Someone Always Knows Read online

  The Kenyons knew nothing of the niceties of life. They dressed loudly, ate hoggishly, and on one infamous evening had been caught by a wire services photographer throwing bouillabaisse at each other in a high-toned Roman bistro. Now, apparently, they were back.

  I’d never met either brother, but Julia had, while we were investigating a cult-like group called the Night Searchers who carried out their rituals in a vacant lot belonging to the Kenyons. Her description of Chad as a man who could “gobble a whole steer and then ask for an ox,” and the tape recording she’d made to prove it, made the prospect of a meeting with him less than appealing.

  “Are you sure you can’t send Mr. Kenyon along to Julia?” I asked.

  “Nope. She’s out working the Renshaw angle, and besides, Kenyon seems pretty insistent.”

  “All right, give me five and send him in,” I said. And then, thinking of the famed Kenyon appetite, added, “And for God’s sake, follow up with a tray of noshes.”

  Chad Kenyon’s big body shook when he walked. His facial skin drooped in great jowls. But to give him credit, kindness showed in his soft brown eyes, and the lines around them testified to much laughter. He was short—a little less than my own five foot six—but in spite of his excess padding, he carried himself well in his expensively tailored blue silk suit. Mercifully his handshake was firm—unlike the gorilla grips I’d recently noticed a lot of men employing.

  I seated him in my conversation area and made small talk while Kendra Williams, Ted’s assistant—whom he had dubbed the Paragon of the Paper Clips—served coffee and noshes. Kenyon looked the serving plate over with interest, then helped himself to an assortment of mini pizzas.

  To be polite, I took a couple myself, then asked, “What can we do for you, Mr. Kenyon?”

  “Please, call me Chad.”

  “And I’m Sharon.”

  He fiddled around with a leather card case, produced one, and laid it on my desk. “I asked to talk with you personally because Little Sweetheart says you’re the best in the business.”

  “Who’s Little Sweetheart?”

  “Ms. Julia Rafael.”

  “Nice of her to say so. I assume you have a problem.”

  “A big one.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid things are going to get out of control if something’s not done soon.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  What Chad Kenyon described was one of those nightmares that occur in many cities: He and his brother had recently bought a derelict, abandoned house on Webster Street. Since they’d moved with their usual speed and neglected to do their homework, they hadn’t been aware that strange people were coming and going at all hours, displaying open hostility toward the neighbors. Teenagers and even younger children had been sneaking in, jeopardizing—so their parents claimed—life and limb. Household pets steered clear of the place, exercising animals’ innate wisdom, which I wish we humans could tap into. The police came, the police went—the lack of a solution wasn’t their fault. They were hamstrung by an overburdened department and city bureaucracy and an increasing crime rate.

  It happens everywhere. Urban blight, they call it.

  When he’d finished, I said, “I assume you came to us because you want the building cleared and secured.”

  “Right.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’ve had one lowball offer on it—from a young girl named Michelle Curley—but I turned it down. She mentioned you, sort of as a character reference. Another reason I decided to talk with you personally. The kid’s been pestering me. Maybe you can call her off.”

  Michelle and her family had been my neighbors on Church Street, and she’d done triple duty as my house and pet sitter, my chauffeur when the aftereffects of locked-in syndrome had legally prohibited me from propelling any kind of vehicle, and once—unknown to her mother—my co-investigator. She was now twenty-three, beautiful but with an offhand style that said she didn’t dwell on her appearance, and determined to launch the biggest venture of her young life.

  “I’ll try to get her to stop bothering you. But I can’t guarantee anything; she’s headstrong.”

  “Yeah, she is. Well, anyway, if the house could be secured, maybe I could do some kind of rehab on it. It’s a nice old place and I’m looking to set up a home. I’m tired of living in apartments and condos.”

