Rebecca held a finger to her lips. ‘Shh!’
‘Where’s Mom?’ he whispered.
‘I don’t know. Shh!’
This was not Hardy’s favorite answer, but since a game was obviously in progress he didn’t want to be a spoilsport, so he stood up and turned around.
‘Mr Hardy? Hi.’
It took him a moment. This was Mary, their baby-sitter, having come out of hiding from wherever. What was she doing here? ‘I’s Frannie all right?’ he asked foolishly.
The girl’s face was all confusion. ‘I guess so. Weren’t you meeting her someplace? That’s what she said.’
It was all coming back to him. It was Wednesday night. Date Night. He was picking Frannie up at the Shamrock at seven. His mind, in its dance of frustration and speculation, had spun that little fact out of its galaxy. He’d not so much forgotten as absolutely misplaced the information.
He looked at his watch — seven-twenty — and gave Mary an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry to break in on you like this. My brain’s turned to mush. I’ve got to use the phone.’
* * * * *
They were at Stagnola’s. Hardy and Frannie never ate on the Wharf, although the food was often wonderful. It was just such a tourist place, with traffic hassles and exorbitant parking rates. There were dozens of other spots offering great food in the city. Tonight, though, Hardy felt as though he needed to be here.
He also felt like he’d traveled a hundred miles in the past three-plus hours — from the Hall of Justice to the fire department main office, back to the Chronicle. Then the jog to the Federal Building and back. His office. Driving his own car all the way across town to his home in the Avenues, almost to the beach. Now halfway back downtown to the Shamrock to meet the long-suffering Frannie.
Until at last he was settled at his table, Chianti poured, tucking into an antipasto plate — pepperoncini, salami, mortadella, provolone, artichoke hearts, olives, caponata. Hot sourdough rolls by the basket. Heaven.
She’d given him several rations of grief since he’d finally arrived to pick her up. ‘No, I understand, lots of times I’ll get caught up in things around the house and forget that you exist too. Then I’ll snap my fingers and go, “Oh, that’s right, Dismas.” ’ Et cetera.
Since Hardy felt he basically deserved it, he’d let her go on. Except now it had all wound down, she was holding his hand over the table, glad they were together. He had to tell her, bounce it off her, see where he didn’t have it right.
She listened carefully, then went another way. ‘I think you should turn it over to the police.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘Whatever you’ve got. Let them go with it. Give it to Abe. This is what he does, Dismas.’
But Hardy was shaking his head. ‘No, it’s not. He’s got to have a murder, a case.’
‘How about Sal Russo? Doesn’t he count?’
‘Sure, he counts. But I don’t have any proof of anything that would get him involved. All I’ve got is this hose-and-ladder belt, a fire in this place eighteen years ago, a dead fireman who might or might not have been at this fire.’
‘And fifty thousand dollars.’
‘So what? Nobody stole that from Sal, as a matter of fact. He had it when he died. Or Graham did, which is the same thing.’
Frannie sipped wine. ‘But you think they’re related?’
A nod. ‘They’ve got to be. I’ve just got to find out where a few things connect.’
‘Just.’
He shrugged.
‘All I’m saying is you might want to run it by Abe. Have him look up this Palmieri, call the woman in Eureka—’
‘Hassle a sitting federal judge.’ He knew Abe, knew he didn’t have enough. ‘Abe won’t do it, not yet, maybe not ever.’
Frannie’s point was well taken, though, and in a day or two, after he’d secured his inferences, that’s exactly what he’d do. He had no desire to get close to cornering a murderer. That was police work. It could be very unhealthy.
But he didn’t yet think it was Giotti. Or rather, he didn’t want to think it was Giotti, although he was convinced that the judge had some information that would move things along. Information that, whether he knew it or not, he’d somehow kept out of Hardy’s scrutiny. That’s all he needed — to talk to him.
The waiter had earlier introduced himself as Mauritio. He was one of those personable, talk-your-ear-off, swarthy and handsome older men in a tuxedo that you’re either in the mood for or not. Now he came up to ask them about their dinner.
