Looking for Yesterday (2 page)

Outside, the lights of lower Tel Hill and the Embarcadero shimmered through the raindrops on the glass; the palm trees that grew along the central greenbelt were great shadows, their trunks swaying, their fronds wind-tossed. The day’s rain was now turning into a full-blown storm.

I told myself I should go home before it got any worse, but still I sat there. If I wasn’t back by seven, one of the young women next door—whom I paid to house- and cat-sit—would go over to take in the mail and feed Alex and Jessie. Hy was busy in Boston this week. I had no responsibilities; even my daily paperwork was done. I also had nothing I wanted to do. So I sat and let myself become mesmerized by the lights and the rain.

And finally it came to me: I was waiting for my decision. Tell Caro Warrick I wouldn’t take her case, or tell her I would.

Part of me resisted; I didn’t particularly like the woman, didn’t understand her need to be vindicated again. But then I remembered Bobby Foster, a young black man on San Quentin’s death row, whom I’d exonerated of the murder for which he’d been convicted. Bobby’s trial had been a gross miscarriage of justice, based on a false confession—which he’d later retracted—induced by a lack of sleep and food and by police coercion. Apparently Caro Warrick’s indictment had been another such miscarriage. Bobby had been fortunate to have out-of-state family members who would take him in after his release, so he could get an education in a place where his alleged crime was unknown. Caro hadn’t possessed that luxury. If this book with Greta Goldstein could change her life, why should I deny her my aid based on a negative first impression?

8:15 p.m.

Warrick lived in an apartment behind the garage of a modest pale green stucco house on Forty-Fourth Avenue, a block from the L Taraval streetcar line. A cracked concrete walkway led between the house’s right side and a newish redwood fence. Rainwater sluiced off the house’s roof and splashed onto my hat—clogged downspouts, no doubt. I followed a shaft of light to Warrick’s door. When she opened it, the odor of an aromatic candle, underscored by mildew, dilated my nostrils.

She took my hat and raincoat, shook them out, and hung them on a hall tree. Urged me toward a sofa. After I sat she went off behind a faded blue curtain that masked a kitchenette to make us tea. I took the opportunity to look around.

The ceiling was water-stained, the walls victims of bad patch jobs. But the Oriental rugs were of good quality, the sofa and chairs somewhat worn but durable. A flat-screen TV—maybe thirty-five inches—dominated one wall, and art glass knickknacks were positioned on the end tables. When Warrick returned she carried a silver tray containing a blue Wedgwood tea set.

She might have been living in a damp garage apartment, but her possessions affirmed that she had once been an affluent woman.

“I’m so glad you’ve agreed to take my case,” she said as she poured.

“Before we proceed, I’ll need your signature on our standard contract.” I handed her the document I’d drawn up before leaving the office.

She read it over, signed it, said she’d give me a cashier’s check for the retainer the next day. I put the contract into my bag, then took a piece of lemon from a little plate and squeezed it into my cup. I don’t really care for tea unless it’s iced, but lemon makes it palatable.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

I set my voice-activated machine on the table between us. “First I’d like some background about your life before the murder. Where you were born, how you grew up, that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure that’s all on record.”

“But not in your own words.”

“I see.” She looked down at her folded hands for a moment. “I was born here in the city. At home, in the big house my parents used to own in the Marina. They had to sell it to help pay for my defense—even public defenders run up expenses. Now they live down the Peninsula in a tacky apartment complex in Millbrae and don’t speak to me. Neither does my brother Rob or my sister Patty. They blame me for their losing the family fortune—such as it was. It’s not fair: I didn’t ask my parents for financial help.”

She looked at me as if she wanted some sort of approval. I nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, as I said, we lived in the Marina. I was the second child. We all got along pretty well—no sibling rivalries, no parental neglect or conflict. But then my older brother Rob accidentally shot our baby sister, Marissa. After that Mom and Dad were guilt-ridden and pulled away from us and each other.”

“Did they become abusive?”

