Martinis and Mayhem (19 page)

The cab company for which he drove was the Express Cab Company. A half hour later, after showering and changing into fresh clothing, I looked up the phone number for the company and called it.

“Express Cab Company,” a man said with an accent I judged to be Hispanic.

“Yes, hello. I was in one of your cabs earlier this afternoon. I was picked up in front of police headquarters and driven to the Westin St. Francis Hotel. My driver’s name was Phillipe Fernandez.”

“Yes?” the man said. “You have a problem?”

“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I had a small black bag with me that I left in Mr. Fernandez’s taxi. I was wondering—”

“Hold on. He’s here. He just got off duty.”

Phillipe Fernandez came on the phone. I repeated my story to him. “Did you find it by any chance?” I asked.

“No.”

“Gee, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Do you remember me? You picked me up at police headquarters.”

“Sure, the blond lady. Red blazer.”

“That’s me,” I said. “You have a good memory.” I didn’t add that his eyesight was better than it appeared to be.

“No bag. I find no bag.”

“Well, maybe I’m mistaken and left it some other place.”

“You give me your number in case I find it.”

“No, but thank you. I’ll call back tomorrow to see if it turned up.”

“Okay.” The sound of the phone being hung up clicked in my ear.

It was almost five. I wondered if George had returned from his lunch and shopping expedition. I dialed his room but received his voice mail: “Jessica here, George. I’m in my room. Give a call when you come in.”

I pulled Detective Josephs’ partially completed manuscript from a dresser drawer and settled in to begin the unpleasant chore of reading it once again, this time with an eye toward making editorial notes that would at least indicate I’d tried. But I hadn’t gotten through the first page when the phone rang. I assumed it was George, picked it up, and said, “Hi. How was your lunch?”

There was silence on the other end. “George?”

“No. Is this Jessica Fletcher?”

“Yes, it is.” My heart sunk. Obviously a reporter. That left me with the choice of rudely hanging up, or answering questions.

But then I was made aware that this was not a reporter calling me.

“Mrs. Fletcher, my name is Norman Lana.”

“George, I had to run out for a few hours. It’s now five. I hope to be back here at the hotel by seven. I’ll call you then. But please don’t wait for me if you can make other plans for dinner. Leave a message on my voice mail and maybe we’ll catch up somewhere tonight.”

That message left, I took a few minutes to read my San Francisco guidebook about the section of the city known as the Castro, named after Castro Street that runs through the heart of it. It is, as the book pointed out, one of the largest concentrations of homosexuals in America. The book also made the point that a tremendous program of gentrification had taken place, turning that area into a vital, vibrant part of the greater San Francisco area, as well as a popular tourist destination.

I gave the cabdriver Norman Lana’s address and settled back. Lana had suggested we meet in a bar around the corner from where he lived, but I was uncomfortable with that. He sounded as though he had something important to tell me; it’s been my experience that public places, especially noisy bars, are seldom the right venue for exchanging meaningful information.

The guidebook was right. As we proceeded down Castro Street, I took in the hustle bustle going on all along the avenue. Although it was still daylight, the area had the festive feeling of much later at night, when bars and restaurants would be going full tilt.

We turned off Castro and stopped in front of a pretty, narrow three-story building painted in a pastel apricot tint, with contrasting blue paint on its shutters and front door. I paid the driver, and stood on the sidewalk. Lana said he lived on the top floor, which was confirmed by his name next to the uppermost buzzer in a vertical row of three. One apartment to a floor, I gathered as I pushed the button.

His voice came through a tiny speaker. “Mrs. Fletcher?” I confirmed that it was. “Come on up.” A buzzer sounded, releasing the latch on the inside door.

Lana stood at the top of the two flights of stairs. He was dressed as he had been at the lineup at police headquarters. His smile was wide and engaging. I shook his extended hand. “Come in, please, Mrs. Fletcher. It was good of you to come so quickly.”

The apartment was neat as a pin, and tastefully decorated and furnished. The walls of the large living room were a delicate yellow, the oversize trim painted a brilliant white. A large, obviously expensive Oriental rug covered most of the wood floor, whose exposed edges were burnished to a high luster. Tasteful paintings and prints were everywhere.

“What a pretty place,” I said.

“Thank you. Where I live means a lot to me. I need order and cleanliness.”

“So do I,” I said.

“Something to drink? Wine? I have a nice selection.”

“No, thank you.”

“Tea? Coffee?”

“A cup of tea would be lovely,” I said, sitting in a small green armchair by the window.