Hardy broke his most disarming smile, squeezed Frannie’s hand gently, cueing her to be cool. She gave him a warning look; as if she wouldn’t be. ‘Does Judge Giotti still eat here all the time?’
‘Oh, yeah. They’re in here a couple of times a week for lunch, he and his wife. You a friend of the judge’s’ — he pointed at the Chianti — ’that bottle’s on the house.‘
‘I don’t know if he’d call me a friend. I’m a lawyer. But he’s a good judge. He raves about the food here.’ Hardy motioned down at his empty plate. ‘This antipasto, he’s right. He’s a great guy.’
‘The best,’ Mauritio replied.
‘Did I hear this place used to be in his family?’
‘Yeah. Long time ago. Used to be Giotti’s Grotto.’ Mauritio’s tired face took on a little more life. ‘Believe it or not, I used to bus tables back then.’
Hardy shamelessly flattered the man. ‘Before they had child labor laws?’ Frannie squeezed his hand — don’t pile it on too thick. ‘So you must have known Sal Russo too?’
Mauritio’s brow darkened briefly, but cleared when Hardy explained that he was the lawyer who’d gotten Sal’s son off.
‘Well, damn,’ Mauritio said, ‘that bottle is on us. That was good work. Poor Sal. Pray to God my son could do what his son did, I ever need it. What’s your name again?’
They went through the introductions. Then Hardy asked if Sal had been around during the Grotto years.
‘Oh, yeah. He and the judge, they were like this.’ Two fingers together. ‘Salmon Sal.’ A shake of the head, a wistful tone. ‘What happened to him, huh? But at least it was over fast. Any more time on the street, something worse might have happened.’
Hardy shot a look at his wife, went back to Mauritio. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, you know, at the end, the last few months, the guy was a real pain. Last time I snuck him a lunch here, back in the kitchen, he wound up wanting to fight me over some bet we must have made twenty years ago. I didn’t even remember it, something about Roberto Clemente, for Christ’s sake. So I break him the news that Roberto’s been gone awhile and suddenly he’s all over me, I owe him a large one, he’s gonna kick my ass.’ Mauritio smiled over at Frannie. ‘Scuse me the language.’
‘It’s all right.’ Her brilliant smile. ‘If I hadn’t heard it before, I wouldn’t know what it meant, would I?’
Hardy figured Mauritio was halfway to abiding love for his wife. He was going on. ‘Anyway, the poor guy. He makes a scene, I kick him out, so he’s yelling at me by the back door, says he gonna tell all the guys I’m a welsher. And I just made the guy a free lunch.’ He shook his head in commiseration. ‘You knew he couldn’t help it. You couldn’t hold it against him, but you didn’t want him around. It was probably better he went out when he did. His boy did him a big favor.’
* * * * *
After dinner, a couple more questions.
‘So the Grotto, it burned down or something?’
‘To the ground. Saddest night of my life. Nobody could believe it.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘I mean, the old man, the judge’s father — fire was what scared him most. We had more hydrants and safety systems than anybody. Then the one time we need ’em, they don’t work worth a damn.‘
‘It’s a universal law,’ Hardy said. ‘Where’d it start?’
A sigh. ‘Kitchen, they think. Then just took off. One of the fireman died, even. Hor
rible. Well’ — he clapped his hands lightly — ‘hey, enough of this. You folks eat good? I see the judge, I’ll tell him you came by.’
37
As soon as Frannie had taken the kids out the door to school, he was at the kitchen table. With his wide-ranging if temporary amnesia yesterday, he was almost surprised that he’d remembered to throw Jeanne Walsh’s telephone number into his briefcase. But he had.
She picked up on the second ring. There was no baby noise in the background, and she sounded more relaxed. ‘Mrs Walsh, this is Dismas Hardy again. The lawyer from San Francisco?’
‘Sure. The reward. I remember.’
Might as well feed her the sugar first. ‘That’s what I’m calling about. The reward may not be out of the picture. I’d like to ask you a couple more questions, if I may. Do you have a minute?’
