Victims

by Collin Wilcox

  “You’re happily married, then.”

  She nodded. “Yes. It—” She swallowed. “It’s like I said before. We understand each other. We always have.” She paused again, her eyes still soft, lost in memory. Then, bringing herself back to the present, she began speaking more concisely.

  “As long as we were living together, it never seemed to bother Gordon that he couldn’t see John. He never talked about it. Sometimes I’d ask, but he’d always close me off. But then, when we got married, he started to talk about it, about how much he missed John, and how much he wanted to see him. But for a while, I thought that, mostly, it was anger and not love for John. He’d always say that Guest took everything from him—his money, his business, even his son.”

  “He didn’t blame his wife, then. Only his father-in-law.”

  She nodded. “Gordon’s never been angry at Marie. From the first, almost, he thought of her as a victim. Just like he was a victim—he, and John, too. It got to be—” She broke off, shaking her head. “It got to be an obsession with Gordon, what Guest was doing to him. That’s part of the reason, I think, that he wanted so badly to take John. He was determined—absolutely determined—that Guest wasn’t going to turn John against him. So last February, I think it was, he came to San Francisco, secretly. He saw John—waited outside John’s school, and took him for a ride in his car. They were only together for a half hour. But, God, that half hour changed Gordon. I met him at the airport, when he came home. And it was pathetic, almost, to hear him talk. I remember feeling sorry for him, and also a little scared for him, too. I mean, the experience of seeing John made him frantic, almost. He said that, once he got John, he’d take him out of the country, if he had to do it. He’d even made plans. He transferred money to a Swiss bank account. A lot of money.”

  “You say he saw John secretly. Why secretly? He had visitation rights. He wasn’t breaking any laws, seeing his own son.”

  “I know. I asked him the same question. He said that he’d’ve had to get his wife’s permission for the visitation. And he didn’t want to go through that.”

  “Did you know he’d hired Lester Bennett to steal the boy?”

  “Yes. But he also told me that Bennett reneged. That’s when he started making his own plans.”

  “Was he working with anyone, planning to steal John this time? Was anyone helping him?”

  “No. No one. He was going to do it himself, this time. All by himself.”

  “Did he ever mention Charlie Quade?”

  “No. Never. That’s—” She blinked. “That’s the man who was killed.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Kramer. That’s the victim.” I paused, thinking about what she’d said earlier—and thinking, too, about Katherine Barnes, Charlie’s permanently damaged girlfriend. “Another victim,” I said. “There’s a lot of them in this case.”

  “But only one dead.”

  “That’s right,” I answered. “Only one dead.”

  “Who was he, this Charlie Quade? I don’t even know.”

  “He was a private detective. When Alexander Guest discovered that your husband intended to take John, Guest hired guards to protect the boy. He hired a guard, full time, at Marie’s house. And, when he took John on the weekends, he hired Charlie Quade. Did you know that—know that John was guarded, day and night?”

  “No. And I don’t think Gordon knew, either.”

  “I think he did. At least, he knew there was a guard at Marie’s house—a full-time guard.”

  She didn’t reply. Instead she asked, “When can I see Gordon? I brought a lawyer with me. Lieutenant Friedman said that, after I talked to you, I could see Gordon—me, and the lawyer, too.”

  Instead of answering, I said, “There’s one thing about this case that puzzles me. Maybe you can help me with it.”

  She eyed me cautiously for a moment, then said, “I’ll try. What is it?”

  “Your husband is a successful businessman. He’s got rights, as a citizen, and he’s got rights as a father. Now, I can see how Alexander Guest, with his connections, could intimidate almost anyone. I can also understand how hard it would be, to win in court against him. After all, he’s one of the best trial lawyers in the country. Even if he wouldn’t plead his own case, he’d have the very best legal talent available, pleading for him.

