There was no place left to park on the street, so I pulled into the driveway of the Cramer residence.
The house had once been yellow with white Victorian gingerbread trim. The yellow had now faded out to the shade of mayonnaise gone bad, while all that remained of the white paint were flaky chunks here and there. The exposed wood beneath had rotted beyond the help of any sanding and painting repair job. The building’s entire structural integrity looked questionable.
A refrigerator sat on the screened front porch. A large metal hasp and padlock on it made me wonder if the appliance worked. Was the lock there to keep kids out, or food in? Or both?
The driveway ran in two narrow concrete tracks beside the house, clear to the back yard, where a separate garage building stood with doors open wide. I decided to try that first.
The garage was in somewhat better repair than the house. A car was parked inside, facing outward. Its hood had been removed, towels draped over the front grill and the left and right quarter panels like surgical cloths. Its engine was apparently the object of the procedure. Two young men bent over it, their concentration complete.
"Three-eighths." I heard one of them say to the other.
The second guy slapped a wrench into the requester's hand.
"Naw, open-end."
The wrench was exchanged for another. About this time, they noticed me, and glanced up. I half expected them to be wearing surgical masks.
"Jason Page?" I asked.
I knew immediately which one he was. He had so much of Catherine in him, there could be no doubt. His build was slight, although his arms appeared well-muscled under the one-piece white coveralls he wore. He had Catherine’s brown hair and eyes and her delicate mouth. As far as I could tell, he bore no resemblance to his father. No wonder he was mother's little darling.
He took half a step toward me, but made no move to shake hands. Looking at the grease encrusted palms, I decided it was all right. I could pass on formalities.
"I'm Charlie Parker," I said, handing him my card. "I'm looking into your father's death."
He shrugged. "What about it?"
I watched for the complex signs of emotion that must go with a young man losing his father in a violent manner.
I could see none.
I knew he was closer to his mother, but surely he felt something.
"Are you doing okay, Jason?"
He looked at the card again. "You an investigator, or a shrink?"
He shoved the card into the pocket of his coveralls, and turned back to the car. His friend had found something important to do at the back of the garage.
"Okay, Jason, you're right. That part of it may not matter. We can stick to the facts if you want to. Where were you last Friday night?"
"Home, I guess."
"Your mother says you weren't."
"Okay, then I was here. Whenever I'm not home, I'm here. You can ask Mark if you want to."
Mark glanced up and nodded. Jason proceeded to wrench something on the car's engine. I wasn't getting much out of him.
I walked around to the side of the car. I thought it had once been a Chevy, although I couldn't swear to it now. The rear was painted hot pink, which faded into fluorescent yellow somewhere in the middle. The sides were plastered with stickers from different brands of oil, tires, spark plugs, and filters.
"These all your sponsors?" I asked.
"Some of 'em give us a little cash. Most of 'em just give us the stickers," Jason told me.
"Expensive hobby, I guess."
"Yeah," he said, "I guess so. We really want to get into the big leagues, though. The NASCAR circuit. My mom was trying to talk Dad into giving me enough money to get a good car. This thing's okay, but it's small time."
I stuck my head in the side window. The doors had been welded shut, and the interior completely stripped, empty except for one bucket seat with massive shoulder and lap belts for the driver. Everything inside the car, including the roll cage of heavy pipe, was painted black. I noticed a small cylinder, about the size of a home fire extinguisher.
"What's that?" I asked.
Jason came up beside me to see what I was talking about.
"Oh, nitrous," he said. "If I need a little extra hit, I flip this switch." He pointed to a small toggle switch on the console. "Whhommm!" He skidded the palms of his two hands together, shooting one way out front. I got the picture.
"Neat," I said. "I hadn't heard of that before."
"Yeah, lots of guys use it now. Mostly in the better cars, though. We have a pretty good advantage in our class with this one."
He was warming up to me a bit now, so I thought I'd press my advantage.
