“I believe it. She tell you she called yesterday to apologize?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. Listen, if you want another recommendation, I know a white kid who—”
“What makes you think I want a white kid? Don’t tell me you’ve got a racist slant on me?”
“No, no, I just thought that after Tamara—”
“What’s her phone number?”
“Tamara’s? Why?”
“I wasn’t here when she called yesterday. I’d like to talk to her again, see if maybe she wants to forget Monday and start over from scratch.”
Agonistes said, “How come?” but he sounded pleased.
“I liked her and I like the fact that she apologized, and I believe in giving people second chances. Besides, all the crap in the world makes me crazy sometimes too.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Her number, George?”
When I called it, a young woman who said she was Tamara’s roommate answered. Tamara was still at school, did I want to leave a message? I said, “Tell her I’ve been out of town and just got back and I appreciate her message yesterday. Tell her I still need a hacker and if she’s interested I’ll be in my office tomorrow morning from nine till noon.”
“She have your number?” the roommate asked.
“Now maybe she does. You might tell her that too.”
AT SIX O’CLOCK I locked the office and drove up to Diamond Heights. Kerry was home. And very glad to see me.
After dinner she was very glad to see me again.
I WAS AT MY DESK before nine on a drizzly Thursday morning. There was piled-up work to be done—and more in addition, if I took on Barney Rivera’s latest offering. One of those office-bound days: strings of telephone calls, client reports, and billing. No question I could use some help. If I hadn’t been so stubborn and change-resistant, I would have admitted it and done something about it months ago. Longer: Eberhardt, when we were partners, had suggested computerizing and hiring part-time help more than two years ago.
Eberhardt. I wondered briefly how he was doing with his own one-man agency, Eberhardt Investigative Services, over at Eighteenth and Valencia. Lousy neighborhood for a detective agency, fringe of the Mission . . . but he had friends from his days on the SFPD, contacts he’d made while working with me; Joe DeFalco had told me he was squeaking by and he probably was. He hadn’t tried to steal any of my long-term clients, at least, although I knew Rivera, for one, had tossed him some business that might otherwise have been offered to me. On the one hand I hoped he was making ends meet. On the other hand he didn’t give a damn about me or he’d have responded to the wedding invitation, so why should I give a damn about him?
Before I got started on the paperwork I called Jack Logan at the Hall of Justice. He was an old acquaintance, from the days when he and Eberhardt and I had been part of a weekly poker club, and when I caught him in the right mood he was willing to do me a favor. His mood was iffy today, but I talked him into running a computer check with the California Justice Information System in Sacramento, to find out if Stephen Chehalis had a criminal record in the state. He said he’d try to get back to me before he went off-shift at four.
If this had been a few months ago, I would have called TRW then and asked one of their reps to pull Chehalis’s credit file for me. Now, however, a new state law had gone into effect prohibiting detectives and other private citizens from using credit services like TRW for investigative purposes. I could see the sense in the law, the protection of a person’s right to privacy, but it made things more difficult for those of us who weren’t out to abuse anybody’s rights or privileges. Of course, there were ways to circumvent the new law, as there are ways to circumvent most laws if you’re willing to make the necessary compromises. I was willing: you do what you feel you have to within the limits of your own particular code of ethics.
One way to get around Sacramento’s latest obstacle is to have a realtor request the credit pull, since realtors are in the buying and selling business and therefore allowed to subscribe to TRW under the new law. So I hied myself downstairs to Bay City Realtors, on the ground floor of the building, and did some more fast-talking to the owner, Martin Quon. Okay. But he made it plain that he didn’t like bending rules and I shouldn’t make a habit of asking.
Back in the office, I rang Stephen Chehalis’s home in Los Gatos. His mother had said he traveled regularly and I had no intention of driving sixty-plus miles down the peninsula without first knowing that he was available.
It was Sally Chehalis who answered. Moderately sexy voice: one of those low-pitched, throaty types, like Lizabeth Scott’s or Bacall’s when she was playing opposite Bogart. I identified myself but not my profession and asked for her husband.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “he’s away on business. Is it a business matter you’re calling about?”
“No, a personal matter.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“I’d rather not. When will he be back?”
There was a little silence before she said, “Not until next Tuesday night. But he’ll call before then and I can give him a message.”
“Ask him to contact me at his earliest convenience.” I gave her the office number.
“Four-one-five,” she said, repeating the area code. “Are you in San Francisco?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Another pause, shorter this time. “Well, you might be able to talk to him right away then. That’s where he is, in San Francisco—a two-day medical-supply seminar at the Holiday Inn downtown. He’s leaving for Sacramento in the morning.”
“I’ll call the Holiday right now, thanks.”
“Yes, you do that. But . . . well, I’d really appreciate knowing what it is you want to discuss with him.”
“I think it would be best if I let him tell you.”
“That sounds . . . ominous.”
