Looking for Yesterday Page 14

  “That was just Caro-speak. No, it was a Caro-lie. Damn, there were so many of them. But I loved her in spite of them. I still do.”

  I liked this man: he was emotional, practical, and self-aware.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll keep you posted.”

  1:37 p.m.

  “Those last couple of weeks, I couldn’t believe what Amelia was telling me.” Kimberly Smith, Amelia’s friend, sat across from me in a coffee shop on busy Lombard Street. “I mean, a guy in a black cape following her—it was too Jack the Ripper.”

  “But she did seem genuinely afraid?”

  “Yeah, that’s the weird thing. She’d have you completely believing her, and later you’d think about it and go, She’s gotta be making this up.”

  I studied Kimberly. She was petite, blond, with an upturned freckled nose. Currently unemployed and living with her parents on Cervantes Street, but “looking for something in a creative field.” From her expensive wool coat and the Cervantes Street address, I knew her parents were well off and she could take her time looking.

  “How long had you known Amelia?” I asked.

  “Hmmm. We met at a party at a friend’s house about a year before.… Can’t remember whose house—you know how people come and go in this city. Decided to go jogging the next day. We were both so hungover, we ended up at a bar in a Mexican restaurant. El Pico de Gallo, here on Lombard. Drank margaritas and told tales most of the afternoon.”

  “What kind of tales?”

  “Just tales. You know how it is: boyfriends, movies you’ve seen, good restaurants, even books. After that, we planned to jog every Sunday—and sometimes we did—but we always went to Pico’s.”

  “Did you jog the Sunday before she died?”

  “Yeah. She mentioned being scared again, kept looking over her shoulder. Later, at Pico’s, she insisted on taking a booth at the very rear.”

  “And that was your last contact with her?”

  “It was.” She looked down, fiddled with a silver bracelet on her right wrist. “You know, I’ve often thought that if I’d only taken her more seriously instead of getting hung up on the thing with the cape, she might not’ve been murdered.”

  “Even if you had, what could you have done? Someone was determined to kill her, and if it hadn’t happened the way it did, they’d’ve probably changed their modus operandi and taken her out later.”

  “But why? Why would anybody want her dead? Not Caro Warrick. I knew and liked her. She was a good friend to Amelia. And Amelia—you couldn’t find a nicer, more caring woman.”

  “‘Why’ is what I’m going to find out.”

  2:40 p.m.

  Another friend of Amelia’s, Sarah Katz, met me at a country-and-western bar on lower Russian Hill. She must’ve been a regular—several patrons and the bartender called out hellos to her—and an ardent fan, because her cowboy boots, jeans, Western jacket and hat spoke of Nashville. When she greeted me, her accent was pure Southern.

  Now, there was a way of establishing rapport. “Country fan, are you?”

  “Major.”

  “My brother-in-law’s Ricky Savage.”

  “Oh my God. My God!”

  “Actually he used to be my brother-in-law, but now he’s married to my best friend, so I guess he’s still related in an odd way.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Pretty much like he is on stage—friendly, easygoing, unpretentious.”

  “I knew it. I just knew he would be.”

  “He’s not performing as much as he used to—running Zenith Records and finding new talent takes up a lot of his time—but the next time he does a show in the Bay Area, I’m sure he’d be happy to put you and a friend on his guest list.”

  “You don’t know what that would mean to me.”

  I’ve never understood our national obsession with celebrities. A pop star can overdose and it goes on the front page, but a physicist can win the Nobel Prize and the story is buried on page five. Of course, my attitude could stem from the fact that I’ve never known a Nobel winner, but have known my family’s particular celebrity since he was dirt-poor and playing high school dances such as the one where he’d met Charlene.

  “It’s a done deal,” I told her. “Now, let’s talk about Amelia.”

  “God, I got so carried away—”

  “That’s okay. How long before Amelia’s death had you known her?”

  “Since college. We met in an English composition class. I stayed and got my BA. She left, but we still saw each other.”

