[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
started sorting through them, tossing aside seminar notes
and discussions of research materials. At last I uncovered a
composition book, which fell open to a page of notes on
Rosicrucianism. A sketch of a cross with a flower in the cen-
ter was titled MAY THE ROSES BLOOM UPON YOUR CROSS. Flip-
ping through the book, I saw Louis Spencer s name and a
discussion of the pyramid structure of his crypt. Tucked be-
tween the pages was a receipt for a digital copy of La Forna-
rina, by Raphael.
Aha!
Found something! I sang out.
No response.
Guys? I called. Hello?
Nothing.
I had registered the clicking of Shawna s bike a few min-
utes ago, but was so caught up in the discovery of Cindy s
notebook that I hadn t paid attention. With a sinking feeling
I realized I had no plan for getting out of this reeking
254 Hailey Lind
hellhole. I reached up and latched on to the side of the
Dumpster, searching for a foothold. I upended a plastic dia-
per bucket and stood on it so that I could peer over the side.
A car sat in the alley. A dark sedan. The kind detectives
drove.
I dropped back down, muttering to myself about young
hoodlums who didn t have the courtesy to warn a person to
cheese-it when the cops showed. What to do, what to do. . .
In all of my years of training at Grandfather s knee, not once
had he offered a lesson on Dumpster diving.
On the plus side, my olfactory sense seemed to have
given up the ghost, and the little delinquents were unlikely
to tattle to the authorities. As long as I hunkered down in the
trash, I would be safe. No way would anyone think to look
in the
Fancy meeting you here, Detective Hucles said as he
squinted down at me.
Detective. I nodded, casual as one could be while
standing thigh-deep in lumpy yogurt and soiled diapers. Hu-
cles looked tired, his eyes red and lined, his tie loose at the
collar.
You look terrible, I blurted out.
This from the woman in a Dumpster. What s that on
your cheek?
I m trying not to think about it.
I don t blame you. Ms. Kincaid
Call me Annie, I replied. No point in standing on cere-
mony.
Annie. Are you going to tell me what you re doing in
there surrounded by garbage? And not just any garbage, but
Cindy Tanaka s garbage?
I drew a complete and total blank.
The Oakland PD doesn t look fondly on citizens inter-
fering in an ongoing investigation, Annie.
BRUSH WITH DEATH 255
I thought you were convinced it was a suicide, I said.
Does this mean you ve changed your mind?
I heard a police radio crackle. It sounded as if reinforce-
ments had arrived. Hucles held my gaze a moment longer,
but he had hard-to-read cop s eyes. Was he about to ticket
me? Arrest me? Burst out laughing?
Find anything? he asked.
I think so. Cindy s notes.
A suicide note?
No research notes.
He held out his hand, and I reluctantly surrendered the
composition book. He flipped through it and handed it to
someone I couldn t see.
What s with the gloves? he asked.
Have you seen what s in here?
I can only imagine. You always carry latex gloves with
you?
Usually. I Wait a minute. Did the detective think I
was trying to avoid leaving fingerprints? Try acting innocent
for a change, I scolded myself. Especially since this time
you are. I m a faux finisher. I use these gloves for work,
and I was just trying to stay clean. This place is disgusting.
Which begs the question, what are you doing in the
Dumpster?
Something wet and slimy fell against my bare knee. I
couldn t bring myself to look.
Um, Detective? Do you think we could have this discus-
sion some place else? At this point, being taken downtown
to an interrogation room could only be an improvement.
Hucles disappeared from view, and two young officers
popped up. What followed was not one of my better mo-
ments. The cops grabbed my arms and pulled, but between
my lack of upper body strength and their lack of coordina-
tion, I wound up banging against the front wall of the
256 Hailey Lind
Dumpster, twice, and falling on my butt in someone s dis-
carded pizza. By the time I was hauled unceremoniously
over the side I was smeared and slimed and bruised in places
I didn t know could be bruised.
I collapsed on the crate, peeled off my gloves, and tossed
them into the Dumpster.
Hucles was waiting, his arms crossed over his chest.
Better?
I hesitated before answering. Hard to say.
Where were you on the night of the twelfth?
I worked late at Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium,
where I m restoring some murals. My assistant was with me.
Name?
I offered Mary s name and phone number.
He flipped through his notebook. A Ms. Sally Granger,
administrative assistant in the anthropology department at
UC Berkeley, told me you lied to her to get Cindy s ad-
dress.
Um. . . that s true.
Care to elaborate?
Gossen wouldn t give it to me. And I was worried about
her.
Why? You said you hardly knew the woman.
I fessed up and told him about the masked grave robber
stealing Louis box, and the possibility of a Raphael at the
columbarium. And on Sunday, a woman who was secretary
at the columbarium for fifty-one years went into a suspi-
cious diabetic coma.
Why didn t you go to the police right away with this in-
formation?
At first I thought Cindy or the cemetery management
would call. And then it just all seemed pretty far-fetched, es-
pecially the bit about the Raphael. In the end. . . I was just
stupid, I guess.
BRUSH WITH DEATH 257
Professor Gossen spoke about test results from a valu-
able painting. That s the one you re talking about?
Yes, I think so.
Detective Hucles took a deep breath and flipped through
his notebook. He wrote down Mrs. Henderson s informa-
tion, read some more, then fixed me with a steady gaze. I m
choosing to believe your version of events, for now. If I have
any reason to doubt you, we re going to have problems. Do
I make myself clear?
I nodded. Crystal.
That s it, then. You can go.
I . . . er . . . Cindy s notebook? Could I take a look. . . ?
