All Signs Point to Murder

by Connie Di Marco

  “What do you think of the husband?” Cheryl asked.

  “Rob? He’s very good-looking and seems to be a concerned guy. He’s really torn up about this. It must have been just awful for him to think he shot his wife’s sister.”

  “I’ll bet he’s a phony. I’ll bet he’s got a girlfriend on the side.” Cheryl was now definitely slurring her words. “But if you’re involved in this, you better include me. I’m ready for some adventure in my life now.”

  I laughed. “Don’t get your hopes up. I don’t have much more I can do to ferret out dirt on Moira. In fact, Geneva’s still trying to find birth information for Rob. I don’t know if she can get Andy’s information. I certainly can’t, since I just had a rather nasty confrontation with him.” It wasn’t the moment to tell them about Macao or the drug shipment, not yet, nor my suspicion that Andy was involved in money laundering schemes. Gale would have a fit and would lecture me mercilessly. I wouldn’t tell Geneva yet either. I needed time to cool off and think clearly.

  “You mean you haven’t seen their charts yet?” Cheryl asked, amazed.

  “Geneva will call me soon. She’s trying to get the info.”

  “How boring,” Cheryl answered, trying her best to land her wine glass safely on the coffee table.

  Gale piped up. “Look, you two, I want you to stay here tonight. You both look exhausted and you’ve both been drinking. Stay over, okay? We can grab some breakfast down the street at the wharf tomorrow.”

  I was too tired to argue. Gale put Cheryl in the guest bedroom, which, with its own bathroom, was a safer bet. She really had polished off several glasses of wine. I crashed on the sofa in the office, and fortunately the sushi settled well in my stomach. I only hoped the thoughts rattling around in my head didn’t result in nightmares.

  thirty-four

  The next morning, we took my car. Parking near the wharf is difficult at best, even on a weekday—we stood a better chance of finding a spot with my Geo. From the crest of Russian Hill, we had a panoramic view of the bay. The sky was cloudless and the deep blue of the Bay sparkled like scattered diamonds as wind currents ruffled the waters. The buildings of Alcatraz were stark white against the bare cliffs of Marin.

  I trailed a cable car, full to capacity, and did my best to keep one set of wheels off the metal tracks and not skid down the hill. We descended to Bay Street, past Aquatic Park and the cable car turnaround. The tourist season was in full swing. The park was already crowded with portable stalls selling souvenirs and jewelry, a juggler doing tricks and a guitar player with his case open for donations. We cut down Jefferson to Millie’s Crepe House.

  We were the first customers of the morning and settled in at an outdoor table, perched on a small pier a few feet above the water line. We were bundled up in sweaters Gale had loaned us. The smell of fresh fish and brine filled the air and seagulls swooped and cried above us, ready to dive for crumbs. Cheryl and Gale ordered omelets and I chose the blueberry crepes. We dug in as soon as our waiter arrived with our orders.

  Gale sprinkled salt on her dish. “I’ve got to go into the shop today and organize some things for the psychic fair next week, but I want you to stay in touch with me.”

  “Sure. Any special reason?” I asked.

  “I have a distinct feeling there’s more you’re not telling me. I think you’re more involved than you should be.”

  “Gale, I haven’t even set up all the charts.”

  “Yeah, well, I know you. You’re like a pit bull once you get an idea in your head, so just be careful. Some of these people may not be as nice as you think they are. One of them is already dead.”

  “Whatever happens, Julia, you can count me in,” Cheryl offered.

  Gale turned to her. “And you too. You’re a babe in the woods. You’ll get yourself in trouble. I just know it. Now that you’re a gay divorcée, you have to be careful. There are a lot of sharks out there, not just in the Bay.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Cheryl replied, smiling.

  It was then I remembered the precious package I’d been carrying around. “Oh, I completely forgot. I meant to show this to you both last night, but it slipped my mind.” I pulled out the sapphire and platinum bracelet, now back in its Rochecault box. I showed it to Gale.

