"No. As I told the receptionist, I'm here about Grady Haas."
"I don't understand. What about Ms. Haas?"
"Would you mind if we talked in private?"
She made the moue again—it was her version of a frown— but allowed as how she didn't mind. She led me through the inner door, among an unquiet rabbit warren of modular cubicles, and into a cubicle with her name on it. It didn't have a window on the city; neither did the somewhat larger, empty one adjoining it that I took to be Grady's. What it did have was a functional green-metal desk, a computer terminal, one desk chair with arms, one straight chair without arms, a functional green-metal file cabinet, and no more than four feet of unoccupied space. It reminded me of a fluorescent-lit cell. This was not a place you would want to work in if you suffered even mildly from claustrophobia.
She sat in her desk chair, I sat on the straight chair, and we looked at each other. Pretty soon she said, "About Ms. Haas?" with a wary eagerness in her voice. Not quite as if she were hoping for the worst; as if she were hoping for something juicy that she could toss around among her coworkers later on.
"Well, it's like this," I said confidentially. "I have information concerning an amount of money to which Ms. Haas may be entitled. But I won't know for sure until I talk to her and complete my investigation."
"Oh," Ms. Fisher said. "You're an heir hunter, then?"
I wasn't surprised that she knew about heir hunters. That particular breed of sleuth has proliferated in recent years; they're known as "rag-pickers," among other things, because they wade through probate petitions filed with county clerks, looking for unpaid bequests and the words "heir—address unknown." Then they track down the heir, using all sorts of sources ranging from morticians and fraternal organizations to insurance companies, and arrange with the lucky individual for a cut of whatever they can wangle—up to forty percent, in some cases—as a finder's fee. The fact that Ms. Fisher was familiar with the heir-chasing game meant that she also had some idea of how they operated, and that in turn meant I would have to be even more careful in running my little ruse.
I said, "Well, not exactly. I don't specialize in locating missing heirs; it's one of several different types of investigative work that I do."
"I see. And you say Ms. Haas may be entitled to some money?" Behind her granny glasses, her pale blue eyes said she wasn't exactly tickled at the prospect.
"Yes, that's right."
"An inheritance from a deceased relative?"
"A deceased person who may have been her relative."
"Of course. How much of a bequest, may I ask?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"Well, is it a large amount?"
"Let's say it's substantial."
"You haven't told Ms. Haas yet?"
"No," I said. "That's why I'm here. I can't seem to pinpoint her current whereabouts."
"She's on vacation. Since last Friday."
"So I understand. Would you have any idea where she's gone?" That was a safe question: according to Arlo Haas, Ms. Fisher was unaware that Grady was in San Bernado.
"I'm sorry, I don't. She left . . . well, kind of suddenly."
"How do you mean?"
"She didn't give any advance notice that she intended to take vacation time. Last Thursday, I mean, the last time I saw her. She just called in on Friday." The moue reappeared; it made her look a little like a goldfish at feeding time. "It's a good thing we're not busy or I'd be swamped with work. It really wasn't very professional of her."
"No, it wasn't. Can you give me the name of anyone who might know where I can find her?"
"Well, there's her father. He called asking about her yesterday morning, as a matter of fact. But I don't know where he lives."
"Anyone here in the office?"
"I doubt that."
"A friend outside the office, someone you might know or she might have mentioned?"
"I don't know any of her friends. Ms. Haas . . . well, she's very closemouthed. She doesn't talk about her private life."
And you resent her for it, I thought. I said, "I understand she was involved with a man named Todd Bellin last year, an employee at her bank. Do you know him?"
"No."
"She never mentioned his name?"
"I'd remember if she had. Was it, um, a serious relationship?"
"I don't know. I haven't talked to Bellin yet either."
"I can't imagine Ms. Haas being serious about any man," she said, and stopped, and made the moue again. "Well, actually, maybe I can."
"How do you mean?"
"I think she may have met someone recently," Ms. Fisher said.
"Oh? But you don't know for sure?"
"No. Of course, she didn't talk about it."
"What makes you think she met someone?"
