According to Luke Widdows, Hilderly had become so deeply disillusioned with the cause the others were fighting for that he set off on a trip halfway around the world in search of the truth-and then retreated into an emotional void for the rest of his life. Ross's silence about Port Chicago led me to suspect she'd been in on the bombing attempt and served time in prison herself. But after that she'd made a life for herself-albeit one that she'd hinted was at best only a life "of sorts." Taylor had been broken by prison-turned into something far less than a functional human being. And Ruhl? She'd shot herself.
What fundamental flaw had caused the crack-ups of Ruhl and Taylor? What made Ross and Hilderly survivors- however wounded? Taylor claimed he'd never been a strong man, but I suspected the crucial difference had less to do with strength than with flexibility. The eucalyptus trees that formed the windbreaks on this headland looked strong, but in a bad storm they were easily torn apart or uprooted. Conversely, the relatively delicate-looking cypresses could bend to the ground and live on, bowed and warped as they might become.
Finally I replaced the photo in the drawer and left the tack room. The air had grown chill; high wisps of fog drifted in from the coastline. I looked toward the sea, along the path that Ross had taken. And saw them, on the edge of the lagoon.
Ross sat on the pinto, and a denim-clad man with long black hair who surely was D.A. Taylor stood beside it. Ross leaned down toward him; Taylor had one hand on her shoulder. For a moment they spoke, their faces close, and then Taylor raised his other hand and pulled her head even closer. In spite of the distance, I could tell there was no resistance on Ross's part when their lips met.
Seventeen
I bought a sandwich and a bottle of Calistoga water at a deli in Inverness, then drove down the road and parked by the salt-marsh wildlife refuge to eat a late lunch and think. The white cranes were there again-half a dozen this time-and the sight of them standing placid among the reeds soothed my anger at Ross's deception and put me in a cooler frame of mind.
Actually I wasn't so much angry at Ross as I was at myself. In the course of my work people frequently lie to me-sometimes for no better reason than that they think they shouldlie to a detective. I should have been more on my guard with Ross, pressed harder about what now appeared to be her ongoing relationship with D.A. Taylor. But the interview had been valuable nonetheless: I now knew about the Port Chicago bombing attempt-a crime that would doubtless be well reported in back issues of area newspapers. And I also had a few ideas about the man called Andy Wrightman.
When I arrived at KSTS-TV at about four-thirty, I spotted Goodhue driving into the parking lot in a little yellow Datsun. I beeped the MG's horn and followed her, pulling up behind her rear bumper. She got out of the car and waved at me.
"I know what you want," she called, "but I don't have it for you. I had a late night, then an early breakfast with some people from a charity benefit we're cosponsoring, and then a luncheon speech for Women in Communications. I'm an hour late and running ragged and hoping I can make it through until it's time to rest between broadcasts."
She did look tired-not totally exhausted, but red around the eyes and hollow in the face. Her staccato chatter made me wonder if she'd been taking uppers to keep going. I said, "Jess, I wouldn't bother you if this wasn't important."
Her mouth tightened, and I caught a hint of the testiness that she'd displayed with her co-workers Monday afternoon. "We all have our priorities," she said, "and mine is to make it through the day without screwing up our newscasts."
"I thought you wanted to find out about your father, about Perry Hilderly's reason for naming you in his will."
She shrugged and began walking toward the rear entrance to the studio. "Frankly, I've decided it's not all that important. I was right when I burned that detective's report; the past is dead, and I ought to be getting on with my future."
"Does that mean you won't look for the investigator's name?"
"Jesus!" She turned toward me, her irritation plain now. "I said I would look for it when I have the time. I do not have the time today. Besides, there probably wasn't anything valuable in his report; he was just some big Italian guy with a crummy two-man office on the edge of the Tenderloin. For all I know, he was incompetent."
Unwittingly she'd given me something to go on. Except for the "incompetent," the man she described sounded suspiciously like an investigator friend I call Wolf. But it was strange that a newscaster wouldn't have remembered his name right off; Wolf-a nickname I'd long ago derived from the press claims that he was "the last of the lone-wolf detectives"-has had more than his share of publicity, and fairly recently.
It was for that reason-plus the fact that I'd been lied to by one of the other heirs earlier that afternoon-that I concealed my satisfaction with Goodhue's revelation and merely said, "I'll call you later."
Willie Whelan's flagship jewelry store was situated on the south side of Market Street between Seventh and Eighth- an iffy location at best, and one that had reaped little benefit from what city planners are fond of calling "the Renaissance of Market Street." All the rebirth is going on further downtown, where high-rises have mushroomed and cautious shoppers now venture into what used to be a minefield in the war between the haves and the have-nots. Willie's block remained largely unchanged: street people pushed grocery carts loaded with all their belongings; winos sprawled on the benches that were part of the beautification project; merchants hawked cut-rate wares from sidewalk bins; private security guards were stationed at most of the doorways.
When I entered the store at a few minutes after five, Willie was already there, extolling the merits of aring with the world's tiniest diamond to a young Asian couple. He'd point to it and then gesture expansively; the couple would look at one another and nod dubiously. Then he'd enthuse some more and they'd nod again, a little more firmly. When both nodded decisively, Willie flashed his most sincere smile of congratulation and whipped out a credit application from under the counter. As the couple began filling it out, he gave me a victory sign.
"Is Hank here yet?" I asked, casting a sympathetic glance at the latest victims of Willie's salesmanship.
"He called, said he'd be a few minutes late."
"Just as well. I need to make a couple of calls of my own."
"Use my office-you know where it is."
"Thanks." I skirted the central counter where he stood and went through an opening in a smaller counter that bordered the showroom on three sides. Numerous customers-none of them terribly solvent-looking-leaned over its displays of watches and charm bracelets and pendants and birthstone rings. On the other side of the counter was a door; beyond it lay the stockroom and Willie's office.
My first call was to Wolf, but I reached only his machine. That was no surprise; he and his partner spent more time in the field than at the office. I left a brief message. Next I called All Souls and caught Rae just as she was on her way out.
"Oh, good," she said. "I've got the information you wanted on American Consolidated Services. They're a government contractor that operates restaurants and cafeterias for the military on bases all over the world."
"I thought it might be something like that. Were you able to find out anything about Bob Smith?"
"Unfortunately, no. Personnel knew he was dead, and the person I talked to became suspicious when I asked."
"Doesn't matter. I know enough now, and if the police want to make an official inquiry, it'll only confirm what I suspect."