But that wasn’t the best part.
The best part was that Alisha J. Delman’s partner in the charity con was her son from an early marriage, Antoine Delman, who also had a record-petty theft, impersonating a police officer for purposes of fraud, bunco schemes like the bait-and-switch con-and who’d also been convicted and also served time in prison for the same swindle.
Antoine. Antoine Delman.
And Mama really was his mama.
Alisha and Antoine, the two A’s- A for “Assholes.” Everything Tamara had thought they were, and more.
Felice e-mailed a mug shot of him as well as Alisha and that proved it beyond any doubt. He hadn’t worn a mustache back then, but there was no mistaking that blocky face and hooked nose and receding hairline. Mama surprised Tamara a little. From that scratchy old voice on the phone she’d expected a witchlike crone, but Alisha was just the opposite-slim and attractive, with the big soulful eyes of a black madonna. No wonder she’d been able to run her psychic scams so easily.
Decision time again.
If Antoine and Alisha had been wanted for anything, what to do now would’ve been an easy choice: call the law and turn them in. But they’d served their sentences and they weren’t fugitives. And as far as Tamara knew or could prove, they hadn’t actually done anything in the Bay Area yet except five-finger the real Lucas Zeller’s briefcase, a theft that couldn’t be proved beyond a reasonable doubt, and set up their marks for a new version of the black charity con. Money had to change hands, a large sum of it, in front of witnesses in order for a felony fraud charge to stick.
She could still go to the police, but it wouldn’t be easy convincing them to act. All she had was conjecture-no evidence or corroborative witnesses. Bringing Deron Stewart in wouldn’t do any good; all he knew was what she’d told him, what she’d hired him to do. The fraud inspectors would want to know who she was representing, the details of her investigation, where she’d gotten the data on the Delmans’ criminal histories. No way would she compromise Felice, and the truth about why she was after the Delmans would make her actions look like a personal vendetta (which it damn well was) and might even leave her open to charges of misuse of her license for acting as her own unpaid client.
The only way to get quick action was with evidence that kept the cops’ focus off of her and on Antoine and Mama and their con game. That meant finding out more about how they’d set it up, how much money they’d scored so far, and when they were expecting the rest to be paid. It also meant convincing at least one of the victims that they were being conned, then convincing them to take a trip to the Hall of Justice.
Four options there. No, make that three. Wait and do nothing until after the down-low club’s meeting on Saturday night was out. Deron Stewart might be able to get her some of what she needed and he might not; he might even screw up and blow the whole deal. If the two A’s got even a whiff that their scam had been found out, they’d take off like a shot.
Okay, three options-the three people she knew for sure were marks. Doctor Easy, Viveca Inman, Judge Alfred Mantle. Which one had the most knowledge? Which one was the most vulnerable?
Doctor Easy? No. She just wasn’t sure enough of where he stood. A man with a past record like his was as untrustworthy as they made ’em.
Inman? No. She knew Mama, she knew about Operation Save, but she might be hard to convince if Alisha had her hooks in deep enough. People into psychics the way Viveca Inman was would fight like hell to keep from admitting they’d put their faith in crooks.
That left Judge Mantle. She thought about him a little, and… oh yeah, he was the best choice. The perfect choice, matter of fact-just so long as she stayed cool and handled him the right way, no mistakes.
18
Zachary David Ullman lived in Daly City, in one of the houses that march in long, close ranks up and down across the spines of the hills overlooking Candlestick Park, the bay, SFO. Ticky-tacky houses, Malvina Reynolds called them in her sixties song “Little Boxes.” Ullman’s was exactly like all the others on his street except for its color, dark brown with pale blue trim, and a couple of stunted yew trees along the front wall next to the garage.
It was after five when I pulled up in front. Fog rolled sinuously along the winding street, up and around the houses, blotting out the bay view. Three hundred days a year it would be either foggy or windy up here; the people who bought these homes on one of the few clear days and expected to enjoy regular sunny vistas would always be disappointed.
I sat in the car for a couple of minutes, looking over at Ullman’s house. A not very new Hyundai sat on the cracked concrete driveway and there was a light on behind a curtained front window above the garage, so he was home. He apparently lived alone; the only blot, if you could call it that, on his exemplary record was a divorce nine years ago. He was thirty-five, had no children of his own.
Anger had ridden with me on the drives to the condo to pick up the tin box and then on up here, but I had it tamped down now. Mostly. I wanted to be sure I was in complete control before I went over there and had my talk with Ullman. Getting in his face, hurling accusations, figured to be counterproductive. The situation called for a more subtle approach. I had no real proof that the tin box belonged to him; the fact that he was the only Z.U. at Whitney Middle School was circumstantial at best. You had to be very careful in a case like this, where a man’s livelihood and reputation were at stake. The last thing I could afford was a lawsuit.
Still, I had a feeling he was the right Z.U. Emily always responded to authority figures; I should have remembered that. She was more likely to believe and let herself be talked into protecting a teacher than one of her classmates. It wasn’t the probable fact that Ullman was a recreational coke user that had me so upset; it was the way he’d used and manipulated Emily. That and bringing cocaine onto school grounds, as he must have done, and then being careless enough to lose the box there. Where else would she have found it?
Okay. I got out and crossed the street, hunching against the bite of the wind-driven fog. The entrance to Ullman’s house was on the side away from the garage, up a short, inclined path and a short flight of concrete steps. A few seconds after I rang the bell, a dead-bolt lock clicked and the door swung inward.
He was slightly built, with regular features and thinning caramel-colored hair, wearing slacks and a tan sweater with suede elbow patches. He did a mild double take when he saw me, his eyes widening and blinking-soft brown eyes, like a melancholy hound’s, eyes that could melt the heart of a naive thirteen-year-old girl. Expecting someone else, I thought, and caught off balance to see a stranger standing here instead. None too pleased about it. And suddenly nervous.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Zachary Ullman?”
“Yes? If you’re selling something-”
“I’m not.” I told him my name, nothing more. It didn’t seem to mean anything to him. “My daughter is a student at Whitney Middle School.”
“Is she? In one of my classes?”
“That’s right. Her name is Emily.”
It took him about three seconds to put that together with my last name. His expression didn’t change, but his body language did; you could see him drawing up tight, so tight that his posture straightened into a stiff vertical line. He made an effort to keep his voice even and polite when he said, “Yes, of course-Emily,” but it didn’t quite come off.
“Mind if we talk inside? Pretty cold out here.”
“I… no, I’m sorry.” He moved forward half a step, widening his stance, as if he were afraid I might try to push my way inside. “I really don’t have the time right now. If you’d like to make an appointment for a consultation at the school-”