Karma by Susan Dunlap Page A

started I was angry all the time. I was discharged from the army because I nearly killed my sergeant.” Noticing my expression, he added, “Don’t worry. That was years ago. I’m under control now. I run, too. Five miles a day.”
    I nodded, and changed direction. “Do you know much about Buddhism?”
    “Some.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “What about it?” A flicker of irritation was apparent.
    “The Buddhist attitude toward death.”
    “You want to know what they’ll do with Padmasvana’s remains? Well, they won’t follow the practice of the Himalayas.”
    I waited.
    “In the Himalayas, they don’t bury the dead; the ground’s too hard, mostly rock. They dissect the body and feed the organs to the vultures.”
    I shrank back.
    “It’s the only sensible thing. Dead is dead. It beats rotting underground.”
    I decided not to pursue that line of thought.
    I glanced at my watch. I was cutting it close. “What do you think the ashram will do with Padmasvana’s body?”
    Kleinfeld smiled, a sarcastic smile. “Braga will arrange to milk it for everything he can get. He’ll run the funeral as long as the health department lets him keep the corpse above ground. Then he’ll start memorial services. If Rexford Braga had known the financial possibilities, he probably would have killed Padmasvana long ago.”
    “Are you accusing Braga?”
    “No, no. I wouldn’t put it past him, but I’m not pointing the finger.”
    “What do you know about Braga?”
    Kleinfeld stood up and I followed suit. “Not much,” he said. “I never heard of him before he opened shop here. Or of Padmasvana. Someone said Braga came up from L.A. There he could have been into anything.”
    I closed my notebook.
    “You want some tea?” Kleinfeld asked, catching my eye and smiling disarmingly. “I could even come up with a Danish.”
    I hesitated. This was not among the standard offers made to cops, even in Berkeley. But, although the mention of a Danish made me realize I was hungry, I wasn’t about to spend another half hour with Garrett Kleinfeld—not on my own time. “Thanks, but I’m already late,” I said, moving out the door.
    As I tried to get my car engine to turn over, I wondered about Kleinfeld and his apparently strained financial condition. From the sound of his invitation, he was living in some corner of his studio. How much had Padmasvana cut into his livelihood? And he had nearly killed a man once. How much would it take now to push that temper to the point of stabbing?

Chapter 7
    B Y THE TIME I got to the station, the staff meeting was over. Officers were straggling away from the long table, grumbling about the work left by Morning Watch, about the afternoon heat that would turn to damp cold as soon as the fog rolled in, about the wool uniforms, the lack of Maintenance on the patrol cars, the—
    “Smith.” It was Lt. Davis, the watch commander.
    “Yessir. Sorry I’m late. I was interviewing a suspect—”
    “Fine.” His tone belied the word. “That doesn’t excuse you from staff meetings.”
    “Yessir.”
    “I’ll see you in my office. Bring your notes.”
    “Yessir.”
    Lt. Davis’s glass-sided office was spotless. In a building that had been painted too infrequently to keep pace with the coffee spills, scuff marks and the general grime of three shifts of police officers, Lt. Davis’s office sparkled. And he fitted right in. His uniform was starched. Wiry black hair topped his caramel-colored face, and no errant strand marred the line of his mustache. If the thought of promotion was a consideration to Howard and me, it was the air he breathed to Lt. Davis. As he well knew, when the captain’s job became available, the prospect of a black man with a Master’s degree would be almost more than Berkeley could resist. Still, the lieutenant was not one to take chances. He was a fanatic for detail and would not hesitate long before replacing an officer whose rate of progress didn’t meet his