How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) (7 page)

REGRETS

A BLUE AND
black taxi pulled up outside San Francisco’s City Hall, disgorging a dark-skinned man in a trench coat, tailored suit, and two-toned leather wing tips. As the city’s Previous Mayor climbed out onto the curb, he placed a gloved hand over the felt bowler balanced on his head, anchoring the hat from a sudden gust of rain.

Out of elected office for almost a decade, the Previous Mayor still exerted powerful leverage within local political circles. He was an obligatory invite to any public ceremonies, a sought-after guest for dinner parties, and a must-have attendee at new restaurant openings.

Standing on the sidewalk, he glanced up at the second-floor balcony to the mayor’s office suite. In a few days’ time, he would officially become the
previous
Previous Mayor. He thought of the monogram-based code language used by Oscar and his underground Bohemians, who referred to him as the PM.

They would have to give him another
P
, he thought wryly.

• • •

THE PM SHIFTED
his grip from his hat to the handrail as he mounted the short flight of steps leading to City Hall’s front entrance.

The passing years had taken their toll, and the regular assortment of aches and pains had begun to accumulate. His gait wasn’t as spry as it once was, and there was a slight shake in his right hand that he noticed—and tried to ignore—when he buttoned his jacket or lifted a cocktail glass.

None of these physical frailties, however, had impeded his daily life as much as the murder of the young City Hall intern.

In the months since the tragic event, the Previous Mayor had dramatically curtailed his public appearances. He had been noticeably absent at December’s raft of holiday festivities. Even the city’s glamorous New Year’s Eve celebrations had failed to draw him out.

He had put his weekly op-ed column for the local newspaper on temporary hiatus, and it had been weeks since he’d dined at his honorary table in his favorite French restaurant.

The current trip to City Hall was a rare outing. As he topped the stairs, raindrops streaked down a face stained with sadness. His suit and overcoat were a mix of muted browns and blacks, matched by a similarly drab tie. The only color contrast could be found in his closely cropped mustache, which was growing whiter by the day.

For a man once known for his stylish panache and perpetually cheerful smile, it was a remarkable change.

The death of Spider Jones had left a sorrowful mark on the seasoned politician.

• • •

THE PREVIOUS MAYOR
walked through City Hall’s gilded iron-and-glass doors, trying to suppress an involuntary shudder. It was the first time he had ventured into the building since the night of the fateful supervisors’ meeting.

A flood of emotions swept over him as he navigated through the security station and approached the rotunda. He paused on the pink marble floor to reach inside his jacket for a handkerchief. Dabbing his eyes, he stared up at the domed ceiling.

Spider had been the perfect protégé, the likes of which the PM feared he might never see again.

The young man had exhibited innate skill, keen perception, and sharp political wits. The PM had quickly taken him under his wing. How could he not? The intern had reminded him of an earlier version of himself.

The PM’s biological children were all grown and married, with their own careers and hobbies to keep them busy. Despite his best efforts, none of them had shown any interest in the family business—that is, running the city.

He had begun to despair for the future of San Francisco, which seemed devoid of suitable leadership candidates, particularly of late.

But then he’d met Spider.

The PM soon began to regard the intern as his heir apparent. He’d sent the lad on training missions designed to hone his natural talents. Spider had succeeded at every task. Be it sneaking around City Hall’s many corridors to pick up information, tailing soon-to-be-mayor Montgomery Carmichael, or even breaking into the building that housed the Green Vase antique shop, Spider had exceeded all expectations.

The PM had even started to work on Spider’s social etiquette, grooming him for the many power lunches, dinners, and cocktail parties ahead. To his view, the first requirement for any successful Bay Area politician—other than a proficiency in espionage—was the development of a fine palate.

He smiled, remembering Spider’s initiation to French cuisine and the intern’s valiant attempt to finish off platters of both oysters and snails.

With a sigh, he shook his head.

“Such a waste,” the PM muttered under his breath. He turned away from the rotunda and headed for one of the narrow staircases leading to the basement.

“I had so many more dishes for him to try.”

As he started down the steps, he grinned, despite his grim mood.

“I think Spider would have liked calamari.”

• • •

THERE HAD ALWAYS
been a danger, the Previous Mayor reflected, his somber mood returning as he descended into the building’s basement. The young man was just the sort to get in over his head—and not realize the risks he was taking.