“No. We weren’t that kind of family. Everybody just wanted the…incident to never have happened. We hardly even mentioned Marissa after the funeral. Mom and Dad threw themselves into their careers—she as an interior decorator, he as a financial planner. We kids threw ourselves into our schoolwork. Rob and Patty went to public schools, but after sixth grade I went to a private one—Miss Harrison’s. I had special needs.”

“Such as?”

“I’m dyslexic. And I used to have seizures.”

“Do you know what caused them?”

“None of the doctors could figure it out.”

“You say you used to. When did they stop?”

“I’m not sure. They just…stopped. One day I realized I hadn’t had one in quite a while.”

“How old were you then?”

“Nineteen? Twenty? Somewhere around that age.”

“So after Miss Harrison’s…?”

“I went to City College for a year, but I wasn’t much of a student. After that I worked as a model through the Ames Agency. Did a lot of ads for Macy’s. Maybe you saw them?”

I didn’t remember them, but I nodded.

“That was where I met Amelia. She modeled too. Not because she needed the money, but because she enjoyed seeing her picture in the paper and on billboards. She’d just gotten her first TV work when she…died.”

“Your relationship with Amelia—how would you describe it?”

“Close girlfriends. We’d go clubbing together, pick up guys. Do other silly stuff—you know.”

“Such as?”

“Take the last ferry to Sausalito and sleep on the dock until morning. Roller-skate around the neighborhood in the middle of the night. Go looking for the best margaritas in the Bay Area.”

I smiled, thinking of a long ago Best Ramos Fizz Hunt.

“And Jake? How did he figure in all of this?”

“I met him at a club in the Mission, the Screaming Eagle. After he and I got together, Amelia’s and my friendship sort of slacked off. Oh, we’d still have drinks and talk on the phone a lot, but it wasn’t the same. She resented Jake, and eventually she set about taking him away from me. Succeeded, too.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“What
did
you do?”

“Tried to kill myself. Pills and booze one night. My sister Patty found me and I ended up getting my stomach pumped. Believe me, I’d never go through that again.”

“I would hope not.”

“Thing is, I was there that night. I
did
confront Amelia about Jake. She laughed at me, said he wasn’t so great a catch and when she was done with him she’d throw him back. I loved him, couldn’t stand her disparaging him like that. So I left in a rage. That was when the witnesses saw me in the elevator and the lobby.”

“Did you go home?”

“No. I was a real-estate agent, had a house to show in the Richmond. I’m afraid I didn’t do much of a selling job. Afterward I’m not sure where I went. It’s a blur. All I can remember is flashes of purple and red and yellow. A blur of people. Fragments of music and noise.”

“Perhaps you had a recurrence of the epilepsy?”

“I don’t think so. There’s an aura when an attack is coming on; I would’ve known what was happening. And if I’d had a spell people would’ve seen me, called 911. No, I have a sense I wandered the streets for quite a while.”

“Where?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s one of those memories that’s locked down deep. I’ve even tried hypnotherapy, but I just can’t bring it to the surface.”

When we’d talked earlier she’d seemed strong and in control; now she was fragile, vulnerable.

She said, “It’s not going to be easy, is it—investigating for me?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Are there any rules?”

“Only one: you tell me the truth at all times. If I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll terminate the investigation—and you’ll forfeit the unused portion of the retainer.”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Now let’s get to work. Tell me about your collaborative book with Greta Goldstein.”

“She approached me last August. You know she’s done a number of biographies and true-crime accounts?”

“I’m familiar with her work.” In fact, Goldstein had approached me about a book on several of my cases. I’d turned her down; I didn’t need or want that kind of sensational publicity.

“Greta’s New York publisher, Wyatt House, was interested in the book. We signed a contract and started to work, putting together a timeline and establishing the major characters. Then in October, Greta’s agent heard a rumor that another publisher had contracted for Jill Starkey’s book and they were pressuring Wyatt House to drop us.”

“Can they do that?”

“Anybody can do anything in publishing, according to Greta. It’s a tight-knit community: people owe other people favors, or have something on them.”

Same as in my business—and the world at large.

“What was Wyatt House’s reaction?”