"You really were hoping your dad could help you get a better car, weren't you?"
"Well, geez, it just seems so unfair, ya know? I mean, my dad does okay, but he's not rich, ya know? I mean, he doesn't have a half mil to hand out to everyone who asks. But, he manages to give money to that helicopter guy. He manages to give money to that girlfriend of his. Why can't he give his own kid some? I got dreams, too. I got plans."
He turned quickly back to the engine, hiding his face from me for a few seconds. I couldn't think of an answer for him. He was still at an age where his wants would take precedence over anything else. The business sense of a deal wouldn't make any difference to him. He just wasn't old enough yet to see that a race car would never earn back the investment.
"What about your mom, Jason? How does she see it?"
"Mom's okay," he said. His face lost a lot of its tightness when he spoke of Catherine. "She goes to bat for me whenever she can."
"Did she and your father argue about the car?"
"That, and everything else," he said. "Everybody argued with Dad. He wasn't open to any idea that wasn't his. If you didn't go along with his way of doing things, you got screamed at. Sometimes Mom would fight back. Usually, it was just easier to fix herself a drink and keep quiet."
"How did you cope with that?" My own parents had fought a lot when I was a kid, but it was all verbal, and never directed at us kids. Somehow I just let it roll off me. I was curious how Jason had handled it all.
"Me? I'd just get out. I'd come over here, and work on the car with Mark. Mark's dad skipped out a long time ago, so there's only his mom here. She's cool. She comes out to watch us race sometimes."
"You have any idea who might have killed him?"
"Yeah, about two dozen I could name off the top of my head who hated him bad enough, including Mom and me. But, to actually pick up the gun and do it? Who knows?" He shrugged, then turned to look straight at me. "Charlie, do you think I'll ever get my car now?"
I couldn't answer that. I thanked him, and walked back to my car.
Jason Page was clearly too wrapped up in himself to have planned and carried out a murder. Even if he'd seriously thought of it, which I doubted, he would have decided it was too much work. I could see, though, how he would have thrown enough logic into his arguments to bring Catherine around to his side.
I inserted the ignition key, and cranked life into the rental. When I glanced up before putting it into reverse, I saw that Mark had walked over to Jason's side, and put his arm around his friend's shoulders.
I started to raise my fingers to wave goodbye, but realized they weren't looking at me. As I put the car in gear, Mark leaned forward and gave Jason a kiss on the mouth.
So much for Catherine's little fantasy about her son and the girl next door.
Chapter 8
I drove away thinking about Jason and Mark. I wondered whether Gil Page had guessed his son's secret. I couldn't picture a man like Gil being very understanding about it. The conflicts between them must have been endless.
Maybe I shouldn’t write Jason off as a suspect quite so quickly.
The phone directory had listed Gilbert Page Enterprises at a downtown address. It wasn't far if I hit Van Ness Avenue. I decided to buzz by there, even though nothing so far in the case had brought his San Francisco busi
ness into the picture. You just never know.
Traffic was pleasantly light. I wasn't sure why. Maybe I had hit a temporary lull between the lunch rush and the go-home rush.
I found the building easily enough, but getting a parking space was another story. On my third trip around, a spot opened up on a side street two blocks over.
Thankfully, it wasn't one of San Francisco's steeper streets, but it was bad enough. Parallel parking, especially on an incline, has never been one of my strong suits. It took me two tries to get reasonably close to the curb. Beyond that, I wasn't willing to endure the embarrassment. I was sure dozens of people must be watching me from their office windows. I turned my wheels into the curb, hoping I remembered which way was correct. My armpits felt damp by the time I climbed out.
The wind was still brisk here in town, but less chilly than it had been at the construction site. A wadded up brown lunch sack rolled past me, an empty soda can trailing close behind. I was glad I hadn't worn a skirt.