The engrossing research project Spider had taken up the last weeks of his life had set off alarm bells from the get-go. The PM had puzzled at all of the late hours the intern had spent digging around unsupervised in the City Hall archives. He had puzzled at the air of secretiveness and the covert nature of the intern’s investigations.

It was one thing for Spider to sneak around the building and report his findings to the PM, quite another for him to keep the spoils to himself.

The PM had followed up on his suspicions. Using his extensive information network, he had quickly managed to determine what Spider’s secret project was not.

It was not, for example, part of the intern’s regular duties. Nor did it involve any of the currently pending or contemplated legislation being discussed by the board members.

Given the archives Spider had been accessing, the project likely related to something much older, some aspect of San Francisco’s long-forgotten history.

Unfortunately, that guidance only served to widen the inquiry—and to increase the PM’s concern.

The city had more than its fair share of dark secrets, and a number of them were hidden in the dusty files in the basement where the intern was searching.

• • •

THE PREVIOUS MAYOR
had finally confronted Spider, gently but firmly insisting that he share the details of his special project. It hadn’t taken much persuasion; after a minimal resistance, the intern appeared relieved to share the burden of his secret.

Spider was set to reveal everything to the PM the night of the lengthy board of supervisors meeting to select the interim mayor. They had planned a late dinner at a garlic-themed restaurant in North Beach. The venue was the young man’s choosing, a payback for the earlier oyster and snail torture he’d endured.

The PM remembered sitting at a booth inside the Columbus Street eatery, checking his watch as trays filled with plates of grotesquely over-garlicked dishes floated past his booth. His eyes had begun to water from the aromatic stench, and he sensed an anticipatory heartburn building in his stomach.

But Spider never showed. The garlic mashed potatoes the PM had ordered for the intern went cold. He was about to give up and leave when his cell phone rang.

The PM had puzzled at the number. It was Mabel, the outgoing mayor’s administrative assistant. He recalled her voice as she politely conveyed the news: informative, but, true to her reserved personality, emotionally detached.

Afterward, he’d hung up the phone and sat in stunned silence.

He’d been so shocked, he’d eaten the entire plate of stinky potatoes.

• • •

“IF ONLY I’D
stepped in sooner,” the PM lamented. It was a thought he had repeated over and over in the weeks since the staffer’s death.

“I might have prevented this tragedy.”

BENEATH THE VENTILATION SHAFT

THE PREVIOUS MAYOR
entered the basement level of San Francisco’s City Hall and started down a side corridor, pausing every few feet in front of open office doorways to peek inside.

He was in a lesser-used corner of the building’s basement, away from the public administrative activity that took place on the opposite end. It was a quiet, remote location, with only the occasional low-level staffer or intern passing through its windowless depths.

After about five minutes of wandering, the PM stopped, turned his head sideways, and listened. He thought he’d heard a familiar noise.

He held up a hand, raising a finger toward the ceiling. There it was again—the squeaking of wheels.

His somber face broke into a broad smile. A moment later, a grungy man clad in faded overalls rounded the corner. He used a mop to push a plastic bucket filled with dingy gray water.

“My friend,” the PM said, stretching out his hand to clasp that of the janitor. “So good to see you.”

The PM knew everyone who worked in City Hall—from the most powerful professional advisers to the lowest-level staffers. He worked hard to maintain these relationships. They were his primary means of keeping tabs on the ins and outs of San Francisco politics.

While many high-profile figures liked to think they knew everything that went on inside the building, they tended to limit their information to sources of equivalent stature.

The PM had learned to seek as many inputs as possible. He would stop and listen to anyone who had something to say, no matter the person’s station. The lower the social standing, he’d found, the more reliable the insight. In his experience, no confidant was more valuable than those working in janitorial services.

The cleaning corps circulated virtually unseen throughout every inch of the vast domed structure. They were the first to detect when a scandal was about to break, and they were sometimes the only ones to suspect the private alliances that subtly dictated voting patterns and back-room favoritism.

So when the PM received an urgent message from his trusted network of cleaning professionals, he broke his self-imposed isolation and proceeded immediately to City Hall.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he bent toward the janitor’s shoulder. “Now, what did you have to show me?”

• • •

THE JANITOR ROLLED
his bucket along a dimly lit hallway, motioning for the PM to follow. After checking to see that no one was watching, the man pushed open a doorway leading into a long narrow room holding several rows of pre-fab office cubicles. He bumped the bucket over the threshold and then waved the PM inside.

