by Al Macy
“But you didn’t work hard for it,” he said.
I’d have been annoyed, but he had such a friendly, easy manner. “Depends on what you mean by work hard.”
“It is Saturday morning, and you’re not working. You’re having a relaxed snack. Anyone who’s amassed a fortune such as yours at the age twenty-eight and a half—”
“Hold it.”
“Your driver’s license.”
“Your eyesight is pretty good.”
“I am blessed with exemplary eyesight. So, someone with a non-inherited fortune at age twenty-eight would likely be working on Saturday morning. Although you have a lot of money, you generally don’t flaunt it.”
“Generally?” I looked at him. His face was quite pleasant, despite the weird sideburns.
“Your clothes are expensive but not flashy. On the other hand, there is your Porsche.”
“But I didn’t drive here today.”
“Your key ring is on its assigned hook in your handbag. I saw it when you pulled out your wallet, putting the cash on the counter, preparing for a fast getaway in case I turned out to be a law enforcement officer.”
“Okay, Sherlock, you’re hired. Am not saying your reasoning is good. Is pretty weak, actually. Spacious, as you said. Maybe I work hard but needed break today. Maybe am going to office this afternoon. Maybe someone gave me this handbag with all the pockets.” I held it up. “Maybe I skipped breakfast and like eggs. Maybe I just had regular headache, and I like to drink fast.”
“That’s fair. Tell me about the person you wish to find. Do we need to go to my office?”
“No,” I said. “Is simple. Looking for man with first name Bolton. An artist.”
“That’s all you know.”
“Pretty much.”
“Where did you meet him?” he asked.
“We sat next to one another on a flight from France.”
“Why do you want to find him?”
“None of your business.”
* * *
Bolton was in the shower when the phone rang. Normally, he’d allow his PhoneMate to answer, but the device wasn’t reliable. The call could be important. It could be from someone who’d seen one of his posters. Without even turning off the water, he hopped out of the shower, slipping on the tile floor but not falling.
He’d had two false alarms so far. One was an obvious scammer whose tip didn’t pay off. The other genuinely thought he’d seen the woman in Bolton’s drawing, but he reported seeing her the day before the flight, when she would have still been in Europe. Bolton followed up anyway, only to see a woman who did look a lot like the woman on the plane. He paid the man the reward anyway.
“The woman on the plane” is how Bolton referred to her. He’d considered giving her a name like “Natasha” or “Ana,” but when he found her—when, not if—he’d have to change it in his head.
Standing wet and dripping in the living room, he picked up the receiver and said hello. The caller—it sounded like a young girl—spoke English so poorly, he wasn’t even sure she wasn’t speaking in a foreign language. The words were fast and staccato, like short bursts from a Tommy gun.
Bolton interrupted the torrent. “I’m sorry. Could you speak more slowly?” He spoke slowly himself and a little louder than necessary.
The speech continued at a more reasonable pace but was still hard to follow. He did hear the words “poster” and “reward” although they sounded more like “poe ter” and “re whoad.”
This isn’t going to work. We can’t communicate. He sat on the edge of the couch. More dripping.
Then a new voice came over the line. The girl had apparently given the phone to someone else. The new young woman also had a strong accent—Chinese?—but was understandable.
“We are calling about the poster. A reward?” she said.
“Yes, thank you. You have called the right place.” Bolton relaxed into the couch.
“My sister knows the woman in your poster. And she—”
Some rapid-fire speech in the background came over the line.
The caller continued, “My sister, Netty Lee, say the woman ver nice. Has been to her … aparmen.”
“Apartment?” Bolton’s heart jolted. This could be the end of the search.
“Yes, aparment. Can you meet us and give reward?”
“Absolutely. Yes, I can meet you. Thank you. What is convenient for you? Where should I come?”
“Do you know where is Akatic Park?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Aquatic Park.” He was getting better at understanding her.
“We give acrobat performance there fourteen hundred. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I will be there at two o’clock today.” He looked at his wristwatch before realizing he wasn’t wearing it. The clock on the wall showed 1:00 p.m. No problem.
Street performers loved Aquatic Park in the Fisherman’s Wharf district. A new venue, Pier 39, was scheduled to open in a few months, but until then, the park was the perfect place for jugglers, magicians, one-man bands, and acrobats.
At two o’clock exactly, he pulled his Mustang into a metered spot on Larkin and jogged toward the park. The show was in progress, with a young boy doing a handstand atop an impossibly tall stack of chairs.
Bolton stood among the tourists, watching juggling, teeterboard balancing, and tumbling. The final act was pole climbing, in which two young girls—perhaps the ones he’d spoken with—performed gravity-defying tricks on two neighboring poles. Everything in the show was impressive, but the performers all seemed overworked and underfed.
Afterward, he went behind the small stage area and called out, “Netty? Netty Lee?”
Immediately, the smaller of the pole performers came up to him with a big smile. She said, “I am Netty” and then something that sounded like “tzing see-en dung ee sha.” She held up her hand like a policeman stopping traffic. Wait here. Got it.
She returned with a slightly older version of herself in tow. They were both beautiful, with delicate, round faces and black hair pulled back into ponytails. Each shook my hand in turn and gave a tiny bow.
