Lead-Pipe Cinch (21 page)

If and when I got the check.

 

 

When I left for the airport in the morning it was still dark. When I hit I-205 it was almost deserted, and I made it to the airport in near-record time.

I made a last check of my pockets for anything that would upset security, like a forgotten wrench or screwdriver, and hoisted my laptop bag over my shoulder. I had no plans that required the computer, but I felt naked going to San Francisco without it. It was my security blanket, my protective prop that said I belonged.

The long corridor from the parking garage to the terminal was empty, a cold, echoing tunnel that had me looking over my shoulder every few steps.

No one knew my plans. I wasn’t breaking any law. The sheriff hadn’t told me not to leave town, he’d only suggested I not plan any long trips. San Francisco was only a couple hours’ flight, and I would be back tonight. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following me, watching where I went and what I did.

The terminal was nearly as deserted as the tunnel. I bypassed the luggage check in. I was only going for the day, and I had everything in my laptop case that was slung over my shoulder.

I took my boarding pass from my jacket pocket and presented it at the security gate. An unsmiling agent examined my pass and driver’s license.

I tried to think of something to say to cheer him up, but ended up saying nothing. No telling what might trigger the suspicions of someone looking for shoe bombs.

It was never too early for Starbucks, and I joined the line at the counter just past the security checkpoint. A few minutes later I had a mocha with an extra shot and a pastry. The perfect breakfast: sugar, chocolate, and caffeine.

The plane was only about half full; no one with any choice in the matter was going to take a 6:00 A.M. flight on a Sunday morning. But it meant I got a row to myself, and I was able to leave the laptop in its case instead of opening it and using it as a shield against a seatmate who wanted to chatter for the entire two hours.

I leafed through a magazine, trying to distract myself from the task ahead. I had to find Richard Parks, which should be fairly easy since he’d left his cell number with me.

Then I had to persuade him to talk to me. Also not too difficult. But getting him to tell me what I wanted might be a little trickier. He was already concerned that he had said too much, and now I would want more.

I had that to use as leverage, and I had one other thing: I was sure that when I was dating Blake, Richard had a crush on me. It meant he might be more willing to talk, but I wouldn’t use it to trick him. Not the way Blake had used my feelings for him to trick me. If I did that I was no better than the man I had come to despise.

It was ironic. I was spending money I couldn’t afford—money I hoped I might be able to recoup from Samurai—to chase information on the murder of a man I hated. I was giving up my time and putting myself in jeopardy to find his killer.

Even after his death, Blake Weston was messing up my life.

In the San Francisco International terminal I caught the BART into the city. An hour after landing I was standing at the Powell Street station. The Bush Avenue address Blake had used was only a few blocks away.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the number Richard had left for me. I hoped Richard wasn’t the type to sleep late on Sunday morning. From what I remembered of him, it didn’t seem likely.

He answered on the third ring, his voice froggy but alert.

“Georgiana? Is that you?”

“Yes, Richard, it’s me. I, uh, I wondered if you could spare a few minutes to talk to me. I know it’s short notice, but I’d really like to get some information from you.” I paused, giving him time to answer. When he didn’t I continued. “I could have asked Stan yesterday, of course. But it might have been awkward to try to explain how I knew about things down here.”

“No good deed, and all that, huh?”

“It’s not like that, Richard. I think there were some rumors spread around, and I’d like the chance to set the record straight. And maybe find out how they got started in the first place.

“It won’t take long, honest.”

He sighed. “Can it wait until I’ve had my coffee?”

“Sure. But I have a better idea.” I couldn’t help pausing a moment, playing the drama queen. “How about we meet for breakfast?”

“What?!”

“I’m standing outside the Powell Street station, just a few blocks from the address Blake was using. I flew in this morning.”

“Well, if you flew down here just to talk to me . . .”

“I did, Richard. I thought this might be something that would be better in person than over the phone.”

“OK. Let me check with my wife.” He was gone before I could voice my surprise at that news. Guess I wasn’t playing the crush card.

Richard was back on the phone in a minute or so. “Barb says she would love to meet the famous Georgiana Neverall, if it’s okay for her to come along.”

I didn’t answer immediately, and Richard sensed my hesitation. “There are no secrets between us, Georgie. None.” His emphasis told me I was famous for more than my hasty departure from Samurai.

“Then sure, as long as you’re willing to talk to me with her there.”

Richard said he was, and suggested a small restaurant near Union Square. It had been a popular spot for breakfast with the Samurai crew when we’d pulled all-nighters.

“You still in the neighborhood then?” I asked.

“A tiny, overpriced condo,” he answered. “But it’s walking distance to the office. Without a car, it’s almost affordable,” he finished with a laugh.

We agreed to meet in an hour, and I flipped my phone closed. I had a little time to kill in a city I hadn’t seen in several years. It was more time than I needed to saunter the few blocks to Union Square, and not nearly enough to get reacquainted with the city I had loved.

I walked toward Union Square. The sun was up, and the fog was beginning to burn off. The day promised to be clear, but cool.

I’d dressed for the weather in tan cords, low-heeled boots, and a wool jacket—the practical remnants of my San Francisco wardrobe. One good thing about the work I’d done all summer, it kept me in shape. I could still wear the few good pieces I’d kept when I left the city, and simple pants and classically tailored jackets never went out of style.