"The way she acted. That day after she came back to the office, I mean. Flustered . . . and she's never flustered. She had that look, too. You know, in her eyes. I know that look." Ms. Fisher said the last with a hint of jealousy, as if she'd never had the look herself and felt cheated when she observed it in others.
"How long ago was this?"
"Three weeks. April Fools' Day." The moue, followed by a chuckle with more than a dollop of malice.
"You said 'after she came back to the office.' From lunch, did you mean?"
"No, from the field."
"Field?"
"Investigating a claim. That's part of our job here."
"Do you remember which claim?"
"She was out on three that day, I believe."
"All here in the city?"
"Two were."
"And the third?"
"I don't recall."
"Can you tell me who the insurers were?"
"Oh, I couldn't," Ms. Fisher said. "That's confidential information."
"Couldn't you make an exception in this case? Given the circumstances?"
"No, I'm sorry." She said it firmly, and punctuated the refusal by lowering her voice and adding, "I could lose my job."
"I understand."
"I mean, I like Ms. Haas, I really do"—lying through her teeth; she didn't like Ms. Haas any more than I liked her—"but even to help her get an inheritance . . . no, I just couldn't take the chance."
I nodded and smiled and said, "Tell me this. Do you think she's been seeing this new man regularly the past three weeks?"
"Oh, I'm sure she has. She still has that look. And she's been . . . well, more cheerful than usual."
"Right up to last Thursday?"
"Yes. You know, that could be why she decided to take her vacation so suddenly. Her and her . . . friend wanting to be alone somewhere together."
"Maybe so."
"I hope he's not married," Ms. Fisher lied.
"So do I." I got to my feet. "I won't take up any more of your time. Thanks for being so candid with me."
"Oh, I'm glad to help." She stood, too, smoothed her skirt over her bony hips. "I'd better show you the way out. It's something of a maze in here."
She showed me the way out. At the door to the reception area she said with a bright smile, "I hope you find her all right. And that she gets everything that's coming to her."
She wasn't fooling either of us. What she meant was, she hoped Grady Haas wasn't entitled to a penny. And that when I found her, it was in a highly compromising situation with a highly married man who had no intention of divorcing his wife.
Chapter 6
Twenty minutes after I left Intercoastal I was sitting in the Embarcadero Center offices of another insurance company, Great Western. Specifically, in the twenty-ninth floor sanctum of Great Western's chief claims adjuster, Barney Rivera.
Barney and I were old friends and poker adversaries. He had saved my tail more than once in lean times by throwing bits of business my way; I still got jobs from him more or less regularly, since Great Western was another of the small companies that did not employ a full-time investigative staff. Barney was a little guy, just a couple of inches
over five feet. His polished rosewood desk was bigger than he was, so that sitting behind it he looked like somebody's nattily attired, mop-headed kid playing executive. He was also overweight, one of the reasons being an addiction to peppermint candy, and he owned a round, dimpled baby face and the most soulful pair of fawn eyes this side of the Disney version of Bambi. The overall effect was of a cute stuffed animal—a "cuddle bunny," as one of his lady friends had once dubbed him. Women just loved old Barney to pieces. Some wanted to mother him; others just wanted him. He hadn't lacked for feminine companionship for more than twenty-four hours during all the time I'd known him. Not surprisingly, Barney being Barney, he attributed his appeal to the fact that he was "hung like a horse." For all I knew, he was—but I hoped he wasn't. Life is unfair enough as it is.
"Your timing is lousy," he said. "I was just getting ready to go out for lunch." He scooped up a handful of peppermints from the dish on his desk. "I'll give you five minutes."
"I need a favor, Barney."
"Uh-huh. Why else would you show up like this?"
"Just a small one. It'll take you ten minutes . . . maybe fifteen."
He crunched a peppermint. "I'm listening."
"Some background first, so you'll know why I'm asking." I told him briefly about Grady Haas, what I'd found out from Lisa Fisher.
"No wonder you live hand-to-mouth," he said, "taking on that kind of job." But he wasn't being serious. He had a barbed wit and an equally barbed tongue; among those in our poker group he was known as Barney the Needle. "So where do I come in?"
