by Blake Banner
“So, you’re not a movie producer or a director… why’d she marry you?”
He shrugged. “She was young. We were both real young. We talked about moving to L.A. I guess she thought I could help her get away from her parents and move south.”
I asked him, “What happened?”
“Her parents died in a car accident. She inherited the house and found this agent, Shaw. You spoken to him? Suddenly, she didn’t need me anymore. So she said she wanted a divorce.”
I scratched my chin. “But you’re still married.”
He sighed. “Yeah, it got complicated. I was crazy about her. I didn’t want a divorce. I wanted her to see sense and come back to me.” He gave a dry, bitter laugh. “Now I wish I had given her the damn thing. I ended up asking her for one, but she just disappeared. Anyway, back then, I really believed I could persuade her to stay with me. I was a damned asshole.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “So tell me about Stephen Springfellow.”
You don’t often see pure hatred on a person’s face, but that was what I saw then in Peter Gunthersen’s expression.
“That low-life motherfucker. What do you want to know about him?”
Dehan said, “I’m just thinking about dates. We know she was involved with him 2012 through 2013. You were married at that time.”
“Yeah, we were married, but I had moved out. She was stringing me along—maybe we’d get back together, she needed to straighten out her head and decide what she wanted, all that shit. Turns out all the while she’s living with that son of a bitch.”
Dehan shook her head. “That’s got to hurt. You must have really hated the guy.”
“He was fucking my wife—what do you think?”
I changed the subject. “What do you know about Geronimo dos Santos?”
He shrugged. “Not a lot. I know he employed her to do a gig at some fancy party. She reckoned it was going to make her rich. She called me. She was begging me to give her the divorce. She said she was getting married… She was going out east to New York to see Stephen.” He frowned. “Wait a minute… You guys are NYPD. What’s happened?”
Dehan sucked her teeth. “Did you agree to the divorce?”
“No, not straightaway. I was mad at her.”
I sighed and scratched my chin, trying to fit the pieces together in my head. “Did you follow her out to New York?”
“No. To be honest, I’d had enough of her. I was about ready to sign the papers, but I never heard from her again.” He looked from me to Dehan and back again. “I think it’s about time you told me why you’re asking me these questions.”
I studied his face carefully. He looked worried. “On the night of June 14, 2015, Stephen Springfellow was murdered, and we think Tammy was murdered with him. Her body hasn’t been found yet.”
His eyes flooded with tears. He crossed his arms and looked away at the gray dawn outside his garage.
“Stupid bitch.” His voice broke as he said it. “Chasing fucking dreams, screwing around with every fucking dick who made her a promise. She had everything she would’ve needed right here at home.”
He sniffed and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his overall. I watched him a moment, then repeated my question.
“You didn’t follow her to New York?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill her, Detective. I was conflicted and I was confused, but I had met Tasha by then and I had already started to heal. I’m just sad because it is such a fucking waste of a person who could’ve been real special.”
I nodded. “Okay, thanks for your help, Peter.”
He moved back into the shadows of his garage, and we climbed back into the Mustang.
Eight
I called Hank.
“Hey, Stone, what can I do for you?”
“We’re almost done, and we’ll be off your turf pretty soon. Just one thing you could do for me.”
“Name it. Glad to help.”
“Peter Gunthersen.” I gave him the address and particulars. “I’m just wondering if he has any priors. He was married to Tamara Gunthersen, formerly Polachova. Maybe there were some domestics. Also, did he, or does he, own a gun.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Thanks, pal.”
I pulled onto Bay Road and headed back toward the Camino del Rey. I put the hood down, and the wind started whipping Dehan’s hair about. She reached behind her head, wound it up, and tied it in a knot.
“You want to know what my gut says, Stone?”
“Mm-hm.”
“My gut says we have been building up this case into a huge mystery, because we didn’t know about Peter. We had no motive, did we? That’s what we were looking for. Why did they kill him? Why did they take her body away? Motive. We had a murder with no motive, so we were running around like headless chickens looking for one. Now we have a motive. The oldest motive in the world.”
“You think it’s a good old-fashioned case of jealousy.”
“’S what my gut tells me. He followed her up to New York, found them together, tied Steve up at gunpoint, beat him up a bit, and made her watch. Then shot them both. It’s what you were suggesting before coffee. It stands up. What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, except we have no proof.”
“So if he owns a gun, or owned a gun, we check ballistics. We also need to check his credit card records, see if he traveled to New York back in June 2015.”
I nodded. “Yup. Meanwhile, I want to know more about this gig. Where was it? Whose party? What is the relationship between this Geronimo dos Santos and his host? Why, Dehan, why was he at such pains to provide him with this exotic gift, and why did he give Tammy’s agent a false name? Whether Peter is our killer or not, there is more to this gig than meets the eye.”
I pulled onto the Camino del Rey and began to accelerate back toward San Mateo. Dehan was watching the low buildings slide by on the broad, tree-lined avenue in the morning sunlight. While she did that, she gently thumped the door with her fist.
