A Wild and Lonely Place Page 12

  “Yes. How come Hamid’s involvement in the operation didn’t come to the attention of the media?”

  “Have you met that mother of his?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I have, too. One of the most boring evenings of my life, dinner at that wretched consulate, her talking international relations as if anything like that matters. The woman is filthy rich, I’m sure there were payoffs, ask anybody in the diplomatic community how that works.”

  A voice from above sang out, “Lei-la! We’re out of wine!”

  Leila snapped her fingers. “Wine, Blanca. Better yet, give them champagne.”

  I felt a slight movement behind me as the maid left her station.

  “She’s very attentive, your Blanca,” I said.

  “A real treasure.” She smiled insincerely.

  I’d known other people like Leila Schechtmann and her friends but—thank God—had never had many dealings with them. With any luck, my dealings with Leila would soon be over. “This Fig…Langley Newton, do you know where I can find him?”

  “What do you want with Fig?”

  “To get his story about the day your husband left town.”

  “I see.” She frowned in concentration. “Someone said…Sandy, maybe? Yes, Sandy said he saw him. Where? South Beach? No, too upscale. More likely it was south of Market, but not the good part of SoMa.”

  Blanca passed through the room with two magnums of champagne in ice buckets and climbed the spiral staircase, balancing carefully. When she reached the top there were cheers and applause.

  “Mrs. Schechtmann—”

  “Leila.”

  “Leila, the morning before your husband—”

  “Robbed and abandoned me.”

  “Yes. Was that morning the last time you had contact with him?”

  A secretive look stole over her face. “Why?”

  “I understand he’s made trips back to the city—”

  Male voices came from the entry level below. Schecht-mann’s head whipped around and her face became animated. The voices came closer as the men climbed the stairs. Leila shrugged off her wrap, and as they reached the top, stretched the way she had earlier for her women friends.

  There were three of them: Hispanic, handsome, expensively dressed. They greeted Schechtmann as if she were fully clothed and began loosening ties and taking off jackets.

  “Queridos,” Leila said, “this is a lady detective, I’ve been telling her such nasty things about Speed. The others are upstairs, we’ve had such a lovely afternoon in the sun, and Blanca has just taken up champagne.”

  The men cast disinterested glances in my direction and moved toward the spiral staircase, stopping to let Blanca by, her arms full of empty wine bottles.

  Leila turned to me. “The man in gray, he is my lover, Sandy Ronquillo. Very jealous, he doesn’t like to hear about Speed. Please, you must go now.”

  “About your husband’s visits to the city—”

  “I know nothing of them, I must get back to my guests. Blanca will see you out.” She threw me a brilliant, false smile and skipped toward the staircase; caught up with the last man—who was not her lover—and playfully grabbed his ass.

  I waited till they were all upstairs and then went looking for Blanca.

  * * *

  I found her in the kitchen—a large white room whose thirties ambience had not been spoiled, merely updated with new appliances cleverly concealed within the original cabinetry. The one window opened onto a light well; filtered sunshine spilled through it and across the sink where Blanca was washing out the empty bottles. A small cassette tape recorder sat on the counter, and as she worked she hummed along to my brother-in-law Ricky Savage’s current country-and-western hit, “The Broken Promise Land.”

  I let the swinging door close behind me and cleared my throat. Blanca stopped in the act of setting a bottle in a plastic recycling tub and glanced up in surprise.

  “Mrs. Schechtmann’s rejoined her guests,” I said. “I thought you might be able to answer a few questions she couldn’t.”

  The maid regarded me warily, then shrugged.

  “Do you like that song?” I motioned at the tape recorder.

  “I like all Ricky Savage’s songs. He is my very favorite singer.”

  Convenient. I sensed an opportunity for building rapport here. “Mine, too. Of course, I’m prejudiced—he’s married to my sister Charlene.”

  Blanca’s face flushed with pleasure. “Really?”