  “But, as I say, your husband has rights, especially as a father. And he’s aware of these rights. So I don’t understand how Guest could flatten him out so completely. It seems like Kramer just rolled over and played dead. And that doesn’t sound like him—not according to the way you describe him. And not according to my impression of him, either. To me, he looks like a fighter. Not a quitter.”

  “Gordon’s no quitter,” she said. “You’re right, he’s a fighter. But—” She looked away. Tension tightened her face as she decided how to answer. “But Gordon made mistakes. And Guest—” She hesitated. Then suddenly, resolutely, she shook her head. “That’s got nothing to do with John, or this—this Quade murder. And I don’t want to—”

  Once again, my electronic beeper began shrieking. When I asked to use her phone she agreed. Then she asked again when she could see her husband. I glanced at my watch. The time was 4:10 P.M.

  “As soon as I can talk to Lieutenant Friedman, I’ll tell him to authorize it. How long will you be in town?”

  “I’m not sure. I might have to go back to New York tomorrow, to see about money for Gordon’s defense.”

  I nodded, went to the phone and dialed Communications. Moments later, Friedman came on the line.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Can you talk?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t classified. It’s just a surprise.”

  “You sound like Canelli, building the suspense.”

  “Oh, God,” he groaned. “Comparing me to Canelli. I thought we were buddies.”

  “What’s the surprise?”

  “The surprise is, you’ve got a lunch date tomorrow. With Alexander Guest. You’re to be at Jason’s at 12:30.”

  Jason’s …

  One of the city’s best, most expensive restaurants, famous throughout the world. I remember reading that Alexander Guest held court at Jason’s every day for lunch, always at the same table, reserved only for him.

  “Well, I said, “you’re right. I’m surprised.” I glanced at Diane Kramer, who was sitting as before, thoughtfully staring out the window at a cable car coming down the Powell Street Hill. “What’s the background?”

  “There’s no background, really. At least, not that I know about. He called an hour ago, and asked for you. I said you were out in the field, and wouldn’t be back, probably. He asked for your home phone, which I refused to divulge, naturally. Then he ordered me to instruct you to appear at Jason’s tomorrow. I hope you’ve got a clean shirt.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  ELEVEN

  “TRY THE REX SOLE,” Alexander Guest advised. “It’s the house specialty.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll have the breast of chicken.”

  “Wine?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “No,” I answered. Then, remembering Marie Kramer, and wondering what his response might be, I decided to say, “I used to drink, too much. I had to quit.”

  “Almost everyone I know drinks too much. Including myself.”

  I made no reply.

  “Are you A.A.?”

  I shook my head. “No. I should’ve joined. It would’ve been easier, I think. But I didn’t.”

  “You don’t share your problems with others.” It was a statement, not a question. Alexander Guest had made another pronouncement.

  “I suppose that’s right. I hadn’t ever thought of it that way.”

  As if he’d expected the answer, Guest nodded perfunctorily, acknowledging what he obviously considered a compliment. Then, still looking at me with his impersonal gray eyes, he said, “You’re an
atypical policeman, Lieutenant. Most policemen are very narrow, very suspicious, not very sensitive. You’re a different breed, it seems to me. What’s your background?” He asked the question brusquely, as if he were cross-examining me, and expected an immediate answer.

  Toying with my fork, I smiled to myself. Then I shrugged. Even though it was a story that I seldom told, I somehow felt no resentment at the question, no reluctance to answer him. I felt as if he were challenging me to a contest. To win, I had only to do the unexpected, and answer honestly. “I played football in high school, here in San Francisco. In my senior year, I was all-state halfback. That got me a football scholarship to Stanford. After I graduated, I played pro ball for two years, with the Detroit Lions. I was always just ahead of the cut, though, and when I got my knee injured, they dropped me. About that time, my marriage started to come apart.”

  “You say you were on a football scholarship. Does that mean you were born poor?” As he spoke, a sardonic smile teased one corner of his mouth.