  “Did you say this woman was a waitress at a bar?”

  “Pretty strange, huh?”

  “Well, somebody with some serious bucks bought this for her then.”

  “That’s what I want to find out. I haven’t shown it to Brooke yet, but I ran it by Rob, and he didn’t recognize it. Geneva’s afraid that Moira might have stolen it.”

  Cheryl leaned back in her chair, sipping coffee. “I know where this came from. I know the shop.”

  “Rochecault, right?” I said.

  “Yup. I have a friend who works there. Very pricey place. It’s on Maiden Lane near the Gucci shop. Maybe she can tell us who bought it. I’ll go down there with you if you want.”

  “That’d be great.”

  Gale turned to Cheryl. “Don’t forget about the open house on Sunday. I’ve spoken to the realtor and she’s expecting us.”

  Cheryl nodded. “I haven’t forgotten. I’m just not sure …”

  “I’m sure,” Gale said. “Julia, I want you to come and see it too. I really want Cheryl to get this apartment. I think it’s a great deal. Just right for her. Fabulous location and now she’ll have some money to work with.”

  Cheryl groaned. “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, but I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.”

  “You’re ready, honey. Don’t doubt that.” Gale gave me a penetrating look. “And as for you …” She trailed off without finishing her sentence. I avoided her look and didn’t reply.

  We settled our bill and clambered back in the car. Traffic was heavier now. We escaped the tourist fray at the wharf and headed back up the hill. I pulled into the circular drive to drop Gale off. James wasn’t on duty at this hour and the doorman stared at us as though we’d taken a wrong turn.

  “Snobs,” I muttered under my breath.

  Gale waved at the doorman, who, recognizing her, hotfooted it to the passenger door and quickly opened it.

  “I think I’ll have a word with him. He better treat you right when you pull up to my house.” Gale climbed out and Cheryl moved into the passenger seat. Gale turned and leaned down to the passenger window. “Remember what I said, Julia. I don’t want to see either of you in any trouble.”

  We nodded and smiled.

  She shook her head in frustration. “Ciao. Kisses.” She waved back at us as she entered her building.

  I appreciated her concern, but I was slightly miffed that she considered me such an idiot I wouldn’t be able to stay out of trouble. It was a good thing I hadn’t mentioned getting locked in the storeroom at Macao with illegal substances.

  We exited the semi-circular drive and turned toward town. Cheryl was on her cell, hoping to reach her friend at the jewelry store. She clicked her phone shut. “We’re in luck. Shahin’s there today. I told her we’d be in to see her.”

  I followed Bush Street down to Union Square. The square rises above the bordering streets in a mound topped with a concrete plaza and a spire commemorating the Civil War. The regular denizens were in attendance, but a milling crowd was setting up booths for an art fair. An elderly man bundled in sweaters sat on a bench feeding pigeons. At another bench, a teenage couple was locked in a clutch. Cars had lined up to enter the parking garage under the square and I joined the queue. Pedestrians jaywalked around the car as we inched forward. When we finally neared the entrance, I breathed a sigh of relief the lot wasn’t full.

  Maiden Lane is a narrow street between Grant and Stockton that runs into Union Square and lays claim to some of the priciest shops in the city. We waited at the traffic light and hurried across the street. Rochecault was halfway down the narr
ow street, next to a restaurant with outdoor tables. Unusual estate pieces and handmade creations were displayed in the window. We stepped into the front vestibule and Cheryl rang the bell. A young woman with short dark hair looked up from the interior of the shop and pressed a buzzer allowing us entry through a second door.

  “Cheryl! Hi.” The woman waved from behind the counter.

  “Shahin, this is my friend Julia.”

  She smiled widely and shook my hand. Her complexion was smooth and dark. She had a brilliantly white smile and a wide generous mouth with full lips.

  “Hi, Julia. Cheryl tells me you have something you think was purchased here?”

