The square had been the center of the city’s high-end shopping for the better part of a century. The elaborately tooled masonry on the surrounding buildings reflected the square’s historic roots, while the underground parking garage constructed beneath the center pedestrian space highlighted its modern-day functionality.
Massive billboards mounted on the nearby rooftops advertised the latest in fashion, jewelry, and theatrical releases. One of the largest placards overlooking the square promoted an upcoming box-office thriller featuring a famous actress who was once married to a local newspaperman.
As the noon hour approached, the square’s flat platform began to fill with shoppers, eaters, and those out for a midday walk. Men in flashy suits with colorful ties and polished leather shoes strode briskly through intersections. Women in impossible heels and skirted business attire stood in line for lattes, their bare legs vintage California casual.
The occasional eccentric stood on a street corner, proclaiming opinions that went unheard or, at best, ignored. The most prominent provocateur was a hairy-chested man wearing tennis shoes, a sandwich placard, and nothing else, who had commandeered a portable microphone and speaker. He stood on a small box in the middle of the sidewalk, shouting out his alleged qualifications for becoming the city’s interim mayor.
The antics generated a few raised eyebrows but nothing more. On any given day, the average San Franciscan came across a great deal in the way of flamboyant spectacle. Even the most outlandish behavior often evoked nothing more than a yawn. It took a lot to capture the attention of these citizens.
The man who emerged from a vacant storefront at the far corner of the square, however, immediately drew interest—not for his dapper suit, shiny silver cufflinks, or incongruous rumpled red hair—but for the creature attached to the leash he held in his hand.
It was a sight at which even the city’s most jaded residents had to stop and stare. Gone were all thoughts of the political turmoil over the pending mayoral vacancy. The subject matter of important afternoon meetings immediately vanished from consideration. Even the restaurant selection for that afternoon’s lunch—for many, the most important decision of their day—fled from consciousness as they gawked at the animal attached to the leash.
Strolling down the sidewalk, heading toward the underground parking garage, the tip end of its long tail tilted slightly upward, was an albino alligator with a red scarf tied fashionably around his neck.
Chapter 44
A DISTINCTIVE ACCESSORY
KIMBERLY KLINE WATCHED uncomfortably as Hoxton Fin leaned over the Swamp Exhibit’s brass seahorse balcony. The reporter stared down at the alligator-less pond, studiously taking notes on the details of the service door near the rear of the tank, the likely point of access for Clive’s abductor.
Several security guards and members of the local police ringed the tank’s upper-floor perimeter, squawking into radios, conferring among themselves, and documenting the scene with flash photography.
Extra lighting equipment had been brought in to illuminate the area. Gangly metal poles had been clamped to the balcony’s railings, positioned so that their high-wattage bulbs shone down on the water below.
Academy scientists clad in plastic jumpsuits and hip-high rubber boots waded through the tank, closely examining every inch of the exhibit. One of the workers propped open a small plastic case on Clive’s heated rock, removed several small vials, and began collecting water samples. Another, wearing a full wet suit and snorkel mask, floated beneath the water’s surface inspecting the tank’s turtles, who, for their part, appeared bemused by the extra attention.
Hox glanced up from his notepad. Craning his neck, he looked past the seahorse balcony to the multi-story rain forest exhibit in the building’s adjacent wing. Then he shifted his steely gaze to the planetarium, the sign pointing toward the penguin area, and the stairwell leading to the aquarium’s basement level.
“Academy of Sciences,” Kimberly heard Hox mutter under his breath. “Place is a glorified zoo.”
She cringed at the glowering expression on his face as he shifted his weight off his left foot.
“I hate zoos.”
• • •
WITH A GRUNT, Hox returned to his notes. He had interviewed the female detective who had been assigned to Clive’s case a few minutes earlier. While the woman had been intentionally vague about the status of the investigation, it had been clear to Hox that the police had yet to develop any serious leads. There was no telling what had become of the poor creature or where he had been taken.
As to the means of the alligator’s departure, however, both the scientists and the detective had reached the same conclusion. Clive had apparently been lured from his lair by a trail of fish pellets.
Hox flipped the notepad closed and thwacked it against his left thigh.
Dr. Kline flinched at the noise. She was beginning to hate that notepad.
“You’re sure you didn’t notice anything odd yesterday?” Hox asked sternly. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his instincts told him she was hiding something.
Before she could respond with yet another meek denial, a static-filled squawk issued from the nearest policeman’s hip-holstered radio.
“Unconfirmed sighting . . . suspect has been reported at Union Square . . .”
Hox immediately switched his attention to the policemen as the radio-transmitted voice wavered, seemingly unsure of the accuracy of the information being relayed.
“Albino alligator accompanied by a burly man with red hair.”
The policeman yanked his radio from his holster and held it to his ear, motioning to the detective as he muted the transmission. A second later, the pair sprinted toward the atrium and the Academy’s front entrance.
“I’m off,” Hox said curtly, suspending Dr. Kline’s interrogation, at least for the time being. He gave her a stringent stare. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Red hair . . .” Kimberly murmured to herself. Then she turned and ran after the reporter.