I wandered through the streets of upscale shopping, glancing in windows and occasionally stopping to admire a pair of shoes or a piece of jewelry in a window. The displays were dazzling, an elegant collection of winter colors and styles hinting at the cold weather to come.

A camel-colored wool coat caught my eye and I stopped. The cut was perfect, and the fabric looked soft. I could imagine the brush of the collar against my cheek.

Then I thought about cleaning bills, and a camel-colored coat covered with dog hair, and the smell of wet wool when the Great North-wet went into the rainy season.

Gore-Tex was more my style now.

I passed in front of a shop specializing in glass and crystal where I’d bought Blake a pair of champagne flutes to celebrate some milestone we had shared.

Not all the memories were bad. Still, those two glasses probably cost more than all the dishes and glassware in my current kitchen.

Many of the shops weren’t open yet, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t there to buy, though I could still admire the beauty of the clothes and accessories displayed.

I still liked beautiful things—like the crystal wine glasses in the window. Perhaps when I solved my current financial dilemma I could buy an occasional bauble just to treat myself.

I checked my watch—the good gold one this time—and headed toward the twenty-four-hour diner on Sutter. Richard and his wife should be there soon, but I wanted to be there before them.

Somehow it felt like it would give me some control over our conversation, and I could use all the help I could get. After all, with his wife along, they outnumbered me.

I took a booth along the front window, where I would be able to see Richard as he approached. If he was on time I should only have a few minutes to wait.

The diner was as I remembered: all stainless steel, red-and-black vinyl, and gleaming-white tile. The booths were similar to the ones in Dee’s, except these were replicas and Dee’s were the real thing.

I couldn’t remember if Stan had ever joined us in any of the predawn gatherings. Usually it was a small group of code monkeys and hardware wonks, punchy with exhaustion, crammed into a booth in the back of the diner. After the first time they knew to hide us from the normal customers. As if anyone who stumbled into a diner at 4:00 A.M. was very normal.

I didn’t think Stan had ever been to the diner with us. He wasn’t the type to fraternize with the kind of people he saw as eggheads. He did just fine with the guys driving trucks and pulling wire, or the other deep pockets on the board. But the people in between baffled him.

It was kind of amazing, actually, that he had taken a liking to me. But he was an early investor, and he knew my small-town background. Even with an advanced degree, I was still one of the real people.

I watched the people passing on the street as I waited. My palms were sweating, and my stomach knotted with each sip of coffee. I had deliberately walked into one of the places where I might run into someone I knew. It wasn’t a happy thought.

I spotted Richard across the street, waiting for the light to change before he crossed. Relief flooded me. He had come, and he didn’t have a crowd of Samurai employees—or police—with him.

If I hadn’t been expecting him, he could have walked past without me recognizing him. His standard uniform of discount center khaki pants, short-sleeved shirt, and white socks was gone. He wore designer jeans and a fisherman-knit sweater, with sneakers that didn’t come from a discount store. His glasses were gone, though from a distance I couldn’t tell if he was wearing contacts, or if he’d had surgery.

He was tall, well over six feet. But the last time I’d seen him he still looked like a puppy—all big feet and long legs that he hadn’t yet grown into—his posture loose and sloppy. In the intervening years he had filled out and learned to stand up straight, though I suspected his companion might have something to do with the air of confidence he projected.

That was the biggest change—he wasn’t alone. Standing next to him, her fingers entwined with his, was a striking woman. Nearly as tall as Richard, she had wavy red hair and the fair complexion to go with it. Even in jeans and a bulky sweater matching Richard’s she turned heads on the sidewalk. For a split second I thought I might know her, but I dismissed the idea. Exhaustion and paranoia were making me see things that weren’t there.

I suddenly felt both underdressed and overdressed at the same time. I hastily ran my fingers through my short hair, glancing at my reflection in the tinted front window. Too late to do anything about it now.

The couple crossed the street, the woman’s stride matching Richard’s. They were an imposing sight, and he didn’t look at all like the tentative voice I’d heard on the phone.

Which one was the real Richard? And had I come all this way based on a voice, only to find someone who wasn’t going to tell me what I needed to know?

They breezed through the door, the woman laughing up at Richard over some private joke they shared. He turned and caught sight of me, and rushed over, pulling her along.

“Georgie! It’s so good to see you!”

For one awkward moment I thought he was going to try and hug me, even though I was still seated. The moment passed as he seemed to remember why we were there.

“Georgie, this is my wife, Barbara. Barb, this is Georgiana Neverall, the founder of Samurai.”

Barbara extended her hand and I shook it briefly before she slid gracefully into the seat across from me. Richard slid in next to her, draping his arm over the back of the booth, his hand resting lightly on his wife’s shoulder.

“Richard has told me so much about you,” Barbara said. “I feel like I know you already.”

I smiled in what I hoped was a friendly manner. “I didn’t even know Richard was married. I’ve been a bit out of touch the last few years.”

We chatted for a few minutes. I heard how they met and married. Richard told me proudly that Barbara was a lawyer.

I nearly spewed coffee across the table. “You brought your
lawyer
? I thought this was a friendly conversation.”

“It is,” he assured me. “She works for the City Attorney’s office. Code enforcement, that kind of thing.”

Barbara reached in her shoulder bag and produced a business card, identifying her as an investigator for the City Attorney’s office.

We kept to relatively safe subjects until after our food arrived, and the waiter had drifted away. I kept glancing around, worried that we might be overheard.