by Nancy Skopin
During the drive to San Francisco Bill appeared to be focused on traffic, but every once in a while he’d reach over and squeeze my hand. Maybe this was his way of apologizing for trying to oh-so-gently bulldoze me into living together, and for ordering the Dos Equis without consulting me first. It was kind of sweet, but I was still irked.
I’d always known that Bill had an authoritarian side. It was a regular source of friction between us, but considering the fact that he apprehends dirt bags for a living I’d accepted it as a necessary part of his persona. Maybe I was over reacting. I needed another talk with Elizabeth.
Scoma’s was packed. It’s a tourist attraction, but also draws the locals because it’s at the Wharf, the view is spectacular, the food is fantastic, and the service is usually good.
The hostess gave Bill a quick once-over and then focused on me. She was in her mid-thirties, had brown hair, a pretty face professionally adorned with cosmetics, and intelligent eyes. Her nametag read Shannon.
“Table for two?” she asked me.
“Yes. Is Glen working tonight? My friend told me he was the best.” I could only hope that Glen didn’t ask who my friend was or I’d be forced to come up with a creative lie. I hate lying, which is unfortunate for someone in my profession.
Shannon looked at a seating chart and asked us to wait a moment. She walked to the dining room entrance and scanned the tables. When she turned back to us she was smiling.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “There’s a table for two available in Glen’s section. Follow me, please.”
She led us to a small table just to the right of the dining room entrance. She held out my chair for me and then handed each of us a menu and placed a wine list on the table. “Glen will be right with you,” she said. “Can I get you something from the bar?”
“That’s okay,” I said. “We’ll wait.”
Sam had asked me to try to piss Glen off and I wasn’t sure I was up for it after the day I’d had.
“Listen,” I whispered to Bill. “I’m supposed to try to make this guy mad, but I really don’t feel like a confrontation tonight.”
“You want me to be an asshole and see how he reacts?”
“Would you mind?”
“Not at all. I might even enjoy it.”
“Thanks.”
We were looking at our menus when Glen approached. He was about five-ten, average build, with blond hair, brown eyebrows and mustache, and blue eyes. He appeared to have a slight sneer on his face. I wondered if he might have a cleft palate that caused his upper lip to curl on one side, or maybe a scar. The effect was undeniable. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight.
“Good evening,” he said. “My name is Glen and I’ll be your server tonight. May I get you something from the bar, or would you like to hear our specials?”
His voice was nasal, as one might expect if he had a cleft palate, but his eyes were gentle and his tone was soft. I kicked Bill’s shin under the table and when his eyes met mine I shook my head slightly, hoping he’d get the message. I wanted to handle this one myself.
“Could I have a single shot of Bombay Sapphire in a rocks glass, straight up and room temperature, please?” I said.
Glen nodded politely and turned to Bill who was trying to control a smirk.
“I’ll have a Corona,” Bill said. “In the bottle is fine.”
“Would you like a lime wedge?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be right back,” Glen said.
When he’d gone Bill bent over, rubbed his leg and grimaced. “Ow,” he said. “Cleft Palate?”
“Probably. It would explain his expression and the nasal quality of his voice. Might also explain a chip on his shoulder, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that yet.”
“So I can relax and enjoy the show?”
“Yep.”
Glen returned and served our drinks. He placed a rocks glass in front of me, and as he turned to set Bill’s beer on the table, I took a sip of the gin. I waited until Glen was facing me and then made a show of sniffing my drink. “Are you sure this is Bombay Sapphire?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I watched the bartender pour it.”
I took another sip. “I don’t think it is,” I said. “Maybe it’s regular Bombay.”
“Would you like me to replace the drink?” Glen asked.
I took a third sip, which almost emptied the glass. “I’m sure this isn’t Bombay Sapphire,” I said.
“I’d be happy to replace the drink,” Glen repeated, patiently.
“I don’t want to be any trouble, but do you think the bartender would let you bring the bottle to our table, so I could see for myself?”
Glen lifted an eyebrow and said, “I can ask.”
When he was gone I turned to Bill and said, “If he comes back with the bottle I’m giving him a thirty percent tip out of my own pocket.”
A couple of minutes went by and then, sure enough, Glen came back carrying a tray containing an empty rocks glass and a full, sealed, one liter bottle of Bombay Sapphire. He’d somehow convinced the bartender to let him have an unopened bottle so I could break the seal myself. This guy was good. He placed a fresh cocktail napkin on the table and put the glass on the napkin, then he set the bottle on the table with the label facing me. I got the point.
“Would you like me to pour?” he asked.
I searched his face for any trace of sarcasm and couldn’t find any. “That would be great. Thank you for going to so much trouble.”
After he’d poured me a generous shot of the gin, Glen asked, “Would you like to hear tonight’s specials?”
He was being so gracious that it almost embarrassed me.
“Yes, thank you,” Bill said, and he winked at Glen.