“They stood by our contract. We’ll deliver the final draft in April. In fact, I have to go to my self-storage unit in South City to look for a final batch of documents Greta needs. I’ll see if I can dredge up something that might be helpful to you too.”

“Good. And what about Starkey’s book?”

“I hear she’s having trouble with it. A lot of the people she needs to interview about me won’t talk with her.”

“This ‘vendetta’ you say Starkey has against you—could that be about your stance on gun control?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing more personal?”

“We differ on issues—social, political, individual. Do you know Jill Starkey?”

“I’ve never met her and I don’t read her column much.”

“Then reserve your judgment till you talk with her in person.”

11:50 p.m.

By the time I got home, I could already feel a psychic drain. This case was going to take its toll on me, that was for sure. The client was probably unstable, the details were sordid, and the outcome wouldn’t matter legally. Yet I’d agreed. What the hell was
wrong
with me?

The house was cold; I turned up the thermostat as I went down the hall. The cats didn’t come to greet me. I clicked on the overhead in the sitting room and started when a grunt of protest came from the couch.

“Jesus, you really know how to wake a girl up!”

My niece Jamie, middle child from my sister Charlene’s marriage to country music star Ricky Savage.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked.

She uncoiled her long, slender legs, pushed back the rich chestnut hair she’d inherited from her father. Screwed up her oval face in a scowl so like her mother’s that I laughed.

The scowl grew deeper. “Please, turn that thing down,” she commanded.

I hit the dimmer, went around the couch and sat down on the edge of the coffee table. “So to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m up here on a gig. The first on a West Coast tour.”

“You’re performing?”

She sat up, pulling her feet under her and clasping her arms around her knees. “I’ve been doing these singing gigs around San Luis, you know?”

It was the first I’d heard of it, but I nodded.

“Different bands. Nobody big. But this one group—Cash Only—got an agent who set them up with a tour, and they asked me to go along. Cal Poly isn’t working out too well for me, so I said yes. And here I am.”

“Why aren’t you at your father’s?”

“He’s nervous about it, and he makes me nervous. He and Mom were really opposed to me dropping out to sing. But that’s because he knows how hard life on the road is. And Mom only wants me to get the degree because Dad got her pregnant when she was still in high school and she had to marry him and didn’t get her GED or go to college until years later.”

“Valid reasons. Your dad wasn’t always rich or famous. And your mom spent a lot of lean years with him when having a high school diploma would’ve helped her contribute to their income.”

“My mom was only into having babies, and my dad was only into screwing groupies.”

I closed my eyes. There was more than a grain of truth in what she said: Charlene had had their six children in short order, and had frequently lived off my parents—who themselves were not affluent—while Ricky was out on the road. Ricky’s record with star fuckers was legendary. But then Charlene had discovered a talent for finance, gotten high school and college degrees, and left Ricky for an international financier who had been one of her visiting professors. And Ricky had fallen in love with my best friend and occasional operative Rae Kelleher, married her, and turned into a totally committed man.

“Anyway,” Jamie said, “eventually they came around to the concept that this is my choice and my life.”

Good. My parents had thought I was wasting my—largely useless—degree in sociology from Cal by working as an investigator. My mother still complained that my job was too dangerous. But they’d also agreed it was my choice and my life.

“So everything’s okay now?” I asked hopefully. Leaping with both feet into a family conflict was not what I needed to do right then. Of course, neither was taking the Warrick case. But who ever said the events of your life will be opportune?

“Okay. Dad and Rae are coming to the concert in Berkeley tomorrow. You too, if you have time.”

“We’ll see, and you and I will talk more in the morning.”

I tucked a soft blue blanket around her and went to bed.

7:10 a.m.

A
fter I fed the cats and turned on the coffeepot, I looked into the sitting room to see if I’d wakened Jamie. She and my blanket were gone.

Probably excited and off with her band members getting ready for their tour kickoff. She was one motivated young woman, and I hoped the Bay Area debut would go well.

But when I called Rae, I found all was not well in her household.

