Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Read online

  Cole tried not to change expressions or react. “I heard you have peculiar tastes.”

  “It makes me feel good. It makes me money, lots of money and friends. I have friends all over the world who share my ‘peculiar tastes,’ as you call it. You are so hung up with your Anglo-Puritan restraints that you have probably never even talked with a friend about your sexual preferences.” Terry laughed. “You don’t know whether to smile, shit, or hit me.”

  “Is this the kind of thing you try on Sophie for shock value?” Cole replied, unfazed by Terry’s perverse attempt at intimidation.

  “That frigid bitch is the reason my brother won’t give me what’s mine. Someday, I’ll give her what she really needs.” Terry grabbed his crotch with his fat hand.

  “She’s not a child. She would probably laugh at you. Look, you don’t shock me. I think you are a fat, disgusting pervert. Here’s the deal. Your brother won’t bring the police into this, but I will. I want you to leave them alone. Don’t call them. Don’t drive by their house, and enough with the animals. I am not a violent person. But there is something about you that makes me understand why people are beaten with baseball bats. I don’t condone it, but I am beginning to understand it. Do I make myself clear?

  “Are you threatening me?” Terry said in disbelief.

  “Are you wearing a wire?” Cole smirked. “Yes I am, as a matter of fact. No, that’s not right, either. I’m promising you.”

  “I’m not afraid of you. You don’t know me. I can make your life miserable.”

  “I can see what you’ve done with yours.” Cole smiled. “Looks like you’re pretty good at it.”

  “We’ll see who has the last laugh.” The look in Terry’s eyes was pure evil. As he moved toward Cole, Cole could smell the stench of the bloated mass before him.

  “Just remember what I said,” Cole said, moving toward his car.

  “Don’t forget to write.” Terry laughed and turned to go in the house.

  ELEVEN

  A crush of people with digital cameras around their necks and Alcatraz sweatshirts on their backs exited a blue-and-gold tour bus and flooded Bush Street a block from Chinatown’s Dragon Gate, taking Phillip Wesley Ashcroft along with them. In his Giants sweatshirt and cap, he would have fit right in, except for the fact that he wasn’t Japanese.

  Grant Street’s swirl of colorful sights and symbols, exotic smells, and sounds of clanging gongs and Chinese music blasting from every third door just got tourists’ wallets itching. It also would make it easy for Ashcroft to spirit away a little girl with jet-black hair and beautiful almond eyes.

  For the third day this week, he took a late lunch. Not that anyone would notice. He hopped a Muni bus to Market and Powell and walked the six blocks to the Chinatown gate. The first day, he was too late and the second, he saw just the last few stragglers making their way home to the apartments above the many shops and restaurants. On his second visit, he found an alley off a side street that would afford him a clear view of anyone coming along the sidewalk and where he could wait in the shadows unnoticed.

  Today, his timing was perfect. Kids were everywhere shouting, laughing, squealing, and swinging their Hannah Montana and SpongeBob backpacks at each other. Ashcroft made his way to the alley and stood behind a dumpster. He tried to take deep, slow breaths. He was so excited this time. He knew there would be children, so many children. He felt like a housewife at a Macy’s bargain basement sale. He envisioned what he wanted, but he feared she might not come along this street.

  As he waited, he thought how the game had changed, how he had refined it. Mostly, he thought of how easy it was. The release, the gratification, built with each precious new friend. He longed for the nearly blinding blast of white light in his head, the feeling of nearly floating, and the total relaxation of every muscle. He longed to make his way back to work suspended in the soft cloud of tenderness and protection he felt for the one he would be saving. Who would she be?

  There was no need to make love to her. It didn’t work before. Touching his little friend that way was not right and certainly was not what he was supposed to do. He knew it now. The pure release and thrill of fixing them in time and stopping their assent into the callowness of womanhood was more than he could have hoped for. He learned so much and had done so well. It would only get better from here.

