Last Ferry Home

by Kent Harrington

  Robert Thomas had been diagnosed in high school with narcissistic personality disorder by a psychiatrist who thought he was clearest example of the disorder he’d ever seen. Robert’s mother had insisted he see someone after a series of outbursts and fights between them about his behavior at school. The doctor had, unfortunately, missed some of Robert’s other disturbing personality traits.

  “The painter is quite famous in the Bay Area. Swiss. Came to San Francisco when he was only fifteen,” Robert said. “Tonalist. Well, some refer to that school as Luminists. But I prefer Tonalist.”

  He loved to educate people who came into the gallery. He did it nicely and without sounding pompous. It was one of the first things his grandfather had taught him about the art business. “Nobody likes to be lectured,” his grandfather had warned him. “Even uneducated people, who should be.” He learned that if he smiled and spoke softly, it went down well with the average wealthy person. Poor people didn’t wander into the Thomas gallery.

  Robert was watching her two little girls like a hawk as he spoke; the girls had come in with her, and were obviously her children. He didn’t like it when people brought children into the gallery. But the woman looked well-heeled and he’d decided to be nice to her, in part because she was so attractive. He had a prejudice toward attractive people. He always treated them with respect. He believed they, like himself, were naturally superior.

  Robert began to prattle on about the artist again, but Asha stopped listening and looked for her girls in the gloomy room next to them. She spotted them wandering through the salon and relaxed again. She faced the young man, who was standing next to her now, quite close. She thought his smile a strange one. It had a slightly plastered-on quality, as if you could lift it off like wallpaper and see another, older, pattern under it. He was handsome, no doubt, in the way of young white Americans.

  “I was also interested in the library chairs you have,” she said, interrupting. “I came in yesterday, but your salesperson said I should come back. They’re so chic. I know my husband would love them as well.” She’d started to feel queer for some reason. He was looking at her in an all too familiar way. It was unmistakable, and beginning to bother her. Is he undressing me?

  “The library set? Yes. Pierre Jeanneret. They’re from India, in fact — Punjab Central University. Recovered,” the young man told her.

  “Really?” she said, surprised. “They’re so beautiful. That Jeanneret? The architect, of course. I’ve heard of him. The chairs fold, then?”

  “Yes, of course they fold,” Robert said. The young man had a perfect face, a symmetry hard to find in nature. His was a classic beauty, the male equivalent of Botticelli’s famous Venus. Almost girlish, Asha decided.

  Robert was going to go on about the designer Jeanneret and his famous cousin, but stopped himself. He smiled again and began to turn up the charm, which he could do effortlessly. He was only twenty-four and especially effective with older women, who were overwhelmed by his good looks.

  On more than one occasion he’d hooked up in the back of the gallery, where he kept a small apartment. The seduced women often wondered how they’d ended up splayed over his antique library table, having sex with a complete stranger. But they’d let themselves be seduced. He had a raw sexual appeal. Part of it was his youth, and part his intellectual swagger, flaunted while showing them hulking and expensive paintings. It worked, most of the time. He had the best luck with married women who came to San Francisco as tourists. Rich women from Southern California were especially susceptible. They wanted a fling with a cute smart guy, and he’d give them a good one. He was the proverbial pool boy, albeit with a necktie and a whopping IQ. The women usually bought something, too.

  “I thought the chairs would be perfect for the new place. But I love this painting, I must say. Stunning. Really.” Asha meant it.

  “Take them all,” Robert suggested.

  “I wish I could,” she said, but immediately regretted it. he felt uncomfortable, and wasn’t sure exactly why. He’s not gay … You can tell.

  He looked at her in a way that frightened her. Something about his look, she thought, something was off, something slightly evil. Perhaps it was his mouth, which had tightened as he spoke. She had a sixth sense and always paid it special heed, especially regarding feelings like this. And especially feelings about weird men. (Since she was a young girl, perverts of every type — young and old — had been attracted to her, trying to “interfere.” She’d been smart enough to keep one step ahead of them.)

