No Sign of Murder

by Alan Russell

  “Well, winter, spring, summer, or fall,” he prattled, “I’m just glad you took the time to call.” Leland liked the extremes in our names. He also liked the extremes in our persons. Instead of using a search engine like Google, Lee was my search engine. He intuitively seems to find things that Google can’t.

  “I need a favor, Lee. I am hoping you can gather together some material on the deaf.”

  “Do I hear correctly?”

  I sighed. “You did.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Just your usual eclectic best.”

  “When do you need it?”

  “Today might be six months too late. I’ll buy you a drink for your efforts. Maybe even some dim sum.”

  “Drinks, yes. I’ll have to check with Joe about the other.”

  I had to laugh. “He’s not still jealous?”

  “Yes. Maybe I should have spared him my fantasies.”

  I was liberal, but not that liberal. “Maybe you should spare me, too,” I said. “In fact, you’d better.”

  Lee laughed, happy he had nettled me. “I’ll be free at five.”

  “B of A?”

  “Good.”

  I started up the sedan and let my technological genie guide me to the Cube Tech building. After finding a space in visitor parking, I made my way to the lobby. Since I didn’t have a security pass to get through to the elevators, I went and talked to a guard. He was a big, hulking fellow who didn’t look happy to see me.

  “I’m here to see Darren Fielder,” I said. “He’s a software engineer.”

  “Are you expected?”

  “No, but I’m sure Mr. Fielder would like to talk to me. I’m a friend of a friend, and it’s important that we speak in person.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Stuart Winter. If you could call him and say that Ellen Reardon referred me, I would very much appreciate it.”

  There was a long beat, as if the man was on a time delay, and then he answered. “I suppose.” He handed me a piece of paper and a pen that said Cube Tech, and told me to write down my name, the name of the person I wanted to contact, and the name of the individual who had recommended me.

  After complying and being told that Mr. Fielder would be contacted, I was directed to take a seat in the waiting area. A variety of tech magazines littered the table and I picked one up. Darren Fielder rescued me from my ignorance somewhere in the third paragraph of the lead article. It had taken me ten minutes to even get that far. Fielder was a young man who already had the severity of one who is old. He had short hair, large glasses, and the unsmiling manner of someone disturbed in the midst of something important.

  I made my introductions and handed him my card. “What do you want?” Direct.

  “Anita Walters.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong man.”

  “Which would be the right one?”

  “Maybe Mr. Harrady. Will Harrady. Maybe someone else. Not me.”

  “Who’s Will Harrady?”

  “He was an English teacher at Greenmont.”

  “And what happened to him?”

  “Maybe you should ask Anita.”

  “Maybe we should stop playing games.”

  Our conversation slowed. He took time to think and I didn’t like that. “Why are you talking to me?”

  “You weren’t first. I talked with Ellen Reardon. And Mrs. Lockhart. One of them wished you regards.”

  His face contorted with anger. “You’re a funny man, aren’t you, Mr. Winter? Well, welcome to the triangle. Or should I say quadrangle? Or do you plan to join? Will it be a quintuple?”

  “I suppose that depends on whether Anita Walters is still alive.”

  My remark shook him a little, enough for him to turn his head from my unpleasant lips. Like Ellen, he had two hearing aids, so I assumed he could pick up some of my words, but I left him in silence while he collected his thoughts. “I’m sure she’s alive,” he finally said, more to himself than anyone.

  I stepped into his line of vision. “Who’s Will Harrady?”

  “He was an English teacher at Greenmont.”

  “You already said that. What happened to him?”

  “There were only rumors . . . ”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “They’re second hand. I graduated several years ago, and this happened after that. It was why Mr. Harrady suddenly left the school. Officially he resigned, but no one believes that.”

  “What do they believe?”

  “I hear Anita used to always like to stay after class. She supposedly liked to play up to Mr. Harrady. They say Mrs. Lockhart caught them kissing. They also say Mrs. Lockhart was involved with Mr. Harrady.”

  “They were caught in the same way Ellen caught you and Anita?”

  He blushed. “Sort of. We were together, and we looked guilty. At least, I looked guilty.”

  “How did Ellen respond?”

  “She was very upset. We’d been seeing each other for a year. I get the feeling Ellen was thinking we’d even get married one day.”

  “The two of you were discovered after the Mr. Harrady incident?”

  He nodded.

  “And Ellen wasn’t forgiving?”

  “Maybe she would have been if I hadn’t been so taken by Anita. But I was.”

  “What happened between you and Anita?”

  “Anita never cared for me like I did for her. I was the one who pursued her. She’s so pretty. I don’t even know why she went out with me. Maybe because I was older and away from the school. Maybe because I was persistent.”

  “Were you ever intimate with her?”

  Darren reddened again. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is.”

  He had to think. He was a whiz in some fields, but a novice in others. “Once. Sort of.”

  “Tell me about the once. And the sort of.”