  “I’m fairly sure. It belongs to a friend who found it in her sister’s apartment. We were hoping you might be able to tell us anything you know.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  I dug through my purse and opened the box once more, spreading it out for Shahin’s perusal. She took a jeweler’s loupe from a drawer under the counter.

  “Oh. Yes. I’ve seen this before.”

  “Do you remember who bought it?”

  She thought for a moment. “It does look very familiar. But I can’t recall right now. We sell estate jewelry and one-of-a-kind pieces like this, sometimes made on the premises. This design is unusual, and the precious gems and semi-precious—two different tones of blue—give it a lot of depth. The platinum too. It’s beautiful. Let me ask Amir—he’s one of the owners. He might remember.” She walked through a door into the back of the shop and returned a few moments later.

  “Yes. He remembers the piece. He said it was sold a few months ago. I’ll check our ledger book.” Once again, Shahin walked to the end of the counter and disappeared behind a screened-off area. She returned immediately carrying a large, bound ledger.

  “You write everything down?”

  Shahin nodded. “We have computer records too, but the guys here are kind of old-fashioned. They like to keep a handwritten record as well.”

  She opened the book to early March and ran her finger down the columns. After five pages, she spotted it.

  “Here it is. See, here’s the description. Here’s the jeweler’s name and the date. April 5th. It was sold for $5,500.”

  “With a credit card?” I held my breath.

  “No. Cash. Not even a personal check. Wow!”

  “Is that the buyer’s name in the last column?”

  “Yes, we do keep a record in case there’s a repair needed, and we send out reminder cards when holidays are coming up, that kind of thing. We can’t give out customer information though. I’m sorry.”

  Shahin looked at Cheryl and gave her a wink. She jotted down a name and address on a pad of paper and slid it across the counter toward Cheryl. “Sorry Cheryl, I can’t help you with this,” she added in a slightly louder voice for the benefit of the man working in the rear of the store.

  “That’s all right. Thanks anyway. We appreciate your time,” I replied.

  Shahin buzzed us out of the shop. On the sidewalk, Cheryl pulled the slip of paper out of her pocket.

  “Wait. Not here.” I spotted outdoor tables next door. “Let’s get a cappuccino.” We grabbed a table and a waiter immediately swooped down and took our order.

  “That was awfully trusting of your friend. How do you know her?”

  “We were in a French cooking class together a few years ago and we’ve stayed in touch since then.”

  “Now let’s see what’s on that paper.”

  Cheryl had stuck the note in her purse. She dug it out and passed it over, peering over my shoulder.

  “‘L. Barron, 443 Vallejo Street.’”

  “Do you think that’s a phony name and address?” Cheryl asked.

  “Who knows? We don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman.”

  “We could go ring the bell and see who answers.”

  “And if there really is an L. Barron, and he or she calls the police? What if Moira stole it from him or her? I really don’t want to bring any more trouble down on the Learys.”

  Cheryl was thoughtful for a moment. “You said Geneva didn’t recognize it. So either Moira stole it somewhere or she had a wealthy benefactor. How do you know this sugar daddy wasn’t a sugar mommy?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but anything’s possible. If you’re going to steal jewelry from someone, you usually wouldn’t be able to get the box it came in too, would you?”

  “No, I guess not,” Cheryl agreed. “And Moira herself could have bought it and used a phony name and address. What about this Andy guy she was dating?”

  Our waiter arrived with our cappuccinos. I waited until he moved away before answering. “There are some suspicious things about his financial state. But he doesn’t appear to have a lot of money.”

  “Wealthy people don’t necessarily walk around with that kind of cash, either. Of course, it’s the best way of not leaving a paper trail.” Cheryl sipped carefully at the foam at the top of her cup. “Listen, maybe I’ll buzz through the Gucci shop and browse a bit, now that I’m here and have some bucks coming to me. Want to join me?”

  “Love to, but I’m going to try to visit Brooke.”