"I figure maybe this guy Grady met three weeks ago has something to do with the trouble she's in. I can't find out who he is until I know which claims she was investigating on April Fools' Day. That's where you come in."
He looked at me. Ate another peppermint and looked at me some more.
"Oh come on, Barney," I said. "All you insurance people eat lunch together, hang out together. You think I don't know that? I wouldn't be surprised if you were sleeping with Intercoastal's CEO."
"Intercoastal's CEO is male."
"His secretary, then. Or, hell, his wife and his daughter, if he's got either one."
"He has. The wife's a dog but the daughter's not bad."
"So will you find out for me? Names, addresses, types of claims—that's all I need. A couple of telephone calls . . ."
"Says you. It's not that simple."
"But you can do it?"
Another peppermint disappeared inside Barney's chubby maw. "Yeah, I can do it. But not until after lunch. I'm already late," he said, looking at his watch, "and your five minutes are up."
"Who is she?" I asked him.
"Who?"
"The woman you're having lunch with?"
"Her name's Claudia. Hooters out to here." He grinned and made a shooing motion. "Don't call me, I'll call you."
"Thanks, Barney. Listen, before I go . . . I heard a good joke last night."
"Yeah? I hope it's short."
"It is."
I told him the jungle missionary position story. I expected a belly laugh; what I got was a scornful chuckle. And another jab from his needle.
"Kerry told you that one, right?"
"How'd you know that?"
"It's a woman's joke."
"A what?"
"Don't you see it? Wise career woman vanquishes dumb macho swordsman. Fem-lib stuff", script by Gloria Steinem."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Barney. It's just a joke—a funny joke, I thought."
"Sure you did. She's got you brainwashed, pal."
"You know what you are, don't you?"
"Sure—a sexist pig. And proud of it."
"Barney, sometimes I wonder why I put up with you."
"You need me to do favors for you, that's why."
"No, cuddle bunny, it's because you're so damned cute."
"Jealous, aren't we?" he said. Smugly, the bastard.
I went out. Dumb macho swordsman vanquishes wise male fem-libber.
* * * * *
I drove back to O'Farrell, put the car away in the parking garage down the block, and walked up to Zim's on Van Ness for a chef's salad. It was one-fifteen when I reopened for business. The office was shut up tight; Christ knew where Eberhardt was, or what kind of crazy new nuptial scheme he was hatching; he hadn't bothered to leave word. Three messages on my machine, two pertaining to cases I was working on and the other from Kerry.
She was just back from lunch, and in good spirits, when I returned her call. Things were continuing to look up on the Cybil front. The Marin seniors' complex had impressed her mother last night, and while she wasn't ready yet to make a commitment, Kerry thought she was leaning in that direction. An equally optimistic report had come this morning from the member of Children of Grieving Parents who'd acted as Cybil's escort.
"I've got a feeling," Kerry said, "my apartment will be mine again before summer."
"But not your bed."
"Uh-huh. Making plans already."
"Well, you know us Italians."
"Don't I, though. It's a good thing Cybil doesn't know about that part of our relationship or she'd never leave. She warned me about men like you once, when I was about fourteen."
"Didn't listen though, did you?"
"And aren't you glad I didn't?"
I spent most of the afternoon on the telephone, finishing up part of my caseload. And doing a preemployment screening job of Eberhardt's, because he was still among the missing and because the client called and wanted to know what was taking so long. Most of the work we do is skip-tracing, insurance investigation, or preemployment screening, and that means a lot of telephone time. Contrary to popular opinion, modern private detectives worry more about secretary's spread than they do about getting shot, beaten up, or whacked on the cranium.
