“All I need right now is the answers to a few questions,” I told him. “Is the address for Erickson at Barbary Park current?”
“Yes. I went there myself and broke the news to his wife early Sunday morning.”
“And the wife’s name is …?”
“Margot. With a t.”
“How did she take it?”
“Badly. She thought her husband was on a business trip to Japan. Finding out he wasn’t where he’d said he’d be made it even worse.”
“Were you able to question her?”
“Not in any detail. I’d planned to go back, since Mono County requested further info, but now they’ve got you to take up the slack.”
Wallace sounded pleased; from my knowledge of the typical homicide inspector’s caseload, I could understand why. I thanked him and hung up.
Next I went down the hall and knocked on the door of Larry Koslowski’s combined office and living quarters. Our senior corporate specialist and resident health nut was busy at his computer but welcomed me cheerfully. I sat down and waited for him to finish the entries he was making.
Larry’s room has a pleasant jungly feel, with verdant moire walls and a greenhouse window where he grows the weeds and seeds that natural-foods enthusiasts deem essential to their well-being. A rack next to the marble sink holds a blender, measuring implements, and dozens of bottles and jars filled with strange leaves and pills and powders. I often wonder if his new clients don’t think they’ve mistakenly wandered into the laboratory of a mad scientist.
A couple of years before, Larry had been my Santa for the annual All Souls Christmas present drawing. What I received was a big plastic bag of a substance resembling sawdust—an instant version of his breakfast protein drink. The bag is still tucked away in a corner of my pantry, but Larry, who has no way of knowing that, takes credit for setting me on the path to renewed health and vigor. Periodically, around New Year’s or Lent, he conducts a purge of the co-op’s kitchen, hurling out refined sugar, Spam, Oreo cookies, bleached flour, and Hamburger Helper. We would all hate him for such excess, save for the fact that he can occasionally be found guiltily indulging in a pizza (with both anchovies and pepperoni) or sucking up as much beer as any of us down at the Remedy Lounge on Mission Street.
After a minute or two he swiveled back from his desk and faced me, smoothing his waxed handlebar mustache. “Where were you yesterday?” he demanded. “Ted and I wanted to order from Mama Mia’s, but without you we couldn’t get enough takers.”
So Larry had fallen off the wagon again; Mama Mia’s was the co-op’s pizzeria of choice. “I went up to Tufa Lake to help Anne-Marie out, took an extra day on the weekend.”
“Right—Hank mentioned that. A case?”
“A murder case now. I’m assisting the Mono County Sheriff’s Department.”
Something stirred in Larry’s soft brown eyes—a mere shadow that told me the word “murder” had called up memories of that night last July. But unlike Rae’s reaction, it was gone quickly; Larry is older than she, has seen more of the world’s unpleasant side, and is not a man who dwells on past events.
I added. “I think you may be able to help me.”
“Sure. How?”
“Have you heard of a consulting firm called Cross-Cultural Concepts? They have offices in the Embarcadero Center, and their business card claims they’re into something called international marketing practices.”
Larry’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I don’t recognize the name, but I can tell you what they probably do. It’s a fairly new area of specialization that’s sprung up to cope with the problems associated with the growth in international trading, particularly with Pacific Rim countries. Firms like the one you’re asking about educate business people on how to deal with customers and clients of other cultures, whose practices and expectations may be different from their own.”
“Sort of like business etiquette?”
“In a way. For instance, if you’re going to be trading in Japan, they teach you how to select the proper gifts to present to the customer. They might take you to Japanese restaurants and educate you about the foods and the use of chopsticks. Overseas clients are trained in similar ways, so they can operate smoothly in America.”
“I see. It sounds like a scam to me.”
Larry shrugged. “It’s a legitimate service, but a lot of the less reputable consultants take advantage of the fact that its parameters aren’t terribly well drawn.”
“Okay, another question: What do you know about the Hong Kong-controlled business community here? In particular, Transpacific Corporation.”
