by D. F. Bailey
BRYCE WEELAND’S EDWARDIAN mansion stood on the corner of Sacramento and Jones, opposite Grace Cathedral. Before he crossed the intersection, Will Finch studied the ornate exterior and tried to compare it to something familiar, anything that might be considered normal. After a moment he concluded that the building resembled a five-tier wedding cake covered with an inch-thick layer of creamy icing. When Weeland escorted Finch into the foyer of the manor he raised his eyebrows with a look of wonder. As they climbed the marble staircase to the third floor he realized that someone had spent a lot of time and money reconstructing the premises without diminishing the building’s grand elegance and old-world charm.
“It was built by a commodities speculator after the earthquake in ’06,” Weeland said. “Then we picked it up six years ago as a foreclosure after the crash.”
“We?” Finch asked as he peered through the stained glass onto the back courtyard. He rubbed his fingers on the brass handrail that curled in a long, uninterrupted arc to a landing on the third floor.
“There’s seven of us here. Sadly, I have to move on. Turns out I’ve been ‘volunteered’ to set up my company’s data encryption center over the next year in Bangalore. I need someone to carry my share of the mortgage while I’m gone. Uncle Wally told me you might be interested.”
Weeland spent a few moments explaining the legal structure governing the shared ownership in the building. Since Weeland wasn’t actually selling his condo, none of these technicalities pertained to Finch. However, he’d have to win the approval of the other unit holders and agree to the building’s by-laws before he could rent the rooms. “Nothing onerous, believe me,” he assured him.
As soon as they entered Weeland’s condo, Finch was captivated. The twelve-hundred square-foot unit had a bright view overlooking the manicured backyard, a tiny clipped-and-pruned space that reminded him of an estate courtyard he’d seen on his one and only trip to Rome. Here he could establish the domestic retreat he needed to escape the realities of work and continue the long climb back from his disaster with Bethany Hutt and the death of his son, Buddy. He studied Weeland’s face and asked the only question that came to mind: “How much?”
“Thirty-five hundred a month.”
Almost half of his salary. And a bargain. “Done deal,” he said and and extended his hand. “When can I meet your partners?”
Weeland smiled, shook Finch’s hand and said, “Right now if you’ve got time for coffee.”
He shrugged. “It’s Sunday — the only time I’m ever free. And even then, not always.”
“All right. I think three or four of them are in the common room.” He let out a short laugh and added, “We refer to it as Red Square.”
Finch followed him down the staircase to the so-called Red Square, a space reconstructed from what used to be the maids’ quarters on the main floor at the back of the building. He entered through a pair of glass French doors and set his eyes on a group of four people sitting on sofas and two love seats, most of them in their twenties, each one staring into a tablet computer.
“Everyone, this is Will Finch. He’s thinking of taking over my unit while I’m gone.”
A bearded red-head pulled his attention from his screen and tipped his chin to one side. “Sochi,” he said and shook Finch’s hand. “Welcome to Mother Russia.”
Will smiled as he shook the redhead’s hand. “Mother Russia?”
“Our little joke,” Weeland said. Everyone laughed. “This place is our parody of an undercover commune. I’m known as Veshki, home to Stalin’s favorite dacha.”
“I’m St. Pete, short for St. Petersburg.” A lean six-footer with frameless glasses stepped forward, smiled and shook Finch’s hand.
“Stalingrad,” whispered a woman with a voice so soft Finch could barely hear her.
“Sorsk,” said a young girl with blond hair that streamed past her shoulders. Finch assumed she must be visiting from a local high school.
Finch smiled again, unsure how to respond to the collective fantasy surrounding him. “And you’re all working in tech.”
“In one way or another,” Sochi said. “But it’s a bit of a curse. That’s why we want to broaden our band-width, so to speak. To find a housemate who can make a difference in the real world. Who knows? A journalist from the eXpress might fit the bill.”
Will’s grin stretched across his face and he had to hold himself back from open laughter. “I think I can help you with that,” he said and sat down, accepted a cup of coffee from Sorsk and over the next two hours he answered everyone’s questions.
