“I’ve been here all day.”
“Oh, God! Something’s happened to him!”
“Maybe he just got sidetracked. I tried his cell a couple of times, but it was out of service.”
“No, no, no! He’s been hurt—or worse.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Because I’ve always known he had something to hide about his past and now I’m afraid it’s caught up with him.”
Sharon McCone
I’d spent the early part of the morning answering questions about Chuck Bosworth at the SFPD. I gave them a carefully edited story: I was investigating the Gaby DeLucci murder in hopes of gathering information for a true-crime book. No, I did not have a client—not quite a lie, but I couldn’t tell them I was acting on my own behalf.
“You must not have much business coming your way lately.” Inspector Devlin Fast was a large black man with a bald head, horn-rimmed glasses, and a short gray beard. His brown suit was rumpled, and when he spoke he revealed crooked yellow teeth. In spite of those visual defects, he exuded an air of confidence.
“Actually, we have so much that I feel free to indulge my interests on the side.”
He gave me a skeptical look, but simply said he’d be in touch.
The rest of the morning was frustrating because I’d had too little sleep. My hand hurt where I’d sliced it on the broken glass. Ted popped into my office to show off a colorful array of new silk shirts that had just arrived by UPS, proclaiming the fabric to be his fashion statement for life. When I snapped at him, citing his Western, Hawaiian, grunge, Edwardian, and numerous other phases, he blinked in hurt and shut himself in his office. I felt like such an ogre that I made amends by coaxing him out of there and taking him to lunch at Gordon Biersch, where I succumbed to ordering a Hop Stoopid Ale and paid for the indulgence—as its name had implied I would—by spending the afternoon feeling logy.
Ricky called at two: yesterday I’d asked him to find out whatever he could about Chuck Bosworth’s current life, but none of his contacts knew anything. Around three Will Camphouse called from Tucson, in response to my request about the Moccasin Telegraph. There was nothing out there regarding Darcy.
After that I talked with Saskia, and she told me she’d had a long conversation with my other mother. The two of them had liked each other instantly when they met at Hy’s and my wedding reception—in spite of Darcy’s nearly burning the garage down—and Ma knew what it was like to lose a son to wandering. My brother Joey had disappeared in his late teens and moved around the country for years, leaving only a trail of postcards to Ma as indications of his whereabouts until he overdosed up in Eureka.
Ma had seen a lot of loss in her day, but I think it was Joey’s death that really haunted her. Thoughts that it was somehow her fault that he was damaged occurred daily; regrets over what she might’ve done to save him nagged at her; worse was the secret, guilty feeling that he’d done us all a favor. My birth mother would face the same if Darcy never returned, or died.
She said, “Nobody’s heard from him? Or anything about him?”
“Not since he ran away from my house the other night. Tell me, did he ever mention the name Gabriella DeLucci to you?”
“… No, not that I recall.”
“What about Tick Tack Jack, Lady Laura, or the Nobody?”
“I’d remember if I’d heard those names. What are they, rock groups?”
“Nicknames of Jack Tullock, Laura Mercer, and Chuck Bosworth.”
“I don’t know any of those either.”
I sighed. “I can’t understand why Darcy hasn’t tried to contact me again. Unless the trouble he was in caught up with him, or he’s gone to ground somewhere.”
Saskia was silent.
I read her thoughts. “If you’re brooding about having been a bad mother to him, don’t. You raised Robbie exactly the same way and look how she’s turned out.”
“I can’t help but feel I did something wrong. I should have tried harder with him, or foreseen that a situation like this was coming. I knew the signs, but I just didn’t want to acknowledge them—”
“Stop!”
“… So what will you do now?”
“Find a new lead. Find Darcy.”
I checked with SF General before leaving the pier for an appointment at Glenn Solomon’s office late that afternoon: I was told that Chuck Bosworth had died at three-seventeen without regaining consciousness. His system hadn’t been strong enough to counteract the effects of the beating and the bullet that had ripped through his chest close to his heart. The Nobody was really nobody now.
