J.T. and Rosie may not become buddies after all. She takes it in with measured stoicism and asks, “And the suggestion that Mr. Chamberlain was demanding a refund?”
“Venture funds don’t give refunds,” he snaps. “You put your money in and you hope for the best. It’s virtually impossible to get your money back in the absence of an agreement of the managing partner or in other unusual circumstances.”
“What was Mr. Chamberlain talking about?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was trying to persuade my father to revise the deal and give him a larger percentage, or maybe he wanted to have greater input on the fund’s management. Either way, he couldn’t have made the change without getting all the partners to agree.”
“What leverage did Mr. Chamberlain have?”
“The money goes into the fund in stages and Mr. Chamberlain was the biggest investor. It’s possible that he threatened to withhold further contributions if my dad didn’t recutthe pie.”
“If he was legally obligated to put in the money under the terms of the partnership agreement and he didn’t do so,” I say, “he would have been in breach.”
“Do you think my father was going to sue him?”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Chamberlain has good lawyers who can tie up the business for years. ”
The plot is getting thicker. I ask, “Did they come to a resolution?”
“I don’t know.”
I ask him what happens if the managing partner dies.
“I’d have to check the partnership documents.”
I can’t believe a hot-shot investment banker put his money into a venture capital fund–even if it was run by his father–without reading the fine print. “Surely,” I say, “the death of the managing partner is one of the triggering events that would have caused a dissolution?”
He’s adamant in his ignorance. “I don’t know.”
I think he does, but I won’t be able to resolve it here. I say, “We’d like to take a look at the partnership’s documents.”
“They’re confidential.”
I bore in. “We’d prefer not to have to send you a subpoena.”
He maintains his composure. “Let me talk to the fund’s lawyer.”
“Thank you.” We’ll get our hands on the partnership agreement one way or another. Whether it’s relevant to this case remains to be seen. “Did you know that your father and Mr. Chamberlain were meeting with the fund’s lawyer Thursday night?”
“So I’m told.” He professes ignorance when I ask him about the topic of the meeting.
I ask, “Did you notice anything unusual about your father’s behavior in recent months? Any change of habits? Any unusual trips?”
“No.”
“And his relationship with your mother was the same as always?”
His tone becomes emphatic. “Yes, Mr. Daley. He was a good husband and father. He was a pillar of our community.”
This seems to be the favored cliché for describing his dad. I say, “Your father seems to have been a solid guy who went to work every day and loved his family.”
A look of relief. “Exactly.”
“It seems out of character that he stopped at a store on Sixth Street.”
“He was on his way to the freeway. He must have seen an open store and decided to stop. If I had been with him, I would have told him not to do it.”
I don’t say anything for a moment, but this time he doesn’t feel compelled to fill the void. I ask. “Has he been spending any time down on Sixth Street in the last few months?”
He gives me an indignant look. “Of course not, Mr. Daley.” It’s clear from his demeanor that he isn’t interested in answering any more of my questions.
Rosie goes for one more tweak. She asks, “Where were you last night?”
“At home.”
“Where’s that?”
“A condo across the street from the Moscone Center at Third and Howard.”
It’s in the middle of the up-and-coming South-of-Market area. It’s also only three blocks from the Dumpster where his father was found.
She asks, “Is there anybody who can verify that?”
He tries not to sound defensive when he says, “I live by myself.” His expression turns indignant. “Are you suggesting something?”
Rosie backs off for now. “No, J.T.,” she says.
# # #
My brother is pissed off at me. The irritation in his voice is pronounced through the static on my cell phone as I’m standing next to my car in the parking lot at the Hall. “Where the hell are you, Mick?” he asks.
“We got hung up with Walker’s ex-girlfriend and Grayson’s son,” I explain.
“You could have called. You were supposed to meet me down here an hour ago.” He’s been waiting for me in a restaurant at the seedy intersection of Sixth and Market.
“I’m sorry, Pete. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
His tone softens slightly when he asks, “Who won the ballgame?”
First things first. “Grace’s team. Three to nothing.”
“You’re the Yogi Berra of Bay Area Little League. I want my cut when she makes the majors. I’ll take twenty-five percent.”
“Seems high.”
“I’ve been sitting in this dump for the last hour, Mick. You aren’t in any position to negotiate. Besides, I taught her how to throw.”
The hell you did. “I taught her how to throw.”
“No, you didn’t.” He adds, “She doesn’t throw like you, Mick. You throw like a girl.”
I watch the traffic on Bryant Street and I decide to make my final offer. “I’ll give you twenty percent of whatever Grace gets, but only if you shut up.”