  “Really. I’ve known Ricky since he was eighteen and came through San Diego playing backup for a crummy band. One of their gigs was a high-school dance, where he saw Charlene. He stayed on, and they were married within three months.” I didn’t add that Ricky had gotten her pregnant on their first date.

  “Your sister is a very fortunate woman.”

  “In many ways. She and Ricky have a lot of money, like these people.” I hooked my thumb at the door. “But they’re still just plain folks. None of this drinking and doing drugs, and they’ve raised their kids right.” Don’t lay it on too thick, McCone. “A lot wrong in this household, isn’t there?”

  Again Blanca shrugged, and turned back to the sink.

  “Blanca, I really need some information about Leila’s husband, Klaus Schechtmann.”

  “I cannot help you with that.”

  “Not even if it would save a little girl who’s in serious trouble?”

  She paused in her rinsing. Shook her head. “This job is very important to me.”

  “I promise complete confidentiality.”

  At that point Ricky belted out the phrase “broken promise land.” Thanks, guy, I thought.

  The irony was not lost on Blanca. She shut off the water and turned to face me, a faint smile on her lips. “I do not even know you are telling me the truth about being related to him. How can I trust you?”

  “Look.” I dug in my bag, pulled out a photo folder and showed her a snap of Ricky, Charlene, and their three youngest sitting on the foundation of a house. “That’s the place they’re building in the hills above San Diego.”

  She studied it, shook her head again. “I am not supposed to talk about Mr. Schechtmann.”

  “How would you like Ricky’s autograph and his new release? I can get you a tape, a record, or a CD.”

  “You are offering me a bribe, I think.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then you must be desperate.” She hesitated. “You say a child is in trouble?”

  “Yes. She’s only nine years old.”

  For a moment her gaze wavered, then firmed and met mine. “All right. And I accept your bribe. I would like a tape, please.”

  “Done.” I dug in my purse and handed her a notebook so she could write down her full name and address.

  “So,” she said, handing it back, “what is my part of our bargain?”

  “Leila’s husband, Klaus Schechtmann—or Speed, as she calls him—has he ever visited here?”

  She nodded. “Twice, that I know of. A few months after she moved in last year and again in December, the week before Christmas.”

  So Schechtmann—and possibly Dawud Hamid—had been in the city the week the Libyan Trade Commission had been bombed. Interesting. “Tell me about the visits.”

  “The first time, she was very angry with him. There was an argument, a physical argument. Then silence. They went to the bedroom, of course. The second time, she welcomed him. There was caviar, champagne, music. And, of course, the bedroom again. After she had me change the sheets she cautioned me to say nothing to Mr. Ronquillo, and there was extra money in my Christmas bonus. I think her husband gave her money, because for months she shopped more than usual.”

  “Have you ever heard Leila or Speed mention Dave Hamid?”

  “The first time I heard that name was when you and she were talking.”

  “What about the country Azad, or their consulate?”

  “No.”

  “Chloe Love?”

 
“No.”

  “A man named Langley Newton—Fig, for short?”

  “Oh, yes. Fig does things for Leila—takes her car to be serviced, runs errands. She gives him little jobs because he is having a hard time. He comes by at least once a week.”

  I’d thought there was a false note in Leila’s denial of knowing Fig’s whereabouts. “Why do you suppose she told me she doesn’t know how to contact him?”

  “Perhaps she was afraid you meant to harm him. Leila likes Fig, without any of the usual woman-man things.”

  “Why?”

  Blanca shrugged. “Maybe because he went to her when her husband left and told her what Speed had done. Maybe because Fig does not judge her. And Fig would never hurt her, not like Mr. Ronquillo. He has violence in him, and Leila often has the bruises to prove it.”

  “Do you know where I can find Fig?”

  “I am sorry, I don’t. His mother died last year and left him an apartment building somewhere in the city, but he doesn’t live there. There are problems with it, and he is having trouble selling it. In the meantime he stays down on the Peninsula, but I am not sure where.”

  “Do you know when he’ll come to see Leila again?”

  “I believe he was here yesterday making some repairs, but I am not sure because it was my day off. The next time he comes I will ask him to call you.”

