Here you are, McCone—the one place where no one and nothing can get at you.
I
t was dark and cold when I got home, and still no word from Hy or anyone at RKI. For comfort, I lighted a fire, microwaved a frozen lasagna, and later curled up on the sofa with a glass of brandy and my files on Lee D’Silva. I'd focus on this investigation, I decided, resist the impulse to panic and begin another session of pointless phoning.
The psychology behind D’Silva's behavior was now becoming clearer: A pattern of obsessive striving for perfection brought on by a difficult home life. Then a snap triggered by her realization that she would not be able to pick up where she left off and fulfill her dream of joining the Butte County Sheriff's Department. A reaction way out of proportion to its trigger, one might argue, but to a rigid, obsessively focused personality any snag in a plan can have devastating consequences. D’Silva's outward appearance and manner remained intact, but she began living the secret life of an embezzler. Once she fled to San Francisco she continued to maintain appearances as far as her work went, but she began leading a different sort of secret life in the city's bars and clubs.
I reached for the file containing her employment application and our background check. Paged through it and saw that her first job here had been with a very low level security firm. Why, given her excellent academic record? If she'd been going by a false identity, it would have been explainable. But she hadn't. Why not?
Well, for one thing, she'd probably known her father well enough to realize he'd cover up her crime and make no attempt to trace her. But she wouldn't have wanted to risk applying for a job with the SFPD, county sheriff, or any of the better private agencies; their rigorous background checks might turn up the truth about her departure from Paradise. I knew the outfit she'd started with; they would hire anybody who was reasonably sober and breathing. After being there for a while, she'd undoubtedly networked within the business and made contacts who helped her work her way through a series of progressively better jobs.
But then she became aware of me.
In all likelihood she started out simply admiring me; I was a career role model. Possibly she was a bit of a romantic where private investigators were concerned; the paperbacks in her office effects had featured female P.I.’s. But what had triggered her intense fixation? Not meeting me at her job interview; she'd started the flying lessons in early July, six months before I advertised for an operative.
July. What had I been doing then?
The case I investigated for Ricky, of course. The situation had been well documented in the gossip columns and tabloids, and its denouement made a nationwide splash in newspapers and on TV.
But no, that couldn't be it. Ricky had come to me with his problem on July 21—I'd never be likely to forget that date or what followed—and D’Silva had started her lessons early that month.
June, then. We'd been moving our offices from All Souls to the pier, getting set up while also servicing clients. It was a crazy time, what with phone installers and electricians and painters, and on top of it all, I had to give a speech at…
There
it was: the dinner meeting of the local chapter of the National Society of Investigators. I flipped to the second page of D’Silva's application; she'd listed the society under “memberships.”
What had I said in the speech? Mainly I'd talked about the joys and pitfalls of establishing one's own agency. It was an informal talk with a lengthy question-and-answer session, because I hadn't the time or the inclination to prepare a real speech. And during the Q&A, a former boss of mine, Bob Stern, decided to liven things up by asking about the flying; he drew anecdote after anecdote out of me.
D’Silva must have been there. I might even have spoken briefly with her.
The randomness of the circumstances put a chill on me in spite of the fire's warmth. What if D’Silva had been ill that night or scheduled to work? What if I'd been ill or never accepted the invitation to speak in the first place? Would she eventually have fixated on somebody else—or nobody at all? Or, given our individual makeups, was this whole mess destined to happen?
It wasn't a question that had an answer, or one I was comfortable contemplating. Instead I turned my thoughts to D’Silva's present whereabouts.
I'd had no message from Tamara Corbin, so D’Silva hadn't returned to her Mariposa Street flat. But she had another place in the city, where she'd taken the man she picked up at one of Russ Auerbach's clubs. Auerbach had said he'd contact me if the man put in an appearance, but would he? Nothing to do but wait and see.
I hate to wait. Besides, the house's emptiness and the phone's silence had begun to play with my nerves. Better to get out of there, take action of one sort or another.
I looked at my watch: a little after nine. If Auerbach followed the same schedule every night, he should now be at Napoli in North Beach. I called Information, got the number, called, and asked for the club owner.