“Deal.” The entertainment portion of our conversation comes to an abrupt halt when he says, “What did you find out from Walker’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Not much.” I tell him about our discussion with Vanessa Sanders.
He says, “It’s good that he was trying to provide a little support for his daughter.”
“I give him credit for that.”
“Is there a but coming?”
“Yeah.” I tell him about Julia’s illness and the gap in her insurance coverage.
“Sounds like Leon had incentive to steal some money. That isn’t going to help, Mick.”
“No, it isn’t.” I take a deep breath and say, “There’s a little more. Rosie and I decided to handle this case pro bono. We didn’t accept the two thousand dollar retainer.”
“So, my fee just went out the window.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“You might have asked me about it first, Mick.”
“I’m sorry. It seemed like the right thing to do. I’ll pay you out of my pocket if you’re short.”
“Forget it. It isn’t the first time one of your clients has stiffed me and it won’t be the last.”
No, it won’t. “I’ll buy you lunch. I’ll throw in an extra order of pot stickers.”
“You’re a sport. What did you find out from Grayson’s son?”
“His father was a solid citizen. Good husband and father. Reputable businessman.” Pete seems intrigued when I tell him that young J.T. lived a mere three blocks from the spot of his father’s untimely demise.
“What about the story in the Chronicle about problems at Paradigm?”
“He claimed it was hype from an over-zealous reporter.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I want to talk to Chamberlain about it.”
“What about Mrs. Grayson? Was everything just fine in their marriage?”
“According to the son, yes. Why do you ask?”
“I took a drive out to look at Mrs. Grayson’s place in Atherton this morning while you were playing Casey Stengel. The house looks like Versailles.”
It doesn’t surprise me. Atherton is the richest town in California. “You didn’t ring her doorbell, did you?”
“Her husband died yesterday, for God’s sak
e. Give me credit for a shred of discretion.”
“Sorry. What did you do besides admire the gate to her driveway?”
He answers me with a question. “If your husband had been found dead yesterday, what do you think you’d be doing the next day?”
I’m not sure where he’s going, but it’s best to play along. “Probably making some calls.”
“Right. And what might you consider inappropriate behavior?”
“Almost anything else. What did she do?”
“She had a visitor this morning.”
“Who?”
“Lawrence Chamberlain.”
It doesn’t mean anything. “It was probably just business, Pete.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Was there something suspicious about Chamberlain’s behavior?”
“It’s inappropriate to wear a jogging suit to make a condolence call.”
Yes, it is, although I suggest that he may have been on his way to the gym.
“You might want to ask him about it.”
“I will. Did you see anything else unusual?”
“Mrs. Grayson went out for a ride this morning.”
“She probably had to make some arrangements.”
“Most people don’t go to the Sharon Heights Country Club to make arrangements.”
No, they don’t. To all outward appearances, it seems that Mrs. Grayson isn’t overwrought with grief, but there could be a logical explanation. “What was she doing there?”
“It wasn’t to enjoy the weekend brunch or play a couple of sets of tennis.”
True enough. “Do you have a source there?”
“Of course.” I can sense the smile in his voice when he says, “The best sources aren’t family, friends or neighbors, because they’re heavily invested in the participants and frequently don’t want to squeal or take sides. That means the best people to ply for information are casual acquaintances who like to gossip.”
“Like people who belong to the Sharon Heights Country Club?”
“Or people who workthere.”
His theory has a certain intuitive logic. “Do you know anyone who does?”
“Of course. There must be four tennis pros named Bjorn.”
“Did any of the Bjorns happen to see Mrs. Grayson this morning?”
“Indeed. The Graysons’ marriage may not have been quite as solid as J.T. believes.”
*****
Chapter 14
“We’re Looking for Amos Franklin”
“These premises are monitored by security cameras twenty-four hours a day. No change without purchase of at least ten dollars.”
— Entrance to Alcatraz Liquors.
“All right,” I say to Pete. “Give.”
The faded sign above the door of the Market and Sixth Food Corner proclaims that diners may feast upon their choice of Chinese, American, Filipino, Mexican and Italian cuisine. In reality, the menu is considerably less ambitious. There are no American or Filipino dishes on the hand-lettered list that’s posted on the wall and the burrito place next door has siphoned off most of the customers who are looking for Mexican food. A burly young man is serving up hearty portions of sweet and sour pork in the cafeteria line.
My brother carefully folds the front section of this morning’s Chronicle and places it on the Formica table in front of him. “I saw your name in Jerry Edwards’s column this morning,” he says. “Is he planning to pound your ass into the ground for the next couple of weeks?”
