected. “Stuber gets out June twenty-ninth. We could tail him—”

“The bank’s deadline is next Tuesday — the twenty-first,” said Kearny. “Then their dealer recourse expires and they have to eat their loss — whatever it is. Find the girl, Ballard, and get the car.”

The intercom buzzed and Jane Goldson said, “Larry’s got a funny sort of call on 1504, Mr. Kearny. She sounds drunk or something.”

Kearny gestured and stayed on as Ballard picked up. The voice, which Ballard recognized as Jocelyn’s, was overflowing with hysteria.

“I can’t stand it any more and I want you to know you’re to blame!” she cried. “My parentsh hate me — can’t see Hank on weekends ’cause I know you’ll be waiting, like vultures — sho — I did it.” She gave a sleepy giggle. “I killed myself.”

“You’re a lively sounding corpse,” said Kearny in a syrupy voice.

“I know who you are!” Surprisingly, she giggled again. “You made Vikki cry. Poor Vikki’ll be all sad. I took all the pillsh.”

Kearny, who appeared to have been doodling on a sheet of scratch paper, held up a crudely printed note: Have Kathy trace call. Ballard switched off, jabbed Kathy’s intercom button. Please God, he thought, let her be all right. What had brought her to this extremity?

“I’ll trace it,” rapped Kathy. “Keep that connection open.”

He punched back into 1504. “—Ballard’s shoul when I die — lose car, lose Hank, sho—” Her sing-song trailed off with a tired sigh; there was a sudden heavy jar. After a moment a light tapping began, as if the receiver were swinging at the end of the cord and striking a table leg. They stared at one another across the empty line.

The intercom buzzed, making Ballard jump. Kathy said, “469 Eddy Street, Apartment 206, listed under Harold Stein — that’ll be Stuber. The phone company’ll get an ambulance and oxygen over there. Good hunting.”

Ballard was already out of his chair. “It’s a place on Eddy Street — we’ve got to get to her!”

As they rocketed up Franklin for the turn into Eddy Street, Ballard said, “We shouldn’t have hounded her that way. Do you think she’ll be all right?”

“Depends on how many of what she took. That address — between Jones and Leavenworth in the Tenderloin — crummy neighborhood. The nearest dead-storage garage is around the corner on Jones Street. We can — hey! What the hell are you doing?”

Ballard had slammed the car to a stop in front of a rundown apartment building. “I’ve got to get to her!” he cried. He was halfway out the car door when Kearny’s thick fingers closed around Ballard’s tie and yanked him bodily back inside.

“You’re a repo man, Ballard,” he growled. “That might not mean much to you but it does to me, a hell of a lot. First we get the car.” Ballard, suddenly desperate, drew back a threatening fist. Kearny’s slaty eyes didn’t flicker; he said, “Don’t let my gray hairs make a coward of you, sonny.”

Ballard slumped back on the seat. He nodded. “Okay. We'll drive on, damn you.”

As they turned into Jones Street, a boxy white Public Health ambulance wheeled into Eddy and smoked to a stop on the wrong side of the street. At the garage half a block down, Kearny went in while Ballard waited in the car. Why had he almost slugged Kearny? For that matter, why had he backed down?

Kearny stuck his head in the window. “It’s easy when you know where to look.” He laid a hand on Ballard’s arm. “On your way up there call Giselle and have her send me a Hold Harmless letter.”

Ballard circled the block and parked behind the ambulance. On the second floor he saw three tenants gaping by the open door of Apartment 206. A uniformed cop put a hand on Ballard’s chest.