The Missing Madonna (27 page)

“You and Jack have a fight?”

“Last night, to be exact. How did you know?” Hastily Kate brushed a tear from her cheek.

“How did I know? I’ve been married as long as you’ve been alive. I know the signs.’ He offered her a piece of the Danish he had in a paper bag. “It happens in the best of families. Couples who don’t fight don’t make it That’s a well-known fact.”

Gallagher stopped to take a bite of the sweet roll, chew, and swallow. “The important part is, did you make up?”

Kate shook her head.

“Oh, you should make up. Making up is the best part of fighting.” He licked raspberry off his fingers. “Don’t worry. By tonight old Jackie-boy will be full of remorse.”

Kate knew her partner said that to make her feel better. Somehow it didn’t.

*  *  *

Inspector Ron Honore picked Kate up promptly at noon. A few minutes later they were parked at the Marina Green. Honore had pulled the car in facing the Bay. Even if they were going to see how the other half lived, he obviously had no intention of staring at their homes while he ate.

Following the time-honored rule that a diet drink cancels out calories, he handed her a poor boy and a diet Pepsi. All morning Kate had been so filled with a dull ache that she hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She chewed in silence.

In front of them, joggers and kite flyers, oblivious of the weather, enjoyed the wide apron of lawn around the yacht harbor. Behind them, along Marina Boulevard, were the luxurious two-story stucco homes with their million-dollar views of Alcatraz, Angel Island, and the Golden Gate Bridge. Although today the islands were barely visible and a wall of fog had nearly obliterated the bridge. Only the bright orange tips of the trusses pierced the grayness. Kate wondered foolishly if couples constantly surrounded by such changing beauty ever fought.

“This thing is really starting to bug me, Kate.” Honore wiped mayonnaise from the side of his mouth and broke into her thoughts. “According to your friend Sister Mary Helen, Al Finn heard from the missing woman last Thursday.”

Kate tried to sound interested. “So what’s bugging you? She’s no longer missing.”

“Technically you’re right. This one is solved. That’s all I need, you’re thinking. But the daughter, Marie, signed the missing-person report. She claims Finn is making it up, In fact, she called me this morning right after the nun did to tell me so.”

Kate swallowed the hunk of sourdough roll that she had been chewing. “Why not get the phone number from Finn and just call the woman back?”

“Brilliant! And I thought of that too.” Honore wadded up the paper napkin, dug in the bag, and pulled out another sandwich. “Want half?” he offered.

Mouth full, Kate shook her head. At least the mystery of why the seams in Honore’s suit jacket were straining was solved. “So why don’t you call?” she asked again.

“Because Finn said the woman wouldn’t leave a number.”

“Isn’t that a little odd?”

“It seemed a lot odd to me, but Finn tells me she doesn’t want her kids to find her. My common sense tells me,” Honore said, “to forget the whole thing. But in my gut”—he pointed to his belt buckle—“it doesn’t feel right.”

Kate resisted the urge to say that maybe it was the second poor boy and not the case that was affecting his gut. “That happens,” she said instead. “So what can I do for you?”

“Just listen, mostly. Tell me what you think.” Honore paused for a large swallow of Pepsi. “Since I last talked to you, I’ve double-checked. Finn, as far as the computer is concerned, is a good, upstanding citizen. Too good to be called a liar, if you know what I mean. Not married, no dependents. In the neighborhood they tell me he gambles a little at the track—nothing too big. Loses mostly, but the guy can cover his debts. Sometimes slowly, but he covers. Also, I hear he likes women. But the old geezer’s entitled, right?”

Kate rewrapped the second half of her sandwich for later. Maybe she wasn’t as hungry as she’d thought “What women?” she asked.

“No mention of the Duran woman, if that’s what you’re wondering about. If there is anything there at all, the two of them are being very discreet. As far as the
computer and the neighbors are concerned, that woman is a solid-gold saint. Pays her bills, keeps appointments, helps people out.

“Now her three kids, on the other hand—they get mixed reviews, all bad. But the daughter is more to be pitied than censured, as the old lyric goes.”

“It’s no wonder Mama doesn’t want to hear from them,” Kate said.

“Right, except that the bigger conflict seems to be between Finn and the woman’s kids, especially the daughter, this Marie. She is sure he is guilty of something, even if there isn’t anything concrete to go on.”