  The alley was deep in shade from the buildings around it. As far as Ashcroft could tell, there was only one doorway into the alley on each side. At the end, a chain link fence sat atop a three-foot brick wall. Three dumpsters lined each side of the alley. Next to the door on his left were six plastic milk crates filled with bottles of an unidentifiable dark, oily liquid. Just above the door to his right, an oversized yellow light bulb glowed just enough to show that it was on. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft turned his attention back to the street at the sound of footsteps.

  Another perfect little friend was about to enter his life, a small Chinese girl with a pink Barbie lunch bag. She was walking along, intentionally scuffing her feet on the sidewalk. As she approached a soda can, she did a skip step and gave it a goal-worthy kick. The can bounced along ahead of her, and her arms shot straight into the air as she shook her head triumphantly from side to side. A broad smile crossed her face, and Phillip Wesley Ashcroft knew he had found the one.

  The last 20 feet to the alley seemed to take forever. She stopped, she twirled, she played a free form kind of hopscotch, and Ashcroft’s breathing became shallow and rapid. He felt hot and sweaty. She needed to get here, she needed to hear his story, she needed to understand why he needed to save her, now. Six feet away... three... She hopped off the curb and into the alley entrance. Ashcroft stepped in front of her and smiled.

  “Have you seen my kitty?” he asked sadly. “She jumped from my arms, and I think she ran down this way. I was taking her home for my little girl.”

  The little girl shook her head cautiously.

  “Do you have a kitten?”

  “A big cat.”

  “My little girl Amber wants a pet so bad. You’re lucky. Will you help me find her kitty?” A hint of pleading in Ashcroft’s voice made him sound friendly, even a bit needy. He watched as she processed his words and remembered the rules about not talking to strangers. Her eyes flicked about the alley and back to his face. He won, she would help; the sweetness of childhood won over the cynicism of the adult world that would suppress her natural desire to be helpful.

  “I’m supposed to go straight home.”

  “With your help, it will only take a minute. Amber will be so happy.”

  “Well, okay, but just for a minute.”

  “Oh, thank you! I think I heard it meowing down there.” He started toward the big green dumpster on the left side of the alley. “What’s your name?”

  “Lucy,” she said, following Ashcroft into the alley.

  Without Lucy noticing, Ashcroft let her get in front of him. He bent down and called to the fictitious kitten.

  “Here, kitty. Here, kitty,” Lucy called as she looked behind bins and dumpsters.

  There was a short concrete block wall on the right side of the alley that shielded a dumpster from view. As they reached it, Ashcroft swept his arm around Lucy’s waist and clasped his hand down hard across her mouth. With one swift direct movement, he stepped behind the block wall and seated himself, Lucy on his lap, on an overturned milk crate.

  “I want to tell you a story,” he whispered into the little girl’s ear. She wiggled and kicked and struggled against his grip, but it was pointless. “Be still and listen. I want you to understand. I’ll not hold you so tight if you promise to be still.”

  Muffled words and a shake of her head brought Lucy’s struggling to an end.

  “This won’t take long. But you need to hear my story. Then I’ll be gone. Are you ready?”

  Lucy nodded her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Phillip Wesley Ashcroft could feel them on his hand as he began. “When I was a student at the university, I met a
n Asian girl just like you. She was from Hong Kong. Her family owned a restaurant that I ate at quite often. She was very pretty and would bring me my water and a menu each time I came to the restaurant.

  “It took a lot of courage, but one day I asked her to go to the movies with me. She said she had to work. I asked her to go to a play at the university. She said she had to take her mother somewhere. I thought she was telling the truth. She seemed like a very sweet girl. The next time I went, I asked her out again. She had an excuse. Each time I went to the restaurant, I would ask her to go out. I took her flowers, candy, and once I tried to give her tickets to a university basketball game. She said she did not want to go out with me.

  Ashcroft shifted the weight of the little girl.

  “I thought she liked me and I told her so. She said not to ask again. I was very sad. I called the restaurant and tried to talk to her, but whoever answered always said she was busy. I went to the restaurant with flowers and decided to try once more. They said she was not there. I left the flowers for her.” Lucy seemed to relax a little, interested in the story.