“Yes.”
He points a knowing finger at me and says, “You asked for this.”
“We’ve been through this exercise before.”
“It’s going to be worse this time, Mick. He’s gotten nastier since he started drinking again. By the time this is done, he’s going to make everybody involved in this case look like an asshole.” My astute younger brother winks and adds, “Except for me.”
“How do you figure?”
“Nobody gives a rat’s ass about a small-time PI. Why pick on a schmuck like me when he can go after our fashion-model DA, the SFPD and a couple of hot-shot defense lawyers?” He gestures toward my spring rolls and says, “Let me see those, Mick.”
I hand them over to him. A well-fed PI is a happy PI.
He points at his watch says, “You made me sit here for almost two hours.”
“I’m sorry.”
I let him vent. It’s better to let him get it off his chest. Finally, he gets down to business. “According to my sources,” he says, “Mrs. Grayson has been spending a lot of time at the country club.”
I point out that this isn’t uncommon behavior for people in her station in life. “It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with her husband’s death.”
He ignores my skepticism. “I got to know one of the masseuses at the club when I was working on another case,” he says. “I wouldn’t have minded getting to know her a little better.”
There is nothing like a horny, single, forty-five year old guy who hasn’t completed his training in political correctness. “Spare me the details,” I say. “What did she tell you?”
“Debbie Grayson has been coming in for a message every day for the last three months.”
It still doesn’t prove anything. “Maybe she has back problems or she likes massages. She certainly can afford them.”
He finishes the spring rolls and crushes the cardboard holder in his fist. “Evidently, things have been a little tense around the Grayson household,” he says. “Money was getting tight and Mrs. Grayson had suspicions that her husband was cheating on her.”
Not according to her son. “With whom?” I ask.
“Not sure.”
“Anything else? Phone calls? Credit card charges?”
“Mrs. Grayson asked the masseuse for the name of a PI to watch her husband. I was somewhat disappointed that she didn’t give her my name.”
Fair enough. “Why would a wealthy woman like Mrs. Grayson have asked her masseuse for a recommendation?”
“She couldn’t very well have asked her husband, could she?”
“She has friends.”
“People have big mouths. Maybe she didn’t want everybody in the Jacuzzi at the club to know that Mr. G was sleeping around. If Debbie Grayson told her tennis buddies that she was looking for a PI, the entire Sharon Heights Country Club would have known about it.”
“Isn’t the same true for the staff?”
“They can get fired if they blab.”
“Why did your source talk to you?”
“She owed me a favor and I’m not a member of the club. My powers of persuasion are legendary.”
Indeed. I don’t know if his information has anything to do with Grayson’s death, but the sordid details may provide some entertainment for those of us who lead more mundane lives. I ask if Debbie Grayson called the PI.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“The PI called the masseuse her to thank her for the referral.”
The PI has good manners. “Did he find any dirt on Mr. Grayson?”
“My source didn’t know.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Yep.” He smiles and adds, “By the way, it isn’t a he.”
“Somebody we know?”
“Kaela Joy Gullion.”
This isgetting interesting. Kaela Joy is a former model and Ninerscheerleader who has parlayed brains, beauty and street-smarts into a career as a high-profile PI. Things got off to an auspicious start when she began tailing her ex-husband, a former Niners guard, on road trips. She nailed him in the French Quarter with another woman and took him to the cleaners. Now he’s the night manager at the Daly City In-N-Out Burger, and she’s living in Pacific Heights. I ask, “Can you give her a call and see if she might be willing to talk to us?”
“I already did, but I got her machine. I’ll let you know as soon as she calls.”
# # #
A wiry African American man of indeterminate middle
age with a pock-marked face and the wisp of a goatee is sitting behind the counter at Alcatraz Liquors at four-thirty on Saturday afternoon. He’s studying the Daily Racing Form through tiny reading glasses as the sunlight pours in through the barred windows. From the stained linoleum floors to the exposed ceiling, the shelves are lined with a selection of hard liquor, jug wine and cheap beer that reflects the tastes of its customers. The clientele of this establishment puts a substantial premium on volume and value. Quality and brand name are considerably lower on the priority list. The aroma of cold cuts from the deli counter mixes with the smell of beer from a broken bottle near the back of the store, and the pervasive odor of urine wafts inside through the open door. A homeless man in an alcohol-induced stupor is soliciting spare change just outside the entrance. He seems to comprehend that his space ends in the doorway, and that if he sets foot inside this store, the man behind the counter will unceremoniously usher him out to the street.
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