Looking for Yesterday (4 page)

Patty, a large woman with long blond curls cascading from under a floppy-brimmed straw hat, was kneeling in the unplanted section pulling weeds. When she saw me she stood, her jeans smeared with mud.

“Welcome to my little acre,” she called.

I stepped through the gate in the fence and surveyed Caro’s sister. In spite of the cheerful greeting, I detected the flat toneless quality of the clinically depressed. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot from crying. Wiping her hands on her jeans, Patty motioned me toward a deck that overlooked a side yard and what must have been an orchard, and we sat there on comfortable cushioned furniture.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Coffee, a soft drink, some wine?”

“No, thank you. I’m good. What kind of trees are those?”

“Apple, pear, and plum. I tried cherry, but they don’t do well in this climate.”

“You’re quite a gardener.”

“A certified Master Gardener, with my own landscaping company. I love seeing things grow and thrive. But you’re here to talk about my sister.” Her voice grew even flatter. “I’ve been calling the hospital all day, but there’s been no change.”

I got straight to the point of my visit. “Caro told me you and Rob were estranged from her.”

“Not so. She came to dinner here only a week ago.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Because that’s what she is—a liar. She can’t help it. It’s some sort of psychological condition.”

“Related to the seizures she claims she had?”

“She’s never had a seizure in her life, unless she wanted something. That’s just the way Caro is. And neither Rob nor I is much of a prize, either. I blame it on our parents.”

“Tell me about them.”

“They’re in denial, can’t admit even to themselves that any of their children could be less than perfect. Their
three
children, mind you. To them, our little sister Marissa never existed. It’s the only way they know how to cope with the accident. They travel around the world, never stay in one place very long. Pure escapism.”

“Very differently from how Caro copes.”

“Yes, and her way is a whole lot more sensible than my parents’ denial or Rob’s guilt or my grief. At least Caro wants to take positive steps: she went into high gear after the Gabrielle Giffords assassination attempt in Arizona, did some speaking engagements, but people kept raising the issue of the Bettencourt case. She withdrew and hasn’t been active since.” She looked pensive. “I used to be an activist for lesbian causes. Then, around the time of Caro’s trial, everything inside me went flat. I just couldn’t muster the energy.…”

“That’s natural after such an ordeal. What do you remember of the Bettencourt murder?”

Her gaze wavered and became unfocused. She might have been seeing either the orchard or some uncharted territory inside herself. After a few moments she said, “I remember Amelia; she and Caro were best friends. Jake Green I didn’t like so much.”

“What about Ned Springer?”

“Caro’s attorney? He’s all right. I’ve known him forever, since we were kids in the Marina.”

“Tell me about Amelia. What was she like?”

“Pretty. Funny. Smart. She could be selfish at times, like Caro. She wanted what she wanted, and she made sure she got it. Especially men. Still, you couldn’t dislike her on account of that. She charmed everybody.”

“Including Jake Green, her best friend’s lover.”

“Especially him. He and Amelia were a good match; he was all about getting what he wanted too.” Patty’s lips tightened. “The first time Caro brought Jake to visit me—I was living in the Lake Merritt area then—I could see him sizing up everything in my house, putting a monetary value on it. From a few things my parents said, he did the same at their place. But then Caro introduced him to Amelia, a more lucrative catch, and he dumped Caro flat.”

“Let’s go back to the night Amelia was murdered. What do you remember?”

“I was at Caro’s apartment in Cow Hollow. It was a tiny studio, very expensive, but she’d rented it to get away from Mom and Dad. She’d invited me for the weekend—a sisters’ getaway—but then she got this phone call and said she had to go out. No explanation, nothing.”

“When was that?”

“After we had dinner, around seven thirty. She came in sometime in the early morning and crawled into bed, drunk. I was pissed with her because it was supposed to be
our
night together.”

“Did she give you an explanation then?”

“There wasn’t time. The police came a few hours later and arrested her. I called Ned Springer and he represented her at the bail hearing the next day, but the judge ordered her held because she was a flight risk.”

“And she never told you where she went or what she did?”

“Only what she testified to at her trial.”