They asked me if I knew his next of kin. No, I said, I didn’t. After I hung up, I wondered if the city still had a potter’s field and, if so, where it was.
When I had inquired earlier that afternoon, Glenn Solomon told me he had not been Gaby DeLucci’s attorney, but that he and her father had roomed together during college, and that when Gaby called him for an appointment he’d scheduled one for a few days after she died. I scheduled one for late that day.
Glenn leaned back in his desk chair, hands resting on his considerable corporation. Even at the end of a working day his mane of white hair was perfectly groomed, his elegant gray suit unwrinkled. I sat across from him in my jeans and sweater, feeling unkempt. His posh suite of offices on the thirtieth floor of Three Embarcadero Center had recently been redecorated by his wife, interior designer Bette Silver, in tones of gray that conveyed both warmth and dignity. They made me feel unkempt too.
“Attorney-client confidentiality,” he said, “extends beyond the client’s death. However, my friend, inasmuch as you’re acting in Gaby DeLucci’s best interests, and of those of us who cared about her, I’ll waive the privilege.”
It was so like Glenn to emphasize what a favor he was doing me, but I could forgive him. He was one of the most influential attorneys in the city, yet he’d always treated me as an equal, done me many such favors, and welcomed me into his home. When he called you “my friend,” Glenn meant it.
“The changes Gaby was thinking of making,” he went on. “I consulted the file to see if she’d gone into them specifically on the phone. She had not.”
“And you didn’t press her about them?”
“I asked, she declined. She promised to tell me about them when we met, but she was killed before our appointment.”
“Did she tell you she’d spoken about them with Clarence Drew?”
“No, but I assumed she might have wanted to remove him as trustee. Drew exerted a great deal of control over Gaby, and once she turned eighteen she most likely wanted him out of her life.”
“What sort of control?”
An odd look came over Glenn’s face, and I felt attorney-client privilege closing in. “Financial, of course. As trustee he governed how much she could receive from the trust and how she could spend it.”
“And besides that?”
“You know, you have an annoying way of digging under the surface of the facts.”
I waited.
“Very annoying.” Glenn closed his eyes, seeming to meditate on my question. Then he sighed. “But I suppose some truths must be revealed. Since Gaby was thirteen, I suspected Drew had been having sexual relations with her.”
“Jesus! What made you think that?”
“The way they interacted—looks, actions, body language. I’m not the only one who felt that was what was going on. But no one had any proof.”
“Why didn’t she—”
“Do anything about it? I don’t know. I should have approached her, tried harder to gain her confidence, but in my position…” He shook his head.
“Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”
“Again, no proof. One thing I did do was to monitor Drew carefully through the years, and I’ve seen no indication of fiscal indiscretion in regard to the trust. He lives as he always has, even after his wife died a year ago.”
“What did the wife die of?”
“Heart fa
ilure. Nothing sinister.”
“You said you suspected sexual abuse because of the way they interacted. Can you be more specific?”
“She seemed alternately afraid of him and as though she held the power in the relationship. Her body language was conflicted: sometimes she cringed from him like an abused puppy; other times she was seductive, aggressive.”
“Do you think Drew’s wife knew?”
“They usually do. And look the other way.”
“Is there anyone Gaby might have confided in about the molestation?”
“Possibly, but I don’t know much about her private life.”
My phone rang. Rae, returning an earlier call I’d placed to her.
“I’ve got to take this,” I said to Glenn, “and you need to go home. I’ve used up enough of your time.”
“Gladly,” he told me, standing up and stretching. For Glenn, stretching involved raising his arms halfway to shoulder level.
“Your neighbors—Lucy and Park Bellassis. Do you know them?” I asked Rae as Glenn shrugged into an overcoat and left his office.
“Not very well. We had them over for drinks once, and they reciprocated.”
“Is that well enough to ask them over for cocktails on short notice?”
“… I suppose so. But why?”
