San Francisco Night (6 page)

Nightingale grabbed a croissant and a coffee from a Starbucks and ate as he drove to the school where Sister Rosa Lopez had taught until a month ago. The school was in a less than exclusive district. The houses were in poor repair, the cars generally old and rusty and most of the shops seemed to sell liquor or fast food. There was a car park at one side of the school building and he found a space for his SUV and walked into reception. A dark-haired woman of forty or so squinted over the top of her glasses at him. “Good morning, sir. How can we help you?”

 “My name’s Jack Keeley, I’m a reporter, working on a story about the disappearance of Sister Rosa Lopez,” he said. “I was wondering if there might be someone who could help me with a few questions.”

“One moment please, sir,” she said. “I’ll see if our Administrative Officer is available.” She made a quick phone call and then directed him down a corridor to see a Mrs. Dalton. ‛Susan J Dalton. Administrative Officer’ was the sign on the door. Nightingale knocked and was told to come in. Mrs. Dalton was in her fifties, her brown hair worn short, just to the bottom of her ears. She stood up, came round from behind her desk and gave Nightingale what felt like a practiced, firm business handshake. She was wearing a dark green tweed jacket and skirt over a white blouse. “You’re a reporter?”

“I’m a freelance,” said Nightingale.

“You’re English?” She waved him to a chair.

Nightingale nodded. “My accent gave me away?”

“I’m a huge fan of Downton Abbey,” she said, sitting back behind her desk. “I love the accent. But why is an English journalist interested in a missing member of our staff?”

“I’m writing a general article about missing people and how different police forces approach their cases.”

“And why are you interested in Sister Rosa?”

“Because she’s not the normal missing person. Nuns don’t usually go AWOL.”

Mrs. Dalton nodded. “We’re all baffled by her disappearance,” she said. “But I’m not sure what I can tell you that hasn’t already appeared in the Chronicle. There was a lot of interest when she first went missing and they wrote several articles, but now…” She shrugged. “People have such short attention spans these days.”

“It’s the internet,” said Nightingale. “What did Sister Rosa do here?”

“She taught Spanish and some French.”

 “Had she always been a nun?” asked Nightingale.

“Well, I’m not actually sure what age people start, but I think she went into the convent straight from college. I never asked.”

“She lived in a convent?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Convent of the Holy Virgin. She’d drive back there after school each day.”

Nightingale hadn’t known that nuns could drive, but then he hadn’t known much about nuns in general. The photo on the Missing Persons report showed a middle-aged woman wearing black-framed glasses and a blue headscarf which covered her hair. Nightingale had no idea what a nun’s headscarf was called. She looked a little older than her fifty-three years, probably since she didn’t have the opportunity to enhance her looks with the usual array of help that the modern woman had at her disposal. Nightingale supposed that nuns didn’t do Botox, collagen, fillers and facelifts.

Mrs. Dalton appeared to be waiting for his next question so he nodded encouragingly.  “Can you talk me through the day of her disappearance?” he said.

“She taught her classes as normal, left here at four according to John Wheeler, one of our history teachers, who walked out with her. It’s about a thirty-minute drive to Holy Virgin, but she never arrived. She drove a white Chrysler, and the police haven’t found a trace of it, or her. It’s awful.” Her eyes were full of tears now, and she fumbled for a handkerchief in her purse. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Nightingale leaned forward. “There’s no need for apologies,” he said. “It’s perfectly natural. You obviously think a lot of her.”

The woman dabbed her eyes and put the handkerchief back in her purse.

“Everyone does. She’s such a good, kind person. Always so understanding with the students. She was a natural teacher.”

“Who took the missing person’s report?” he asked.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When you contacted the missing persons unit. Who did you talk to?”

“An Inspector Chan. Or Chen. Do you think the police will find her?”

Nightingale knew that Sister Rosa was dead and had died horribly, but there was no way he could tell Mrs. Dalton that so he forced a smile. “I hope so,” he said.

The little dumpy woman took out a small and simple cellphone in a tartan case and tapped out a number. “It’s Judas,” she said. “All done. I have information for you, so perhaps we should meet.”

“Soon. Meanwhile tell me whom he talked to.”

“A man named Jack, apparently an agent of someone called Wainwright.”

“I have heard of Wainwright. This could be problematic. Was it messy?”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

“I shall send Matthew around to help clean up.”

“That would be most helpful, thank you. And I have something that belongs to this Jack. A credit card. He gave it to Mr. Mitchell.”

“Excellent. Bring it with you.”

She ended the call and sat on the sofa with her hands in her lap. Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang and she went to the front door and opened it. Matthew was a tall, dark-haired man in a pair of blue overalls bearing the name of a cable company.

