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“It would be better for everybody, Mrs. Keating, if your husband told us what he knows.”
“I don’t know what he knows,” she said, “and I believe him when he says he hasn’t spoken to Coombs in some time. But he wasn’t telling the whole truth, Lieutenant.”
“Then why don’t you start.”
She hesitated. “Coombs did come by here. Once. Maybe two months ago.”
“Do you know where he is?” My blood started to rush.
“No,” she answered. “But I did take a message from him. For Tom. I still have the number.”
I fumbled for a pen.
She read me the number. 434-9117. “I’m pretty sure it was some kind of boarding house or hotel.”
“Thank you, Helen.”
I was about to hang up when she said, “There’s one more thing…. When my husband said he lent Coombs a hand, he wasn’t telling the whole story. Tom did give him some money. He also let him rummage through some old things in our storage locker.”
“What sort of things?” I asked.
“His old department things. Maybe an old uniform, and a badge.”
That’s what Coombs had been looking for in his ex-wife’s house. His old police uniforms. My mind clicked. Maybe that’s how he got so close to Chipman and Mercer….
“That’s all?” I asked.
“No,” Helen Keating said. “Tom kept guns down there. Coombs took those, too.”
Chapter 81
WITHIN MINUTES I traced the number Helen Keating had given me to a boarding house on Larkin and McAllister. The Hotel William Simon. My pulse was jumping.
I called Jacobi, catching him as he was about to sit down to dinner. “Meet me at Larkin and McAllister. The Hotel William Simon.”
“You want me to meet you at a hotel? Cool. I’m on my way.”
“I think we found Coombs.”
We couldn’t arrest Frank Coombs. We didn’t have a single piece of evidence that could tie him directly to a crime. I might be able to get a search warrant and bust into his room, though. Right now, the most important thing was to make certain he was still there.
Twenty minutes later, I had driven down to the seedy area between the Civic Center and Union Square. The William Simon was a shabby one-elevator dive under a large billboard with a slinky model wearing Calvin Klein underwear. As Jill would say, yick.
I didn’t want to go up to the desk, flashing my badge and his photo, until we were ready to make a move. Finally, I said what the hell, and placed a call to the number Helen Keating had given me. After three rings, a male voice answered, “William Simon…”
“Frank Coombs…?” I inquired.
“Coombs…” I listened as the desk clerk leafed through a list of names. “Nope.”
Shit. I asked him to double-check. He came back negative.
Just then, the passenger door of my Explorer opened. My nerves were twanging like a bass guitar.
Jacobi climbed in. He was wearing a striped golf shirt and some sort of short, hideous Members Only jacket. His belly bulged. He grinned like a john. “Hey, lady, what does an Andrew Jackson get me?”
“Dinner, maybe, if you’re treating.”
“We got an ID?” he asked.
