"That was fast," Mike commented as he dropped onto the same bench seat that he'd occupied four days earlier.
Johnny Doan smiled as he slid a large manila envelope across the dark wood table. "You know I like to work fast. Part One." He tapped the envelope before removing his hand and taking a bite out of the ham-and-cheese sandwich in his other hand.
Frowning in curiosity, Mike picked up the envelope and opened it, pulling out a small sheaf of loose foolscap covered with what he assumed was Doan's handwriting. He glanced up at the Chinese P.I. as he set the envelope aside.
Doan pointed at the pieces of paper. "I spent the weekend in Chinatown, talking to store and restaurant owners near Grant and Sacramento." He patted his stomach and smiled like a buddha. "I ate a lot of dim sum. Haven't done that in awhile."
Mike fished his reading glasses out of his inside jacket pocket with a smile and a nod. "You're welcome. It's on my bill, I assume?"
Doan shrugged and chuckled. "I was… frugal."
The lieutenant nodded with a skeptical but amused glance as he began to rifle through the pages. He frowned.
Doan chuckled. "A surprising number of people saw the woman with the dog on that day. It must be the dog. If she was alone, I'm sure nobody would've remembered her, but you put an animal on the scene…?" He shrugged again with a laugh before taking another bite of his sandwich.
A waitress approached the table but Mike shook his head with a pleasant smile. "Sorry, I'm not staying." He shuffled a few of the pages. "Do any of the descriptions match?" He sounded almost desperate.
"Actually, yes. And once you study them, you'll see that too."
"Enough to go to a sketch artist, do you think?"
"Oh yeah… I think so."
"Great," Mike smiled, stacking the sheets and slipping them back into the envelope. "Any description on the dog?"
Doan laughed. "Yeah, all of them the same. A small white dog that looked like either a poodle or a terrier of some kind."
"That's not a big help."
"I know but that's all I got." He took a sip of his coffee. "So, listen, I'm gonna start in on that lady friend of your partner's today. I still have connections in R&I that'll give me a hand, and I have… well, let's say I have other resources now." He laughed. "You know, there's a lot of things I can do now as a P.I. that I couldn't, ethically, do as a cop. It's kinda… I don't know, liberating."
"So long as it's not illegal," Mike cautioned, only half-joking.
Doan held up both hands, the remains of his sandwich in his right. "You know me, Mike, I always toe the line."
"Yeah, but the trouble is, you keep moving the line." With upraised brows and a stern but warm smile, Mike got up. "Thanks, John. You'll give me a call?"
"You bet," the private eye nodded as the lieutenant started away. "Have a nice day!" he called at the retreating back.
Mike glanced over his shoulder but didn't stop. "You too!"
# # # # #
They could see the flyers stapled to telephone poles and taped to the windows of stores even before they entered the heart of The Castro. Sharing an uncomfortable glance with his temporary partner, Steve pulled the tan LTD to the curb when he found an empty spot and turned the engine off.
The both sat silently for a long beat before opening their respective doors. "I am not looking forward to this," Collier muttered under his breath with a soft chuckle as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Smiling to himself, Steve waited till the tall blond had closed the door before pushing the button to lock it, then he got out and locked his own door. It wasn't something he or Mike usually did, but a part of him was worried, not about vandalism but about what the jokers in The Castro could do to the inside of the car.
They were back to do some follow-up questioning and hopefully interview a few people, staff and regulars, that had been absent on Friday. They also had plans to return tomorrow night to hopefully discover some Tuesday night regulars who might know something about their victim or the night he was followed from the bar and murdered.
It didn't take long for them to attract unwanted attention, not surprising since they could spot the flyers on every storefront, every telephone pole, every bus bench and every payphone as far as the eye could see. Even behind the unnecessary sunglasses on the overcast late afternoon, it was hard to ignore the catcalls and suggestive whistles directed their way; and though they knew it was done in jest and good will, it was still a little disconcerting.
Belmondo's, named for the French New Wave actor and gay icon, was not so bustling at this hour, which would allow them the time to interview people at greater length. They had already established that their victim, Robert "Bobby" Connors, was a regular, a well-liked man in his early 40's who led a closeted life outside The Castro. A bank teller who lived alone in the shadow of Telegraph Hill, he spent every Tuesday night at Belmondo's where, they were told by grieving friends, he could 'be his true self'.
"He wouldn't hurt a fly," was a phrase they heard more than once.
Tuesdays were always a busy night, as Belmondo's offered two-for-one 'drinks with umbrellas'. But one of the bartenders who was working that night couldn't remember anyone being out of line.
"It was just a normal night, man," the handsome, dark-haired young man with the red scarf tied around his neck told Steve as he wiped the bar. "I mean, we get our share of redneck assholes that come in and hassle our… patrons, you know what I mean. And we've had our fair share of guys getting beat up for just being who they are, you know…?"