“It sounds to me more like a case for a family counselor than for Missing Persons.” Kate picked up several crisp brown crumbs that had fallen on the seat of the car and put them in the deli bag.

“You haven’t had the chance to see any of these people, I guess.” Honore wadded up his second napkin.

“As a matter of fact, I did meet Finn. Gallagher and I stopped by after work the other night.”

“That’s what you meant this morning by making a fool of yourself.” Honore looked so pleased that for a moment Kate was afraid he was going to hug her. “Well, what did you think?”

“To tell you the truth, the guy seemed nice enough. Cooperative, et cetera.”

“Did you have a chance to look around?” Honore stopped. “Of course not. How could you? What excuse would you use to go nosing through the guy’s restaurant?”

“He didn’t ask for any, so we didn’t give any.”

This time Honore did reach over and hug her. It was warm and hard and so unexpected that Kate was too startled to resist.

“Sorry,” Honore said, suddenly aware of what he was doing. He ran his hand over his bald head. “I hope you don’t think . . .”

Kate shook her head, debating whether or not to tell him that the only thing she did think was, I wish you were Jack. She decided to spare his ego.

Regaining his practiced cool, Honore cleared his throat. “Kate, you’re a real pal,” he said. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing significant.” Kate, too, was all business. “Only that Finn’s bistro has a fairly clean kitchen, a damp basement, and that he offered to give one of Erma’s sons enough money to go to St, Louis to look for his mother. Or so he said.”

Deep in thought, the two stared out over the Marina. Dozens of blue and white yachts bobbed gently in their berths. Hungry gulls circled the masts, then, wheeling over the grass, landed on the piers, impatient for the chilly lunchtime crowd to go back to work.

Several silent walkers bundled up against the cold clip-clopped along the broad sidewalk. Watching a sweatsuited mother pushing a toddler in a stroller, Kate felt a twinge of envy and an urge to phone Jack.

“What do you think?” Honore asked finally.

“I think I had better get back to work,” she said, her tone brisk.

“No, about this case, I mean.” He offered her a piece of gum, which she declined. Honore had changed flavors. Kate couldn’t imagine that Juicy Fruit would taste any better on top of salami and mortadella than spearmint. It might be even worse!

“I don’t think there is any case, Ron. Unless you found something in the Duran woman’s apartment to indicate that she left under duress.”

Honore shook his head and shoved a stick of gum into his mouth. “I was in the apartment. Nothing there. No signs of a struggle. Everything in order, neat as a pin. In fact, that’s the funny part. She didn’t even unpack from her trip to New York or take any clothes with her to St. Louis, according to the daughter anyway. Everything is
there, including that medal the nun found. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m beginning to agree with the kid, and I use the term lightly. Something is out of sync.”

“I agree.” Despite herself, Kate was getting interested. She began to twist a thick lock of hair. “A woman who is exact about paying bills, keeping appointments, whose apartment is as neat as a pin, would not go off without putting her affairs in order. And no woman in her right mind would go away without putting some clothes and makeup in a suitcase.”

“Unless something spooked her and she ran.” Honore hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “But strictly speaking, that’s not a police matter. Apparently she isn’t missing. Or harmed.”

“True. I guess the only thing you can do, Ron, is let it go.”

“I wish that daughter would stop calling me to talk about some damn picture.”

“What picture?”

“You haven’t seen the apartment, have you?” Honore checked his watch. “I could get you there and back to the Hall in forty minutes.”

“I’d need to make a phone call first.”

“I’ll stop at the Safeway.” He motioned vaguely toward Gas House Cove. “I know they have a pay phone in their parking lot.”

Honore looked so eager that Kate didn’t have the heart to turn him down. Her phone call was quick. Jack, his office said, was out.

*  *  *

“It’s only Our Lady of Perpetual Help.” Kate stood next to Honore in Erma’s icy bedroom. Finn had been most accommodating about letting them in. “There’s an icon like that in almost every Catholic church in the City. What did the daughter say about it?”

“She said the secret to her mother’s disappearance is
in that picture. Now what the hell do you think that means?”

Kate shrugged. “Could she be a religious nut?”

“Beats me. Why?”

