Sinister Shorts

“You ain't goin' nowhere.” He had reached up to tug gently at her.

“Fleck fits you,” she murmured, looking down at him. “Yellow flecks in green eyes… where'd those light eyes come from, your mama or your daddy? Hey, now… hey.”

Later, he had rolled his fullback's body out of bed, embarrassed because he knew Charisse was watching him. She got up too, classic as a temple goddess wrapped in the yellow sheet, stretching her brown arms above her head and yawning. They showered and dressed, then walked together across the concrete plaza toward the concrete tower they both worked in, avoiding the puddles, not hurrying.

Charisse had said, “Having second thoughts?”

“No, ma'am. Never. Just scared of my luck,” he'd answered.

“Not luck,” she said. “Don't you believe in destiny? Paths always cross for a reason.” They walked into the building, got into the same elevator they had met in.

“Paths cross by chance,” he said. “You never know.”

Charisse laughed, said, “All those chance events, all those coincidences for the last ten thousand years, all those ancestors, all those travels, all those births and deaths and tragedies and comedies, all that led to you and me meeting right here, going up. Honey, that is destiny.”

He had looked at her, so small and sure and important-sounding, having to tilt her head up even in her high heels. He loved how she thought, big thoughts. He had wanted to hiss something sweet into her ear. Instead, as he stepped out, he touched her cheek, saying, “Doesn't matter why. Here we are.”

Fleck wondered how long his silence had lasted. “No. I'll have to pass,” he told Bell.

Now Bell paused. “We'll give you a five-thousand-dollar bonus for the rush.”

“Now you have my attention. But get specific, okay?”

“Julie Mattei, remember her? Pete's legal secretary, pretty, ah, black girl, her desk right in front of Pete's door?”

He remembered Julie. He felt the familiar chilly liquid rush up his spine. “Yeah.”

“She's dead,” Bell said. “Beaten to death, awful thing, on a trail up behind the UC campus, up in the hills. Just before Easter. It's one of those random killings, some joker freaked on the latest street drug.”

“She had a nice smile.”

“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. A

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.”