“Hey,” Auerbach said, “great minds think alike. I was about to get in touch with you. The guy you want to talk to about Lee just walked through the door. For the price of a drink he'll talk all you want; seems he's pissed at her because she didn't show up for their second date.”
“I'll be there as fast as traffic allows.”
Fast was what traffic didn't allow. Broadway was jammed between the tunnel and Columbus. I inched along till I came to a motel where, unknown to most people, public parking was available. There I made a quick turn into the underground garage, tossed the keys and outrageous fee to the attendant. A zigzagging course brought me to the block of Kearny where Napoli was located.
A long line of hiply dressed clubgoers snaked down the sidewalk; in my jeans and flight jacket I skirted it and showed my ID to the carder. He motioned me through the door. “Mr. Auerbach's waiting for you at the bar.”
Behind me a man said, “Hey, who the hell does she think she is?”
The carder replied, “That's the mayor—he's in drag and whiteface tonight.”
Behind me, the door closed on laughter. His Williness, as a local cartoonist had dubbed him, was always good for a chuckle.
Napoli was very different from Club Turk: Italian-campy, with plaster of Paris busts and dusty wine bottles in niches in the brick walls; lots of red plush upholstery, and ornate gold frames around mirrors and dark oil portraits of guys who all looked like Lorenzo de’ Medici. The jazz combo ought to have been singing opera.
I turned to my left into the bar area, spotted Auerbach through the smoky gloom; a man in a red silk shirt and a blond ponytail sat next to him. They rose as I came up, and Auerbach introduced his companion as Jim.
“Just Jim,” the man said. “No last name; I'm married.”
I nodded and shook his hand.
Auerbach excused himself, and I slid onto the stool he'd vacated. “Drink?” Jim asked.
I didn't really want one, but apparently he'd had several, and his manner told me he wouldn't be comfortable drinking alone. “Chardonnay, please,” I said, and remained silent while he ordered and the bartender poured.
Jim raised his glass to me. “Cheers.”
I touched mine to his. “So,” I said, “you know Lee D’Silva.”
“Yeah. God, what a bitch. We made a date, I made excuses at home, she never showed.”
“You saw her how many times?”
“Just once. Hot number.”
“She took you home?”
“Yeah—terrible place. Woman must put all her money on her back.”
“Russ says you can't remember where the apartment is.”
Jim leaned closer, breathing a mixture of Scotch and garlic into my face. “That's what Lee told me to tell him. Russ wasn't supposed to know about the place.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Will you take me there?”
“Sure.”
“Good. We'll go in my car.”
“No, I wanna drive—”
“I need you to navigate.”
He hesitated, glanced at the nearly full drink in his hand. “Okay, I'll take this with me.”
I stood, put a bill on the bar. “What part of the city are we going to?”
“Mission. Funny, old Russ doesn't know it, but his sometimes sweetie lives right across the street from one of his clubs.”
And suddenly I knew in what building. Christ, she'd done it to me again!
“Yeah, that's the one,” Jim said.
The building in whose entryway I'd sheltered the night before. The building where I'd lived during my early years in the city.
“Which unit?” I asked.
“Don't know the number. Lobby floor, left rear.”
My old studio.
“Rotten little place,” he added. “Has a fridge looks like an old icebox, works off a compressor. Thought those went out with the Edsel. Or maybe the Model T.”
Suddenly I felt a fierce protectiveness toward the apartment that—while not luxurious—had been my home and that now, apparently, had been invaded by D’Silva. A protectiveness that was augmented by my serious dislike of this man. “Look, Jim,” I said, “why don't you go over to Bohemia, have a few rounds on me?”
“Wondered when you'd offer.”
“Hey, enjoy yourself. The night's young. And when you want to go home, take a cab.” I thrust a couple of twenties into his hand. He stared at them as if he'd won the lottery, mumbled a few words that might have been thanks, and lurched off toward the crosswalk.
With malice which, I like to think, is totally uncharacteristic of me, I wished he'd get run over by a signal jumper.
