Tail of the Dragon

by Connie Di Marco

  “Thanks.” I took two. “Listen, I’m trying to get copies of anything the Chronicle ran about the Bank of San Francisco fire. To be more specific, anything regarding a death in that fire.”

  “I remember that. It was … what? Five years ago? But between the fire and the lawsuits and any historical follow-ups, that covers a lot of ground.”

  “I know. I don’t need that. Just anything in regard to the death of the janitor in the building. His name was Max Moulton.”

  “And can I ask the reason for this query, ma’am?”

  “It’s about the murders at the Meyers, Dade & Schulz law firm.”

  Don raised his eyebrows. “And you’re involved how?”

  “I … uh … I’m working for my old boss there, temporarily …”

  “You do manage to find trouble, don’t you?” Don narrowed his eyes. “You think those murders are connected to the fire?”

  I nodded. “It’s possible. No one else agrees with me, though.”

  “This’ll cost you. I want a free solar return on my birthday.”

  “You got it.” Don was very fond of the solar return as a predictive tool. Astrologers, meanwhile, are somewhat divided on the subject. Solar returns are based on the theory that at the exact moment the transiting Sun returns to its natal position—in other words, on the individual’s birthday—the resulting chart foreshadows the year to come. Myself, I’ve never been convinced this method works very well, but some clients, like Don, have actually gotten interesting results.

  Don had turned to a monitor on the other side of the littered desk, double-clicked an icon, and typed in “Bank of San Francisco.” The screen filled with lists of references.

  “Let’s see, the front-page story was printed on November 1st. The fire started the night before. Halloween, strangely enough. Wait a minute, what’s today?”

  “October 30th.”

  “There’s a reference to injuries and one death.” He read aloud, “‘Authorities believe the body discovered is that of a janitor trapped on an upper floor.’ No information about the cause of the blaze here.” Don moved his mouse down the list on the screen. “Let’s try another search. Let’s use the word ‘death.’” I leaned forward so I could see the screen. “Here we go. There’s an article on November 3rd about the accidental death of Max Moulton. Is that your guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there’s a January 7th article the following year, about the lawsuit brought by his family, his wife I guess. There’s some related articles that reference the fire in relation to safety and inspections in high-rise buildings. Do you want any of those?”

  “No. Just anything to do with accidental death, wrongful death in regard to that fire. Particularly if there are pictures.”

  Don continued to scroll down the list on the screen. “Here’s something. This is November 1st, two years after the fire. ‘The Bank of San Francisco claims its second victim.’”

  My ears perked up. “What’s that?”

  Don read the précis in a monotone. “‘Death by suicide of electrical contractor, Terrence Ward. The ill-starred Bank of San Francisco claims its second victim … Terrence Ward was found dead today of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. The electrical contractor was suspected of negligence in the deadly fire but was never charged.’”

  “Any reference to family he might have left behind?”

  “No, but we can check the obits for the week following this. Hang on.” Don moved to another site. “Here it is. ‘Beloved husband of Elva Ward. Parents deceased, no children. Funeral services to be held in Minneapolis.’”

  “Can you get me copies of the November articles and the later obituary, and any pictures the paper might have run?”

  “Sure, take a few minutes. I’ll print them out. Wanna wait here?”

  “Yes.” I sat behind Don’s desk, sniffed the tuna sandwich, and helped myself to a few more chips. If I balanced just right, I could rest my feet on the windowsill and see people hurrying below me on Mission. Jack could have been killed for any number of reasons. There were certainly plenty of people who disliked him if not actually hated him. Ira was murdered either because he knew something about Jack’s murder or because his and Jack’s deaths were connected to the threats they’d received. If that connection was related to the Bank fire, Suzanne might really be next. I grabbed Don’s phone and dialed Adam’s office. He picked up on the first ring.

  “I’m sorry to keep bugging you.”

