Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (15 page)

What didn’t fit anywhere yet was Roland.

Here and there in the columns men were mentioned—“Mrs. Inman was escorted by So-and-So,” like that—but Roland wasn’t one of them. Not his real name—an alias he used to hide his identity from new down-low club recruits? Could also be he kept a low profile for reasons of his own, or because of the racial difference. Or maybe he
was
a trusted employee after all, permitted to use the Beamer on his days off. Looks could be deceiving; Tamara knew that if anybody did. So could intelligent-sounding voices and nice clothes and a smooth line.

Next step? The obvious was to call up Viveca Inman on some pretext or other and ask about Roland straight out, but Tamara couldn’t think of one that didn’t sound contrived and the last thing she wanted was to arouse suspicion. One other
possibility occurred to her: Joe DeFalco, Bill’s buddy who worked as a reporter and feature writer for the
Chronicle.

She got DeFalco on the phone, told him briefly what she needed. Naturally he wanted to know why she was interested in Viveca Inman. The man was always looking for a story, something that would help him make a bigger name for himself. An old-fashioned muckraker, Bill called him, with a yen for a Pulitzer Prize that he’d never get.

Nothing juicy or newsworthy, she told him, just an insurance case the agency was working on that didn’t involve Inman directly. No lie there. He said, well, if it turned into anything important, she’d better let him know or he wouldn’t do any more favors for her or her partner. She said okay, and DeFalco said okay, he’d talk to the paper’s society editor and get back to her ASAP.

While she waited, Tamara ran the b.g. search Jake had asked for on the East Bay trucker, Bud Linkhauser. Easy job. She was just wrapping it up when DeFalco called back.

“I don’t have much for you,” he said. “Nobody named Roland in Inman’s life, at least not for public consumption. If there was, Isabel’d know it.”

“Men in her life, black or white?”

“Lots of men. Very popular lady. Money and good looks equal a long line of sniffers in the social set.”

“Yes, but does she date black men?”

“Isabel says no. Strictly white on white.”

“Black neighbors?”

“In the Marina within spitting distance of the yacht club? Don’t you wish.”

“What about African American employees?”

“Again, no,” DeFalco said. “And if your next question is, is she prejudiced against blacks, that’s another no. One of her charities is an adoption program for crack babies born in the ghettos.”

Score one for Viveca Inman. “But she is into psychics?”

“In a big way. Consults regularly, won’t make any major decisions without getting her cards read and fortune told.” He let loose a derisive snorting sound that resonated like a fart. “A load of crap, if you ask me. Psychics are in the same class with mediums, astrologers, gypsy fortune-tellers.”

“Lot of people believe in them.”

“A lot of people believe the government has our best interests at heart, too. One of these days I’m going to write an exposé.”

“On psychics or the government?”

“Hell,” he said, “both.”

“Any particular psychic Inman sees?”

“Different ones, probably compares readings.”

Tamara asked, “Close women friends I can talk to?”

“Isabel says her best friend is Tricia Dupont. Another rich widow big into charity work.”

“Tricia Dupont.
D-u-p-o-n-t
?”

“Right. Lives in Sea Cliff. But if you want to talk to her today, you can reach her at the Senior Center at Aquatic Park. She does volunteer work with the senior literacy program one day a week and this is it.”

“Anybody else I can talk to?”

DeFalco gave her two other names, both women. Then he said, “Don’t forget, Tamara. If there’s anything worth a story in this case of yours, you let me know right away.”

“Count on it.”

He made the farting noise again and broke the connection.

.   .   .

T
alking to Tricia Dupont in person was better than trying to pry information out of a stranger over the phone. A call to the Senior Center got Tamara a reluctant appointment for ten minutes of the woman’s time, but not until twelve forty-five. That gave her time to make another pass around the Western Addition neighborhood.

Still no light brown Buick LeSabre, with or without scrapes and dents.

