“I still don’t understand what I’m doing here,” the stylist replied, wiping his brow. “And why I had to bring all of my equipment.”
“It was a requirement for the meeting,” Hox said as he checked the address written in his notebook against the house number of a pink-painted six-story structure.
“But,” Humphrey sputtered as he closed the distance between them, “we’re not filming this, are we?”
“It wasn’t Lightheaded who requested your presence,” Hox replied wryly. He pushed the call button by the building’s front entrance.
“It was his wife.”
• • •
A BUZZER SIGNALED the unlocking of an iron gate, which led through a small garden into the main lobby. As the two men stepped inside, a doorman in an ill-fitting uniform nodded a welcome, motioned toward the elevator, and returned to his newspaper.
Hox squinted at the paper’s folded-over top half, pleased to note his byline. Then he turned his gaze from the newspaper to the doorman’s workspace. The lobby was vintage San Francisco, with polished wood flooring, decorative crown molding, and high-end art hanging on the walls. The lobby’s rear windows looked out onto a well-groomed courtyard and, beyond, a view of the bay that eclipsed the one visible from the street.
Hox was a reporter through and through. The profession might as well have been encoded in his DNA. But in moments like these, even he found himself second-guessing his chosen career. A job in low-vigilance lobby security certainly had its appeal.
“Too late to change course now,” the reporter muttered as he squeezed next to Humphrey inside the building’s tiny elevator. With a creaking groan, the door slid shut, and the unit began a wobbly climb.
A small landing and a single door greeted the pair at the building’s top floor. There was only one residence on this level, the penthouse suite.
Before Hox could ring the knocker, the entrance swung open.
The man standing in the doorway was almost unrecognizable.
His brown hair flopped down around his ears. The shaping was ragged and uneven, as if he had gone far too long since his last haircut. He wore rumpled pants designed for hiking or camping. Pockets of various sizes had been sewn into the canvas fabric, and elastic cords had been fitted at the bottom cuffs. His face bore a couple days’ growth of downy facial hair. There were signs of a patchy goatee forming around his chin.
The casual lifestyle appeared to suit the Lieutenant Governor. Hox had never seen the man in such a jovial mood. He greeted the visitors with an enthusiastic, “Welcome!”
“Governor,” Hox replied with a bemused grin.
After a quick survey of the politician’s disheveled hair, sportsman’s T-shirt, and low-rise hiking boots, the stylist unzipped his bag.
“Oh my,” Humphrey said with a shudder. “Let’s get started.”
Chapter 42
THE KNITTED BOOTIES
HUMPHREY DIDN’T WASTE any time. He immediately steered the Lieutenant Governor toward the kitchen sink.
“Let’s start with the hair,” he said briskly, turning on the water as the wife ran to the bathroom pantry to fetch towels.
Hox waited in the foyer, angling his head to see into the kitchen, hoping for a break in the shampooing action so that he could pose his questions.
Unfortunately, the full-fledged makeover session left no room for bystanders. Hox dodged an errant spray of water from the dishwashing hose mounted onto the sink. A foaming shot of shaving cream narrowly missed his left ear, tagging a glass-fronted print hanging on the foyer wall.
“Make yourself at home, Hox,” the Lieutenant Governor called out over the buzz of an electric razor. With difficulty, he lifted a hand to point toward the living room on the opposite side of the condo.
Bending at the waist to avoid further friendly fire, Hox retreated to the seating area. As he scooted out of the foyer, he heard the Lieutenant Governor issue a fruitless caution.
“Watch the goatee, there, Humphrey. It’s not fully grown in yet.”
There was a brief silence, followed by a resumption of the humming razor.
“My apologies, Governor,” Humphrey said after another short pause, with what Hox assumed included a wink to the man’s wife. “I seem to have nicked the goatee’s left side. I’m afraid you’ll have to start over from scratch.”
