Looking for Yesterday (5 page)

“Case closed, McCone. Let’s talk about us now.”

“Let’s.”

Right—case closed. Or so I thought at the time.

9:16 a.m.

A
pparently I was still employed, however. My cell vibrated as I was pulling into my assigned parking space in the underground garage at the blue building. A male voice asked that I hold for Greta Goldstein.

Who? Oh, yes, Caro’s coauthor on the true-crime book.

Goldstein came on the line, her voice thick with a native New Yorker’s accent. “Ms. McCone,” she said, “I spoke with the late Caro Warrick recently. She told me you’d agreed to conduct an investigation for her.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Have you had any success so far?”

“I’ve learned a few things that didn’t come up at Ms. Warrick’s trial, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss them. Even though my client is dead, I’m still bound by the rules of confidentiality.”

“Well, my publisher, Wyatt House, and I want you to go on with the investigation. This book is going to be written, especially now that someone seems to have gone to the ultimate to prevent it.”

“You think the book is the reason she was attacked?”

“I suspect so.”

“Do you have authorization to hire me?”

“Yes—a firm contract giving us the rights to reassign any investigative work in the event of her incapacity or death.”

So I was right: Caro
had
been afraid of something happening to her.

“What about her family or heirs?”

“I’ve already spoken with her brother and sister: they have no objections. I understand her parents may not like it, but they’re not party to the contract. As for her heirs, I doubt the gun control organizations she left the bulk of her money to will object to having the truth revealed.”

“Her death is now an official murder investigation. I’d have to clear my work with the SFPD.”

Goldstein laughed harshly. “If they’re anything like the NYPD, they’ll be delighted to share the case with you.”

“True enough.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“I’ll have to check with someone at the police department, but yes, I don’t see why not.”

“Same terms as your contract with Ms. Warrick?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Draw up a new one with Wyatt House as the client, and e-mail it to me.” She gave me her e-mail address and hung up. No nonsense with this woman. No grief at the loss of her author, either.

I phoned the SFPD and asked who was handling the Warrick murder.

Inspector Devlin Fast. Did I wish to be transferred to him? Yes.

I knew Fast: he was tough-talking but fair and willing to cooperate with the private sector. A son of the Hunters Point ghetto, he’d graduated the police academy first in his class and risen to the elite Homicide squad in record time. It turned out he wasn’t available, but I left a message on his voice mail.

Next I called for Mick to come to my office, and gave him a list of people to run deep background checks on: Jake Green, the witnesses and jurors at Caro’s trial, Jill Starkey, even Ned Springer. The prosecutor, and Caro’s therapist Richard Gosling. In short, anyone who had even had a remote connection with her during the time since Amelia Bettencourt was murdered.

“Tall order, Shar,” he said. “Derek’s caught up on a big fraud project for Thelia, and I—”

“I understand. Do whatever you can. Give it to me in bits and pieces.”

After I’d gone over and signed a few more bits of correspondence I took the little elevator down to the first floor. Kendra Williams, Ted’s assistant and our temporary receptionist until we could find a good new hire, wasn’t at her desk. I skirted it and went into his office.

When he heard me come in, Ted stood. He wore another new silk suit, his tie loose at the neck and rumpled. Like the suit it was blue, but covered with small pinkish splotches that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be mermaids.

He saw me frowning at the tie and said, “A Christmas gift from Neal. He’s got weird taste. It’s the first time I’ve had the nerve to wear it.”

Usually his life partner’s taste was impeccable. I peered again at the mermaids. They were carefully rendered, right down to the smallest scale and largest tit.

“A joke?” I asked.

“I hope. There was a gleam of sadistic satisfaction in his eyes when he saw I had it on this morning.”

“Mmmm.” I sat down on the edge of the desk.

“What’s happening?” he asked. “You didn’t come down here to check on my attire.”

“We need a new contract in the Warrick case. Wyatt House, the publisher.”

“Will do.” He scribbled down the details I gave him.

I remained where I was when he was finished.

Ted said, “I promise I won’t wear any more faggy ties to the office.”

“I don’t care if you go around in drag. I have a question for you.”

“Yes?”

