But Hunt only said, “Do you mind if I go back to the police and give them the parts of this story you left out?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I wish you would. I should have told them the first time. I just wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“They may want to come back and talk to you again.”
“That would be fine,” she said. Then she added, “I know if they look, they’ll find something on her.” Then, suddenly, as though someone had thrown a switch, she broke a really beaming smile, wiped her palms on her dress, and stood up. “I’ve already sent Len my check,” she said. Crossing back to one of the sideboards, she turned. “This is going to sound a little funny,” she said.
Hunt got up on his feet as well. “What’s that?”
“If it turns out that that girl did kill Dominic, and I’m certain that it will, and it’s on my information that they get her, I’m going to claim that reward. All of it.”
11
The press release went out at 3:45 and Tamara got the first call at 4:08.
“You-all ain’t cops, right, ’cause I ain’t talkin’ to no cops.”
The caller identified herself as Virginia Collins and she lived alone on a thirty-foot sailboat named Delightly, berthed in the Marina. She’d heard the announcement about the reward on KNBC’s four o’clock news on her radio, and she wanted to know who she could talk to to give her information. She wanted to make sure that there was a record of exactly who she was and when she had called so that if her information checked out, she would get the reward.
She’d heard all kinds of stories, she told Tamara, about where they’d announce a reward and then deny payment to the person who really helped get the arrest and conviction because they weren’t connected and didn’t know anybody who had to do with releasing the reward funds. And also, she wanted to know about the conviction part. What if they just arrested the person you’d helped to identify, and then they couldn’t convict? Did you still get the money? Or any part of it?
And while she was at it, did Tamara know how hard it was to get convictions on anybody in San Francisco? It was common knowledge that juries in this town never convicted. Virginia’s brother John had been an attorney for a while, working for the DA, this was back in the eighties, and even then it was nearly impossible to get a jury to convict somebody.
And what if there was a plea bargain? Did that count? They should definitely give some portion of the reward for the arrest itself. And then a bonus for the conviction.
“What about if they arrest the wrong person?” Tamara had to ask.
“That never happens,” Virginia replied. “They arrest somebody, you can pretty well bet that they did it.”
“But you see the problem,” Tamara persisted. “They arrest somebody and give you half the money or whatever, and then they find somebody else actually did it and they’ve already lost the payment. Then what? That’s why they’ve got to have the conviction along with the arrest.”
“Okay, that’s a good point. But even so, I want to make sure there’s a record I called and what I told you, and when. Like if I’m first, that ought to make a difference. A big difference.”
“I’m sure it will,” Tamara said. By now she had concluded she was talking to, if not a certified lunatic, then certainly someone light on a few critical synapses. “Can you tell me briefly the nature of your information?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t think so,” Virginia replied. “Not on the telephone. They’re all tapped, you know. The cops. I give you the information. They solve the crime, take all the credit, I don’t get no reward. I ain’t talkin’ to no cops.”
“I don’t think all the phones are tapped,” Tamara countered. “Not anymore.”
A brief harrumph. “Well, if you believe that… if I were you, I’d just be a lot more careful. Somebody’s listening in, I can tell you that for a fact. You’re not on a cell phone there at your office, are you?”
“No. We’ve got a landline.”
“Well, maybe that’s a little better. At least they can’t pluck it out of the air, but they can tap a landline just as easy. Especially an investigator’s office like yours.”
“I’ll try to be careful what I say, then. Maybe you can give me a few more details on your contact information, at least, and we can have someone call you back, or set up an interview.”
“I wouldn’t have them call.”
“No. Right. Of course. You said you were down on a boat at the Marina?”
Mickey had actually been out on real work, serving a subpoena on a dental hygienist named Paula Chow who had worked in the offices of Bernard Offit for six years, ending her employment with him a couple of years before. It seems that while treating female patients for TMJ or, in layman’s terms, clicking of and pain in the jaw, Dr. Offit had developed a technique that included massaging the breasts of these women. Eventually, fourteen victims of this questionable treatment came forward and pressed charges. Dr. Offit’s defense attorney, contending that this technique was indeed not just defensible but therapeutic, needed to call witnesses, such as Ms. Chow, who would testify that Dr. Offit was a fine man and a good boss, and would never have done anything so tawdry for his own sexual gratification. And, more particularly, that she had seen him administer this treatment, and that none of the patients had complained at the time, nor had there been any sexual component to it.
Mickey found Ms. Chow at her new place of employment at a dentist’s office on Clement Street, and served her for a court date the following week. He then called his sister at work to check in. She told him that right at this moment, Mickey was needed to go talk to a possibly crazy woman who lived on a boat in the Marina.
“What makes you think she’s possibly crazy?”
“You’ll see.”
So he drove out Park Presidio and around to the same Marina parking lot he’d used last Friday morning, parked, and came to the gate leading down to the boats. The sun was out by now, although the wind was brisk, and the bay was a kaleidoscope of sails skidding along over the whitecaps.
A woman stood just inside the gate with her arms crossed and an impatient look on her face. Wearing a yellow slicker over painter’s pants and boat shoes, she seemed to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with windblown hair the color and consistency of straw. “I’m Virginia. Are you the Hunt Club?” she asked him with some asperity.
Mickey flashed his disarming smile. “Not the whole thing, just pretty much its top operative.”
“Well, good,” she said. “I need someone with brains. Got some ID?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mickey flashed her his driver’s license and gave her a Hunt Club business card. This was a long way from identifying him as a private investigator, but it seemed to satisfy her. Only after she’d perused the card for a long ten seconds did she reach into her pocket for the key to the lock. While unfastening it, she shot him a squinty look. “Can’t be too careful, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t agree more.”
“There’s a lot more rape going on than people report.”
“Right.”
“People look at me, fifty-seven going on thirty I always say, and tell me I shouldn’t worry about rape, I’m too old. But you know, rape’s not a sexual crime. It’s not about sex, it’s about hate and anger. There was a woman last month, sixty-two, over in Berkeley, in a wheelchair, can you believe? Mugged and, as they say, sexually assaulted, which means raped. Anyway, that’s why I like it down here, behind this fence. Nobody gets in here doesn’t know one of the boat owners.”
“Good policy,” Mickey said.
She looked him a good hard squint in the eye for a second or two, possibly to see if he was fooling with her, but again he must have passed her scrutiny because with a “Follow me, then,” she turned and led him down to a badly misused sailboat near the end of the pier, which she stepped onto.