Five minutes later, she poured her first cup of coffee, added heavy cream and-what the hell-three sugars, then scooped her three-egg concoction onto her plate, smothering it with ketchup.
The first bite was so delicious that it brought tears to her eyes.
The Hunt Club’s office was over a Chinese gift shop on Grant Avenue. The door was around the corner on Sacramento and at 8:10, twenty minutes early because they were excited about the possibility of more leads coming in by phone, Mickey and Tamara were just getting to that door when, coming from the other direction, they almost literally ran into the two women who were about to turn into the same doorway. And upon recognition-it was Gina Roake and another, younger attorney from her office, Amy Wu-the exclamations and hugging commenced.
“We heard from Wyatt you were back!”
“We’re so glad it’s true!”
“We’ve missed you so much.”
“I missed both of you too.”
Mickey, standing to one side, said, “Me too,” ambiguously, and Wu came over and gave him a conciliatory buss on the cheek and about half a hug. “We would have missed you, too, Mickey,” she said, “except you just wouldn’t go away.”
Hunt showed up early, too, but it was still after everyone had gone upstairs and gotten the office opened up, the coffeemaker going, the shutters open. The three employees were acutely aware of the number “ 7” blinking at Tamara’s phone, but waited until Roake and Wu left to go back to their own offices before they encircled the desk while Tamara pressed the playback button.
“Hi, the Hunt Club. This is Cecil Rand, three eight one, two two eight four. I believe I’ve seen something that might have to do with the Dominic Como murder. I’m not sure if it’s anything and I don’t want to have the police think I’m just trying to waste their time, so maybe you could call me back. Thanks.” He repeated his number, and hung up.
“Hello.” A tentative woman’s voice. “Is anybody…? Hello? My name is… well, never mind. I guess I’ll just call back when you’re there.”
“Oh, super,” Mick said. “Unless you die in the meantime.”
Next was another woman, no greeting. “This is Nancy Neshek. I’m the executive director of the Sanctuary House. My name may be familiar because my organization has also put up twenty- five thousand dollars for the reward, so I won’t be calling to claim any part of that, but I did have a question if one of you could please call me back, either at home or my office, sometime tomorrow. It’s somewhat important.” She then left both of her numbers, said thank you and good-bye, and rang off.
“Hey. I’m Damien Jones, over here at the Mission Street Coalition, and uh… well, there’s just some stuff goin’ on here that ain’t right. I mean, they say we getting all this foundation money s’posed to pay for room and board and food and stuff and then they take it out our pay. I don’t know how Como did it over there at his place, you know, Sunset, but if I can get moved over there, I’m applying.”
Next: “My name is Eric Canard with the San Francisco Palace Duck Coalition and I just wanted to inform you that I’ll be going to the media myself in the next day or two to expose this obviously fraudulent murder you’ve got everybody talking about, and the even more blatant attempt to deflect attention from the situation with the displaced ducks from the Palace Lagoon, which is now, as I’m sure you know, just about completely empty. I don’t know who’s putting up all this supposed reward money, but I think I can prove that there is both no dead man and no money that will actually be paid for any reward. If the Hunt Club is even in fact your real name.”
After that hang-up, Hunt’s mouth twitched. “Well, Mick, that’s at least one for you.”
The penultimate message was from a real client, another of Roake’s junior associates calling about scheduling a deposition for the first two days of the following week, and would Wyatt call to verify his availability.
Finally, the tentative woman again, maddeningly repeating her first message almost verbatim-she’d call back later, when they were there.
“Leave a message!” Mickey actually yelled at the telephone. “Leave a goddamn message. What’s the matter with you?” He looked at his sister. “What’s the matter with her? She afraid somebody’s going to jump through the phone and bite her?”
But Tamara could only shrug and turn to her boss. “How do you want to divide these up?” she asked.
Hunt decided that calls number one and three-Nancy Neshek and Cecil Rand-were worth his time and energy, and that Mickey would take the other ones, leaving Eric Canard to Mickey’s own judgment as an obvious flake and publicity hound, but one who in fact had probably spent a significant amount of time in and around the lagoon and might have seen something, and who would never, ever, under any circumstances, talk to the police.
For his own part, Hunt first called Nancy Neshek’s home number and left a message. Then, still before nine A.M., he called Sanctuary House, which had apparently not yet opened its main office for the day. Leaving another message there, he next called Cecil Rand, who picked up on the first ring and told Hunt he’d meet him at Johnny Rockets Diner on Chestnut Street in the Marina District. Rand told Hunt he was old and black and run-down-looking; “you’ll think I’m a bum, but I’m not.” And he would be wearing an almost-new Raiders jacket. Hunt said he’d be in his Cooper if Rand was outside waiting.
Hunt made it down there in about fifteen minutes and saw a man fitting that description standing in the doorway to Johnny Rockets. He was rolling down his window to say hello and ask if he was Cecil Rand when the man pointed at him, said, “Hunt?” and got a nod in return. He jaywalked, stopping the traffic, through the opposite lane, passed in front of the car, over to the passenger door, and got in.
“Cool car,” he said, fastening his seat belt. “I’ve always wanted to ride in one of these. Bigger than it looks, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I love it,” Hunt said. “Plus, you wouldn’t know to look at it, but it’s a rocket ship. The thing hauls.” He looked across at his passenger, who came exactly as advertised. “So where we going?”
“Hang a right. The lagoon.”
Hunt gave him another quick glance. His clothes were worn but clean, and he exuded a kind of raw confidence that made Hunt glad he’d included Cecil as among the legitimate tipsters. And his saying that they ought to go to the lagoon was promising. It was, after all, if not the scene of the crime itself, then, nevertheless, a venue of significant interest.
They’d just turned off Chestnut when Rand volunteered that he almost hadn’t called, probably wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been about Dominic. “Although if it turns out I get some of the reward, you know, that wouldn’t hurt none either. But even then, if it wasn’t Dominic, I don’t know if I’d have bothered. But whoever killed him, they got to get caught.”
“You knew Mr. Como?”
“Yeah. The guy saved my life.”
The phrase struck Hunt, since he’d heard so many other people use it in recent days. “How’s that?” he asked.
“I did some time growing up. Down at Corcoran. You know that’s a prison.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Lot of folks haven’t, you’d be surprised. Well, you get out of prison, it’s hard to find work, maybe you’ve heard that too.” His unshaven face wrinkled. He obviously thought he’d uttered some kind of witticism.
“So I got nowhere to go when I get here, back to the city I mean, and I’m in town maybe two weeks, standing in line outside the Divisadero kitchen, the money they give me out of the joint just about all gone, and I’m thinking, ‘Shit, what now?’ And suddenly up comes this limo and pulls in and this guy-it turns out it’s Dominic but I don’t know it then-he’s dressed up like a banker, better’n a banker, he gets out and he’s smiling, talking to people, right at home with brothers, all like that.