• • •
A FEW MINUTES later, Humphrey led the clean-shaven Lieutenant Governor to the living room. The wife had laid out a piece of plastic on the floor and positioned a stool at its center. As the makeover subject settled into the seat, Humphrey wrapped a drape across the politician’s chest and snapped it shut at the base of his neck.
With his modified tool belt secured around his waist, Humphrey began combing through the Lieutenant Governor’s wet locks. The wife paced a circle around her husband, closely supervising the process.
Hox grabbed a chair from the side of the room and slid it as close as possible to the haircutting operation.
“I need to ask you a few questions about Spider Jones,” he said, flipping open his notebook. After a quick glance at the page containing the scrawled letter O, he turned to a clean sheet.
The wife shifted her attention to the reporter. “That’s the name of the murdered staffer, isn’t it?” she asked, sharply interested. “The one who was killed at City Hall last November?”
She walked toward Hox’s chair. He squirmed uncomfortably as she peered over his shoulder. He felt himself instinctively trying to hide his notepad, despite the fact that the top sheet was still blank.
“Yes,” Hox said, looking up from his notepad to give the woman his sternest stare. The typically effective expression had no effect. She didn’t budge from her intrusive position.
Clearing his throat, Hox tried to focus on the Lieutenant Governor. The man’s eyes were closed. His head was tilted back, and his pale face appeared loosely relaxed.
“Sir, I was wondering if you could tell me what Spider was working on in the weeks before his murder.”
“Hmm,” the Lieutenant Governor mused absentmindedly as Humphrey’s scissors whirred around his ears.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t know,” the wife cut in informatively, stepping around Hox to insert herself between the reporter and her husband. “It’s Mabel you want to talk to. She handles all of the interns and any low-level staffers.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest and pointed at Hox’s notepad, as if instructing him what to write. “Hires ’em and fires ’em.”
The Lieutenant Governor broke free long enough to peek around his wife’s torso.
“That’s right. Mabel’s your gal,” he said as Humphrey pulled him back onto the stool. “Lucky for you, she’s here watching my son.”
The wife gestured down a hallway leading away from the central living area. “She’s in the guest room.”
As Hox stood from his chair, she poked her finger into his chest.
“Don’t wake the baby.”
• • •
BRUSHING SCATTERED HAIR clippings from his trousers, Hox tiptoed down the hallway to the indicated room.
The baby’s quarters were easy to pick out. Decals of dinosaurs and blue balloons decorated the entranceway’s trim and facing.
Cautiously, Hox creaked open the door. The Lieutenant Governor’s long-serving administrative assistant sat on a rocking chair beside a crib, a basket of yarn at her feet.
Hox knew Mabel from her many years at City Hall, but theirs was not a collegial relationship. She had always viewed him with suspicious disapproval. As a reporter snooping for secrets to reveal in his next column, he was clearly on the opposing team.
He wasn’t looking forward to questioning her about Spider Jones.
“Hello, Hoxton,” she said with stiff formality as he glanced into the bassinet at the sleeping tot, who wore a pair of hand-knitted booties on his feet.
“Mabel.”
Hox had never understood the universal fascination with babies. It had
been one of many areas of contention with his ex-wife. The wrinkled, alien-looking creatures made him extremely uncomfortable—and on the concept of diapers, he was particularly squeamish. Best to get this interview over with before the little tyke made any stinky deposits that might require Mabel’s attention.
Cringing, Hox took a seat on a wicker hamper next to the rocking chair and flipped to another clean page in his notebook.
“Mabel, I’d like to talk to you about Spider Jones.”
Frowning, she picked up a new skein of yarn and looped the end around her needle. The matter was obviously a touchy subject. Hox’s questions were unlikely to raise the reporter’s standing.
“I understand you were directly involved in supervising Spider’s work for the mayor. What sort of research was he working on in the weeks before he died?”
“Just routine assignments mostly: legislative items under consideration by the board of supervisors, a proposed dog-walking ordinance.”
