Fever(25)

The telephone cut me off.

“Want to bet who that is?” Tamara said.

When I got on the line, Krochek said, “Thank God. Man, I’ve been going crazy waiting here. Didn’t your girl give you my message?”

“I just got in. And she’s not my girl, she’s my partner. She runs this agency.”

“Yeah, right, sorry, I’m not thinking straight. Listen, something’s happened. Can you come over here right away? My house?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know exactly, but it’s bad. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, “Why not?”

“Something you have to see first.”

“Look, Mr. Krochek …”

“I didn’t know anybody else to call. I need help, your kind of help.”

“Why don’t you come over here and we’ll talk about it-”

“No. It has to be here. As soon as possible.” His voice kept climbing, loud enough so that I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. The raw edge of desperation in it sounded genuine. “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars if you’ll come right away. Will you? Please?”

I wanted to say no. I’d had enough of Krochek and his wife and their problems. Maybe I would have said no if I’d had morning appointments, pressing business, but my calendar was right there in front of me and there was nothing on it except routine business that I could deal with anytime. Besides, it was one of those days anyway, and I’ve always been a sucker for people in need. Heart full of mush, head full of rocks.

“Please?” Krochek said again. Begging now. The word had a moist sound.

“All right. But no promises for anything more than a few minutes’ talk.”

“That’s all I ask. Right away?”

“As soon as I can get there.”

He thanked me, twice. Then he said, “I’ll have the five hundred in cash,” and broke the connection.

I resisted an impulse to slam the receiver down. Tamara had been hanging around listening; she grinned at me from the connecting doorway.

“Don’t say it,” I said.

“Say what?”

“He offered me five hundred bucks for a brief conference. That’s the only reason I’m going.”

She laughed as if I’d said something funny.


Mitchell Krochek must have been waiting on his front patio; he opened the gate and stuck his head out as soon as I pulled into the driveway. He looked rumpled even from a distance: hair uncombed, floppy slippers on his feet, one tail of his shirt hanging out over a pair of faded Levi’s. Up close, he had the bleary-eyed, saggy look that comes from too much alcohol and too little sleep. Anxiety showed plainly in his eyes. Something else, too: fear.

“I thought you’d changed your mind,” he said.

It had taken me more than an hour and a half to make the drive. More annoyances: construction slowdown on the bridge, and even though Janice Krochek’s directions were still relatively fresh in my mind, I’d gotten lost twice in the maze of Oakland Hills streets and had to stop to consult my map. But all I said to him was, “I’m here now. What’s going on?”

“Come on inside. I’ll show you.”

He led me into the house. Cool in there, almost chilly. And gloomy; there were a lot of arched windows, but all of them were draped in patterned monk’s cloth. Tile floors, white stucco walls decorated with Mediterranean-style artwork. I don’t know much about art, but the paintings and sculptures seemed original and expensive. Here and there were bare patches where other paintings had once hung. If I’d asked about them, I was pretty sure the answer would be that his wife had sold some of their more valuable pieces to support her habit.

The kitchen was where we went. Big, wide, with a tiled rectangle in the center that held a stovetop, sinks, a dish-washer. The windows here were unshaded, and above the rectangle were a couple of skylights that let in plenty of gray daylight. No sun today, not in the city and not over here.

Krochek stepped around the far side of the rectangle, giving me room to join him. He said, pointing, “There. On the floor.”

I went and looked. Hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

Spots and smeared stains, dark and crusty on the light-colored tiles. An uneven trail that led from near the rectangle to an open door at the far end—a laundry room, looked like. I got down on one knee for a closer look at the stains. When I rubbed a finger lightly over one, it came away with a few dry flakes clinging to it. One of the spots was still sticky.

“It’s blood, isn’t it,” Krochek said.