T
he San Francisco Senior Center at Aquatic Park was in the old ship-shaped Maritime Museum at the western end of Fisherman’s Wharf. Nice location when the weather was good; lawn, beach, the long Municipal Pier that jutted out into the bay were right across a driveway and parking area behind the building. Not so nice today. The wind that came whipping in off the water was meat-locker cold, creating rippling whitecaps on the bay’s gray surface. Terrific. Tricia Dupont hadn’t wanted to meet inside the Center but outside on the stadium-like bleacher seats that stretched above the strip of sandy beach where the whack jobs who pleasure-swam in the frigid bay waters congregated. Freeze her ass off out there.

Mrs. Dupont was in her late forties, tucked and Botoxed, dark haired under a cloth cap and no doubt a lot warmer in an expensive lamb’s wool coat than Tamara was in her down jacket. First thing Mrs. Dupont said after they shook hands was, “You’re a private investigator, Ms. Corbin?” She sounded a little dubious. Not because I’m a black woman, Tamara thought wryly, because I’m a
young
black woman.

“That’s right.” She proved it by showing her creds.

“And the case you’re investigating involves Viveca Inman?”

“Not exactly. If she’s involved at all, it’s indirectly and without her knowledge.”

“I see,” Mrs. Dupont said, still dubious. “But why come to me? Why not talk to Mrs. Inman? Or have you done that already?”

“Not yet. I need more information first.”

“Which you believe she won’t give you. Is that it?”

“I’m trying to save her some grief, Mrs. Dupont. But I can’t do that without more evidence than I have right now.”

“I don’t understand. What kind of grief?”

“Do you know anything about a charity designed to help black families in need? One she’s thinking of investing in?”

“No, I . . . Oh, wait, yes. The O.S. Fund.”

“O.S.?”

“Operation Save. Vi was looking into it as a possible investment.”

“What can you tell me about this fund?”

“Not very much. She didn’t go into details. Is there something wrong with it? Is that what you’re investigating?”

“Partly. Roland the one who suggested she invest in it?”

“. . . Who?”

“Roland. Friend or acquaintance of Mrs. Inman’s.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“African American, heavyset, good-looking, about fifty.”

“Well, that might be anyone. Vi is very active in the black community.”

“She knows him well enough to let him use her car.”

“Her car? Which car?”

“Silver BMW. He was driving it last night.”

“Ah, the Beamer. She must have sold it then.”

“Sold it?”

“She just bought a new Ferrari. She also has a Mercedes—she doesn’t need three cars.”

Who does? Tamara thought.

“Alfred,” Mrs. Dupont said.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, of course, that’s who it must be. She mentioned he was interested in the Beamer.”

“Who would Alfred be?”

“Alfred Mantle. If he did buy the Beamer, he’s the man you’re looking for—he fits your description. I’ve never heard him called Roland, but I suppose that could be his middle name.”

“What’s his relationship with Mrs. Inman?”

“Professional. He’s one of the attorneys who handled her late husband’s business affairs.”

“For which firm?”

“Lynch, Fosberg, Snyder, and Lynch. But he’s no longer with them, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“He was appointed to the bench two years ago. He’s a Unified Family Court judge now.”

Tamara took that in. And pretty soon she was smiling, slow and sardonic.

“Is something amusing, Ms. Corbin?”

“No. Just thinking of something somebody told me.”

James, quoting Lucas:
Said the other guys were professional people or businessmen, all married men and none of ’em judgmental. Then he laughed like something was funny. Said, well, except one man who was but wouldn’t be. . . . Fuckin’ double-talk.

Uh-uh, not double-talk at all. Lucas’s idea of a clever joke.

He hadn’t meant “judgmental.”

He’d meant Judge Mantle.

W
hen she got back to the agency, she ran a check on Operation Save. They had a Web site, but there was no other information on the fund—and she went in pretty deep on the search.

According to the Web site, Operation Save was a charitable investment fund designed to help black home owners get current on their mortgage payments in order to prevent foreclosure. There were a lot of testimonials from people in various cities in California and photographs of homes that’d been “saved,” plus offers of prospectuses and additional info. E-mail link, but no street address or telephone number. On the surface it all seemed straightforward and aboveboard—the soft-sell kind of charity that played on the “help your brothers and sisters in their time of need” theme. But if it was legitimate, why wasn’t there any more available information?

It smelled like a scam to her.

