C is for Corpse

"Chair over there if you have time to sit." He managed to get this sentence out while holding his breath, dope smoke locked in his lungs.

I glanced around and spotted an old wooden lawn chair, which I dragged over to the step. Then I took the address book out of my handbag and passed it to him, open to the back cover. "Any idea who this is? It's not a local number."

He glanced at the penciled entry and then gave me a quick look. "You tried calling?"

"Sure. I also tried the only Blackman listed in the book. Its a disco

"I know the number, but it's not a telephone listing. Bobby moved the hyphen over."

"What's it for? I don't understand."

"These first two digits indicate Santa Teresa County. Last five are the morgue code. This is the I.D. number on a body we got in storage. I told you we had two that had been out there for years. This is Franklin."

"But why list it under Blackman?"

Kelly smiled at me, taking a long pull off his joint before he spoke. "Franklin's black. He's a black man. Maybe it was Bobby's joke."

"Are you sure?"

"Reasonably sure. You can check it yourself if you don't believe me."

"I think he was searching for a handgun out there. Would you have any idea where he might have started?"

"Nope. Place is big. They must have eighty, ninety rooms out there that haven't been used in years. Could be anywhere. Bobby would have worked his shift by himself. He had the run of the building as long as no one found out he was away from his work."

"Well. I guess I'll just have to wing it. I appreciate your help."

"No problem."

I went back to my office. Kelly Borden had told me that a kid named Alfie Leadbetter would be working the three-to-eleven shift at the morgue. The guy was a friend of his and he said he d call ahead and let him know I was coming out.

I hauled out my typewriter again and made some notes. What was this? What did the corpse of a black man have to do with the murder of Dwight Costigan and the blackmailing of his former wife?

The phone rang and I picked it up like an automaton, my mind on the problem at hand. "Yes?"

"Kinsey?"

"Speaking."

"I wasn't sure that was you. This is Jonah. You always answer that way?"

I focused. "God, sorry. What can I do for you?"

"I heard about something I thought might interest you. You know that Callahan accident?"

"Sure. What about it?"

"I just ran into the guy who works Traffic and he says the lab boys went over the car this afternoon. The brake lines were cut just as clean as you please. They transferred the whole case to Homicide."

I could feel myself doing the same kind of mental double take I'd done just minutes before when I finally heard what the name Blackman meant. "What?"

"Your friend Bobby Callahan was murdered," Jonah said patiently. "The brake lines on his car had been cut, which means all the brake fluid ran out, which means he crashed into that tree because he rounded the curve with no way to slow down."

"I thought the autopsy showed he had a stroke."

"Maybe he did when he realized what was happening. That's not inconsistent as far as I can tell."

"Oh, you're right." For a moment I just breathed in Jonah's ear. "How long would that take?"

"What, cutting the brake lines or the fluid ru

"Both, now that you mention it."

"Oh, probably five minutes to cut the lines. That's no big deal if you know where to look. The other depends. He probably could have driven the car for a little while, pumped the brakes once or twice. Next thing he knew, he'd have tried 'em and boom, gone."

"So it happened that night? Whoever cut the lines?"

"Had to. The kid couldn't have driven far."

I was dead silent, thinking of the message Bobby'd left on my machine. He'd seen Kleinert the night he died. I remember Kleinert mentioning it too.

"You there?"

"I don't know what it means, Jonah," I said. "This case is starting to break and I just can't figure out what's going on."

"You want me to come over and we'll talk it out?"

"Not, not yet. I need to be by myself. Let me call you later when I have more to go on."

"Sure. You've got my home number, haven't you?"

"Better give it to me again," I said and jotted it down.

"Now, listen," he said to me. "Swear to me you won't do anything stupid."

"How can I do anything stupid? I don't even know what's going on," I said. "Besides, 'stupid' is after the fact. I always feel smart when I think things up."

"God damn it, you know what I'm talking about."

I laughed. "You're right. I know. And believe me, I'll call you if anything comes up. Honestly, my sole object in life is to protect my own ass."

"Well," he said grudgingly. "That's good to hear, but I doubt it."

We said our good-byes and he hung up. I left my hand on the receiver.

I tried Glen's number. I felt she should have the information and I couldn't be sure the cops would bring her up to date, especially since, at this point, they probably didn't have any more answers than I did.

She picked up the phone and I told her what was going on, including the business about Blackman in Bobby's address book. Of necessity, I told her as much as I knew about the blackmailing business. Hell, why not? This was no time to keep secrets. She already knew that Nola and Bobby were lovers. She might as well understand what he had undertaken in Nolas behalf. I even took the liberty of mentioning Sufi's involvement, though I still wasn't sure about that. I suspected that she was a go-between, ferrying messages between Nola and Bobby, counseling Bobby, perhaps, when his passion clashed with his youthful impatience.

She was quiet for a moment in the same way I had been. "What happens now?"

"I'll talk to Homicide tomorrow and tell them everything I know. They can handle it after that."

"Be careful in the meantime," she said.

"No sweat."

Chapter 26

There was still an hour and a half of daylight left when I reached the old county medical complex. From the number of parking spaces available, it was clear that most of the offices were closed, perso

I grabbed my flashlight and my key picks, pausing to pull a sweatshirt over my tank tbp. I remembered the building as chilly, even more so, I imagined, if I was there after sunset. I locked my car and headed for the entrance.

I paused at the double doors in front and pressed a bell to my right. After a moment, the door buzzed back, releasing the lock, and I went in. The lobby was already accumulating shadows and reminded me vaguely of an abandoned train station in a futuristic movie. It had that same air of vintage elegance: inlaid marble floors, high ceilings, beautiful woodwork of buffed oak. The few remaining fixtures must have been there since the twenties, when the place was built.

I crossed the lobby, glancing idly at the wall directory as I passed. Almost subliminally, a name caught my eye. I paused and looked again. Leo Kleinert had an office out here, which I hadn't realized before. Had Bobby driven this far for weekly psychiatric sessions? Seemed a bit out of the way. I went downstairs, footsteps scratching on the tile steps. As before, I could feel the temperature dropping, like a descent into the waters of a lake. Down here, it was gloomier, but the glass door to the morgue was lighted, a bright rectangle in the gathering darkness of the hall. I checked my watch. It wasn't even 7:15.