“So what’d you do? With Jim, I mean.”
“I told him I’d take him home. But he wanted to stay out there.”
“In the rain?”
“There’s a pizza place down on Irving, near Nineteenth. I dropped him down there. He said he’d wait it out and go back down to Ortega when the building reopened. I tried to talk him out of it, that he should just go home, but no luck.”
“So you left him at this pizza place? You’re saying somebody might remember seeing him there?”
“I don’t know how long he would have stayed, but somebody’d probably remember. One of the workers. Maybe you could call there and ask if an old guy came in alone a little after lunchtime? See how long he stayed.” She met his gaze with a hard one of her own. “And I know you could say that I hung around and picked him up when he came out, but I didn’t do that, Mr. Hunt. I went home and got ambushed by Juhle and Russo and then, when they left, I threw my clothes into my car and called in sick to work and got out of my apartment and went to find Mickey. That’s what I did. I left Jim at the pizza place.”
Hunt had to admire her skill and tenacity. This was another perfectly plausible scenario-albeit a very difficult one to verify definitively- that she’d pulled together on the spot, all the while flawlessly acting out her part as a damaged and falsely accused victim. On the other hand, it might after all be the truth. Hunt found himself fighting against the temptation to believe her. “Do you remember the name of this pizza place?” he asked.
“I’m going to guess Irving Pizza.”
“And creativity still flourishes,” Hunt said.
He pulled his cell phone out, punched in 411, and in a moment had gotten connected. Though it was lunchtime and there was a lot of background noise, the manager found time to come to the phone and listen to Hunt’s question, preamble and all. “Yeah,” he said. “The old guy was here all right. Came in a little after the lunch rush, ate a small pepperoni, and had most of a pitcher of beer. Nice guy. Jim something, I think. We shot the shit for an hour or so. He left under his own power. Is he all right?”
“We’re trying to run him down,” Hunt said. “Thanks for your help.”
When he hung up, he looked across at Alicia Thorpe.
“I’m not lying,” she said. “Not about any of this.”
Hunt said, “You lied about Dominic firing you. Did you forget that one?”
She shook her head. “I was afraid. But I told Mickey about that. I told him why I did it. I’d never gotten grilled by the police before. I thought they’d arrest me because it might give me a motive to have killed Dominic.”
“No ‘might’ about it.”
“But it wasn’t like that. And it wasn’t like I even needed the job. I’ve already got a job, you know. I mean a real, paying job, not that it’s making me rich. But I’m okay with that for now. Besides, Dominic didn’t just kick me out. He explained the whole thing about Ellen to me. He was really sorry, but he just couldn’t deal with his home life anymore with our relationship making Ellen so crazy, even though there was nothing sexual to it.”
“Nothing sexual?”
“That’s right. Ian can tell you, I-”
“Who’s Ian?”
“My brother. He can tell you, I don’t do sexual with older guys anymore, especially married older guys. In fact, I don’t do much sexual anymore, period. It screws everybody up. Not to mention that it screws me up. I’m kind of hoping I get an actual boyfriend someday, then maybe start over with that stuff. But nobody seems to want to take the time, find out if we get along first. You know?”
“I’ve heard stories,” Hunt said. But this was what he’d steeled himself against, this urge to connect, to believe her. And before he got to that place, he was going to take another shot at breaking her story. “But let me ask you something else: If there was nothing sexual going on with you and Dominic, how do you explain the fact that there was semen on your scarf?”
Again, if this was acting, it was brilliant. She straightened up, her face a mask of confusion. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“The police didn’t tell me that.”
“No. They sometimes don’t tell you everything they know all at once. They’re hoping maybe you’ll slip and tell them first, before you were supposed to know.”
“Well.” She did not hesitate, did not even seem overly concerned. “I don’t have any idea about that. How am I supposed to know what happened to my scarf after I lost it? Doesn’t that make sense that I don’t?”