“Transpacific. Very little, other than that their CEO is Lionel Ong. Ong’s reputed to be one of the most flamboyant and brightest of the Hong Kong money elite. But that’s all I know; the person you want to talk with is Marcy Cheung at the Sino-American Alliance.”
“What’s that?”
“Trade organization for overseas Chinese doing business in the U.S. Marcy’s their publicity director and a good friend of mine. Let me see if I can reach her.” He swiveled back to the desk, looked up a number, and dialed.
After asking for Cheung three times, he said, “Marcy, Larry Koslowski. How you doing? … Not bad. Have you tried that recipe for kasha varnishkas yet? … Like varnish, huh? … No, that’s not what ‘varnishkas’ means, but I guess buckwheat groat’s an acquired taste … You don’t want to acquire it? Well, that’s your problem. Listen, will you do me a favor? Our head investigator needs to talk with somebody about Transpacific Corporation. You have any free time?” He listened for a moment, then asked me, “Can you be at her office in the financial district around two?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll be there,” he said into the phone. “Her name’s Sharon McCone … No, she’s not undernourished. As a matter of fact, she resists my dietary suggestions. But I’ll convert her yet. This woman adores my instant protein drink, and from there it’s only a short step….”
Ten
The red brick town houses of Barbary Park were scattered throughout an urban oasis four stories above the sidewalks of the financial district. Beneath the landscaped grounds were offices and shops, an underground garage, and a health club, but they seemed far removed from the park’s container-grown conifers and hawthorns and Japanese maples. Even the traffic sounds that filtered up were muted, as if in deference to the residents’ desire for tranquillity.
I’d called Margot Erickson to arrange an eleven o’clock appointment, and she’d sent my name down to the reception desk in the building’s lobby. A rosewood-paneled elevator took me to the park level; from it I followed a pebbled path past a koi pond spanned by a humpbacked stone footbridge to number 551. Like the other buildings, it was two-storied and ivied, with arched windows and an abundance of skylights; each of its four units had a private glass-roofed entry court. The uniformed maid who came to the door was Filipino.
She showed me into a large living room, then disappeared up a flight of stairs. The room’s windows faced the bay, and through them I could see Alcatraz, that rocky, precipitous island topped by empty cellblocks and unmanned guard towers, no longer a prison but nonetheless a subtle reminder to us all.
I remained standing in the center of the room and looked around. A flagstone terrace to the left of the windows was full of white wrought-iron furniture and plants in ceramic tubs. The living room itself was a confection of cream and peach and pink, too artfully arranged to be comfortable. Except for a few Asian artifacts such as a verdigrised bronze lion and an Imari bowl on a lacquered stand, nothing marred the bleached-teak tables; there wasn’t a book or magazine in sight, and I couldn’t even detect vacuum-cleaner tracks on the pristine cream carpet.
A photograph on the mantel of the marble fireplace caught my attention, and I crossed to take a closer look. It showed a man and a woman seated close together on a stone wall, a rocky seacoast in the background. As Ned Sanderman had told me, Mick Erickson had been handsome. His premature
ly white hair curled bushily about his head, catching the sun’s rays; his youthful face was deeply tanned, fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he smiled at the woman. She wore a lacy pink sun hat that covered her hair except for a fringe of blond bangs; her face was on the round side, dimpled, with a rosy glow. Both looked to be in their mid-thirties, at ease with each other, and—then, at least— happy with their lot in life. I spied evidence that difficult times might have followed, however: the glass over the photograph was cracked, and one side of its silver frame was dented, as if it had been thrown at something—or someone.
The sound of feet padding lightly on the carpet was all that alerted me to Margot Erickson’s presence. As I turned, she came toward me, graciously holding out her hand. She was shorter and more fine-boned than she looked in the photo, and beneath her beige silk jumpsuit her body seemed too thin. I found myself clasping her extended hand gently, as if it might break.