Bolton bowed back. “You are very beautiful.”
The older one’s hand flew to her mouth and she laughed. She turned to Netty Lee, who was certainly her younger sister, based on their appearance, and translated. “Ni fei chang piao liang.”
Netty’s hand flew to her mouth, and both girls laughed again.
Bolton pulled out several other drawings of the woman on the plane and handed them over.
Netty paged through them. “Yes.” She nodded vigorously. “Yes.”
“And you know where she lives?”
“Yes. There!” She pointed to the high-rise condos on Russian Hill. “Summit Building. Floor twenty.”
“Really?” Only a block from my own. “How do you know this?”
The two spoke back and forth in rapid Chinese. Finally, the older sister addressed me. “This woman, her name is Vivana, comes to our show several times. Ver nice woman. Fei chang piao liang. Ver beautiful. She invite Netty to dinner one day. Netty and Zhang Wei, older brother, go there.”
It made perfect sense. Bolton himself could barely resist the desire to feed these children. He bowed deeply, not even sure whether it was appropriate. He handed an envelope with the reward to Netty and gave an additional one hundred dollars to her older sister. “Thank you. Very much.” Bolton bowed again.
He looked up at the Summit Condominium building. “Vivana.”
He drove back to his condo lost in thought. An unusual name. He decided she might feel threatened if he just showed up at her home. He didn’t have her phone number. By the time he’d parked his Mustang into his space, he’d figured out the perfect plan: He’d follow her then just happen to run into her on the street.
CHAPTER FIVE
After only one day, Samuel called me with news that he’d found Bolton. Was quick. I drove to his office, a cramped space in a residential district. Cramped but neat.<
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I rapped my knuckles against the brick wall, unusual in San Francisco. “Are not worried about earthquake?”
He loaded his percolator. “I am attracted to stone buildings. Brick is almost as good.”
His massive trestle table had been built from a door, with a hole where the knob had once been. Several lights hung from the ceiling—cylinders of rattan. An antique clock ticked away on a shelf.
I sat in his visitor chair, and he handed me a sheet of paper. “A Mr. Bolton Vance heads a graphic design company here in San Francisco. For some reason, he has made it his choice not to advertise. My supposition is that he has built up a business over time and is so successful that he is not seeking new clients.”
“How did you find him?”
“I called around to other art firms and companies who contract out their graphic design. It wasn’t difficult.”
“Is good.” I checked his phone number on the sheet of information. “Let’s give him a call.”
Samuel walked to the window and stood looking out. I waited a while, but he said nothing.
“Is something wrong?”
“Probably not, but you may find it advantageous to investigate him to a further degree. I will offer my services at no additional charge.”
“Is not really necessary. All I want to do is … I just want to meet him.”
“May I presume that this is a romance thing?”
I shrugged.
He looked at me for a few moments then turned back to the window. “That is fine. You informed me it was none of my business, and I will be respectful of your privacy.”
“Is something funny? Strange funny?”
“Only that he has a lot of money. Much more than you’d expect from a graphic designer. He lives in the Green Hill Tower condominium building, for example.”
“Huh, is very close to me.”
Samuel filled two tall mugs with coffee and handed one to me. “Yes, and I don’t know how he can afford such a living situation. For that matter, I don’t know how you—”
“Hey. You are not to investigate me, okay? I made that clear.”
“Sorry, it’s what I do.” He gestured toward the sign painted on his window, backward from the inside: Samuel Ticknor Investigations.
“Well, you don’t do it with me. Are we agreed on that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I looked at him closely. Was he serious? “And don’t call me ma’am!”
“Da, doamnă.”
I took a sip. “Are going to tell me how you know Romanian words?”
“Forgive me. I am just showing off. I’ve been to Romania, a long time ago.”
We chatted about the old country for a while. I’d thought he was my age, but from his stories, he must have been older than I’d estimated. Or something.
“Thank you, Samuel. Please send me your final bill.”
* * *
Out on the street, I got in my car and reflected on how things were working out. I pictured wandering around Bolton’s apartment while he made dinner or took a shower. I’d find the suitcase, it would have the Chapstick case in the outer pocket, and I’d be done. If it wasn’t there, I could deal with that. It’s not like I needed the money.
It would require leading him on—not fair to him. Was that the sociopath in me talking? No, because perhaps we would end up having a genuine romance. I would need to lead him on a bit before I could decide whether a relationship would be a good idea, yes? I liked him fine on the plane, but a relationship was the furthest thing from my mind. Had I not been traveling with a false name would I have given him my number?
No. Jewel thieving and serious relationships don’t go well together. “Gee, hon, where did you go at two in the morning?” But if I gave up my hobby? I could make it clear that Bolton, or someone else I got together with, was not to look into my past. It was hidden pretty well, anyway. I could always say I inherited a fortune.
I leaned forward and looked up at the sky through the windscreen. The morning fog had done its thing, giving way to a warm summer sun. I rolled down the windows and put the top down.
Time to go. When I reached to turn the key, someone called my name, or almost my name: “Vivana!”
I looked back. Bolton?