  “You’re not bugging me.” I could almost see his smile through the phone. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Chronicle doing some research. Can I give you another name to check out?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s Elva Ward.” I spelled the name. “She was the wife of the electrical contractor, Terrence Ward, who was blamed for the fire. And he committed suicide.” Adam was quiet for a long moment. “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah. Look, I know you’re kind of stuck on your theory, but isn’t that reaching a bit?”

  “Maybe. Quite possibly. But I’m curious about whatever happened to her too. After all, she would be the second widow to come out of this.”

  “Maybe this guy offed himself for his own reasons. Nothing to do with the fire.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, no problem. I’ll look her up and see what I can find out.”

  At that moment, Don returned with several sheets of paper clipped together. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.” I hung up.

  “Here’s you go, Julia.” Don passed the sheets of paper to me.

  The Chronicle story that had appeared right after the fire detailed the events leading up to the death of Max Moulton. It ran with pictures of the fire itself, and a smiling shot of Max in better days. He was young, thirty years old according to this article, with a wide generous mouth and fair hair worn a little long over the ears. The second article referenced the suicide death of Terrence Ward. It appeared on page fifteen as a filler, and wasn’t run with any pictures of the dead man or his family. I was disappointed. “Any chance you could keep searching and see if any papers anywhere might have included pictures of him or his relatives?”

  “Sure. But you’ll really owe me. Two solar returns.”

  “You do drive a hard bargain.” I smiled. “We’ll set a date before your next birthday.” I tucked the pages into my purse and thanked him. Don powered up his video game, pushed his glasses back onto his nose, and prepared to wreak death and destruction on cyber persons.

  I left his office and followed the corridor back to the elevator bank. When I stepped outside at the corner of 9th and Mission, a brisk wind was blowing, although the day was still bright and sparkling. I hurried toward Market and waited at the traffic light to cross over to the trolley car island. Traffic was heavier now. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long to get back to Montgomery Street and my car.

  The sidewalk at the intersection was jammed with people, all of us waiting for the light to change. Cars sped by, attempting to beat the traffic light before it turned yellow and then red. I felt someone pressing against me. Irritated, I turned to see who was pushing into me, but before I could turn my head, I was shoved forward. I stumbled and reached for a pole to catch my balance. My hand slipped and my heel caught on the curb. Cars were wheeling past as I fell forward. A horn blared and I heard the shriek of tires as I hit the concrete.

  thirty-one

  Instinctively, I’d clasped my hands around my head and curled into a ball. I sensed rather than saw the heavy black tires that narrowly missed me. A woman on the sidewalk screamed. Metal crunched against metal as another car hit the car that had just avoided me. I waited for an impact but none came. A horn blared and arms reached down to pick me up.

  “Hey lady, what the hell’s going on … are you drunk or something?”

 
“Or something,” I muttered as the crowd surrounded me and two people helped me to my feet.

  “Are you all right?” a man with a florid complexion asked. A woman I assumed was his wife was grasping my arm. I looked around and realized traffic had come to a standstill. Strangely enough, my purse still hung on my shoulder. I checked the street to make sure the contents hadn’t spilled out.

  “I’m fine. Really.” I quickly scanned the crowd. I had felt that hand on my back. I hadn’t imagined it. “I’ll be okay.”

  “We can get you a cab,” another onlooker volunteered.

  “Thank you. Really. I just slipped. Stupid of me.” I nervously scanned the crowd. Had I imagined seeing a man in a heavy leather jacket as I fell? Doing my best to control my wobbly knees, I took a deep breath and walked across Market to the trolley island as the light changed. My hip was sore and a scrape on my leg was oozing blood. As I reached the waiting area, the trolley slowed to a stop. The same man who’d helped me to my feet stood close by, watching me as we climbed into the trolley. I hung on to the pole near the front as we progressed in fits and starts toward the Ferry Building and the end of Market. At the corner of Montgomery, I limped off the car and crossed to the sidewalk. Fortunately I didn’t have far to walk, only half a block to the entrance to the office building. I took the elevator down to the parking level and climbed into my car, breathing a sigh of relief. I’d had a close call. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to get home in one piece.