Jim walked into the club, and I went to the corner, turned left, and walked along Twenty-second Street to the alley that ran behind the buildings. When you've lived in a place for a number of years, you know the points of ingress and egress; this apartment house had many, all insecure in my day. Time changes places, but if my old-fashioned fridge was still extant, some other things must have remained the same.
The rear windows of the studio—located over the ground-floor garage—were dark, and the one that opened onto the fire escape was shut. I considered climbing up there to see if the window was latched, but decided against it; if D’Silva was home, I didn't want to alert her.
The garage doors were lowered and locked. The building had room for only four cars, and those tenants who paid extra for the spaces guarded them jealously. The door to the narrow hallway that led to the manager's apartment next to the furnace room had always been a weak point, but now I saw it was blocked by an iron security gate. Well, there was still the fire escape to the roof. Tenants used to sun themselves and plant vegetables and flowers in containers up there; the roof door was seldom locked.
I started climbing.
The metal ladder shook perilously under my weight, the landings at the individual floors only slightly less. I wondered how recently it had passed the fire department's inspection. Probably not in years; the SFFD, like our other city agencies, was understaffed and overburdened, and they'd probably given this neighborhood low priority.
On the roof now, not daring to use even my small flashlight. After a moment my eyes acclimated. Over to the right was the door to the stairs; the wooden platform where sunbathers and gardeners had congregated was gone. The deteriorating composition surface crunched under my feet; I accidentally kicked an aluminum can, heard it bounce off the concrete wall. Came to the door, but found it locked.
What next?
Skylight above the stairway. I peered toward it, saw the two-by-four that propped it open.
I gripped the edges of the skylight's opening with my hands, lowered myself slowly. Swung my feet toward the window ledge that I knew to be halfway down the right-hand wall. And missed.
I'm too old for gymnastics, dammit!
I swung again, and my feet touched the sill. The trick now was to let go of the skylight's frame one hand at a time, easing my whole weight onto the sill and planting myself firmly, then drop the remaining distance to the floor. And I'd better do it soon, because my palms were sweating and my fingers were in danger of slipping.
This afternoon I shot off that runway over a sheer drop-off and thought nothing of it. Why am I sweating this?
Well, it helps to have the aid of wings and an internal combustion engine.
I let go of the skylight's frame and transferred one hand to the window's. My fingers started to slip, then held.
Here goes!
I let go with the other hand, grasped the opposite side of the window frame. Crouched unsteadily there, pressing into the small space, breathing hard. Then I maneuvered into a semisitting position and pushed off, landing with a thud and staggering into the stair rail.
I was in the upper-story hallway, two pairs of closed doors to either side. I listened, heard nothing, saw no light under them. Quickly I started down the stairs, hand resting on the .357 in my jacket pocket. The overhead fixture in the next hallway was half burned out; salsa music came from one of the front apartments. I hurried through the gloom to the flight of stairs leading to the lobby, one floor up from street level. Below me lights burned—also dim. I stopped on the bottom step and looked around. Down here nothing much had changed.
The lobby floor was covered in something that resembled worn and stained AstroTurf; at its far side was a brick-edged bed of blue pebbles with plastic flowers stuck into it. During my tenancy, the flowers had been geraniums; now they were a peculiar mixture of tulips and poinsettias, with a few orchids thrown in for good measure. Probably this meant that Tim O’Riley still managed the building. He'd always had atrocious taste.
The doors to the apartments on this floor had pebbled-glass insets—a security problem, and it was a wonder they hadn't been smashed by thieves years before. The one at the front glowed with soft light, but both at the rear were dark. I slipped into the space under the staircase and took a closer look at the door that had once been mine.
It stood slightly ajar.
A trap? Probably not. Another game? Most likely.
I moved over there, nudged the door with my foot. Took out my gun as I slipped inside. To my left the bathroom doorway was outlined by the glow of a night-light; beyond that was the dark opening to the kitchen. I inched along the hallway against the opposite wall, noting the empty old-fashioned telephone niche that was about halfway to the main room.