Free Cop Out by Susan Dunlap Page B

find him. Think. Did Brother Cyril call Ott? Did Bryant Hemming call him? Did Ott mention either of them? Did anyone else talk about him?”
    He stared at the serape, his hand knotted around the fabric. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t remember those names, but that doesn’t mean Ott didn’t know the guys. Why don’t you ask them?”
    I tried coming in from a different angle. “What did you do in the office? File things?”
    “No.”
    “Did you make any calls for him?”
    “Nope.”
    “Is there anything else you can think of?” When he shook his head, I said, “Weren’t you ever in the office alone? Didn’t the man even go to the bathroom?”
    “Well, yeah, but it’s not like I rooted through his files.”
    I didn’t say, “But you did copy his key.”
    “Wait. I did answer the phone a couple times.”
    “Do you remember—”
    “Oh, yeah. AT and T offered Herman airline miles. You know Herman hates to fly. Then MCI—”
    I almost laughed. I could just picture the old rads around town, a couple of inmates in Santa Rita, the guys in the transient hotels sauntering down the hall to the phone and hearing, “Herman Ott has listed you among his family and friends for a phone discount.” “No personal calls?”
    He concentrated on weaving his fingers through the serape fringe, ignoring the fact that the threads were too short to house digits. “Once I came in when he was on the phone with some guy named Bill Loon.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “Dunno.”
    “How do you spell the last name? Lewin? Louwen? Or Loon, like the bird?”
    The serape flew out of his hands; he guffawed.
    “Do you really know Ott or are you shitting me? I walk in on that conversation. Ott glares at me like I’m a fed eavesdropping. I back out into the hall so fast I just about trip over the doorsill. Do you think I came back in and asked for a spelling? But look, there was one other call.” A grin crept onto Kidd’s face. I’d seen Howard with that same “gotcha” expression. “Personal. From the blush on Ott’s face, I’d guess it was damned personal.”
    “Really?” I said, amazed. “Did you get a name?”
    “Oh, yeah. And I remember it because it didn’t fit the voice. The woman had one of those gravelly voices, like maybe she’d smoked years back or maybe she’d just lived years back. Like she was old, I mean.” He grinned. “You want this a lot, don’t you? How much? I mean all advice isn’t free.”
    My hands curled into fists. I shoved them under the desk.
    His grin widened. “Okay. The old lady was named Daisy. Daisy Culligan.”
    The name meant nothing to me. But it was unusual enough to run through files without a date of birth. No Daisy Culligan had been arrested in Alameda County, had an outstanding warrant in California or the rest of the nation, or had contacted our department to report a theft or complain about a neighbor’s stereo. Nothing.
    But there in the phone book was CULLIGAN D. And the address listed was in the Berkeley hills, hardly one I would have expected for an inamorata of Herman Ott’s.

CHAPTER 10
    I T WAS LATE TO be calling an “old lady”—close to midnight—but Daisy Culligan didn’t sound sleepy, and she didn’t sound antiquated. She seemed delighted with the prospect of a visit and more delighted yet that it was to be from a police officer.
    “Leave your red and blue lights on. I do like to intrigue the neighbors.”
    “I’ll be by in a few minutes, but I can’t promise flashing decorations.”
    I dropped Kidd up at Telegraph, near one of the shelters I knew he wouldn’t use, and popped into Ott’s office to give Doyle an update and check when the scene would be clear.
    I took the crowd outside by surprise when I raced into the building. Leaving it was like walking into a wall. Jason Figueroa and his cameraman were at the front of a pack of new people. I didn’t stop to note faces, but Figueroa knew mine. The camera light glazed my face. “Officer Smith, what