Ray was pleased, especially by Moon’s final comment. She had lied, but the picture was worth the thousand words she left unsaid. It often worked that way, sifting through a heap of crap until a cut diamond hit you in the forehead.
A steep cliff rose in the background of the photo on Moon’s mantel. The sheer sandy wall reminded Ray instantly of Drakes Beach in Marin, a beach he knew well. Beach lore was a particular favorite of his. So Moon and Tania had once visited Drakes Beach in Marin County. But Moon had tried to hide that fact by agreeing to his suggestion that the photo had been taken at Baker Beach. The cliff at Baker was not as sheer, and the topography looked different: drifts of ice plant lined the cliffs below twisted eucalyptus trees. But why was Moon hiding the fact that she had been to Drakes Beach once with Tania? He thought about it, pictured her slight anger over his presumption that she was still in touch with Tania. Perhaps Tania was presently to be found near Drakes. Right now. And Moon knew exactly where she was.
He pulled into the garage. After he arrived back at the hotel, he sat down to his computer and researched businesses near Drakes Beach.
Drakes Beach ran along an estuary inside Point Reyes National Seashore. The seashore hosted California’s richest assortment of wildlife: coyote, bobcat, and elk were plentiful while sea lions and whales churned the ocean.
Drawn to the tremendous natural beauty, communes had sprung up in the hills near the town of Inverness. Some were headed by devout leaders steeped in ancient Eastern traditions; others were wacky California medicine shows that worshipped a Volvo-driving guru with dirty feet and a past crime spree in Florida. There were also numerous resorts catering to high-end tourists from the city. On Friday nights, fresh from their downtown offices, middle-aged corporate men arrived, comfortable in their chinoed chunkiness, recuperating for next Monday’s pillage. The women, sleek and knife-haired, commanded the days behind their sunglasses, wildly overpaying for everything.
There were many resorts to check, but Ray didn’t think Tania was the resort type. No, the communes seemed more promising. Like the resorts, they peppered the hills, and some were not open to the public at all. She could also be hanging out in one of the innumerable little cottages in the hills. He decided to let technology narrow the odds.
Chapter 18
In America, billions of electronic information bits were packaged for sale. Email addresses. Unpublished telephone numbers. Credit histories. A man’s social security number, his wife’s maiden name. Buyers abounded, both innocuous and sinister. A small industry had arisen to meet the demand, merchants of the information age, ensconced in anonymous office parks in leafy suburbs, or sequestered in decrepit buildings not quite downtown. The properties were occupied by doctors with licensing issues, lawyers with degrees from offshore diploma mills. Offices doubled as apartments, and sported doors with heavy bolts, phones answered by secretaries with cold sores that never healed. Privacy laws supposedly governed the sale of such data, but raw greed often prevailed over the niceties of federal law. In just a few years, millions of fictitious electronic golems were created, built with parts from real people—a birth date here, an address in Flagstaff, Arizona. The electronic people borrowed and spent, used credit cards. But they never actually paid a cent. In just a few years, they gummed up the world’s commerce to such a degree that the financial powers gazed in worried awe at the digital morass they created, trying to keep the lid on an invisible crime spree of unprecedented proportions.
Shavonne Rabb ran her information brokerage business from a little office located inside a florist shop on Broad Street in Newark, New Jersey. She was not looking for walk-in traffic, and the locale suited her. Ray had used her successfully in the past on a few cases. She was one of the few brokers who restricted sales of personal data to the legal profession. She was sharp, discrete, quick to respond. Her voice was so soothing Ray sometimes felt like calling her just to listen to her purr. Shavonne told Ray that, with some luck, she could discover Moon Lee’s cell phone and try a ruse to get her to reveal Tania’s address. He asked her to get back to him within twenty-four hours.
Ray called Dominique at her office. He felt like more than business might be resolved over the next few days. After not seeing her for a few years, they were back in the routine now, seeing every other each night for dinner. It was as if they never stopped seeing each other.
