The Breakers

by Marcia Muller

  “I’ve seen a draft of the contract for the eventual sale,” Cap’n Bobby added. “It’s loaded with stipulations about quality of care; Chelle will sit on their board of directors.”

  So like Chelle to make sure everything was aboveboard.

  I said, “There are couple of other things I’d like to talk to you about. Ollie Morse is over at the Breakers refinishing the floors. He said you told him to do them first.”

  His face reddened and he pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “That idiot!” he exclaimed. “I told him no such thing. Anybody knows you do the floors last. Was Al there?”

  “Ollie said he was, but I couldn’t find him.”

  Cap’n Bobby pulled out a cell phone, punched in a number. The call must have gone to voice mail because he said, “Al, wherever you are, get back to me ASAP. You’ve got to rein in Ollie before he costs Chelle a fortune.” As he clicked the phone off he said to me, “Don’t know why Al and I put up with Ollie, but we do.”

  “What happened to Ollie in Afghanistan?”

  “Same thing as happened to a lot of us on the battlefield. Me, it was a spinal injury when my Jeep overturned. That’s not as bad as some—you adapt. But it’s the injury to the mind and spirit that’s the hardest to heal. Ollie’s PTSD is worse than most. All the counseling I’ve done with disabled vets, I’ve yet to find any conventional—or even unconventional—treatment to use for what ails him.”

  “You know much about his history?”

  Li, the waitress I’d met yesterday, appeared with the fish-and-chips I’d ordered. “I do,” she said. “We were…close a couple of years ago. Ollie was born in Missouri—near Kansas City, I think. His parents weren’t in the picture, so he was raised by his mother’s folks. Lit out for LA as soon as he finished high school, wanting to be a movie star. Same sad old story of no callbacks and lousy jobs flipping burgers, and then he enlisted in the army and ended up in Afghanistan. What happened there, I don’t know.”

  I asked, “How come he came to San Francisco?”

  Li smiled wryly. “How come any of us do?”

  “Good point.”

  Cap’n Bobby asked her, “And how close were you to Ollie?”

  “Let’s just say we had a thing at one time. It didn’t last long.” She turned and went back toward the kitchen.

  “‘A thing’?” Bobby grumbled. “Why can’t you young folks say what you mean? ‘A thing’ does not raise lustful questions in the minds of those who are…slightly older.”

  “What would you like us to call it?”

  “Something that will remind us we all were young and crazy once. Anything else you want to ask me?”

  “The wall behind Chelle’s screen. I’m trying to pin down how long it’s been there.”

  “When was the last posting?”

  “According to what datelines that I could see on the newspaper articles, around twelve years ago.”

  “Long time. What does that wall have to do with her being missing?”

  “I don’t know that it has anything to do with it. But something seems to have freaked her out. Do you know who created that crazy collage?”

  “No.”

  “Who was living there in 2002, or a few years on either side?”

  He spread his hands wide. “My ledger starts after that, and there was nothing about past tenants in the disclosure statement.”

  “And you didn’t try to meet them or ask about the wall?”

  “I didn’t know about the wall. Even then, I wasn’t so spry; I took the real estate agent’s word for what was up there.”

  “Do you recall the agent’s name?”

  “Pat…something. Doesn’t matter, I saw she died four, five years ago.”

  “Okay, but there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

  “Sure, I’ll help any way I can.”

  “Good. Write a short note introducing me to any neighbors of the Breakers you know, saying I’m looking into Chelle’s disappearance and it’s okay to talk with me.”

  “Should I mention you’re interested in that wall?”

  “No. Just keep it short and to the point.”

  4:53 p.m.

  By the end of the afternoon I’d met a fair number of residents of the Outerlands, and most were definitely on the odd side.

  Sara Gottfried, two doors down from the Breakers: “I’ve been living here since my husband died in Vietnam. That’s close to fifty years now. I could never quite get my life together afterwards, just stayed home with my cats—generations of them. What…? Oh, that old eyesore down the block. I haven’t set foot in it. No, I don’t know anything about the former tenants or a wall…Chelle? Zack? Damon? No, the names aren’t familiar. I seldom go out now that Safeway delivers.”