“I agree, but how are we going to do it?”
“Maybe dos Santos came in his own car. But I’d say chances are even that he hired a limo once he was here, to take himself and/or Tammy to the party.”
“True, but to check that we need his AMEX records. To get his AMEX records, we need a court order. To get the evidence for a court order, we need to check his AMEX records. Catch twenty-two.”
I smiled. “But, Ritoo Glasshopper, hotels of the swank of the Hyatt Regency provide everything that the discerning gentleman might need, including limo hire services. If he hired a limo, chances are he did it through the hotel, whose records you so skillfully finagled.”
She stared at me. I glanced at her and saw myself, duplicated, staring back at me from the lenses of her aviators. She said, “Why didn’t you think of that last night?”
It was a good question. I shrugged. “I was tired and I’d had too much whiskey.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You disappoint me, Sensei.”
By the time we pulled into the parking lot at the hotel, it was nine o’clock, the sun was rising over the sierras in the east, and I was ready for more coffee. I ordered some at reception to be sent up, and we rode the elevator back to my room.
Dehan pulled up the file, and I pulled up a chair next to her. She typed and clicked for a while, and finally a screen came up with an itemized list and a column of numbers down the right-hand side.
“Okay, this is his itemized bill for the week he was here.”
“It’ll be on the day before last.”
She scrolled to June 4 and ran her finger down the list till she came to the end. “Nothing.”
“Damn! Try earlier days, then.”
There was a knock at the door. I opened it and a waiter wheeled in a trolley with the coffee. I tipped him and he went away. I poured out two cups and gave one to Dehan. She sipped.
She had gone
back to the beginning, to the twenty-fourth, and we started going through the list, item by item. We finally found it on the fifth day. A Bentley for the evening of May 29, at six p.m.
She stared at me. “May 29? That doesn’t make any sense.”
I scratched my chin. “He hired her for the week from the twenty-eighth. This is her second day. So he didn’t hire her for the week to rehearse her part, but… why? What for?”
“To do repeat performances?”
“Does it say where the car went?”
She shook her head. “But it does give the name of the company—Class Limos—and a reference number.”
I made a note and drained my cup.
“We need to go and talk to them, see if they have a record of where they went. Who knows, we might get lucky and the driver might remember Tammy.”
She gave a grim smile. “Well, she sure seems to have been memorable. You never know.”
She closed the file and did a Google search for Class Limos.
“This looks like it—Mitten Road, right by the airport.”
Class Limos was on an industrial estate south of the airport. We came off the freeway onto the Bayshore Highway and then turned in to Mitten Road. The office was located on a large parking lot. The two Bentleys, two Rolls Royces, three stretched Caddies, and four Jaguars made it hard to miss. We pulled in and strolled into the office.
There was a middle-aged man with a blue blazer and well-practiced smile sitting behind the desk. Dehan moved right in.
“I would like to talk to the manager.”
“Then you are in luck, young lady. I am the manager.”
She beamed and sat, and I pulled up a chair to watch.
“Oh, that is wonderful,” she said. “We are planning a rather special night out, and my friend recommended you. In fact, she recommended one of your drivers, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name.”
He looked concerned, as though he really was genuinely concerned. “Can you remember what car he drove?”
“Why, yes! It was a Bentley!”
He beamed. “That narrows it down considerably.”
Dehan looked relieved. “Look, I wonder if I could be a real p… an awful bore. My friend said your driver was absolutely perfect. It was two years ago, but he took her to a rather exclusive party. I have the reference number…”
“Oh, well, that will do just fine!” He gave a small laugh of relief. The day was saved. She told him the reference number, and he typed it into the computer.
“Oh yes, that was Robert, a very reliable driver with a beautiful car. Guaranteed to turn heads!” He winked. I wondered if he was talking about the Bentley or Robert. “In fact, he is here right now. That’s him polishing his car, out there.”
“May we just have a word with him? And then we’ll go right ahead and book the car.”
He smiled happily at us, and we stepped outside.
We crossed the lot, and as we approached Robert, he turned to look at us. I pointed at the beast.
“Nice car.”
He smiled and nodded. “But I bought it instead of a house. When the car pays for itself, I get to buy the house.”
“You Robert?”
“Yeah. What can I do for you?”
I pulled out one of the pictures of Tammy that her agent had given us. I said, “It was a couple of years ago, but do you happen to remember this girl?”
He looked surprised.
“Sure, that’s Tammy. What’s this about?”
“You knew her?”
“Yeah. She used to do the occasional gig. Lots of actors do it to keep the wolves from the door. Whenever she could, she used me as her chauffeur. I wouldn’t say we were friends; we didn’t hang out or anything like that.” He gave an ironic laugh. “I should be so lucky! She was smoking. I tell you, the pictures don’t do her justice. Man, she was something.”
Dehan brought him back on task. “But you were friendly.”
“Yeah. We talked. She liked to open up to me. She was cool. Real nice personality.”
“So do you remember the last gig you took her to?”