“I have something for you,” she said. “I got it from someone at the Bureau. For review only. No copies, if you don’t mind—just read it and give it back to me. It provides some interesting background on the prostitution scene here in San Francisco.” She paused. “There’s a heavy Chinese criminal element involved. These are some seriously deadly people.”
“I like serious people. You can reason with them.”
“My concern was the deadly part. I talked to the agent about the dominant group here, the Black Fist. They have set up a drug and counterfeiting bazaar outside Naples. Working closely with the Syndicate, the Camorra. They operate factories that import huge amounts of fabric and material from China. Everything gets labeled—or relabeled— “Made in Italy” in these huge anonymous buildings north of Naples. Just acres of trash-strewn concrete. The drugs run on the same trucks as the gray market clothing.
“The Black Fist Triad has become extremely wealthy. They dominate human trafficking—prostitutes, low cost laborers, household staff for wealthy Chinese. Very dangerous people,” she said.
“Come by later and we’ll talk,” Ray said. “I’d like to see the report.”
“What about me?”
“Of course you. Especially you.”
They said goodbye.
Chapter 19
The cell rang. Ray stopped his pushups and hopped to the desk to pick it up.
“Ray, its Rick Perry. We’ve been on the subject all day. At Pier 39 now. He’s leafletting. He’s like a wart out there, people just move around him. With a few exceptions.”
“Try to get a copy of whatever literature he’s handing out.”
“Will do.”
“Anyone with him?” asked Ray.
“Couple of guys. Two white guys, pale, sort of goofy-looking. Classic skinhead look. Cherry has longer hair.”
“The master race. Looks like this race is run.”
Richard laughed.
“Let’s run plate numbers on all of them,” said Ray. “Are they all together?”
“More or less. They’re talking occasionally. Cherry’s in the middle of the boardwalk trying to chat up the foot traffic. The other two guys are hanging out nearby along a fence. One of them is throwing rocks at the sea lions. Asshole. You wonder how such a sorry-ass bunch of scabs could ever call themselves masters of anything.”
Perry paused. “We had him on a different routine yesterday. He walked up Powell Street to North Beach. Near Filbert, I think it was, I’ll have to check later. He stopped for a minute looking at an apartment building across the street.”
Ray felt a chill. “What number?”
“1856 Powell, it’s—”
“You sure?” Ray interjected.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the building like?”
“Three story. Mediterranean. Tile roof, lots of detail. Cherry stood across the street. Looked around for a few minutes. Could have been the building next to it but I don’t think so. He was squared up. I’ll find out who lives there, check the names on the mailbox.”
“I know the building,” Ray said. “That’s my old apartment.”
“No shit. I didn’t know.”
“What did he do after?”
“He walked over to Columbus and picked up the number 15 bus. He got off as usual at Market and headed to BART.”
“Good. Good. Let’s keep an eye on him on Oakland. I want an undercover in the group.”
“We can manage that. It’ll take some time; we have to figure out when they meet.”
“Approach him at the pier—that’s why the asswipe is out there, right? New recrui
ts. Let’s provide them with a recruit.”
“OK, I’ll get on it.”
Ray hung up, walked to the bed, and lay down. He pictured the corner apartment on Powell Street, gleaming white in the western sun. The frantic activity there, the groaning bus snaking right and then left on Columbus, kids playing hoops, the thump of a soccer ball on the asphalt. Cherry leering at the carnage.
Everything blown into a million small pieces, dust filling the air on a sunlit afternoon. He would make Cherry tell him about the splinters, the cause of the dust, who was dancing because of the dust. Even if it meant pile-driving Cherry’s face into concrete.
Chapter 20
At 7:30 PM, Dominique called Ray from the house telephone line in the hotel lobby. Ray put on his coat and headed downstairs. In the lobby, he saw Dominique wearing a dark blue business suit set off with a lilac blouse and black boots. Classy. He stared just a moment longer than necessary just to let her know he was looking. She accepted the attention with a slight smile.
