To Catch the Moon (39 page)

A sign ahead directed Alicia to stay on the
right as the off-ramps to downtown approached. Her VW crept
forward, surrounded on all sides by vehicles battling for every
suddenly freed inch of asphalt. She made her way past the Seventh
Street exit, her heart pumping a nervous rhythm.

Of course she’d been skeptical of Milo’s
invitation, and of course she’d resisted it strenuously, though
even as she’d concocted one reason after another why acceptance was
impossible, she knew pretty quickly she desperately wanted to
go.

She was thirty-five years old and had never
received such an offer in her life. And as her mother routinely
reminded her, she was not getting any younger.

Besides, she told herself, what did she have
to lose? Milo had already divulged several tidbits of information
that she hadn’t known; maybe he’d spill more. And despite his
stated desire to “trade,” she didn’t have to reveal a damn thing
she didn’t want to. Already he had told her that just weeks before
the murder, Daniel had done something to anger Joan so intensely
that she’d moved into a hotel for a few days.

Could it be true? Alicia had consulted the
MasterCard bill she already had on hand for Joan Gaines, and sure
enough, there in black and white was a charge from the Lodge in
Pebble Beach, dated December third. Alicia hadn’t noticed it
before, being so focused on Joan’s charges for the night of the
murder. But here was apparent confirmation of what Milo had
learned, and what could be the beginning of a trail leading to a
motive for murder.

Next Alicia had called the reservations desk
at the Ritz-Carlton to confirm that there was a room booked under
her name. Indeed there was. That had sealed the deal. One hour of
painful packing later—her wardrobe too pathetic by far for what she
imagined the Ritz-Carlton and Hawthorne Lane to require—she was on
the road.

All along the route, she told herself this
excursion would aid her investigation into Daniel Gaines’ murder.
All along she told herself that was the only reason she was making
it, to pursue justice and restart her prosecutorial career. And all
along she knew she was doing a poor job of fooling herself.

By now she was off the freeway and zooming
along city streets past Moscone Center, the Museum of Modern Art,
and the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. Office workers spilled out
of bars drawing Thursday night happy-hour crowds. Commuters bundled
against the fog huddled at bus stops and hurried along wide
sidewalks. Alicia supposed the goal for many of them was a quiet
evening at home, maybe a little homework with the kids, maybe a
little TV.

She winced. In fact, a quiet evening alone
was what she had told Jorge she needed, when he’d called asking her
to dinner. She didn’t care to probe why she hadn’t told him the
truth, that she had a business meeting in San Francisco relating to
the Gaines murder. Jorge knew she hadn’t abandoned investigating
it, and he was such a dear man he even encouraged her in the
pursuit. Yet she had lied to him, throwing his goodwill back in his
face.

At the crest of Nob Hill, Alicia turned right
from Pine onto Stockton and then onto the gentle sweep of drive
that fronted the Ritz-Carlton. Almost before she’d stopped the car,
a uniformed valet opened the driver’s-side door and offered a hand
to help her exit. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, ma’am. Will you be
staying with us this evening?”

“Yes, thank you.” She surrendered her key,
accepted a stub in trade, and tried not to grimace as yet another
valet hefted her battered fifteen-year-old Samsonite out of the
trunk. Then she turned to face the hotel’s imposing stone
facade.

No wonder Milo likes this place
, she
thought.
It looks like a Greek temple
. In fact it bore an
astonishing resemblance to pictures she’d seen of the Parthenon. It
even had columns, which she’d seen before only on the courthouse.
But this enormous, grand, floodlit structure put that building to
shame.

To Alicia’s eyes, the inside was no less
spectacular. It was like an extraordinarily gracious home, with
ornate crown molding and marble floors partially covered by
Oriental rugs. On the walls hung oil paintings of women in white
dresses. Crystal chandeliers twinkled, a jazz pianist entertained
cocktail drinkers, and exotic flowers sprang from enormous ceramic
pots. It was as though the cares of the real world were a million
miles away.

Her reservation was in order, and she had a
message, a note scrawled in Milo’s hand.

Alicia, my shoot will run till after seven.
Relax and enjoy. Let’s meet in the lobby at ten to eight to go to
the restaurant. Cheers, M.

