“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think to bring anything. Are you allowed donuts?”
“No, he’s certainly not,” Caroline interjected.
“I just want to get out of here. Have no use for doctors,” David grumbled.
“He’s staying for a day or two, Julia. And I’m here to make sure he stays. It wasn’t a heart attack. But they do want to run a few tests.”
I pulled a second chair over, next to Caroline’s. “I’ve been worried about you the last few days, David.”
“Well,” he grumbled, “I’m fine. Really. I’ll be out of here in no time. No time at all. How did you find out?”
“I called the firm to let you know I’d be in around ten, and the answering service told me you weren’t there. Then Adam called your house and found out what had happened.”
David stared in disgust at the breakfast tray in front of him. “Look at this slop.” He picked up a spoon from the bowl and let a sticky porridge drip in globules back into the bowl. “I can’t live on this. Can you imagine what they charge for this?”
Caroline patiently ignored his complaints. “So, Julia, what are you planning to do with the rest of your day? You can see how mine is shaping up.”
“Well, I want to stop by Adam’s office and then I might go by the Chronicle. I have a good friend who works there. I’d like to find out what stories the newspaper ran about the Bank fire.”
David shook his head. “Suit yourself. Frankly, I’m not sure you’re not just spinning your wheels, but good luck. Let me know if you find out anything interesting.” He pushed the tray away. “Oh, before I forget, I got a call from one of our probate attorneys who, as it turns out, is the executor of Jack’s will. His sister definitely inherits everything, except of course for the life insurance policy. Hilary is still the beneficiary.”
“Have you talked to Jack’s sister about it?”
“I left that up to the estate planning attorney. Apparently Sarah hasn’t softened. She’s refused to have anything to do with the funeral arrangements, so we’ll probably have to foot the bill for that. Hilary may want to organize a memorial for Jack, but I haven’t heard anything definite yet.”
“What about Ira’s arrangements?”
“I don’t know what Rita’s planning. I’m going to try calling her later.”
“Well, both Jack’s sister and his ex-wife will benefit from Jack’s death. And Rita Walstone from her husband’s.”
“I find it hard to believe that any of those women could commit a murder.”
“Someone did.” I stood and gave David a kiss on his cheek and hugged Caroline. “If I find out anything interesting at the Chronicle, I’ll let you know. And I’ll pop in to see you tomorrow.”
“We’ll see you then, Julia.” Caroline smiled in return. She’d need the patience of a saint to keep David contained for the next day or so. I didn’t envy her the task. I heard David’s voice call out as I headed down the corridor, “Don’t forget the donuts.”
I left the hospital parking lot and drove on Market straight downtown. The offices of Sinclair Investigations were at Ellis and O’Farrell and parking there was horrendously expensive. The only other option was public parking under Union Square. I turned off Market and circled the Square in bumper-to-bumper traffic, but when I finally approached the entrance to the underground parking, a standing sign told me the lot was full. I went around the square once more and drove the few blocks to Montgomery Street. I pulled into David’s building and used my parking card. Parking here meant walking a few blocks, but at least it was free.
I emerged from the building and headed down Market. As I approached Grant Avenue my stomach reacted to smells from a pizza parlor one door up. I couldn’t resist and stepped inside. Other than a quick piece of toast this morning while my new locks were being installed, I hadn’t eaten a thing.
The interior of the shop was taken up by a large workspace behind glass where the dough was spun wider and wider until it reached the size of a full pizza pan. Ingredients for toppings were arranged in metal containers set into the counter space. A heavy-set man with graying hair and an apron covered in flour had just placed the thin dough onto a pan and was sprinkling cheese over the top. He ignored my arrival, adding oregano and olive oil over the entire slab. When he finished, he pushed the completed tray through a hatch at the back of his work area, where another man picked it up and shoved it into one of the large pizza ovens in the rear.
“What’ll it be, lady?” He finally looked up at me.
“I’ll have a piece, just cheese and tomato.”
“Comin’ right up.” He walked around to the back room and returned with a paper plate of piping hot pizza. As the aroma assailed my nostrils, I seriously thought about ordering an entire pizza for myself, but discipline reigned.
“Anything to drink?”
“Just a glass of water.” I handed him a five dollar bill, and got three dollars in return. Best deal in town. I stuffed a dollar into the tip jar and carried my plate over to a small table by the front window. I was the only walk-in customer. Most of the shop’s business was undoubtedly phone orders and take-out. I devoured my slice, took a gulp of water, and wiped my mouth to make sure no dribbles of oil were running down my chin.
The big man hollered, “Yo! Ready.” A different man came from the back room and headed out the front door carrying two large boxes. Something about the tilt of the man’s head seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. He stepped out to the street, heading east on Market. As he passed, he looked up at the window where I sat and for a brief moment hesitated, then continued on his way. It hit me in a flash where I had seen him before. It was Antho, Dani’s boyfriend.
thirty
I was eating at Giuseppe’s Pizza and Antho was delivering pizza to make ends meet. I had probably passed this place hundreds of times but had never noticed the name on the door. Given its proximity to the financial district, it wasn’t surprising that offices in the area would use Giuseppe’s as their favorite place for take-out and deliveries. Dani had never mentioned that her boyfriend worked for the very business that had delivered to the 16th floor of the Montgomery building on the day of Jack’s murder. Had Antho been the delivery guy on that fateful day? And had Dani bothered to tell the police her boyfriend had access to the building? She would have known if he had been working that Sunday. I stood up and tossed my paper plate and napkin into the trash bin by the counter. The heavy-set man was preparing yet another pizza. This one with pineapple and hunks of ham, a desecration of the real thing in my humble opinion.
