Free True-Life Adventure by Julie Smith Page A

couldn’t hear.
    “I already know something about this,” I said. “I was assisting Jack Birnbaum on your case.”
    Apparently not everybody reads the Examiner . Koehler looked amazed; I continued.
    “I wasn’t working for the Chronicle at the time. I was helping Jack prepare case reports for his clients. And right after he died, someone broke into my house and stole my copies of the reports we did for you.”
    Silence. They didn’t seem to be taking it in.
    “So I was wondering,” I finished, “if that’s what happened to you.”
    Koehler looked almost grateful that he wasn’t going to have to start from square one explaining the thing. “I think it is, yes. An Inspector Blick called on me at the lab today. Do you know the inspector?”
    I said I did.
    “He told me that Birnbaum’s death might be associated… somehow associated with me. With my problem.” He looked completely bewildered, very much the genius without a soupcon of common sense. “He asked for the reports, so I brought him home to get them and… they simply weren’t here. I’d put them on my desk— -just on top, under a paperweight. I called Marilyn, and she hadn’t seen them.”
    He looked at her, as if for confirmation. She nodded. “Then the inspector asked if we’d noticed anything odd, anything misplaced, as if someone had broken in, and I remembered we were burglarized. We came home and some of Marilyn’s things were scattered around. They took a few pieces of jewelry. That was all. I mean, we thought that was all.”
    “That’s what mine was like,” I said. “They took my TV to make it look as if that’s what they were after. I didn’t discover the files were missing till the next day.”
    “What my husband’s trying to tell you, Mr. Mcdonald,” said Marilyn, “is that we’ve decided not to seek any publicity about the kidnapping.”
    “I wanted to make a plea,” said Koehler, “for any information about Lindsay or Terry.” His voice dropped when he mentioned Terry, the way some people’s drop when they mention their favorite deity. “But now this thing seems so serious. So complicated. We just— Marilyn and I— don’t think it’s the right time to do it.”
    He looked at Marilyn for approval. She looked at me. She smiled. “We’re sorry, Mr. Mcdonald.”
    I could have pushed the thing, but I didn’t. It wasn’t the story I was after, and if it didn’t run, there was less chance of tripping all over Ben McGonagil on the way to the biggie. So I didn’t ask for any more explanations.
    “I’m sorry, too,” I said. “And please let me know if you change your mind.”
    They said they would and I left, feeling a bit bewildered. Why hadn’t they called and canceled, I wondered? Either they were very rude and insensitive folks or they had made the decision at the last minute. I inclined toward the latter theory.
    But why? If they wanted to make a plea before, why not now? I didn’t see how the bad news could have made a whit of difference as to whether it would be appropriate.
    I just didn’t get it.
    I stopped at Denny’s, the closest fast-food joint to the Watergate, and ordered a burger. The decor was monochrome (mustard-colored plastic), the clientele polychrome. Most of the men wore short-sleeved shirts, a sure sign of working-class status. Apparently this was a popular spot with the folks from the wrong side of town.
    While I waited for my order, I phoned the office. First I said there wasn’t going to be a Koehler story and then I asked about Brissette. He was dead on arrival at Central Emergency.
    It was what I expected, but somehow I didn’t expect to take it so badly. I went up to my neck in the Slough of Despond the second the receiver clicked back into place. I knew I couldn’t eat my burger, and I should have canceled it, but I couldn’t get the words out. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
    So I just left. I got in my Toyota and drove back across the bay, toward San Francisco. That was