There was no way to phrase my next question tactfully, so I decided to be blunt. “In your opinion, could Caro have murdered Amelia?”

Patty didn’t take offense. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve always thought she did.”

“Why?”

“No especial reason. Just a feeling. When she got into bed that night, she wasn’t only drunk, but scared. The fear coming off her was as strong as the smell of alcohol.”

3:30 p.m.

After I left Patty’s I called the hospital for an update on Caro’s condition. Still no change. Then I went looking for Jake Green.

According to the background information I had, Green had quit the stock brokerage and bought a travel agency south of the city in San Bruno. I called my own travel agent, Toni Alexander, and asked her if she knew of him.

“That little weasel?” she responded. “He tried to put the moves on me at the last American Society of Travel Agents convention.”

“I take it you don’t have a high opinion of him.”

“It’s not because he made a pass. I’m as open to that as any single gal. But he’s just…ugh!” I could picture her shuddering.

“How so?”

“He’s conniving. Petty crimes like selling for inflated prices the promotional flight coupons the airlines give out to those of us in the industry. Stolen tickets, too, when he can get his hands on them. And it doesn’t help that he has eyes like a ferret.”

I’d never gotten close enough to a ferret to look it in the eye, but I could imagine.

“Are you aware that Green was involved in a high-​profile murder case three years ago?” I asked.

“Am I aware? He told me about it within three minutes of meeting me at an ASTA cocktail party here in the city. He was still ‘jazzed’ about it, he said.”

“He give you any of the details?”

“No. I told him I’d heard about the case and escaped from his company—not very graciously.”

“Good move.”

“Not to change the subject, Shar,” she said, changing the subject, “but have you and Hy talked any more about that trip to Tahiti?”

“We’re thinking of making it a stopover on the way to New Zealand.”

“I could send you some information—”

“I’ve already looked at stuff on the Internet.”

“Shar, you’re not really thinking of booking
online
?”

I had been, but I knew I wouldn’t. Toni had done me too many favors over the years.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “you’ll be hearing from me about making arrangements.”

4:32 p.m.

More than two years earlier a Pacific Gas and Electric pipeline had ruptured down the Peninsula in San Bruno, creating a deafening roar that could be heard for many miles and a huge fireball that destroyed dozens of homes and killed several people. The commercial part of the city, where I was headed, had been spared, but grief, anger, lawsuits, and the eventual retirement of the utility’s CEO followed. The disaster had made Bay Area residents very wary, and most of us checked carefully at the slightest whiff of natural gas.

All World Travel was located in a nondescript beige stucco building fronting an old shopping center on El Camino Real, the city’s main drag. The small storefront was cramped, with two visitors’ chairs and a table covered in brochures. Faded posters of exotic lands adorned the walls.

A young woman with long stringy hair who looked as if she’d like to be somewhere else was paging through a file at the reception desk.

Mr. Green, she said, wasn’t in. If I wanted I could find him three doors down at the Reading Room.

“Reading Room?” I asked.

“It’s a bar, his office away from the office.” She snapped her gum for emphasis.

Classy operation.

You couldn’t have read
anything
in the Reading Room. Its interior glowed a strange orange, broken only by the flickering of a big-screen TV. A hockey game was on, but the picture was so blurred I couldn’t tell who was playing. At the bar a lone man hunched over a mug of dark beer. His hair was brown, and he had a perfectly round bald place on the top of his head.

I slipped onto the stool next to him, said, “Jake Green?”

He glanced at me, then looked away. His features were familiar from my files, but now fleshy and bloated.

“Mr. Green…”

“If you’re a bill collector, go away. I’ve only got twenty bucks on me, and that’s my drinking money.”

“I’m not a bill collector.”

“Then I don’t care who you are. Go away.”

I slid one of my cards in front of him. “Caro Warrick has hired me to look into the death of Amelia Bettencourt.”

He glanced at the card, shrugged. “I’m done with all of that. She got her acquittal, what more does she want?”