Steve nodded slowly. "You?" he asked quietly and the young man's dark eyes snapped to him quickly and guiltily.
After a beat, the bartender nodded. "I've been jumped a couple of times, yeah. Nothing serious, thank god, but the threat is always there, you know…"
"Do you think Bobby may have been followed from here?"
The other man shrugged. "Maybe. I mean, he was always going out for cigarettes. We have a machine at the back," he nodded over this shoulder, "but Bobby preferred Gauloises." He chuckled, then stopped himself, and a look of pure grief briefly washed over his face. He cleared his throat. "He didn't deserve to be killed… not like that…"
"Did he carry a lot of money on him, do you know?"
"He always paid in cash but I never saw him flash a wad, if you know what I mean. And he didn't dress like he had a huge bank account. He was just a regular guy, you know.
"Do you think he might have been targeted deliberately?"
The bartender shrugged. "Either that or they were just waiting out front for someone to leave… They do that, you know, the haters…. They wait till they get someone alone, 'cause they're basically cowards…" He wiped the bar again, not meeting the cop's sympathetic stare.
"Have you heard of someone getting hit with an aluminum baseball bat before?"
The dark eyes snapped to him once more. "Is that what they used? A baseball bat?"
Steve nodded with a cautious shrug. "That's what the coroner thinks… that or a metal pipe."
"Goddamn it…"
"Is there anyone that stands out for you, someone you may have seen loitering around the front when you got to work?"
"I get here early…". He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't remember anybody… but I really wasn't looking, you know…"
"Yeah, I understand." Steve reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a business card. "Listen, ah, if you think of anything else…"
The bartender took the card and stared at it. "Yeah, I will…."
Steve nodded his appreciation and moved away from the bar. Collier was on the other side of the large space talking to one of the waiters and Steve made his way across the room trying to ignore the stares that followed his every step. The urge to put his sunglasses back on was very strong but, other than the fact that he was inside a quite dark bar, the action would have the opposite effect he was going for, of that he was absolutely certain.
Collier was just wrapping up his interview when Steve approached. "Anything?" the senior partner asked.
The tall blond shook his head. "Nothing specific. Connors was a nice guy, this never should've happened to him, and nobody saw anything suspicious, no one watching him, no altercation of any kind." He snapped his notebook closed. "It's beginning to seem more and more like it was a random attack, doesn't it?"
Steve glanced around. "Yeah, that's the vibe I'm getting too." He sighed heavily. "Well, why don't we get outa here and come back tomorrow night and see if any of the Tuesday night regulars can add something."
As they made their way to the front door, both inspectors knew that if indeed it was a random attack, the chance of catching their killer was probably more a matter of luck than great detective work.
# # # # #
Mike knocked lightly on the door, listening closely for a response. When he heard the "Come on!" he opened the door and stepped into the small, windowless office.
"Mike!" the middle-aged woman with the sort blond hair greeted him with a smile. "Haven't seen you down here in a dog's age."
The veteran detective took the single step to the front of the metal desk and closed the door behind him. He was carrying the manila envelope that Doan had given him and he discreetly held it behind his back. "Yes, it has been awhile, Marilyn. You're looking well. How's Frank doing?"
"I am well, thank you, and so's Frank." She was smiling but her brow was slightly furrowed. "So, ah, so what brings you down here?"
Clearing his throat guiltily, Mike gestured at the single guest chair. "Do you mind…?"
"Not at all," she invited with a smile and a nod which was quickly replaced with a concerned frown. "Say, didn't I hear that you and Steve were involved in some kind of car accident in Chinatown a few weeks ago?"
Mike chuckled and smiled. "Yes, we were. I broke my wrist, and Steve had a concussion but we're both back on the job now."
"Nothing'll keep you down, right?" she laughed.
"You got it."
"So, ah, what can I do for you? I'm assuming you're here in an official capacity…?"
Mike took a deep breath and made a face. "Well, ah, not exactly."
Marilyn raised surprised eyebrows but didn't say anything.
"I have a favor to ask," he began slowly, "and it has to do with that accident we were just talking about." He put the envelope on the desk. "Marilyn, what I'm about to tell you and ask of you has to be in the strictest of confidence. And I'll tell you why in a minute. But first I want to tell you what I need and see if you can, and are willing, to do it."
She leaned forward, more intrigued than surprised. "All right…"
He took the pieces of foolscap out of the envelope and set them on the desk in front of her. He explained what they were but not how he was in possession of them.
"I've already gone through them and circled the features that more than one witness described. I would like you to take those different descriptions and, if you can, make up a composite for me. One that I can show around Chinatown and see if anybody else recognizes her." He paused and swallowed heavily. "Do you think you can do it?"
She looked up from the pages and stared at him expressionlessly. He held his breath. Then she smiled. "I can certainly give it a try."