  “Then let me tell you what this firm can and can’t do in your case. We have to act legally, follow all state and local ordinances. Any illegal activity such as intimidating neighbors, even trespassers, would bring the Department of Consumer Affairs down on us, and if a case were proven against us, we’d lose our agency’s license—forever. Now, there are strictly legal methods we can employ, but I’m afraid they’ll be expensive.”

  “What kind of methods?”

  “Extensive surveillance. Exterior photography, night and day. Infiltration by our operatives. Interior photography. Web cams. Utilizing our contacts within the SFPD, so they can make an early response to any trouble. Identification of the people entering and leaving the building, and thorough background checks on them. And that’s not all—the list goes on and on. Are you sure you want to pursue this?”

  “How expensive would it be?”

  I calculated, then wrote down the figure on a note pad and passed it to him.

  “That’s a lot. Is there any cheaper stuff you can do?”

  “We can look over the property, talk with the neighbors, do limited roll-by and walk-around surveillances. Neighbors are a particularly good source: someone always knows what’s going on in any given place. We’ll also keep in touch with our contacts at the SFPD and other city agencies. That kind of investigation would cost you less than half the more extensive job. And then, if we go forward, we won’t add a surcharge.”

  He folded the paper and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Let’s start with this then.”

  It was my kind of case. For all my negative feelings about the directions in which the city was going—extreme gentrification and the high housing costs that went with it; a transportation system that ran badly, if it ran at all; the NIMBYs and the homeless; the lack of important city services—it was still my city. If I could help reverse even one of those things, I’d give it a good shot.

  I buzzed Ted and he entered with copies of the standard agency contract. Kenyon signed them and wrote out a personal check for the retainer it requested.

  As he stood up to leave, he asked, “Sweetheart’s not back, huh?”

  “Not yet. I’ll give her your regards.”

  “Thanks.” Chad took the two remaining pizzettas from the tray and exited my office.

  2:01 p.m.

  I decided to take a run by the Webster Street house on my way to San José for my appointment with Gil Stratton, Renshaw’s former employer at Quick Stops. Before I left for San José I stopped by Mick’s office. Earlier I’d asked him to take a break from Renshaw and scare up some information on the Webster Street house.

  “About this new case,” he said. “I’m coming up with all kinds of interesting stuff on the house. I can pull it together by this evening and e-mail it to you, or better yet, bring it by your place if you’re going to be home.”

  Mick loves to be personally involved in my cases, and he wishes I’d allow him more time in the field, but—for now, at least—I needed him in the office directing our research. I couldn’t deny him this chance to report his findings in his often dramatic style.

  “Please come by. We’ll be up late, as usual.”

  Then I headed for Webster Street.

  The house was large, the color of its original paint unrecognizable beneath layers of grime and soot. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the lot, but here and there it had been breached. Graffiti dotted the house’s walls, and most of the windows were broken. The small front yard was crammed with gasoline drums, old car parts, a threadbare couch, and other detritus.

  As I set the alarm on my Mercedes, I thought of my
beloved BMW Z4, burned to a crisp in my house fire two years ago. I hadn’t liked any of the new BMWs, so Hy had given me the Mercedes SLK 350 roadster. Red, because it was my favorite color for cars, with a removable hardtop and black ragtop. One of the older models—which are much prettier than what they’re making now—and extremely well maintained by its previous owner.

  A strange choice to give an investigator who tried to stay in the background, but we both knew my days of going unrecognized were over. I’d received too much press, too much public exposure. Now I mostly let my operatives do the fieldwork, while I handled the more cerebral aspects of our cases. And frankly, I didn’t miss sitting in a car for hours, my eyes aching with strain, bereft of good food, water, or a place to pee.

  When I’d expressed my concern about taking the SLK into the bad neighborhoods I sometimes have to frequent, Hy had insisted no one would tamper with it; they’d probably think it belonged to a drug dealer. So far he’d been proven correct. Besides, it had one hell of an alarm that would blast the eardrums of anyone within a mile or more.

