Someone Always Knows (10 page)

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands as if to shield himself. “I've heard he's back in the Bay Area.”

“From whom?”

“Like I said before, I get around. I don't remember all my sources.”

“The hell you don't!”

“Okay. Guy's name is Tilbury. James Tilbury. A few years ago he was named the sexiest man in California.”

What did that have to do with anything? “You have a number for him?”

“I did, but I forget it.”

“Chad, I've heard from Julia that you have a memory like a steel trap.”

His fleshy face fell into sorrowful lines. “It's the truth, McCone. I'm getting old. Stuff doesn't stick in my mind like it used to. Maybe I oughta just give up and go sit in the woods like my brother.”

“Phone me with the number. Then you can go sit in the woods.” I slid out of the booth.

“Let's do this again real soon. Make sure to bring Little Sweetheart along.”

7:11 a.m.

T
uesday began much as any other day would. I slept until the cats ambushed me, purring and bumping my face with their noses. When I didn't respond immediately, Jessie got up on my chest and stared me in the eye. There's nothing worse than a stare-down with a hungry feline. Finally I said, “Okay, you'll get your breakfast.” And then, just to frustrate them, I went to take a shower.

Half an hour later we were all enjoying our repasts in the breakfast nook of the beautifully tiled kitchen. Given my cooking abilities, I really didn't deserve such a marvelous space, but I was steadily improving. I'd mastered pea soup and was now studying up on Chinese cashew chicken. Next, an Irish stew! If anything, I was ethnically eclectic.

But this morning we were respectively breakfasting on Friskies kibble and Special K. I don't much care for an early meal, but when I wake hungry, I go straight to the cereal boxes. The sun looked watery, the day promised to be cool; I'd have to dress snugly for my luncheon with the sexiest man in California.

Before I'd left Chad last night, he'd unearthed James Tilbury's number from his memory—displaying that strange pop-up recall most of us have—and called him to introduce me.

“Gage Renshaw?” Tilbury said. “Yes, I mentioned to Chad that I'd seen him on the street last week with Don Macy, a man who used to do odd jobs and sometimes drive for me.”

“Do you remember which day it was?”

Tilbury hesitated. “I'm pretty sure it was last Monday, in the early afternoon, maybe about one o'clock.”

“Where?”

“On Market, near New Montgomery.”

Not far from our building. And Monday at one was when he'd appeared at our offices.

“Ms. McCone, I have to go out now. May we meet tomorrow and discuss this in person?”

“Yes. When and where?”

“One o'clock? On Union Street, El Diablo? I'll buy lunch.”

“It's a date.”

James Tilbury
was
sexy. Not the sexiest man in California—I consider Hy the holder of that title—but tall and blond and well made, with a quirky smile and startling blue eyes. Heads turned as he stood up from his table at El Diablo and shook my hand.

He was having a Bloody Mary, and I agreed to the same. Once we were settled, he said, “I've heard of you, Ms. McCone. In fact, I've seen you on the news and in the papers.”

“Too many people have. It's a drawback for an investigator. But I suppose being labeled ‘sexiest man' is a drawback for you.”

“Well, it's helped my modeling career, but I don't enjoy all the public attention, like here, for instance.” He nodded toward people who were eyeing us from a nearby table.

“Who do you model for?”

“Anybody who asks. It's a living and a good one, but my agent still has to cobble various jobs together. Newspapers, catalogs, TV commercials. No film jobs—I haven't gotten that lucky, and I suspect I can't act anyway. I once did a short film for the Jehovah's Witnesses, who were trying to attract the youth market, but they decided I was
too
sexy, and shelved it.” Again the quirky grin. “You, now: is everything the press says about you true?”

“…Yes and no. They always want to make a big deal out of things that aren't.”

“How do you handle that?”

“Pull my head into my shell like a frightened turtle. Seldom give interviews. A few years ago I caved in to a documentary film company who followed me around for a week. It was the dullest week of my career. Absolutely nothing happened, and they scrapped the film. I was relieved.”

“Understand perfectly.”

“How about you? How did you get that sexy man title?”

“My agent entered me in a contest; there weren't a lot of other contestants, so I won.”

“I think you're being overly modest.”