She took him through to the garage. It wasn’t the first time that Matthew had seen the results of her handiwork, and he wasn’t a squeamish man, but he felt himself start to retch as he looked at what was left in the chair. He forced the bile back down and set to work with the wrench and knife. He cut the duct tape, unbolted the chair and dumped the contents onto the plastic sheet. He rolled it up, being careful not to allow any parts to escape, then wrapped the package with more duct tape. He brought in a large black nylon bag and with the woman’s help maneuvered Mitchell’s remains inside. The woman looked around the garage.

“Another hour’s cleaning for me, I think,” she said.

“Thaddeus has brought the van round,” said Matthew. “He’ll help me, then we’ll go straight down to the boat.”

“Good. But find somewhere quiet, and close to the shore. Abaddon wants this one found and quite soon. To send a message, it seems. You should have no trouble, arrangements have been made to ensure no interruptions.”

“Of course. See you later,” said Matthew.

“Yes, indeed,” she said.

She hummed her little tune again, as she headed for the mop and bucket. She planned to leave the tiled floor as sparkling clean as she always did. She did so hate a mess.

Nightingale was eating a ham and cheese sandwich in his room when there was a double knock on his door, followed a couple of seconds later by another double knock, louder this time.  He put down his sandwich and padded in his bare feet over to the door. He pressed his eye against the door viewer. There was an Asian woman standing in the corridor, wearing a gray suit, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her right hand was at an unusual angle and he realised she was getting ready to draw a weapon. A cop, he figured. He opened the door and smiled at her. “Amy Chen?” he said.

She frowned and her hand tensed. “Now how would you know that?”

“Because I don’t now anyone in this city. Because you look like a cop. And because I was told that a Chinese detective was investigating the disappearance of Michael O’Hara. Father Mike. I figure Ms Winthrop told you I’d been to see her.”

She nodded slowly. “Nice deduction,” she said.  “Inspector Amy Chen. SFPD. Can I come in?”

“I’m not really geared up for guests,” he said. “But I’m more than happy to help San Francisco’s finest.” He held open the door. “I didn’t tell Ms Winthrop where I was staying, though.”

“No, but they took down the number of your car and you gave the hotel desk the registration number when you checked in.”

Nightingale closed the door and he waved her over to one chair in the room, by the dressing table. She sat down and adjusted her jacket. There was a holstered Glock on her hip. She stared at him for several seconds. “Do you have some ID you can show me?”

“Sure,” he said, taking out his wallet. He handed her a California driver’s license. It was one of the many forms of ID that Wainwright had given him and Nightingale had been assured it would stand up to any scrutiny. Inspector Chen studied it and then gave it back.

“And why are you in San Francisco?”

“I’m a journalist. Freelance. I’m putting together a story on missing persons.” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re English?”

Nightingale nodded.

“With a California driver’s licence?”

“I’m here a lot. The States, I mean. Not San Francisco.”

“Green card?”

“No. Can I ask you a question?”

“That’s not normally how it works.”

Nightingale smiled. “I know. I just wondered why you’re here.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

Nightingale looked into her eyes. But like policemen the world over, Amy Chen’s eyes gave nothing away. He smiled. “The Bible.”

“Got it in one,” said Chen. “So you admit stealing it?”

“I borrowed it,” said Nightingale. He stood up. As he moved, the detective’s hand shifted towards the butt of her Glock. Nightingale raised his hands. “I’m just going to get it from the drawer.”

“Why don’t you sit back down and I’ll get it,” said Chen. Nightingale did as he was told. The detective went over to the bedside table, opened the drawer and took out the Bible. As she bent down he saw a can of mace in a holster on the opposite hip to where the gun was. She went back to the dressing table but didn’t sit down. “Do you want to tell me why you stole it?”

“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. I had every intention of returning it.”

“You still haven’t told me why.”

“I wanted some background. Father Mike spent a lot of time with his Bible. He made notes in it.” He shrugged. “I thought the notes would be helpful.”

“Were they?”

“Not really.”

Chen looked at him without speaking. It was a cop’s trick, he knew. Leave a long silence and eventually the suspect would say something, anything, to break it.

“What are you thinking, Inspector Chen? Are you thinking that I’m the killer and wanted a souvenir?”

“Who said anything about a killing?” said Chen, quickly.

“Killing. Kidnapping. What’s the difference?”

“At the moment Father Mike is just a missing person. Or do you know something the SFPD don’t?”

“He’s been missing for a while. Most missing people turn up within a few days.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You seem to know a lot about detective work.”

“I watch a lot of TV. Big fan of Law And Order.”

“And what got you started on Father Mike’s case?”

“I’m looking at unusual cases. And he’s unusual, that’s for sure.”

“What are the other cases you’re looking at?”

Nightingale reached into his raincoat pocket and took out the printed sheets that Wainwright had given him - Sister Rosa, Suzanne Mills and Father Mike.

She flicked through the sheets, nodding. “These are all my cases,” she said. She grimaced at the Mills sheet. “Suzanne was walking home from choir practice and never showed up. No history of problems. I’ve always had a bad feeling about Suzanne.”

“Because she was a pretty girl?”