“Excuse me.”
The pizza maker didn’t look up when he answered. “Yeah?”
“The guy who just left … he looks familiar to me. I think I know him. Is his name Antho?”
His hands stopped moving and he looked up. “Are you a friend of his?”
“We have a friend in common. Listen, by any chance, what days does he deliver for you?”
“What’s this about?”
“I was just wondering if he did your deliveries last Sunday?” I imagined takeout orders wouldn’t be too heavy on a day when most offices were closed, so Antho might have been the only guy working on a Sunday.
“Are you a cop?” The pizza maker’s tone became belligerent. “If you are, then I’ll spare you the trouble, because the cops have already been here asking questions, and I don’t have time for this crap.”
“No, no, really, I’m not a cop,” I assured him. I wracked my brain for a good lie that might elicit some information from this bulldog. “Look, this is kind of embarrassing. I’m a friend of his girlfriend. They had a fight ’cause he didn’t show up for a date last Sunday afternoon and she’s been thinking he’s seeing somebody else. He told her he wasn’t, he was working.”
“Oh, for chrissakes, whaddo I look like, his mother?” The man shook his head.
“I told you it was
embarrassing.”
He stared at me, a disgusted look on his face. “Yeah, that’s his regular day. He’s the only guy I can get to do deliveries on Sunday. He works one to five. The kid plays music so he won’t come in till the afternoon. You happy now?”
“Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Good. Now can I get back to filling my orders? I got work to do.” He shook his head. “What next?”
“Thanks,” I said as I pulled the door open and beat a quick retreat. He was still muttering to himself as the door closed behind me.
Was this too much of a coincidence or what? The one person not connected to the firm who entered the building on Sunday, the day of Jack’s murder, was the boyfriend of a woman who worked at the firm. Delivering pizza would give him lots of mobility anywhere in an office building. He wore a shirt and a cap with a logo and walked around with pizza boxes in a big vinyl warmer bag. He might get mugged for the pizzas, but otherwise, no one would even glance at him twice.
I cut up to O’Farrell and found Adam’s building, a four-story gray edifice next to the parking garage next to Macy’s. The lobby area was marble with brass fixtures and so was the elevator. Sinclair Investigations took up a section of the top floor. A receptionist greeted me and I asked for Adam Schaeffer. She made a quick call and then pointed to a side corridor. “You’ll find him down there.”
Adam was standing in the hallway, waiting, and indicated his small office. “Welcome to my domain.” I stepped inside. A large window overlooked the three-way intersection of Market, Stockton, and Ellis.
“I was hoping you’d call, but this is better. What can I do for you?” He smiled.
“I was wondering if you’d found any information on Hilary Greene?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t forget, and I’m not ignoring you. I’ve just been so busy with a couple of new clients. But we can have a look now. We can probably find a birth date, maybe even a social security number. And we can definitely do a property search.”
“Great. I’ll watch over your shoulder.”
Adam sat behind his desk and turned to the keyboard. “Did you have a chance to talk to David?”
“Yes, I stopped by the hospital. He’s complaining a lot, so I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Good.” Adam plugged in the address of the art gallery on Fillmore and, sure enough, it told us the date it had been sold, the price for the small one-story building, and the buyer’s name: Hilary R. Greene. Bought one year after her divorce from Jack.
“Is Greene her maiden name? I thought she told me she’d been married once before Jack. Can we look up marriage records or name change records with this program?”
“We can access city and county information. That should give us any marriage records or name changes.”
Adam entered a search for “Greene,” and, scrolling by year, started searching for Greene with an “e.” There had to be hundreds with no “e,” but only about two hundred with an “e.” Patiently, he moved the down arrow as I looked over his shoulder.
“Do you know the name of her first husband?”
“Not a clue.”
We finally found it, second from last in the list of Greenes. A license had been issued in San Francisco County on May 4, 1999, to Edward Greene and Hilary Ragno.
“Well, well, well,” Adam said. We stared silently at the screen for a few moments. “So Hilary is related to our Len/Luca, huh?”
“Looks that way,” I responded. “And Henry Gooding is connected to Ragno.”
“How do you know that?” Adam asked.
“Because it was Gooding who suggested him to my friend Gale for the art show.”
I made the decision to tell Adam about the break-in at my apartment. I was still afraid he might try to keep things from me, but I felt I needed to confide in someone. I was still very shaky about the whole thing. And given David’s condition, I hadn’t wanted to say anything to him at the hospital.
“Julia, why didn’t you call me?” Adam was thunderstruck.
“I don’t know … I’m sorry. I know you would have helped. I called my friend Gale, who stayed the night with me.”
