How long would they sit around drinking over there? Sooner they got it done with, the sooner Stewart would call with his report and she could arrange to meet him and listen to the recording.
The wait finally ended five minutes later. Out they came—Stewart, Hawkins, and the heavyset stranger, all in a bunch. They stood talking in front of the Twilight for thirty seconds or so, then shook hands all around and went their separate ways—Hawkins down toward his office, Stewart in the opposite direction, the stranger to the curb to wait for a break in the traffic so he could cross to his Beamer.
Tamara was already on the move by then. Decided what she was going to do as soon as she saw that the heavyset guy was part of it. She tossed a ten and a five on the table and hurried out, keeping her head down as she turned upstreet. Stewart had reached his parked car, was unlocking the door; he didn’t see her and she didn’t try to catch his attention. Behind her, the heavyset dude had come on across the street and was taking his time with his keys.
Impulse prodded her into a loping run. At the Woodacre intersection she darted diagonally across to where she’d left the Toyota. She was inside, with the key in the ignition, when the BMW’s brake lights flashed and Heavyset started to back up. Traffic kept him from getting all the way out of the space until Tamara managed to back out herself, in front of an SUV whose driver had to brake so sharply he blatted his horn at her.
A red light at 19th Avenue stopped the BMW, gave her enough time to get down there with only one car separating them. When the light changed, Heavyset turned right and the intervening car went straight, so she was right behind the Beamer when she made the swing onto 19th.
At the Sloat Boulevard intersection, he turned right again and angled over into one of the lanes that would take him onto Portola Avenue. Tamara moved into the second lane, behind another car. The BMW’s rear end and taillights were distinctive enough, and the avenue well lighted enough, so she’d be able to keep him in sight from a distance.
Excitement bubbled in her. This was more like it! Following somebody in the dark, trying to keep pace . . . there was a thrill in that kind of thing. Not a dangerous thrill like that time in San Leandro; a small and relatively safe one. Mostly her job consisted of putting in a lot of desk time at the agency, combing the Net, answering phones, compiling reports. Monotonous after a while. Fieldwork now and then, even on a grim mission like this one, was a sure cure for boredom. She’d intended to do it more often, but there never seemed to be enough time. From now on she’d make the time.
The Beamer headed straight up Portola, not fast and not slow. No problem keeping pace. A red light stopped them both at Claremont. And while she was waiting for it to change, the ringtone on her cell phone began chirping.
She got it out of her purse, switched on before the light turned green. Deron Stewart. “Zeller was a no-show,” he said.
“I know. I was across the street the whole time you were in the lounge.”
“. . . Didn’t tell me you’d be there.”
“My business,” she said. “Who was the heavyset guy came in a few minutes late?”
He said, “Sharp eye,” which she supposed was meant as a compliment for her observational skills. “His name’s Roland.”
“First or last name?”
“Just Roland. That’s all he’d give.”
“One of the down lows?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t say what he does for a living, either. Didn’t say much at all, just sat there listening and checking me out. But he lives here in the city. Hawkins referred to him once as a neighbor.”
The BMW had passed through the O’Shaugnessy intersection at the top of Twin Peaks and they were moving downhill on the far side. The light at the turnoff for Diamond Heights Boulevard was green; the Beamer went right on through, onto the winding stretch of Upper Market. Wherever the heavyset dude, Roland, was headed, it wasn’t straight home. Hawkins lived in Monterey Heights, on the edge of St. Francis Wood, and now that section was behind them to the southwest.
Stewart said, “You still on, Tamara?”
“Still on. Did Hawkins or Roland mention Zeller at all?”
“Not until I brought up his name.”
“And?”
“He’s still in the city, I got that much out of Hawkins, but not where he’s living or what he’s doing. One thing: the three of them are involved in a business deal.”
“What kind of business deal?”
“Something to do with a fund that helps needy black families. Easy asked Roland if he was going ahead; Roland said he thought so, as long as Easy and Zeller were still on board, but there had to be another reading before he’d be convinced.”
“Reading?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. That was all either of them would say.”
“So they didn’t try to involve you in this deal.”
“No. And I didn’t want to make them suspicious by pushing it.”
“You pass with them all right?”
“Must have, as far as the club goes. Got myself invited to their next meeting.”
“When?”
“Saturday night. Eight o’clock at the SoMa loft. Want the address now?”
“Later. Zeller going to be there?”
“Likely. Their regular group, Hawkins said.”
At Castro, Roland swung over into the left-turn lane for Divisadero and caught the light just before it turned yellow. Tamara had to jump a lane, cutting off another car, and lay down a heavy foot to make it across the intersection before the oncoming traffic started moving.
Stewart said, “I got everything on the voice recorder. You want it tonight or wait until tomorrow?”
“Tonight.”
“Tell me where you live and I’ll drop it off.”
Talking to him, driving one-handed, had become a distraction. Besides, it was illegal now to use a cell phone while driving; if a cop spotted her she’d probably get pulled over. She said, “I’ll get back to you in a few minutes—I’m in the middle of something now,” and clicked off.
