The look for a few more seconds. Then he slapped that sorry old hat back on his head, said, “We’ll talk again soon,” and went on out before she could say anything else.
Men. Fathers. Lord have mercy.
Phone rang again. Damn phone. She managed not to growl when she picked up.
Jake Runyon. He said, “I’m at Visuals, Inc. Found something that might be useful, might not. Thought you’d want to know in any case.”
“Go ahead.”
“Came from one of the equipment handlers, Pete Snyder. He was on vacation last week, didn’t know Spook was dead until this morning. He told me a woman from the Department of Human Services mentioned Spook a few days before the shooting.
“Social worker?”
“Homeless caseworker. But Spook wasn’t one of hers.”
“What was her interest in him then?”
“No interest. She took a call about him.”
Tamara’s nerves twanged again. “Don’t drag it out, man, get to the point.”
“The point,” Runyon said evenly, “is that the social worker took a call about Spook at her office. Somebody wanted to know where to find him.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t give Snyder a name.”
“Caller say why he was looking for Spook?”
“If he did, she didn’t pass it on.”
“Well, what did she pass on?”
“Just what I told you.”
“Then why’d she come around to talk to him about it?”
“Look, Tamara... Ms. Corbin... I don’t mind being growled at when I’ve done something to warrant it, but this isn’t one of those times. I’m just doing my job here. Suppose we keep things on a professional level until my ass deserves chewing on?”
She bristled and framed a comeback, but the bristle went and the comeback didn’t get said. Man was right. She didn’t have any reason to rag on him; she was venting on Horace, on men in general. Get a grip, girl.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m usually not a bitch-slapper — just a bad time for me right now. Personal stuff.”
“Okay. I’ve been there.”
Yeah, he had. Still was. Place he was in right now was a lot worse than the one she was in. “The social worker... why’d she go talk to Snyder about Spook?”
“She didn’t,” Runyon said. “He eats lunch in the same place every day, a restaurant over on Potrero. She goes there sometimes when she’s in the neighborhood. They were both there the day after she got the call, that’s when she mentioned it to Snyder.”
“Few days before the shooting, you said?”
“Friday before last.”
“What’s the social worker’s name?”
“Evelyn something. Snyder doesn’t know her last name. Young, Japanese. A stone fox, he says.”
“Uh-huh. Meaning he hit on her and she blew him off.”
“You want me to follow up or keep on Big Dog?”
“Big Dog,” she said.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Homeless caseworker, Japanese, young, and a fox — shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Agency didn’t have any contacts in the Department of Human Services, and people in city office jobs could be uncooperative with strangers on the phone. Might as well give it a try, though, see what shook out. She had her hand on the receiver when the bell jangled again, making her jump. Damn phone!
Boss man, this time. “Just checking in,” he said. “You going out for lunch or you want me to bring you something?”
“Not hungry,” Tamara said. She passed along the message on the Patterson case, then Runyon’s info on the social worker.
“You contact Human Services yet?”
“Just about to.”
“I’m down near City Hall,” he said. “I’ll stop over there, see if I can locate the woman. City workers tend to be more cooperative in person.”
“Fact. Just now thinking the same thing.”
“Great minds.”
“Yeah,” she said.
Only problem with his was, it was inside a man’s head.
10
It took me all of thirty seconds at Human Services to find out the social worker’s full name: Evelyn Sukimoto. But it was a good three hours before I could get an audience with her.
She was out of the office, the young starchy type I spoke to said, and wouldn’t be back until mid-afternoon. Yes, she had a cell phone, but he couldn’t give me the number without her permission. No, he couldn’t tell me where she was now.
I said, “Mid-afternoon. That mean three o’clock?”
He offered up one of those looks young people reserve for those of us past the age of forty, the kind that equates age with creeping senility. “Ms. Sukimoto,” he said firmly, “will be back at her desk mid-afternoon.”
Young, frozen-faced, on the supercilious side, and knew just how to make an imprecise statement sound precise and authoritative. A perfect candidate for the mayor’s public relations team. Hizzoner was going to need more spin doctors once the Patterson scandal broke. I considered telling Frozen Face he ought to apply, but suppose he took me seriously and went ahead and did it? Sobering thought. I settled for a toothy grin and a broad wink, and left him sitting there to puzzle that one out.
Rather than return to the office, I checked in with Tamara again on the car phone. I’d had enough today, up close and personal, of her blue funk. Two more messages, which she delivered in a terse growl. Any further word from Jake Runyon? No. Anything to discuss? No.
One of the messages had to do with the investigation for the engineering firm; I returned that call first, but the guy was away from his desk. Telephone tag. The other message was from Ted Smalley, the office manager at McCone Investigations. I had no trouble getting him on the line.
“Almost done here, Ted. One more thing to verify and I’ll have everything fully documented.”
“How soon, do you think?”
“Shouldn’t be long. Tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest.”
“Can you get the complete file to us by midday Thursday? Sharon wants everything wrapped up by close of business Friday so we can all enjoy the party. She has a meeting scheduled with the deputy mayor and the D.A. on Monday morning.”
“I don’t see any problem. They’re not fixing to break the story before Christmas, are they?”
“No, not until after the holidays,” Ted said. “But the D.A. is eager to start preparing his indictments. Naturally. He has his eye on the state attorney general’s seat.”
“Uh-huh. So I’ve heard.”
“The party is the other reason I called — to make sure you and Kerry will be attending. Tamara, too, of course.”
“Party?”
“The pier’s Season of Sharing party. I mentioned it to you last week.”
“Oh, right. Right.”
“You will be coming?”
“It’s on the calendar,” I said without enthusiasm.
“Sharon will be very disappointed if you’re a no-show.”
“We’ll be there, Ted. But I wouldn’t count on Tamara.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Personal problems. Not too serious.” I hope, I added silently. “What time again? Seven?”
“Six. Six to nine. Come early.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I lied.
The fact is, I don’t much enjoy parties of any kind. Large gatherings, no matter how festive or charitable, make me feel claustrophobic; I don’t mix well, I’m no good at small talk, even with people I know, and my mind inevitably goes blank and shrivels up like a moldy nut in a shell. Kerry keeps trying to socialize me and it keeps not working. The quiet of home and hearth is what I prefer, the more so during the Christmas season. The one other large holiday party I’d attended, at her insistence — the infamous Gala Family Christmas Charity Benefit years ago — had been an unmitigated disaster for several reasons, not the least of which was my having allowed myself to be stuffed into a Santa Claus suit and little kiddies to dent my knees while they shared their innermost toy lusts.