“That case Mick and I are working. I need to see them in an informal setting.”
“Well, okay. I’ll see what I can set up.”
Five minutes later she called back. “The Bellassises are coming. Get your butt here. Mrs. Wellcome and I will be deep in preparations and will need all the help we can get.”
Darcy Blackhawk
The night is different….
Scarier, because he didn’t know what might be coming at him from the dark. But safer, because he could hide more easily.
He moved along the street, slipping between buildings or down stairwells if somebody looked funny at him. There was a café with outdoor tables; on one of them a customer had left a few dollars as a tip. He took the bills, walked a block or so, and bought himself a sweet roll and some coffee. Sugar, that kept you awake.
He wasn’t a thief, he was through with that. He needed the food to survive.
He downed his meal, licked his sticky fingers, finished the coffee. Looked for a bin and threw the trash into it. Protect the Earth, Saskia was always telling him. If he did, the land would nurture him.
Indian bullshit. The only thing being Indian had done for him was get him sneered at on the street.
Here, though, nobody sneered. He moved among them like he belonged. But it was getting cold. He’d better think of someplace to sleep.
The night is different….
Mick Savage
Jack Tullock’s ranch was a long way down a two-lane highway that curved gently through farmland. Dark out there, headlights sweeping empty barbed-wire-fenced land. Occasional lights flickered from buildings in the distance. The road to the ranch lay on their left, spanned by a tall gate emblazoned with its name like you’d see in an old Western. He turned in, following Rosa’s taillights.
He’d learned from her that she was Tullock’s daughter from an early marriage. Tullock had left her mother when she was a baby, but returned to Oregon years later, after he’d kicked his drug habit. Now he and Rosa were friends, had breakfast most mornings when Tullock drove into McMinnville for his Narcotics Anonymous meetings.
The taillights led him along a bumpy ranch road; the rental car was low-slung and didn’t take the ruts very well. The branches of a windbreak of sturdy pines moved restlessly against the cloudy sky. Eerie rattling cries filled the air as he passed a fenced enclosure.
The outline of a house appeared before them. Old-fashioned wood frame with dormer windows, not a glimmer of light in the place. As the headlamps swept over it, Mick saw that it was in poor repair and needed painting.
He stopped the car and got out, Rosa joining him. He asked her about the strange rattling sounds.
“Pheasants,” Rosa said. “Jack raises them. Also llamas and ostriches. There’s even a camel in the corral behind the barn. No cattle, sheep, or horses. My father likes the exotic.”
“Aren’t camels mean?”
“Yes. They spit. Llamas aren’t much better.”
Tick Tack Jack was sounding weirder and weirder.
The only sounds were the creaking of the boards as they went up the front steps. Rosa knocked a couple of times, then Mick pounded loudly. No response from within.
He looked down at her, saw that her face was tense and still. She reached out tentatively and touched the handle; it turned and she nudged the door open, calling out and feeling for a light switch on the inside wall. Only echoes of her own voice answered her.
Mick held her back and squeezed inside ahead of her. Rag rugs, old oak furniture, watercolors of flowers on the walls. Everything neat and seemingly in its place.
“They should be here,” Rosa said.
He looked to the right. Formal parlor with velvet and needlepoint-covered furniture. Nobody in his right mind would sit there. The room across the hall was filled with exercise equipment. Kitchen behind it and den at the back. No signs of anything out of the ordinary.
Rosa led him upstairs. Three bedrooms, full bath. Beds unmade, toys scattered on the floor of the two smaller rooms.
“It’s not like them to have it this messy,” Rosa said. “Beth’s compulsive about housekeeping.”
Mick went into the bathroom. The toothbrush holder was empty, but there was shampoo and conditioner in the shower stall. A safety razor and shaving cream sat on a shelf above the sink, and a damp towel was draped over the toilet.
Rosa called to him from the master bedroom. “There’re gaps on the clothes poles, but it looks like most of their stuff is still here.”