He grinned at me and raised his hand for the waiter to bring us another round of Bloody Marys. Then we got down to the purpose of our meeting.

By the time I left the restaurant, I was stuffed with mushroom enchiladas and had considerable information on Don Macy, Tilbury's former driver and jack-of-all-trades, but very little more about Renshaw, whom Tilbury had met only briefly. Macy had lived over James Tilbury's garage on Russian Hill until late last year. He'd been congenial, efficient, and a good driver until he left his job without notice, taking along a pair of heirloom gold candlesticks from the house. The candlesticks were later recovered by the SFPD from a South of Market pawnshop, where Macy had let them go for a paltry one hundred dollars. Macy had by then vanished.

Tilbury had no idea where Macy lived or what he was doing now.

“And frankly, I don't care,” he added. “I got the candlesticks back, and I don't enjoy spending time in court and writing checks to lawyers.”

“Amen to that.”

When Tilbury and I parted, he promised to be in touch if he remembered anything else about Don Macy or Renshaw.

As soon as I got home I checked the answering machine. No messages, even from Ma, who likes to call any- and every time the impulse strikes her. Nothing from Hy. This silence was driving me crazy but I, with Craig's help, had put out all the possible feelers. Unless…

I went to my laptop and brought up the address card page for my friend Sally Guthrie, who worked for the FAA in Oakland. After we'd exchanged pleasantries, I explained the situation. “Is there any way you can find out if Hy actually got on the charter the FBI had waiting for him from Miami to D.C.?”

“It'll be tricky—secrecy, secrecy, you know—but I can try. Let me get back to you.”

“Thanks, Sal.” I broke the connection, feeling empty and cold.

I started toward the kitchen, and the phone rang.

“Ms. McCone?” The female voice was vaguely familiar. “It's Emily Parsons, from Webster Street. I found an undeveloped canister of film that I think contains the photograph of the family who were going to move into that old house. My mom must've forgotten to get it developed.”

“That's great. May I have it developed for you? I'd return the other photos, of course.”

“You don't need to do that; Mom always takes too many pictures on vacation. But, yes, please stop by. I'll be here the rest of the day.” She paused. “And anyway, there's something I need to talk with you about. One of my boys saw the person who pushed you down the stairs there. He didn't speak up because he thought I'd punish him for being there before you fell.”

Todd Parsons said, “He was one of those sleazy guys we see around there at night.” He was leaning against his mother, looking much younger than his ten years. She smiled encouragingly at him.

He went on, “All the kids in the neighborhood are afraid of him. He growls, spits, makes like he's clawing with his grubby long fingernails.”

“Is he young? Old?”

“Old. Has a long white beard, not much hair or many teeth.”

Probably one of the remaining former patients ejected from the state mental institutions when Reagan-era politics forced them to shut down. Nowhere to get food, shelter, or health care. And often dangerous—both to themselves and others. He must have pushed me because he was afraid of being caught in the house.

“Thank you, Todd,” I said. “You've been very helpful.”

“You're welcome,” he said, looking at his mother for her okay for him to leave us. Before he did, he turned to me and added, “And thank you for the chocolate you gave us.”

I said to Emily, “You're raising a great pair of kids.”

“We try. In this world all you can do is try.”

“Uh-huh,” Patrick said. In the red glow of the safelight, he was watching an image emerge on a sheet of photographic paper in the developing solution.

We had a darkroom in our offices, but my skills at developing and printing were pretty rusty. Fortunately Patrick, our resident photographer, had still been there when I arrived with Emily Parsons's film.

The emerging image showed three people: a couple who looked to be in their late thirties or early forties and a boy, probably eight or nine. In the background I recognized the steps of the house on Webster Street. The woman's hair was long and blond and flipped back in a wedge style; she wore tight jeans and a T-shirt that accentuated her slimness. The man, also slender and similarly dressed, had dark-brown locks that curled around the nape of his neck. The boy: just a kid with a crew cut, wearing ripped jeans and a striped tee. The Smithson family?

“Patrick,” I said, “when did photographs start having date stamps on them?”

“Uh, the eighties, I think.”

“Are there any on this particular roll?”

“No, but there wouldn't be; the stamps are put on after the pictures're printed.”

“Oh, of course. What's on the rest of this roll?”