“What would you think of us merging with RI?”

He sat down heavily. “When did this come up?”

“Well, Hy mentioned it in the fall, but he let the subject drop until last night.”

“Hmmm.”

“You’ve got to admit there are certain advantages.”

“I suppose so.”

“You see any disadvantages?”

“Well… Look, Shar, we’ve all worked hard to build this agency, especially you. Do you really want to see it absorbed into a huge corporate entity?”

“No, but really…”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of rejecting Hy’s offer? Harming your marriage? He doesn’t have that kind of ego.”

“I know.”

“But you have reservations, right?”

“Yes. Maybe it’s that as I get older I don’t want to make changes or take risks.”

He hooted. “You?”

“Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s just…January.” Rain had started to spatter the windowpanes again.

“Maybe. Don’t rush into anything, that’s all I have to say.”

“I won’t.”

He changed the subject. “What’s next on the Warrick case?”

“I’m heading out to corral some people who won’t want to talk with me.”

10:37 a.m.

Caro Warrick’s parents again didn’t answer their phone, but there was a new message on the machine in a woman’s voice.

You’ve reached Betsy and Ben. We’re off for two glorious weeks in Cabo, but we’ll check frequently for your calls. Adios.

Not a very smart message because it was an open invitation to any caller who might be inclined to commit burglary.

The Warricks had left before anyone was able to notify them that their eldest daughter was dead. I wondered if they would have postponed their trip had they heard.

No sooner had I ended the call than Inspector Fast phoned. I told him I had been hired by Caro Warrick and asked if it was okay with him if I continued the investigation for her publisher. As I’d expected, he had no problem with that, and we made an appointment to discuss the case that evening, since he was working a late shift.

The day before, Rob Warrick had given me a set of spare keys to Caro’s apartment and signed a permission slip to allow me to visit the premises in case the landlord objected. I decided to see if there was anything revealing in Caro’s former home.

11:50 a.m.

Caro’s apartment smelled even mustier on this morning than it had on my previous visit. I left the door open—the rain had eased up, leaving the air warmish—and opened a couple of windows. Then I sat down on the sofa, closed my eyes, and tapped into the feeling of the place.

It’s long been my opinion that, even after a person has vacated a given location, an aura of them and what they did there remains. It’s mystical and New Agey and I wouldn’t admit it to my clients or in court, but it works for me. And in my profession, you use any tool that’s effective.

As my breathing grew deeper, my hearing became keener. Bird sounds in the backyard, the creaking of an old joist in the ceiling. A TV mumbling somewhere, muted traffic sounds. Someone bouncing a basketball on the next block. The smell of mildew and aromatic wax was stronger. Under it a scent—flowery perfume, old-fashioned. Another scent—cleanser from the kitchen. I licked my lips: they tasted dusty, like the air around me.

My skin was tingling now. I felt a sudden chill from the open door and windows, then a rush of heat. My own heat. It faded, and I kept my eyes closed and let the impressions flood over me.

Unhappiness, yes—that was to be expected—but it was leavened with hope. And something else. Fear—just a little, such as one might feel when embarking upon a new enterprise. And another emotion… It eluded me.

Something I hadn’t experienced, perhaps?

I slumped farther back on the sofa. The emotion became stronger. Anxiety…something hidden…something that somebody might find out…

I opened my eyes, stood up, and started searching.

Caro’s possessions were few and orderly. Neatly folded underwear, neatly hung clothing. Her bed was made with tight corners. The bathroom was sparkling clean and smelled of shampoo. There was a grocery list tacked to the refrigerator by a magnet: cereal, bananas, chicken, veggies. Only milk and eggs and condiments were inside. She’d been due for a shop. In a low drawer I found files: rent receipts, tax returns, a copy of her lease for the apartment.

What interested me was the lack of truly personal items: photographs, letters, mementoes. The past didn’t exist here. Nor did the future except in the presence of the will. And the feeling of hope.

I closed the windows, made sure the door was locked, and went to talk with the landlord.

12:47 p.m.

Mrs. Cleary must have been nearly eighty, with wispy white hair and deep vertical facial wrinkles. She hadn’t been informed of her tenant’s death and when I told her, her smile crumpled and her eyes sheened with tears.