“Damn!” she said. “She and Ricky…had words last night, and she stormed out of here. Ricky’s been frantic. I wish you’d called to let us know she was with you.”

“I would have, but all she told me was that he made her nervous.”

“Too much fatherly advice.”

“You talk to him about that?”

“Afterward, yes. But you know me: I’m a cautious stepmother, and this is something that’s clearly between Jamie and Ricky and Charlene.”

Cautious stepmother: why the kids liked her and often confided in her rather than their parents.

“So Ricky’s frantic. What’s he doing about this?”

“I’m not sure. He had to leave for LA early this morning. By now he’s probably contacted Charlene, his lawyer, our security firm, and—for all I know—the animal shelter.” Rae sounded weary.

“Everything okay with you guys?”

“It’s fine when it’s just him and me. But when the rest of real life intrudes—you know.”

I knew. Oh, yes, I knew.

Not that Hy and I had problems about family, but still real life intruded, our jobs keeping us apart. In the past three weeks we’d spent a total of six days together. Something had to change.

8:45 a.m.

Cash Only’s tour schedule wasn’t easy to access. The band didn’t have a website, and the various search engines didn’t recognize the name. When I got to the office, I turned the whole mess over to Mick—Jamie was his sister, let him deal with it.

Up on the fourth floor—uncluttered at last—I turned my attention to the Warrick case and made a list of people to interview: Caro’s parents and siblings; the investigating officers on the SFPD; her attorney and the prosecutor; witness Jake Green; any relatives of Amelia Bettencourt; Jill Starkey; friends, employers, and acquaintances of all the principals in the case.

Caro’s family would be hostile witnesses at best; I decided to save them for later. One of the investigating officers was dead, the other had retired and moved to Costa Rica. Star witness Jake Green, Caro’s attorney Ned Springer, and the prosecutor were unavailable, so I left messages. Amelia Bettencourt’s mother had died; her father lived in Pacific Grove, south of Monterey, but he didn’t answer his phone. Friends, employers, and acquaintances were scattered or difficult to identify.

That left Jill Starkey. She had for years been a conservative op-ed columnist for the
Chronicle
, but had been fired in 2010 when the paper had to pay an undisclosed sum to an individual who had successfully sued her for libel. She was currently writing for a radical right-wing paper called
The Right Shoe
. As in “If the shoe fits…”

I decided to pay Starkey a visit.

10:30 a.m.

The Right Shoe
’s offices were on the top floor of an old three-story building on Market Street between Sixth and Seventh. It was a neighborhood in transition: upscale businesses and prosperous-looking people abounded, but so did cheap liquor stores, check-cashing outlets, and homeless people. Crime wasn’t as rampant as it had once been, but that was due to the highly visible presence of cops on the beat. In the dark streets and alleys to either side, drugs were peddled and violent events happened with regularity.

As I walked along from where I’d left my car in the underground garage at UN Plaza, I saw a derelict sobbing into his beer can as a police officer leaned over him, and a woman sitting on a folding chair behind a TV tray, offering her poems for fifty cents apiece. Budget cuts on the state redevelopment program had seriously imperiled the scanty progress the city had made with this area and the homeless problem in the past decade.

I gave wide berth to a shouting sidewalk preacher dressed in dirty white robes. Avoided the clutching hands of a raggedy man in a ski cap. Ignored the pleas of a woman who sat on her blanket with two small children. God, where was my compassion?

Well, I’m a city dweller, and if I gave to everyone—genuine needy cases as well as hard-core pretenders—I’d’ve gone broke years ago. And I could spot the pretenders: the sidewalk preacher probably took in more a day than most wage slaves; the man in the ski hat wore an expensive wristwatch; the small children were dressed in Oshkosh clothing and their mother wore a diamond ring.

On the other hand, the sobbing man was pleading with the cops to transport him to a rehab facility; the poetess behind the TV tray was enterprising and proud of her work. I risked half a buck and bought one.

Not bad. Not good, either.