He joined her. Western shirts, jeans. Work boots and athletic shoes. Costume jewelry in a box on the dresser. A leather-bound Bible on the bedside table. He picked it up.
“Is your father religious?” he asked.
“In his way. A belief in a higher power is important to the twelve-step process.”
The pages flopped open randomly, as if they’d been turned many times. He put the Bible down, followed Rosa from the room. Only one thing was certain: Jack Tullock and his family had left, taking few—if any—of their possessions, not even his well-worn Bible.
Sharon McCone
As I drove to Rae’s, the feeling that Lucy Bellassis had withheld something the previous day kept nagging at me. Maybe it was related to Gaby’s murder, maybe not; talking with Lucy again, getting a look at Park, seeing the two of them together might help me find out. I was glad Rae had agreed to issue the invitation for cocktails to the Bellassises, and it was the perfect night for it: Ricky wasn’t due back till the morning, but when he arrived he’d be tired and want peace and quiet till his younger children descended on him for the weekend.
Peace and quiet. I’d craved those qualities more and more since I’d been released from rehab. Care centers—no matter how nice—are busy and noisy. There’re always people in the hallways, nurses and orderlies coming into your room in the middle of the night and waking you up to give you a pill—or to see if you’re asleep. They have posted visiting hours, but that’s because the state requires it; nobody observes them. You might as well be in bed at a major intersection.
But I resented the demands of my yearnings, felt stirrings inside me. The familiar old stirrings craved action, the excitement of the chase and a fight.
Selfishness, I told myself. I had Hy, my families, my friends to consider.
Be careful. Even if you hadn’t been badly injured, you’re no longer as resilient as you used to be.
Wisdom. Reap the benefits of hard-taught experience.
Bullshit, I told myself.
If I didn’t respond to those stirrings now, I’d only be living half a life.
Rae and Mrs. Wellcome were bustling around the kitchen, spearing bits of cheese and fruit and prosci
utto with toothpicks and microwaving frozen canapés from Trader Joe’s. I knew that Mrs. Wellcome despaired of Rae’s entertaining skills and was constantly recommending caterers. Rae had tried a few of them, but found them overpriced and snootily obsequious. One had extravagantly padded his bills. Besides, she’d said to me, what was wrong with simple stuff?
Ricky had concurred. “In Bakersfield,” he’d said, “Vienna sausage, tortilla chips, and Cheez Whiz are what get a party going.”
The doorbell rang, and I signaled to Rae that I’d let the visitors in.
Park Bellassis was dark-haired, slim, and handsome in a prep-school way. He looked startled when I opened the door. “We must have the wrong house,” he said.
“No, no,” Lucy told him. “This is Sharon McCone, Ricky’s sister-in-law. Remember?”
“Right.” Park seemed somewhat tired and withdrawn, but came out of himself once drinks were served and said complimentary things about Ricky’s music. Lucy chattered on as she had yesterday, but she seemed brittle and on edge as she explained to Park that my agency was investigating Gaby’s murder. He became more attentive.
“Not for Clarence Drew?” he said. “I understand her death was the best thing that could’ve happened to him.”
“Meaning he was left in control of a multimillion-dollar trust?”
“More like a billion, I’ve heard.”
“But he hasn’t abused his position.”
“Drew’s into power, not money. Controlling that trust puts him in a position to exert influence on a good many people.”
“Politicians?”
“Among others.” Bellassis didn’t elaborate.
To break the silence I eyed the canapés and settled on a mushroom-and-cheese puff. “I am so hungry!” I said.
I wasn’t, but tonight seemed suited to the casual, somewhat ditzy role I’d perfected while plumbing for information at numerous business interviews, lunches, cocktail parties, and formal dinners.
Me? Oh, I just run this little agency. Mainly we trace deadbeat moms or dads. I got out of college and there wasn’t much I could do with a BA in sociology, and investigative work was more interesting than sitting in classes for God knows how many years till I could get my PhD.
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