  “As I passed an alley on the way back to school, four Chinese boys stepped out of the dark and told me to leave their sister alone. I tried to tell them I liked their sister very much, but they wouldn’t listen. The next thing I knew, they were hitting me with wooden sticks and punching and kicking me. I woke up all bloody and hurting. It was the middle of the night, and I was in the alley, all covered with garbage.

  “I’m not a bad person. She should have gone out with me. You are Chinese like her, and you were willing to help me. You are sweet and kind. I am going to help you now. You must stay the sweet girl you are forever. Thank you for your sweetness.”

  Ashcroft tightened his grip on the tiny girl’s mouth and slipped his arm up under her chin. With one quick, hard, twisting jerk, he broke her neck. She lay limp on his lap. He sat for a moment, gently rocking and humming. The release was pure white light, and he felt as if he was floating, but the warmth of the afterglow was interrupted by a spreading wetness on his leg. The little girl’s bladder emptied.

  “You’ve ruined it!” he growled. “Just like her. You are all alike.” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft stood and looked about him.

  He tried to hold the dripping child away from him as he lifted the black plastic dumpster lid. He squeezed the dead child by the back of the neck and grabbed at her feet. With a clumsy grunt, he hoisted her body up and into the dumpster. He fumbled for the lid and slammed it down on the little girl lying atop the black plastic garbage bags.

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft looked down at his wet trousers and cursed under his breath. “I look like I pissed myself,” he growled as he left the alley.

  * * *

  The flight from Chicago was rough. A storm over the Rockies forced the flight attendants to strap in and have barf bags at the ready. As he stood in the cool San Francisco wind, Cole breathed deeply and tried to shake off the fading motion sickness. In the taxi, he rolled down the window and let the crisp air revive him. By the time he reached the Chronicle, he was 100 percent.

  His initial meeting with Chuck Waddle was brief. They agreed to meet in a couple of hours to go over the details of Cole’s story idea. They would tie up some loose ends regarding office space, Cole’s preference for a computer, and an idea Chuck floated for a syndicated column.

  “Check in with personnel,” Chuck said. “Look for Beth Swann, she’ll have all your paperwork.”

  A half dozen people suddenly burst into Chuck’s office with arms full of files and notepads. Cole gave Chuck a wave and was off to find personnel.

  Like all good plans, the woman he was looking for was, of course, out of the office for an hour. Cole decided not to wait and asked to use a phone. He reached Ben’s cell phone, and they agreed to meet at Pearl’s Burgers on Post Street in 15 minutes.

  Pearl’s was the stuff legends are made of: fat burgers, great fries, and easy to pass up if you didn’t know where you were going. Cole didn’t and drove by twice before he spotted it. Inside, there were only six tables, and seated at the one farthest from the door was Ben and a tall Asian man in a black leather sports coat.

  Seeing Cole, Ben jumped to his feet and made his way through the lunch crowd with a big smile and his hand extended.

  “What’s up, Doc?” Cole said, pleased at the warm welcome.

  “You’re looking well!” Ben began. “We have a table over here.”

  The pair made their way to the table, and Ben introduced the man. “Cole, this is Lt. Leonard Chin of the San Francisco PD. Len, this is my father-in-law, Cole Sage, formerly of the Chicago Sentinel and newly of our own San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “My pleasure,” Chin said, shaking Cole’s hand.

  “Sorry I’m late. I kind of passed it up a couple of times.” Cole shrugged.

  “Happens all the time, but it’s worth the effort. I’m on a time thing, so I ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.” Ben smiled.

  “Gives new meaning to ‘just what the doctor ordered,’” Chin quipped.

  “I asked Len to join us because he has been assigned to the Lucy Zhang case.”

  “Lucy Zhang?” Cole didn’t recognize the name.

  “I guess you haven’t heard. We have our fourth victim. She was found in a dumpster in an alley in Chinatown last night. Neck broken just like the others.” Chin was no longer smiling.

  Cole looked from Ben to the policeman. “Are we any closer to having a suspect?”

