Como’s genius lay in the fact that he’d positioned himself as the broker between all of the elements. He was the go- to guy for problems among the families of the power elite. If a judge’s son needed rehab, for example, Como’s wide- ranging connections in the social service community made it possible for a spot to open in a facility in Arizona, say, or Los Angeles, rather than in San Francisco where the boy’s presence could be politically embarrassing for the father. If a supervisor’s daughter needed a job, Como could find her a place with the Muni bus system. In fact, if a politician was having trouble with any one of San Francisco’s constituencies-unions, Hispanics, gays, immigrants, city employees-Como had been the de facto intermediary, greasing the wheels of governance through the judicious application of money or personnel.
For the simple fact was that election laws in the city forbade any individual giving more than $1,150 to any single political candidate, for whatever position, be it district attorney, city supervisor, mayor, or any other elected position. On the other hand, there was no limit at all to nonprofit charity giving, which could also be written off on taxes.
Len Turner’s position functioned entirely upon this axis. His clients, for the most part developers of multimillion-dollar, long-range city projects, found it in their hearts to be charitable to worthy foundations such as the Sunset Youth Project because the money that found its way into Dominic Como’s coffers could then be applied to the election of city officials sympathetic to these projects. Armies of volunteers, ostensibly on their own time, manned phone banks, handed out pamphlets, packed rallies, and-on a darker note-sometimes disrupted their opponents’ events. While technically illegal and certainly unethical, these practices continued unchecked because the people whose job it was to oversee these activities were among the very people benefiting from them.
Now Turner pushed himself a bit back from his table, crossed one leg over the other, and reached for his coffee cup. He met the eye of his companion and nodded. Jaime was telling him that he knew how the game was played, and signaling that he was ready to try to take his own game to the heights that Como had scaled. It was true that he wasn’t as polished as Como had been-but then who was? “Well, listen,” Turner said. “I appreciate your frankness, Jimi. Let’s let things settle for a few weeks-hell, Dominic’s not even buried yet-and then see how we stand. It’s good you’ve given me this early warning of your interest. I’ll pass it along to some of the board. Meanwhile, let’s get this reward up and running, take advantage of the opportunity that’s right in front of us. How’s that sound?”
“Good. That sounds good, Len. But I did want you specifically to know that my interest in taking over Dominic’s job at Sunset isn’t going away. If it wasn’t for the unfortunate choice of words in this situation, I’d be tempted to say I’d kill for that job.”
10
Tamara heard Hunt’s cry of delight from back in his office. She jumped up at her station, went to the connecting door, and opened it to see her boss standing up behind his desk, arms outstretched above him in the classic touchdown signal.
“I’m guessing good news,” she said.
Hunt brought his hands down, but his eyes still danced. “That was the wife, Ellen, who had just got off the phone with Len Turner. You want to guess?”
“She confessed?”
“No.”
“She gave you a list of suspects?”
“No, but she does want to talk to us. Meanwhile, how about if she puts up fifty grand on her own?”
“Fifteen?”
Hunt’s smile wouldn’t go away. “Five- oh, Tam. Fifty. She didn’t want people to think she didn’t care as much as any of the nonprofits. She’s the most hurt. She’s been damaged the most. She wants the killer to be caught more than anybody else. I feel terrible for her, but in all other ways, I’ve got to say that I’m starting to feel pretty good about this whole thing. Your brother is too much, you know that?”
“I do, but don’t tell him. He’ll get all swell-headed.”
“Don’t tell me what?” Mickey appearing as if by magic behind her in the doorway. “I promise, my head will stay the same size it is now.”
His sister half turned to face him. “Ellen Como just came in for fifty thousand, which brings us up to-you’re not going to believe this-two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Mickey’s mouth dropped. “No way.”
Hunt nodded. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook. Ten here, fifteen there, a couple more twenty-fives. This was a brilliant idea.”
“Uh-oh,” Mickey said. “Tam’s right. I can feel my head getting bigger.” He pushed on the sides of it with both hands. “Stop,” he cried in mock desperation, “stop.” Then, smiling, “It’s no use. I’m going to have to buy a new hat.”
“You don’t have a hat,” Tam replied. “I’ve never seen you wear a hat.”
“Whew! That’s lucky. I could have been out a perfectly good hat.”
“I’ll buy you the damn hat,” Hunt said.
When the telephone rang again, Tamara pushed her brother to the side and ran over to her desk. Hunt came up to stand beside Mickey at the door, waiting to hear what was coming next.
“The Hunt Club, Tamara speaking. How can I help you?” A pause, then, “Yes. Yes, we are. Uh-huh, that would be us. Just a minute, Mr. Hunt is handling that. I’ll let you speak with him.” She covered the receiver and looked over. “It’s somebody from Len Turner’s office,” she said. “You’re not going to believe this, but the Board of Supervisors just voted to pitch in.”
By the time Hunt left the office, the city had pledged thirty thousand dollars and the total reward from still other nonprofits had grown to three hundred thousand.
It was a lifeline.
So he was in high spirits as, following Ellen Como’s phoned instructions, he pulled his Mini Cooper into the sandstone driveway in front of the mansion on Cervantes Street. Getting out of the car, he looked up at the façade in front of him, marveling at the way some people managed to live. He loved his giant old warehouse, of course, but that was industrial and mostly his own handiwork.
This place just took his breath away. Looking as though it had only yesterday been painted a rich Tuscan orange, it might have been plunked down whole and set here from the hills outside Florence. An actual turret rose over a circular entryway, giving the place the feel of a castle. One side of the face of the second story was a picture window that would, he knew, command a view of the Marina, the bay, and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. Over the garage directly in front of him a riot of bougainvillea bloomed, and above that, apparently another entire wing stretched to the property line at the side and well into the back.
He took the fifteen curving steps up through a flowering garden of herbs and brightly colored blossoms and stopped at the top to check out the view behind him, which was, if anything, grander and more expansive than he’d imagined. Even the entry floor here was higher than the tops of the residences across the street, so the vista included the dome of the Palace of the Legion of Honor (in the lagoon in front of which Mickey had found Como’s body) and, beyond that, the greenery of the Presidio.
He tarried a moment longer, taking it all in, and was just about to turn and ring the doorbell when the door suddenly opened behind him.
“Mr. Hunt?” Ellen Como waited expectantly. “I didn’t hear the bell but I saw you standing out here.”
Hunt shrugged an apology. “I’m afraid I got mesmerized for a minute. This is quite a view you have.”