  Wendall Manning, three doors away: “Yeah, that used to be a real rockin’ place in the seventies. A party every night. Live bands—some of them made it big. Lots of booze. And the chicks…Yeah, I know I’m too old to be talking about chicks, but those were the days. The names you mentioned—never heard of ’em.”

  Alana Du Bois, at the southern end of the block: “Oh, that Wendall Manning! Old goat’s tried to pinch my butt about a hundred times. Don’t pay attention to anything he says. I’ve lived here six years and I haven’t noticed anybody at the Breakers but derelicts. Zack Kaplan? Chelle Curley? Damon Delahanty? Sorry, never heard of them.”

  Digger Burnett, at the opposite end of Jardin Street: “You gotta excuse me; I’m all dirty, just got home from work. Drive a scoop loader down at that new tower they’re tryin’ to build near the Civic Center. Digger—get it? Yeah, I heard the Breakers sold. No, I never been there; I got a thing about haunted places.”

  Erin Moran, next door: “Haunted? Oh, God, that Digger! He’s cracked in the head. The building’s just there, waiting for its new life. That new owner, she’s very young, but she seems to know what she’s doing. Have I seen her recently? Oh, I’m sure I have, but my memory isn’t so good with dates.”

  Alicia Alvarez, next door to Erin: “Of course I know Chelle. She’s promised to give me some cleaning work once she’s got that building torn apart. And Zack? We had a little romance a couple of years ago. A very little one.” She giggled. “I still see him around. Tyler Pincus? Is he the one who built that tunnel into the place? I bet he is. He’s weird, maybe dangerous. I cross the street when I see him coming. A collage? Oh, you mean one of those things where people paste up stuff? No, I don’t know anything about that.”

  6:55 p.m.

  The rest of the nearby neighbors either weren’t home or were unfriendly and closemouthed if they bothered to open their front doors. One who called herself Lady Mary allowed as she’d once had dinner with Zack Kaplan, but that he was “a cheapskate.” That was the only information I got from any of that small bunch. Finally I returned to my car and drove home, tired of ringing doorbells.

  I was just putting my car in the garage at our house on Avila Street when my phone rang. Will.

  “Want to meet at Jasmine’s?” he asked. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff to go over with you.”

  “Great.” I thought of Jasmine’s extravagant nacho platters, and my stomach growled. It had been a long time since the fish-and-chips at Cap’n Bobby’s. “Where are you?”

  “The office.”

  “Well, I’m home, so even walking I should get to Jasmine’s before you do. Anything I can order ahead for you?”

  “An IPA.”

  “What kind—they’ve got four or five dozen on tap.”

  “Surprise me.”

  7:15 p.m.

  It was an unusually long time before Will arrived at the fern bar. So long I feared that the Sculpin IPA I’d ordered for him would grow warm.

  “What kept you?” I asked when he appeared.

  “I ran into Ted and Neal. They were going to a friend’s wedding and dropped by to pick up some champagne Ted had sequestered in his desk. Neal was all duded up in proper formal wear, but Ted…” He shook his head,
laughing. “He had on the damnedest getup.”

  “Not Botany 500 again!”

  “Yep. The jacket had a black background overwhelmed by vertical stripes—mauve and red and deep purple. Between each stripe were little glittery stars. And, to top it off, the lining!”

  “Gaudy?” I said.

  “Bright lime-and-gold paisley.”

  “And the pants?”

  “Conservatively styled in banana yellow.”

  “Ouch! Shoes?”

  “Penny loafers with an unpleasant yellow-brown sheen.”

  “Oh, my!” I put my hand to my eyes, warding off the image.

  Will said, “You’ve gotta see it to believe it.”

  “No, I don’t.” I signaled for a glass of wine.

  Ted Smalley was my office manager, had been with me since I worked as chief—and only—investigator at All Souls Legal Cooperative. When the poverty law firm folded, he’d come along to manage my new operation, McCone Investigations, in drafty old Pier 24½ next door to the SF fireboat station. He was with me still.