The sun felt weak, screened from its full effectiveness by a high, thin cloud layer. On Van Ness horns tooted, and exhaust fumes permeated the air. I glanced around as I locked the car, getting my bearings.
Page's address was listed on McAllister, and I found it just down from the State Office Building. It was an imposing place. The plate glass entry doors must have been a good inch thick, with brass handles I had a hard time getting my hand around.
My heels clacked across the marble lobby, heading for the office directory near the elevators. I was curious to see how much of the building his business occupied.
Gilbert Page Enterprises was listed in suite 500. There were no other listings on the fifth floor. If indeed his offices encompassed the entire floor, I was prepared to be impressed. The elevator doors slid open, and closed with a whisper behind me. I pressed five, and stood with my arms folded awkwardly. Left alone in an elevator, I find that I don't quite know what to do with myself. When others are present, you can always stare up at the floor numbers. But, what do you do alone? I didn't have to worry about it long.
The doors whooshed open at five, discharging me into a wide hallway carpeted in deep blue. The walls were pale gray, hung with pastel watercolors of northern California seascapes.
The hall formed a T just beyond the elevators. Suite 500 was conspicuously the first door I came to.
Out of curiosity, I walked the length of the hall to my right, scanning the doors. The other suites were numbered, but none had a company name listed. I tried the door on 504. It was locked. I wasn't sure what significance that held.
The door to Page's offices slid open on well-oiled hinges. I found myself in a large reception area, facing an empty desk. The carpeting was the same deep blue as the hall outside, the walls the same pale gray, as if the entire floor had been decorated to please the tenant of this suite.
There was a conference room to my left, behind a glass wall. The lights were off, the chairs neatly placed around a spotless smoked glass table.
The furniture was quality. The reception desk was cherry, solid and elegant. The matching credenza held two bronze statuettes. I'd seen them once at a San Francisco gallery. The limited edition introductory price had been seventy-five hundred each.
A sofa/loveseat grouping upholstered in a softly patterned blue, gray, and burgundy silk stood in the corner in case I might want to be comfortable while I waited. To my right, was a closed door with a brass name plate, Gilbert Page.
Behind the receptionist's desk were closed double doors, leading presumably to the chambers where the peons slaved away. I cleared my throat a couple of times, figuring that was fair warning to anyone who cared to come checking on me. No one did, so I casually approached the desk.
It's really not smart to leave me unattended in places like this. I tend to get nosy. As nonchalantly as possible, I did a visual sweep of the room. I didn't spot any surveillance equipment, no silent human observers. I assumed there must be a buzzer of some kind in the back that would be activated when the front door was opened. Someone would surely come through those double doors at any second.
I kept my ears tuned for the sound of the doorknob turning, while I let my eyes wander over the desk top. Although it was scrupulously neat, little clues indicated that the receptionist was something more than merely a telephone answerer. A green columnar pad revealed (when I happened to lift the cover) neat rows of figures.
The account names were cryptically referred to, with names such as Group 4 and Venture Holdings. That didn't tell me much.
She hadn't reached the bottom line yet, but was far enough along that some quick math in my head told me it wasn't going to be good. The rest of the work in progress consisted of two manila folders of bills, PAID and TO BE PAID. The latter was thicker.
I still had not heard a sound, other than the neutral hum of the air conditioning.
I was half tempted to plop myself down in her chair and start on the desk drawers, but figured that really would be going too far. I was dying to see what lay beyond Gilbert Page's private office door. I even entertained the idea of closing myself in there for the rest of the day, hoping not to get caught. My luck though, I'd need to go to the bathroom, and I'd be trapped, waiting for closing time with my legs crossed.
Without being blatant, in the five minutes I'd been there I'd seen about all there was to see. Where was everyone?
I finally decided to risk facing whatever lay beyond the double doors. I tapped with my right hand, in a gesture that was more form than substance, while I turned the knob with my left. The door opened into a narrow hall running perpendicular to me.