Hunt realized that her relentless apparent guilelessness was wearing him down. She had either thought all of this through to a degree that would have been unique in his experience, or she was in fact telling the truth. Mickey believed her, Jim Parr had believed her, Tamara couldn’t bring herself to think ill of her.
“You know what I wish?” she asked him.
“What’s that?”
“That I’d just never met Ellen. Then I’m sure none of us would be going through this. At least certainly not me.”
Hunt felt an unexpected little frisson of interest at these words. They made him recall his first meeting with Ellen Como, when she’d set his own mind-and by extension Juhle’s and Russo’s, since Hunt had passed it along to them-onto the idea that Dominic had been in love with Alicia, certainly a believable scenario given his reputation and her desirability. But what had never quite registered with Hunt was he had accepted this bare fact-Dominic’s love of Alicia-because he’d taken Ellen’s word for it.
The other bare fact-from Hunt’s personal experience-was Ellen’s enmity toward her husband, and her rage and jealousy at Alicia for being young and beautiful.
“How did you even meet her?” Hunt asked. “I’d heard she didn’t have much to do with Dominic’s work.”
“She didn’t. But one of the causes she did believe in was the Sanctuary House-battered women and their kids. And back when I first came on, Nancy Neshek had their big yearly do at her place and it was my night off and I thought-well, Dominic thought also, since I was just starting to work on my networking-that I ought to go. Besides, the rest of the Sunset professional staff was going, too, so I wouldn’t be all alone with just people I didn’t know. It would be fun, and great food-always a good thing.
“But then Dominic, just being his usual charming self, you know, he kind of pulled me away from Lorraine and the other Sunset women and escorted me over specially to introduce me to Ellen as one of his new drivers, trying to make me feel at home, and I could just tell from the second she laid eyes on me that she was going to make trouble if she could. I mean, I was wearing this nice simple black cocktail dress-totally appropriate since it’s this like formal party-and Ellen looks me up and down and says something like, ‘Oh, hello, dear. Is that the new driver’s uniform?’ or some such bullshit. I could tell she wanted to scratch my eyes out, and this was long before Dominic and I had any relationship at all. So later, when we got to be friends, I guess he’d mention me sometimes, and she didn’t forget. She wasn’t going to be happy until I was toast.”
As he listened to this, Hunt’s eyes had gone vacant and faraway. For one thing, almost without his conscious assent, he found that he had crossed over the line regarding Alicia. She sat facing him with no agenda and no sense of drama, just telling him what she knew as an unadorned truth.
And something else besides.
“Mr. Hunt?”
“I’m here.”
“Is everything all right?”
“No,” he said. “Not everything. Do you think Jim went to Sunset after he got finished at Irving Pizza?”
“Absolutely. If he made it. But it’s only a few blocks, so he should have.”
Hunt made the quick count in his head. San Francisco’s east-to-west streets run south through the avenues in alphabetical order; Irving at Nineteenth was therefore only six blocks from Ortega at Nineteenth. An easy walk, even for an old man with a beer buzz in a light rain.
“Mickey’s out
there now,” Hunt said. “At Sunset, using their phone to check some alibis. I’ve got to make another phone call.”
32
“I’m here with her now,” Hunt told Mickey. “She’s fine.”
“Did she drive Jim home yesterday?”
“No.” Hunt paused. “She drove him out there.”
“Where?”
“Where you are right now. Sunset.”
“But he promised me…” Mickey stopped midthought. A promise might be a promise, but another cliche holds that a promise is made to be broken. And Mickey knew which one Jim had accessed yesterday. “That wily bastard. So where is he now?”
“That’s what I’m calling you about. We still don’t know. He hasn’t come home as of a half hour ago. The campus was closed when they got there, him and Alicia. So she dropped him off at a place called Irving Pizza…” Hunt filled him in on it.
“And you believe that?”
“It happened,” Hunt said. “I called the place. The manager corroborates it. He remembers him.”
Mickey hesitated. “So… you believe her?”
“Starting to. Maybe.”