“She’s coauthoring a book on the crime—”

“Oh, shit, just what I need. Spread my name around, wreck whatever little I got built up here. You think it was easy, all that publicity? You think I
liked
having my face in the tabloids? All I ever wanted was a quiet, comfortable life. And I was on my way to having it, too. But the notoriety—my clients defected, I became nonproductive to the brokerage, so I bought the travel agency. Now the economy’s in the pits, and whoever’s traveling—mostly businesspeople—goes on the cheap. And there’s the Internet.…”

“That’s a real run of bad luck. Especially losing Amelia. You were there that night. You found Amelia’s body and someone shot at you too. I know it must’ve been very difficult—”

“Damn straight! One day I had a pretty good life, solid prospects, and the next day they’re gone, all gone.” He paused, apparently listening to echoes of what he’d just said. “Oh, God. Why can’t Caro let it alone?”

“Did you know Ms. Warrick is in the hospital?”

His startled expression indicated he hadn’t. “How come?”

“Someone beat her, probably with a hammer. She’s in a coma.”

“A hammer? Christ! Well, it wasn’t me.”

Too quick to spring to your own defense, buddy.

“I’m thinking it must’ve been somebody who didn’t want her to coauthor that book,” I said. “You have any idea who that might be?”

“Pretty much anybody who was involved with the murder. Maybe somebody with something to hide.”

“Such as?”

“Well, the person who really killed Amelia.”

“You were the one who directed suspicion at Ms. Warrick in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had time to think on that.”

“To what conclusion?”

“Why don’t you talk to her parents?” And that was all he’d say on the subject.

6:45 p.m.

The Warricks didn’t answer their phone, and I didn’t want to leave a message on the machine that would give them time to invent an excuse not to see me. Just as well—Hy and I had planned a quiet dinner for two at a favorite Czech restaurant in our neighborhood. At a little past eight, over chicken paprikash we talked of his travels and my doings since he’d left for Europe, talk that included work, but none of the specifics. Both RI and McCone Investigations had strict confidentiality rules—even between the respective owners.

Over coffee and brandy he took my hand and asked, “You thought any more about my proposition?”

Last September he’d suggested we merge our businesses. The benefits to me were great: it would give me access to a worldwide network of offices and operatives, and attract a larger and more lucrative clientele. Plus give me half ownership of a fleet of pretty slick jets. But I still had my doubts about ceding absolute control over McCone Investigations, even to Hy, and I wasn’t sure that a high-powered executive protection firm was a good fit with our personalized service.

Now I reiterated those doubts to him.

“We discussed all that before,” he said. “A merger wouldn’t mean either firm would lose its autonomy, but it would allow us to tap into each other’s resources more easily. And we’d enjoy better tax breaks.”

Tax breaks. The holy grail of American corporations.

“And,” he added, “we wouldn’t have to hold these dinner conversations where neither of us can tell the other exactly what’s going on.”

That remark tipped the scales slightly in his favor.

“What would we call the company?” I asked.

“I haven’t gotten that far in my thinking.”

“Would we need to combine offices?”

“Well, McCone Investigations would become the primary US division, and RI would deal with international clients, so that probably wouldn’t matter. But close proximity would be advantageous.”

I thought of the little blue building on Sly Lane, where I’d only just gotten settled down. RI clients weren’t likely to appreciate such casual quarters; we’d have to move again.

Hy saw the doubt in my eyes and squeezed my hand. “We don’t have to decide anything right away. Just keep in mind that we’d get to spend more time together. Work together.”

“That I’d like.”

“Then give it some serious thought. No hurry, no pressure.”

My phone rang before I could reply: the floor nurse at SF General’s trauma unit. Caro Warrick had just died from a cerebral hemorrhage.

“Have you contacted her family?” I asked the nurse.

“Her brother and sister have been contacted. The parents aren’t available.”

I thanked her and broke the connection. Said to Hy, “It’s a case for Homicide now. And I’ve lost a client. She lied to me, she was a seriously disturbed individual, but in an odd way I liked her.”

“How so?”

“Well, she’d been through a lot, but until recently she’d stood up for her convictions on gun control. I sensed something had spooked her, made her back off. She seemed afraid of something or somebody. Damn! I should’ve questioned her more closely.”