“More importantly, why didn’t you call the police? Whoever did it might have left fingerprints.”
I couldn’t find the words to convey the feeling of invasion, and my desire to clean up the mess as quickly as possible.
“I do think you should talk to Sergeant Sullivan about this.”
“I don’t want to tell him my theories. He’ll think I’m completely nuts. He’ll dismiss anything I have to say. I just know it. Unless I can find something more solid … and I’m frustrated.”
“Whatever you want in the way of help, you’ve got it. I don’t think you should be sticking your nose into this anymore, though. Someone’s obviously singled you out. You don’t have a security alarm in your home?” Adam asked.
“No. I went through some trouble last year, but after that, I never felt the need.”
“Maybe that’s something I can set up for you and have it installed. I can stop by later to check things out.”
“Well … okay. Thanks.” I was certainly attracted to the man, but I was starting to feel a little fenced in. Security systems, no less! “You probably still haven’t had a chance to locate Rebecca Moulton, have you?” I asked.
“I did check a couple of databases on that one, but nothing yet. I’ll keep trying. I’ll call you if I find anything, okay?”
“And another thing. Do you remember the pizza delivery last Sunday to the building?”
“Ye-e-e-s,” Adam said slowly.
“Well, Dani Nichols’s boyfriend, Antho, is the delivery guy on Sundays for Giuseppe’s Pizza. It was him. He was actually the guy who delivered the pizza.”
“Well, that’s not so suspicious. Dani works in the building. They both live locally and he has an afternoon job when he’s not playing music. I wouldn’t hoist a red flag over that. Besides, the police checked on that delivery, and it was a real order that came from an accounting firm. So I can’t see that he could’ve engineered an excuse to actually be in the building at that time.”
“I guess you’re right.” I felt deflated.
“Look, it’s nerve-wracking not to have any answers, and after a while, it preys on your mind, and you start to suspect everyone and everything. I don’t mean to squelch your ideas, but … just let the police do their job. The things that need to come to light, will.”
“I guess you’re right. I’m seeing things in the shadows.” Not to mention bad dreams. I glanced at the clock on Adam’s desk. It was almost two o’clock and I wanted to get to the Chronicle to talk to my old friend Don Forrester. I wasn’t sure what hours Don might be working and I didn’t want to miss him. I picked up my purse and stood.
“Hey, what’s the rush? Was it something I said?”
“Sorry, no. I have another stop to make. I can fill you in later.”
Adam stood and followed me out to the elevator bank. He pressed the down button and took my hand. I could see the receptionist watching us. “I wish we were alone right now.”
I smiled. “Me too, but we should be discreet. I have the feeling you’re already the subject of gossip.” Adam was a good-looking man, and perhaps several women in his office had eyes for him. I stepped into the elevator. “Oh, before I forget”—I held my hand out to stop the door from closing—“what are you doing Saturday night?”
Adam smiled. “Hmm. Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Well … sort of. There’s a Halloween open house at the Mystic Eye from four to nine, if you’d like to stop by. That’s where I’ll be.”
“I’d love to … if I can get someone to cover at the firm. If there’s any way I can make it, I’ll come. Sorry I can’t promise, though.” He raised his hand in a goodbye as the doors closed.
I exi
ted on Market Street, a little disappointed that he’d been so vague about the open house, but I shrugged it off. A trolley was approaching. I hurried across the street and made it to the doors just in time. I climbed in, paid the fare, and got off a few blocks later.
The newspaper building is dominated by a clock tower at the corner and extends a block in both directions. The interior of the lobby has been renovated in a bland, utilitarian sort of way, but at least now the elevators work a whole lot better. Don’s office, or should I say cubbyhole, occupies a corner of the Research Department on the second floor. I stepped off the elevator and approached the front desk. I asked for my friend and gave my name to the receptionist, a young woman in her twenties with large hoop earrings, choppy black hair, and dark purple nails. While I waited, she picked up her phone, spoke briefly, and instructed me to go down the hall and turn right. I already knew where Don’s office was located, but I had to observe the formalities. I reached his door, which was covered with a collage of horror pic glossy photos and a grinning paper skeleton. I knocked and stepped inside, declaring, “If you think this is going to keep people like me out of your hair, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Don looked up from his video game, a half-eaten tuna fish sandwich in his hand. He and I have been friends since college. When I was living in my apartment in the Sunset District, Don had dated my roommate, Denise, who’d dumped him to join a cult. He’d been morose for months, but eventually ended up marrying his high school sweetheart and now they had an adorable little four-year old boy.
“Julia … hey … whatcha up to?”
I glanced around. Don’s walls were covered with vintage horror flick posters featuring Dracula and the Wolfman. His desk lamp was a plastic skull topped by a purple shade. “Sorry to beard you in your den, so to speak, but I’m here for a favor, if you can do it. And by the way, you’ve really spruced the place up.”
“You like it? Kathy says I’m the biggest kid in the family.” He took another bite of the tuna sandwich. “Plus, I’ve reorganized this entire research section and all our computer files. If they fire me, they’re screwed.” He turned his bag of potato chips toward me. “Help yourself.”
Tail of the Dragon Page 20
