Grave Error

by Stephen Greenleaf

  Grave Error

  A John Marshall Tanner Mystery

  Stephen Greenleaf

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  to Ann

  ONE

  Clients come and go. Most of the ones who find their way to my office come in as faceless names and go out as nameless faces, with burdens I am not equipped to lighten. From here they disappear into obscurity’s mists, to play solitaire with their psychoses until someone takes the deck away. A few return, of course, like the man who arrives at my office at eight A.M. on the first Saturday of every month and paces the floor with the brutal grace of a caged baboon as he tells me of the conspiracy to drive him insane. The conspirators include his foster parents, the mayor of Brisbane, the telephone company, a female newscaster, and a bus driver on the 47 Union run. Or like the lady who shows up periodically to inform me that she wants to divorce her husband, the man who feeds the monkeys at the city zoo, on the grounds of infidelity. The lady is sixty-three and has never been married. I doubt that she has seen the zoo.

  In return for whatever services I perform for these people I am paid only in the scrip of self-congratulation. My more material needs are met by other clients—mostly small businesses and law firms that can afford me on a daily rate, if I hold down the expenses. I track down employees who’ve absconded with the secret process and find witnesses to everything from wrecks to wills. Once in a while I’m asked to put a skeleton in someone’s closet, or to help drag one out. The investigator’s trade is short on glamour and long on moral ambiguity. As proof of this: the California Business and Professions Code lumps it in with collection agents and insurance adjusters.

  I was back in the office for the first time in a week. I’d been down in Los Angeles, staring at flocked wallpaper in a downtown hotel, waiting to give defense testimony in a murder trial. I’m a good witness. I know what’s important and what isn’t, when to equivocate and when not to, and when to answer before the other side can object and when to keep quiet so the lawyers can earn their keep. But this trip I had wasted my time. The judge ruled a story I was about to tell was inadmissible hearsay, and I was on my way home ten minutes after taking the witness stand.

  It was good to be back in a city where the air doesn’t make you wonder if the ocean has just fermented, but I was getting impatient. The client I was waiting for was late. I stayed put, though, because this client was a celebrity … or at least the wife of one. And I was curious.

  The client was Jacqueline Nelson and she was married to the most powerful consumer advocate in the country. Her husband’s story was as familiar as The Three Bears. In the past ten years Roland Nelson had built up a network of hundreds of volunteers, guided by a brilliant professional staff, which peeked and poked and peered and pried until it rendered the political and industrial establishments carbuncular.

  Nelson’s most recent report had been published just before I left for Los Angeles. It charged a major drug company with suppressing test results in order to market a pill that allegedly prevented cancer of the colon. Not only didn’t the pill do what it was supposed to, it significantly elevated the blood pressure in over half the people who took it. A few days after Nelson’s study came out, the stockholders of the drug company had removed the entire management and board of directors and replaced them with people recommended by Roland Nelson. The new board immediately voted to contribute all profits from sales of the worthless drug to Nelson and his Institute for Consumer Awareness.

  I was wondering what Nelson’s wife wanted with a private investigator when voices buzzed in the outer office. A moment later Peggy peeked in to tell me Mrs. Nelson had arrived.

  I motioned for Peggy to come in and sit down. She had been on the phone when I got to the office and there were some things I wanted to go over before I saw Mrs. Nelson.

  Peggy pulled up a chair and I asked if she wanted some coffee. She hesitated, then nodded. Peggy wasn’t big on chitchat. I went over to the little black coffee machine and poured some coffee into a cup that looked like a soup can. Then I apologized for dragging her in on Sunday. She said it didn’t matter.

  “How was Los Angeles?” she asked.

  “Noisome. How was the city?”

  “Tiresome.”

  “Any calls I should know about?”

  “Not really. George Lacy wants to know if you ever tracked down that man from Chicago. Butler, I think his name was.”

  “I found him and I called George and told him so before I left. He must have washed down his eggs with a couple of martinis this morning. Better send him a letter. Anything else?”

  “The usual. Basil Kraft says he’ll pay you for sure next week. Mr. Minasian wants you to meet his sister when she gets to town; he’s sure the two of you will make beautiful music together. Armenian music, presumably. Oh, and Sam Jacobs wanted you to know that his client got off with manslaughter thanks to the witness you turned up. The rest just left their names.”

  “Have you ever seen Minasian’s sister?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen Minasian?”

  Peggy nodded.

  “He’s prettier than his sister.”

  This time she laughed.

  “Did Mrs. Nelson say what she wanted?” I asked after Peggy’s smile faded.

  “No.”

  “Probably collecting for the Heart Fund.”

  “No, I’m sure it’s business. It’s funny that it’s Mrs. Nelson who wants to see you, though, and not her husband.”

  “Or maybe not so funny.”

  “Like divorce?”

  “Or worse.”

  “There’s not much worse.”