  “It happened just after Anita left Greenmont. I took her to a fancy dinner, white tablecloths and all. I’d planned our special night together for a month. I’d even sent her flowers the entire week before our date. After dinner we went to a foreign film with subtitles. Then we drove around San Francisco. At around midnight we parked at Coit Tower. We looked at the view for a while, and then I tried kissing her, but she wouldn’t. She just turned away. That got me mad, and I told her so. Then she told me to go ahead and kiss her. I did, but it was like kissing my hand.”

  “And did that make you mad, also?”

  “Just more frustrated. It wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong. It was just that she wasn’t reacting.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I started taking her clothes off. But she still didn’t react. It was like she wasn’t there. She was so beautiful, but so cold.”

  “Did you have sex with her?”

  “I tried . . . but I couldn’t. She was just so . . . cold.”

  “Did you continue seeing her?”

  “Not very much. I didn’t like the crowd she was hanging out with.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Artists, she said; phonies, I say.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “In her apartment. Her parents set her up in a place on Russian Hill.”

  “And you saw her new friends?”

  “Both times I visited, other people were there. I never stayed long.”

  “Did she talk—sign—about anyone in particular?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice anyone that stood out?”

  “No.”

  “Why this new crowd? Was she interested in art?”

  “I don’t think so. She modeled for some of them.”

  I made a few entries on a pad, then put my pen down and raised my eyes to his. “What do you think happened to Anita?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know what happened to Harrady?”

  “Someone said he was teaching at a school in Norfolk.”

  “A
s in Virginia?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d like to get in touch with him,” I said. “Can you help me with that?”

  Darren hesitated before answering. It was clear he didn’t want to get involved, but wondered if it was the right thing to do.

  “Anita’s family is worried sick,” I said.

  He nodded, and then pulled out his phone and looked up his contacts. “You can text him at this cell number,” he said. “Or email him.”

  I wrote the information down on my pad using a pen. I guess he thought that was quaint. Judging by his reaction, I might as well have been using a stylus for cuneiform.

  5

  THE BRAGGING RIGHTS TO being closest to heaven in San Francisco fall between the Bank of America World Headquarters Building and the Transamerica Pyramid. For once the pharaohs beat the prophets, or profits, as the spire of the pyramid noses out the moneychangers by seventy-four feet.

  Small change? San Francisco isn’t Manhattan and never wants to be. We’ll take Victorian, thank you, and hold the seventy stories. In most parts of San Francisco, you’re aware there is a sky. North Beach, Chinatown, even Nob Hill—all are free from high-rises. It’s only around Montgomery Street, twelve blocks of skyscrapers, where Goliath rules. While entering the City on 101, I looked at the skyline and made an association new to me—from a distance the buildings looked like gravestones, with the epitaphs written in the spaced windows. It wasn’t the cheeriest thought to head for a drink on.

  I parked and then walked up Kearny to get to the B of A Building. Every city has its insider jokes, and the Bank of America unwittingly provided one. It commissioned a sculpture by a Japanese artist, 200 tons of black granite that stand fourteen feet high. I don’t know the official title of the piece, I don’t think anyone knows, but San Franciscans call it “The Banker’s Heart.” I hadn’t eaten lunch, so I didn’t worry about losing it on the high-speed elevator ride to the Carnelian Room on the fifty-second floor. The Room is plush, but people remember the view—about the best in the City—over the decor. I got off the elevator, hat and stomach in hand, and found Leland waiting.

  “Hi, handsome,” he said.

  “Really?” I said, hoping that would discourage him.

  The only reason Lee sometimes acts over the top in my presence is to see if he can get a reaction from me. Make the straight guy squirm is a favorite game of his. He usually didn’t succeed.

  Lee happily handed over a bag of what I assumed was the reference material I had requested. I would wait on perusing the contents for fear of whatever else he might have decided to include.

  The two of us were seated as the sun was falling and Baghdad by the Bay was going grey. San Francisco was a marvelous creature in shadows, artful with her makeup and beguiling. Lee and I were easily caught up in her spell, and watched her for a few minutes without words.

  A human voice interrupted. An attractive server looked amused by my being startled, and we smiled for each other. Lee decided he didn’t like our body language. His hand lightly touched mine, and his motion was a stroking one. His words sounded even more suggestive than his gesture.

  “Why don’t you order for us, darling?”

  I took my hand out of patting range. “Glenfiddich neat for me, and a pink lady for my acquaintance.”

  “Make that a vodka and tonic,” said Lee pettishly.

  The waitress was amused. She touched me playfully on the shoulder while walking by. I surreptitiously admired her black-stockinged legs as she passed, until Lee’s head somehow blocked my vision.

  “How’s your ex-wife?” he asked innocently.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “She was in the Examiner the other day. Something about a horse event.”

  “That sounds like Paula.”

  “Nothing like a good mount, I guess.”

  My eyes cautioned him.

  “She married again, didn’t she?”

  “At least once.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “What I did. Once.”

  “You don’t like to talk about that. You never gave me more than bits and pieces.”

  “That’s all I was. Bits and pieces.”