  I thought I could trace Newton by other means, but I gave Blanca one of my cards. “Will you also call me if Speed Schechtmann visits Leila again?”

  She nodded and tucked the card into the pocket of her uniform.

  A bell in an old-fashioned call box mounted above the door rang. Blanca looked at the box and sighed. “They want more champagne. No food—the drugs kill their hunger.”

  “Blanca, why do you continue to work here?”

  “I am well paid and my salary helps with my daughter’s college tuition. She is at U.C. Davis studying to be a veterinarian. When she opens her practice I will quit this job and work for her.” She grinned wickedly. “I think I will enjoy working with the animals. By then I will have had much experience.”

  Twelve

  Back in my car, I phoned Mick at the office and asked him to call his father about Blanca’s autograph and tape. He said he would before he closed up for the day. “Nothing’s happening—here or on the bulletin boards. You haven’t even had a phone call.”

  “What, no messages from Adah Joslyn?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “Odd.” After the way she’d badgered me about the Azadis the night before, I’d expected a string of them.

  Next I called Keim’s extension at RKI. “Anything?” I asked her.

  “No. This Hamid’s a tough one to pin down.”

  “Well, put him aside for now. You feel like logging some overtime?”

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “Current addresses for two people: Langley Newton, aka Fig, and Chloe Love. They both worked at Das Glücksspiel; he was manager, she was one of the chefs.”

  “I’ll get on it. Anything else?”

  “Did Renshaw call?”

  “Yeah, didn’t he get hold of you? He’s at the consulate; here’s the line you’re to call on.”

  When I reached Renshaw he said he’d have to get back to me. I stayed where I was, watching tendrils of fog slip in from the Bay to end our stretch of fine spring weather. We would have an early dusk and a chilly evening—a good time to curl up with Hy in front of my fireplace. The idea was immensely appealing, but still I felt the edgy need to keep moving.

  The phone buzzed. Renshaw. So far, he said, there had been no ransom demand.

  “And there won’t be, either,” I told him.

  “You figure this the same way I do.”

  “Hamid was too cool by far. If she didn’t arrange the snatch, she knows who has them, and she isn’t worried. What’s she been doing since you got there?”

  “Staring out the library window at the garden. What’re you doing?”

  “Working on a lead. You’ll be there for a while?”

  “I’ll be here till this situation is resolved one way or the other.”

  Next on my list of calls was Joslyn. Her answering machine promised she’d get back to me. Last call: Greg Marcus. He was in his office, and he confirmed that he’d been unable to come up with anything on Dawud Hamid or the other Azadis. I asked him to run checks on Klaus and Leila Schechtmann, Sandy Ronquillo, Langley Newton, and Chloe Love. He grumbled for form’s sake, but I could tell he was interested enough in what I might be coming up with to expedite them.

  As an afterthought I asked, “You seeing your chef friend tonight?”

  “Later on, yeah.”

  “Will you ask her if she knows anything about Love, seeing as they’re both members of the city’s culinary community?”

  Greg promised he’d call if Lynda knew anything.

  I was about to turn the ignition key when the phone buzzed again. Keim said, “I’ve got your cookie.”

  “You what?”

  “Fig Newton. He lives in Brisbane.”

  “How’d you find out so fast?”

  “Phone book.”

  “Oh,” I said weakly. Already I’d come to rely so heavily on assistants with technology at their fingertips that I’d forgotten to let my fingers do the walking.

  Keim read me an address on Manzanita Lane. “It’s one of those little streets on San Bruno Mountain,” she added. “Borders on the county park. You want to take Bayshore Boulevard down there, turn right on San Bruno Avenue, and head uphill. After that you’re on your own.”

  * * *

  I certainly was on my own; even my Rand McNally Streetfinder couldn’t help me. The streets scaled the humpbacked hill in curves and switchbacks, crossed and separated, and recrossed. As I neared the open space that stretched between Brisbane and Daly City, they became narrow lanes lined with small rustic dwellings and overhung with eucalyptus trees. Fog had crested the hilltop, was spilling down now. To the east the Bay still shimmered under blue sky.