‘I hope so. Brittany’s down for a nap. She’s really pretty good most of the time. I don’t know why she was so cranky yesterday. Maybe she’s teething.’
Hardy was right back with her to the days of infancy, when there was nothing else in life but your child and its health and habits. Even the prospect of a reward, while possibly interesting, couldn’t hold a candle. ‘I’m sure she’s wonderful,’ Hardy said, ‘but I did want to ask you about your mother. You said when she was in San Francisco, she was Joan Palmieri? Was that her maiden name, or was she married before?’
A nervous laugh. ‘Didn’t I say that? No, I guess not. Yeah, she was married to my dad. My natural father, not Ron.’
Hardy was getting confused with all the names. ‘Ron?’
‘Ron Singleterry.’
‘But Palmieri?’
‘Palmieri was my own maiden name.’
Okay, he thought. Getting there. ‘And was your dad’s first name Randall?’
‘Randy, yes. How did you know?’
‘And he was killed in a fire at Giotti’s Grotto in 1979?’
‘Yeah, that was my father. I was just a baby then. Well, four or five I must have been, but I don’t really remember him. That’s why we moved back up here. Mom wanted to start over, I think. It was probably a good idea. It worked out pretty well for her. Ron was a good guy.’
Hardy had been taking notes, writing it all down. ‘But you still don’t remember anyone named Sal Russo?’
‘No. I thought about it all last night, I tell you. I even called my sister, but she didn’t remember it either.’
Hardy was closing in on it. Sal had referred to Joan Singleterry’s children — plural — not to her child. And now that was confirmed. ‘Do you have other family, Jeanne?’
‘No. Well, I mean my own family, Johnny and Brittany. But otherwise there’s just my sister Margie. Margie Sanford now.’
‘Okay, one or two more, if you don’t mind. How about Mario Giotti, that name? Do you know him?’
She laughed. ‘I will if we need to.’
‘You don’t need to. You’re doing fine. The reward doesn’t depend on you knowing Mario Giotti.’
‘That’s a relief, because I don’t.’
‘Never heard of him?’
‘Nope. Sorry.’
Me, too, Hardy thought.
But he’d gotten a lot more than he’d have dared hope for even a couple of days before. He ran more names at her. Brendan or Debra McCoury. Graham Russo. George Russo. Leland and Helen Taylor. Everybody he could think of — he almost said David Freeman. You just never knew. She didn’t know any of them.
He told her to hang tight. She appeared to be the child of the Joan Singleterry they were seeking. He’d get back to her.
* * * * *
But what was the connection? How had Sal known Joan? He poured himself a cup of espresso, working the possibilities.
Randy Palmieri had been killed in the fire at the Grotto. The Grotto had been owned by the Giotti family until a few months after it burned down. A mysterious fire that had eluded a state-of-the-art detection and sprinkling system started in the kitchen and wiped out the whole place. Sal Russo had kept a memento of that fire with him until he died, as well as fifty thousand dollars in cash, wrapped and dated a few months later.
On the personal side, Sal’s marriage had ended at about the same time. He no longer felt noble or special or whatever it was he’d always felt, no longer had the heart to stand up to the forces represented by Leland Taylor. He didn’t deserve Helen and their wonderful children anymore. She was right to cast him off. He wouldn’t even try to see his children anymore.
He had more than failed, he had fallen.
And in the present, Sal was more and more living in his past — where now perhaps he could undo his past sins, repay his past debts, reclaim his old love. It was happening now, all of this, his life.
And it made Sal, as Mauritio had said, a pain in the ass. Perhaps more than that as his mind slipped away, as he forgot what he was supposed to keep hidden and secret, as he remembered what he’d promised to forget.
Perhaps Sal had become a danger.
* * * * *
At the fire department office the same efficient woman helped him. ‘The hose-and-ladder strap was something else, wasn’t it?’
Mild chagrin. He’d been caught in his fib. ‘I really hate to admit this,’ he said, ‘but the truth is that I’m a lawyer. I was trying to be slick. It’s an occupational hazard.’
