To speed things up, I said, “The cops treated it as routine, told him to wait seventy-two hours and then report her missing. Next day her lawyer stepped in, and they took it more seriously. Cops talked to the people at Yosh’s, and that’s when one weird thing came out.”
Shar nodded. “Cross told her stylist that she was going to meet Homestead’s mother later that day, and added that the woman was living in horrible circumstances. She said she hoped Mrs. Homestead would allow Harry and her to do something to help out. But when the stylist pressed for details, Cross changed the subject.”
“And later it came out that Homestead’s mother had died ten years earlier. He claimed he didn’t know why his wife would tell the stylist something like that.”
Shar flipped through the rest of the pages and closed the file. “The police started focusing their investigation on Homestead within a week. They searched the house and grounds of the estate; no body turned up. They did a complete background check on him. He came up clean except for a couple of old DUI’s. He agreed to take a polygraph test and passed. But as we know, some people can fool the lie detector.”
“Shar-”
“Cross’s family hired private detectives to try to get something on Homestead,” she went on. “Nothing. A reward was offered, and the usual nut cases came out of the woodwork. No leads. Homestead had no assets of his own, but he didn’t seem inclined to tap into his wife’s money. He’s kept a low profile for seven years, and if we don’t get something on him, next week he’s going to be handsomely rewarded for murder.”
“Did you ever consider that he didn’t do it?”
“He did.”
“Or that you might be just a tiny bit obsessed with-”
“I’m not. Harry Homestead killed his wife.”
I threw up my hands. The woman can be so exasperating! “Okay! Whatever you say! He killed her. But we can’t prove it. This case is impossible.”
“I thought I taught you better than that. No case is impossible.” She fixed me with that steely look of hers, the one that makes me feel like I’m still a five-year-old who won’t pick up his toys. “I think you’re burned out on this, Mick. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“I’m not burned out, Shar! I’m just…realistic.”
Her mouth twitched. It does that only when she’s mad or worried. And I knew for sure she wasn’t worried. “All right, I’ll take the rest of the day off!” I got up and stomped out of there-fast.
Lottie said, “Give it a rest, Mick. Stop fretting about the case and enjoy the afternoon.” She motioned at the kids. “You ever do that?”
“Play in the sand? Who doesn’t? We used to have contests to see who could build the best castle.”
“Who won?”
“Me, of course.”
“Of course.” She poked me in the ribs. I put my arm around her for self-protection, and we kept on watching the kids. They sure were enterprising. The boy finished his castle, marked out a subdivision, and started building another. The girl saw what he was up to, left her castle, and laid a sandy cornerstone.
“Hey,” the boy said to her, “you can’t have two castles!”
“You’ve got two.”
“That’s different. I’m a boy and you’re a girl. And girls don’t got any money.”
Lottie muttered, “A sexist, already!”
The little girl gave her brother a snotty look-the kind I’ve seen plenty of times, from all four of my sisters. “You think I don’t have money,” she told him. “I’ve to lots of stuff you don’t know about.” That was when he grabbed her bucket and dumped sand over her head, and she screamed, and the daddy jumped up and clobbered both of them.
And that was when something I hadn’t thought of before occurred to me, and I jumped up from the log, then pulled Lottie to her feet. “Hey, let’s go home.”
“Now? Why?”
“I want to play with my laptop.”
It was getting dark by the time we got to my condo on the Embarcadero, not far from McCone Investigations’ offices. I went straight to my computer, not even bothering to take off my jacket, and Lottie joined me. By then, she’d figured out a few things too. “You doing a real estate data search?” she asked.
I nodded without looking up from the computer keyboard.
“Search by owner’s name? San Francisco County?”
“Uh-huh.”
She sat down of the couch and waited while data scrolled in front of me on the monitor. Within a few minutes I had the information: Parcel 19 140-50. Owner: Harry Homestead. I turned and smile at Lottie.
“Mick,” she drawled, ‘you’re grinnin’ like a jackass eatin’ sweetbrier!”
“Well come and look where this property’s located.”
She scanned the screen. “Ingleside district. Isn’t that the area of nice houses that drug dealers’ve take over? Where the property values aren’t worth squat anymore because of the crime factor?”
“Yep.”
“So why would Homestead buy property there when he’s got a perfectly good mansion down the Peninsula?”
“I can think of one reason.”
Her eyes met mine, and then she shook her head. “You didn’t read carefully, Mick. Homestead bought that property three years after his wife disappeared.”
I looked where she was pointing. Damn!
“Wonder who owned the place before he bought it?” she said.
“This database doesn’t show.”
“County registrar of deeds is online.”
My Lottie thinks faster on her feet than I do.
“Wolfgang Trujillo. What kind of a name is that?”
Lottie smiled. “One that’s easy to trace. How many Wolfgang Trujillo’s can there be in San Francisco?”
“If he still lives here.”
“Try Information.” She handed me the phone I got a number and called. No answer.
“Okay, Trujillo’s not home, but I left a message on his machine. I’ll try him again after I take a look at that Ingleside district address.”
Lottie was already putting on her jacket. I went over and hugged her. “Sorry for ruining the afternoon and evening.”
“I don’t consider them ruined, not when we’re nipping at the heels of a wife-killer.”
“We?” I stepped back.
“Yeah, we. You’re not keeping me out of this one. Besides, you might need me.” She patted her oversized purse.
Yeah, I might. Lottie’s firearm-qualified and has a carry permit for her.357 Magnum. I can’t shoot straight to save my life. Plus she’s better at interviewing witnesses than I am; come to think of it, she’s my equal or better at almost anything we do. Which is what makes the relationship interesting.
It was already the dangerous hour by the time we got to Harry Homestead’s street on the other side of the city.
Three of those big old boats of cars that drug dealers seem to favor were parked in front of the house with a weedy front yard in the middle of the block. Guys who looked straight out of the Thugs “R” Us catalog lounged around on them, smoking and swapping lies while they waited for their clientele. Most of the houses were big two-story stucco places, set back from the sidewalk on a little grassy rise. They must’ve been nice once, but now they had bars on their windows and FOR SALE signs on their lawns.
A couple of the dealers glanced at Lottie and me as we drove in, but the Yamaha and our leathers were what Shar called “protective coloration.” Meaning that we looked like we belonged, so they didn’t try to mess with us. A good thing, too, because the odds would’ve been with Lottie and her Magnum.