※
Part of Finch’s exercise regime (perhaps his only actual exercise) constituted the climb up and down the three flights of stairs to the eXpress office on Mission Street. On Monday morning he felt especially vigorous and as he strode through the steel door that led into the third floor office corridor he almost collided with Dixie Lindstrom.
“Sorry, Dixie,” he panted as she veered toward the elevator bay. “Forgot to signal.”
She smiled, happy to hear him make a joke, slight as it was. “It’s all right, Will. By the way, tweets about ‘Who Shot the Sheriff?’ trended into Twitter’s top twenty last night. We’ve had calls from CNN, FOX and PBS. Wally wants you to do video interviews from the boardroom at four o’clock.”
“Really?” He suppressed a smile. The previous day Jeanine Fix published all twenty-five-hundred words of “Who Shot the Sheriff?” He’d been wrong about her wanting to break it into sequential parts. He’d also baited the headline with an disingenuous question. He knew exactly who shot Sheriff Mark Gruman, but he wasn’t about to betray Ethan Argyle. Following the shooting, Ethan confessed his culpability to the deputy sheriff, but until someone else disclosed that fact, Finch decided to remain loyal to the man who’d saved his life.
“Yes, suh. Seems you-all earned today’s fifteen minutes of fame.” Despite her classic Scandinavian looks, occasionally Dixie liked to flaunt her down-home southern drawl. “Wally wants you to set up under the eXpress logo on the boardroom wall. Four o’clock. Got it?” She raised her eyebrows, waited for him to repeat her words. Over the past year she’d seen him miss too many appointments.
“Got it. Four o’clock in the boardroom.”
When Finch passed the water cooler, he noticed Wally standing outside his office door. He waved him over.
“I told you this would happen.” Wally wagged a finger. “CNN and Fox are lined up back-to-back at four. You get a half-hour break, then do PBS at five.” He smiled. “And sit under the eXpress logo, will you? Vince Capelli did two minutes with CBS last week and spent the whole time standing next to the damn water cooler.”
Finch laughed, surprised at how relieved he felt to let loose the slightest chuckle. He only needed one tab of ibuprofen to get through last night and now this brush with fame buoyed his spirits. As the story about the sheriff coursed through the media he realized he’d been right about so much. He was back in the game and won at least one inning.
“Thanks for the connection to your nephew, by the way.”
“They going to let you move in?”
“Maybe. Bryce wants me to. I still have to interview two other members of the Mother Russia Comintern. Then they decide by consensus. Has to be unanimous.”
Wally shook his head. He’d heard the same gibberish from his nephew. “All of them are multi-millionaires, you know. Some made multiples of eight-figures. When you have that kind of money, I guess you can think all kinds of nonsense.”
Finch shrugged, happy to embrace any kind of nonsense if it meant he could enjoy some decent housing — in a reconstructed mansion, no less. Despite the pleasant prospects, his mind turned back to Gianna. “Wally, the case with Gianna Whitelaw has taken a new twist. I met someone who’s known her for ten years. Says she has privileged information. That her death was no accident. And definitely not a suicide.”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.” He looked away, embarrassed to admit th
is. “Betsy Smith.” He shrugged. “Likely bogus.”
“Lord help me, here we go again.” Wally’s lips fluttered as he pushed a blast of air from his mouth. “Find out if she’s real.”
“Right. Will do.”
He walked toward the aisle that led to his cubicle in the bog. Within five minutes he began to search the internet using a few key words: “Gianna Whitelaw,” “2005,” “images.” His screen flooded with pictures of Gianna, a younger version than the woman he’d known for one day, two weeks ago. The social activities of the senator’s daughter were well documented, especially on Facebook. At first, Finch didn’t know what to look for. After scanning hundreds of photos he found the picture that unlocked the mystery: a shot of Gianna, her two half-brothers and a woman standing arm-in-arm with Gianna on the tennis court beside the family lodge in Cannon Beach. He leaned closer to the screen and expanded the image. After making a few adjustments, he could just make out the mole above the woman’s upper lip. Below the picture, someone had tagged her name. Eve Noon.