I saw Glen smile and realized they were doing the male bonding thing. Men bond so easily. Women, at least the women I’ve known, go through a very complex series of tests before deciding whether or not to trust each other. Even when you pass all the tests the bond often remains tentative. My theory is that this has something to do with the female biological urge to reproduce, and with competition for the strong, healthy males. Postmenopausal women are far more trusting.
Glen recited the specials from memory and took our order. He was professional and friendly throughout the evening, and by the time we were ready to leave I’d decided that if I surveyed Scoma’s again I’d ask for his section just for the pleasure of being served by him.
My report on Glen would detail all of my observations, including the physical challenges he’d apparently overcome. If I ever heard that he had been let go I would call my cousin Aaron and ask him to find an attorney to represent Glen in a wrongful termination suit. Then I’d call my friend, restaurant owner, and client, Jessica James, and suggest she hire him on the spot. I could do these things because the owner of Scoma’s was not my client, he was Sam’s, so, technically, assisting one of their former employees wouldn’t be a conflict of interest.
When the check came, I paid with a credit card and left a huge cash tip.
On the way back to the marina Bill made a few jokes about my performance with the Bombay Sapphire, but after that he was quiet until we reached Redwood City. He walked me to the gate and kissed me soundly, saying he’d see me soon. I gave him a hug and a smile before he turned away. I knew I’d hurt his feelings earlier, but I’d had no choice if I was going to be honest. I also really appreciated the fact that he was offering me my space, not even asking if I’d like overnight company. Or maybe he was he just pissed.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” I said to his retreating form.
He gave me a wave over his shoulder before climbing back into the Mustang.
I shuffled down the companionway and made the trek to my
boat. After stripping off my clothes I climbed into bed and set my Dream Machine for 6:00 a.m., knowing there would be hell to pay if I showed up at Sam’s tomorrow without the completed surveys.
Chapter 13
I slept soundly for a change, and when my Dream Machine went off the next morning I woke up feeling refreshed. I started the coffee going in the galley, then showered onboard and dressed in slacks and a light sweater.
I was in the office by 7:00 checking my e-mail and listening to my voicemail. I spent forty-five minutes typing up Sam’s reports on Lyon’s and Scoma’s, and when I was finished I had the usual feeling of satisfaction, knowing I’d done my job well. I printed two copies of each survey, saved them on a thumb drive, and slipped the drive and the printed copies into an envelope.
I didn’t have to be at Sam’s for an hour yet, so I returned a few calls and checked my e-mail again. This time I discovered that CIS has sent me the background reports I’d requested on the accident victims’ next of kin. I scanned the electronic copies while they were printing. One of the three men had a criminal record—grand theft auto from fifteen years ago—but no assault charges and nothing recent. One had a spousal abuse charge, which had later been dropped, and the third had a clean record. This was good information to have. I checked the addresses and they matched Paul’s data. These were my three suspects. I forwarded the e-mail and attachments to Sam. Then I made copies of all the reports and stuffed them in Paul’s case file, which I locked in my Pendaflex drawer.
I stopped on my way out the door, walked back to my desk, and removed the Glock twenty-six from its Velcro holster beneath my lap drawer. I used to keep my Ruger under the drawer, but the Glock only weighs twenty ounces. I thought the Velcro would last longer this way. I checked the mag to make sure it was fully loaded and tucked the gun in the holster compartment of my purse.
I let myself into Sam’s outer office at 9:02 and was greeted with a booming, “You’re late!”
Have I mentioned that Sam is always cranky in the morning?
“Like hell I am!” I shouted in response. “You said nine o’clock. It’s nine o’clock!”
“It’s nine oh three,” he bellowed from his office.
“It’s nine oh two. Your watch is fast.”
I walked into Sam’s private office and tossed the envelope with the completed reports and the thumb drive onto his desk.
“Here are your surveys,” I said. “The guy at Scoma’s doesn’t have an attitude problem. He’s actually an excellent waiter. He’s probably got a cleft palate that alters his facial expression. If they let him go I’ll encourage him to sue for wrongful termination. By the way, anytime you need Scoma’s done I’d be happy to help out.”
Sam glanced at the envelope, then set it aside and focused on the next of kin background reports he’d been studying when I walked in.
“We’re going to visit these three subjects today,” he said, “and I want you to follow my lead. Don’t interject any of your personality. If the shit hits the fan, it would be better if they didn’t remember you.”
“Why do you think that? This is my case. You’re just helping me out, for which I am extremely grateful, by the way.”
“Based on the names, I’m guessing the subjects are all Caucasian. If they focus on the old black man they won’t be able to pick me out of a group of old black men, but if they focus on you, you might get yourself killed and that would upset me. Good enough reason for you?”
“My first choice would be Gary Boscalo,” I commented. “He used to beat his wife.”
Sam said nothing as he reread one of the reports. When he’d finished he picked up his coffee, took a sip, set the cup down again, and said, “All right. We’ll start with him.”
