Martinis and Mayhem (18 page)

“More important, afraid of
whom?
If we find that out, I believe we’ll know who really did kill Mark Steffer.”

“A quick lunch?” I asked George when we reached the hotel.

“Love to, Jessica. But I promised to have lunch today with a colleague from Thailand. Interesting chap. I helped revamp the Thai police department a few years back, and worked closely with him. He attended the conference. Like me, he’s extending his stay in San Francisco.”

“Another page from the life of George Sutherland I didn’t know about. Go enjoy your lunch. Maybe he’ll take you to a sushi restaurant.”

George laughed. “I’ve already headed off that possibility by making reservations at Harris’s. Excellent steak house I enjoyed my last trip here. Meat and potatoes.”

“Sounds yummy. Will I see you later this afternoon?”

“Of course. I intend to do a little shopping after lunch, but should be back by five. Meet in the bar?”

“I’d never turn down a date in the Compass Rose.” The bar of that name off the Westin St. Francis’s lobby was the most attractive bar in San Francisco. At least it got my vote. “It’s a date,” I said.

I went to my room where the message light was blinking furiously. I checked the voice mail system. Eleven calls, most from reporters, who’d obviously figured out that Camille’s information about my whereabouts was what’s popularly called these days “disinformation.” A lie by any other name. The
Chronicle’s
crime reporter, Bobby McCormick, who’d followed the Kimberly Steffer case so closely, had left a message. So had Detective Walter Josephs, saying it was urgent that we speak. There were also two calls from Cabot Cove, one from Sheriff Morton Metzger, the other from my good friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt.

I was tempted to ignore Josephs’ call, but there was a urgency in his voice that was compelling. I dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring. “Jessica Fletcher returning your call, Detective.”

“Yeah. I was about to give up.”

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be on tap for you,” I said coldly.

“No offense, Mrs. Fletcher. Look, I would really appreciate it if you would come down to headquarters right away.”

“For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of taking part in a lineup.”

“A lineup? For what?”

“To see whether you might recognize somebody who was on the bridge with you that morning.”

“I told you I was unaware of people around me.”

“Right. Like you told me you hadn’t mentioned to anyone that you were planning to take that walk across the bridge. I can’t make you come down, but I think you should.”

I thought for a moment before saying, “All right. Does it have to do with the arrest of Norman Lana?”

“You read about that, huh?”

“Yes. I was surprised you didn’t mention it to us when we met on the other side of the bridge yesterday.”

“It slipped my mind. Can you be here in an hour?”

“Could we make it an hour and a half? I haven’t had lunch, and I’m famished.”

“Sure. See you then. By the way, you can put in for cab fare.”

“I wasn’t thinking about expenses, Detective. Good-bye.”

Despite my growling stomach, I returned the calls to Mort and Seth in Cabot Cove. I didn’t reach Mort; his desk sergeant informed me that the sheriff was out investigating the reported theft of someone’s chicken. But I got through to Seth, who’d just returned from tending to a patient at our local hospital. “Gorry, it’s good to hear your voice, Jessica,” he said. Seth had the heaviest Maine accent of anyone I’ve ever known. I sometimes wondered if he worked at thickening it for effect.

“Nice to hear your voice, too,” I said.

“Are you all right?”

I laughed. “Of course I’m all right. Don’t believe everything you read.”

“I thought you were comin’ back after your tour.”

“I am. But I decided to extend my time here for a well-deserved vacation. George and I have been—”

“George and you? That Detective Sutherland fella?”

“Yes. He was here at a police conference—”

“I know, Jessica. He decided to extend his stay there, too, for a well-deserved vacation.”

He sounded angry.

“Jessica, if you’re plannin’ to be there through the upcomin’ weekend, I just might see you in San Francisco.”

“Really? Why?”

“Got an invitation to attend a medical seminar on hypnosis. You know how much I enjoy that subject.”