Finch googled “Eve Noon” and instantly dozens of links flashed on the screen. Here she stood, full of pride in her police uniform, answering media questions in front of the Palace of Justice. This was Officer Eve Noon, for years the public face of the SFPD. A good-looking cop assigned to handle media relations up until two years ago when her career crisis became the only news story in town. She’d brought allegations of gender discrimination and sexual harassment against two of her superiors and four beat cops. She’d claimed that the force nurtured a “chilly climate” against women, a metaphor that hung over the division during the ensuing investigations. Ultimately a brokered settlement, negotiated out of court, bound all parties to silence — and facilitated her honorable discharge from the department.
Months later Eve Noon started a private investigation agency, the fall-back profession that awaited thousands of dismissed cops throughout the world. Since then, discretion became her corporate motto and apart from her business web page and office address, Eve Noon had virtually disappeared from the internet.
※
The TV interviews went well, better than Finch expected. Even when it became clear that he wouldn’t provide any news scoops beyond what he’d already written in his article, the broadcasters settled for a re-telling of his bold confrontation with Gruman. Sitting in their plush studios, the news anchors seemed astonished that Finch “had risked so much for the journalistic cause.”
Finch smiled, shrugged it off, knowing full well that the media machine would attract two or three book agents eager to secure an exclusive, book-length version of “Who Shot the Sheriff?” So be it, he could use a hefty advance to re-balance his check book.
Following the final interview, Finch stepped into the third-floor concourse outside the office and felt his phone buzz in his pocket. A text appeared from an unknown cellphone number: Decision time. Let me know if you want to meet tomorrow. BS. He smiled at that. BS for Betsy Smith? At least she didn’t take her undercover identity too seriously.
He didn’t respond immediately. On the walk down the three flights of stairs to Mission Street he considered various responses. The most sarcastic retort would reveal that she wasn’t needed to pursue the story and that he knew everything worth knowing about her: Sorry, Eve. No upside for me. By the way, too bad the SFPD treated you so harshly. But in fact, Finch knew that he did need her, needed everything she could bring to bear on the story. And he certainly didn’t want to scare her off. He decided to play it dumb and see what advantages he could turn up. Standing on the corner next to the Hotel Pickwick he sent her a text: Name the time and place. And no more BS.
He strolled up to Market Street, walked down the steps to the BART train that would deliver him to his miserable studio apartment off South Van Ness. As he slipped through the turnstile, he wondered how long he’d have to wait before he could move into Mother Russia.
※
The next morning Finch emerged from the BART Civic Center station and walked along Market Street past the old Orpheum Theater. He skipped through a traffic snarl on Grove and made his way along Larkin through a clot of ten or twelve panhandlers. He eased past them carefully, with a respect that he maintained for everyone so far down on their luck. One day it could be you, he cautioned himself. Be kind.
He entered the Public Library and strode through the inner atrium and decided to hike up the five flights of stairs to settle his mind. As he mounted the steps he felt a sort of renewal; not his old self, exactly, but a light thrum that seeped through his bones. He could almost imagine that he loved life again.
He’d had a good sleep (finally, no ibuprofen required to ease the pain in his re-bonded tooth) but the buzz and clang from early-morning traffic outside his one-room hovel roused him a little after five A.M. He lay in bed scanning the news on his phone and reading the comments on his TV interviews and his feature article on Gruman’s death. After fifteen minutes he convinced himself to give up this form of narcissism and showered in the three-foot-square, mold-encrusted shower stall. As he ate his toast, a new text flashed on his screen: Public Library, Magazine and Newspapers section, 5th Floor. Noon. Once again Eve omitted to identify herself, but the originating cellphone number was identical to her previous message — and traceable. Obviously she’d never mastered covert texting, but at least she realized that clandestine meetings in public places served both their interests. That bit of street wisdom still stood as the first rule of spy-craft: hide in plain sight.