Straight ahead was a blank gray wall. To the left were restrooms. Generic symbols on the closed doors defined his and hers. To my right, the blue carpet continued for about ten feet, then abruptly ended.
What I could see beyond the end of the carpet looked like unfinished construction. The concrete floor was spattered with paint spots, and gobs of drywall paste. Bare two-by-four studs framed the far wall, which was covered on the opposite side by drywall, open on my side. Ribbons of variously colored wire ran through holes in the studs to metal outlet boxes, ending in tangles. I tiptoed to the end of the carpet, and peeked around the corner.
The gray wall which formed the narrow hall was completely a facade. Beyond was an empty room, probably fifty feet square.
Bare metal I-beams formed the ceiling, with silver heating and cooling ductwork suspended below. A paint-flecked metal step ladder stood in the middle of the cavernous expanse. Five-gallon cans, three of them, were lined up against the far wall. There were a few odd scraps of lumber strewn around the floor, certainly not enough to finish the job.
I stared, trying to assimilate what I was seeing. No wonder Page kept everyone in the dark about his business activities. The whole thing was a fake.
Just then, I heard a toilet flush.
My heart immediately switched to staccato. I had begun to believe I was alone. I peered back into the fake hall. I could hear water running behind the doors to the girl's room. I ran for the double doors, jerking the left one open as quickly as the pneumatic closer would allow.
Had the water stopped? I couldn't tell.
I practically leaped around the corner of the reception desk, and crossed the room in about three bounds. I was seated on the sofa, legs crossed, magazine in hand, when the door opened. I looked down at my shirt to see if my heart was thudding visibly. It certainly was making a terrible racket.
Gil's receptionist was in her mid-thirties, a petite five-two. Her frosted blond hair cut chin length, and carefully arranged to suggest that she had just stepped in out of the wind.
The few extra pounds she carried around the middle were expertly concealed beneath her tailored blue suit. Nude, she would probably be soft as a tub of whipped butter, but the strong lines of the suit trimmed her right down.
She wore a matching blue blouse with a bow at the neck, and blue-dyed snakeskin pumps. I wondered whether she had carried a
swatch of the office carpet with her when she shopped for the outfit. It was a perfect match. A hint of lemon air freshener wafted through the doorway with her.
I checked out her jewelry. Her watch was either a Rolex or a damn good copy. No wedding band. That explained how she found the money for her clothing budget.
"Has anyone helped you yet?" she inquired.
Fat chance. I guess I was supposed to believe that a cast of hundreds awaited their cues behind the closed doors. Okay, I could play her silly game.
"Actually, I came to see Mr. Page. Is he in?"
"No, I'm afraid he's out of town at the moment."
Well, that was sure the truth.
She had taken her seat behind the desk, and began to straighten the already neat folders. Her movements were quick and efficient, designed to accomplish maximum effect with minimum effort. She was not good at making busywork.
"May I inquire about the nature of your business? Perhaps someone else might help you."
I could practically see them lining up in the hall.
"Well, maybe. I'm looking for office space in this area, and heard he might have something for lease."
"Office space? Where would you have heard that?"
I fumbled for an answer. I don't mind lying, but I really hate to get caught at it.
"Mr. Page is in the equipment leasing business. We don't have any real estate dealings at all."
"Oh, equipment leasing," I said, pulling myself out of the soft sofa cushions with difficulty. "I must have got my wires crossed. I could have sworn someone told me he had offices for lease. What sort of equipment do you lease?"
She held me with a level gaze that said she knew my story was pure bullshit. At least she had the good grace not to say so.
"Computers, office machines, that sort of thing," she said flatly.
"Oh, good," I plowed ahead. "Maybe I'll contact you again once I get my office space. I'll probably need some equipment." I tried to come up with a sincere smile, but it felt weak. I edged my way to the door.
Vacations Can Be Murder: The Second Charlie Parker Mystery Page 9