  “We specialize in 19th century California plein air paintings, like the Piazzoni. That’s what we’re known for. I’ve added the furniture and modern art since my mother died. Time to freshen up our focus, I think. And I love the mid-century period. I’m a collector myself,” he said.

  She could tell he was full of himself and this place, as if the artwork were an extension of his own ego.

  The young man looked at her daughters who were playing near an Andy Warhol print, the artist’s signature Campbell Soup Can, in the next room. He’d started to bring in the Andy Warhol because younger rich people wanted Pop Art. They didn’t even look at the oil paintings. Oil paintings, to the young, seemed absurd and old-fashioned, like rotary dial telephones or reruns of old black and white TV shows.

  He’d overheard an obviously well-heeled twenty-something couple who’d wandered in, and it had shocked him. There was a profound change in the nature of the rich, he’d decided. They wanted “weird” art and would pay a lot for it. The less craftsmanship it displayed, the better they liked it. Mid-century anything, he could sell, and for top dollar. He referred to them as the hula-hoop crowd.

  “Your daughters, they’re twins?” Robert said.

  “Yes. Identical,” Asha said. “I can tell them apart, but sometimes my husband can’t.”

  She made a motion for the girls, who were exploring the place, to come to her. It was unconscious motherly reaction. The girls looked up but didn’t come at once, having too much fun picking up curios: a Jouve ceramic vase with a woman’s face. One of the twins fumbled the vase. It landed, luckily, on the cushion of the hoop chair and bounced unhurt.

  Robert missed it all, his focus again on their mother. The girls, having startled themselves with the fumbled vase, decided it would be a good idea to heed their mother’s call. They left the vase where it was, afraid to touch it, and walked quickly to the safety of their mother’s side. Asha made an excuse and left the shop, saying she would come back with her husband. Her abrupt leaving annoyed Thomas. After she left, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He didn’t handle rejection well; it was one of the first things the psychiatrist had explained to his mother.

  A day later Robert saw Asha come out of the Clift Hotel with her husband and jump into a taxi. They were well dressed and obviously going to a party, or perhaps the opera. He was shocked at how much older her husband was. Robert convinced himself that he and the Indian beauty had a connection, that she had been attracted to him. He only needed to impress her, and she would come around. He would “hit it and quit it.”

  Robert knew one of the girls who worked the Clift’s front desk at night. He asked about the Indian family, telling his friend that the mother and her two girls had been in the gallery and he’d discovered something broken, and wanted to speak to the parents about it.

  She gave him the family’s name and room number. It was all he needed. He rang the next morning, explaining to Asha that the girls had broken a vase. Would she mind coming in and paying for it? He’d made up the lie solely so he could see her again.

  When she came back to the shop he tried to seduce her, asking her to come look at his collection of rare books. She thought it corny and obvious. She’d refused, of course, and left a little shocked, after paying $900 for the “Jouve ceramic vase with a woman’s face.” She said nothing, but did not believe her girls had broken anything.

&nb
sp; He handed her the pieces in a box after smashing the vase in his back apartment while she waited at the counter, disconcerted. He’d expected to seduce her, and was sure he was going to succeed. He had not. He’d liked the vase, but enjoyed smashing it to bits.

  Asha promised herself she’d never return to the gallery. Three days later they moved into their new fabulous home on Broadway and she forgot all about what happened. Christmas came, with the tree, parties, and the rest of it. They went to Tahoe for New Year’s and had a wonderful holiday. The girls learned to snowboard.

  She was shocked to find the Piazzoni that she’d so admired at the gallery had been delivered to their house by special courier while they were away. It was a gift, the accompanying card said—from Robert Thomas.

  Dear Asha,

  I hope you had a great holiday. I was in the Sierras skiing at our place in Tahoe. (You must see it. Perhaps you and your husband would like to use it some time?)

