He shrugged. “I’ll have my assistant go through the file and e-mail you the list.”
“I’ve gone over the trial transcripts and spoken with Ned Springer. Not a lot of what you’ve told me came out.”
“The prosecutor thought he had an open-and-shut case. He didn’t investigate much or call the right witnesses and, for all his inexperience, Springer was smart enough not to complicate the issues.”
“And you?”
“Ms. McCone, you and I discover facts; we put them into the right hands and hope justice will be done. And that’s the end of it.”
Maybe for him, but not for me.
7:16 p.m.
“So,” I said to Mick, “d’you want to go clubbing with me or don’t you?”
“Shar, we’d look ridiculous. I’m young enough to be your son.”
“Are not!”
“Am too!”
“You can always pretend you’re out with a cougar.”
“Hate that term.”
“Me too, but I really need—”
“Why don’t you ask Derek?”
Derek Ford: my handsome, stylish, Eurasian operative. Perfect.
Mick added, “He hangs around the clubs all the time, and he’s been known to date older women.”
“You keep calling me ‘older’ and you’ll pay for it, Savage.”
“No, but you’ll have to pay Derek overtime.”
10:15 p.m.
The club scene was just beginning to warm up, Derek told me.
He suggested we hit the Mission district first. “The Tenderloin’s getting trendy, but it’s safer there after all the winos pass out. North Beach’s strictly for tourists or foodies who’ve discovered restaurants like Don Pisto’s or Le Bordeaux.”
“Including you, I assume?” Derek had been known to frequent the most popular—to say nothing of expensive—restaurants in town.
“Sure. I’m not embarrassed by being a foodie.” He smiled easily and made a U-turn on my narrow block at the tail end of Church Street.
“Nice turning radius,” I commented.
“Not as good as your BMW. But this old clunker does what I tell it to.”
The “old clunker” was a red 1969 Porsche 912, fully restored.
“You’ve read the files on the case?” I asked.
“Skimmed them, but I’ve picked up on the essentials.”
“What’re the odds that anybody we meet tonight will remember Amelia Bettencourt or Caro Warrick?”
“Well, the clubs and patrons change all the time but, given such a high-profile murder case, I’d say some people will recall them. Or claim to. What we need is to weed out the people who’re seeking their fifteen seconds of fame from those who might actually have something for us. Bartenders are usually the best witnesses: they see and hear more than anybody else. Of course, they charge for information.”
“Wyatt House will be more than happy to cover the bill. And we’ll tell people that if the publisher later on finds out they lied, they’ll sue their asses off.”
Derek grinned at me and screeched around the corner of Church and Eighteenth Streets. “I like the way you think, boss.” He paused. “By the way, I don’t know if you’ve read any of the coverage on the club scene being dangerous.”
“Muggings, stabbings, attempted rape, yeah.”
“Well, that’s pretty much changed. Last year the cops put the screws to the club owners and beefed up street patrols. By now the scene’s safer than your own mother’s living room.”
A lot safer, considering some of the tirades I’ve been subjected to at Ma’s.
10:31 p.m.
“Do you know what she said to me? ‘I could love him if he wasn’t so fat.’”
“Well fat’s kind of out right now.…”
“Absinthe. I know a great little shop that stocks it. What you do, is pour it over a sugar cube—”
“Drugs’re too easy to get hold of these days. They’ve kind of lost their charm.”
“I don’t know, they still charm me.”
I rolled my eyes at Derek and, smiling, he twirled me around the dance floor. We were at our second club, Mobius, having struck out at the Crazy Eights, where Amelia had gone the night before she was murdered.
“He’s cute, and I love that tat of scorpions around his neck, but what’s he doing with her?”
Derek mumbled into my ear, “You know, I regret ever getting this tat; it hurt, but they say it really hurts to remove one.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s old.”
“I think she’s hot.”
“You would.”
Derek pulled me closer. “I think you’re hot, boss, really hot.”
“I’d like to slug that woman.”
“Stay calm. Before this set ends, we’ll go talk with the bartender.”
“But she said I was old! And Mick said the same thing earlier today.”
“You’re Mick’s aunt; you’ll always seem old to him—even when he’s old. As for that woman, she’s stupid and insecure, reacting to that gray streak in your hair. How long have you had it?”
“Since high school. I used to dye it, but then I realized I was getting into some ageist, sexist thing and stopped. Now I’m kind of fond of it.”
“Does it make you feel old?”
“No.”
“What does?”
“People saying I’m old.”
Derek threw his head back and laughed so loudly that the couples near us stared. “And since when has what other people say mattered to you?”
“Well, in third grade, this asshole kid named Petey called me a ‘dirty Injun,’ so I beat him up and got a week of detention.”
“Geez, it’s a wonder you didn’t take your case to the ACLU.”
“Us ‘Injuns’ weren’t as trendy back then as we are now.”