Alicia stuffed the note in her handbag and
followed a bellman as he guided her to the elevators. The enjoying
she’d be able to manage. The relaxing wouldn’t happen.

*

Shortly before eight o’clock, Milo entered a
wood-paneled elevator on the Ritz-Carlton’s eighth floor and pushed
the button for the lobby. He was excited. All day he’d thought
about Alicia. Interviewing bankers, he’d thought about Alicia.
Shooting his stand-ups—one in front of the Bank of America building
and another on the Embarcadero—he’d thought about her. She’d danced
in and out of his head: infuriating, stubborn, unbendable Alicia.
He wondered if he’d like her any other way.

Clearly she’d thawed toward him in the nearly
two weeks since he’d shown up unannounced at her home. The fact
that he’d gotten her to join him in the city proved that. How much
she’d warmed up he couldn’t gauge. Was this just a business trip
for her, a chance to further her investigation of the Gaines murder
by finding out what he had learned? Or was it possible that she,
too, harbored a more personal ulterior motive?

He found her standing in the lobby next to a
marble column. He smiled at the sight of her and saw that he wasn’t
the only man to do so. For though she hailed from dowdy, prosaic
Salinas, that night Alicia Maldonado pulled off a good imitation of
a sophisticated San Franciscan. On top of the huge advantage of
natural beauty, she had the good sense to keep the adornment
minimal. Her clothes were understated and black, her hair loose and
long, and her makeup so sheer as to be almost transparent.

“Hello.” He strode toward her and extended
his hand.

She took it, a slight reserve in her
demeanor. “Hello.”

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“I just came down myself.”

He extended his arm toward the doors. “Shall
we?”

She walked ahead of him without comment. They
joined the short queue for taxis. “Are you enjoying the hotel?” he
asked.

“It’s lovely. Thanks for arranging it.” She
raised her eyes to his. “I’m going to reimburse you.”

“No”—he waved a dismissive hand—“I won’t hear
of it.”

“But it’s too much.”

An extra room at the Ritz wasn’t a stretch
for him, but he didn’t want to seem so cavalier as to dismiss it as
nothing, either. “It really is my pleasure. And it gives us a
chance to catch up on the case.”

At that the dark depths of her eyes lit with
interest. “I take it you got a lot out of Molly Bracewell.”

“I did.” The next cab was theirs. Milo tipped
the bellman and slid next to Alicia onto the battered Naugahyde
seat. “Hawthorne Lane,” he directed the driver, who promptly sped
down Nob Hill and cut across Market Street into the South of Market
area. “But let me tell you about it over dinner.”

Minutes later he regretted not telling her
about it straightaway, because he was having trouble thinking up
other topics of conversation. He kept getting distracted by the
sweet scents of rosemary and mint wafting from her hair every time
it was ruffled by the wind sneaking through the cab’s slightly open
windows. “Our restaurant is in a building that used to house a
newspaper,” he said finally.

“Really?” She sounded interested, which
encouraged him.

“In the twenties it was the home of the
San Francisco News
, which eventually merged with the
Call
Bulletin
. These days there’s a fine-art printer upstairs.” The
cab turned in to narrow Hawthorne Street, then made a right into
the even more constricted alley called Hawthorne Lane. Milo paid
the driver and they exited the cab. “It’s a landmark building, one
of the best examples of the period’s industrial-style
architecture.” They stared up at the redbrick, warehouse-style
structure.

“You sound like a guidebook.” Alicia’s tone
was wry. “Do you always know so much about the restaurants you go
to?”

“It’s the reporter in me. Besides, after
coming here so often I finally asked.” He put a guiding hand on her
back to lead her up the few stairs to the entry. “Please.”

The interior was sleek and contemporary,
softly lit and paneled in cherry wood. They were led to a booth in
a large, high-ceilinged room with an open kitchen at one end,
complete with chefs wearing toques, a wood-burning oven, and
gleaming smoke hoods.

“It smells fantastic,” Alicia murmured.

Milo noted that the waiter smiled at the
comment, or perhaps at her. He seemed to lavish undue care to
draping the linen napkin over her lap. Once he bustled away, Milo
eyed the wine list. “They have Opus One.”