“Whoa. Rein in that enthusiasm, Wyatt.”
“It’s under control. But what would really help is I need to talk to Al Carter, as soon as you can find him. Is he up there today?”
“He was. He might still be.”
“Okay. So find him first, then see if anybody up there saw Jim.”
“No.” Lorraine Hess was in the middle of a celery-and-carrot-stick lunch at her desk. “I never saw him. And I would have loved to have seen him, since apparently I missed him at the memorial too. He’s a wonderful man. Are you sure he was here?”
Mickey shook his head. “No. I know where he was at around two, maybe two-thirty, but not if he ever actually made it down here. Would you mind if I ask around?”
“Not at all. Do whatever you need to do.” She took a quick nibble of carrot. “Most of the staff didn’t get back here until closer to three, though, just so you know. We opened up again at around three-fifteen. So maybe he got here and didn’t want to wait. Especially if he was outside in yesterday’s weather.”
“I realize that,” Mickey said. “And all of this may be a false alarm anyway. Jim’s been known to stay out overnight before. He also promised me he wouldn’t come out here asking questions and bothering people, so maybe on his way his conscience started to eat at him a little. Though, knowing him, that’s unlikely.”
“He always did have a mind of his own.” Hess spread her palms, gave him a sympathetic smile. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need… you’re sure you’re up to all this running around?”
Mickey tried without much success to put on a reassuring face. “My head’s felt better, but I’ll be fine.”
“Somebody out in the cubicles might have some painkiller.”
“I appreciate that. Maybe I’ll just go and see what I can find.”
He walked out into the lobby and noticed that the makeshift table where they’d earlier been preparing the pledge-card mailing was now doubling as a kind of study hall for half a dozen pairs of tutors and their students. Limping over to them, head truly pounding again, he knocked at one end of the table. “Excuse me,” he said, as twelve pairs of eyes turned to him, “did any of you notice an older guy hanging around here yesterday afternoon, inside the building or out? About six feet, skinny, maybe seventy years old?”
A sea of blank faces stared back at him. Not much of a surprise.
On his phone call, Hunt had told Mickey to locate Al Carter if he could and ask him to give a call. After he’d done that, Mickey was to abandon his alibi search and phone calls to COO members and devote his time to trying to discover what had happened to Jim. His disappearance, Hunt had made clear, was now looking more and more as though it might be somehow related to this investigation, and this was anything but good news. In fact, the new development had seemed so immediate and important to Mickey that he’d totally forgotten that his boss had told him-first-to find Carter and give him the message to call Hunt. Then Mickey was to start looking for Jim, getting a line on where he’d gone after Irving Pizza if he could.
Suddenly Mickey realized he’d forgotten the first part of the assignment. Back in the administrative cubicles where he’d been making his phone calls, he got some aspirin and learned that Carter was back in the parking lot-the city had returned the limo and he had gone out to make sure they hadn’t damaged it too badly.
Mickey found him sitting alone behind the wheel, apparently sleeping in the new-minted and welcome sunshine. The front windows were down and Mickey hesitated, then started to walk with his halting steps up to the driver’s side. When he was about five feet away, Carter spoke through his closed eyes. “The sound of your walking gives you away. Tell me I got the reward.”
“Sorry. Not yet. But my boss would like you to give him a call. You might be getting close.”
Mickey punched in Hunt’s number on Carter’s cell phone and handed the instrument back. He then moved away, out of earshot, and sat on the asphalt, his back up against the building, and settled into a drowsy seminumbness in the warming sunshine. In spite of himself, he dozed off. Seconds, or minutes, later, he started awake with Carter still on the phone, his side of the discussion consisting mostly of a series of yeses and noes. Except for his closing phrase, when Carter said, “I never thought of that.”
Then Carter walked over to where Mickey sat, and with a shrug, handed the phone down to him.
Hunt’s voice shimmered with intensity as he gave Mickey his new marching orders, and whether it was that or the short nap he’d slipped into or the aspirin kicking in, Mickey felt a sudden sense of clarity and purpose.