  Peggy had been my secretary for two years. She came in three afternoons a week, and more if I needed her. I didn’t know much about her, which was clearly the way she wanted it. She had a daughter in a dance company in New York and a father in a rest home in Massachusetts and a Persian cat she brought down to the office whenever I needed her to work on weekends. If she had any friends, male or female, I didn’t know them. She must have had a husband at some time or another, but I didn’t know anything about him, either.

  She was forty-one, five years younger than I am, which should have made us allies in the war against obsolescence but didn’t. I don’t think Peggy had any allies. She was handsome, almost elegant, and as competent as a fire hydrant. Her instinct for figuring out what was on people’s minds would have earned her a lot more money in a big corporation, but she said she preferred a one-man office. Peggy was one of those women you suspect has known great tragedy in her life and concealed the scars only with great effort, but if she had, she never mentioned it.

  “How about the mail?” I asked.

  “There wasn’t much left after I tossed out everything that offered something for nothing. Magazines. The bar journal. Some catalogs of electronic equipment. For fifty dollars the Society of Criminologists will list you in their directory.”

  “For how much will they leave me alone?”

  Peggy smiled again, but just to be polite. “Your tickets to the Giants game came. A couple of things that might result in paying cases and a lot more that won’t. None of them urgent. That’s it.”

  “Any money?”

  “Sorry. Maybe you should hire that collection agency that calls you every week.”

  I shook my head. Peggy took off her glasses and closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose and slumped further into the chair. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Just a mood.”

  “I didn’t know you allowed yourself moods.”

  “I don’t usually. Not on company time,” she said stiffly and got up to leave.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No. You’re stalling, Mr. T
anner,” Peggy said as she reached the door to the outer office.

  “What?”

  “Stalling. Mrs. Nelson’s been out there for ten minutes and you’re in here making small talk to avoid having to see her.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  “She was late.”

  “So? Half your clients are lucky to stumble in on the same week as their appointment, let alone the same hour.”

  “They have excuses. Mrs. Nelson doesn’t.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even met her.”

  “I don’t have to meet her to know she doesn’t have the kind of excuses I’m talking about.”

  Peggy shook her head. “You just don’t like rich people,” she said. “I’ve noticed that before.” With that she pulled the door open and went back to her desk.

  The fog had lifted and the afternoon sunlight squeezed through the Venetian blinds and splashed against the wall. A thousand chips of dust twinkled in the shafts of light and drifted to the floor like the petals of a dying rose. Out in the street a man from the power company tore up some concrete that a man from the water company had poured the week before. On the roof a secretary from across the hall dragged a lounge chair to a better spot for tanning her legs the color of an old baseball mitt. Inside my stomach something gurgled and burned and tried to get out. The physical laws and natural cycles of life were functioning normally and immutably without any help from me.

  I glanced around the room. The booze was put away, the ashtray was clean, and the cobwebs blended nicely with the graying walls. I rolled down my sleeves and put on my jacket and straightened my tie and went out to start a cycle of my own.

  TWO

  “I’m John Marshall Tanner, Mrs. Nelson.”

  She got up, smoothed her dress, and gave me a hand to squeeze. It fit in mine like it had been there before.

  “An imposing name, Mr. Tanner. Shall I wait while you don a black robe, like your namesake?”

  “Call me Marsh,” I said and shook my head. “My parents had a bad case of great expectations.”

  “Did they get over it?”

  “Do they ever?”

  She smiled and shrugged and I stepped aside to let her enter the office before me. As she passed a whiff of jasmine toyed with my nostrils. I winked at Peggy and closed the door behind me.

  Mrs. Nelson stood behind the client chair, her hands resting easily on its back, and studied me carefully as I made my way behind the desk. She was short, almost tiny, perfectly proportioned, and perfectly attired. Her eyes were dark, suspended invisibly beneath black brows and lashes. Her summer skin was bronze and bright with oil.

  “Is that an original?” she asked, pointing to the Klee hanging on the wall behind me.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “The man who gave it to me said you would be.”

  “Was it a fee?”

  I nodded.

  “You must have done something wonderful to earn it.”

  “He thought so.”

  “And? What did you do?”

  “My job.”

  The black eyes flashed for a moment. “Maybe I’ve come to the right place after all,” she said. “While I was out there cooling my heels, I was beginning to wonder.”

  It was my turn to grin and I did. Then I motioned for her to sit down.

  She seemed easy to like and she was certainly easy to look at. She filled her blue knit dress the way a miser fills his coffers. The strand of pearls around her neck shone like stars on a newly sewn flag. A thatch of auburn hair angled across her forehead and disappeared behind her ear. The tiny gold turtle pinned over her left breast was as smug as Governor Brown.

  “I love this part of town,” she said as she settled into the chair and crossed her legs. “I just hope they don’t ruin it by putting up more skyscrapers in place of buildings like this.”

  I said I agreed with her, and I did. My office is on the top floor of a three-story brick building that was originally a firehouse. It was built just after the earthquake. They built a lot of firehouses just after the earthquake. The stairway to the third floor opens off an alley. It’s a nice alley, as alleys go, and it’s a nice building. The area is called Jackson Square. It’s east of Chinatown and south of North Beach. A long time ago it was part of the Barbary Coast, but now it’s an oasis of slick specialty shops that cater to interior decorators and wealthy collectors.

