Read Online Death and Taxes by Susan Dunlap - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Dunlap
Tags: Suspense
Ads: Link
will appreciate that when you tell her.”
“As much a pain as she’s been, she should be pleased to be some use. But anyway, my source was in the office Friday and just happened to look at. Drem’s log and—”
“Saw who his last appointment was?” I asked, excited.
Pereira handed back my empty cup and stood. “Right. It was Lyn Takai.”
CHAPTER 6
S O L YN T AKAI HAD been Philip Drem’s last business appointment before he was murdered. She hadn’t mentioned he’d been in her studio just hours before he was killed. In fact, what she’d said was “I hadn’t even thought about him in ages.” All in all, that was a big lie for an innocent citizen to present to the police. She wouldn’t be as cool as she’d been last night—not explaining this.
I left the patrol car in front of the violet house with the white picket fence and took the walkway between it and its neighbor double speed. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Takai, the yogi, doing a headstand on the cement patio between her cottage and the violet house. Or braising tofu on her stove out there. Or washing off bad karma in the blue-tuliped sink, or more ascetically in the cracked sink, had either been upright and usable.
But she was doing none of those. The stove and refrigerator stood untended, the tuliped sink lay on its side, and the cracked sink was gone. A healthy set of police raps on the door convinced me Lyn Takai was gone too.
Disgusted, I drove back to the station, called in a favor from Tim, the DD clerk, and got him to move the background on Takai to the top of the pile. I didn’t expect much. What could a woman who displays her appliances in her front yard be hiding? Takai seemed like someone who’d consciously opted for a life with little excess. Yoga, I gathered, was called the eight-fold path; it was a safe guess that that path rarely led to riches.
While I waited, I checked the reports Pereira had collected. She’d sent Acosta to Drem’s apartment on Milvia Street. No one was home, and a canvass of the ground-floor tenants in the fourplex indicated that Drem lived alone and pursued the type of life that would make him eligible to represent accountants in any 1950s movie—no entertaining, no loud music, and most of all no women (in fact, no friends at all). Drem’s flat was on the second floor next to a female hermit whom neither of the ground-floor tenants had ever seen. According to them, Drem’s only interests were bicycling and badgering them about car emissions. One suggested Drem could improve his image by imitating his next-door neighbor.
Acosta’s report indicated he hadn’t found Sierra, the street person Mason Moon had fingered as having seen the “cop” by Drem’s bike. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for a street person to transfer himself to another street. I was sure Acosta would find him and discover Sierra hadn’t seen the patrol officer at all. But I’d feel a lot more comfortable when the question was closed.
I filed Pereira’s report and tried Lyn Takai’s phone number. No answer. I called Tim. He growled something about patience. Something else about half an hour. There are few tyrants like a clerk.
I walked out to the squad room looking for Pereira. She’d signed out an hour and a half ago. She’d been on Evening Watch last night—3:00 P.M. to 11:00 P.M. With Drem’s death, she couldn’t have gotten home before 2:00 A.M. And up for Morning Meeting. It didn’t take a wizard to figure what her plans would be today—sleep, with the phone turned off.
The tax accountant she’d quoted on Drem was a Rick Lamott. I dialed his number. On the Saturday before April 15 I expected a secretary to answer, but the voice said, “Rick Lamott. What can I do forya?”
“Detective Smith, Berkeley Police. I need some background on the IRS.”
“You know Connie Pereira?”
“She’s the one who suggested you.”
“Well, for Connie. Whataya need?”
“Tell me about TCMP, DIF, and Philip
“As much a pain as she’s been, she should be pleased to be some use. But anyway, my source was in the office Friday and just happened to look at. Drem’s log and—”
“Saw who his last appointment was?” I asked, excited.
Pereira handed back my empty cup and stood. “Right. It was Lyn Takai.”
CHAPTER 6
S O L YN T AKAI HAD been Philip Drem’s last business appointment before he was murdered. She hadn’t mentioned he’d been in her studio just hours before he was killed. In fact, what she’d said was “I hadn’t even thought about him in ages.” All in all, that was a big lie for an innocent citizen to present to the police. She wouldn’t be as cool as she’d been last night—not explaining this.
I left the patrol car in front of the violet house with the white picket fence and took the walkway between it and its neighbor double speed. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Takai, the yogi, doing a headstand on the cement patio between her cottage and the violet house. Or braising tofu on her stove out there. Or washing off bad karma in the blue-tuliped sink, or more ascetically in the cracked sink, had either been upright and usable.
But she was doing none of those. The stove and refrigerator stood untended, the tuliped sink lay on its side, and the cracked sink was gone. A healthy set of police raps on the door convinced me Lyn Takai was gone too.
Disgusted, I drove back to the station, called in a favor from Tim, the DD clerk, and got him to move the background on Takai to the top of the pile. I didn’t expect much. What could a woman who displays her appliances in her front yard be hiding? Takai seemed like someone who’d consciously opted for a life with little excess. Yoga, I gathered, was called the eight-fold path; it was a safe guess that that path rarely led to riches.
While I waited, I checked the reports Pereira had collected. She’d sent Acosta to Drem’s apartment on Milvia Street. No one was home, and a canvass of the ground-floor tenants in the fourplex indicated that Drem lived alone and pursued the type of life that would make him eligible to represent accountants in any 1950s movie—no entertaining, no loud music, and most of all no women (in fact, no friends at all). Drem’s flat was on the second floor next to a female hermit whom neither of the ground-floor tenants had ever seen. According to them, Drem’s only interests were bicycling and badgering them about car emissions. One suggested Drem could improve his image by imitating his next-door neighbor.
Acosta’s report indicated he hadn’t found Sierra, the street person Mason Moon had fingered as having seen the “cop” by Drem’s bike. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for a street person to transfer himself to another street. I was sure Acosta would find him and discover Sierra hadn’t seen the patrol officer at all. But I’d feel a lot more comfortable when the question was closed.
I filed Pereira’s report and tried Lyn Takai’s phone number. No answer. I called Tim. He growled something about patience. Something else about half an hour. There are few tyrants like a clerk.
I walked out to the squad room looking for Pereira. She’d signed out an hour and a half ago. She’d been on Evening Watch last night—3:00 P.M. to 11:00 P.M. With Drem’s death, she couldn’t have gotten home before 2:00 A.M. And up for Morning Meeting. It didn’t take a wizard to figure what her plans would be today—sleep, with the phone turned off.
The tax accountant she’d quoted on Drem was a Rick Lamott. I dialed his number. On the Saturday before April 15 I expected a secretary to answer, but the voice said, “Rick Lamott. What can I do forya?”
“Detective Smith, Berkeley Police. I need some background on the IRS.”
“You know Connie Pereira?”
“She’s the one who suggested you.”
“Well, for Connie. Whataya need?”
“Tell me about TCMP, DIF, and Philip
Similar Books