Straight along Divisadero to Oak, right turn, west four blocks to Fillmore, left turn on Fillmore. The Western Addition, one of the few neighborhoods that had survived the 1906 earthquake, once a black ghetto but integrated and Yuppified now. After a couple of blocks the Beamer slowed, eased over into the right lane. Tamara did the same, hanging back. Small businesses and apartment buildings strung out along there, most of the businesses closed.
In mid-block, brake lights flashed crimson and the BMW came to a quick stop. Getting set to park, and in the only available space. She had no choice but to swing around into the inside lane.
There was a bus stop on the corner; she cut over into it. In the rearview mirror she could see the Beamer backing up into the space. She shut off the headlights but not the engine. Roland finished his park job and the BMW went dark; she watched his big shape get out, circle around the front onto the sidewalk. He stood there for a couple of seconds, doing something with his coat, and then moved upstreet about fifty yards before stopping again at one of the dimly lighted storefronts. So what was he doing, window-shopping?
No. He stepped forward, disappeared inside.
Tamara stayed where she was, watching, for five minutes. Roland didn’t come back out.
A Muni bus was headed her way; she put the headlights on, drove around the corner. No parking spaces. Circled the block—still no spaces—and came back slow on Fillmore. Most of the stores looked closed, but several showed night lights and she wasn’t real sure which one Roland had gone into.
She pulled into the bus zone again. Leave the car here for a couple of minutes, she thought, not much of a ticket risk now. She got out the notepad and pen she kept in her purse, then walked quickly to Roland’s Beamer. When the street was clear she stepped out in front to peer at the license plate. 5XZX994. She scribbled the number on the pad before she moved on up the sidewalk to check the storefronts.
Barbecue take-out restaurant, dry cleaners, c
ard shop—all connected parts of a single building, all closed now. A row of apartments made up the building’s second story. The storefront next to the card shop showed light through a gap between wine-colored curtains drawn across its front window; lights were on in the apartment above it, too. Propped between the curtains and the window glass was a large printed placard. Tamara eased up close enough to read the lettering.
PSYCHIC READINGS BY ALISHA
Palm Tarot
Yes!
This was the place Roland had disappeared into, all right. Tamara risked a quick peek through the lighted gap. All she could see was part of a sparsely furnished room, a table with a red-shaded lamp on it, more dark red curtains drawn over a doorway at the rear. No sign of Roland, no sign of Alisha.
But Tamara didn’t need to see the woman to know who she was. Alisha was Mama’s name. Roland had led her straight to Mama.
And where Mama was, her miserable son was sure to be nearby.
12
TAMARA
She called Deron Stewart back and arranged to meet him on South Park, outside the agency. Seemed like the best place; she didn’t want him coming to her apartment on Potrero Hill, and anywhere else, even a neutral public spot, thinned out the strictly business atmosphere she’d established with him. Last thing she needed tonight was him hitting on her.
All the way to South Park, she felt a grim elation. So Mama was a psychic. Or pretending to be one. There were plenty of honest card and palm readers in the city, but Tamara would bet her bank account that Alisha wasn’t one of them. Not with a down-low thief for a son.
And what about Lucas? Was he still living with Mama—in that apartment above the psychic shop, maybe?
If he was living there, he’d be keeping a low profile. Real low, if he and Mama were setting up a scam and he’d been the one to steer Roland, a believer who trusted to “readings” before he acted on important matters, to Alisha. Made sense that way. This investment fund Roland and Doctor Easy were involved in figured to be the scam; Lucas had told James his business was “investments.” A con designed to bilk cash out of at least two and maybe the rest of the down-low clubbers. A score big enough to warrant weeks of setup and expense—the kind of score small-time grifters dream about.
Tamara didn’t need psychic powers to know she was reading it right, or close to right. It explained everything, including why Lucas and Alisha were still hanging on in San Francisco. Make the big score and then vanish—poof!—to someplace thousands of miles away before any of the vics knew what’d hit them.
She parked the Toyota in the South Park garage, waited for Stewart in the little park across the street from the agency’s building. Restaurants, a couple of clubs in the area, so there were people around and music throbbing in the cold night. Funny, but as she stood there by the playground, the elation she’d felt earlier drained away and left her feeling edgy. Celebration was premature. Still a lot to do, still things that could go wrong.
Stewart finally came hurrying from the direction of 3rd Street. “Sorry it took me so long,” he said. “Couldn’t find a parking place.”
She made herself say, “No problem.”
“Cold out here. How about we go up to your office?”
“Not necessary. This won’t take long. The tape?”
“You want the recorder, too?”
“Just the tape, unless it won’t play in a Sony digital.”
“It’ll play. Sony’s what I’ve got.” He brought the recorder out of his coat pocket, removed and handed her the tape. “I played a little of it back,” he said. “The lounge was noisy, but you can hear most of what we said pretty clearly.”
“When did Roland and Hawkins talk about the deal they’re in with Zeller? What point on the tape?”
“Toward the end. As we were getting ready to leave. I picked up the check, by the way. Figured I should.”
“Put it on the expense account.”