“Here’s the notebook.” She handed him a black binder titled The Triads: Origins of Chinese Gangsters. “I need it back after you’re done.”
“Looks good.”
“According to my friend, the Black Fist has been the top group locally for many years. Street crime is split between Chinese, Mexican and black gangs. The Italians usually run their street action here through these other gangs. They’re limited in San Francisco now.”
“You’d never know it from Hollywood,” said Ray. “They still love the Mafia. The food. The weddings.”
“Watch those shows a few times?” Dominique asked.
“I like to see what stereotypes are burdening the mind of the American populace.”
They headed outside the hotel. The wind whipped down Nob Hill along Sutter as pedestrians leaned into the cool air, muttering about memories of Midwestern summers. Ray told her about his visit to the massage parlor.
“Moon was intriguing. I think she knows where Tania is.” He told Dominique of the photo and Moon’s comment that the photo showed Baker Beach. “It’s a geographical impossibility,” he noted.
“You could tell that the photo was taken at Drakes?”
“I’m steeped in local beach lore.”
“Didn’t know tough PIs were into trivia.”
“I’m in the trivia business.”
They walked leisurely on Geary towards Union Square.
“Moon also told me Steven Moran, the ex-boyfriend, was much more emotionally attached to Tania than he admitted to me.”
“Why do you believe her?”
“I’m not sure that I do yet. I just mean that her comments about Steven were revealing, whether or not she’s telling the truth. But my shit-sniffer went off the charts with her on that last comment.”
“Maybe you were sniffing something else,” said Dominique.
The city flowed by, cars racing from downtown, workers hauling bags of rice into a Thai restaurant. A homeless man with a silver beard lay on the gray sidewalk; shoppers cascaded by him, laden with the day’s plunder.
“I feel like a steak,” said Ray.
“Where do you want to eat?”
“Your choice tonight.”
“I’m tired of that Tuscan olive oil stuff,” said Dominique. “I want some red sauce tonight. I know a southern Italian place in North Beach that should have steak on the menu.”
Cafe Etna occupied a sooty brick scar of a building that survived the twin disasters of earthquake and inferno in 1906. The owners were Sicilian, a husband and wife, both in their forties, vibrant and eternally moving, their unending industry giving intimations of major machinations behind the kitchen doors. Ray and Dominique sat down and ordered a bottle of Chianti.
He looked around the room.
“Are you OK?” Dominique asked.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You seem distracted.”
Ray said nothing.
“I’ve been thinking of your trip here. Seems like we never missed any time,” she said.
“I know,” said Ray. “I’m happy we got together.”
“I hope we don’t blow it again like after we graduated,” she said, suddenly serious. “People seem to do that these days. I’m sorry about what happened to us. And you.”
He stared into her tea-colored eyes, thinking of how the time slipped by. He had always desired her as a woman. But this topic disturbed him. They both knew why. He tried to forget the past, but rage overwhelmed any philosophy he had concocted, woven late at night, a sentence stolen from a book, a song that made sense for half a minute. But then the fury washed over him and the jetsam drifted into the darkness.
“I don’t know how to move on from what happened,” he said. “I’m trying.” He was not sure if he was ready to discuss this with her, or with anyone.
Dominique sensed his reserve. She looked away and sipped her wine.
He put down his fork. “It’s funny, the way we were. We got so involved in our jobs.”
“A lot of our friends were that way,” she said. “Putting in long hours. Some of them are emotional mutes. Friendships take time.”
“You spend time at work with people who you have nothing in common with, other than the same person signs your check,” Ray said. “All that time you miss with the people who really matter. Family, friends.”
Ray looked at her. “You were always a good friend,” he said. “The best of friends.”
“I should have called you after it happened.”
“It’s OK—“
“It’s not OK,” she said with more feeling. “I should have been there for you.”
