At first I saw nothing but the high backs of a leather couch and chairs and a wall whose French doors were covered with blinds; probably they were the ones I’d seen overlooking the pool area.
The mumbling continued. I moved into the room, slipped along the wall to the right. The furnishings were arranged in a U, with a handsome distressed wood coffee table in the center. Magazines were fanned out on it, next to a cordless phone unit whose handset was nowhere in sight. Beneath the table was a white, intricately woven area rug.
And on the other side of the coffee table, a man was down on all fours.
A bucket lay on its side next to him; water pooled on the hardwood floor between the rug and the French doors. The man was rubbing at a rust-colored stain on the rug. Back and forth, back and forth, pressing hard. Like a male version of Lady Macbeth.
“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”
I brought the gun up but didn’t speak.
“Why’d you say no to me, Buddy?”
He kept rubbing.
“Why, Buddy?”
I thought he sensed my presence then, because he looked up. But it was just reflex. The handsome face I’d seen in his publicity photos was crumpled and his mouth worked spasmodically. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits. I’d seen that look on people in shock, but never so extreme as this.
This was a man whose interior had been totally shattered.
Slowly I relaxed, lowering the gun. Neither Trevor Hanover nor Davey Smith was a danger to me or anyone else. Wherever this man had gone, he wasn’t coming back.
His mouth worked some more, and then he lowered his head and continued scrubbing.
“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”
Thursday
The crowd of Thanksgiving Day revelers overflowed Ted and Neal’s spacious third-floor apartment on Telegraph Hill’s Plum Alley. They filled the living room and dining area, standing beside or sitting on the nineteen-thirties-style sofas, salon chairs, and ottomans, or hovering over the wine bottles and hors d’oeuvres spread on the long table. They sat on the spiral staircase or leaned against the chrome-railed catwalk that connected the apartment’s front and rear bedrooms above the dining area. They congregated on the deck, where a sweeping view of Alcatraz and the Bay provided a dramatic backdrop. The only room we’d all been banished from was the kitchen that was tucked under the staircase, where Ted and his life partner, Neal Osborne, were putting together another of their famous Thanksgiving feasts. Wonderful aromas drifted out: roasting turkey, tangy cranberry sauce, sweet apple-cider yams, and stuffing that I knew contained a powerful combination of spices and sausages.
Hy was on the deck, talking with Ricky. From my vantage point in the living room I watched the glint of sunlight on his dark blond hair and thick mustache. Felt a rush of pleasure at covertly observing the man who held my world together and supported me in everything I did.
I made my way through the crowd and rejoined Rae, balancing my wineglass on a plate laden with Neal’s traditional stuffed mushrooms, tiny cheese-filled tarts, shrimp, and crispy cheddar puffs. God, if I kept snacking this way I wouldn’t be able to eat any dinner.
Oh yeah? This was the first time I’d enjoyed food in weeks-maybe months.
Rae picked up the thread of our earlier conversation, which I’d interrupted to go to the trough. “So you phoned the guy at Tufa Tower from the ranch and…?”
“He-Amos Hinsdale-made an anonymous call to the sheriff’s department. Asked that they send a car to make a welfare check at Rattlesnake Ranch. I walked out and he picked me up before the car arrived and an ambulance followed.”
“You ream this Amos out about lending you a plane that nearly caused you to die?”
“I didn’t have to; he felt terrible about putting me in so much danger. In fact, he drove me straight to a clinic in Bridgeport to have me checked out for injuries. Badly bruised ribs and sternum, was all, and he insisted on paying for everything, as well as telling the FAA that he was piloting the plane when it crashed. Now he’s decided to scrap his other plane, which is even worse than the one I crashed.”
“And Smith-what was he doing till the sheriff’s people got there?”
“Still scrubbing. Lark said he’d damn near worn a hole in the rug.”
“And then?”
“He went quietly. Looked puzzled when the paramedics lifted him up, then dropped his rag and… just went.”
“It could’ve been an act, you know. He could be building an insanity defense.”
“God, you’ve gotten cynical! It wasn’t an act; I saw his eyes.”
“So what tipped him over the edge? Did he come back to destroy the evidence?”
“Probably. But I think there was a more important reason: it was the only home he’s ever cared about.”
“Why do you suppose he went off and left the evidence in the first place?”
“After he killed Bud and disposed of his body, he had to get back to New York to try to hold his business together-time for the conglomerate’s annual stockholders’ meeting. But the board of directors scheduled a closed meeting and excluded him on a technicality.
“So then, I guess, to keep his mind off what was happening in New York, he flew his jet back to the ranch and stashed it in the hangar. He must’ve come in late Thursday night or early Friday morning, because Amos Hinsdale says he was at home asleep then and didn’t hear the plane. On Friday at around noon Hanover called New York and was told his board had given him a vote of no confidence and ousted him. Then… I don’t know. He must’ve just disintegrated.”
“And now?”
I bit into the little cheese-filled tart. It was delicious.
“Mono County will file homicide charges-they have enough evidence for that-but the case’ll never come to trial. Trevor Hanover and Davey Smith have ceased to exist. An empty shell will inhabit a facility for the criminally insane until it dries up and dies.”
Rae once again looked skeptical. “These rich guys… I don’t know.”
“You’re married to one.”
“He’s different. He has me to keep him honest.”
I looked across the room. Adah and Craig had just arrived. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need a few minutes alone with Adah.”
Rae nodded and headed for the buffet.
Adah smiled at me as I approached, gave me a hug. When we separated, Craig had disappeared in Rae’s wake.
“He’s starving,” she said. “As always.” Then her expression sobered. “I guess you want my answer to your proposition.”
“If you’ve decided.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal.”
“Great!”
“An administrative position with your firm is perfect for me. No more getting called out in the middle of the night to look at decomposing bodies. No more SFPD politics. And best of all, I don’t have to leave the city and move to Denver. My mom and dad, they’re getting up there. Still feisty as hell, but…”
“Besides, this is home.”
“Sure is. Born and raised on Red Hill.” By Red Hill, she meant Bernal Heights, which used to be a hotbed of self-styled communists, socialists, and the occasional anarchist. Her Jewish mother and black father had been socialists with Marxist leanings, and now called themselves “wild-eyed liberals.”
It was the perfect solution for me: I wouldn’t have to sell the agency; it was a vital entity, the culmination of everything I’d hoped to accomplish in life-and then some. But I did want to cut out the administrative work and take on only cases that truly interested me, and Adah was the chief component in my scheme. Now that she’d accepted the position I’d offered her almost two weeks ago, I could move forward. And move forward without worrying about the rent increase from the Port Commission; Glenn Solomon’s influence had staved that off for at least a year.
We shook on our deal, and she said, “Shouldn’t we tell Patrick that I’ll be usurping some of his duties?”