It didn’t.
CHAPTER 3
IN THE MORNING I RAN the background check-and a credit check-on Nedra Adams Merchant. She turned out to be thirty-three years of age, divorced, and in fact a fairly prosperous graphics designer who owned and operated Illustrative Image Designs, Inc. Fancy name for a one-woman outfit that specialized in business brochures, convention and sales-promotion posters, and magazine layout. Her business address was different from her home address-a number on Third Street that put it in the SoMa area, within a couple of blocks of the building in which Victor Runyon had his office. That was no surprise. Architect and graphics designer meet somewhere in the area, cafe or restaurant or maybe one of the showrooms, strike up a conversation, find out they have things in common personally and professionally, one thing leads to another… yeah. Affairs were all so damned cut-and-dried once you got past the emotional baggage and down to the basics. Hell, most things in life were. Emotions are what make the human animal the complex mess he is.
The house at 770 Crestmont had gone to Nedra as part of her divorce settlement five years ago. Her ex-husband, Walter Merchant, had shared it with her for the five years previous. He was an attorney. It was her first and evidently only marriage and there had been no children.
Her credit rating had been excellent since the divorce-until approximately four months ago. Then, for a period of three months, she had quit paying her bills. Her gas, electricity, and water had all been shut off at the end of July for nonpayment; in early August she’d ponied up the full amounts owed plus penalties and the utilities were now back in service. Last October she’d bought a new Mercedes 540XL, paying one third of the purchase price of more than fifty thousand dollars as a cash down payment. All payments on time until May, then no payments until the first of this month, just in time to forestall a repossession order being issued by her bank.
Again until May, Nedra Merchant had been an active user of half a dozen different credit cards, with a history of prompt payment of the total amount on each card each month. Over the last three and a half months she hadn’t used any of the cards even once. Nor had she paid her April Visa, MasterCard, and American Express bills until early August. Again, then, all payments to each company in full.
What all of this seemed to mean was that she’d had some sort of sudden financial crisis in May that had lasted for at least three months and to some extent might still be going on. It would have had to be pretty devastating to wipe out any savings she might have had and to take up so much of her income that she could no longer afford to pay even her utility bills. None of my business what the crisis was unless Victor Runyon was somehow involved. Supporting her since the financial crash? Gave her a lump sum at the end of last month, loan or gift, so she could keep herself afloat? Kay Runyon hadn’t mentioned any unaccounted-for expenditures; but it was possible he had cash resources that his wife knew nothing about.
How about Nedra Merchant’s ex-husband? Did he know anything?
I opened the Yellow Pages to Attorneys. Walter Merchant was listed, with an address on Eucalyptus Drive, under the subheading of Personal Injury & Property Damage. He even had a little boxed ad:
Injury Accident Specialist
Quick Settlements
Free Consultation
Medical Care Arranged on Credit
NO WIN-NO FEE
Uh-huh, I thought. I wondered if he was one of the breed of attorney who will take on any case, no matter how ethically marginal, if they see an edge or a loophole or just the bare-bones potential for a fat settlement; the shysters who clog up the court dockets with their money-grubbing briefs, who could not care less if real justice is done, because their only interest in the law is how it can best serve them. More and more of that ilk every year, it seems. Used to be that even the worst of them kept their ambulance-chasing out of the public eye, but this is the age of the Big Hype and the Big Buck; what chance do such abstract concepts as professional ethics and integrity stand against rampaging capitalism? Nowadays the personal-injury boys and girls are all over the media, particularly in saturation TV ads in which they and their “satisfied clients” ballyhoo their dubious accomplishments like pitchmen peddling snake oil. “Joe Smith, the dirt bike lawyer, got me $350,000 even though the police report said the accident was my fault and I was charged with felony drunk driving.” Was it any wonder there was so much lawyer-bashing these days? Q. How many lawyers does it take to change a light bulb? A. Two. One to stick his finger in the socket and the other to file suit against the electric company.
But attorneys aren’t the only breed to take their money-loving ways before the public, up close and personal. Televangelists started the trend and in some markets are still flourishing; now any number of other professional groups are taking up the advertising cudgel, too, including one I’d have liked to believe was above that kind of hucksterism-the private investigator. Not long ago I’d heard about one licensed P.I., back East somewhere, who had made and marketed a videotape called “Do You Know Who You’re Dating?,” aimed at people who want to check out potential spouses or housemates before they get too involved. On his video the detective tells you how to identify a philanderer and/or fortune hunter, how to spy on someone, and-naturally-how to go about hiring the “right kind” of private investigator.
Maybe one of these nights, I thought, I’ll turn on the tube and there Eberhardt will be, wearing one of his cheap suits and Goodwill ties, puffing on a pipe and flogging his services in that stiff, humorless way of his. “Hello. My name is Eberhardt. I am the sole owner and operator of Eberhardt Investigative Services. My offices are located in a crummy building on Eighteenth and Valencia, but they’re only temporary. I specialize in all types of cases and I guarantee results. I do all my own work-I don’t need anybody for anything. I’m the best, the smartest, and someday I’ll be the biggest dick in San Francisco.”