If she had noticed me studying the picture she gave no sign, merely motioned for me to sit and dropped into a chair herself, crossing her slim legs and running a hand through her close-cropped sun streaked hair. Her face was pale under its tan, her gray eyes shadowed and reddened by grief. Prominent lines that hadn’t been noticeable in the photo were etched on either side of her mouth.
I sat on the sofa and placed my briefcase on the coffee table in front of it. “I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this,” I told her.
“I understand that it’s necessary.” Her voice had the harshness of the habitual smoker’s; she reached for a porcelain box, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with an unsteady hand. As soon as she exhaled, she made a face and stubbed it out. “During the past three months I’ve cut down to only five a day,” she said. “But in the past forty-eight hours I’ve smoked enough to make myself ill.”
“That’s natural.”
“Yes, but it’s also weak, and I don’t like myself for it. I’ve always thought I was strong and could face anything that came along. What I’ve realized since Sunday morning is that I’d never had anything major to face.”
“Do you feel up to talking about your husband, Mrs. Erickson?”
“It would be in my best interests, wouldn’t it?”
That struck me as an odd way of phrasing it. “Of course,” I said as I took my tape recorder from my briefcase. Margot Erickson glanced apprehensively at it, and at first I thought she might object, but when I asked if it was all right to record our conversation, she merely shrugged her assent.
Once I had the tape going, I said, “I understand that it may be painful to answer some of the questions I have to ask, so I’ll try to be brief. Inspector Wallace tells me that you were unaware your husband was in the Tufa Lake area—had, in fact, thought him to be in Japan.”
The expression that passed over her face surprised me; although it was there and gone in an instant, I was certain I’d glimpsed relief. “As far as I knew,” she said, “Mick was in Tokyo conducting a series of seminars for one of his Japanese clients.”
“What sort of seminars?”
“Teaching executives how to interact with the American business community. Mick’s firm specializes in cross-cultural education for the Asian sector.”
“And he had been away for …?”
“Four days.”
“Had you heard from him in the interim?”
“… No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“Did you find that odd?”
“Not really. He was in touch with his secretary. Connie was to relay any necessary messages to me.”
“Such as?”
“Well … changes in Mick’s travel plans. Things he wanted me to take care of.” Her hand strayed toward the cigarette box; she pulled it back into her lap. “Actually, Ms.McCone, there wouldn’t have been any messages. Mick and I…wehadn’t been getting along. We both viewed the trip to Japan as a trial separation.”
“I see. May I ask—”
“No.” She shook her head, clearly wanting to be off the subject. “It was purely a family matter and had no bearing on … what happened to him.”
“Let’s talk about Tufa Lake, then. Do you know of any reason your husband would have gone there?”
“No.”
“Did he have friends there or some other connection with the area?”
“No.”
“You seem quite definite about that.”
“Of course. Mick was my husband; I would have known.”
“But during the past four days, Mr. Erickson kept his whereabouts from you. Even given the separation, that’s unusual. Isn’t it possible he might also have withheld information about a connection in Mono County?”
“… It’s possible.”
The admission should have disturbed her, but again relief flickered in her eyes. Margot Erickson struck me as a woman who normally told the truth, would lie only out of extreme necessity, and then with difficulty. Her alternating apprehension and relief probably had to do with some line of questioning she was afraid I’d start on—but I was damned if I knew what it might be.
I asked, “How long have you and Mr. Erickson been married?”
“Seven years.”
“Had you known him long beforehand?”
“I … What does this have to do with his death?”
“Seven years is a relatively short time span. People can be married dozens of years and not know all that much about each other’s past.”
“I see what you mean, but I’d known Mick for quite a while before we married. He and his former wife lived next door to my former husband and me in Mill Valley; our divorces and remarriage caused one of those little neighborhood scandals.” She laughed nervously. “I’d say I know him as well as it’s possible to know another person. Or I thought I did.”
“About the second set of identification Mr. Erickson was carrying—Franklin Tarbeaux’s—had you ever heard the name before?”
“Never.” But her face tensed and she looked away. Lying, and as I’d suspected, with difficulty.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
“Did your husband have an interest in history—the Old West, perhaps?”