  “We’ve got one little girl in the hospital. If we could only get her to talk, she could give an eyewitness description. She just keeps babbling about women’s hands.” Chin shook his head. “I tell you what, I have about 500 Chinese gangbangers who would love to make this a race issue, gang issue, or any other kind of issue. Any excuse to start shooting. This could get real ugly.”

  “What are the odds of that?” Ben asked.

  “Million to one. Mexicans don’t fit the profile. Neither do blacks. We’re looking for a white guy, mid-to-late 30s, single, a social outcast. Probably works in computers or some other job where he spends all his time alone. How many of those you think we got in a 10-mile radius?”

  “There’s no physical evidence? No DNA? Nothing?” Cole pressed.

  “Our guys say Lucy wet her pants either during or moments after the killing. There was no urine on the bags she was lying on in the dumpster. That means the killer probably got wet. So, yeah, we have DNA, but it’s going the wrong direction at the moment.” Chin paused. “Ben says you’re doing a story on this case.”

  “That’s right.” Cole nodded. “We need to start connecting the dots somehow. There has to be a link to the four little girls,” he added.

  “I need a favor. I want you to say that we have a witness. Someone who saw him leave the alley.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Chin said in disbelief.

  “It’s not true,” Cole said firmly.

  “It could very well flush him out. If you say it, the TV people will pick up on it, and it’ll be everywhere.”

  “Exactly. I won’t do it. I will quote you, though.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If you say you have a witness, I’ll quote you. The lie’s on you, not me. I’ll help you any way I can, but I won’t intentionally lie to my readers. If it comes out that there’s no witness, you lied, not me.”

  “A fine line, Mr. Cole.”

  “Maybe, but that’s how I work.”

  “Done. I have an eyewitness that saw a white male in his mid-to-late 30s leaving the alley. Quote me if you want. Or use that ‘a high-ranking source within the SFPD’ thing that you guys always use. Whatever way you want to do it.” Chin knocked the table with his knuckle.

  “All right. I have a meeting with my editor in an hour. I’ll pitch him the story. I’m kind of walking a fine line here. Chicago is still home for two weeks. Officially, I don’t start at the Chronicle for three, but I’m pretty sure we c
an get this done.”

  Their talk was interrupted by the arrival of a young woman with a tray piled high with burgers and fries. Lt. Chin ate silently while Ben and Cole tried to outdo each other on the list of movies they’d seen recently. Cole conceded that Ben won when he told him of finding Head Over Heels on an Internet movie site. Long a favorite of Cole’s, Ben could now brag of having seen both versions of the film under both titles: Head over Heels and the re-edited release under the title Chilly Scenes of Winter. They agreed that after dinner, if Erin and Jenny would let them, they would watch the two endings of Chilly Scenes of Winter and decide which one was really the best. Ben grabbed the check when it came.

  “Isn’t that a form of graft?” Cole teased Lt. Chin.

  “Only if I asked for extra bacon,” Chin quipped.

  “Policemen don’t eat bacon; it’s cannibalism,” Ben said, moving to the counter.

  “Ouch.” Chin laughed as he reached into his jacket pocket for a business card. “If you need more background, give me a call.” Chin headed for the door.

  “Thanks.” Cole slipped the card into his shirt pocket. “See you tonight, Ben.” Cole waved.

  “Welcome to San Francisco,” Chin called as Cole stepped outside.

  When Cole arrived back at the Chronicle, Beth Swann returned from lunch and was holding court at her cubicle. In his younger days, he would probably have been one of her swarm of admirers. She was tall, blonde, and all legs, eyes, and pearly white teeth. Her hair fell across her shoulders like a spun gold waterfall. She was simply beautiful.

  The thing about Beth Swann that struck Cole, though, was her voice. As she laughed, flirted, and teased the three young men around her, her voice was deeper than he expected. Not harsh or husky in any way, but a sexy velvet timbre—an octave lower than someone her age and with her sun-kissed looks might have. Just like Renee Zellwieger’s character said in Jerry Maguire, she had Cole at “hello.”

  “I was told to see you about my hiring papers.”