  I drove out of downtown, stopping and starting in traffic. When I reached my apartment, I managed to climb the front stairs and fit the new key in the lock. I made sure to lock the door behind me and put the bolt on as an extra measure. I walked slowly up my inside stairway and hung my jacket over the railing. I collapsed on the top stair and gingerly pulled off each shoe. Wizard’s bell jingled in the hallway as he trotted to meet me. He tentatively touched my foot with his paw. “Oh, Wizard.” I picked him up and held him close. He began to massage my stomach with his paws. I rubbed his head and took a few deep breaths, grateful to be home and alive. I was a real mess.

  I gathered up my shoes and purse and coat and limped to the bedroom, carrying all twenty pounds of Wizard as well. Wiz hopped out of my arms and took up a position on the bed. In the bathroom, I washed off my cuts and scrapes and applied ointment and Band-Aids to strategic spots. I pulled on a pair of loose jeans and slipped on a T-shirt, then took two aspirin and went back to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. My hip was sore where I’d fallen and I was sure it would be black and blue the next day. I slammed the kettle on the stove in frustration. My house broken into, my clothes slashed, and now this. A nightmare.

  Carrying the hot tea, I limped down the hall to my office and pulled all the natal charts I’d done off the bulletin board. I lined them up along the long table under the window. So far, I had solar charts for Jack and Ira, both now deceased; Roger and Nora; plus Suzanne Simms, Dani Nichols, and Karen Jansen. I still had no birth dates for Jack’s sister Sarah, his ex-wife Hilary Greene, or Ira’s wife Rita Walstone.

  Wizard placed a tentative paw on the threshold of the office, but then, sensing my mood, withdrew. I pushed the rolling chair across the room and sat down, careful not to lean on my hip. I could see the city skyline in the distance and the narrow spire of the Transamerica pyramid. I imagined David’s office building a few blocks to the right, impossible to pick out from this far away. The events of the past week and the influx of new information had kept me from concentrating on these charts in a determined way. I needed to study them again with a fresh eye. I read and re-read and re-arranged the charts and my notes. I pulled out a large notepad and methodically went through each one, jotting down major points and natal aspects. Then I made a second column for current heavy transits.

  Almost everyone at the firm with the exception of Dani was touched by the Pluto transit through Capricorn. Nora had very difficult Neptune and Saturn aspects in her birth chart and Pluto was squaring her Moon. Pluto was opposing Karen’s Moon and Saturn was hitting Nora’s Neptune by transit. My head hurt. It was one thing to work on one chart, or two or three, but there were eight charts, including David’s, in front of me and I couldn’t come to any definite conclusions.

  Was I wrong in thinking that the murderer was a woman? Or wrong in thinking it was one of David’s employees? But at the time I’d felt fairly certain of that. Could the woman be Rebecca Moulton, or connected with her? Where was Rebecca, anyway, and was she out for revenge? Who was Elva Ward and what had happened to her after her husband’s suicide? I didn’t feel I could rule anyone out, not even Hilary Greene, Sarah Larkin, or Rita Walstone.

  I was feeling anxious and irritable and I wasn’t quite sure why. I didn’t like the idea that no one had heard from Suzanne since she’d been released by the police. When I had access to the personnel charts, I’d made a note of everyone’s home numbers. I pulled the sheet out and tried Suzanne’s number first. There was no answer and no voicemail. Then I called Dani’s home number, hoping she’d be there. She was. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hi Dani, it’s Julia. I’m home right now. I was just hoping that maybe you’d heard from Suzanne. I never had a chance to talk to her.”

  “Not today. I did see her yesterday. She came into the office late in the afternoon. She was still working when I left.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t decide what to do. “Well, that’s good to know.”