The PM stood in the outer hallway, hesitating. He had been to this location several times before. Spider’s old desk was located at the far end of the rows of cubicles.

“This way, sir,” the janitor urged in a hushed voice.

Sucking in a deep breath, the PM pushed his feet forward.

The janitor steered the mop bucket down an open space between the wall and the cubicles. As he passed each workstation, he leaned over the partition wall to ensure it was unoccupied.

The place was deserted. Most of the interns were still on their holiday vacation.

The PM clenched his hat, nervously bending the brim as the janitor reached Spider’s cubicle at the end of the aisle.

The desk had been cleared of the many folders and files that Spider had accumulated. Presumably, they had been taken into evidence by the police. Only a few stacks remained on a nearby bookshelf, mostly copies of proposed legislation from last fall’s session of the board of supervisors.

On the empty desk space, a makeshift memorial had sprung up. Friends and well-wishers had dropped off notes, cards, and various trinkets symbolizing the intern’s life.

Spider’s bike, painted the same burnt-red color as the Golden Gate Bridge, leaned against the side of the desk. A plastic helmet, purchased by Spider’s mother, but rarely worn by her daredevil son, hung from the handlebars by its chin strap.

The PM turned away, unable to look any longer.

The janitor propped his mop handle against the cubicle wall. Stepping around the desk, he crouched in front of a ventilation shaft on the rear wall. With a last glance over his shoulder, he ran his fingers along the edge of the metal grate cover and prized it from its fittings.

“I was cleaning down here this morning when I noticed the cover was a little loose.” The janitor grunted as he set the grate on the ground. “I thought it just needed to be tamped back into place.” He moved away from the opening so that the PM could see inside. “But then I saw this.”

Holding his bowler against his chest, the PM edged toward the shaft. The janitor fished a small flashlight from one of his many pockets, switched on the light, and aimed the beam into the hole.

There was an extra space inside the wall, beneath the opening for the metal funnel connecting the vent to the rest of the building’s heating system. Inside the cubbyhole rested a cardboard box stuffed with papers, binders, and several expandable file pockets.

“And this is how you found it?” the PM asked, turning from the vent to look at the janitor. “Are you sure it was Spider’s?”

At the man’s shrugged response, the PM took the light and returned his attention to the cardboard box. With a gloved hand, he pulled out a sheath of loose papers and aimed the beam at the top sheet. The unique scrawling, a cramped print style, provided the confirmation he was seeking.

“Have the police seen this yet?” he asked, still skimming the handwritten words.

“No,” the janitor replied, sheepishly staring at the ground. “They were all over this place the day after . . .” He sighed ruefully and shook his head. “The day after Spider’s death, but I guess no one thought to check the vent. I thought I’d give you a look before I called it in.”

The PM replaced the sheath of papers and began thumbing through the rest of the box’s contents. It was pretty tame stuff, he mused. He noted the personnel files of previous interns who had worked for the outgoing mayor over the years. They were a transient bunch, typically staying no longer than a month or two. He couldn’t imagine any of them having information that needed to be hidden in a secret box.

After a few minutes’ review, he cleared his throat as if he had seen nothing of interest. Then his eyes narrowed on a name printed on the edge of one of the file pockets—this man was not a previous City Hall intern.

“You did the right thing,” he said tensely as he lifted the expandable file from the box. He walked around the partition wall to Spider’s desk, took a seat in the chair, and switched on a nearby lamp.

Flipping through the pages, he pulled out a long A4-sized sheet of paper that had been folded in half. He opened the sheet and held it under the light.

It was a picture of two elderly men standing in front of a brightly colored mural. The men wore loose-fitting coveralls, which appeared to be stained with splatters of paint. Buckets and brushes of various types were spread out across a drop cloth protecting the floor.

The mural covered the wall’s entire length. It depicted an earlier San Francisco street scene, populated with dozens of citizens captured in poses reflecting their daily life and activities. An accident attended by a squad of policemen and a bright red fire truck took up one section, while a number of recognizable landmarks spread across the painted horizon.

The PM examined the details and then refolded the sheet. The janitor watched, eyes widening with curiosity.

The PM stroked his chin for a moment before he spoke.

“Let’s keep this between us for now.”

Refolding the paper, he slipped it back inside the file. With a conspiring nod to the janitor, he tucked the file under his jacket and strode briskly out of the cubicle area.