The elevator in
The Right Shoe
’s building was creakier than the one in my new location, and filthy. Squashed coffee cups and beer cans, crumpled newspaper, and various substances whose origin I didn’t care to contemplate covered its floor. The odor was of human waste. I tried not to breathe deeply as I rode upstairs.

The paper’s offices had probably been remodeled in the 1940s: a high blond wood counter; worn and scuffed linoleum floors; pebbled glass doors, one of which was cracked in a sunburst pattern. The youngish man behind the counter had a bad case of acne and buckteeth. When I asked for Jill Starkey, he silently pointed to one of the doors off the waiting area.

I knocked, and a harsh voice yelled, “Go away!”

I knocked again. A rush of motion came from inside, and a woman with frizzy brown hair and an unpleasant twist to her garishly lipsticked red mouth stuck her head out and snarled, “What don’t you understand about
go away
?”

“Very little.” I edged around her into a small office crammed with bookcases and piles of paper on the floor. The desk’s surface was buried in more piles.

Starkey stood by the door with her hands on her hips. From the photograph that had accompanied her column I’d always imagined her as a large woman, but she barely came up to my chin.

“All right, you’re in here,” she said. “What is it? A hot tip for me about what those liberal assholes at city hall are up to? I suppose you want to be paid, but let me tell you right up front—I don’t pay my sources.”

I took out my ID and showed it to her. She wasn’t impressed.

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of you. Important bleeding heart PI. Keep getting your name and face in the paper and on TV. Well, not in
my
paper, sister.”

“That’s a relief.” I removed some books from the only visitors’ chair and sat.

“Well, make yourself at home!”

“Thank you.”

Starkey hesitated, then skirted the desk and sat down in her chair. “I get the feeling I’m stuck with you.”

“For a while.”

“So what is it?”

“You covered the Caro Warrick case.”

“Bitch who murdered her best friend? You bet I did. What’s your interest in the case? No, don’t tell me. You’re working for the anti-gun nut.”

“Then you disagree with the jury’s verdict of acquittal.”

“Of course I do. The prosecution did a shitty job. And Warrick’s attorney, Ned Springer—do you know him?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, he had a reputation of not being able to find his ass with both hands, but he can be charming. He charmed that jury. Some say he charmed his client too.”

“Charmed her?”

“Come on, McCone. Everybody knew he was screwing her.”

In my experience, when a person says “everybody knew” it usually means one or two people suspected. I filed the rumor for further consideration.

“What about the prosecutor?” I asked.

“Overconfident. Unprepared. Harvard grad, but he’s not going anyplace in this town.”

“Will you give me an overview of the trial from your perspective? Then I won’t disrupt your day any more.”

Starkey tipped her desk chair back; I sensed she no longer considered her day disrupted. Quickly she began to spew invective against Caro Warrick, the gun control movement, the American justice system, and the American people in general. On the sensitive recorder in my bag, I was taping her tirade, in case somehow, someday I could use it.

1:40 p.m.

I was thoroughly sick of Jill Starkey’s sarcasm and vitriol by the time I left her office. The woman was steeped in negativity: Caro Warrick was “a bitch who should’ve gotten the death penalty”; her attorney, Ned Springer, was a “buffoon”; the prosecutor was “an incompetent Harvard snob”; Jake Green, Warrick’s lover, was a “cheap gigolo.” Even the victim, Amelia Bettencourt, was a “whore who deserved to be killed.”

Starkey’s diatribe on American society was even worse: most people were “semiliterate fools”; the president was a “fraud”; the Democrats had always “sucked”; the Republicans were “a bunch of rattlebrains who had better get their act together.” And then there were California’s governor and legislators.…

I’d interrupted her at one point. “Is there anything you
do
like, Ms. Starkey?”

She blinked. “Well, I…”

“Small children, animals, ice cream?”

“Can’t stand children or animals. Ice cream’s okay.”

God, the woman had thought the question was serious! The humorless: how did they survive? If you can’t laugh—particularly at yourself—life can be a grinding, dreary proposition.

Laughter—it’s what keeps us sane.

2:50 p.m.