“Wait, Hox. I’m coming with you.”
• • •
HOXTON FIN LEAPED from a taxi at the corner of Post and Powell, his dark eyes quickly scanning the scene at Union Square. It had taken just under fifteen minutes to get there—they’d been lucky to catch a cab passing through Golden Gate Park—but they were too late. Several people milled about the area, but the alligator was nowhere to be seen.
Kimberly Kline joined Hox on the sidewalk. Bracing herself for yet another loud pop from the notebook, she nervously handed him the change for the fare and the cabdriver’s receipt.
Hox stuffed the money in his pocket and stamped his left foot against the concrete, as much out of frustration as for the throbbing at the spot of his amputated toe. His gaze traveled grimly to the rooftops on the opposite side of the open pedestrian area, and he let out a spitting pfft.
The largest billboard flanking the square was for his ex-wife’s next movie.
• • •
THE FULL RESOURCES of the local news media quickly converged on Union Square, joining a melee of squad cars, ambulances, and fire trucks—the latter two categories having been called to the scene as a precaution. No one knew what kind of casualties might be generated from an alligator roaming the streets of San Francisco.
As the brightly painted news vans began pulling up along the curb, Hox commandeered a pair of witnesses, eager to get their statements before they started embellishing their stories under the glare of the television cameras.
The two women were well-dressed lawyer types who had taken an early lunch to do some shopping. They’d just visited a clothing store run by a famous haberdasher, who had been honored with a commemorative table at a French bistro a few streets over.
Dr. Kline stood patiently to the side as Hox flipped open his notepad, licked his pencil lead, and began his questioning.
• • •
“SO, LADIES, CAN you tell me what happened?”
“We wer
e walking along the sidewalk,” the first woman explained. She pointed to a vacant storefront at the corner of the square. “Right over there. That’s where we saw him.” She sighed longingly. “It was the scarf, really, that caught my attention. We’d just been looking at a similar one in the store, but I’d told myself I couldn’t afford it. I bought new shoes yesterday and a blouse the day before . . .”
Hox looked up from his notepad. His brow furrowed quizzically. “I’m sorry. Did you say scarf?”
“Clive was wearing a beautiful red scarf,” the woman confirmed wistfully. “It was a perfect contrast to his white coloring. It was quite stunning really.”
The reporter’s gray-flecked eyebrows knitted together. He cleared his throat skeptically.
“Hermès,” the second woman added with an informative nod. “Silk and cashmere blend. From their fall collection. You couldn’t miss it. It was a very distinctive scarf.”
The first woman tugged self-consciously at her sweater. “It’s kind of sad really. That alligator’s dressed better than I am.”
“There, there, dear,” her friend said, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders.
Hox’s jaw stiffened as if he were biting back a snide comment. From the expression on his face, it was clear he wished he’d selected a different pair of witnesses. Taking in a deep breath, he resumed the interview.
“The man who was with Clive,” he asked crisply. “Can you describe him?”
“Mmm,” the first woman paused, remembering. “He had on a nice suit, but it wasn’t very well sized to his figure. The cut in the shoulders was all wrong. He really could have done with some fitting and adjustments. You know, they’re running a special at Mario’s, around the corner from here. Their tailor has a great eye for those things.”
Hox gripped his pencil, his irritation building.
Dr. Kline peeked timidly over Hox’s shoulder. “Did he have red hair?” she asked tentatively. “The man who was with Clive?”
As the second woman nodded affirmatively, the first tilted her head and tapped her chin, as if remembering an additional detail. Hox sighed testily, waiting for her to speak.
“I thought he was kind of cute,” she said dreamily.
“The man with the red hair?” Hox probed gruffly.
“No,” she replied, looking at him as if the reference had been obvious. “Clive.”
With a grunt, Hox shoved his notepad in his back pocket. He handed each woman a business card.
“Call me if you think of anything else,” he said with a suppressed eye roll as he turned to scour the square for additional witnesses.
Chapter 45
A CONVINCING CLIVE
SPIDER CROUCHED IN the tunnel, trying not to touch the wall as he peered down the dark passageway. A few moments earlier, he’d watched Mr. Carmichael and his party enter an elevator carriage and apparently return to ground level.
This was a welcome development for the young City Hall staffer. He was ready to get out of this damp, forbidding place.
“Note to self,” Spider murmured as he cautiously approached the elevator shaft. “Never leave home without a flashlight.”
Trying to ignore the insects rustling on the walls and ceiling, he ran his hands along the elevator’s side fronting, his fingers desperately searching for the call button.
He finally found a circular depression that seemed to have the right dimensions. Holding his breath, he punched in on it.
“Oh, thank goodness,” he said with relief as the button lit up.
• • •
THE GROUND SHOOK beneath Spider’s feet as the elevator’s rusted, rickety cage began bumping down toward the tunnel. With a loud grinding of gears, the cage settled into its scaffolding, and a metal door slid open—revealing an interior empty of its previous passengers.
Spider pushed open the grating and stepped inside. A dim bulb hanging from the ceiling provided a meager, but much appreciated, light.