Anybody could set up a Web site loaded with photographs and testimonials and brotherhood BS. Smoke screen to help rope in the marks. It was just the kind of con a couple of no-conscience grifters would come up with. Nasty. Preying on African Americans with cash in the bank and a streak of altruism mixed in with their hunger for more. And the pretense of helping black folks who genuinely needed bailout money made it even worse. One of Ma’s friends in Redwood City had lost her house to bank foreclosure and so had an S.F. couple sister Claudia knew—African Americans who’d finally gotten a piece of the American Dream, thanks to relaxed credit standards,
only to lose it again when the whole mortgage thing blew up and the economy went into the toilet.

But Lucas and Mama didn’t care about any of that. Hell, no. The proliferation of loan defaults by brothers and sisters was nothing more to that pair than the setup basis for a big con, the score of a lifetime.

Only it wasn’t going to happen.

No way would she let it happen.

He spent his morning interviewing residents of the Valencia Street apartment where Troy Madison and Jennifer Piper lived, trying to get a line on either or both of them. Margaret Adams, the woman who’d overheard them leaving, was home today, but all she had to tell him that he didn’t already know was that Madison had said something on the way out of the building about “a short trip, for now.” So maybe they hadn’t been planning to run far, at least not that night. There was a good chance they were still somewhere in the greater Bay Area.

He’d had his cellular switched off during the interviews, as he always did except when he was expecting an important call. When he left the building, his voice mail yielded two messages, one from Tamara and the other from Coy Madison.

Runyon called the agency first. Nothing urgent; Tamara had the background data on Bud Linkhauser that he’d requested. Except for one brush with the law as a juvenile in Bakersfield, Linkhauser’s record was clean. Married, three kids, owned his trucking firm for ten years; lean times at first,
but now his credit rating was solid. The juvenile bust was drug-related, possession of marijuana and driving while impaired, for which he’d gotten probation and loss of his license for six months. Simple kid crime, probably. Unless he was still using and still close to Troy Madison; then it might have some relevance to Madison’s bail-jump disappearance. Worth a trip over to Hayward this afternoon to talk to Linkhauser in person. Unless the reason for Coy Madison’s call was something more definite.

Yes and no. When Runyon got him on the line, Madison said immediately, “I heard from my brother last night,” in a voice that quivered a little. Nervousness, maybe fear.

“Is that right?”

“I know I said I wouldn’t let you know if he contacted me, but I thought about it all night and I couldn’t just keep quiet, do nothing. Not now.”

“He still in the Bay Area?”

“Right here in the city. Hiding out—he wouldn’t say where. He wanted money, a lot of money.”

“How much is a lot?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I’d have to talk to Arletta. He gave me an hour, that’s all. An hour to try to convince her.”

“And did you?”

“No,” Madison said. “I didn’t talk to her at all.”

“Why not?”

“No point in it. She’s tightfisted and she already said she wouldn’t waste another penny on Troy. She meant it, too. No way she’d let him have ten thousand dollars.” Anger and
bitterness mixed with the fear now. “I guess I can’t blame her, but she doesn’t know him the way I do. How dangerous he is when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“He threaten you again when you told him he couldn’t have the money?”

“Yes. I tried to stall him, reason with him . . . no use. He wouldn’t listen. My God, he was furious. He said he’d get Arletta for turning him down. Kill me, too, unless I made her change her mind. He . . . he sounded strung out, crazy.”

“You have any idea where he’s hiding?”

“No, none. I don’t know what to do. I guess that’s why I called you—advice. What should I do?”

“Have you contacted the police?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You should. Your brother’s a fugitive; he’s made threats. They can give you protection.”

“Yes, but will they? Before it’s too late?”

Runyon had no answer for that. A bail-jumping drug dealer was small-time, and the verbal threat of bodily harm had no teeth to it as far as the law was concerned. The detectives at the Hall of Justice had bigger and more immediate crimes to deal with. They’d take Coy Madison’s statement; they’d send out patrols to keep an eye on his home and place of business; they’d add to the warrant that was already out on his brother. And that was all they’d do because it was all they could do. No point in saying this to Madison; he probably already knew it. Still, the smart thing in a case like this was to go through the motions—always, no exceptions.