  “How often?”

  “A couple of times a month.”

  “What did you do together?”

  “Had lunch, went to special exhibits at the museums if there were any good ones.”

  “You were both interested in art, then.”

  “Yes. I teach art at a small girls’ school on the Peninsula. Amelia…well, she still was floundering to find something she really wanted to do. Those modeling jobs, they were ludicrous for someone of her talents.”

  “Talents, such as…?”

  “She could’ve been a graphic designer, done something with her writing, or with photography. She could’ve gone to graduate school in any number of fields. But instead she did nothing but occasional photo shoots and hitting the club scene.” Sarah paused. “The last time I saw her—three weeks before…you know—I came down on her pretty hard about her lack of initiative. We didn’t part on the best of terms, and now I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.”

  “You’d’ve eventually patched it up.”

  “I know. But now we can’t—not ever.”

  I have a number of similar regrets. All I could do was pat Sarah’s hand.

  4:29 p.m.

  I hadn’t been able to get hold of the third friend of Amelia’s on my list, so I turned toward the RI building, thinking to check up on how things were going in our new space. But as I crossed Market Street, my phone rang: Mick.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. “I know you and Alison needed to talk things out, but you’ve taken the whole day off. You have a job here, not a hobby, you know—”

  “Stop!”

  “It’s inconsiderate. It’s against agency policy. It’s—”

  “Just stop already! I’ve got a serious situation on my hands. Can you meet me at Jake Green’s place in Atherton?”

  “What’re you doing there?”

  “Please. Just come. I…need you.”

  The gravity in his voice damped my anger. “Sure.”

  “To get here you take 280 South till you hit—”

  “I have the address and I’ll use my GPS to find it.”

  “Okay. The house is set back and flanked by palms. Spanish-style, looks small, considering the price tag.”

  “I take it Green’s not there.”

  “Just get down here—fast!”

  5:17 p.m.

  The afternoon light was fading when I located Green’s house. It did look small, considering the size of the other properties I’d passed along the winding, tree-shaded street. I drove up a blacktop driveway into a circular parking area with a fountain in its center—water spraying from what looked like a trumpet vine flower into a simple marble basin. Mick’s Harley was nowhere in sight.

  Frowning, I got out of the car and followed a flagstone walk to the front door. Rang twice, but received no answer. There was another path along the left side of the house; when I started along it, Mick popped out from behind a yew tree, his finger to his lips.

  “What the hell…?” I whispered.

  He put his arm around my shoulders and led me to where the path opened into an enormous backyard with a sweeping green lawn, a detached four-car garage, flower beds alive with winter blooms, an Olympic-size pool, and what I assumed must be a pool house.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the pool.

  I stepped forward, my breath catching as I saw a man floating facedown in a spot of pinkish-hued water. I
recognized Jake Green by the perfectly round bald spot on the crown of his head. There was a raggedy, stained hole in his once-white shirt.

  “Jesus,” I said. Looked away, took a couple of breaths, then looked back. The shirt was not only bloodstained but had a dark smear around the bullet hole that looked as if it might be gunpowder residue. It would have washed away, if trapped air had not pushed the shirt above the water’s surface.

  “You call the police?” I asked Mick.

  “No. I wanted you to see this first.”

  “Mick, somebody might’ve seen you come in here—”

  “I parked my bike around the corner; there are a couple of others there that’re probably snooting mine because it’s not as classy. In case you didn’t notice, these houses are set far apart and three of them are vacant and for sale: no prying eyes.”

  I studied Green’s body again. “Shot in the back. Can’t tell from here if it was point-blank or not. But judging from the dark stains on his shirt, the killer stood close.”

  “Somebody he knew?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Pro hit?”

  “Could be.” I turned and surveyed the house. The French doors to the pool area were open.

  Mick looked alarmed. “Shar, you’re not—”

  “Yes, I am. I want you to remove my car from the driveway. Take it down to the turnout near the freeway and walk back.”

