Now they had all been outside on the patio-sun-dappled, no wind-at this Italian place on Union for over two hours. As far as Bracco could tell, they were having the kind of lunch society folks must have every day, and why weren't all of them fat, he wondered? Then, of course, he realized that Harlen was. But still, two hours for lunch? And it wasn't over yet. Maybe this was how his dad felt, hanging with the mayor.
Bracco had to admit that his partner was doing a hell of a job getting to know Nancy Ross. Of course, he had the entree and help of his aunt Kathy, who was part of their lunch foursome. Even so, Bracco thought that Fisk was handling this interrogation very well. In spite of the tape recorder that now sat in the middle of the table amidst the half-empty coffee cups and tiramisu plates, Nancy-she was Nancy by now-seemed to be completely at her ease.
Although Bracco believed she would be equally composed in any situation. She was a thoroughbred, seemingly born to be waited upon, to command, to direct. Though not as physically magnetic as Ann Kensing with her eyes and curvature, Nancy Ross wore a kind of timeless elegance. But she didn't come across as an ice queen by any means. She had a good ready laugh, a naughty turn of phrase. Somehow she'd gotten into a running gag with Kathy West on the word "long"-"My, what long…bread sticks they serve here." Or, "Did you notice the long…earlobes our waiter has?"-and the two of them had gotten nearly giddy a couple of times.
Fisk was very much at home with her. In some kind of foreign-tailored suit and a bright silk tie, with tasseled cordovan loafers and a cream-colored silky shirt, Fisk had of course taken a good measure of grief in the detail when he'd come in. But Bracco had to admit the guy looked good, like he belonged in these threads, which were cut so well they took thirty pounds off him.
Fisk had asked him to dress nice for lunch, so he'd worn his corduroy sportscoat, a sports shirt with a collar, pressed Dockers. But he felt underdressed, and as a consequence found himself more than a little reluctant to speak-not only because he felt outclassed in a literal way, but because until ten minutes ago, there hadn't even been the pretense of doing any police work. He knew that homicide inspectors didn't punch a clock at the end of the day, but the obverse of that-that he could sometimes take two hours off in the middle of it-made him uncomfortable.
Now it was clear that Fisk had had a plan after all. The anecdotes and chatter were prologue. Nancy Ross by now wanted to help this nice man, this nephew of supervisor Kathy West who also happened to be a policeman, in any way she could.
"I know," she was saying. "Malachi was so nervous this morning. Can you believe this is the first time he's ever testified before a grand jury? He's never even gotten a parking ticket in his whole life, or really talked to any real policemen, working on something this serious. I wish he'd met you sooner, Harlen, and you, too, Darrel. He wouldn't have thought a thing about it."
Fisk tsked sympathetically. "I'm sure he has nothing to worry about. The main reason they wanted to talk to him is to get some kind of day-to-day sense of the pressures at Parnassus. It seems to me that your husband would be the best source of that information now with Mr. Markham gone."
"Oh, he would, that's true. Sometimes I thought he and Tim might as well have had the same job. And now, of course, Malachi has Tim's, although he never would have wanted it in these conditions. This has just been horrible."
"Do you know if he's appointed anybody yet to take over his own old spot?"
She shook her regal head. "No. He's looking but…well, to be honest, the basic problem he tells me is that there aren't too many doctors who can make the hard decisions. Malachi's had to learn to live with them over the past few years. They've really taken their toll on him, you know, in spite of the way that awful reporter made him sound."
Again, Fisk clucked sympathetically. As Bracco saw he'd intended, she took it as encouragement to go on. "As though Jeff Elliot, whoever he is, has any idea of how difficult it is to run a company like Parnassus. What does he think the officers and directors are supposed to work for, minimum wage? I mean, really. He just doesn't know."
"I don't think many people do." Fisk, too, thought this was a sad state of affairs.
"I mean," Nancy went on, "you wouldn't believe the calls to the office the day of that column. I don't know how Malachi stood up to it, how it didn't completely break him, he was so exhausted by then. I mean, the night Tim was killed…Oh, never mind."
"It's all right, Nancy. What?"
She sighed. "Just that he was so much trying to do the right thing, as he always does, staying late to talk to that Mr. Elliot. He didn't have to do that, you know. But he wanted to try to make him understand, which Mr. Elliot obviously wasn't there to do at all. So all that talking and talking till past midnight, when he's exhausted beyond imagining to begin with, and what good did it do him? Still it came out all wrong."
Fisk was in sync with her. "I couldn't believe Elliot mentioned your husband's income in his column. Even if it is supposedly in the public record." He included his partner. "Darrel and I both thought that was pretty low. And as though it's that much money, after all, for the work your husband does."
Kathy West chimed in. "And that's all Malachi does, too. Isn't that right, Nancy? It's not like he's sitting on twenty boards gouging the system."
"Exactly right. That's all we live on. We don't have trusts and inheritances and outside income. Except for a few parties-and without them some important charities would suffer-we live very frugally."
Fisk continued to lead her on. "And half goes to taxes anyway. And then half of what's left on the houses and entertaining. I hear you. I really hear you."
Bracco was trying to do some calculations in his head. Unlike his partner, he did not have any understanding of where 1.2 million dollars could go every year. Even if half-six hundred thousand dollars-went to taxes and then half of that-three hundred thousand dollars more-went to houses (note, plural) and entertaining. That left another three hundred grand after taxes to squeak by on. That was three times Bracco's gross salary, including overtime. Lots of overtime.
But Fisk had briefed him beforehand that the point of this meeting would be to find out if Ross and his family considered themselves well off or knocking on poverty's door. Astoundingly to Bracco, it was beginning to seem the latter.
"You do know, Harlen. I can't tell you how refreshing it is to talk to somebody who understands the numbers. I mean, a million dollars! It sounds like so much, doesn't it?" Then, more seriously, "It used to be so much, I suppose, but not anymore."
Fisk appeared to be having a grand old time, laughing at the figure. "I used to believe that I could retire if I had a million dollars. Can you imagine that?"
Nancy laughed at the absurdity of it. "If you only planned to live a year or two after your retirement, maybe. And not that long if you have any household help-I'm not even talking full-time help. And live-in? Forget it. I mean, a maid a few times a week, or the yard man, or kitchen help."
"And don't forget political donations," Kathy West added, half-humorously.
"And the charities, the opera, the donations to the girls' school, which is on top of the twenty-thousand-dollar tuition. It's actually a little terrifying when I stop to think about it."