Seth Hazlitt, despite how old-fashioned he could be both personally and medically—he always referred to himself as a “chicken soup doctor”—also had a fascination with less mainstream medical disciplines, like the use of hypnosis as a therapeutic tool. He’d attended seminars on the subject taught by the world’s leading authorities, including two conducted by Dr. Herbert Spiegel at New York’s Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons. I have always admired Seth for being openminded enough to embrace new, sometimes controversial approaches to medicine.

“That would be—lovely,” I said, hoping my voice did not mirror my disappointment in hearing that he might join me in San Francisco. Not that I didn’t love Seth dearly. But I’d been so busy, and desperately wanted some quiet, relaxing time with George. Having Seth arrive would only complicate what was already too complicated a life.

“Haven’t made up my mind yet whether to come or not, Jess. Have to arrange for coverage. Got three patients in the hospital right now. Have to make sure Doc Simmons can cover for me.”

“Of course,” I said. “You mustn’t run off on your hospitalized patients, Seth. You’d be thinking about them every minute you’re here.”

“Ayuh. Probably can’t break away. What are you and this Sutherland fella up to out there?”

“We’re not ‘up to’ anything. Just enjoying some pleasant dinners. Frankly, he’s being a tremendous help in this case I’m following.”

“There you go again, Jessica. Doesn’t sound like much of a vacation if you’re trying to solve another murder.”

I lightened my voice. “I’m not trying to solve anything, Seth. Just looking for a few answers to some questions that I never intended to ask. I have to run. I’m starved, and I have an appointment at—”

“An appointment where?”

“At—the hairdresser. Sweet of you to call. How’s the weather back there?”

“Cooled off considerably. Much improved.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“What’s the weather out there in San Francisco?”

“Ah, rainy and cold.” I realized my lie could be quickly discovered by flipping on the national weather channel. “Don’t believe what you see on TV, Seth. You know how weathermen always get it wrong.”

“Ayuh, I certainly know that. You keep in touch, now, heah?”

I promised to do that.

I tried Bobby McCormick at the paper but he was out. I left my name and said I would not be available until late in the afternoon. I headed downstairs where I satisfied my hunger with a crabmeat salad and, of course, the city’s honest-to-God sourdough bread. I hailed a cab and headed for police headquarters. Detective Walter Josephs was waiting for me. “Thanks for coming, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Please follow me.”

He led me to a dark, claustrophobic room. A large two-way mirrored window afforded a view of the adjoining room, where five men stood in front of a wall on which a height chart had been crudely painted. They all seemed to be staring at me, although I knew they couldn’t see because of the special properties of the glass separating us.

A microphone in the other room picked up their shuffling, and occasional sneeze or cough. They all looked somewhat alike, which, I knew, was done deliberately when mounting a lineup. One would be the suspect; the others would be drawn from different walks of life, including from the ranks of the police itself. Each man had a full head of black, curly hair. Their clothing ranged from a business suit on the one to the far right, to scruffy jeans, T-shirt, and torn leather jacket on the man at the left.

“Ready, Mrs. Fletcher?” Josephs asked.

“I suppose so. You want me to determine whether I saw one of these five men on the bridge the morning I was almost pushed off?”

“That’s right.” Josephs spoke into a microphone: “Okay, okay, shape up in there. Stand at attention and look straight ahead.”

I moved closer to the glass, narrowed my eyes and focused on each face. None was even vaguely familiar to me. The only immediate reaction I had was that the young man on the left, who was dressed shabbily, had an unusual face. His features were fine, actually delicate. A feminine face. I thought of the photograph of Brett Pearl that had appeared in the newspaper. They looked somewhat alike, at least according to my recollection of that picture.

“Well?” Josephs asked.

I shook my head and stepped back. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

“Certain about that?”

“Yes.”

Josephs spoke into the microphone again: “Turn around. slow. Left profile to the glass.”

I returned to my position up close to the window and took in their left profiles. Then I was treated to a look at the right side of their faces. Finally, Josephs had them stand with their backs to me.