  “I suppose it does. My father was a small-time realtor, here in the city. When I was fifteen, he cleaned out his bank account and left town with his ‘girl Friday.’ My mother went to work for Sears, selling ladies’ dresses.”

  “What about your father? What happened to him?”

  Deciding whether to answer, I looked at him silently for a moment. He was still playing his little game, still challenging me to tell him the truth. It was a game that only he could win.

  Yet, for the same perverse reason that I began the story, I decided to finish it. “He and his girl Friday went to Texas. My father always drove big cars—too fast. They were killed in west Texas, in a head-on collision.” I drew a deep breath, then added, “He was driving a Packard. But it turned out that he was behind three payments.”

  “And you’re bitter.”

  “Yes. I’m bitter. Still.”

  “The other night, you said you had two teenage children. Are they still in Detroit?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated again, then decided to say, “My wife was—is—a socialite. She got married again—to a socialite.”

  “You don’t think much of socialites.”

  I shifted my grip on the fork, and began eating a tossed green salad. “No,” I answered, “I don’t think much of socialites.”

  “My daughter is a socialite. Or, at least, she came out. It was her mother’s idea, not mine.” He smiled. “When I think about it, my side of the family couldn’t qualify for the social register. So we’re at about the same rung on the ladder, you and I.”

  “Except that you’re richer.”

  He nodded, picked up his own fork, and began eating his own salad. “That’s true,” he said, “I’m richer. No question.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were acknowledging that, yes, certain people were naturally superior to others, and therefore were entitled to more—of everything.

  We ate for a time in silence. As I ate, I looked at the diners, the waiters, at the interior of Jason’s. The customers were about what I’d expected: successful-looking men and beautiful-looking women, most of them so sure of themselves and their status that they didn’t bother trying to impress each other. They simply ate, and talked quietly. The waiters, dressed in tuxedoes, were also sure of their status. They were businesslike and quietly attentive, but never servile. The interior of the restaurant was less ostentatious than I’d imagined: turn-of-the-century dark wood paneling, simple white paint above the plate rail. But the thick white damask tablecloths, generous white linen napkins, gleaming silverware and sparkling goblets established Jason’s claim to world-class fame. The food—and the prices—confirmed the claim.

  Guest and I were alone at the large round corner table that had been set for six. I’d read that, whenever Guest was in town, holding court, his table was always filled with the rich and the famous.

  Yet, today, it was obvious that no one else was expected.

  Why?

  As if he’d sensed the question, Guest said, “You know, of course, why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You want to find out what progress we’re making.”

  He nodded to me, at the same time thanking a waiter named Paul for serving the entree. “Exactly,” Guest said, smiling at me over his raised wine glass. I raised my water glass. Then, while we ate, I gave him an edited version of the Quade investigation. At intervals, Guest nodded sagaciously, as if to compliment me for coming to conclusions that, of course, had always been obvious to him. Twice he scrawled something on an envelope. When I finished, he sat silently for a moment, nodding thoughtfully. Finally, glancing at the notes, he said, “It’s interesting that Kramer would think to wipe his fingerprints from the gun, but wasn’t smart enough to ditch the gun farther from the scene. He was apprehended in Oakland. He could’ve thrown the gun off the Bay Bridge.”

  “I know. I wondered about that, too.”

  “Have you queried him on that point?”

  I hesitated, then decided to say, “I think Lieutenant Friedman asked him about it.”

  Guest waited for our coffee to be served, then asked, “When’s the case going to the grand jury?”

  “I don’t know. That’s up to the D.A.”

  “Is your investigation complete?”

  “A case like this is never closed, Mr. Guest. Not until the trial starts, and sometimes not even then. In fact, there’re a couple of points that I wanted to check with you.”

  “I was sure you would. That’s one reason I invited you to lunch. More coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Before you start, ah, grilling me, Lieutenant—” Plainly amused by the image of himself being questioned by an ordinary policeman, he permitted himself a small smile. “Before you start, there’re a few things that I’d like to tell you, by way of unburdening myself. Obviously, at four o’clock Saturday morning, we couldn’t cover all the pertinent details, especially since neither of us knew exactly what really happened.”

