by Susan Dunlap
I followed her across the circle, automatically looking down for skid marks, for a moment forgetting that the Cadillac hadn’t skidded but bounced across the roadway to the cement fence. Pereira pulled open the passenger door of her car. She held up a plastic bag filled with cigarette ash. “From the ashtrays in the back.” One other small bag held ash from the front passenger’s tray.
“How about the driver’s?”
“Empty,” she said. “There was nothing on the seat. Ordinary dirt and pebbles on the floor.” She indicated a third bag. “Ordinary stuff in the glove compartment.”
The glove compartment bag was considerably fuller. I went through it carefully, noting maps of Berkeley and San Francisco, a pack of tissues, an unopened flashlight pen, a service record from Trent Cadillac in Berkeley. I pulled out a yellow copy of the report from today’s work.
“Misco says it’s the standard servicing—you know, the six-thousand-mile checkup.”
I nodded hesitantly.
Pereira smiled. “People with new cars, Jill, take them in every six thousand miles, so they don’t end up like yours.”
“Okay, okay. So the driver, Palmerston, took his car to be serviced today, had it checked over completely, and”—I noted the bottom of the form—”signed ‘approved by Sam N-something’ at one-thirty. So at one-thirty this car should have been in perfect condition, right?”
“Right. And according to Misco the mechanic there is tops.”
I replaced the form and pulled out the remaining paper. Holding it closer to the light over the door, I made out the handwriting. “ ‘Shareholders Five,’ and there’s a phone number. Any ideas on that?”
“Nothing.”
“Palmerston’s writing?”
“Could be. The ink could be from the pen in the glove compartment. Color looks the same.”
Putting it back, I said, “Have the print guys do it right away.”
“I’ll tell them. Whether they get to it today is another thing.”
“What about the deceased’s pockets?”
“Just a wallet. Not even a handkerchief.”
I pulled the wallet from its bag. It held six twenties, Visa, American Express, and Diner’s Club cards, and a driver’s license that indicated Palmerston had been sixty years old, five foot ten, 155 pounds, and needed glasses to drive. I held his picture closer to the light. Driver’s license photos rarely capture the spirit of the driver. Most people look angry or foolish with fright. The lighting is bad, the process haphazard. But Ralph Palmerston had been lucky. His blue eyes were clear and bright, his white hair thick, wavy, and the lines of his chiseled nose clear. His smile looked genuine. He looked like a nice man, like a man who shouldn’t have ended his life with blood and terror in his eyes.
“All this doesn’t tell me much,” I said, handing Pereira the wallet. “I’ll feel better when I know more about Palmerston.”
“You should feel better now then. Ralph Benedict Palmerston was one of the scions of the Berkeley moneyed establishment.”
I stared. Pereira’s theoretical knowledge of finance was well known in the department and her fascination with the San Francisco money scene unmatched. “I didn’t know Berkeley had a moneyed establishment.”
“All of Berkeley isn’t propped against the wall on Telegraph Avenue begging for spare change.”
“Still, even people who have money are too ‘Berkeley’ to become ‘establishment.’ If they’re interested in that scene, they move to Pacific Heights.”
Pereira nodded. Rain dripped from her short blond hair. “I don’t know why Palmerston stayed in Berkeley. But he has been part of the wealthy in-group for years. You know—Chamber of Commerce, charities. He’s well known for his charity work. Until the last few years he spent most of his time that way—chairman of this fund-raising dinner or that campaign. I know for a fact that he spearheaded a drive for aid to a Vietnamese refugee camp that netted over a million dollars—big time for a local effort.”
“Where does his money come from?”
“Palmieri Winery. He’s an heir.”
“Doesn’t he have to work there?”
“No. It’s pretty common knowledge that Palmerston’s father, who was one of two brothers, had no interest in the business. He gave his voting rights to his brother in return for a guarantee of fifty-five percent of the profits.”
“That hardly sounds fair. The brother does all the work and Palmerston’s father collects the lion’s share of the money.”