I was sitting in Ned Springer’s waiting room leafing through a six-month-old copy of
California Law Review
, which seemed to be the only publication Caro’s former attorney subscribed to. Springer was already twenty minutes late for our two thirty appointment. The only article that had caught my attention was on environmental issues, and it was dry and not all that interesting. Finally I set the magazine aside.

The law offices were in a seventies-style building in the Sunset district on Nineteenth Avenue near Ortega; it looked as if it should be—and probably once had been—a dental clinic. Springer had been there, according to his Internet listing, ever since he left the Public Defender’s Office and went into private practice. From the looks of his waiting room—cheap, beat-up furniture, half-dead plants, and a scowly, unwelcoming receptionist—no wealthy or high-powered clients had lined up at his door.

It was five more minutes before the receptionist’s phone buzzed. She said, “Yes, sir, I’ll send her in.” Then she glowered at me and jerked her head toward the inner door. “He’s back.”

The door opened into a short hallway, where a man in a tan suit stood. Ned Springer surprised me: because of his waiting room and his tardiness, I’d expected a harried, rumpled, unprosperous-looking individual, but he was well groomed and had a friendly smile and a good, strong handshake.

“I apologize for being late, Ms. McCone,” he said. “I volunteer for a mentoring program, and one of my kids had a crisis.”

“I know all about those,” I replied, thinking of Jamie.

We went into his office and sat down. It wasn’t large, but in contrast to Jill Starkey’s, it was ordered. The spines of the law books on the shelves that took up two walls were neatly aligned, and the few items on his desk appeared to be in their proper places. Of course, it could have been that he seldom consulted the tomes or used his stapler, paperweights, or stamp and tape dispensers.

He said, “You told my secretary you want to speak with me about the Caro Warrick case. Attorney-client privilege—”

“Has been waived.” I passed over a copy of the document Warrick had messengered to the pier that morning along with her retainer check.

He read it thoroughly. Springer was, I thought, what my friend and attorney Hank Zahn called a “belt-and-suspenders kind of guy,” making sure all the loopholes were closed. It was a quality both Hank and I respected.

“May I keep this?” Springer asked.

“Please do.”

“Why does Ms. Warrick want you to speak with me?”

“She’s hired me to reinvestigate her case, to get the facts correct for a true-crime book she’s cooperating on. What I’m mainly interested in is how the two of you interacted, your impressions of her and of her innocence or guilt.”

“It sounds to me as if you’re investigating your own client.”

“At her request.”

“That’s bizarre. But then, Caro always was a little off center.”

“In what way?”

“She went to extremes: she had to be the best at everything she did; she had to feel most passionately, act most forcefully, make the biggest impression on everyone. Very often she managed all of those things, but if not, it was cause for full-blown depression.”

“It sounds as if you know her well.”

“I do. We grew up on the same street in the Marina. We even dated a few times.”

“You’re aware of her history of unexplained seizures and dyslexia?”

“The dyslexia is real, and she’s learned to handle it well. The seizures she manufactured herself to get attention. She never had epilepsy or any other disease that would have caused them.”

“She claims she doesn’t remember when the seizures stopped.”

“Well, she’s lying to you, probably in order to gain your sympathy. She knows exactly when the so-called seizures stopped—the day she started to throw one in her shrink’s office, and he called her on it.”

“She didn’t mention having been under psychiatric care.”

“This was nine or ten years ago, during her abortive attempt at college. It was fashionable at the time to be in therapy, but she probably needed it too.”

“What was the psychiatrist’s name?”

Springer thought a few seconds. “Richard Gosling. I think his offices are in 450 Sutter.”

I noted the information; I’d need separate permission from Warrick to talk with her therapist, and I wasn’t sure she’d consent to that.

I asked, “Will you describe what kind of client Caro Warrick was?”

“Passive and not very helpful with building her defense. She insisted upon her innocence and seemed to think her well-publicized stance on gun control would prove she never could have shot anyone. When I explained that many people go against their principles in times of stress, she simply said, ‘I don’t.’ Fortunately there was no real evidence against her, so I was able to win an acquittal. She didn’t seem to be particularly relieved or grateful.”