It was a grimy, grungy space. Scattered across the floor, he saw upturned roach carcasses, trails of rodent droppings, and a mysterious brown puck-shaped object.
“What’s this?” he asked, bending down toward the brown lump. Gingerly, he picked it up and brought it toward his face. His senses were immediately overwhelmed by the smell of stale fish.
“Ew,” he whispered, quickly dropping it and wiping his hand on the back of his coveralls.
Straightening his baseball cap, Spider pulled the grate shut and selected a button on the elevator’s inner wall. There was no label, so he could only hope that it would take him the right direction: up. He glanced one last time at the tunnel’s black corridor. He had no desire to travel farther down into the earth.
After an interminable twenty seconds, the metal door clanked shut and the elevator began a slow, shaky ascent.
• • •
AT THE TOP of the bone-rattling climb, Spider slid open the front grating and gratefully stepped out of the elevator.
He found himself inside an empty storefront. He assumed he was still in San Francisco, but given the twists and turns he’d taken while down in the tunnel, he would have been hard-pressed to speculate exactly where.
He was in a much brighter, if similarly repulsive, location as the elevator and the tunnel. The store’s front windows had been covered up with brown kraft paper, but the sunlight from the street still permeated through the sheets, casting a dim glow about the room. Broken and discarded bottles were strewn across the floor. Piles of faded newspapers commingled with dirty heaps of clothing and a worn-out shoe that had somehow become separated from its mate.
Gripping his notepad and pencil, Spider carefully picked his way through the debris, following a trail of fishy brown pellets to the front door.
• • •
ON THE SIDEWALK outside the building, Spider stood awestruck, staring at the chaotic scene in Union Square. He turned a half circle, scratching his head in confusion.
What had happened while he’d been down in the tunnel?
A flood of reporters and other media types had gathered about the area. Their bulky vans were parked up every available side street; some were even blocking the perimeter of the square—to the immense frustration of the taxi drivers attempting to navigate through the madness. Spider winced as a belligerent horn blast sounded in his ear.
Throughout the square, reporters posed in front of camera crews, performing monologues and conducting man-on-the-street interviews.
Twirling his pencil, Spider edged up to one of the television news teams so he could listen in on a conversation with an apparent eyewitness as it was being videotaped.
The reporter finished his opening spiel and turned toward his interviewee, a hairy-chested man Spider recognized as one of the fringe mayoral candidates from the Castro.
The cameraman strategically aimed his lens at the upper portion of the man’s body, taking care to crop out his unclothed lower half.
“Sir, can you tell us what you saw?”
The nudist stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Well, they were walking right down this sidewalk here . . . the man and his, uh, pet.”
The reporter cut in. “The alligator?”
“Yes.” The man shrugged. “I figured it had to be a joke; I mean, who ever heard of such a thing? Really strange, if you ask me.”
The reporter blinked his eyes, struggling to keep a straight face.
“And could you tell if it was the alligator that went missing earlier this morning?”
The naked man paused, as if reflecting, before assuming a serious, mayoral expression.
“I’ve been to the Academy of Sciences many times, and I’ve seen the gator’s photo on the news. I have to say, it sure looked like Clive to me.”
Chapter 46
THE GOLDEN GATOR
OSCAR’S NIECE STOOD on the northeast corner of Union Square, both arms tightly wrapped around Isabella, while Monty, still carrying the package of frozen chicken, waved the flashlight
in the air, trying to hail a cab.
A colorful sea of news media, police, and pedestrian onlookers whirled around them. Honks, whistles, cell-phone ringtones, and the chatter of human voices filled the air. In the midst of this overwhelming scene, only Isabella noticed the young man in a blue baseball cap and janitor’s coveralls exiting the vacant storefront that held the tunnel’s elevator entrance.
• • •
A TAXI BRAKED at the corner, due more to the impediment of a news crew crossing the street than in response to Monty’s flailing flashlight.
The driver leaned out his open window, warily eying Monty’s dripping package.
“Where to?” he hollered as Monty tucked the flashlight under his arm and wrapped his hand around the rear door handle.
“Jackson Square,” Monty replied, motioning for the niece to join him.
“Hold on a minute,” the man said, clicking his rear doors locked. “What’s that you’re carrying? I don’t want it dripping all over my seats.”
Then he caught sight of the woman and her cat.
“No way, pal,” the driver yelled. Shaking his head, he rolled up the window.
Fumbling with the package and the flashlight, Monty reached into his pocket for his wallet. With difficulty, he flipped it open and pulled out his City Hall identification card.
Rapping his knuckles on the glass, Monty held up the card to the window, flashing his Life Coach credentials as if they afforded him special privileges.
The driver read the inscription, laughed, and drove off.
• • •
“COME ON, MONTY,” the woman called out as she set off in the direction of Jackson Square. She wanted to get Isabella back home before she managed to escape her grip. This was no place for a cat to be on the loose.
“I’ll have that man’s license when I’m mayor of this town,” Monty fumed at the cab’s departing bumper.
Skeptically rolling her eyes, the woman continued across the street. “Don’t forget to bring my flashlight.”
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