“Scenic views.”

“Of where?”

“Judging from the red rocks, I'd say Sedona. Some of the other backgrounds are mountainous—maybe Yosemite. Typical tourist shots.”

Just as Emily Parsons had said.

“Can you print up a few dozen copies for me?”

“No problem. I'll just sharpen up the tone on this one and run it through the Xerox. In the meantime, how about catching some dinner?”

“Sure. Let's walk over to Miranda's.”

Miranda's. It used to be the agency's waterfront diner of choice, but then the genial host had died and an incompetent daughter had taken it over, and later sold it to a less competent woman. The service and food had deteriorated. But tonight I didn't feel up to going farther away, and I really wasn't dressed for any of the better restaurants in the area.

Miranda's, however, was shuttered and had a big
CONDEMNED
sign over the door. The little waterfront building looked forlorn. I stared at it, thinking how the port was changing: shipping had long ago decamped to the better facilities at Oakland across the Bay; seamen's hotels had been revamped into luxury establishments; even Pier 24½—where our agency had had its offices for several happy years—was being demolished. Chic shops, expensive restaurants, and wine bars predominated. And now Miranda's, one of the last holdouts, was gone. Sinbad's, a similar establishment, had closed last spring. Would the venerable and famous Red's Java House be next?

We ended up going to one of the trendy and expensive restaurants that have sprung up near AT&T Park. In addition to being a wonderful place to take in a ball game, the stadium has breathed new life into what used to be a pretty seedy part of town and, in spite of my nostalgia, I enjoyed the changes. But lord, how I'd miss Miranda's!

When I got home I found a message from my friend Sally with the FAA. She'd found no record of an FBI charter flight out of Miami to D.C., she said. Added, “Not that it's surprising. They're such secretive bastards.”

I was huddled under a quilt on my sofa in front of the fireplace, trying to work out a scenario about the disappearance of the Smithson family and the bearer bonds, when the doorbell rang. I opened it to Michelle Curley. She looked distraught, her face tear-streaked, her hair wild in the wind that swept down the narrow street tonight.

“He…he's dead. He was the one killed in the fire.”

“He? Who?”

“Nemo.”

I pictured the blond, bearded man Chelle had introduced me to last week. “How do you know that?”

“The coroner's office identified him from his dog tags.”

“He was in the military?”

“Yeah. I'm not sure which branch—he didn't like to talk about it.”

“Why did the coroner's office call you?”

She ran her fingers through her hair. “I've been bugging them about an identification ever since you told me about the fire. Bugging the city parking control too. I finally found out Nemo's car was towed from a green zone two blocks from that horrible house last night. I knew the body was his. I just knew it!”

I motioned her into the house, where she sat on the sofa without taking off her coat. It was misty outside and fine droplets clung to its waterproof surface. I eased her out of it and hung it on the hall tree where it could dry.

I said, “Do you want something to drink? Soda, juice—”

“What I'd like is a straight Scotch. Double.”

The request surprised me; somehow I often forgot that Chelle was an adult now. I'd have to drop the parental attitude. I went to the kitchen and fetched the Scotch, bringing along a glass of Chardonnay for myself. After I'd stirred up the fire, I sat next to her.

“It'll be warmer in here soon.”

She didn't respond.

I added, “Let's talk about Nemo for a while.”

She nodded, staring into the flames. At least I wasn't losing her attention completely.

“Nemo James,” I said. “It's an unusual first name. Years ago, people named their kids Mary and John, William and Susan; then it was Kevin and Tracy, Jason and Kendall. Now a lot of new babies' names're made up, or designed to recognize important people or events in the parents' lives. My favorite's Gunnip, the son of a client who was introduced to his wife by a friend with that surname. The kids in school have already taken to calling him Gunnysack.”

“Shar, you don't have to natter on to amuse me. I'm not about to fall apart. I just need somebody to talk to.”

“Okay, I'm sorry. What do you know about Nemo?”

“I told you the other day, not much.”

“Date of birth?”

“No.”

“Place he was born? Or where he grew up?”

“He told you he was from Utah. That was the first time I'd heard that. I always assumed Southern California.”

“Why?”

“He just sounded that way. You know—American as apple pie, but with a touch of Spanish accent. You talk that way yourself.”