Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (13 page)

And what about Lucas? Was he still living with Mama—in that apartment above the psychic shop, maybe?

If he was living there, he’d be keeping a low profile. Real low, if he and Mama were setting up a scam and he’d been the one to steer Roland, a believer who trusted to “readings” before he acted on important matters, to Alisha. Made sense that way. This investment fund Roland and Doctor Easy were involved in figured to be the scam; Lucas had told James his
business was “investments.” A con designed to bilk cash out of at least two and maybe the rest of the down-low clubbers. A score big enough to warrant weeks of setup and expense—the kind of score small-time grifters dream about.

Tamara didn’t need psychic powers to know she was reading it right, or close to right. It explained everything, including why Lucas and Alisha were still hanging on in San Francisco. Make the big score and then vanish—poof!—to someplace thousands of miles away before any of the vics knew what’d hit them.

She parked the Toyota in the South Park garage, waited for Stewart in the little park across the street from the agency’s building. Restaurants, a couple of clubs in the area, so there were people around and music throbbing in the cold night. Funny, but as she stood there by the playground, the elation she’d felt earlier drained away and left her feeling edgy. Celebration was premature. Still a lot to do, still things that could go wrong.

Stewart finally came hurrying from the direction of 3
^rd
Street. “Sorry it took me so long,” he said. “Couldn’t find a parking place.”

She made herself say, “No problem.”

“Cold out here. How about we go up to your office?”

“Not necessary. This won’t take long. The tape?”

“You want the recorder, too?”

“Just the tape, unless it won’t play in a Sony digital.”

“It’ll play. Sony’s what I’ve got.” He brought the recorder out of his coat pocket, removed and handed her the tape. “I played a little of it back,” he said. “The lounge was noisy, but you can hear most of what we said pretty clearly.”

“When did Roland and Hawkins talk about the deal they’re in with Zeller? What point on the tape?”

“Toward the end. As we were getting ready to leave. I picked up the check, by the way. Figured I should.”

“Put it on the expense account.”

“I will,” he said. “I take it you want me to go to the club meeting in SoMa Saturday night?”

“Probably, if you can keep from having sex with one of them.”

He laughed. “Cost you extra if I can’t.”

Tamara just looked at him.

“Okay, not funny. Sorry. Don’t worry; I can handle it.”

“I wasn’t worried,” she said. “What’s the SoMa address?”

“One-eight-seven-seven-nine Harrison. Top-floor loft, Unit Six. You figure on being there?”

“I don’t know yet. See what happens between now and Saturday.”

“If you do want me to go and Zeller shows, I could find a way to slip out and give you a quick call, let you know. And then see what I can find out about him—where he lives, what he’s doing for his bread.”

“And get him talking about his mother, if you can.”

“His mother? Why?”

Tamara stonewalled the question.

Stewart shrugged and said, “Okay. What’s her name?”

“Alisha. But you’re not supposed to know that.”

“Anything else?”

“If there’s any relationship between him and Roland, aside from the club thing.”

Stewart nodded. “You want the whole evening recorded, all the sports rap?”

“No need. Just anything that’s relevant to Zeller, his mother, Roland.”

“You got it.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, said, “Be seeing you,” and went away toward 3rd at a fast walk.

Tamara crossed the street, unlocked the front door to the building, and climbed the stairs to the agency offices. Stewart had been thoroughly professional tonight, except for that one wisecrack; hadn’t come on to her at all. Good. Fine. And yet, in spite of herself, she couldn’t help feeling a vague disappointment. The man was a hound and the only women hounds didn’t bother to hit on were the ones nobody wanted, the skanks and woofers. A tacit rejection to make her feel unattractive and undesirable . . .

Pathetic.

Don’t start trippin’ on yourself, girl!

In her office, the first thing she did was to boot up her Mac and check on Psychic Readings by Alisha. There was a listing in the current city directory; Tamara made a note of the phone number. No Web site, no other Net reference. City treasurer and tax collector’s office next. No Business Registration Certificate. And no application for a New Business Permit on file.