  “That sounds depressing.”

  I nodded in response. “No doubt, but she’s still in the city jail. Although Geneva said if they were going to hold her, they could move her someplace else. And speaking of depressing, I’ll be at the wake tonight, but it won’t be late. If you’re free, do you feel like a drink after? There’s a place I’d like to check out.”

  “I’m game. Give me a call later.”

  We finished our drinks and parted on the corner of Maiden Lane. I headed back to the parking garage and retrieved my car. I drove across Market, turning on Howard, and followed it to 7th Street. A dirt parking lot nearby charged only twenty dollars for the day. What a bargain. This was a San Francisco far removed from the glittering heights of Telegraph Hill or Nob Hill and the breathtaking views of the Bay. The closest water was China Basin, once only neglected piers built on sunken ships and filled land. Market Street cuts a diagonal swath through the city and has always been the dividing line between the right and the wrong sides of town. As time passed and the land south of Market, now called SOMA, became more and more valuable, the developers have taken over, building a civic center, a new museum, and condos in an area called “South Beach” in realtorese speak.

  Granted, there were fewer vacant lots and industrial storage properties now, and office space once housed on Union Street had slowly moved to upscale new quarters around China Basin, but the heart of the area had not changed. Truly organic neighborhoods take time and aren’t thrown up quickly by developers. At night, few residents walk the streets in spite of the occasional restaurant or club opening. In my opinion, the city still psychically resists spreading over that boundary.

  The wide stairs of the jail at 425 7th Street were thick with bird droppings. Garbage swirled on the sidewalk and against the curbs. I pushed through the door of the squat gray stone building and stood in line while visitors placed items on the moving mini-tarmac of the security station, much like an airport. I passed through the metal detector. After that, a California Department of Corrections officer held out a large device like a padded microphone and passed it all around me, up and down, to check for weapons.

  Once through, I filled out a form with my information and the name of the prisoner I was visiting. I was then allowed to enter a large waiting room, painted in two-tone industrial green with benches along the sides of the walls and parallel rows of benches filling the center of the room. One wall had narrow rectangular windows, covered with metal bars, just below ceiling level and at least twelve feet from the floor. The entire room was illuminated by neon-tubed light fixtures hanging from the ceiling on chains. The overwhelming odor in the room was disinfectant overlaid with fear and sweat.


  Perhaps thirty people were waiting for their visit with a prisoner just as I was. Every ten minutes, a guard entered the room through a locked double door and called out a name. Someone would rise, raise their hand, and move quickly toward the guard and through the door.

  The time passed excruciatingly slowly. Under the pallid glow of neon lights, we all looked like prisoners of war. Most of the waiting were women—wives, mothers, girlfriends, and sisters of the incarcerated. Two tattooed men in droopy gangbanger pants who sat together looked like they belonged on the other side of the door.

  After an hour’s wait, a female guard called my name. I followed her down a long hallway and through another set of doors. I was wanded once more, my purse and jacket were taken from me, and I was asked to pass through yet another metal detector. Then I was shown into a small narrow room, one wall fitted with bulletproof glass and a long vinyl counter running under the glass. A telephone receiver hung on either side of the glass. I took the molded plastic chair on my side of the partition and waited. Eventually, the door opened and a female guard escorted Brooke into the room. She looked even thinner but still moved with grace. She stopped short when she saw me and hesitated. Then she sat down slowly on her side of the plastiglas and picked up the telephone.

  “Julia …”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I came to see you,” I said.

  Brooke’s normally pale highlighted hair looked heavy and matted under the neon lighting. She wore no makeup and only a two-

  piece bright orange shirt and pants, with no belt. Her skin was strained tight over the bones of her face and seemed almost translucent. She looked down at her hands, clenched together on the counter.

  “No, I appreciate your coming.” She stifled a sob. “It doesn’t look good for me.”

  “Don’t say that. If you’re not guilty, stick to your guns.”