Looking for Yesterday Page 12

  Betsy Warrick—née Ames—had climbed a streetlight pole on Telegraph Avenue during the anti–Vietnam War protests at Berkeley and hurled water balloons at the police. They’d had to drag her down kicking and screaming. Her fiancé, Ben Warrick, had bailed her out.

  Betsy, Betsy. Knowing you now, who would’ve thought?

  Dave Walden had been an Eagle Scout and won a blue ribbon for his pygmy goat at the Sonoma County Fair when he was sixteen. Kayla Walden frequently visited a prominent plastic surgeon in Greenbrae, Marin County. Jethro Weatherford had spent two nights in jail for public drunkenness fifteen years ago; the authorities had then decided to leave him alone because he had walked on the proper side of the road, hadn’t stumbled, and hadn’t disturbed anyone.

  And then came the biggie: a post on a cold case site from someone calling himself “RadioactiveMac.”

  SF PI Sharon McCone has been hired by exonerated killer Caro Warrick to reinvestigate the murder of Amelia Bettencourt. Warrick’s dead now. McCone had a big fall. She’s next.

  I ripped the page from the report, rushed down the hallway, and stamped into Mick’s office. “Did you think this was funny?” I asked, thrusting the page at him.

  He scanned it, frowning. “I didn’t read it before I gave it to you. Do you think it’s serious?”

  “Could be. Who the hell is RadioactiveMac?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out.” He swiveled around to his keyboard and began tapping out his magic on it.

  I sat down on the corner of his desk, fidgeting and poking at a chipped fingernail. After a few minutes Mick said, “This is proving to be more difficult than I thought. The name leads to others, which in turn lead to still more. A typical way of disguising your identity.”

  “But you can find out?”

  “In time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Within the hour. I’m going to run a couple of very reliable searches.” He swiveled back, did more magic. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something. What’s this in his message about you having a big fall?”

  “The elevator crash. This guy is probably responsible for it.”

  “Shit!” He swiveled back toward me, eyes wide.

  I said, “While we’re waiting, I need to talk to you about Derek.”

  “What’d he do—put the moves on you last night?”

  “This is serious. I’m afraid we’re going to lose him. He doesn’t need the job or the money, and he likes to play.”

  Mick laughed. “He does need both the job and the money. Derek’s a trust-fund baby, yeah, but there’s a provision in the trust that’ll keep him on the job.”

  “What provision?”

  “His grandparents were immigrants who were interned during World War II—at Tule Lake, I think. They had one kid, a daughter. After they were released, they moved here to the city, lived dirt-poor while the grandfather established a number of produce stands that mainly catered to the Japanese. The daughter married a Vietnam vet, Martin Ford, who had a lot of business smarts. He turned the produce stands into Fresh to You.”

  That was a nationwide chain of high-end grocery stores. “No wonder Derek’s got a trust fund.”

  Mick nodded. “And a lot of hard work went into establishing it. From what Derek’s told me, his father disapproved of his tendencies to play and overspend, so the trust only pays out basic living expenses—adjusted occasionally for inflation—and requires him to work at something ‘meaningful’ till he’s forty-five.”

  “But SavageFor—” The real-time search engine he and Derek had developed in the days when such sites were almost unheard of.

  “We sold it to Omnivore, remember? And creating it was just noodling around, not working.”

  “Still, what you got for it would be enough for him to live on.”

  “Not with his expensive tastes. And I’ve got a feeling they’re only going to get more expensive as he ages. By the time he gets his hands on the money he’ll be ready for a string of trophy wives and multiple vacation homes.”

  “Kind of a harsh thing to say about your friend.”

  “Nah, money’s not all that Derek’s about. He’s loyal, generous, and he’d put his life on the line for people he cares about. And that includes you.”

  “So you don’t think we’ll lose him?”

  “He enjoys the work so, no, not till his forty-fifth birthday—and then he’ll probably fly us all to Paris for dinner.”