But it wasn’t funny.
It wasn’t funny at all.
***
EUCALYPTUS DRIVE IS ON THE west side of the city, close to the Stonestown Mall and San Francisco State University. The building in which Walter Merchant did business was a four-story nondescript pile that also housed doctors, dentists, and other professional services. Merchant seemed to be fairly successful at the personal-injury racket: he had a six-room suite on the top floor, and two junior partners. His anteroom wasn’t such-a-much: muted colors and a minimum of furniture and decorations, which may or may not have been calculated to provide a businesslike, no-nonsense first impression. Either way, the redheaded legal secretary fit right in. She was young and attractive, but she wore glasses and a severely tailored suit, and her welcoming smile was both courteous and competent.
I gave her one of my business cards and a request to see Walter Merchant on a routine matter concerning his ex-wife. Her only reaction was a slightly raised eyebrow. She invited me to have a seat and took my card through one of the inner doors. I had a seat, and when she didn’t return immediately I picked up a copy of People magazine and thumbed through it. I was skimming a story about a twenty-five-year-old baseball player who had written a “tell-all” autobiography-ludicrous for several reasons, not the least of which was that a twenty-five-year-old baseball player who could read much less write a book was a Smithsonian rarity-when the secretary reappeared and said that Mr. Merchant was free at the moment and would be happy to give me ten minutes of his time.
Merchant’s private office differed from the outer one in that law books covered one wall and a big aquarium stood in front of another. Inside the tank, vividly colored tropical fish darted in and out among rocks and shimmery green underwater plants. “Neons, rasboras, and mollies, mostly,” he said when he saw me looking at the tank. “The two yellow-and-white ones with the black-tipped fins are my prizes. Amphiprion percula, very rare.” I nodded and smiled, as if I knew or cared what amphiprion percula were. He told me anyway. “Clownfish,” he said.
Merchant was more or less what I’d expected. Late thirties,
tennis-and-handball trim, with shrewd brown eyes and lank brown hair thinning at the crown. Well but not flashily dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, pale-green shirt, yellow paisley tie; gold watch on one wrist, square opal ring on the third finger of his other hand. Calm, confident, take-charge manner. Vigorous handshake, professional smile. Perry Mason would have been proud of the dignified image he projected.
When we were seated, him behind his exec’s desk with his hands tented under his chin in an attentive posture, he said, “I’ve heard your name, of course. One of our city’s foremost investigators.”
Me and Hal Lipset, I thought. I showed him a disarming smile of my own and said through it, “I’ve been at the game a long time.” We were like a couple of smart mongrel dogs in an alley, sniffing around each other, trying to pick up the right scent.
“It’s not a serious problem that brings you here, I hope.”
“Not serious, no.”
“Something about my ex-wife.”
“A routine insurance matter. I do a fair amount of background checks and claims investigation.”
I was prepared to embellish on that with some specific fabrications, but Merchant seemed satisfied. He said, “I see. Well, what is it you’d like to know?”
“You’ve been divorced five years, is that right?”
“Closer to four and a half.”
“Amicable split?”
Small pause. Then he shrugged and settled back in his chair. “Not at the time. There were some bad feelings, wrangling over assets-the usual frictions when two people dissolve a marriage. Once tempers cooled… well, she didn’t give me any reason to hire a bodyguard and I didn’t give her any reason to change the locks on the house.”
“So you don’t bear her any ill will.”
“None whatsoever. Nor does she bear me any.”
“Are you on friendly terms?”
“Cordial would be a better word.”
“How long since you last saw her?”
“About a year. We had lunch one day last fall.”
“Since you talked to her?”
“Six months. I check in with Nedra once or twice a year, to see how she’s getting along.”
“Do you know much about her current affairs?”
“Affairs? You mean business affairs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I understand she’s doing quite well,” Merchant said. “Built up her graphics design business into a real moneymaker.” On that last there was an undercurrent of what might have been resentment, as if he’d have preferred her to be a little less independently successful.
To prod him a little I said, “Not such a money-maker in recent months. She’s evidently had severe financial problems-missed utility and credit-card payments and three installments on a new Mercedes before she got caught up again.”
“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. And a little pleased, too, though he tried not to show it. “That’s odd. I mean, I had the exact opposite impression of her finances. That she’d gone to the head of the class.”
“How so?”
“My last three alimony checks,” Merchant said. “She hasn’t cashed them.”
My turn to be surprised. “Still hasn’t cashed them, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
“How much are you paying her per month, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Two thousand.” Now his smile had a sardonic quirk. “Her design business was struggling when we split up, and she had a good attorney and a sympathetic judge.”
“Six thousand dollars total, then.”
“Right. Naturally I was delighted. But I thought she was doing me a favor, for old times’ sake or out of some latent feeling of guilt. I was planning to call her, as a matter of fact, if she didn’t cash the next one. Now… well, I don’t know what to think.”