  Please accept this painting as a gift. I know you love it. That was so obvious the day we met. Consider it a housewarming gift.

  Warm Regards, Robert

  Asha had the painting returned immediately, with a curt note.

  Dear Mr. Thomas,

  My husband and I couldn’t possibly accept such an expensive gift. We’re sending it back to the gallery.

  Mrs. Chaundhry

  She was going to add a “thank you” to the note, out of politeness, but decided not to. She was hoping she’d never hear from the strange man again. She wondered how on earth he’d found their home address, or the fact they’d been on holiday in the Sierras.

  CHAPTER 8

  Marvin asked the coroner’s investigator, Paul Millikin, to allow him to go through the victim’s pockets before they placed Rishi Chaundhry’s body in the black-rubber body bag and removed it from the scene. The coroner’s investigator, a seen-it-all older white man with a shock of red hair, was on his cell phone. He agreed with a curt nod.

  Millikin, in jeans and a windbreaker, had been taking photos from outside the elevator of the body with a small digital camera. His job was to document the immediate position and physical context the body had been found in through photos and notes, so the coroner’s medical examiner could get up-to-speed.

  Two burly older black men from the city-contracted mortuary on Fillmore Street came up the stairs, ready to remove the bodies to the morgue—body handlers, they were called in the homicide business.

  “In the elevator,” Millikin said. “How you been, Paul?”

  One of the black men reached over and shook Millikin’s hand.

  “Nice place,” the older of the two men said.

  “Yeah. You should see the view,” Millikin said. “There’s a body up on the third floor as well. It’s a double.”

  Marvin stepped over the body tarp the two morgue attendants spread out in the hallway. Marvin watched as they lifted Rishi Chaundhry’s body unceremoniously from the floor of the blood-slick elevator and out onto the heavy plastic in the hallway. Livor mortis had set in. Blood had pooled on the lowest points, discoloring the victim’s neck and palms. Blood from his wounds, under him, had yellowish-red, with a jelly-like consistency.

  “Okay, you want to look for a phone, knock yourself out, Marvin,” Millikin said.

  Marvin nodded and asked the body handlers to help him turn Chaundhry onto his stomach. The body made ugly sounds, gas having built up. Manhandling the body was distasteful, but the men pretended it was routine.

  Marvin dug through Chaundhry’s pockets, finding a wallet with a California driver’s license and three credit cards. That was all: no cell phone.

  “Okay.” Marvin backed away. “Let’s see if he was stabbed anywhere else.”

  Millikin moved in and stood over the body. He cut the shirt open, slitting the man’s once-white shirt down the back. He peeled back the shirt to expose Chaundhry’s naked and discolored back. There were no other obvious wounds.

  Marvin backed up and watched Millikin cut the man’s blood-soaked trousers, exposing the back of his legs and buttocks. When they were satisfied there was nothing more to examine, Marvin nodded to Millikin and he had the body put in the body bag. Millikin zipped it up and signaled to the two black men to take it away on a special narrow rolling gurney brought for the purpose.

  As soon as the first body was gone the two female criminalists, unable to dust the elevator for prints before, climbed in and started to work. They held a high intensity light at an angle to spot possible prints left on the elevator’s walls, for dusting. Marvin watched as the two went to work.

  Millikin and the body handlers went up after Kumar’s body. Marvin didn’t want to see the young woman’s naked body, so horribly crumpled, put into the body bag. He didn’t want to see the men handling the girl later in his dreams, which were vivid and frightening, despite all the murder scenes he’d worked. He often had dreams about victims. Sometimes they would speak to him in a queer way, off-handedly. One woman, in a dream, asked him if he “felt bad” about her being raped.

  He signaled them to go on without him. Then he did what he’d promised his wife he wouldn’t do: he went outside and had a cigarette in the Chaundhrys’ backyard, looking out on the Bay. He noticed red stains on the cigarette along the filter, despite having washed his hands after handling the body. He dropped it immediately and snuffed it out with the heel of his polished shoe.