The needles began clicking with furious intensity. Mabel’s lips pinched together, as if she were carefully considering her next words.
“He stayed late those last couple of weeks, but that research wasn’t on a project for the mayor.”
Before Hox could press for clarification, there was a disturbance in the hallway.
“Now, let’s talk about your wardrobe for tomorrow,” Humphrey said as he ushered the Lieutenant Governor toward the master bedroom. “Your wife has laid out several options for you here by your closet.”
The baby began to rustle in his crib. Panicked, Hox watched as the tiny hands opened and closed. The mouth yawned as if preparing for a full-throated scream. He had only seconds left before the wife stormed in and terminated the rest of his questioning.
Leaning toward the rocker, Hox prodded anxiously, “What was Spider working on?”
Mabel looked up from her knitting and took a deep breath.
“It had to do with the man who ran that fried chicken restaurant,” she said. “That James Lick fellow.”
Scribbling madly on his notepad, Hox nearly dropped his pencil as she added, “I think Spider figured out Lick had once owned an antique shop in Jackson Square. Back in those days, everyone called him Oscar.”
New Deal Art
Chapter 43
THE STACKPOLE STATUES
THE NIECE REACHED the end of Leidesdorff Alley, pushing a stroller filled with a despondent Rupert and an increasingly frustrated Isabella. Neither cat had forgiven their person for making the grievous error of passing the sandwich shop without stopping, but the niece showed no signs of turning back.
The narrow passage emptied out onto Pine Street, just a block and a half shy of Market, immediately in front of the Pacific Stock Exchange building.
The niece glanced back at Leidesdorff Alley, peering down its wiggling length to the gates of Redwood Park.
“This has to be it, Issy,” she said excitedly. “The street signs in the mural and whatever that was in the fountain directed us down Leidesdorff. We’re on the right track, I’m sure of it.”
Isabella warbled skeptical commentary from the passenger compartment, which the niece chose to ignore. Wedging the reference book beneath her arm, she waited for a break in traffic and then pushed the stroller across the street to the targeted landmark.
An impressive facade of white stone and concrete, the Exchange stood out amid the surrounding high-rise offices and banks. A wide line of steps led to a portico framed by Doric columns, but the property’s signature feature was the towering concrete statues positioned at either corner.
Designed by Ralph Stackpole, a Coit Tower muralist and a prominent member of the Bohemian Club, the sculpted blocks featured a relief-style grouping of human figures. The subjects had slightly swollen bodies, flat noses, and—particularly noticeable from the street level view—enormous toes.
The two statues were grouped by sex, with the male figures accessorized to highlight industrial themes and the female ones dressed to represent agriculture. It was the latter statue that had been poking around the corner in Arnautoff’s Coit Tower mural, the niece reflected as she pulled out the reference book and opened it to the two-page spread of City Life.
As the niece compared the real-life statue to the one in the book, a man in an expensive suit and tie jogged up the front steps, carrying a workout bag.
With the original stock exchange having evolved into a digital entity that was later subsumed in a merger, the historic building no longer housed market traders. It was now used as an exclusive exercise club for the wealthy and the well connected. Banners advertising fortified bottled water and toned physiques hung from the front eaves.
In addition to the exterior Stackpole statues, the private club had retained the Diego Rivera mural painted on one of the building’s second-floor walls. The Mexican master’s socialist-themed fresco was locked inside a members-only retreat, an odd contrast of message and materialism.
“Of course, this all begs a bigger question,” the niece murmured as she stared up at the female-themed Stackpole statue. “If we’re supposed to be following the murals, where do we go next?”
• • •
SPIDER STAGGERED DOWN Leidesdorff Alley, struggling to catch up to the niece and her cat-filled stroller.
He wasn’t sure if it was the day’s exertions or an indication that his ephemeral existence was nearing its end, but he was rapidly losing strength. The appearances in the fountain and on the bench beside the Previous Mayor had drained his energy reserves.