“I don’t see what—”
“Frank Tarbeaux was a frontier gambler and con man. Apparently your husband adopted a slightly altered version of his name as a sort of joke.”
Now she looked surprised. After a moment she said, “Well, Mick likes to gamble. We go to Tahoe several times a year, and in his den he has a collection of books on the history of gambling. I suppose that’s where he got the name.” She paused, reflecting on what she’d just said. “It’s so hard to speak of him in the past tense. I keep expecting him to walk through the door and put our lives back together the way they were before….”
“I understand. And I’ll try to finish as quickly as I can. What I’d like to do is run some names by you—people and places your husband might have mentioned.”
“Go ahead.”
“Ned Sanderman.”
“No.”
“Transpacific Corporation.”
“That’s one of Mick’s biggest clients.”
“Lionel Ong.”
“Of course. Lionel is Transpacific.”
“Were Mr. Ong and your husband friends or merely business associates?”
“More business associates. In the past five years I think we’ve attended at most three dinner parties at Lionel’s house.”
“Did your husband ever mention Stone Valley or Prom-iseville?”
“… Not that I recall.”
“You’re not aware that Transpacific has recently bought land in Stone Valley and plans to reopen an old gold mine there?”
“I … may have heard something to that effect.”
“What about Earl Hopwood? Is that name familiar?”
She closed her eyes. After a moment she shook her head wearily. She was even paler now, and the shadows under her eyes had
taken on darker definition. I felt sorry for the woman and would have backed off, had it not been for the undercurrent of falseness I sensed in some of her responses.
I said, “Just a few more questions, Mrs. Erickson. Have you ever heard of the California Coalition for Environmental Preservation?”
She opened her eyes, nodded. “I’m a member of the Sierra Club, so I receive their solicitations.”
“What about the Friends of Tufa Lake?”
“I’ve seen the name.”
“Heino Ripinsky?”
“What on earth is …What does ecology have to do with this?”
“The environmentalists want to stop the Transpacific mining project. Did your husband have any technical knowledge of gold mining?”
“I … I suppose he did. He had a degree from Colorado School of Mines.”
“But he never discussed the Transpacific project—at least in any way that indicated he might be connected with it?”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands over her face. Through her fingers she said, “I don’t recall. I …just don’t recall.”
1 switched off my tape recorder. Enough was enough, I thought. “Mrs. Erickson, I’m sorry for putting you through this.”
She shook her head and made a gesture that said no apology was necessary. Then she stood, glancing jumpily around the spun-sugar room as if its walls were closing in on her. Without a word she turned and ran toward the stairway.
Feeling like what my niece Kelley calls a “horrible sadistic monster,” I packed the recorder in my briefcase and prepared to leave. The Filipino maid appeared in the doorway, her face impassive, waiting to see me out.
Before I crossed toward her, I let my gaze wander around Margot Erickson’s unlivable living room. There was emptiness here, and sterility, and something else…. Fear? Yes, fear. Its pervasive presence made the pretty room as formidable a prison as the one visible in the distance through the windows.
Eleven
Cross-Cultural Concepts occupied a handsome suite on the ninth floor of Embarcadero Two. Like the Erickson town house, its decor was sterile and expensive, but the reception area and those offices that I glimpsed exuded masculinity in what had to be a calculated effort to reassure clients from male-dominated Pacific Rim countries. The forest green carpeting, dark paneling, and leather furnishings seemed to say that in spite of being an American firm, and therefore subject to all sorts of foolish notions about equal opportunity, Cross-Cultural Concepts knew who really held the reins of world commerce. Connie Grobe, Mick Erickson’s secretary, complemented the offices perfectly. While she didn’t look masculine, her severely styled dark hair and tailored clothing would have better suited a clerical robot than a woman. The fashion magazines say that the “power suit” of the eighties has given way to a new softness and femininity in clothing now that we women—so they claim—no longer need to prove ourselves.
Where Echoes Live Page 11