She shook her head, clearly
uncomprehending.

“It’s a cabernet. Not much is produced so
it’s hard for restaurants to get.” And at nearly two hundred
dollars a bottle, not for the slim of wallet. “Will you share it
with me?”

“Sure.” She set aside her menu. “So, Milo
Pappas, you know all about this building. You know all about the
wines on the list.” Gently she tipped toward him the porcelain
charger at her place setting. “What can you tell me about
this?”

“Designed by the owner. Continuing the autumn
theme you’ll find throughout the restaurant, in both color and
pattern.”

She laughed. “Are you making that up?”

He tapped his index finger against his head.
“Like Sherlock Holmes, I don’t just see. I observe.”

“Hey!” Her tone was fake indignant. “I’m the
detective here.”

“Really?” He leaned forward. “So what have
you discovered about Joan Gaines and her nefarious deeds?”

“We only suspect they’re nefarious.”

“I’m gratified to hear you say ‘we.’ ”

“For the moment you’re on my good side.”

“It’s a nice place to be.”

They stared at each other, before the waiter
interceded to take their wine and dinner orders. He returned
quickly to make a proceeding of uncorking and serving the Opus
One.

Milo raised his glass in toast. “To
cooperation rather than competition.”

She clinked her glass against his. “Like the
Americans and the Russians.”

He held off from sipping. “They have rather
an uneasy truce, Alicia.”

Her eyes narrowed, though teasingly. “So do
we, Milo.”

They sipped, still staring at each other,
until Alicia looked away. Somehow Milo felt he had gained still
more ground. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, giving her a
smile that had warmed many a female heart. “You know, I’m not such
a bad guy.”

She shrugged. “I’ve decided you’re probably
not an accomplice to murder.”

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten?”

“Believe me, that’s progress.”

She was a tough one. He made his voice
challenging. “All right, Ms. Brilliant Detective, what have you
learned about Joan?”

“You first.”

“You’re going to get cagey on me?”

“Listen, buddy.” This time she leaned
forward. “You got me to San Francisco promising information. Now
spill it.”

He leaned back. “All right, in honor of our
shaky detente, I’ll start. Joan told me she and Daniel had an
unhappy marriage.”

“That’s not exactly a news flash. It’s
obvious Joan wasn’t happy.” She made a
Come on, come on
motion with her fingers. “Give me something else.”

He didn’t want to go too far with this but
didn’t want to clam up too quickly, either. “Molly Bracewell told
me that Daniel Gaines propositioned her but that she refused him.
So Joan may have been telling the truth when she said she went back
to Carmel the night of the murder to see if Daniel was with
Bracewell.”

“What did you think of Molly Bracewell?”

He thought for a moment. “Smart. Capable.
Extremely ambitious. Bit of a snake.”

“What does she think of Joan?”

“Her opinion isn’t high. She thinks Joan is
too stupid to have framed Treebeard for Daniel’s murder.” He sipped
his wine. He wasn’t sure he agreed with Bracewell on that one.
“Your turn.”

Alicia seemed to weigh her words carefully.
Then, “Bracewell’s alibi is watertight. She couldn’t have been
physically present at the murder.” She paused. “I don’t think she
had anything to do with it.”

“I never thought she did.” He narrowed his
eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Alicia’s gaze slid away. Their appetizer, a
cheese souffle, arrived. Milo directed the waiter to set it in the
center of the table, then urged Alicia to try it.

Her eyes closed as she chewed. “It’s
fabulous. It tastes like cheesy air.”

They ate for a while, then he repeated his
question. “What aren’t you telling me about Bracewell?”

They were getting down to brass tacks.
Clearly she was mulling over whether to confide in him or not.
Then, finally, she told him something he didn’t know.

“Treebeard said that the day before the
murder he received a letter on Gaines campaign stationery asking
him to the Gaines house the next night to try to hash out their
differences.”

That
was interesting. “If that letter
really exists, obviously it was sent by the person who framed
Treebeard for Gaines’ murder.”

Alicia nodded.

“Where is it now?”

“Treebeard says he lost it. But he described
the letterhead perfectly.”