“Not at all. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“If you say so,” she said, but the inflection in her voice had changed. The new inflection said my call was something she would worry about. I wondered why. Well, maybe she was a chronic worrier. And maybe Chehalis gave her reason to be one.
The switchboard operator at the downtown Holiday Inn confirmed that Stephen Chehalis was registered. She rang his room; no answer. I left my name and number and added “. . . a personal matter, please call as soon as possible.”
Two reports, two itemized bills, and a lot more phone time accounted for the rest of the morning. I was in the middle of my last call before lunch when I had a visitor: Tamara Corbin.
She still had the swagger, but it wasn’t nearly as aggressive as it had been on Monday. The grunge look was toned down some, too: plain Levi’s jeans that were neither rumpled nor ripped, Reeboks instead of sandals, a clean shirt and no scarf. She’d brought the same huge purse but not the Apple PowerBook. I waved her to a chair. She sat down, but not until she’d walked around for a couple of minutes, looking the place over—with a less contemptuous eye this time, I thought.
The rest of the call took about five minutes, during which time she sat perched on the chair reading a spiral-bound textbook. The title of the book was dBase Dialects Software Engineering: Volume One. Foreign language. Less than forty years separated us chronologically, but in every other way the gap might as well have been multigenerational. The world we lived in now was hers, not mine; much of it was as incomprehensible to me as the future. Most people are able to adapt to radical changes as they grow older, but not me—and lately I seemed more aware of the fact every day. I was like a mouse in a Silicon Valley research lab: I occupied a little of the space, I went about my daily business, but I didn’t belong there, had no sense of what vast new wonders were being wrought all around me, and wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with most even if I understood them.
I put on a smile for Ms. Corbin as I cradled the receiver. “Sorry that took so long.”
“No problem.” She closed the c
omputer text, slid it back into her purse. “I had to come downtown this morning so I figured I’d stop by. Maybe I should’ve called first?”
“Not necessary. I’m glad you came.”
“Yeah, well,” she said. Then she said, “You mean what you told my roommate last night?”
“That I was out of town? Yes.”
“About still needing a hacker.”
“That too. Job hasn’t been filled yet.”
“You’d hire me after the other day?”
“If you’re serious about wanting to work here.”
“Why’d you want a black racist-sexist working for you?”
“I wouldn’t. I don’t think you’re either one.”
“Called me both on Monday.”
“Acted like both on Monday.”
Faint smile. “So we pretend it never happened?”
“Why not? I’m willing if you are.”
“How come?”
“Computer expert, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t say expert. Not yet.”
“Above-average qualified then.”
“Well, I won’t argue with that.”
“So do you want the job?”
“I guess I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Same duties and general terms I outlined before.”
“How much to start? Salary, I mean.”
“Twenty an hour. Twenty-five after a month or so.”
“How many hours a week?”
“As many as it takes you to do what needs doing.”
“You set the days and times?”
“No, you do. Work around your school schedule. There might be some occasions, not too many, when I’ll need an emergency job done, so you’ll have to be at least a little flexible.”
“That include weekends?”
“It might. On certain cases I work seven days.”
“Pay extra for overtime and weekend work?”
“Uh-uh. This isn’t a union shop.”
That got another smile, broader this time. She had a nice smile. “Okay. When do I start?”
“How about Monday, morning or afternoon.”
“Afternoon’s better.”
“Two o’clock? Tell me then when you can come in again.”
“What about hardware, software? I’ll need a modem and a laser printer, like I said on Monday. And a desk to put them on.”
“Write out a list of the computer stuff and I’ll order it for you. Or buy it yourself and I’ll reimburse you; it’s probably better that way. Meanwhile I’ll have the second telephone line activated and order you a desk and chair.”
“You trust me to buy hardware?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“No. My dad’s a cop, remember?”
“I’d trust you even if he wasn’t.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“I’m in the people business,” I said. “And I’m good at reading faces, personalities. I like what I read in yours.”
“Man,” she said, and shook her head. But she was pleased at the compliment.
“So you’ll buy whatever you need?”
“I’ll buy it. I’ve got a Visa card.”
“Just be a little frugal, okay? Utilitarian equipment rather than state-of-the-art.”
“Yassuh, boss.”
I showed her my teeth. Then I said, not too sharply, “Cut the crap, Ms. Corbin. This is a business office. No more racist bull from now on.”
Her mouth tightened, and for about five seconds I thought she might decide to be offended. Instead she took it the way I’d meant it, shrugged, and said, “You don’t want me to call you boss, what should I call you?”
“Try my last name with a mister in front of it, until we get to know each other better. Okay, Ms. Corbin?”
“I guess.”
“Italian names really aren’t that hard to pronounce, once you get the hang of it.”
“Cut the crap,” she said immediately, deadpan. “No more racist bull from now on.”
“Touché.”
Her smile came back, wry but genuine. “Whatever that means,” she said. She got to her feet, put her hand out. “Monday afternoon. Two o’clock.”
I shook the hand. “Monday afternoon. Two o’clock.”