Derek twirled me around once more and began ushering me off the floor. “Bartender’s not too busy right now. Let’s corner him.”
The bartender was mixing drinks in a cocktail shaker. He looked up and grinned when Derek said, “Hey, Don.”
“Ford, my man! Haven’t seen you in a while. Who’s your lady friend?”
“She’s a friend, but also my boss. Sharon McCone. We’re working a case together.”
Don shook hands with me, then asked, “Does that mean you can’t have a drink—on the house?”
I said, “I’d love a glass of chardonnay. We’re not as strict about drinking on duty as the cops are.”
“Ford?”
“Same.”
“Let me deliver this batch of apricot sunsets—good Christ, what is the drinking world coming to?—and I’ll be right back at you.”
I looked at Derek. “Well known man-about-town, are you?”
“You know me, Shar; I love the night life and now, thanks to SavageFor, I can afford it.”
SavageFor.com was a real-time search engine that Derek and Mick had created. Last year they’d sold out to Omnivore for a sum that would’ve allowed either of them never to work again in his lifetime. Mick persisted, because he loved detecting, but I was seriously afraid of losing Derek, who loved to play.
I said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—”
“No, I don’t drink apricot sunsets or any of those concoctions with funny names.”
“Actually, it’s about—”
The bartender returned with our wine. As he set the glasses down he said, “You’re on a case. Must have something to do with this club.”
“Right,” I told him. “Three years ago on October twenty-first a woman named Amelia Bettencourt may have come in here with an unidentified man—”
“And the next night, her best friend killed her,” he finished for me. “But I never bought that. If it had been the other way, maybe.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I knew both girls. Amelia was always flashing around, trying to attract guys, with never a thought for Caro. But Caro, she was even more stunn
ing to men, and genuinely cared for Amelia. If any guy hurt Amelia, he was just off Caro’s radar screen forever. Loyalty like that you don’t see much in the dating scene. Or many other places, come to think of it. There was no way Caro would’ve viciously murdered Amelia over that slimy snake Jake Green.”
“‘Slimy snake?’”
“You met him?”
“Yes. He seemed…kind of sleazy, but—”
Don gave me a conspiratorial wink and motioned me closer. “Let me give you the real skinny on Jake Green.”
A patron signaled him from the other end of the bar. “My relief’s coming on in five minutes. Grab that booth over there, and I’ll join you.”
11:02 p.m.
Don slid into the booth next to me, and another round of drinks immediately appeared. Derek and I reached for our wallets, but Don shook his head. “Your money’s no good in my place.”
“You own the club?” I asked.
“This and two others. But I like to keep my hand in at tending bar.”
I smiled. “I own my agency and could put in a few hours a day behind my desk, but I like to keep my hand in at active investigation.”
“Good woman. I like that. Then there’s the playboy here—”
“Hey,” Derek said, “I work!”
“Only because your father made that a condition in his will.”
Now this was new information. I looked questioningly at Derek. “We’ll discuss that later,” he said. Added to Don, “About Jake Green…?”
“He was in here three, maybe four times a week. At first with Carolyn Warrick and then with Amelia Bettencourt. Beautiful girls, but they were an intentional distraction.”
“From what?” I asked.
“His real business—laundering money. This is the Mission, right? Lots of Latinos, Hispanics, whatever they’re calling themselves now. You can’t tell who’s a legit worker with a mortgage and two kids to support from somebody with ‘assets’ he or she wants to move. The music, the dancing, the booze can cover up a lot of action.”
“And you permit this?” Derek asked.
“You want to stay in your business, kid, you better get real. Take me: Do I want this building burned to the ground? Or one of my employees raped or shot in the restroom? Do I want somebody following me home and posing a threat to my wife and kids? It’s a bad bargain, but I leave them alone, they leave me alone.”
“I get you.”
I knew a fair amount about money laundering, especially of the type that involved funneling funds into offshore banks that adhered to more stringent secrecy requirements than those in the US—primarily because Hy had been involved in a case the year before that dealt with the changing regulations within the Swiss banking community. It had revealed large-scale fraud, but how much illicit cash could be moved by a shoddy travel agent who met his clients in a Mission district bar?
Don must’ve seen the skeptical look on my face, because he said, “There’s a lot more money moving through this place than you’d think. And Sleazy Green’s in a perfect position to make it happen. Travel agent, lots of freebies from the airlines, lots of connections with the personnel and flight crews. Even with the increased security, if there’s a will, there’s a way.”
I nodded, thinking of Hy’s many stories about the mechanics of executive protection and hostage retrieval, especially the time when he’d taken a wrongly convicted—and stupid—American man out of Saudi Arabia by hiding him between the skin and the interior of a plane. I’d have to discuss this situation with him.
Don took out a card and scribbled on it. “My home number, if you can’t reach me at any of my clubs.” Then he stood and gestured to the waitress. “Another round for my friends, please.”