  It’s not my favorite part of town, and ordinarily I wouldn’t have been able to afford the rent, but a few years ago I helped Carson James, who owns the building, with a little problem. Carson is fifty years old and homosexual. He and a friend run a wholesale antique shop on the first two floors. Just after he bought the store Carson was badly beaten by a former lover who had gotten to like the money Carson spent on him and had gone berserk when Carson threw him out after a quarrel over what color to paint the storefront. Carson’s lawyer had given him my name and he’d come to me with his problem. I persuaded the jilted lover to stick to Castro Street, away from Carson and his shop, and that took care of it. I wasn’t proud of my means of persuasion, but I did what I had to do to get his attention.

  In return for these services, and as a hedge against future imbroglios, Carson rents me a two-room suite for about a third of the going rate. The only other tenant is a lawyer who spends his time setting up tax shelters in Liechtenstein and the Bahamas. The last I heard his income was well into six figures and what he paid in taxes wouldn’t buy you a wristwatch.

  The sun had slipped behind some skyscrapers and the room had dimmed considerably. Without sunlight the office has a slightly pinkish hue, the aura of a flower shop. Or a funeral parlor. While I watched Mrs. Nelson I listened to the lawyer’s secretary trudge down off the roof and back to her IRS forms.

  Mrs. Nelson was looking around the room, trying to find something that interested her as much as the Klee. She didn’t make it, although she lingered awhile over the orange crate full of eavesdropping gear that was making the couch sag like a failed soufflé. She sniffed a couple of times and wrinkled her nose, but it didn’t bother me. If she wanted luxury, she shouldn’t have used the Yellow Pages.

  Except for the Klee, I don’t own anything that would mean much to anyone else, and only a couple of things that mean much to me. One is my desk. It’s scarred with the traces of a hundred glasses of bourbon and as many Lucky Strikes and was owned by my grandfather, a small-town lawyer back in Iowa. He’d given the desk to me when I first started practicing law on Montgomery Street. A long time ago. Now he’s dead and I try not to imagine how he would feel about where his desk had ended up.

  The other thing is my chair. It’s real walnut and real leather and was a gift from the only woman I ever wanted to marry. When she decided it wouldn’t work we agreed I could keep the chair and she could keep the ring. I still have the chair, but none of the rings she wears these days had come from me.

  “Your secretary seems quite intelligent,” Mrs. Nelson said after a while.

  “She is.”

  “Someone like that must be a big help in a business like this.”

  “She is.”

  “Is she a big help after hours as well?”

  “Probably. But not to me.”

  We smiled at each other once more and Mrs. Nelson took a little blue handkerchief out of her purse and touched it to her nose. Then she put it back. I asked if she wanted some coffee and she shook her head. I asked if she wanted a drink and she shook her head again, but only after she looked at her watch.

  I began to think she was going to leave. It’s happened before. People try very hard to convince themselves they really don’t need a private investigator after all. Sometimes they succeed and take off right in the middle of the interview. Even when they stay around it’s usually too late for me to do anything but bandage their wounds and tell them to try and forget about it.

  “I think I will have that drink,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Sco
tch, if you have it.”

  “Plenty of Scotch. No ice.”

  “That’s all right.”

  I filled a couple of glasses and handed one to her. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered. “I come down here often. Do you know Carson? The man that runs the shop below you? Runnymede?”

  I told her I knew Carson.

  “He’s fascinating, isn’t he? He also has the nicest things in town, if you like Early American. I’ve bought several primitives from him. Are he and Casper lovers?” she added bluntly.

  Casper was Carson’s new business partner. Whenever anyone mentioned their names together I thought of a Disney cartoon. I said I didn’t know whether Casper and Carson were an item.

  Mrs. Nelson was babbling, avoiding coming to grips with whatever had brought her to see me. I didn’t care. I didn’t have any place to go or anyone to see.

  Just then she downed a gulp of Scotch, placed the empty glass firmly and precisely on the corner of the desk, and cleared her throat. “Well,” she announced.

  We were getting down to business.

  THREE

  “I assume you know who I am,” she began. “That is, I assume you know who my husband is.”

  I nodded.

  “Have you ever met Roland?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I won’t ask you what you think of his work. That’s not important, at least not to me.” She looked as if she expected me to say something, but I kept quiet.

  “I don’t know if I can make you understand this or not, Mr. Tanner. It may sound trivial. For most people it might be nothing to get upset about. But Roland’s not like most people. He is totally disciplined, totally in control, at all times. Other men drink or chase women or race cars or do other things to release their tensions or erase their inadequacies. Not Roland. Or at least not until lately.”

  “What happened?”

  “Several things. For one, he disappeared.”

  “What?” I stammered. “I just saw an article about him in the Chronicle this morning, some speech he gave or something.”