At the door she said, “You just hired the best damn hacker at S.F. State,” and went out with her head high. Not bragging, just stating a fact. And feeling pretty good, I thought, about the way the interview had gone this time.
So was I. But I had an odd corollary feeling that I hadn’t just hired the best damn hacker at S.F. State, I’d also taken a small, tentative step toward the twenty-first century. Like the Silicon Valley mouse poking his head out into the lab and to his amazement being fed a morsel of cheese by one of the bright young researchers....
Chapter Ten
AT FOUR O’CLOCK ON THE NOSE Jack Logan rang back with the results of his CJIS computer check. Stephen Chehalis had one arrest and conviction, for simple assault in 1974. The incident had taken place in Paso Robles and he had served four months in the San Luis Obispo county jail. Logan had dredged up the particulars on the case for me. The assault had happened outside a bar after the two A.M. closing; the victim had been a woman, and initially she had filed a rape complaint. Later she’d dropped that charge, on advice of counsel, and pressed the one of simple assault. There were no other blots on Chehalis’s record.
The information didn’t help much in clarifying him for me. It continued the pattern of violent behavior toward women ... but twenty years is a long time, and at least so far as the law was concerned, he’d been clean ever since. I was brooding over the possibilities when the phone rang again.
This time I answered it by saying, “Detective agency.” Usually I give the full agency name, or just my name, but when I’m distracted I’m not always habitual.
Silence on the other end. Then a male voice said, “Detective?” in a startled way and asked who he was speaking to. I told him. He said, “This is Stephen Chehalis. You’re the man who called my hotel earlier and left a message?”
Nice timing, I thought. “Yes, that’s right.”
“What kind of detective?” Now the voice was wary.
“Private investigator.”
“What does a private investigator want with me?”
“As I said in my message, it’s a personal matter. Could we meet for a few minutes, Mr. Chehalis?”
“Can’t you tell me what it’s about over the phone?”
“Be easier to explain in person. I’m only a short distance from the Holiday Inn. I can be there in about twenty minutes, if you’re free now.”
“... All right. Lobby bar?”
“Fine.”
“How will I know you?”
I described myself, and Chehalis said, “Twenty minutes then,” and rang off abruptly.
RUSH-HOUR TRAFFIC and a jam in the nearest parking garage made me ten minutes late. The Holiday’s lobby bar was smallish and not quite full when I walked in. This was where the serious drinkers among the guests and after-work business types congregated; the sippers and sightseers went up to the Sherlock Holmes Pub on the thirtieth floor. Chehalis and I connected almost immediately; he’d taken a two-person table near the entrance.
For some reason—I suppose because of the Everson sisters’ interest in him twenty-four years ago—I’d expected Stephen Chehalis to be a good-looking man. He wasn’t. He must have had some attractive qualities in his early twenties, but in his mid-forties he was saggy-jowled, forty pounds overweight, and mostly bald. Features undistinguished, lips too thin, hands big and restless. And a nighttime pallor, as if he took pains to avoid contact with direct sunlight. He wore a wrinkled light-brown business suit, a blue pin-striped shirt, and a tie with too much design and too many primary colors. Except for the pallor, he looked exactly like what he was: a traveling salesman. All that was missing was the quick laugh and the hail-fellow-well-met manner.
An empty martini glass and the t
witchy movement of his hands testified to the fact that he was on edge. As soon as I sat down he called the waitress over and ordered another martini. I asked for a light beer.
When she went away to the bar I said, “Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”
Chehalis shrugged. His eyes were steady enough on mine. “So what’s this all about?”
“It has to do with an incident that happened a long time ago, one you may not want to remember or talk about. But what I have to tell you makes it necessary.”
“What incident?”
“Marlin’s Ferry. March of nineteen seventy-one.”
“Seventy-one?”
“Jody Everson.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he said.
“Do I need to go into details?”
“No. You think I’d forget something like that?”
“Some men might be able to.”
“I’m not one of them. But it was half a lifetime ago.... Why would anybody in the Valley dredge it up now?”
“I wasn’t hired by anyone in Marlin’s Ferry.”
“No? Not Jody or her sister?”
“Jody’s dead. She died several years ago.”
“Dead,” Chehalis said. “How did she die?”
I told him about the brain tumor and the rat poison. If they made him feel anything, he didn’t show it.
“The tumor,” he said. “It wasn’t ... I mean, because of what I did . . .”
“No. Evidently it was growing long before that.”
The waitress brought our drinks. Chehalis swallowed half of his second martini while I poured my beer, then he sucked in a breath and blew it out gustily between his thin lips. He seemed less nervous now.
“Poor Jody,” he said. Then he said, “I wish I had an excuse for what happened with her, but I don’t. I was wild in those days, do anything for kicks—booze, pot, sex. I thought I could have any girl I wanted. I thought ... no, hell, I didn’t think. That was what got me into trouble. I just went ahead and did things without thinking, particularly when I was high.”
“Were you high that night in seventy-one?”
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