“Interesting guy,” Derek said.
“Mmm.”
“What?”
“Some connection between money laundering and gun control that I can’t quite make. Probably because of that.” I pointed to the glass of wine that had just been set in front of me.
“Hey, boss, you losing your drinking capacity?”
“That’s dangerously close to an old-person comment, son.”
“Don’t call me ‘son.’”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve already got a Mommie Dearest. I don’t need another.”
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 11
6:31 a.m.
Rain, slapping down on the deck above my bedroom. More god-awful January weather. I buried my head under my pillow, squeezed my eyes closed. Maybe if I concentrated really hard, I’d open them to a sunny April day.
Of course, I’d also have to close my ears, and I’d never figured out how to do that.
Well, I was awake now, no reason not to get on with the day’s business. I picked up the phone and called Hy in LA; he sounded alert, had probably been up for hours.
At the sound of his voice, I felt a lonely pang; I knew he was feeling it too, because his tone changed, became lower and more intimate.
“How you doing?” he asked.
“…Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Tired. Disappointed that I’m not going to be able to make it home tonight.”
“No?” The lonely feeling intensified.
“No. I’ll probably have to— Well, anyway, what’ve you been doing?”
“I had some unpleasant reminders of my own mortality last night.”
“McCone, what happened?”
God, I shouldn’t have phrased it that way! It hadn’t been all that long since I’d been shot.
“Nothing important,” I said quickly. “I went clubbing with Derek.”
“Clubbing? You?”
“Because of this Warrick case.”
“And how did that lead to reminders of your mortality?”
“People in the clubs thought I was too old.”
A relieved silence. Then Hy laughed. “Well, face it, darlin’—we’re both a little old.”
“Thanks.”
“Whoops—this has gotten you grumpy.”
“I’m just grumpy in general lately.”
“Well, I’ll have to hurry up and get back there. Give you something to really feel grumpy about.”
I smiled at the teasing note in his voice. “Never.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
A small silence filled the miles between us. Then I said, “I need to tap into your expertise.”
“I thought I sensed an agenda behind this call.”
“No agenda—I just missed you. But now that we’re talking—refresh my memory on the basics of money laundering.”
“What next?” His voice was amused. “Okay, money laundering. Conversion of ill-gotten gains to seemingly licit ones. There are five basic types: bank methods, smurfing, bulk cash smuggling, currency exchanges, and double-invoicing. Bank methods usually involve gaining a controlling interest in a financial institution and then moving the money through it. Smurfing is when cash is broken down into small amounts in order to avoid suspicion; bearer instruments, such as money orders, are used. Bulk cash smuggling: physically moving the cash to a bank in a country where secrecy requirements are greater than normal.”
“What I’m looking at is probably bulk cash smuggling, since the suspect has strong connections within the travel industry.”
“I’m assuming this cash is leaving, rather than entering, the US.”
“Right.”
“Our preventative laws have been in place since the mideighties. Cash withdrawals over ten thousand dollars have to be noted on a currency transaction report that identifies the person who made the withdrawal and the source of the money to the US Treasury. However, a person can make as many withdrawals as he or she wants under that amount from any number of financial institutions and not alert the feds. Or if the funds were received as cash and never deposited anywhere, the launderers just slip them into the old suitcase and go.”
“Airport screening—”
I smiled wryly, remembering the college athlete who was banned from his flight because his pants were at half-mast.
“You say you have a suspect?” Hy asked.
“A travel agent.”
“What’s the source of the money?”
“I’m not sure. I have a suspicion, but I’m going to have to dig deeper.”
“Not ready to share, huh?”
“You know me—I like to be right before I tell all.”
8:55 a.m.
When I got to the office, Mick handed me a file. “The deep background you asked me for.”
The file was thick. “You must’ve stayed up all night gathering this.”
“Not with the equipment I’ve got at home. I slept like a baby while this was coming in and printing out.”
“What about Jill Starkey? Are you keeping tabs on her?”
“She went to some newspaper columnists’ convention in Seattle yesterday. I’ve got an op from the Brent Agency monitoring her.”
Thank God Wyatt House was paying for this investigation!
“Good work,” I said, and moved on to my office.
As before, I was overwhelmed by the luxury of the space. I suspected Hy’s hand in this—a subtle lure to make me consent to the consolidation of our agencies. Well, it just might work.
The deep background information turned up a few facts that were interesting or downright amusing, but nothing of any real import.
Edna Sheep’s real name was Edna Finklesheep. She’d had it legally changed nineteen years ago. Well, no wonder.
Jill Starkey had been raped in her junior year of college; the rapist had been acquitted. She’d received extensive counseling from a therapist who was a member of the NRA. That explained her anger and her support of gun ownership.
Jake Green had bought a two-million-dollar home in Atherton, the expensive enclave on the Peninsula, three years ago. Money laundering yielded large profits.
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