  For years, Ted had been going through various fashion statements: Edwardian, grunge, Victorian, cowboy, you name it. The most recent was a takeoff on the old Mannix TV show, featuring garish sports coats from the now-defunct—thank God!—clothier Botany 500. Fortunately, his present work overseeing all the internal operations of M&R didn’t require much public contact.

  Ted’s husband, Neal Osborn, an online seller of rare books, had a vastly different sartorial style: except for on the handball court or lounging around home, he was usually clad in vested suits that he had made by a tailor in London and beautifully tooled leather footwear. It was unfortunate, we often said, that Neal had so little reason to meet his clientele in person.

  Still chuckling at the vision of Ted in his finery, I took out my phone and turned its recorder on. “So what do you have for me?” I asked Will.

  Plenty, as it turned out.

  “Start with Zack Kaplan,” Will said. “Born in Fort Worth, Texas, thirty-eight years ago. Spotty work history, mostly menial jobs. Currently a senior at SF State. Pretty old to be attending college.”

  “A lot of people go back when they can afford to.”

  “My feeling is that Kaplan is a professional student—one of the kind who feel safe in an academic environment but can’t face going out into the real world. He went to four different schools before settling at State: Long Beach, Fresno, Chico, and City College. Declared several different majors: history, English, French, mathematics, and Sanskrit.”

  “Sanskrit! Why?”

  Will shrugged. “Maybe the classes met at the right time of day. Anyway, his parents are deceased. No siblings, no close relatives. A few friends, whom I’m trying to track down.”

  “Enemies?”

  “Not any who would admit to it.”

  “How is he supporting himself now?”

  “Part-time bartender at various places, part-time deliveryman for a floral shop called Rosie’s Posies.”

  “Military service?”

  “None.”

  “Anything else on him?”

  “That’s it, till I hear from his friends. On to Damon Delahanty. He’s somebody Chelle is well off without. Delahanty was in prison until four years ago. Armed robbery.”

  “Oh? Details?”

  “He tried to rob a convenience store in Vallejo but the owner was quick with a gun, shot him in the leg. When the cops ran a background check, it turned out he’d been suspected, but never indicted, for a couple of similar crimes in the Bay Area.”

  “Did he serve his full sentence?”

  “Yep.”

  “See if you can get any more on him from the DOC.”

  “Will do. These workers of Chelle’s—Al Majewski and Ollie Morse—I know something about Morse: Was born in Kansas City, Kansas. Orphaned when both parents were killed in a car wreck and raised by his maternal aunt, now deceased. Dropped out of high school in his junior year and headed for Hollywood. Got caught up in the usual sleaze and scams and no callbacks on the legitimate jobs. He was off the radar for a while until he joined the army close to ten years ago.”

  “And Al Majewski?”

  “His background is pretty sketchy too. Born and raised in Idaho, left home at fifteen, and worked construction in several western states before joining the army. Neither Morse nor Majewski has ever been married.”

  Will sipped some of his IPA. “Now, Cap’n Bobby O’Hair. Honest as the day is long. He’s originally from New Hampshire. Moved out here to get to better weather. Used to work at a dive bar on the north waterfront called Tugbert’s, inherited some money from an aunt back east and bought it. When it got to be fashionable—and by now you know that Bobby’s not a fan of the fashionable—he sold out and bought his current place, as well as that derelict building on Jardin Street. He’s never been married, but a lot of ladies come and go. Is generous with those who need help, kind, and generally well liked.”

  “My feelings exactly. What about Danny Redfin?”

  “The word on the street is that he’s dealing drugs out of his bar. Mostly marijuana, some low-grade coke. But you and I know how rumors like that can get started.”

  I frowned. “You sound more like an undercover cop than a former ad man.”

  “I guess I watch too much TV. Maybe tomorrow I can get more concrete info from Danny’s daughter Pamela. She’s cute.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Tyler Pincus?”

  “A self-proclaimed wizard.”