Neither did I.
I asked, “Why would she have latent feelings of guilt, Mr. Merchant? Something to do with the divorce?”
Another small pause. His manner seemed to shift subtly, to become less guarded, more confidential. “The reason for the divorce,” he said.
“Which was?”
“Other men.”
“You mean a string of infidelities?”
“Oh yes, a string. The last one in particular.”
“I see.”
“But it wasn’t cheating to her.”
“No? What was it then?”
“Adventure, excitement-plot and counterplot. Nedra would have made a good spy. You know, Mata Hari and all that. It’s part of her nature.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m not a saint,” he said. “What man is? But with Nedra… men aren’t just a hobby with her. They’re an obsession.”
That word again.
“And vice versa,” Merchant said.
“How do you mean that?”
“Most of her conquests become obsessed with her, sooner or later. That’s the kind of woman she is. You’d have to know her to understand exactly what I mean. She gets under the skin of a certain kind of male, and she knows it, and she does everything she can to encourage it.”
“Encourage obsession with her?”
“She’s a control freak,” he said.
“You want to elaborate on that, Mr. Merchant?”
“She gets off on manipulating and dominating men. It gives her a sense of power. Doesn’t matter to her whether the men are young or old, blue-collar or white-collar, intelligent or stupid. Or even particularly attractive, God knows.”
“Weak men?” I asked, to see what he’d say.
He didn’t take offense. He had a thick skin, and probably a healthy dislike for his vulnerability where his ex-wife was concerned; that was part of the reason he was being so candid with me. “To one degree or another,” he said, “at least where women are concerned. I fared better than all the rest, though. I got her to marry me, and stay married to me for five years.”
“She must have loved you, then.”
“As much as Nedra is capable of loving anyone other than herself, yes. Besides, she hadn’t really honed her skills in those days.”
“You mentioned a man she was seeing before your divorce. Mind telling me who he was?”
“Not at all.” Malice in his voice and in his eyes, quick and bright even after five years. “His name is April. Lawrence April.”
“And who would Lawrence April be?”
“An investment counselor. Very successful.”
“Here in the city?”
“Yes.”
“Was Nedra’s affair with him a lengthy one?”
“Several months. He begged her to marry him.”
“But she said no?”
“She’d had enough of marriage. Dear Nedra.”
“How did April take her rejection?”
“He didn’t like it. Not in the least.”
“Did he make trouble for her?”
“Not for her. For me.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He came to see me. All bent out of shape, half crazy. Blamed me for her turning him down. Said I’d manipulated her, warped her thinking, ruined her for a relationship with a man who really loved her. Meaning himself, of course. Christ, he was totally irrational.”
“What happened?”
“I tried to put him out of the house,” Merchant said. His mouth twisted at the memory. “He hit me, knocked me down. In my own living room. Broke my cheekbone.”
“You have him arrested?”
“No. I thought about it but I decided against it.” Another twist of his mouth, this time into a bitterly satisfied smile. “I filed suit against him.”
Right, I thought. What else?
“And?”
“It never went to court. I had him by the short hairs and he knew it. On advice of counsel he settled-a very handsome settlement, I might add. It made the divorce quite a bit easier to take.”
“Have you had any contact with April since the settlement?”
/> “No, none.”
“I don’t suppose Nedra’s still seeing him?”
“I’d be amazed if she was.”
“The attack on you turn her against him?”
Merchant shook his head. “She never stays with one man too long, particularly the ones who become possessive.”
“Can you tell me the names of any of her other lovers?”
“No. Wait, yes, one. Rigsby, I think-Glen Rigsby. I met him once, at one of those coed health clubs downtown. Muscle-bound type. Well-hung, probably. Nedra always did like a sizable prick.”
“Customer or employee of this club?”
“Worked there, I believe. I don’t remember as what.”
“Do you recall the name of the club?”
“Not offhand.”
“Located where?”
“SoMa. Not far from Nedra’s old office, the one she had before she went upscale.”
“Where was that?”
“On Second, near Market.”
I nodded. “Let’s see… I could use the names of one or two of her close woman friends.”
“Close woman friends? Nedra? As far as I know she doesn’t have any. Didn’t when we were together. She doesn’t like women.”
“No?”
“Competition,” Merchant said. “The only female she cares about is herself.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nedra is the type of woman who sets the feminist movement back fifty years.”
I had no comment on that. I got to my feet. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Merchant. Thanks for being so candid with me.”
“Not at all.” He stood, too, reached for my hand again. While he was pumping it he said, “You’re not really investigating an insurance matter.”
“I’m not?”
“Routine background checks don’t include the kinds of questions you’ve been asking. It has something to do with Nedra and one of her conquests, doesn’t it? Some sort of Sturm und Drang.”
I said carefully, “Clients of private detectives have the same privileges as clients of attorneys.”
Demons Page 3