It rolled right off her. ‘So it wasn’t your friend’s belt?’
‘No.’ He got serious. ‘I found this out since last night. I believe the strap came from a fire that killed a man, Randall Palmieri. He’s on your wall out there. I wondered if I could talk to your Widows and Orphans person, find out a little how that works.’
‘You can just keep talking to me,’ she said. ‘I’m the information officer.’
‘I want to verify the identity of the man’s offspring. There’s a substantial reward involved. I think maybe they could use it. If a fireman dies on the job, I suppose there’s some kind of pension or settlement?’
The woman nodded. ‘Palmieri?’
Hardy nodded and spelled it for her. ‘Randall G.’
‘I’ll be right back.’
He waited at the counter for about five minutes, at which time she returned with a black binder. ‘Sorry that took so long,’ she said, ‘I wanted to ask my boss how confidential this stuff was.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t give you addresses or anything without a court order, but if you give me a name, I can tell you if it’s here. That’s all you said you needed?’
Hardy would have to take what he could get. ‘Essentially, yes. Randall Palmieri,’ he repeated.
She opened to the page and waited.
Hardy didn’t need his written notes. ‘His wife’s name was Joan and she moved to Eureka and married a Ron Singleterry. She had two children, Jeanne and Margie, since married with different names.’
The woman nodded. ‘That’s what I have.’
‘Do they still get the pension, the daughters?’
‘No. The benefit ends with the death of the spouse.’
‘So they’re not getting any money anymore, any help?’
‘Not from us.’ The woman was still looking down at the page, then came up at him. ‘I don’t see how this could hurt. If you want more information, there’s a trust listed here, cross-referenced. The Singleterrys may have been getting money from it, too, on top of the pension. Maybe they’d be free to tell you more about it.’
‘Okay, thanks. Where’s this trust located?’ She read it out. ‘It’s called the BGG Memorial Trust of 1981. It’s administered, let’s see… oh, it’s only a couple of blocks away, at Baywest. You could probably walk right over.’
* * * * *
He didn’t want to see anyone, least of all either David Freeman or Graham Russo, but both of them were hanging around the lobby when he got to his building at a little after eleven. There was no avoiding them, but he could try to keep it short and sweet. He put on his best harried air, ostentatiously looked at his watch.
‘I’m run
ning through here…guys, on the way to someplace else. I’ve got an appointment at lunch. Big dollars, David, you’ll be proud of me at last.’
Phyllis looked disapprovingly over her bank of phones. Too much noise. Hardy ignored her. ‘But, Graham, you might want to call your brother and sister, advise them not to go spending their inheritance money. We’ve got a real lead on Joan Singleterry. I’ll tell you all about it later.’ He kept moving toward the stairs, climbing.
Graham tailed behind him. ‘But that’s what I wanted to tell you.’
Hardy stopped, turned. Graham was brushing by him, two steps at a time. ‘I left it in your office.’
Feigned outrage. ‘You broke into my office?’
At the top of the stairs Graham grinned back down at him. ‘It’d be harder if you locked it.’ The young man was excited; clearly he’d found something. ‘We would have called you last night but it was after nine-thirty. We figured you old guys were already asleep.’
‘Get out of my way.’
Graciously, still beaming, Graham let Hardy open his own door. He crossed to the desk and in the middle of the blotter found a large article, stapled together, from an old copy of the Chronicle. Nineteen eighty-eight.
While he read, Graham was filling him in. ‘So we had all these boxes, mostly just junk and paper, taking up room. Sarah thought we ought to go through everything in them, page by page, throw away everything we didn’t want. Clean the place up.’
Hardy glanced up at him. ‘And I think I live a wild life, going to bed at nine-thirty and all.’
‘I didn’t say it was all we did. Anyway, Sarah found that.’
It was one of those follow-up stories the papers sometimes run: ‘What Happened To?’ or ‘Life After…’ This one concerned the patched-together lives of six women whose husbands had been killed doing their jobs in the prime of their lives. A construction worker, two cops, a race-car driver, a charter pilot, and Randy Palmieri, fireman.
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