Hunt knew that Jim had already been drinking when he left Irving Pizza. Then the rain had come on at least close to the time that he was supposed to have started walking down to Ortega. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that a shower had caught up with him and driven him inside again, to another bar on the way. Hunt had Googled bars in the neighborhood and had located seventeen of them within walking distance of the Ortega campus. And now he gave Mickey those names and addresses.
At least these were places to look.
When he rang off, Mickey looked up at Carter and asked, “So what’d he say to you?”
And Carter replied, “He told me not to tell you.”
Devin Juhle, Sarah Russo, and Wyatt Hunt met at Lou the Greek’s, where they took an empty booth in the back. During their lunch in their car, Sarah had decided to phone Morton’s. That call had revealed that Alicia Thorpe had called in sick with the flu. She’d be out at least through the weekend, which, with her normal days off, meant until the following Wednesday. To both Juhle and Russo, this was a good enough sign that she’d gone underground or fled, and so the inspectors canceled their canvassing of Neshek’s neighborhood and arranged this meet with Hunt. Now the priority was to turn up the burners under Thorpe and bring her in for questioning, if they could find her.
“Hey,” Hunt said, “people get sick.”
Russo, a deep frown in place, took a good pull at her lemonade. “True,” she said, “but she’s not home in bed trying to get better. She’s not at her brother’s. She’s not in the hospital. We’re assuming she’s not with your boy, Mickey, either.”
Hunt kept his head down and refrained from comment.
“So what’s that leave?” Juhle asked. “She’s on the run.”
“Maybe you scared her off yesterday,” Hunt said. “She knew you had the scarf. It was only a matter of time.”
Juhle was tearing his cocktail napkins into tiny pieces. “Shit.”
Russo nodded. “Shit is right. We had her.”
“She’ll turn up,” Juhle said.
“Maybe in our lifetime,” Russo retorted.
Hunt noticed the obvious tension between the two inspectors, perhaps brought about by Juhle’s reluctance-due to his recent history, mostly with Gina Roake-to haul
Alicia downtown to talk to her in one of the homicide interrogation rooms, where, due to the intimidating setting, results were often easier to obtain.
“So we wanted to get you and Mickey and even his sister on it too,” Russo added. “All of them know a lot of the same people, don’t they? We need you to put out the word.”
“Absolutely,” Hunt said, “we’ll get right on that.” Then, changing the subject, “Meanwhile, while we’re all here having such fun together, you manage to dig up anything on Keydrion?”
“Ah, Keydrion,” Juhle said. “How did you get to him?”
Hunt shrugged. “He’s a colonel or something in the Battalion out of Sunset, but he’s hanging around with Len Turner, and I was kind of wondering what his role was. You get anything on him?”
“He’s clean,” Juhle said. Then added, “As an adult. ’Course, he’s only been out off the youth farm for seven months, so he’s barely had time to get his sea legs back. As a kid, though, he was reasonably badass. Went in for manslaughter when he was sixteen, though there was some question about maybe it should have gone down as murder one. The DA almost charged him as an adult, but I hear our friend Mr. Turner applied some influence and suddenly Keydrion needed rehab and consolation.”
“You think Keydrion is somehow involved in all this?” Russo asked.
“Not impossible,” Hunt said. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing for sure.”
“I wouldn’t mind knowing anything for sure,” Juhle said.
Hunt didn’t miss a beat. “Anthony,” he said.
“What’s Anthony?”
“My middle name. Something you can be sure of.”
Juhle just shook his head while Russo gave Hunt a dead eye. “I appreciate that you’re worried about him, Wyatt, but Keydrion’s a low priority for us,” she said. “We’re looking for Alicia Thorpe, and if you want to be any help to us, you’ll be doing that too.”
“You putting out a bulletin?” Hunt asked.
Russo’s head slowly tracked its way back and forth. “Can’t. Not yet. Not officially. Officially, we just want to talk to her again.”
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