  “This is not a good move.”

  “I’m sick of good moves. I’m sick of being the good kid on the block. I’m tired of rules.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “Maybe when you’re my age and have my experience you’ll understand. Maybe not. I’m not sure I really understand it myself yet.”

  “Give me a clue.”

  “Not now—just go!”

  “I will, but don’t you take a step inside until I get back.”

  5:40 p.m.

  After the sound of my Z4 faded down the winding road, I stood next to the pool where Jake Green’s body floated, the water occasionally stirred by the filtration mechanism. I knew speed was necessary here, but I felt sluggish, an aftereffect of the revelation of being sick and tired of being the good kid who followed the rules that I’d—clumsily—shared with Mick minutes before.

  Something in me had snapped at the sight of Green’s body, something that couldn’t be pasted—or even Gorilla Glued—back together.

  Hy had spoken to me of breaking points like this. When a violent event brought about a change in your emotional reactions and you were never again the person you had been before.

  I was angry—but it was a cold anger. I didn’t care that Jake Green was dead in his pool. If I’d had my .357 with me, I wouldn’t have minded shooting him again—a symbolic remove-you-from-the-rest-of-humanity gesture. A gesture that once I would have considered barbaric.

  Not any more.

  Since I didn’t have the gun, I went on to the more logical thing: a search of his house. Disobeying Mick’s orders, I took out my flashlight and went inside.

  The French doors led into a rec room: fireplace, pool table, old-fashioned jukebox, comfortable-looking furnishings. I scanned the walls beside the door for an alarm keypad, found one to the right that had been disarmed. There could be separate alarm systems on the other doors, but I’d deal with them later.

  The room was a mess. Dirty glasses and plates sat on dust-covered surfaces. Newspapers, including last Sunday’s San Jose Mercury News, from which the Chron had picked up the “Where Are They Now” story, were scattered about on the coffee table and the floor. One section was opened to a retrospective on Amelia Bettencourt’s murder and Caro Warrick’s acquittal that was similar to the one that had led me to Dave Walden.

  I didn’t subscribe to the Mercury, but I knew it to be a good paper. I scanned the piece, found it accurate, and also found a reference to Jake Green. He was described as an “entrepreneur dealing in international commodities exchanges.”

  Not a struggling travel agent?

  What commodities? Corn? Wheat? Pork bellies?

  And dealing with whom? China? African countries? South America?

  Whatever the answer, Jake Green hadn’t been pleased with the publicity: the page from the Mercury was crumpled and torn.

  I checked the reporter’s byline: Rebecca Regan. I didn’t know her, but I hoped to shortly make her acquaintance.

  6:20 p.m.

  “Shar, come on out of there!” Mick, calling from outside by the pool again. “I told you to wait for me.”

  I went to the French doors and said, “A few more minutes.”

  He was standing a few feet away, his hands fisted. I couldn’t see his expression in the shadows, but I imagined it was angry.

  “How many more?” he asked.

  “Ten, maybe fifteen.”

  “Look, we’ve got a dead guy in the pool and God knows who might show up—”

  “Nobody’s going to show up.”

  “How d’you know that?”

  I didn’t, exactly, but I sensed Jake Green was the kind of man who would invite few people into his home—and none who would drop in spontaneously.

  When I didn’t respond, Mick asked, “What about his security system?”

  “I’ve spotted one keypad—for the French doors that’re open. Now that you’re here, you might as well look for junction boxes and wiring. Do what you can to disarm them.”

  “Right. But Shar—”

  “Fifteen minutes, tops.”

  6:24 p.m.

  What I’d seen in the rec room didn’t reflect the rest of the house. The kitchen was equally messy, but the rooms behind it were strangely tidy, full of African tribal artifacts, some of them over eight feet tall. Rugs whose origin I couldn’t begin to guess at hung on wires from the ceilings, creating a maze that was difficult to navigate. In one room was a shrine with a studio portrait of Amelia flanked with light bulbs that flickered to emulate candles.