“They can be the worst kind.” Despite her skepticism, Kate couldn’t help taking the picture off its shelf in the corner. It was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill religious-goods store print backed with brown paper. Nothing fancy about the frame either.

“I’ve already taken it apart and checked for messages, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Honore said, watching her run her hand over the paper backing.

“Maybe there is something in these Greek letters.” She pointed to the characters in each of the upper corners.

Honore shook his head. “I called the priest in my parish to check. The writing is only the abbreviations for the four figures in the picture. It stands for”—he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a slip of paper—“Jesus Christ, Mother of God, and the two archangels, Michael and Gabriel.” Popping his gum, he slid the paper back into his pocket.

“Hm,” Kate replied, only because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. The eyes of the Madonna clasping the hand of the Child gazed at her sympathetically. Or was it her imagination? Inexplicably, her scalp prickled. All at once the empty room seemed hollow and damp. The tomblike silence was shattered by a car backfiring. Kate jumped.

“Steady, girl.” Honore studied her face. “You look pale. Feeling okay?”

“Maybe it’s the salami,” she said. “Or maybe it’s a guilty conscience.” She checked her wristwatch. “I’ve got to get back to the Hall, or Gallagher will be reporting me as missing.”

To satisfy Honore, Kate did a cursory search of the
bedroom, closet, and drawers. She even looked under the bed.

“What’s this?” she asked, flipping through a black binder she found leaning against the leg of the night-stand.

“Looks to me like some kind of diary or journal.” Honore shrugged. “But nothing seems to be written in it.”

“Unless,” Kate said, noticing the dustlike traces of paper, “someone has torn the pages out.”

*  *  *

“Where the hell have you been?” Gallagher growled the moment Kate walked into the Homicide Detail.

“Here comes Miss Popularity now,” O’Connor called from the corner.

Although she had no idea what he meant, Kate shot him a dirty look on general principle.

“You know very well where I’ve been, Denny,” Kate said. “Did something happen?”

“Did something happen?” He ran his hand across his bald crown. “We had a goddamn chocolate chip in here dancing. Left you that bag.” He pointed to a polka-dot bag of cookies perched on the corner of her desk.

“Then the goddamn florist delivered that.” A long, narrow white box tied with red satin ribbon lay across her desk blotter.

“What’s this all for?” Kate fumbled with the small envelope from the florist.

“Since I know it’s not your birthday or your anniversary”—Gallagher rose, hitched up his belt, and moved toward the cookie bag—“all I can figure is that must have been some fight you guys had. I think it means your hubby is sorry.”

Turning her back to the detail, Kate slipped the enclosure card out of the envelope. “If you want to make up, I have some ideas,” it read. “For more details, meet
me at the yellow peaked-roof house, corner of 34th and Geary, 5:30 sharp. Love Jack.”

Kate could hardly wait!

*  *  *

One peek through the beveled glass door of the Hanna Memorial Library and Mary Helen knew finals week at Mount St. Francis College had begun in earnest. The place bulged with students hunched over long, narrow wooden tables that were punctuated with brass reading lamps. At summer school nearly fifty years ago, she and Erma McSweeney had hunched over those same tables, Mary Helen thought with an unexpected pang of nostalgia. Diligently they had studied in the light cast by those same brass reading lamps.

From the far end of the main reading room, a bigger-than-life portrait of Archbishop Edward Hanna kept a watchful eye on the scene. Hanna had been the archbishop of San Francisco when the college was founded in the 1930s. From the looks of things, the library, named in his honor, had not changed much since.

Elaborately decorated bullet-shaped lights hung from the high-arched ceilings. Rare books, many of them bequeathed by the archbishop himself, lined the walls on dark walnut shelves. Some of the original leather-back chairs studded with brass were being occupied by young women in faded denim designer overalls. At least Sister Anne had called them designer overalls and explained that the fading was deliberate. To Mary Helen
designer
and
overalls
, even those in full color, seemed like a contradiction in terms.

At the other end of the oblong room was the circulation desk. Behind it Sister Eileen was busily stamping out books. A line of weary-looking students queued up in front of her.

Waving at her friend, Mary Helen headed for the reference section. A loud
pst
made her turn. Wildly, Eileen was motioning her to come over.