“That poor girl,” she said, clasping her heavily veined hands to her breasts. “She had such a tragic life.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Two or three days ago. I can’t remember exactly. She was taking her mail from the box that’s attached to the side of the garage.”

“How did she seem?”

“Her voice was pleasant as always. I don’t see so well any more, and the sun was in my eyes, so I’m not sure how she looked. But she sounded fine. After that I heard her—or someone—downstairs.”

“Or someone?”

“Well, Caro’s step was light, quick. A couple of times I heard a heavier tread.”

“Could it have been mine?”

She squinted at me. “No, you’re too slender. The footsteps I heard must have been a man’s.”

“What time was this?”

“In the evening. Before ten; I go to bed at ten.”

“Can you narrow down the time frame?”

She frowned. “My granddaughter had called. She always calls at eight to check up on me. We didn’t talk for long; nothing notable had happened to either of us. So maybe I heard the footsteps at a quarter past eight.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Caro’s last days?”

She thought, shook her head. “Nothing. She came and went so quietly—and now she’ll never come home again.”

1:10 p.m.

Since it was midday on a Friday, it seemed a poor time to canvass Caro’s neighbors, but I decided to give it a try anyhow. I had a quick sandwich at a nearby deli and then went up and down both sides of her block, talking with those who were home. None of them had known of her death, and all expressed sorrow. Caro had not been close to them, but they knew her story and sympathized with her.

“She brought me some homemade apple butter just last October,” a chubby, balding fellow said.

“She babysat for my kids once in a while,” a young mother told me. “I wasn’t afraid to leave them with her; I knew she was innocent. And they loved her.”

“Why would anybody want to kill her?” an older man who was mowing his minuscule patch of front lawn asked. “She’d had more than her share of sorrow and still was as kind a woman as you’d ever hope to meet.”

“Old lady Cleary kept the house dark on trick-or-treat night, but the kids knew to take the path to Caro’s door. She always gave Hershey’s Kisses.”

“She shopped for my groceries once, when I was too sick to go to the store.”

“She always brought Mrs. Cleary’s garbage cans in, as well as her own.”

Saint Caro? Or Caro the atoner? Or something in between?

3:36 p.m.

In spite of the sandwich I’d had, I was hungry, so I stopped at home for a bite to eat. There was a note on the kitchen table from Hy: “Gone to LA on company business. Call you later.”

Routine business? Dangerous? How the hell was I supposed to know? I thought again of his proposed merger with my agency; if the business entities were joined, I would insist on knowing the details of his activities, as he would the details of mine.

I went to the fridge. Alex joined me and stood on his hind legs, peering inside. The bottomless-pit cat. I settled on ham and cheese on crackers; he joined me. I was spoiling him, but I’d always spoiled my cats. Jessie appeared, and I spoiled her too.

While we ate I considered my next move and decided I might as well check with what neighbors of mine I knew would be home, to ask if any of them had seen Caro arrive here last night. The police would already have done this, but I thought maybe they’d missed someone or someone would have remembered something they’d forgotten or hadn’t wanted to reveal to officialdom.

4:04 p.m.

Mrs. Irene Hall, next door to the right, gaunt, stooped, and all angles: “We went to bed early, honey. And our bedroom’s at the back of the house like yours. We didn’t hear a thing till the police came. Lord, as we grow older we just sleep sounder. Getting prepared, I guess.”

At the Curley house to the other side of mine, daughter Michelle popped out. “Damn,” she said, “I missed all the commotion. I was sleeping over at that place I’m rehabbing on Webster.”

Chelle was a budding entrepreneur, having already refurbished a decaying cottage nearby and turned it for a profit.

I said, “Is that wise, sleeping alone in a half-derelict building?”

She rolled her eyes. “Shar, d’you think I was
alone
?”

Chelle was growing up, just like Jamie. I’d have to remember that.

“Were your folks home? Or Gwen?” Gwen Verke, Michelle’s foster sister.

“Nope. Gwen was staying at a friend’s from school, and my parents took a few vacation days and went to visit relatives in the Santa Barbara area—where it’s not raining.”