  The reviews on this area, called the Western Addition, are mixed: many think it’s dangerous, citing drive-by shootings that smack of gang warfare. Others love it for the relatively low rents and friendliness. Some cite the high crime rate, but actually it is about half that of many other areas of the city. True, there are housing projects, but they’re slowly being upgraded—even the one nicknamed OC, for “out of control.”

  The block I was headed for was typical of the area: an eclectic mix of Victorians, more modern single-family homes, apartment buildings, and shops. Once the street was considered undesirable because of the old Central Freeway looming overhead, traffic noise resounding and fumes spewing day and night. But since the Loma Prieta quake of 1989 brought down the span, and with the spiking of real estate prices during the tech boom, the neighborhood’s become a reasonably desirable place.

  I found a parking space close to the southeast corner of the block. While small, most of the buildings were in decent enough condition, but others had been neglected and some were boarded up. And in the middle to the west was the source of blight that had poisoned the neighborhood. Even with watery fall sunlight peeking through wisps of fog, it looked poisonous.

  As I crossed the street, I saw that the derelict house was in an even more shabby condition than it had seemed to be in from a distance: Cornices had broken off and were smashed in the small front yard. Redwood siding had been stripped.

  Urban blight, at its worst. Why on earth had the Kenyons bought it?

  As I mounted the front steps I clutched at the railing, avoiding missing boards. Inside, the air was bad—a mixture of mildew and decay and other odors I didn’t even want to guess at. Heaps of old clothing and fabric decorated nearly every corner. The indoor light was dim but I couldn’t make out many smeared footprints in the dust.

  I pushed a light switch—one of the old two-button type. Nothing happened. The house probably hadn’t been on the power grid for years.

  The rooms were arranged in typical fashion for a Queen Anne Victorian: living room and library to either side of the front door; stairway ascending to the second story; spacious dining room with a fireplace to the left; large kitchen opposite. There was no furniture in the kitchen, just an antiquated iron stove and a stained porcelain sink. I tried the water taps but, as I’d expected, they didn’t work. The enormous rat that skittered behind the stove appeared to be the only occupant at present.

  I climbed the stairs to the second floor; they were sturdy, hardly giving beneath my weight. An example of the craftsmanship that had gone into these early dwellings. There were four empty bedrooms; in a fifth were a bare mattress and an empty jug of Gallo wine. A pair of men’s Levi’s, size thirty-six, and a red flannel shirt had been discarded on the floor. The room gave me the feeling that whoever had been squatting there had been gone for a long time. In a bathroom there was a claw-footed tub, an old-fashioned toilet with the water tank overhead, and a pedestal sink, broken and lying on its side. The tub had become a repository for broken ceramics, metal parts, and cardboard boxes and books and clothing that looked as if they had been gnawed at or perhaps infiltrated by worms. A couple of badly scarred window slats crowned the mess, from which a gamy odor arose. I didn’t bother to investigate its source.

  I went back to the stairway. Stopped, looking up at a large water stain on the ceiling. A scuffling noise came from behind me. Before I could turn, a hand landed hard between my shoulder blades. I tried to grasp the banister, fell, and tumbled down the stairs.

  3:09 p.m.

  After my head cleared somewhat, I looked at my watch, then lay very still, inventorying my pains and hoping I hadn’t broken any bones. The back of my head hurt, as well as my shoulders and upper arms, but not seriously enough to indicate I had sustained a concussion or fractures. My vision was clear. I remained where I was, though, questions crowding my mind: Who had pushed me? Why? What did my attacker want? Had he been in the house for a long time? And if not, how had he entered the house without my seeing him?

  The first answer: could have been anyone. A derelict who resented my intrusion was the most likely. Why? Same answer: someone didn’t want me in what they considered their space. What did he want? To intimidate me, drive me away. How did he get inside? Vaguely I remembered a rear entrance to the kitchen, off an alley that would be shadowed even during the daylight hours. My attacker could have approached and slipped inside without my seeing him. Or he could’ve been inside the house the whole time. Why was I thinking in terms of “he” and not “she”? Because he’d pushed me high up on my back, arm angling. He was taller than most women—or men, for that matter.