Despite his fatigue, he couldn’t give up.
The niece’s mural hunt represented his only chance to bring his murderer to justice, but the process had just gone horribly awry.
She had completely missed the clue in the alley.
She had walked right past the O.
• • •
INSIDE THE STROLLER’S passenger compartment, Isabella shook her head in disgust. Over the years, her person had taken countless wrong turns and had misconstrued all manner of obvious directions, but never had the cat seen the woman act so obtuse.
She watched with dismay as the niece climbed the front steps of the Exchange to get a better look at the female-oriented Stackpole statue.
“Maybe I’m supposed to get instructions from one of the stone figures,” the niece called out, squinting at the detail. “What is this smaller woman holding? A sunflower?”
• • •
SUMMONING HIS LAST reserves, Spider crossed to the Exchange and mounted the stairs. He slid around the statue, positioning himself between the woman and the concrete block. His face skewed up with concentration, but he couldn’t generate the slightest shimmer of a reflection.
The only reaction he triggered was feline. Isabella began clawing at the stroller’s net cover. Even Rupert poked his head up to watch.
Meanwhile, the niece continued her observations. She slipped through the narrow space between the sculpted block and the nearest column and stared up at the figure carved into the block’s street-facing side.
Spider followed her around the ledge. He reached for her shoulder, tapping it with all his might, but the action had no effect.
“It looks like this one’s holding a bundle of wheat,” the niece said without much hope. “I feel like this is all wrong.” Shaking her head, she started to retrace her steps.
Spider’s eyes widened. He hadn’t counted on the woman making such a quick retreat. He tried to get out of the way, but she had moved too fast.
Isabella chirped out a warning. Rupert shut his eyes and ducked his head beneath the covers.
The niece plowed right through Spider’s vaporous form and out the other side, oblivious to his presence. Spider, on the other hand, took a flashing vision of flesh and bone, before crumpling to the ground as if he’d received a blow to the stomach.
By the time he managed to pick himself up, the niece had returned to the stroller.
“Follow the murals,” she said, pondering. “Maybe we sho
uld keep going in this same direction. There’s another set of New Deal–era murals in the Rincon Center. That’s a straight shot from here on the other side of Market.”
Spider threw up his hands in frustration.
Isabella offered her condolences. Her person wasn’t the easiest creature with which to communicate.
• • •
AN ELDERLY MAN with short rounded shoulders stood at the edge of the alley watching the events transpire in front of the Pacific Stock Exchange.
As the niece set off toward the Rincon Center, accompanied by her stroller-bound felines and an exasperated ghost, Oscar thoughtfully stroked his chin.
Unlike the other observers, he thought the niece was proceeding on exactly the right track.
A Lunch Date
Chapter 44
THE REGULAR PLACE
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR sat on the bench by the frog fountain in Redwood Park, contemplating the great mysteries of the hereafter. He didn’t pretend to know how Spider’s spirit had managed to cross back into the land of the living, but he felt certain he knew the reason for the ghostly appearance.
A youthful death of such a sudden and unexpected nature demanded resolution. He’d felt that keenly—and he wasn’t the crime’s hapless victim.
Closing his eyes, he replayed their interaction in his mind. He envisioned Spider’s face, partially hidden by the baseball cap jammed down over his forehead.
“Who did this to you?” he had asked, wanting to know and yet fearful of the answer.
Then he saw the transparent image of the sneakered foot making the circular O shape on the ground.
The Previous Mayor opened his eyes. Frowning, he bent his head to stare down at the concrete. He must have misinterpreted the meaning.
He had an easier time believing in Spider’s ghost than he did in Oscar’s guilt for the horrific crime.
• • •
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR stood up from the bench, straightening the brim of his bowler as he glanced one last time at the fountain. He was about to leave for Leidesdorff Alley to try to catch up to the niece when his cell phone rang.
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