So Mama hadn’t been operating here for long. Three months max, that was about as long as you could get away without applying for a business license in San Francisco before you got caught. One more strike against Alisha. One more reason to believe she was into a bigger scam than phony psychic readings.

Tamara ran the Fillmore Street address to find out who owned the building. Eldon Management Company. Thomas Eldon, president. Address on Sutter Street downtown. Eldon Management owned three contiguous buildings on that block of Fillmore, in fact, but none of the tenants’ names was listed. Tomorrow she’d try to pry Alisha’s last name out of Thomas Eldon or one of his representatives, and at that it probably
wouldn’t be her real name. Good bet that she’d paid her deposit and rent in cash and that the management company, like a lot of them, wasn’t too scrupulous about making background checks.

Something else that would have to wait until the morning: finding out who Roland was. State law forbid licensed detective agencies from running direct DMV license searches to get the names and addresses of registered car owners. She had a contact in the bureau who’d do it for her, but only during business hours.

Time for Stewart’s tape. She plugged it into her Sony digital, fast-forwarded to near the end, ran it back and forth until she found the exchange he’d told her about. Lots of background noise, as Stewart had said, but with the volume turned all the way up the men’s voices were clear enough—Roland’s was a deep baritone—and you could understand all but a few words here and there.

Doctor Easy:
Before we leave, Roland . . . have you made a decision yet?

Roland:
About the fund? I think I’m ready to go ahead, as long as you and Lucas are still on board.

Doctor Easy:
We are. It’s a solid investment, seems to me. And a worthwhile cause.

Roland:
No question about that.

Doctor Easy:
You still sound hesitant.

Roland:
I’m not, but [I? Vi?] . . . completely convinced yet.

Doctor Easy:
Another reading?

Roland:
Yes.

Doctor Easy:
Will you know by Saturday night?

Roland:
I think so.

Doctor Easy:
Good. Lucas is anxious to get things moving.

Stewart:
What sort of investment, if you don’t mind my asking?

Doctor Easy:
You’ll meet Lucas tomorrow night. He’ll give you the details if you’re interested.

Stewart:
You said it was a worthwhile cause?

Doctor Easy:
Worthwhile, and potentially lucrative for the investors. Helping black families in need.

Stewart:
Helping them how?

Doctor Easy:
Tomorrow night, Deron. Let’s be moving on now. I’m late for dinner as it is.

Investment fund to help black families in need. Worthwhile, lucrative—the perfect con to work on well-off African Americans who were both socially conscious and greedy. Uh-huh. Scam devised by Lucas, probably with Mama’s help. Manipulate the vics by pretending to be one of the investors himself. Roland needs more convincing than Doctor Easy, but he’s into psychics, Lucas introduces him to Mama, and she tells him it’s a terrific deal and he should go for it. One more reading—yeah. Chances are he’s the big pigeon, with the most money to invest; that’s why they’ve spent so much time and effort setting him up.

Tamara listened to the section again, and a third time, trying to make out the words Roland had said right before “completely convinced.” Somebody had called out for the bartender at that point. First word: “Vi,” not “I.” She was pretty sure of that now. The other missing word. “Isn’t?” Had to be.

“Vi isn’t completely convinced yet.”

Vi. Short for what? Violet, Viola, Vivian . . . and a bunch
of other possibilities. Whatever, she must be Roland’s wife. So were they both into psychics? Or maybe just her and she was the one who needed convincing by Alisha’s readings? But if that was it, then why had Roland gone straight to Mama’s from the lounge meeting tonight?

Lots of questions that needed answering before she could figure out the best way to blow up the scheme. She had to have evidence, too, in order to put Lucas and Alisha away. Didn’t exist anymore where the identity and property theft was concerned; and using somebody’s name wasn’t a crime, unless you did it to commit fraud. But setting up a scam wasn’t a fraud felony until and unless money changed hands. And if you waited too long after that happened, they’d skip and disappear with the loot.