That s the problem with these darned homicide investi- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl fopke.keep.pl
started sorting through them, tossing aside seminar notes
and discussions of research materials. At last I uncovered a
composition book, which fell open to a page of notes on
Rosicrucianism. A sketch of a cross with a flower in the cen-
ter was titled MAY THE ROSES BLOOM UPON YOUR CROSS. Flip-
ping through the book, I saw Louis Spencer s name and a
discussion of the pyramid structure of his crypt. Tucked be-
tween the pages was a receipt for a digital copy of La Forna-
rina, by Raphael.
Aha!
Found something! I sang out.
No response.
Guys? I called. Hello?
Nothing.
I had registered the clicking of Shawna s bike a few min-
utes ago, but was so caught up in the discovery of Cindy s
notebook that I hadn t paid attention. With a sinking feeling
I realized I had no plan for getting out of this reeking
254 Hailey Lind
hellhole. I reached up and latched on to the side of the
Dumpster, searching for a foothold. I upended a plastic dia-
per bucket and stood on it so that I could peer over the side.
A car sat in the alley. A dark sedan. The kind detectives
drove.
I dropped back down, muttering to myself about young
hoodlums who didn t have the courtesy to warn a person to
cheese-it when the cops showed. What to do, what to do. . .
In all of my years of training at Grandfather s knee, not once
had he offered a lesson on Dumpster diving.
On the plus side, my olfactory sense seemed to have
given up the ghost, and the little delinquents were unlikely
to tattle to the authorities. As long as I hunkered down in the
trash, I would be safe. No way would anyone think to look
in the
Fancy meeting you here, Detective Hucles said as he
squinted down at me.
Detective. I nodded, casual as one could be while
standing thigh-deep in lumpy yogurt and soiled diapers. Hu-
cles looked tired, his eyes red and lined, his tie loose at the
collar.
You look terrible, I blurted out.
This from the woman in a Dumpster. What s that on
your cheek?
I m trying not to think about it.
I don t blame you. Ms. Kincaid
Call me Annie, I replied. No point in standing on cere-
mony.
Annie. Are you going to tell me what you re doing in
there surrounded by garbage? And not just any garbage, but
Cindy Tanaka s garbage?
I drew a complete and total blank.
The Oakland PD doesn t look fondly on citizens inter-
fering in an ongoing investigation, Annie.
BRUSH WITH DEATH 255
I thought you were convinced it was a suicide, I said.
Does this mean you ve changed your mind?
I heard a police radio crackle. It sounded as if reinforce-
ments had arrived. Hucles held my gaze a moment longer,
but he had hard-to-read cop s eyes. Was he about to ticket
me? Arrest me? Burst out laughing?
Find anything? he asked.
I think so. Cindy s notes.
A suicide note?
No research notes.
He held out his hand, and I reluctantly surrendered the
composition book. He flipped through it and handed it to
someone I couldn t see.
What s with the gloves? he asked.
Have you seen what s in here?
I can only imagine. You always carry latex gloves with
you?
Usually. I Wait a minute. Did the detective think I
was trying to avoid leaving fingerprints? Try acting innocent
for a change, I scolded myself. Especially since this time
you are. I m a faux finisher. I use these gloves for work,
and I was just trying to stay clean. This place is disgusting.
Which begs the question, what are you doing in the
Dumpster?
Something wet and slimy fell against my bare knee. I
couldn t bring myself to look.
Um, Detective? Do you think we could have this discus-
sion some place else? At this point, being taken downtown
to an interrogation room could only be an improvement.
Hucles disappeared from view, and two young officers
popped up. What followed was not one of my better mo-
ments. The cops grabbed my arms and pulled, but between
my lack of upper body strength and their lack of coordina-
tion, I wound up banging against the front wall of the
256 Hailey Lind
Dumpster, twice, and falling on my butt in someone s dis-
carded pizza. By the time I was hauled unceremoniously
over the side I was smeared and slimed and bruised in places
I didn t know could be bruised.
I collapsed on the crate, peeled off my gloves, and tossed
them into the Dumpster.
Hucles was waiting, his arms crossed over his chest.
Better?
I hesitated before answering. Hard to say.
Where were you on the night of the twelfth?
I worked late at Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium,
where I m restoring some murals. My assistant was with me.
Name?
I offered Mary s name and phone number.
He flipped through his notebook. A Ms. Sally Granger,
administrative assistant in the anthropology department at
UC Berkeley, told me you lied to her to get Cindy s ad-
dress.
Um. . . that s true.
Care to elaborate?
Gossen wouldn t give it to me. And I was worried about
her.
Why? You said you hardly knew the woman.
I fessed up and told him about the masked grave robber
stealing Louis box, and the possibility of a Raphael at the
columbarium. And on Sunday, a woman who was secretary
at the columbarium for fifty-one years went into a suspi-
cious diabetic coma.
Why didn t you go to the police right away with this in-
formation?
At first I thought Cindy or the cemetery management
would call. And then it just all seemed pretty far-fetched, es-
pecially the bit about the Raphael. In the end. . . I was just
stupid, I guess.
BRUSH WITH DEATH 257
Professor Gossen spoke about test results from a valu-
able painting. That s the one you re talking about?
Yes, I think so.
Detective Hucles took a deep breath and flipped through
his notebook. He wrote down Mrs. Henderson s informa-
tion, read some more, then fixed me with a steady gaze. I m
choosing to believe your version of events, for now. If I have
any reason to doubt you, we re going to have problems. Do
I make myself clear?
I nodded. Crystal.
That s it, then. You can go.
I . . . er . . . Cindy s notebook? Could I take a look. . . ?
That s the problem with these darned homicide investi- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]