  Mick’s computer beeped. He turned to it and said, “Well, well.”

  “What?” I leaned forward to look, but couldn’t make out what was on the screen.

  “RadioactiveMac is someone we know.”

  “Who?”

  “Do you remember a guy named Daniel Winters?”

  11:23 a.m.

  I sat in my armchair reviewing the file on Daniel Winters.

  He’d come to us as a client two years ago. A middle-aged archaeologist from Berkeley who had amassed a valuable collection of East African artifacts. He’d noticed certain objects missing, and suspected a household employee was stealing them. The employee, a housekeeper, had not returned to work the day after he questioned her. The normal procedure in such cases is to check with pawnbrokers and antique shops that don’t require proof of ownership or provenance—which I did, with no result. Then I received a tip from a high-end jeweler who had once been our client that Daniel Winters himself had been selling the artifacts to various unscrupulous dealers across a tristate area. He was overconfident enough in his ability to outwit me (and/or misinformed enough about my skills) to think I would help him, but I ended up turning him in myself.

  Winters had escaped prosecution by fleeing the country; now, apparently, he was back.

  He was back, and I was back in the news because of the Warrick case. A perfect reminder for him to harass me for exposing his crimes.

  I wasn’t too worried about Winters. He’d never exhibited signs of violence; annoying messages were more his style. Still, I called the officer at the SFPD who’d handled the case and then copied and forwarded her the post. The department would be on the lookout now, since Winters was still a fugitive.

  God, what a morning! The day, I decided, could only get worse.

  2:30 p.m.

  And it did.

  Hy called: all hell had broken loose in an African country I’d never heard of, and a client, CEO of an American construction company working there, had been taken hostage. Hy was at Kennedy Airport in New York, awaiting his flight. He’d phone again when he changed planes in Johannesburg.

  Ted went home early with symptoms of the flu that was ravaging the city’s population.

  Julia Rafael, my only Spanish-speaking operative and a single mother, had had to bring her son, Tonio, to work after he finished preschool since her sister, who usually took care of him, had the same flu. He was a lively, bright child, and I loved him dearly, but his running down the hallway and bursting into my office drove me to distraction. Julia had nerves of steel when it came to her work, but by noon his behavior had her clawing at her beautiful, upswept black hair. She released it from its tortoiseshell comb and let it fall to her shoulders. Said to me, “Sometimes I think I should’ve stayed on the streets instead of having a kid and going legit.”

  The remark didn’t surprise me; Julia was brutally honest about her past as a teenage hooker in the Mission district.

  My operative Adah Joslyn, whom I’d lured away from the SFPD Homicide squad, phoned to say she and her husband Craig Morland—also lured away, but in his case from the FBI—were also flu sufferers. Why did newly married people always have to do things together?

  It started raining again—pouring, actually.

  And when I went down to the garage, I found that someone had backed into the Z-4 and broken its taillight.

  I got into the car, pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, and wished for speedy recoveries and ongoing good health for those I knew and loved. And for anybody else who needed good
wishes. Then I started to wish for Hy and me—that he’d be safe and return soon. I’d often thought of our lives as strange and dangerous, but this deep a concern had never really touched me at the core, as it did tonight.

  My cell trilled—some melody Jamie had programmed in that I didn’t like but kept forgetting to replace with a normal ring tone. Hy? No, impossible that he’d have arrived in Johannesburg by now. I answered, and for a moment there was silence.

  Then a muffled voice said, “You know the Presidio?”

  “More or less.” Given its size, it’s impossible to know it all.

  “The Chapel of Our Lady?”

  A small, white Civil War–era church tucked into the trees near the center of the former military base. I’d been there for a wedding a few years ago. “I can find it.”

  “Be there. Eight thirty. Come alone.”

  Jesus, had I suddenly morphed into a character in a forties B minus movie?

  “Who is this?” I demanded.