Gary Boscalo was an accountant at Siebel in San Mateo. He’d been there for five years and lived two miles from his work address in a lower middle-class residential neighborhood. Once we were on the road I distracted myself from Sam’s driving by reading about Gary. We made it to Siebel in about twenty-five minutes and parked in the visitors’ section of the lot. As we entered the lobby Sam took his PI license out of his wallet. He flashed it quickly at the young woman seated behind the reception desk.
“I’m Sam Pettigrew,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you would call Gary Boscalo to the lobby. We’re investigating the accident in which his wife and child were killed.”
The young woman blanched. Her mouth hung open for a moment, and then she dialed an extension.
“Yeah, Gary?” she said. “Could you come down to the lobby, please? There are some people here investigating your wife’s accident. Yeah, from the airline.”
It’s surprisingly easy to manipulate most people’s assumptions.
“He’ll be right out,” she said to Sam.
He thanked her and we turned away from the reception desk, moving toward the other side of the room. We weren’t pretending we were with the airline, but we hadn’t corrected her, which might later get us in trouble.
Gary Boscalo barreled into the lobby like a man living on caffeine and adrenaline. He was about five foot nine with thinning brown hair, clean-shaven, and wearing a short-sleeve white shirt, gray slacks, and a red tie. He looked soft around the middle, but his arms were muscular, and his face was grim. I quickly formed the impression that he was a man with a temper.
Sam stepped between us and held out his hand. “Mr. Boscalo?”
Boscalo shook his hand and nodded. “What’s this about?”
“We’re conducting a follow-up investigation,” Sam said. “Just need to ask you a few more questions.”
Boscalo let out a sigh and his face relaxed some. “I hope this is the last time,” he said. “It’s hard reliving the death of your family over and over again. What did you say your name was?”
“Pettigrew,” Sam said. “I’m sorry we keep bothering you like this.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Would you like to sit down?” Sam asked.
“Is this going to take long? I’m in the middle of a project.”
“Only a few minutes,” Sam assured him.
We took seats around a coffee table in the lobby.
“I apologize if these are questions you’ve already answered,” Sam began, “We need to know why your wife and daughter were traveling on the date of the accident.”
“Why they were traveling? Why the hell do you need to know that?”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Boscalo. I truly am. We’re just trying to be thorough.”
Sam was trying to gauge just how flammable Boscalo’s temper was. He was intentionally poking at the wound.
Boscalo just sat there for a moment, and then his face collapsed and he started to cry. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands and his chest heaved with each sob. We waited it out.
When he had pulled himself together he said, “They were coming back from a visit with my sister-in-law.”
Sam asked a series of mundane questions about Boscalo’s family life: how often they traveled together, where they went on vacation, things like that. I took notes to justify my presence. When Sam was satisfied with his impression of Boscalo he thanked him politely, apologized again, and we left.
Outside the building I filled my lungs with the cool, fresh air and silently counted my blessings. It’s difficult for me to spend time around people who are grieving. I tend to attach myself to their feelings, taking them on as my own.
Our next subject was Martin Wallace, an attorney who worked in Belmont. He had lost his wife and two kids, a boy and a girl. He had no criminal record, but that didn’t prove anything. Wallace had a private practice, so he had no partners or associates. That could mean he was independent or it might mean he didn’t work and play well with others. I couldn’t fault him for that sin
ce it’s one of the reasons I became a PI.
His office was on El Camino, in an older one-story building. The gold lettering on the glass door read Martin Wallace, Attorney at Law. The door was unlocked, so we went inside. A chime sounded softly as the door opened and closed.
There was a small reception area, which was vacant at the moment. Sam approached the desk and was just opening his mouth to speak when a disembodied voice said, “I’ll be right with you folks. Just have a seat.”
I quickly scanned the ceiling and spotted a surveillance camera. There was an intercom speaker inserted into the wall behind the reception desk. Sam and I exchanged a glance and sat down on a loveseat facing away from the camera.
Wallace left us there for a full five minutes. I timed it. Unless I missed my guess, this guy had control issues. That could be a valuable quality in an attorney, but taken to extremes it could also be dangerous.
When Martin Wallace finally came out to greet us I was surprised by his appearance. He was around five-seven, in his mid-forties, clean-shaven with light brown hair, and about a hundred and eighty-five pounds, with a potbelly. When I think of control freaks I think of self-discipline, and when I think of self-discipline I think of exercise and some degree of self-control at the dinner table. Maybe Wallace had been on a comfort-food binge since losing his wife and kids.
Sam stood up and introduced himself the same way he had with Boscalo, only Wallace didn’t take the introduction at face value.
“Are you with the airline?” he asked.
“No,” said Sam, with no perceptible hesitation. “We’ve been asked by the Association of Air Traffic Controllers to conduct an independent investigation.” An impressive adlib.