On the fifth floor of the library he eased into the rows of newspaper racks and steel shelving that rose seven feet on both sides of the narrow aisles. Each stand held months of back-issue newspapers. He scanned the titles from around the world: The Guardian, Le Monde, Der Spiegel. During his two years at Berkeley, he’d spent hours reading the international press. His graduate thesis focussed on cultural variations in reporting the war in Iraq. A war he knew too well, inside-out. To his surprise, he discovered stark similarities at the extreme ends of the reporting spectrum. The editorials in the Daily Telegraph often matched the views of Al Jazeera: in war, give no quarter, spare no man. Most of the writers, he imagined, had never seen the front lines of battle.
He wandered from aisle to aisle, checked the time (ten past twelve) and scanned the open corridors. Eve was either chronically late or very careful. He turned another corner and there she stood.
“Follow me,” she whispered. She walked along the hall, down a flight of stairs onto a concourse where people sat and chatted in pairs or groups of three and four. Finch, impressed by her stature, calculated that she was just an inch or two shorter than him. She was six-foot-two, maybe six-three.
The passageway hummed with the suppressed buzz of low voices and the occasional subdued laughter. She continued on to one of the study rooms, small glass-walled carrels, virtually sound-proof when the doors were shut. She set her purse on the floor, sat on one of two chairs, nodded to the seat beside her and tipped the door closed with her foot.
“So. I take it you’re ready to work with me,” she began.
Finch tried to take her in. No hoodie, no sunglasses, no disguise. She bore a fading bruise below her left eye, nothing too serious; no worse than the injury just beginning to wilt on his own face. She wore a pale green pantsuit, black flat shoes, a necklace of black onyx beads that slipped into the open top of her white cotton blouse. Very professional. She could have been the head librarian … except. Beneath the tidy mirage, Finch could see her solid frame. Her neck and hands belied any delicacy. Eve Noon bore all the hallmarks of a fit and agile cop without betraying her obvious femininity. Yes, he decided, she could prove to be quite formidable.
“Who knows? Depends on what you have to offer.” The room was not designed for comfort. He sat beside her and set his courier bag on the desk. “But first, who are you? And I want more than just a name.” It was her turn now to feel a little squeeze-play. He’d know within thirty seconds if she lied. If she did, he’d expose a
ll that he knew about her already, accuse her of wasting his time, and storm out of the room.
“Fair enough. I’m Eve Noon.”
He nodded.
“I used to be an officer with the SFPD.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Being a reporter, I thought you might know all this.”
“All what?”
She looked away, then turned her face back to him. “About me and the Department. Our … disagreement. Two years ago.”
“Actually, I do.” Finch leaned forward an inch. On an impulse he decided to reveal his hand. “About your non-disclosure agreement, you mean. I imagine the SFPD provided you with enough money to bank-role your private investigation enterprise. Where is it, now? That’s right. Over on Geary near Leavenworth. Second floor walk-up. Certainly not pretentious, I’ll give you that. All the trappings of a home-office operation.”
She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Do you want to work with me on this, or not?”
They sat in silence for a moment while he decided how much to squeeze her. Sure, you found me, he thought, but I had no trouble finding you. He could easily deride her for being an amateur and lecture her on basic investigative research. Or chew it all down, swallow hard and find out what she knew about Gianna. He decided to bite.
“Okay, I get it,” he said. “You’re convinced the cops will freeze out any murder investigation. A suicide makes it nice and tidy for them. You’re probably right. But if we’re going to by-pass them, we’ll need Gianna’s medical examiner’s report.”
“I’ve seen the ME report.”
“You have?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“All her limbs were broken, her pelvis and both collar bones. But there’s a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The fall didn’t kill her. She drowned.”
Possibly, he thought. The drop from the bridge, about two hundred and fifty feet, almost always insured instant death from the impact alone. But over the years some had survived the fall. And a few of them had been fished out of the ocean before they drowned.