He leaned against the car. “How could I forget? Not just because I never heard from her again, but what she told me in the car, and where I took her.”
I smiled. “Okay, let’s take it one step at a time. Where did you take her?”
He gave a lopsided grin. “No, you’re right. Let’s take it one step at a time. Who are you guys?”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. “We are police officers from New York. We’re outside our jurisdiction, but we are trying to find out what happened to Tammy. She disappeared a few days after that gig, in New York.” I pulled out a twenty and handed it to him. “We would really appreciate any help you can give us.”
“Sure, no problem.” He took the money and slipped it in his pocket. “The gig was at Hugh Duffy’s house. You know? Pacific Heights, right on the Alta Plaza park there. It’s not a house. It’s a palace.” He noticed our blank expressions. “Hugh Duffy is like one of the richest men in the world. He’s not a millionaire, he’s a billionaire. Old money too. They made their stash in the gold rush. Then they invested smart, oil in Texas, silicon chips in the IT revolution…” He was nodding in a knowing way, with narrowed eyes and a sneaky smile. “Rich people interest me. They are my stock in trade…”
Dehan interrupted him. “So she was doing this gig for Hugh Duffy?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. What she told me in the car—she used to ride up front with me, then when we were getting close to the destination, she’d climb in the back, so when we arrived I could do the whole chauffeur thing, getting out, opening the door for her. She was a scream.”
I held up a hand. “What did she tell you in the car?”
“Yeah, what she told me in the car was, this guy, she thought he was Spanish or Portuguese, something like that, was paying her a packet to go to a party at Hugh Duffy’s place. She said it was going to set her up for life. She was to play the part like her date had been delayed and she was waiting for him to arrive, but he never does. Meanwhile, she gets close to Duffy. Because Duffy is a widower, see? He is listed as the most eligible bachelor in San Francisco. Has been for a few years. But he never married again.”
Dehan was shaking her head. “So this Spanish/Portuguese guy, he never went to the party?”
“That’s what she said. She was supposed to make out like she was his plus one, but he was detained or something, and he never showed. So she could get close to Duffy.”
“So it was a scam.”
He looked at her with a sly grin. “Sure sounded that way to me.” He held up his hands, like Pontius Pilot waiting for a hand towel. “But I’m just the driver, know what I mean?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And you never heard from her again after that?”
“Not a word.” He smiled fondly. “I look for her sometimes in the society papers, you know? To see if maybe she married some rich guy. I never saw her though.”
I scratched my chin. “I can see why she would want to do that. But what was in it for this Portuguese guy?”
He shrugged. “She never told me that.”
We thanked him and walked back to the car. Dehan was already on her phone looking for Hugh Duffy’s number.
Nine
The phone was answered by a man who sounded like he’d got his dignity stuck up his ass and couldn’t bend at the waist to pull it out again.
“The Duffy residence.”
“This is Detective John Stone of the New York Police Department. I need to speak to Mr. Duffy—urgently.”
He informed me with his prolonged silence that urgent needs were unseemly, then said, “One moment, please.”
It was more than one moment, and more than two, but he eventually returned and said, “Mr. Duffy will be free from twelve noon until half past twelve, if you would care to visit at that time.”
I told him we would care to do that and hu
ng up.
Robert the chauffeur had not exaggerated. Duffy’s house was a palace. It looked like a medium-sized hotel. It wasn’t particularly elegant or beautiful, but it was big, and situated at the very top of Pierce Street, it had views directly onto the park. Its cash value must have been astronomical. We arrived at 11:50 and rang the bell. It was opened at 11:55 by a man for whom disdain was a way of life. He gazed down upon us, even though he was shorter than both of us, and waited.
We showed him our badges.
“Detectives Stone and Dehan to see Mr. Duffy.”
“You are a little early.” He said it as he might have said, ‘You are a little dirty.’ “Please follow me.”
We followed him across a vast, domed hall with a checkerboard floor and marble columns, down a gallery with portraits of men with ruthless eyes and big moustaches, to a huge set of walnut doors. He tapped on them and opened them with a certain amount of reverence. Then he turned to us and said, “Mr. Duffy will see you.”
We stepped into a library that would not have looked out of place at a respectable university. The carpet was burgundy, the furniture was all chesterfield, and the wood was all dark mahogany. Apart from a magnificent eighteenth-century fireplace and chimney breast, the walls were all lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling. A couple had glass doors protecting the volumes. There were also a couple of stands that held single books that I assumed were of exceptional value.
Duffy was standing by the window and turned as we came in. He beamed like we were long-lost friends and strode toward us with his hand held out.
“Detectives Stone and Dehan! In which order?” He grinned as though he had said something mischievous and glanced from me to Dehan and back again. I smiled.
“I am Detective John Stone. This is my partner, Detective Carmen Dehan. We are from New York, so we are out of our jurisdiction.”
“Oh, phooey! We don’t need to stand on formalities here! Come! Sit! What will you drink?” He shepherded us toward the chesterfields. We sat and he remained standing. “Some sherry before luncheon? A martini?”