Pereira shrugged. “The story is that the brother loved the winery and would have given anything for total control. As far as I know, he never complained.”
“And now? What about his children? Do they still run the winery and give Palmerston fifty-five percent?”
“There aren’t any children. There were two sons but both are dead—no heirs. So the brother’s share of the winery went to a corporation with the same clause about Palmerston’s percentage. As I remember, it’s a big corporation, too big to kill for the Palmieri net profits, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It was exactly what had crossed my mind.
“He looked like a nice man,” I said.
“Everything I’ve heard suggests that he was.”
“I wonder why he stopped working with charity the last few years.”
“He got married.”
“And?”
“Wait till you see his wife.”
CHAPTER 3
FROM THE TRAFFIC CIRCLE, I looked up Marin Avenue. It was as steep as any street in San Francisco. On the night of the first rain, when the oil drippings from the long dry season were still on the pavement, any road would be slick. For a sixty-year-old man with bad eyesight, driving down the steepest street in town at dusk would be challenge enough. When his brakes failed, he wouldn’t have a chance.
I started my Volkswagen and headed up the milder incline of Los Angeles Avenue. From there I tacked back and forth along the hillside streets, taking a path that I had perfected during the three years since my car had died halfway up Marin and I’d had to roll back down to the intersection. My new path was good, but it did take twice as long to get to Grizzly Peak Boulevard at the top.
The Berkeley hills are not really individual hills but part of a ridge created when the earth’s plates slammed together at the Hayward Fault. The hills run from Contra Costa County to the north, through Berkeley, Oakland, Hayward, and Fremont, the towns to the south. Houses jostle for space from the Berkeley flatlands up the hillside to Grizzly Peak. Between Grizzly Peak and the wilderness of Tilden Park to the east are a few streets and cul-de-sacs of homes with views that jack their selling prices up toward half a million dollars. Ralph Palmerston’s was one of these. It was a pale stucco Spanish style built around three sides of a twenty-five-foot-square courtyard, with the living room to the left, the garage to the right, and a bougainvillea-covered courtyard wall connecting them. The wall was five feet high, with decorative iron spikes atop it. It couldn’t be climbed unobtrusively.
I pulled up in front and walked to the gate. It was locked. I pushed the bell and waited, anxious to see Ralph Palmerston’s wife—the woman whose arrival had stopped his charitable impulses—dreading the moment when I would have to tell her about his death. The picture of Ralph Palmerston lying there with the pulser lights blinking on his face came to my mind. I swallowed and stared hard at the courtyard wall, reminding myself that I was a Homicide detective now. My job was dead bodies. I would see plenty worse-looking than Ralph Palmerston’s, with its terror-stricken face. There would be times I’d see corpses without anything left of their faces at all.
The house was dark. Even with the streetlight shining on the picture window in the living room, I couldn’t make out what was inside. There were interior shutters; the lower ones were closed. But I did spot the wires of a security system.
As I rang the bell again, I thought that Ralph Palmerston was too careful a man to leave his house dark. His accident had been at four thirty-ei
ght. Now at six, dusk was turning to dark. It was the time that a careful man would have the lights on and all the shutters closed. So wherever he had been going, Ralph Palmerston would have planned to be home before now.
I knocked a third time, but it was becoming clear that no one was going to answer.
I checked with the neighbors on either side, but neither knew where Mrs. Palmerston was. I had told Pereira I would notify the widow. I could wait or come back. I chose the latter.
Knowing Misco, he would be at the dealership where Palmerston’s car had been serviced. He’d be talking to the mechanic.
I climbed into my car and headed for the flatlands.
Trent Cadillac, showroom and shop, was on Shattuck Avenue, one of Berkeley’s main north-south streets. It was in the automobile ghetto, where a prospective buyer could check out Isuzus, Subarus, Hondas, Peugeots, Volvos, Nissans, and assorted domestic vehicles without leaving the street. The Honda and Volvo showrooms were dark. Doubtless their salesmen didn’t need to spend their evening hours at work; they had ample time during the day to tell customers they could put their names on their waiting lists.