“I will,” he said. “I take it you want me to go to the club meeting in SoMa Saturday night?”
“Probably, if you can keep from having sex with one of them.”
He laughed. “Cost you extra if I can’t.”
Tamara just looked at him.
“Okay, not funny. Sorry. Don’t worry; I can handle it.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she said. “What’s the SoMa address?”
“One-eight-seven-seven-nine Harrison. Top-floor loft, Unit Six. You figure on being there?”
“I don’t know yet. See what happens between now and Saturday.”
“If you do want me to go and Zeller shows, I could find a way to slip out and give you a quick call, let you know. And then see what I can find out about him—where he lives, what he’s doing for his bread.”
“And get him talking about his mother, if you can.”
“His mother? Why?”
Tamara stonewalled the question.
Stewart shrugged and said, “Okay. What’s her name?”
“Alisha. But you’re not supposed to know that.”
“Anything else?”
“If there’s any relationship between him and Roland, aside from the club thing.”
Stewart nodded. “You want the whole evening recorded, all the sports rap?”
“No need. Just anything that’s relevant to Zeller, his mother, Roland.”
“You got it.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, said, “Be seeing you,” and went away toward 3rd at a fast walk.
Tamara crossed the street, unlocked the front door to the building, and climbed the stairs to the agency offices. Stewart had been thoroughly professional tonight, except for that one wisecrack; hadn’t come on to her at all. Good. Fine. And yet, in spite of herself, she couldn’t help feeling a vague disappointment. The man was a hound and the only women hounds didn’t bother to hit on were the ones nobody wanted, the skanks and woofers. A tacit rejection to make her feel unattractive and undesirable . . .
Pathetic.
Don’t start trippin’ on yourself, girl!
In her office, the first thing she did was to boot up her Mac and check on Psychic Readings by Alisha. There was a listing in the current city directory; Tamara made a note of the phone number. No Web site, no other Net reference. City treasurer and tax collector’s office next. No Business Registration Certificate. And no application for a New Business Permit on file.
So Mama hadn’t been operating here for long. Three months max, that was about as long as you could get away without applying for a business license in San Francisco before you got caught. One more strike against Alisha. One more reason to believe she was into a bigger scam than phony psychic readings.
Tamara ran the Fillmore Street address to find out who owned the building. Eldon Management Company. Thomas Eldon, president. Address on Sutter Street downtown. Eldon Management owned three contiguous buildings on that block of Fillmore, in fact, but none of the tenants’ names was listed. Tomorrow she’d try to pry Alisha’s last name out of Thomas Eldon or one of his representatives, and at that it probably wouldn’t be her real name. Good bet that she’d paid her deposit and rent in cash and that the management company, like a lot of them, wasn’t too scrupulous about making background checks.
Something else that would have to wait until the morning: finding out who Roland was. State law forbid licensed detective agencies from running direct DMV license searches to get the names and addresses of registered car owners. She had a contact in the bureau who’d do it for her, but only during business hours.
Time for Stewart’s tape. She plugged it into her Sony digital, fast-forwarded to near the end, ran it back and forth until she found the exchange he’d told her about. Lots of background noise, as Stewart had said, but with the volume turned all the way up the men’s voices were clear enough—Roland’s was a deep baritone—and you could understand all but a few words here and there.
Doctor Easy: Before we leave, Roland . . . have you made a decision yet?
Roland: About the fund
? I think I’m ready to go ahead, as long as you and Lucas are still on board.
Doctor Easy: We are. It’s a solid investment, seems to me. And a worthwhile cause.
Roland: No question about that.
Doctor Easy: You still sound hesitant.
Roland: I’m not, but [I? Vi?] . . . completely convinced yet.
Doctor Easy: Another reading?
Roland: Yes.
Doctor Easy: Will you know by Saturday night?
Roland: I think so.
Doctor Easy: Good. Lucas is anxious to get things moving.
Stewart: What sort of investment, if you don’t mind my asking?
Doctor Easy: You’ll meet Lucas tomorrow night. He’ll give you the details if you’re interested.
Stewart: You said it was a worthwhile cause?
Doctor Easy: Worthwhile, and potentially lucrative for the investors. Helping black families in need.
Stewart: Helping them how?
Doctor Easy: Tomorrow night, Deron. Let’s be moving on now. I’m late for dinner as it is.
Investment fund to help black families in need. Worthwhile, lucrative—the perfect con to work on well-off African Americans who were both socially conscious and greedy. Uh-huh. Scam devised by Lucas, probably with Mama’s help. Manipulate the vics by pretending to be one of the investors himself. Roland needs more convincing than Doctor Easy, but he’s into psychics, Lucas introduces him to Mama, and she tells him it’s a terrific deal and he should go for it. One more reading—yeah. Chances are he’s the big pigeon, with the most money to invest; that’s why they’ve spent so much time and effort setting him up.
Tamara listened to the section again, and a third time, trying to make out the words Roland had said right before “completely convinced.” Somebody had called out for the bartender at that point. First word: “Vi,” not “I.” She was pretty sure of that now. The other missing word. “Isn’t?” Had to be.
Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) Page 10