  I nodded, but decided to say nothing.

  “At that time,” he continued, “I remember telling you a little about Marie’s marriage to Kramer—and their subsequent divorce. The reason I did it is, of course, self-evident. Their marital problems are the root cause of what’s happened. However, as I thought back on it, I realized that you were probably puzzled by some of the things I said.”

  “As a matter of fact, I—”

  “Wait.” He raised an abrupt, authoritative hand, at the same time glancing pointedly at his watch. “Let me finish, please. Then I’ll take your questions.”

  I nodded again, agreeing. Why, I wondered, did the phrase Then I’ll take your questions sound so familiar? The answer seemed to sum up the situation: It was the same phrase the President often used, opening a Washington press conference.

  “I might’ve mentioned to you that, when Marie and Kramer were married, I had Kramer checked out—thoroughly. And, to put it mildly, the report I got back was a shock. I discovered that, since his early twenties, Kramer was connected to organized crime in New York.”

  I sat up straighter, “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. His first job was with a bail bondsman. Obviously, organized crime has infiltrated the bail bond business, especially in New York. Just as obviously, they’re constantly looking for ways of infiltrating other legitimate businesses, especially businesses that can launder money from drug trafficking and gambling and vice. They’re also looking for people like Kramer: Young, smart, ambitious men who can learn how to dress, and talk, and act—who can learn, in a word, how to pass for legitimate businessmen.

  “So they set Kramer up in a small loan business, which was really a front for loan sharking. Kramer learned fast—very fast, I’m told. From the first, apparently, he was smart enough to keep a safe distance from the mob, or the Mafia, or whatever term is current. He never let them take him over completely, never totally became their creature. Which is why, when it came time to leave New York, he didn’t have any trouble getting tur
ned loose. Because he was never a part of organized crime, you see. Not an integral part. He simply worked for them, like thousands of others.

  “From the small loan business, he went into venture capital, so called. Which, of course, was ideal for laundering large sums of money. It was also the perfect means of gaining control of all manner of businesses, since venture capitalists usually take a percentage of the businesses they fund, rather than ask for repayment of seed capital.”

  “How long were they married, before you discovered all this?”

  “About three months, I’d say. They got married at City Hall, unannounced.”

  “Did you tell your daughter what you found out?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Did she believe you?”

  He nodded. “Yes, she did. Whatever Marie’s faults, she’s intelligent. And she’s also a realist. She doesn’t believe in dodging issues, or deluding herself. However, as it turned out, she was pregnant when they got married. Which, of course, made the whole exercise moot.”

  “You’d intended to break up the marriage. Until you discovered your daughter was pregnant. Is that what you mean by ‘moot?’”

  “Yes,” he answered coldly, staring at me with his ice-blue eyes. “Yes, that’s exactly right. Obviously, a change in tactics was indicated. One doesn’t put pressure on a marriage that’s about to produce one’s first grandchild—probably one’s only grandchild. So I took the only course that seemed feasible. I made it very attractive for Kramer to relocate his venture capital business in San Francisco.”

  “Why do you say the ‘only course?’ Couldn’t you have continued to try and break them up?”

  “I’ve just explained, Lieutenant, that I wanted their marriage to work, because of John. I’m not an ogre. I’m a realist, but not an ogre. Additionally, once John was born, I wanted him close to me, obviously. And, as long as it was workable, I wanted Marie and Kramer together, as I’ve already said. Which meant offering incentives for them to come to San Francisco. And, of course, Kramer was smart enough to recognize the advantages of taking my offer. Among other things, it allowed him to shake off his ties with organized crime, which he was anxious to do. Kramer is smart. He’s tough, too. I’ll give him that. And he’s a quick study. A very quick study.”