Fortunately for me, Trent Cadillac’s employees didn’t share their presumptions. I pulled up in front of the showroom, and raced for the door. Even in those few steps I got soaked again. I stopped inside and shook my head vigorously. When I looked up, I noticed the salesman, a tall sandy-haired man, leaning back in his chair, laughing. Even though he was laughing at me, I couldn’t help noticing how attractive he was.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. Anything to bring customers in.” He stood up languidly and ambled toward me. He wore a tan jacket and light pants, both just a mite too large. On him they looked not ill-fitting, but comfortable. He had that air of moneyed sureness that made whatever he wore de rigueur. As he came up to me, he glanced out the door at my battered Volkswagen. “Are you thinking of trading up?”
I laughed. “I’m with the police department. Actually, I’m just cutting through here on my way to the shop. One of our Traffic Investigators is probably still there. Besides, it looks suspicious for a police officer to drive a Cadillac.”
He shrugged, as if to say some officers could carry it off. “I’ll take you back there.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your post.”
“No problem. Not tonight. A huge thunderstorm doesn’t incite people to buy Cadillacs.” His hand brushed my shoulder as he headed me between the highly polished limousines. “You might consider the advantages of conducting your interviews in this model,” he said, indicating a huge silver vehicle with a bar and television in back.
“Or barring that, I could just move in.”
It was a moment before he smiled, a moment that said he was forcing a polite response to an unamusing comment. He looked like William Powell in a Thin Man movie: repartee was all important, and I had made a remark that hadn’t measured up.
“There he is,” I said, spotting Misco. In contrast to the salesman, Misco suddenly seemed small, dark, and frenetic, and very comfortable. “Thanks for your help,” I said to the salesman.
He caught my eye, smiled, and ambled off, like William Powell heading for another drink. I turned to Misco. He was standing near the rear exit with the mechanic, an Asian of about thirty-five or forty.
Indicating him, Misco said to me, “Sam did the work on the Palmerston car. The car was right where we are now. Checked out, huh, Sam?”
The mechanic extended a wiped hand. “Sam Nguyen,” he said with something of an accent. “I have told your colleague that I have completed all essential adjustments on the Palmerston vehicle. I have changed oil personally and lubed. Palmerston vehicle is A-l.”
“You checked the brakes?”
“I checked brakes, of course. I examined whole car.” His voice was rising. “I am not what you call a trainee. Sam Nguyen did not become a mechanic here on a government refugee program.”
I nodded.
“I am a mechanic. I was a mechanic in Saigon. There Sam Nguyen was esteemed. Everyone with a limousine came to Sam Nguyen. Many mechanics worked for me. I had a villa by the river, many servants.” A smile of recollection flashed across his face. “They said, the powerful men who owned limousines, ‘There is nothing Sam Nguyen cannot do.’ I make a car that was bombed run again. I make customized job: bulletproof glass, no problem; folding bed, no problem; secret cargo space, no problem; machine gun—”
“I’m sure, Mr. Nguyen. But you’re saying Mr. Palmerston’s car was in perfect condition when it left here?”
“That is correct.”
“Do you know when that was?”
“One-thirty, pronto. Mr. Palmerston is very particular about his car being waiting at that time.”
“Do you know why?”
He looked at me oddly for a moment, as if I had asked a ridiculous question, then his face sank back into a noncommital expression. “It is no problem. It does not take longer. I finished at one o’clock.”
“You signed the work order. So at that time you guaranteed the brake lines were in good shape?”
His dark brows pushed together. “The brake lines were okay. I inspected them this morning.”
“Could they have been faulty?”
“Holes large enough to let fluid through? Never. I, Sam Nguyen, checked the lines before okaying them. In Saigon, I go over everything looking for danger. Those holes would not escape Sam Nguyen.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Misco walked with me to the door. “I guess this case will be yours by tomorrow, huh, Smith?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what I came out here to tell you was that Sam Nguyen is on the up-and-up. He really is a genius with cars. Trent Cadillac is lucky to have him. He’s known all over the area, not just in Berkeley. Over there, in Saigon, they didn’t have spare parts. When a manifold went, that was it, unless they could get the car to Sam’s. Word is there’s nothing he couldn’t repair, replace, or improve on. The joke is that he revamped a Citroen into a villa.”