  “Like Harry Potter?”

  “Hardly. Harry’s a novice compared to Pincus. Old Tyler’s been plying his trade at card tricks for nearly sixty years. Back in the 1960s and ’70s there was a jazz club on Clay Street near the Transamerica Pyramid called Earthquake McGoon’s, and in its basement was a little place—the Magic Cellar.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well, local and world-class magicians put on their acts there, and Pincus was one of them. At least he was till they threw him out.”

  “For what?”

  “That’s not clear. Must’ve been serious, though, because the owners and the patrons were a pretty hang-loose crowd.”

  “And what did Pincus do then?”

  “Toured around the country a bit doing his close-up card tricks, but mainly he faded into obscurity. He’s kept his apartment at the Breakers since the eighties, but he’s hardly ever there, so he must be getting gigs someplace. I’ve heard—in spite of the popularity of young Harry Potter—that magic’s on the wane. Probably because the reality we’re confronting these days is too frightening.”

  “I’d think it would be the other way round. Escapism. Stick our heads in the sand.”

  “Have you been assuming the ostrich position lately?”

  “It’s tempting. But no, I haven’t.”

  “And none of us will, until we exorcize the demons in our world—and you know who they are.”

  “Oh, yes, I do.”

  9:47 p.m.

  Will and I were having a second round of drinks when a friend of mine and another regular at Jasmine’s, Jamie Strogan, stopped by our table. Strogan, a heavyset man with straw-colored hair that stood up in unruly spikes, was an inspector with the SFPD’s Homicide detail.

  “So, Sharon,” he said, “I hear you’re infringing on our territory again.”

  I introduced him to Will and said, “I don’t understand.”

  The lines around Strogan’s eyes crinkled. “Just a joke. In one of the coffee-break rooms at the Hall there’s a scorecard: ‘Us: 21, McCone: 200.’”

  “Hardly that big a ratio!”

  “Yeah, exaggerated. But somebody started the card a long time ago, and now when you get a hit, one of us updates it—allowing for inflation.”

  I knew who had probably started the tally: my former lover and old friend, Lieutenant Greg Marcus, now retired and living in the Gold Country. It was through him that I’d met and become friendly with Strogan.

  “Any
way,” Strogan added, “a colleague in Missing Persons tells me you’ve made an inquiry for information?”

  “One of my operatives did, yes. So far I’ve heard nothing.”

  “You want I should expedite the request for you?”

  “If you would, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Of course, if you learn anything pertinent to Homicide, you’ll report it to me.”

  “Certainly.”

  He took out his phone, entered a reminder. “Back to you soonest.”

  “Will you join us for a drink? Will and I have been discussing mutual relatives in Montana.”

  “Relatives!” He waved a hand and headed toward the bar.

  “That word’s most always a conversation stopper,” Will said.

  “Isn’t it, though.” I fell silent, thinking of my crazy half brother Darcy and my dead brother Joey. And Ma, who seemed to be deteriorating day by day.

  Will sensed my onset of depression and said, “You know, this missing person thing could be construed as fraud. Person disappears, then an accomplice comes forth, demanding money for his or her return. That note that came—purportedly from Chelle—could mark the beginning of a scam to extract money from her friends or family. The kind of girl you describe probably wouldn’t knowingly be involved in it.”

  “But the note was in her handwriting on her stationery.”

  “Didn’t you say there was something wrong with the writing?”

  “It was…restrained.”

  “So she could have been under duress, or somebody faked it.”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  He went on, “Zack Kaplan’s disappearance is puzzling too. Was he part of a scam and took off to wherever Chelle is being held? Or is he another victim, maybe because he knew too much? Anyhow, as you’ve said, our biggest priority is to locate Chelle and bring her home safely.”

  “Did you say ‘our’?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m working with you, aren’t I?”

  “As long as you don’t have other pressing things to do.”

  “I don’t. My new business is not exactly taking off into the stratosphere.”

  “Well, thanks. I’m grateful. I don’t think Jamie Strogan’s going to be able to galvanize Missing Persons into moving on this.”