Tamara listened to the entire tape, start to finish, in case there was anything useful Stewart might’ve missed. There wasn’t. Most of the conversation was feeler stuff, strangers getting to know one another in general ways, and sports chatter. Doctor Easy did most of the talking, asking Stewart questions, some of them with thinly veiled sexual overtones. Stewart fielded them all smoothly and with just the right amount of nervousness, the way he had on the phone with Hawkins. Roland, as Stewart had told her, didn’t have much to say. A listener, she thought. Brought along to evaluate the new recruit. At some point Roland had probably given Doctor Easy a signal to go ahead and issue the invitation to the club meeting tomorrow night.

Zeller was mentioned a few times, mostly by Stewart in casual attempts to draw out information. No such luck. The brief exchange about the investment fund was all there was on that subject.

It was late, after ten o’clock, when she switched off the
recorder and locked the tape in her desk drawer. She was tired, gritty eyed, but she doubted she’d sleep much again to-night. Too keyed up.

Quiet in the office, too—too quiet. That late-night stillness empty buildings had. The walls were thick enough and insulated enough so that none of the South Park sounds penetrated. She was in the midst of a big, teeming city, with only a hundred yards or so separating her from crowds of people having a good time, but it was as if she were a long way off from anybody, alone on an island of light surrounded by darkness.

Lucas had done this to her. Just when she’d gotten her life back in sync, he’d screwed it up again. Brought the loneliness back. Damn him! Then she thought: Sure, blame him, but blame yourself, too. Tamara Corbin, hotshot de-tective, who makes all the wrong personal decisions, who tries to live in the fast lane but keeps ending up as lifestyle roadkill.

She got herself out of there. She had a weird feeling that if she stayed any longer, she might
really
start feeling sorry for herself.

I
was two minutes from home, coming down off Diamond Heights on my way to the agency, when my cell phone went off. Never fails. Seems like the thing is always silent until I’m in the car and driving and then it rings incessantly. Early start today. It was only eight fifteen.

I could have let the call go onto voice mail, but I’m compulsive about answering the phone—a habit I picked up in the lean days when I first opened the agency and couldn’t afford to miss a potential client. I pulled over and stopped before I answered, something else I’m compulsive about. People who drive with a cell clapped against their ear and too-little attention to the road are one of my pet peeves. You don’t see quite as many doing it now that the new state law banning handheld cellular phones while operating a motor vehicle finally has kicked in, but there’re still too many to suit me. The fines aren’t nearly stiff enough to be an effective deterrent, and the ones who risk getting caught seem to take a sneaky self-satisfaction in flaunting a law they consider an unnecessary infringement on their personal rights. If I were a patrol cop, I’d spend a couple of days a week pulling them over and writing them up just to hear them whine.

The caller was Helen Alvarez. Excited and a little breathless. “It happened again last night,” she said.

“What did?”

“He broke into Margaret’s house again. Patterson or whoever he is. Walked right into her bedroom at three a.m., bold as brass.”

“He didn’t harm her?”

“No. Just scared the wits out of her.”

“She all right now?”

“Better than most women her age would be.”

“Did she get a good look at him?”

“No. Wouldn’t have even if all the lights had been on.”

“Why not?”

“He was wearing a sheet.”

“He was . . . what?”

“A sheet,” Helen Alvarez said grimly, “wearing a white sheet and making noises like a ghost.”

W
hen I got to the Abbott house I found a reception committee of three on the front porch: Helen Alvarez, Leonard Crenshaw, and Everett Belasco, talking animatedly among themselves. Crenshaw was saying as I came up the walk, “. . . Should have called the police instead. They’re the ones ought to be investigating this.”

“What can they do?” his sister said. “There aren’t any signs of breaking and entering this time, either. Nothing damaged, nothing stolen. Just Margaret’s word that a man in a sheet was there in the first place. They’d probably say she imagined the whole thing.”

“Well, maybe she did,” Belasco said. “I mean, all that nonsense about her dead husband coming back to haunt her . . .”

“Ev, she didn’t say it was a ghost she saw. She said it was a man in a sheet pretending to be a ghost. There’s a big difference.”