  Footsteps scurrying nearby. I tensed.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

  The voice was childlike, and the hand that touched my forehead was small.

  “I…don’t…know.” It hurt to open my eyes, and when I did, the freckled face of a boy, maybe ten years old, swam through the gloom.

  “I’ll go get my mom. She can help you.” He scrambled away.

  Another kid voice spoke. “We just came in and you were laying here at the bottom of the stairs.”

  My senses were slowly wakening from the shock—along with pain. I could already feel bumps and bruises forming. Experimentally I moved my head, then my arms and legs. “I don’t think I broke anything. You see who pushed me?”

  “No, ma’am, we didn’t see nobody but you.”

  The kid, about the same age as the other one, was looking down at me now. His hair was carroty red and fell into long bangs over his eyes. He reminded me of the sons of my operative Patrick Neilan.

  I pushed up into a sitting position. My left shoulder hurt like hell but previous experience told me a few aspirin would fix it up. “You play in this place?” I asked the kid.

  “Yeah, sometimes. A lot of us do—not usually at night, though. At night there’s grown-ups in here and they’re kinda scary. Me and my brother heard you fall—otherwise we wouldn’t’ve come in at all.”

  “You see anybody leaving?”

  He shook his head, bangs flopping from side to side.

  “These grown-ups,” I asked, “how are they scary?”

  “Mean-looking. Scruffy. They sit on the front steps and smoke dope and drink and do other drugs. Some of them try to get us to come up there, other guys call out obscene stuff to us, but most of them’re too stoned to bother. One night we heard what my dad said were shots; he wanted to call the cops, but Mom said no. She’s afraid the guys who hang there might figure out who called and come after us.”

  “Are there any women who hang here?”

  “Some. Biker-type chicks with lots of tattoos. And then there were a couple of guys who were different.”

  “How do you mean, different?”

  “Better dressed.”

  “Were they together?”

  “No, they came at different times.”

  “When?”


  “I dunno. Off and on in the last two weeks, anyway. We thought they might be from the city or real estate guys, but nothing’s happened.”

  Hurried footsteps outside. A young woman pushed the boy aside and knelt beside me, shining a flashlight on my face. She had spiky blond hair, multiple piercings, and a kind face that looked down at me in concern. She said to the boys, “You two—home.”

  When they hesitated she added, “Now!” After they scooted out she asked me, “What happened here?”

  I didn’t want to make the neighbors any more uneasy about the house than they already were. “I slipped on the stairs, but I’m okay,” I said. “Just shaken up.”

  She lifted my wrist. “I took a CPR course,” she added after a minute. “Your pulse rate’s real high. Maybe you should go to the ER.”

  I thought of all the times I’d been confined to hospitals, the long stays when I’d had locked-in syndrome. “I don’t need the ER.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, if you say so. What were you doing here?”

  “My firm is trying to clear up the problem of this attractive nuisance. I’m glad your boys found me; I might’ve lain here for hours.”

  She looked around, shivered. “I wouldn’t want to lie here for two minutes. Those of us who live nearby have come to hate the place. It’s not so much that we’re worried about our property values—not in this city—but our kids…we forbid them to come in here, but you know how kids are. You ready to stand up?”

  “I’m fine now.”

  She assisted me to my feet—expertly and gently.

  I said, “That CPR class must’ve been really good. And I suspect you have a natural talent for helping people.”

  Even in the dim light, I could see her face flush with pleasure. “Thanks. I’m starting nurse’s training at SF State next term.”

  She helped me out of the house. When we reached the sidewalk, I pointed out my car, and she whistled. “Too cool! Maybe someday my husband and I’ll be able to afford one like it. But by the time that happens, the boys’ll be old enough to take it out and wreck it.”