  I turned right on an unmarked road, snaked through a switchback, thumped in and out of potholes. In moments I reached a dead end. The land banked steeply on the uphill side, thick with wild vegetation; on the other side it fell away to the backs of the houses on the street below. I U-turned and crept along, looking for mailboxes. One finally appeared on the uphill side, its post leaning crookedly, its door hanging open. With difficulty I made out the name Newton. I stopped the MG next to it and got out.

  Two wide, sagging planks bridged a declivity where a little creek trickled. I crossed on one of them and followed a well worn car track through a eucalyptus grove. The trees’ silvery green leaves shivered in the drifting mist. When I came out of the grove I saw faint light shining in the front window of a small brown-shingled bungalow nestled at the bottom of the slope. Its porch was crowded with junk—a wringer washing machine, some wooden crates, a lawn mower, three straightbacked chairs. A pair of old pickups and a dusty black Citroen hulked in what could loosely be called a yard. A broken flowerpot lay at the foot of the steps, dirt and a withering geranium spilling onto the ground.

  I felt as if I’d stepped back in time to the days when Brisbane’s residents kept goats and chickens and eked out their livings farming the hillside. Present-day San Francisco seemed remote as I walked through the late-afternoon fog. I didn’t allow nostalgia for simpler times to ease my caution, though; instead I reached into the outside pocket of my shoulder bag and rested my hand on the .38 that I’d removed from the strongbox in the trunk before driving down here. For years I’d resisted carrying it, in spite of my permit, but after a near-fatal incident the previous October I’d overcome my reluctance on the grounds of better-them-than-me.

  I approached the bungalow warily, keeping an eye out for watchdogs. None growled in warning, none rushed out to investigate my presence. In the house a medium-sized shape crossed behind the drawn shade on the lighted window. I mounted the shaky steps and knocked.
After a few seconds footsteps approached within.

  The man who opened the door had a bald egg-shaped dome that gleamed above a ruff of curly silver-gray hair. His body was suety-soft, clad in a threadbare maroon bathrobe. His feet, in equally threadbare black socks, turned out like a ballet dancer’s. His brown eyes took a long time to focus on me, as if his mind was on something remote and preoccupying. When he greeted me cordially I relaxed my hold on the .38.

  I identified myself and verified that he was Langley Newton. Mentioned both Leila Schechtmann and Blanca and asked if I might come in. Newton looked uneasy, as if he didn’t have many visitors and wasn’t sure how to deal with me. He wasn’t dressed, he said. Could I wait a minute?

  I waited, watching the fingers of fog reach downhill toward the Bay. They were claiming the marinas on its western shore when Newton returned, wearing jeans and a blue pullover sweater, and invited me inside.

  The front room of the bungalow ran the entire length of the structure and was as shabby as its exterior. An old dark-wood hutch stood in shadow at one end, its shelves filled with dusty commemorative plates and floral-patterned teacups. At the other end sat a potbellied woodstove, and in between a high-backed Victorian-style sofa upholstered in faded red velvet. A card table on which a half-finished jigsaw puzzle was laid out stood in front of it. The only light came from a floor lamp near the window, and the room was very cold.

  Newton went to the stove, crumpled some newspaper that lay in an untidy pile on the floor, and lit the fire. He turned to me with an uneasy smile. “The fog came in so quickly that I didn’t notice how cold it had gotten. I seldom use this room except for company. It’ll warm up soon.”

  “It’s not that bad.” I looked at a round table flanked by two chairs with needlepointed seats. Atop a crocheted doily on the table sat a dozen or so Hummel figurines; a finger-smudged glass stood incongruously among them.

  “My mother’s collection,” Newton said, motioning for me to sit on the sofa. “This was her home. She died last fall, and I haven’t gotten around to clearing out her things.” He regarded the figurines disapprovingly, as if seeing them more clearly than before. “I really should do something about those. I find them quite ugly.”