Her charcoal eyes narrowed. “You say ‘was’ like you know something, Jack?”

“Slip of the tongue,’ he said. “Have you made any progress on the three cases?” he asked.

“No. Not really.”

“They’re not the typical missing persons cases, am I right?”

“A nun, a priest and a choir girl, no, I’d say not.”

“Like I said, most missing persons turn up eventually, don’t they?”

She nodded. “Ninety-nine per cent. And those that stay missing are usually alive and well but have a good reason for staying missing. Abusive spouse, debts they can’t pay, the cops on their trail. To be honest, most of my work is just keeping track of who is missing and who has turned up. The difference between the two is quite small and as I said, most of them have gone missing voluntarily.”

“And these three?”

Inspector Chen sighed. “Father Mike and Sister Rosa aren’t priorities, obviously. I checked all the hospitals and the morgues but other than that...” She left the sentence unfinished. Nightingale assumed that like police officers around the world she was overworked and underpaid. “The girl, I was more concerned about abduction but no one saw her being taken. I spoke to the family, no problems at home, and I checked her social media and she didn’t seem to be planning to run away with a boyfriend.” She smiled. “Or girlfriend. I did the basic checks, now we wait.”

“Wait?”

“To see if she turns up. I put her name in all the databases, if she tries to get on a plane or use her credit card or comes into contact with the police, I’ll be notified. And we check her against all Jane Does as they come in.”

“But other than that, the investigation has gone cold?”

“We’ve got priorities. You know about the two ten-year-olds who went missing last week?”

Nightingale shook his head.

“Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker. Both just plain vanished.”

“Any connection?”

“None that we can see. He’s white and from a good family, she’s black, mother’s a single parent. They live on opposite sides of town. But they went missing on the same day.”

“Coincidence?”

“I hope so.”

“You hope so?”

“If it’s the same guy then he could strike again. If they’re just missing and they turn up, then all’s well that ends well.”

“You’re assuming a guy.”

She shrugged. “Women don’t usually abduct children, other than family members. And we’ve run all the usually family checks on both kids. Missing kids are always our priority.”

“Sure, of course. I hope they turn up.”

“You and me both.” She gave him back the papers. “So when are you going to level with me?”

“Level with you?”

She smiled coldly. “You’re a journalist but you don’t take notes. You ask cop questions. And you’ve got a cop’s eyes.”

Nightingale forced a smile, but his mind was racing. He couldn’t tell her the truth, but she’d already seen through one lie. All he could do was to try to tell her a better lie. And a better lie was one that was closer to the truth. “You’ve got me,” he said. “I’m a private eye.”

“An English private eye working in the States. I’m not sure I buy that.”

“Father Mike has relatives back in Ireland. They want to know what’s happened to him.”

Inspector Chen pulled a face as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. “They think we’re not up to the job, is that it?”

“They understand that you have priorities and they wanted to make sure that everything that can be done is being done. And I think there might be a financial motive too.”

“How that?”

“Father Mike still has some assets back in Ireland. Some land and a farm that’s rented out. If he disappears then it’ll be at least seven years before they can get their hands on it. But if he dies…”  He shrugged. “They didn’t say that of course, they acted all concerned about his welfare, but it seemed to me if they were all that concerned they’d have taken care of him themselves and not dumped him in an old folks home.”

“But why are you looking at these three cases?”

“Because like you I couldn’t make sense of the fact that he’s just vanished. Old people don’t disappear into thin air. They have accidents and end up in hospital, or the morgue, or they turn up homeless on the streets, or they make their way back home. If Father Mike really has disappeared, then that has to be because someone did something to him. I don’t see that an old priest can have made many enemies so I started thinking that perhaps someone has it in for Catholics.”

Inspector Chen’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“I started looking into missing persons cases in the city and I came up with these three. All Catholics, all vanished without trace, all with no valid reason for disappearing.” Her phone buzzed and she took the call, turning away from Nightingale and cupping her hand over her mouth so he couldn’t hear what she was saying. When she’d finished she put the phone away. “Duty calls,” she said. She picked up the Bible. “I’ll return this. Don’t go borrowing things again without asking.”

“I won’t.  Can we talk again?”

“You can’t come to the precinct,” she said. “I can’t be seen talking to a private eye.” She smiled. “Or a journalist. Or a tourist either, for that matter.”

“Let’s make it social then,” said Nightingale. “Look, I’m going to be digging into these cases, I might come up with something helpful. I’m happy to share anything I find with you.”

She nodded slowly and then shrugged. “What the hell. Most nights we have a few drinks down at Raw Bar, just down the road from the precinct.  If you swing by there and say hello, I don’t see that’d be a problem. Just don’t lie to me next time.”

“It’s a date,” said Nightingale, and grinned at her look of surprise. “Joke,” he said.

“That’d be that famous English sense of humor I’ve heard so much about,” she said. “I don’t get it.” She flashed him a tight smile and let herself out of the room.