I also took two calls for Eberhardt concerning the wedding. The first was from the guy in charge of the hall on Church Street where the reception was to be held; he said they were having trouble finding a dais and would it be okay if the band just set up on the floor itself. What band? I said. The band Mr. Eberhardt hired, he said—The Grenadiers. Oh, I said. Band, I thought; what next? The second call was from the caterer, who proceeded to tell me what next. He'd been assured that the wedding cake would be ready in time, he said, even though it had been ordered virtually at the last minute and did require considerable preparation. Why did it require considerable preparation? I asked. Well, he said, Mario's Wedding Confection Supreme was three-tiered, after all, and the deluxe latticework arbor intertwined with sugar roses that would surmount it did have to be special-ordered. Oh yes, he said, and would I please tell Mr. Eberhardt that Mario also assured him the absolute largest bride and groom figures that would fit inside the arbor were six inches in height.
I was still thinking about Mario's Wedding Confection Supreme and the deluxe latticework arbor intertwined with sugar roses when Barney finally called at twenty of four. "I hope you've got something to tell me that I want to hear," I said. "I've had enough negative input this afternoon."
"Having a bad day, are we?"
"I've had better. You going to make it worse?"
"Nope. Grady Haas was working on three claims as of April Fools' Day. One was over in Port Costa, but she didn't go out there until the following day. The two she investigated on the first are local. One—Savarese Importing, Vernon Savarese, owner, 4879 China Basin Street; damaged shipment of goods from Taiwan. Two—Holloway and Company, Marine Electronics, Lloyd Holloway, prop., Pier Twenty-eight; water damage from burst pipes. You get all that?"
"Got it," I said.
"Here's something else, a little bonus," Barney said. "Lady I talked to at Intercoastal happens to work in personnel. Seems a man called her up yesterday, asking for information about Grady Haas. Where she could be reached, names and addresses of any close relatives. Said he was her fiancé and had urgent business with her. He didn't get anywhere, naturally."
"He give a name?"
"Da
vid Jones. Phony, probably."
"Yeah," I said.
I told him I'd see him on Saturday—he'd been one of the first to be invited to the wedding (which I now thought of as Eberhardt's Folly)—and rang off".
David Jones. The same person who'd searched Grady's apartment? Odds on. And maybe what he'd been after there was the same thing he'd been after from Intercoastal's personnel department. Maybe it wasn't anything Grady had that he wanted; maybe it was Grady herself.
* * * * *
The Port of San Francisco has been in existence for nearly a hundred and thirty years, ever since the days of Pacific Mail Steamship Lines' "China Clipper" trade. Time was, it was the major port on the Pacific Rim: hundreds of thousands of steamship passengers and billions of dollars' worth of cargo poured in and out annually; throngs of longshoremen— one of them my old man, in the thirties—worked day and night along its seven-and-a-half miles of waterfront. No more. The Port of Oakland gradually began enticing shippers across the bay, and in the seventies became an aggressive leader in containerization. Other West Coast ports—Tacoma, Long Beach, L.A.—flourished in the container shipping market as well. Not the Port of San Francisco. Thanks to a poor location for containerization purposes, plus labor disputes, feuding commissioners, lack of foresight, and general apathy, it developed into the coast's one big maritime loser. And as a result helped bring about the demise of its biggest customer, the once mighty Pacific Far East Lines.
It's doubtful that the port will ever again regain prominence, although there is a plan in the works to deepen a pair of hundred-year-old Southern Pacific tunnels near Hunters Point and use them to transport double-stacked container cars by rail from the Embarcadero up through the Sierras and into middle America. More likely, the waterfront will one day lose its blue-collar identity altogether, become a bland upscale mecca for tourists and yuppies. Pier 39, a tourist complex of restaurants and shops built several years ago, has been hugely profitable and has paved the way for other projects by wealthy developers: hotels, conference centers, luxury condos. Some of these have already been built; others, such as a fancy hotel and marina at Piers 24 and 26, have received approval from the port commissioners. Big money talks—loud and fast. And the port needs money now more than ever, to cover an estimated fifty million dollars in repairs to piers and buildings damaged by the recent 7.1 earthquake. Environmentalists don't like what's happening to the waterfront; the fishermen and various historical preservation and public interest groups don't like it; most of the city's residents, me included, don't like it. But unless the expensive tunnel plan somehow comes to pass, nothing and nobody is going to stop it.
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