  “Somebody who can help you—eight thirty. Be prompt.”

  “What’s this about—?” But the person hung up.

  Male? Female? I couldn’t tell.

  Chapel of Our Lady: unused at this time on a Wednesday night, but not necessarily a dangerous place, due to its proximity to other buildings such as the old Officers’ Club.

  An anonymous caller who claimed he could help me? Pretty unlikely.

  Come alone? No way.

  I should ignore the call. A prank, that was all it was. Maybe.

  But how many people had my cellular number? Well, too many. I’d have to consider keeping this one for business and getting another for personal calls.

  But for now…

  7:55 p.m.

  The Presidio of San Francisco has been part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area since 1994, when the army turned it over to the National Park Service. An active military base since 1776, when it was established to defend San Francisco Bay and Mission Dolores, it passed from Spain to Mexico before becoming a United States outpost south of the Golden Gate. The sprawling acres are mostly wooded, with a scattering of former army buildings that are now devoted to a mix of commercial and public use. Its governing body, the Presidio Trust, has been financially independent since 2006—seven years before the act of Congress stipulated it should be.

  The views are spectacular, much of the terrain hilly and fragrant with pine and eucalyptus. It is a place to escape the tensions of the real world, relax and contemplate. It is not a place to wander on a dark winter night, and I didn’t intend to stray from my car until my “helpful” caller revealed himself.

  Mick—whom I’d brought as backup—and I waited on Moraga Street, within sight of the little chapel. Its white façade gleamed in the outside lights that were focused on it. In spite of the distance I could hear traffic thrumming on the bridge and foghorns bellowing grumpily out to sea. The rain had let up around six o’clock, but the mist was thick. Only one vehicle was parked in the area—a dark van some distance down the block—but there was no one around it.

  The absence of people didn’t fool me; I knew that in the thickets homeless encampments abounded, sheltering families who had lost their homes in the latest financial debacle and other dispossessed people from all walks of life, many of whom had jobs but nowhere to live. They arose in the morning, cleaned up in the restrooms, and got on with their lives as best they could. They were the unseen, forgotten remnants of our middle class, which soon, if the economy didn’t turn around, would be wiped out of existence.

  The Presidio was also known as the perfect place for criminals to hide. Mass murderers, drug dealers, and fugitives had sheltered there, as many court transcripts attested. I wasn’t about to risk an encounter with any of them.

  Beside me, Mick fidgeted. I’d interrupted another of his evenings.

  “I know you’re annoyed by getting called out on such short notice,” I said, “but it’s too dangerous for me to come alone.”

  “I’m not annoyed with you.”

  “Well, you seem that way lately.”

  He sighed.

  “Mick, what’s wrong?”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Start with the least annoying and progress up the list.”

  “One of our neighbors keeps stealing our newspaper.”

  “So cancel your subscription and go online or watch TV.”

  “Shar, I may be a techie, but I like the feel of newsprint. Besides, you can’t spread out your computer or TV on the kitchen table and dribble jam and spit orange pits on it.”

  “Then run a surveillance. Trap him or her. They’ll be so ashamed they’ll never do it again. Next problem.”

  “This fuckin’ economy. Alison’s worried about her job.”

  “Everybody is, especially in the financial sector.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “But,” I said, drawing the word out, “Hy and I have a financial planner who has twice saved our assets—and asses—by astute moves. I know he’d be thrilled to save yours, too. And if a position suitable for Alison turns up, he’ll be sure to put in a good word. I’ll give you his card tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Next problem.”

  “Both of us hate living in that high-rise, but property like it isn’t selling.”

  “Have you put the condo on the market?”

  “No.”

  “Here’s the name and number of a super real-estate agent whom I went to college with.” I clicked on the address book on my phone and read the information off to him. “She’s the one who represented your dad and Rae when they bought the Sea Cliff place.”

  “Thanks again. You’re the greatest.”