  “You know something I don’t know?”

  “That’s the trouble. I don’t. I’m just kind of worried about her but I never got a chance to talk to her.”

  “Ah, she’s probably just upset over … you know … over Jack and everything. Call me later if you’re still worried. I’m home tonight. Just practicing some new stuff.”

  “Thanks, maybe I will.”

  I tried Suzanne’s number again and still got no answer. Frustrated, I went back to work on the charts. My head was starting to throb and my hip and leg were sore and hurting. My neck was stiff and I hoped it wouldn’t go into complete spasm. I wasn’t thinking clearly and I felt it was critical to do so. Wouldn’t the killer and his victim share certain mutual points in their respective charts? That’s it, I thought. My computer contained a program that would line up all planetary and angular points in linear fashion from 0 degrees of Aries through 29 degrees of Pisces. I printed each sheet for the individual charts as soon as the computer program had sorted them. There were even more correspondences between the charts than I had at first noticed. I thought maybe I should just go back to David’s chart and focus on that. After all, that was the one that had started the ball rolling, and I could pick up on anyone who had planets that actually touched his natal points.

  The phone rang and I jumped.

  “Julia.” It was Adam. “I’m just checking up on you to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Of course … I’m fine,” I lied, slightly annoyed but flattered he was thinking of me. “Just working on some charts.” I decided not to mention my near miss with the traffic on Market Street. I just wasn’t used to people actually worrying about me. Of course, at the rate I was going, I’d be worried about me.

  “What deep dark arcane secrets have you discovered?”

  “None at all. I’m trying to put my mind in neutral and go over all the information again. I can’t help the feeling that the answer’s right under my nose.”

  “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I found her.”

  “Who?”

  “Who? Rebecca Moulton.”

  “You’re kidding. Where is she?”

  “Right here in the city. She lives near you in the Richmond District.”

  “I’d love to talk to her.”

  “I’ll go with you if you can wait. I’ve got to take care of a few things first.”

  Adam’s deep voice sent a thrill through me. I hate
d to admit it, lone wolf that I am, but I wanted to see him, away from the firm and away from this case. “What’s her address?” I managed to ask in a neutral voice.

  “She’s at 323 25th Avenue. She owns the property. She must have bought it with the settlement money. It’s a duplex, like your place. She lives downstairs and probably rents the upstairs to a tenant,” Adam replied.

  Rebecca Moulton was only five blocks away. “When are you free to see her?” I asked.

  “Oh … either later tonight or tomorrow morning.”

  In spite of my bruises and stiffening muscles, I was antsy to move sooner. “Listen, I’m stuck with the stuff I’ve been working on. I might go see her now.”

  “You think that’s a good idea? I’m a little nervous about your going alone.” Adam sounded worried.

  “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “Well, why don’t you give me a buzz when you’re back?” There was a timbre to his voice that made my legs weak. I wanted to have these feelings again, but the thought that there might actually be a breakthrough in Michael’s accident preyed on my mind. It felt like ice water in my heart. “Promise?” he asked.

  “I promise.” Smiling, I hung up. I could feel warmth creeping up my neck to my cheeks.

  After stacking all the charts on my desk and turning out the light in the office, I decided to change into something more presentable. I stripped my jeans off slowly and straightened up just as slowly. My lower back felt unstable and stiff at the same time. I sat on the side of the bed and checked the bandages on my legs and arms. I pulled on a loose skirt and sweater and, not sure if I could stand stockings against my skin, picked out a pair of soft flats. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A large purplish bruise was forming on my left shoulder. At least the sweater would cover that. I lifted my arms to pull the sweater over my head and a sharp pain in my shoulder blade jolted me. I took a deep breath and tried again, this time successfully. I slipped a jacket on, grabbed my purse, and headed down the stairs. It was dinnertime. Hopefully Rebecca Moulton would be at home.