  “My name is Nirad Chaundhry. I’m Rishi Chaundhry’s father,” the man said over the phone. “The girls are safe. They’re staying at the Indian Consulate. I’ve received all your messages.”

  “We need to speak,” O’Higgins said. “Where are you?”

  O’Higgins was driving to the scene on Broadway. The scene was still locked down. The press in India had gotten hold of the story, publishing the names of the victims. The murders were already headline news in the Times of India. He’d seen the headline on Yahoo News that morning on his phone. He was startled to read that Nirad Chaundhry was, from the looks of it, likely to be India’s next Prime Minister.

  “Yes. All right. I’ll need access to Rishi’s house very soon,” Nirad Chaundhry said. “When can we have it back—the house?”

  “I don’t know,” O’Higgins said, surprised at the man’s cold, all-business tone of voice.

  “We are a very busy family. My son’s office, it’s crucial that we have access. I must be able to access his office and conduct business. You can understand, Detective, I’m sure,” Chaundhry said.

  “Have you seen your son’s cell phone? Do you know where we might find it? It’s very important we get hold of it,” O’Higgins said, ignoring Chaundhry’s attempt to bully him.

  “Yes,” Chaundhry said. “I have it.”

  “You have it? It’s important that we have a chance to examine your son’s phone.”

  “I’ll explain when we meet. Why don’t you come to my lawyer’s office on Sansome Street? Pandit Singh LLC. Fourth floor, eleven a.m. Goodbye, detective.” Chaundhry hung up without waiting for a response.

  O’Higgins pressed the button on his steering wheel to end the call. He drove down Webster Street toward Broadway. He replayed the conversation back in his head. Nirad Chaundhry was not showing the normal signs of grief from a close family member of a murder victim.

  O’Higgins called Chaundhry’s number, but it went direct to voice mail. He swore out loud and rolled through a stop sign. He slammed the steering wheel with his palm and punched the gas. His battered Ford raced by a white Bentley whose driver was texting. He pulled alongside and gave the young driver a dirty look. His phone rang again, and he took the call. It was Marvin.

  “We may have found the murder weapon,” Marvin said. “It was part of a collection of antique knives. Luna is testing it. Where are you, man? I’m at the scene. The coroner took the bodies. There was no phone on Rishi Chaundhry. No other wounds, either. And
still no phone for the nanny, Kumar.”

  “I’m five minutes away,” O’Higgins said.

  “All right, then.”

  “I just heard from the father. He has the kids, he said they’re staying at the Indian Consulate. Can you call the Consulate and confirm that the Chaundhry girls are there? We should send Social Services to check on them.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Good news. We don’t have a kidnapping, on top of this mess.” Marvin rang off.

  He and Marvin went into Rishi Chaundhry’s home office to review the case. The man had a collection of antique daggers that decorators were installing in a fancy glass display case. The display case had been resting on the floor of a utility room on the first floor. Woo had found the knives while searching for a bathroom.

  Marvin had gone home, but just for breakfast and to see his kids off to school. His wife, a stewardess for Southwest, was on a flight to Puerto Rico. Marvin didn’t like his girls to wake up in an empty house.

  “Okay, I called. The two Chaundhry girls are at the Indian Consulate ‘under special protection,’ an official told me. Whatever that means. The girls are Indian citizens, as are their parents. We can go see them for an interview. But they’re in India now as far as that goes, so the official says we can’t remove them from the Consulate. I got a call from the assistant DA. I guess this guy Nirad Chaundhry is a real heavyweight.

  “The DA’s office got a call last night from the State Department. State wants the FBI to take over the case because of its importance to national security. If it had turned into a kidnapping, the feds would have already taken over by now. They were waiting to hear. I’m guessing that the FBI don’t want any part of it.”

  “Not a kidnapping now. I’ll call Social Services and have them send someone to check on the kids this morning,” O’Higgins said.

  “We should try to interview the girls,” Marvin said.