He ran the final steps to the car then squatted and put his hands on the door. “Vivana. I thought that was you! I’ve been hoping to run into you.”
I smiled. I was happy to see him. Just because of diamond? “Bolton! Is surprise. Do you live around here?”
“No, I just have some business here. I was down the block and I thought I saw you. Of course, I’ve seen several women who I thought were you, only to be mistaken.”
Pushing the apparent coincidence from my mind, I made a snap decision. “Would you like to go for a ride?” I patted the seat next to me.
He rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Let me see …”
I frowned, just a little. Is the hesitation just act? No … unless is good actor.
“Okay. Sounds great. I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”
I watched him walk around the car and get in. Funny how things work out sometimes. Once he was belted in, I pulled out smartly and shot down the road.
He put both hands on the dashboard. “Whoa!”
I accelerated through a stale yellow light. I made it. “Are not chicken, no?”
“No, no. Just a little surprised is all. Nice car.”
“I love it. Marin?”
He looked at his watch. “Sure.”
It wasn’t until we were on the Golden Gate Bridge that I popped the question. “Bolton. Tell me. How did you know my name?”
“You told it to me.”
I had not. “I told you my name was Vivana?”
“Yes. You didn’t introduce yourself, but you used your name as part of a story. Something you told me.”
I checked him out in my peripheral vision. If he was lying, he was a very good liar. But he was lying. When I’m using a false name, I go over and over it until I almost feel that it’s my real name. I would have used the name Tatiana if I’d slipped. And definitely not the name Vivana. “What was story about?”
He snapped his fingers. “No, I remember now. You said it in your sleep. You were sleeping, and I was drawing you. You said something like, ‘Vivana, run!’ First I thought you were awake and I turned to you, but you were still sleeping. I considered waking you, since you seemed to be having a bad dream.”
Hmm. That was possible. “But Vivana isn’t my name.”
“Well, it’s the name you said in your sleep. It sounded as if you were talking to yourself in a dream. That is, telling yourself you had to run. Escape. As if something were chasing you. I considered waking you up, to get you out of the nightmare. So, what is your name, then?”
“Viviana.”
He laughed. Nothing like Samuel’s booming laughter but pleasant. Friendly. Laughing at himself. “Okay, close enough. You were turned away from me. Viviana. That’s a beautiful name.”
“Maybe is better than Vivana.”
He laughed again.
The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. I had the heat on but the top down. We drove along in a comfortable silence, each appreciating the bright sky, the scattered clouds, and the brown hillsides dotted with oaks.
The sunshine and flowers moment took a hit when I looked in the rearview mirror. Was that the same white panel truck that had been behind us on the bridge? We were in Marin City at that point.
Bolton turned and looked back. “What are you looking at? In the mirror?”
“Oh, nothing. That truck—no, nothing. How about dinner?”
He looked at his watch. A Rolex, exactly like one of my souvenirs. “It’s only three in the afternoon. Do you have some kind of eating disorder?”
I glanced at him. He was unable to suppress a dimpled smile.
“Have you ever eaten at the Pelican Inn?” I asked.
“Ah. One of my favorite places in the world.”
“We can get bottle of wine.”
“Go out on the beach.”
“Muir Beach. Yes, let’s do it.” I took the exit for Highway 1 and kept an eye on the panel truck. It stayed on 101. False alarm. Perfectly reasonable that it stayed close, even though I was a bit above the speed limit.
My Porsche and the Shoreline Highway were a match made in heaven. Or in Road & Track Magazine, anyway. All S turns and drops and rises.
I downshifted for a tight curve. “Don’t get carsick, no?”
“Bring it on.”
“Red or white?”
“Red. What about you?”
I shrugged. “Either is okay. You’re not wine snob, are you?”
“As long as I can get me some Ripple.”
We were laughing so much, other motorists might have thought we were high on marijuana.
What had come over me? I rarely felt this good. We were so boisterous when we went into a roadside deli that the owner gave us a dirty look. But he changed his tune when we bought his most expensive Napa Cabernet, a handcrafted corkscrew, a wool beach blanket, a pair of crystal wineglasses, and a pair of matching floppy hats.
As I watched Bolton making silly faces in his hat—I didn’t tell him it was a woman’s hat—I thought about this lifestyle. Maybe I didn’t need to steal. Take it easy, now, Viviana. Or Vivana.
“What’s so funny?” He adjusted the hat’s strap that would keep the hat from blowing off.
“Maybe should have you call me Vivana.”
“Definitely not.” His tone was mock-serious. “That’s your personal name.”
“Personal name?”
“That’s what you call yourself in your dreams.”
I punched him on the shoulder then took his arm, and we walked back to the car.
The fog came in, not on cat feet but on mountain lion paws. At Muir Beach, we sat on the still-warm sand and wrapped the wool blanket around us. It made pouring and drinking difficult, yet we managed to finish the bottle.
In bare feet—heels don’t work so well in sand—we ambled back to the Pelican Inn, sometimes experimenting with holding hands. We got a table in the glassed-in terrace, next to a crackling fireplace. I ordered the curry blackened lamb sirloin, and Bolton, the beef Wellington. He picked up the wine menu.