“Loses something in the translation.”
“Yeah, well … in a couple years this could be Nguyen Cadillac. Or maybe Nguyen Motors will be somewhere else. Sam doesn’t just work on Caddies.”
“So you believe him when he says the car was perfect when it left here?”
“Mechanically, he’s the best.”
“What about ethically? Could he be bought?”
“I don’t know. But not about this. If Sam Nguyen had sabotaged Palmerston’s car, we would never have found a clue.”
I looked out at the rain. So Sam Nguyen finished the car at one o’clock. It was in perfect condition. Ralph Palmerston picked it up at one-thirty. And in three hours the brake lines were cut, the car smashed, and Ralph Palmerston was lying on the sidewalk with blood in his eyes.
I considered checking back at the station with Pereira and calling the phone number on the slip of paper in Palmerston’s glove compartment, but I hated to think of Mrs. Palmerston pacing her living room wondering where her husband was. And I was getting more anxious and more curious to see this woman.
I made my way back via my circuitious route to Grizzly Peak Boulevard.
But Mrs. Palmerston was not worrying, or at least she wasn’t doing it at home. The house was still dark.
There were lights now in most of the neighbor’s houses. I started with one diagonally across the street. The householder, a woman in her fifties, hadn’t been home all day. She couldn’t tell me anything. She looked at me suspiciously. Again, I wished I had had the sense to bring an umbrella to work. It was no wonder a bedraggled, sodden woman claiming to be a Homicide officer engendered skepticism.
The man to the right of her house had just returned from work. He didn’t know the Palmerston’s; he’d only lived there eight months.
It wasn’t till I knocked on the door of the house across the street that I was rewarded.
The woman who answered the door—Ellen
Kershon was her name—was not much older than I was, probably in her early thirties. But in contrast to me, she had styled hair—dry—and wore a soft corduroy knickers outfit. The leather of her boots looked softer than the corduroy.
“I’m Detective Smith,” I said, holding out my shield. “It’s about your neighbor Ralph Palmerston. He’s been in an accident.”
She shrunk back. “An accident? Is he all right?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s been killed.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “But how?”
“His car crashed into the guardrail in the Marin traffic circle.” I didn’t elaborate; I’d already told her more than I should have before the widow was notified.
She covered her face, and in that moment she looked more like a child in knickers than an adult. Swallowing, she motioned me into the living room, a large comfortable room with thick green wall-to-wall carpeting. By the front window was a jack-o’-lantern.
“I’m sorry,” she said, swallowing again. “I don’t usually react like this.”
“Were you very close to Mr. Palmerston?”
“Actually no, that’s the strange thing. I wouldn’t have thought his death would affect me so much. Sit down.” She settled on a maroon sofa and I followed. “I grew up in this house. Ralph was really a friend of my parents, a rather formal friend. They went to his Christmas open house, and he came here for my parents’ annual barbecue. Ralph didn’t have children. When I was a small child, Ralph’s wife was frail; later on she drifted into more serious illness. Eventually she died. Ralph was devoted to her. She took a lot of his time. Maybe that’s why he seemed so formal.”
So far her explanation hadn’t explained her reaction. I waited.
“He was a thoughtful man. Every Christmas he gave my parents a case of champagne, the winery’s private reserve—I mean their private private reserve, not the so-called private reserve you see in stores. And to me”—her eyes clouded—“his gifts were always the perfect thing. Each year it was something very special—a basketball and hoop when I was thirteen and thought I’d never lower myself to be interested in boys, and French perfume the next year when I was going on my first date. Always just the right thing. It wasn’t till I had my own child that I wondered how he could have zeroed in on what I wouldn’t have known I’d adore. Surprising for a man who never had children.”