  “You were prettier then,” he said, “but didn’t have the character, the strength in looks and bearing, you have now. I noticed you immediately. So well built, so tall, so beautiful. But lost. Very, very lost. I saw your grey eyes looking all around. I decided you were a young man I wanted to help.”

  “Wanted to seduce.”

  “That too,” said Lee phlegmatically. “But I don’t think you knew that when I approached you, and asked if you needed help finding anything. You told me you were just looking for something good to read.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t recommend the latest issue of the Advocate.”

  “Do you remember our little tour?” Lee asked proudly. “That was ten years ago.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  Paula and I had met in college. We talked about justice, and peace, and working toward a better world, but mostly we made love. We waxed poetic on literature like all good lit majors are supposed to, and when the courses were finished, we enrolled in Real Life 101. We were married, and I began work at her father’s company. He was a director of one of the big investment houses in one of the big buildings on Montgomery Street, the so-called Wall Street of the west. The area’s financial roots go back to gold-rush days, when Montgomery Street was an unpaved expanse of dirt. No limos then, no luxury cars parked in garages that charge a hundred dollars a day. Mules were the preferred transportation, because whenever it rained Montgomery Street became a wide quagmire. A hard deluge sometimes resulted in a sign that read, “This street is impassible. Not even jackassable.”

  I might have preferred hustling my claim with jeans and a pickax, but I came to work with a three-piece suit and a briefcase. My father-in-law pulled some heavy strings and got me into the Pacific Union Club, and all the while I worked on becoming respectable. I never realized how much it took to become respectable.

  Most people with brains won’t argue with the good life. I was twenty-six, and probably just finishing up with puberty, when the brain damage first showed its symptoms. Paula and I had been married for four years. We lived in a four-bedroom house in Sausalito, courtesy of daddy, and my tennis game was better than ever. I could talk tax deferments, portfolio strategies, and return on investments with the best of them. We had a rose garden, and I slept at night like a baby.

  No one ever told me about thorns and nightly changings.

  When I first noticed our firm was doing some very wrong, some very unethical things, I could have turned my head, but I didn’t. I decided to bray a little. I went to my father-in-law and told him of my suspicions. I spoke about Securities and Exchange Commission violations, about the possibility of outside audits and investigations. And I was politely, avuncularly even, told not to worry, that my matters of concern would be looked into.

  First you speak soothingly to a jackass.

  The weeks went by and my suspicions increased. I started asking a few questions around the office, and I didn’t get any answers that made me feel better. So, I told Paula about my dilemma, and she told me to shelve my worries. Her daddy, and her daddy’s firm, were not crooks. Sometimes you had to cut corners in business, didn’t I know that? And wasn’t daddy treating us well?

  Then you try stroking a jackass.

  But I was naive. I thought I could root out the evil and make the office and the world a little better. With a kick of my hind legs, I set out on the path of truth and justice. I made some inquiries, did a little nosing around, and began to smell some of the manure in the pasture. And then I was called into his office.

  My father-in-law wanted to know why I was bothering some of his key people. And how was it that I had time for matters other than my job? He assured me, in no uncertain terms, that the firm could and was doing its own in-house investigation, and that my efforts were detrimen
tal. And embarrassing. And would not be tolerated.

  Then you speak loudly to a jackass, threaten it.

  I let some days pass, which turned into weeks, and outwardly I acquiesced, but I never stopped thinking. After a while I did more than think. And the strange thing was I liked it—liked being able to figure out how to follow a trail, and how to read as much into situations where information was suppressed as where everything was spelled out. I started working late hours, ostensibly on a merger, but it was my first case. And I solved it, but I learned that’s a far different thing from being successful.

  I documented insider information being bought and sold. I substantiated collusion and kickbacks, and a score of other infractions that could potentially shut the firm down. And late one night I left all of my findings on the desk of Paula’s father.

  And when the jackass won’t move, you hit it on the head with a shovel. If you don’t kill it, the jackass will move.

  I was fired the next morning.

  And just when the jackass was staggering, the second blow of the day came. Paula served me with divorce papers. They cited mental cruelty, but I think Paula realized I was getting to be too good an investigator. I began to question her equestrian outings, began to wonder who her mount really was. I had seen the loose threads at the office, and then seen them at home. A telephone number here, a diaphragm missing there.

  A suspicious mind is bad enough. Confirmation is worse. Yes, Montgomery Street is jackassable. Life is jackassable. But sometimes there’s not a hell of a lot to hee-haw about.

  “You took home all the books I recommended,” said Lee. “Every one.”

  “It was interesting learning about San Francisco’s history.”

  I listened to myself mouth an understatement. San Francisco’s history had more than interested me. It might have saved my life. At the least it made me notice things again. Everywhere I walked in the City, everywhere I turned, I found the lives and dreams and follies of others. There’s a continuity and reassurance to history. It both humbles and elevates. Knowing the past gives you a wider vision. You get a feel for those bricks under your feet, and the hands that placed them there.

  “Every day you came for another book.”