“I’m sorry, Detective Josephs, but none of them are known to me. As I told you, I wasn’t aware of other people on the bridge, except in a general sense. I wish I could be helpful, but I’m afraid I can’t be in this instance.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he mumbled. “My old man liked to say that.”

I smiled. “Mind if I ask which of the five men in that room is your suspect?”

“Suspect? Who said we had a suspect in there?”

“No one said it, but I assume one of them is Norman Lana.”

He broke into a crooked grin. “Can’t put anything over on you, huh, Mrs. Fletcher? Yeah. Lana is the one on the left.”

The one with the delicate, feminine features.

“Has he been charged in Brett Pearl’s murder?” I asked.

Josephs shook his head. “We’ve held him as a potential suspect, but we don’t have enough to keep him any longer. He’ll float out of here, back to the Castro with the rest of them.”

My face reflected my puzzlement. “Back to ‘the Castro’? What’s that?”

“The Castro. Our famous gay community. You have heard we have a few homosexuals out here in San Francisco.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, Lana is pretty well known in the Castro. Works as a waiter these days in town, but does an occasional stint as a female impersonator.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“If you go for that sort of thing.”

“Since you can’t formally charge Mr. Lana with having pushed Brett Pearl off the bridge, I assume you can’t make any charges regarding my near disaster.”

“Right.”

“But you do think that Mr. Lana might have been the one who attempted to push me off.”

“Right again, Mrs. Fletcher. We’ll keep on him. Make his life miserable. Sometimes these types crack under that sort of pressure.”

I thought of Norman Lana’s constitutional rights, but didn’t express that to the detective as I followed him back to his office.

“So, have you gotten back to my manuscript?” he asked.

“No, I’m ashamed to say. But I certainly intend to. Tell you what, Detective. You give me a couple of hours with the Kimberly Steffer files right now, and I’ll read your manuscript with special care and interest this evening.”

Josephs looked as though he was involved in a painful internal struggle. Finally, after much grimacing, he said, “Okay. But unofficial. Same rules as before. Somebody comes in, you say you’re doing work for me as a temp.”

“Fair enough.”

I wondered, of course, whether my now-familiar face in San Francisco would render that lie absurd, but decided not to worry about it. That was his problem.

My two hours in front of the computer yielded little information. I did find various photographs of Kimberly Steffer, obtained during the course of the investigation and scanned into the police computer system, to be of interest. She was a strikingly beautiful young woman, with a vitality and freshness to her face. She’d worn her lovely blond hair in various styles. Some pictures had her wearing it long, beyond shoulder-length. In others, she’d had it cut severely short. But she was one of those women for whom it didn’t matter how she wore her hair. She was stunning in an understated sense no matter what style she chose.

When I was finished, I told Josephs I was returning to the hotel. This time he didn’t offer a ride. But he did remind me once again of my promise to go over his dreadful manuscript that evening. The thought of it was as appealing as facing a firing squad, but I pledged to myself to uphold my end of the bargain. I said I would call him in the morning with my evaluation, and left the building where a taxi stood waiting for a fare.

My driver was a heavyset Hispanic gentleman. He wore a baseball cap with the emblem of the San Francisco Giants on it. Sunlight coming through the window highlighted deep acne scarring on his full cheeks. His glasses had strikingly thick lenses.

I leaned forward to read the hack license affixed to the glove compartment. Phillipe Fernandez.

Why was that name familiar? I grappled with the question for a minute. Then, it hit me. That was the name of the cabdriver who’d testified at Kimberly Steffer’s trial that he’d picked her up at the mall the day of Mark Steffer’s murder. Much had been made of his poor eyesight, which evidently hadn’t played much of a role in the jury’s deliberations and ultimate verdict.

I attempted to engage him in conversation, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in small talk. He dropped me at the hotel. I paid the fare and lingered for a moment to take in his face. He didn’t look like a man that would lie to hurt another person, but I knew that was a silly conclusion to come to based upon a brief physical examination. I stepped back and thanked him for a pleasant ride. He didn’t respond, simply drove away.