interesting about her avoiding you?”
“That last time—it was right before she disappeared—she said, ‘Why are you busting your butt about this, the statute’s run out?’”
Kiernan nodded. “Interesting indeed.”
Olsen beamed. “Yeah. She might’ve known the date of the hit-and-run. I might’ve thrown that in myself. But the length of a specific statute of limitations, how many people know that? How many civilians even know which one would apply to a crime like that, right?”
“Right,” Kiernan said, extending a hand for him to shake. “And then she and Delaney go overboard.”
“Or Delaney goes overboard.”
“This your version, or does it come from the guys on the dock?” she asked.
“Mine alone.” Olsen glanced through his glass doors at the fog. “Delaney washed up on the Farallons. What was left of the boat washed up south of the city. We don’t know where Robin Matucci went over. Could be she jumped out and swam to shore.”
“But the fishermen don’t think so?”
“’Cording to them they don’t think anything. Maybe that’s ’cause they’re smarter than me.”
Purposely ignoring his tacit demand for sympathy, Kiernan waited. God, why couldn’t the man grow up?
“When I came back from asking around the last time, my windshield was bashed in. Slivers of glass all over the driver’s seat. Just the driver’s seat. I know what a sliver of glass did to Brant. So, with a rare show of smarts, I figure I got enough to worry about with this hip, without losing my brain besides. It’s making me crazy to get this far and have to drop it, but that’s what I got to do.”
“And you’re hoping I’ll do the legwork?”
“Nah. I’m not looking for gifts. What I told you tonight, it’s a loss leader.”
Kiernan nodded. “Who’s the best guy on the dock to tackle?”
He grinned. “What’d your friend Marc Rosten tell you about Delaney?”
“Grow up, Olsen. I am too tired and grumpy to deal with an adolescent.”
“I’m asking about Delaney,” he said archly.
She sighed. “Bad eyes and drunk.”
Olsen smiled. “On the dock, talk to Ben Pedersen on Nelda’s Dream. But watch out for him. Looks like a teddy bear. Could be a grizzly. He’ll tell you a lot, but what he won’t say is that he picked up a bundle of business after Matucci went over.” He paused and waited to catch her eye. “Here’s one thing he won’t be anxious to tell you: He’s in hock up to the gills.”
14
K IERNAN CHECKED INTO A motel off Lombard Street, halfway between Olsen’s and Fisherman’s Wharf. She called Tchernak, said good night to Ezra, and set her alarm for 4:00 A.M.
At ten to five she parked across the street from Fisherman’s Wharf. Before the hum of the motor died out, fog coated the windshield. As she hurried toward the wharf the wind iced her face. Streetlights offered a muted glow too weak to make it to the ground.
The wharf, one of the area’s main tourist attractions, was no bigger than a city block. It was surrounded on four sides by souvenir shops, restaurants, and storage warehouses. A single narrow lane of water was all that connected it to the Bay. Although it was a working dock, it was so wedged in by pretentious honky-tonk that it looked fake and shoddy itself. Kiernan walked behind the row of restaurants that formed the connecting line of, its reversed E shape, and stood outside the pale circle of light near the dock’s center. A sea lion barked, demanding an early breakfast. She recalled complaints about sea lions who’d discovered the good life—the pro-lion newsmen had had a lot of fun with them. There had been complaints about everything here, including the restaurants, one of which—the Crab Cage Café—had gone so far as to attach a fake plywood crab cage to its roof. It was considered a fitting symbol of the wharfs pervasive tawdriness.
The cold wind cut through her sweater. The boats were half hidden in fog, but she could smell coffee, hear the
“That last time—it was right before she disappeared—she said, ‘Why are you busting your butt about this, the statute’s run out?’”
Kiernan nodded. “Interesting indeed.”
Olsen beamed. “Yeah. She might’ve known the date of the hit-and-run. I might’ve thrown that in myself. But the length of a specific statute of limitations, how many people know that? How many civilians even know which one would apply to a crime like that, right?”
“Right,” Kiernan said, extending a hand for him to shake. “And then she and Delaney go overboard.”
“Or Delaney goes overboard.”
“This your version, or does it come from the guys on the dock?” she asked.
“Mine alone.” Olsen glanced through his glass doors at the fog. “Delaney washed up on the Farallons. What was left of the boat washed up south of the city. We don’t know where Robin Matucci went over. Could be she jumped out and swam to shore.”
“But the fishermen don’t think so?”
“’Cording to them they don’t think anything. Maybe that’s ’cause they’re smarter than me.”
Purposely ignoring his tacit demand for sympathy, Kiernan waited. God, why couldn’t the man grow up?
“When I came back from asking around the last time, my windshield was bashed in. Slivers of glass all over the driver’s seat. Just the driver’s seat. I know what a sliver of glass did to Brant. So, with a rare show of smarts, I figure I got enough to worry about with this hip, without losing my brain besides. It’s making me crazy to get this far and have to drop it, but that’s what I got to do.”
“And you’re hoping I’ll do the legwork?”
“Nah. I’m not looking for gifts. What I told you tonight, it’s a loss leader.”
Kiernan nodded. “Who’s the best guy on the dock to tackle?”
He grinned. “What’d your friend Marc Rosten tell you about Delaney?”
“Grow up, Olsen. I am too tired and grumpy to deal with an adolescent.”
“I’m asking about Delaney,” he said archly.
She sighed. “Bad eyes and drunk.”
Olsen smiled. “On the dock, talk to Ben Pedersen on Nelda’s Dream. But watch out for him. Looks like a teddy bear. Could be a grizzly. He’ll tell you a lot, but what he won’t say is that he picked up a bundle of business after Matucci went over.” He paused and waited to catch her eye. “Here’s one thing he won’t be anxious to tell you: He’s in hock up to the gills.”
14
K IERNAN CHECKED INTO A motel off Lombard Street, halfway between Olsen’s and Fisherman’s Wharf. She called Tchernak, said good night to Ezra, and set her alarm for 4:00 A.M.
At ten to five she parked across the street from Fisherman’s Wharf. Before the hum of the motor died out, fog coated the windshield. As she hurried toward the wharf the wind iced her face. Streetlights offered a muted glow too weak to make it to the ground.
The wharf, one of the area’s main tourist attractions, was no bigger than a city block. It was surrounded on four sides by souvenir shops, restaurants, and storage warehouses. A single narrow lane of water was all that connected it to the Bay. Although it was a working dock, it was so wedged in by pretentious honky-tonk that it looked fake and shoddy itself. Kiernan walked behind the row of restaurants that formed the connecting line of, its reversed E shape, and stood outside the pale circle of light near the dock’s center. A sea lion barked, demanding an early breakfast. She recalled complaints about sea lions who’d discovered the good life—the pro-lion newsmen had had a lot of fun with them. There had been complaints about everything here, including the restaurants, one of which—the Crab Cage Café—had gone so far as to attach a fake plywood crab cage to its roof. It was considered a fitting symbol of the wharfs pervasive tawdriness.
The cold wind cut through her sweater. The boats were half hidden in fog, but she could smell coffee, hear the
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