He took her hand. “It’s OK. Like I said, I didn’t answer the phone for a year anyway.” He looked down at his lap, tucked his napkin. “I still think of her a lot. Diana. Her name was Diana. By all odds, I should have been home with her. I had just run out for something. Tea, if you can believe it. My life, saved by a tea bag.”
“I’m sure . . ..” Dominique trailed off. “I don’t know what to say. It’s awful what happened, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m glad you’re here. She would have liked you.”
“Thank you,” she said. They sat quietly for a minute.
“I’d like to see more of you, Ray. No pressure. Nothing heavy. I know you’re only here for a short time. But I’m glad we were able to see each other again.”
“Me too,” he said. “Seeing you again—the chance that would happen—was one of the things that brought me out here.”
Dominique gave Ray a look he could not decipher. Then she leaned forward with a slight smile and looked around the room.
The waiter appeared, a young Mexican, neat and unobtrusive. A well-finessed entrance. He took their orders. Ray and Dominique watched as a customer complained about the penne being undercooked. A black-haired waiter spoke of proper cooking methods—"al dente, signori.” But the lout continued to complain. Eventually, the waiter bowed to the customer’s wishes and headed to the kitchen, shaking his head at the shabby tastes of American diners.
They drank wine, swirling the crimson liquid in the glass. The food came. Dominique loved the braciole, real nana’s cooking—pork pounded to a thin sheet, rolled with raisins and, he guessed, mint. Ray savored an outstanding steak. One of the owners, a soft-spoken balding man, sat at the table near the kitchen, looking over at Dominique and Ray. “Next time you come, you ask me for the seafood specials—I’ll make you something not on the menu. Especially for you. Just ask me.” Ray shook hands with the owner. It was a good night when the chef picked you out, anointed you as one of the chosen.
The bill came and Ray reached for it, Dominique objecting mildly. They exited the restaurant and walked toward Washington Square. Saint Peter and Paul Church was lit with ground lights, sheltering the park with its grand bulk. They stood looking at the bustling street, the restaurant crowds flowing down Columbus. The scent of pines on a sea breeze, the low moan of a fog horn.
Ray took her hand
and pulled her close to him. Cupping her face gently, soft skin, soft, soft. He kissed Dominique, tongue sliding over hers, lips thick and tender. He pressed against her, and she responded. They broke off wordlessly and Ray hailed a cab. One stopped and they stepped inside. Ray gave directions to Pacific Heights, and the cab headed up Union Street. The mansions of Russian Hill passed by in silence.
“Tonight I think maybe you can come up,” Dominique whispered.
“I’ve been good,” said Ray.
They were inside her apartment within ten minutes. Dominique turned on a Tiffany lamp in the hallway and Ray saw a painting with a Japanese motif of a waterfall, and an old man leaning on a staff. The hallway bore the scent of fresh-cut flowers.
“You want some wine?” Dominique asked.
“Sure.”
Ray closed the door, and Dominique turned to him. They embraced in the dim light, moving sideways in some primitive crab walk, laughing as they slumped to the sofa.
“I didn’t expect this,” Dominique said.
“Me either. But I’m glad.”
“Me too,” she said. “Been a while since we were together.”
“I know. Remember the water bed? The first night.”
She laughed. “I felt seasick.”
“You sunk into the bed. Great bounce though.”
She grabbed him and squeezed.
“Still want that wine?” she asked.
“Later.”
They kissed and held each other. Then a sudden impatience with buttons and zippers and the artifacts of politeness. He slipped her blouse off. Dominique’s lush breasts revealed, a scent of warm skin, her nipples dark and swollen.
“Let's go to my room,” she whispered. He pressed his mouth to her neck. Both breathing harder. She dug her fingers into his back as she pulled him down on top of her. Ray pushed against her, the tension powering both their bodies. He stared down at her smooth skin, her pelvic bone edged in shadow. Amber moonlight fell on the floor. Sweat evaporated in the cool night air.
The profound needs of the body. They slept deeply until morning.
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