  So maybe he had​ really loved her, and not just for her money.

  No telling what kind of man Jake Green had been. Complicated, I supposed, like so many people.

  “Shar! I’ve done all I can with the alarm system. It’s time to come out of there!”

  “I haven’t even gone upstairs yet.”

  The staircase was curved, without a landing, carpeted in blue. I climbed it to a short hallway. Bathroom: spacious, with a large shower that could be entered from either of the rooms that flanked it. Bedroom: neatly made up, no sign of recent occupancy. Another bedroom: rumpled bedclothes, clothing tossed around indiscriminately, but no signs of violence.

  Mindful of Mick’s anxiety, I swiftly but carefully went through the closets and drawers. Jake Green had possessed an uncommon number of shoes and suits, dress and casual shirts. Coins and a thick wad of bills secured by a money clip lay on the dresser. The clip was inscribed with Green’s initials. There was a wallet: driver’s license, ATM card, an unusual number of credit cards—two or three each from Visa, MasterCard, American Express, Discover, Capital One.

  A lacquered red-and-black box sat beside the wallet; it was crammed with costly-looking chains and rings. In the bathroom I found no prescription medicines and no over-the-counter drugs except aspirin. I also learned that he used Crest toothpaste, Dial soap, and Rogaine—apparently he hadn’t been one of the people for whom the hair loss remedy worked.

  I hurried back downstairs in time to hear Mick’s muted voice say, “Shar—come here!”

  “Where?”

  “Stairway off this little telephone nook by the kitchen.”

  I’d noted the nook before.

  “You won’t believe this!” he added.

  “I’m coming!”

  The stairs were old and worn, the passage of many feet having gouged deep but smooth depressions. I put my hand on the railing, then removed it, afraid it would give. Mick had turned the lights on in the basement, and at first I saw only an old-fashioned laundry room with a wringer washing m
achine and an ironing mangle in one corner; then he gestured through a door to his left.

  Crates. Open crates full of guns. And not just any kind of guns: these were weapons of war.

  Enough of them to supply a small army.

  Some I recognized because RI possessed them in its not-inconsiderable arsenal: AK-47s, AR-15s, Heckler & Koch 416s.

  Others were unfamiliar, but all were black and ugly, nesting in their soft pink packing material that incongruously reminded me of cotton candy.

  The damage these could do, the lives that could be lost.

  Up to now I’d considered my .38 and .357 dangerous weapons, but their capacity paled in comparison to the crated firepower.

  Mick was inspecting rows of stacked boxes. “Lots of ammo here too.”

  I said, “So Green wasn’t just laundering money for other people; he was earning a lot of it by trading in arms.”

  “Nice little cottage industry.”

  “Seems to me he was careless, leaving all this in an unlocked room.”

  “There’s an alarm on this door, but I got past it.”

  “How?”

  He held up something that looked like a flash drive for a computer. “Decoding device. Something I whipped up in my spare time.”

  Sometimes he purely amazed me.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “This case has gotten entirely too big for us. It’s time to bring in the police—the FBI and ATF, too.”

  I started for the stairs, taking out my cell; Mick was close behind. But just as I put my foot on the first step, sounds from above froze me in place.

  Somebody else was in the house.

  Mick heard them too. “What do we do now?” he whispered.

  “Nothing yet. Until we know who they are, we don’t want to reveal ourselves.”

  The footsteps were louder overhead now—more than one person coming through the front door.

  I grabbed Mick’s arm, pulled him back into the laundry room. “Over here!”

  The mangle was a huge contraption left over from the days when proper housewives—or more likely their servants—wouldn’t dream of making up a bed with sheets that hadn’t been ironed. Supported on thick legs at either end, it was pulled away from the wall just far enough that Mick and I could slip behind either leg. I scraped my back on the rough wall, glanced at Mick and saw him grimace as he did the same.