  No, I wasn’t. Those problems were relatively minor. I said, “You’re welcome. Next problem—and I expect it’s a biggie.”

  Long pause. “Okay—Alison. She might be pregnant.”

  I caught my breath. In the dark car, I couldn’t see if he was pleased or displeased. “Is that so bad?”

  “Shar, you know I love kids, but I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility yet.”

  “And Alison?”

  “She’s never wanted any—at least none of her own. Apparently there’s some birth defect running through her family.”

  “What kind of birth defect?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s even sure. One of those things where the family ships the kid off to some home and then never talks about it.”

  I thought of Marissa Warrick, the damage her siblings suffered because of their parents’ inability to acknowledge her death and deal with how it happened. They’d never talked about Marissa again. Alison’s family’s not coming clean about the birth defect was similar.

  I said, “Alison should request medical records, find out.”

  “I’ve told her that, but she keeps not getting around to it.”

  “How far along is she?”

  “Nearly two months.”

  “Missed periods could be caused by stress about the markets, losing her job.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried to tell her that? All she says is that she’s been regular like clockwork her whole adult life.”

  “Has she come to any conclusions about what she’s going to do if she is pregnant?”

  “She’s leaning toward abortion.”

  “And you?”

  “Like I said, I love kids, but this isn’t the time. Besides, it’s her body, her decision.”

  “No, it’s both of yours. And I sense you have reservations.”

  “Abortion’s such an ugly thing.…”

  “Mick, nobody really likes the idea of abortion. Oh, I know there are people who have no qualms about it. But in some cases, it can make or break a woman’s life.”

  “Shar, what’re you trying to tell me?”

  “Unwanted children sense they are unwanted, no matter how the parents try to mask it. Usually they lead troubled lives.” I thought about Jamie: she’d told me
her mother was into having babies in quantity, and her father was into having groupies. She’d sensed that her conception had happened for complicated and less than desirable reasons; fortunately her innate talent seemed to have saved her. But what of the three younger Little Savages? Maybe they’d escaped the toxic environment in Charlene and Ricky’s household in time. They certainly seemed fine, in spite of frequently being shuttled by private jet between home in San Diego and home in San Francisco. But I did sometimes worry about the younger boy, Brian.…

  Mick said, “Shar, what’re you really trying to tell me? There’s a subtext here that I’m not getting.”

  It was a secret I’d held close for many years, since my junior year at UC–Berkeley. Only Hy, Hank, and my long-term friend Linnea Carraway knew. I struggled with the words, but my throat closed up. I shuddered, swallowed.

  Finally I said, “I had an abortion. In college.”

  “Oh, Shar—”

  “It was the result of a one-night stand. A guy from USC that I would’ve never gotten near if I’d been sober—but I wasn’t. And I was only nineteen; I had nothing to offer a child. But I knew if Ma and Pa found out they’d insist I have it and raise it. Catholics, you know.”

  “So you…?”

  “Yeah. It was a tough decision. I’ve pretty much put it behind me, but sometimes I wonder…”

  “About your life? How it’d have been different? What the kid would’ve been like? The burdens it would’ve imposed?”

  “All of that. Sometimes I think that I was so selfish.”

  “Well, maybe you were, and maybe you did the right thing. Think of all the stuff you’ve done for all the people—”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Not an excuse, but a reason. The tricky questions in life are all about what and who you are—or want to be. Will you talk to Alison, please? Ease her mind?”

  “As soon as she’s ready.”

  We lapsed into silence. Still no one had approached the church, either on foot or by car; the van remained dark. The chapel gleamed pure and white, the cross at its top drawing my gaze.

  Was it reproaching me for my actions during that terrible time in college? No, it was simply an inanimate symbol of something I no longer believed in. Actually, I didn’t have many clear memories of what I’d gone through only a sense of helplessness, a sense of need, and then a sense of relief. I’d pretty much blocked out the incident. Maybe it was time I dealt with it as a grown woman.