Lana returned a minute later from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea on a small silver tray. A bowl of sugar, and a delicate Japanese pitcher held what turned out to be half-and-half. He pulled a leather director’s chair from a comer and sat across a glass table from me. He’d opted for a glass of white wine, which he raised in a toast. “To having the pleasure of sitting with America’s foremost mystery writer,” he said.

I lifted my teacup and said, “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Lana, although I’m not sure the rest of what you said is worthy of a toast.”

“Ever been to the Castro?” he asked.

“No. I’ve been to San Francisco many times, but never had the pleasure of seeing this part of town.”

Lana laughed. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Unless, of course, you had a friend here.”

“Exactly. You said you wanted to talk to me about something very important, Mr. Lana. What is that?”

He sat back in his chair and fixed his gaze on the wineglass he held in both hands. Finally, he placed the glass on the table, leaned forward, and said, “I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’ve been accused of pushing Brett Pearl off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Yes, I am aware of that. I read the newspapers.”

He shook his head. “No, you know it for reasons other than what the newspapers have written. You were at police headquarters today when they put me in a lineup.”

I chewed my cheek and thought of a response. How would he know that? I did the logical thing. I asked.

“I saw you leave the building,” he said. “They held me for a while after the lineup, then said I could go, not because they decided I didn’t push Brett off the bridge, but because they don’t have enough evidence to hold me beyond a certain point. I’m not a lawyer, but I do know that much.”

I nodded and sipped my tea.

“They also questioned me about whether I had anything to do with the accident you had on the bridge.”

I raised my eyebrows and smiled. “I would hardly call it an accident. Someone
did
try to push me off.”

“Bad choice of words,” he said. “More tea?”

“No. Did you—did
you
try to push me off the bridge?”

My directness shocked him into silence. He recovered, gave forth his infectious grin, and replied, “I certainly did not, Mrs. Fletcher. If there’s anything you can believe about what’s been going on, believe that.”

I didn’t commit myself to a response, and waited for him to continue.

“I suppose I sound as though I’m talking around the reason I wanted to speak with you. I had a conversation with Kimberly after I left police headquarters.”

“You did? How did that come about?”

“I called her.”

“And they allowed you to speak with her?”

“Yes. I called because I need someone to stand up for me, to verify what I’m about to tell you.” He scrutinized me for a reaction, but didn’t get one. I was determined to offer as little as possible, but to take in as much as he was willing to offer.

“Kimberly is one of the few people in this world who knows the real situation between Brett and me. I suppose you read we were roommates.”

“Yes.”

“We were, but not for very long. You see, Mrs. Fletcher, the problem is—” He sat back again and closed his eyes tight. I wondered if he was about to cry. When he opened his eyes, they were moist. “Brett and I were lovers.”

I suppose my expression reflected my surprise at that statement, although what he’d just said hadn’t come from left field. After having read that they were roommates, and factoring in Detective Josephs’ comment about Lana’s sexual orientation, I wondered whether they had, in fact, been lovers.

Lana continued to reinforce that possibility. “The difficulty was, Mrs. Fletcher, that I’ve been out of the closet, as they say, for a long time. But Brett never acknowledged his homosexuality. He kept it a big, dark secret from everyone except a select few friends. Kimberly was one of those friends.”

I silently questioned his use of the term “friends.” From what I’d learned, Kimberly Steffer and Brett Pearl were hardly that. Pearl had sued her. According to Kimberly, it had been a nasty episode in her life, and her husband, Mark, had had confrontations with Pearl about the lawsuit.

All I said to the young man across the table from me was, “Go on. I’m listening.”

“Even though we stopped living together, we continued our relationship right up until Brett jumped to his death.”

It came involuntarily from me. “Jumped?”

Lana enthusiastically nodded and slid to the edge of his chair. “That’s exactly what happened, Mrs. Fletcher. For some reason, the police have decided that Brett was pushed to his death, murdered. Some witness supposedly saw it happen. But that isn’t true. It’s a damn lie. Brett jumped—killed himself—because we’d ended our relationship the day before.”

I said, “I know jilted lovers sometimes take the drastic step of ending their lives, but it’s hard for me to accept the reality of anyone doing that over a broken relationship of the sort you and he had.”

I wondered if he was thinking the same thing as I was, that I’d just demonstrated classic homophobia in discounting the depth of feelings that could develop between two men, or two women. I certainly didn’t mean that.

If Lana was thinking the same thing, he didn’t indicate it. He said, “I know it’s hard to believe. But that’s why I called Kimberly. Brett had once told her that if anything ever happened to end our relationship, he would kill himself. I called hoping that Kimberly would remember that conversation.”

“And? Did she?”

“Yes.”

I felt the need to get up and stretch my legs. I looked out the window onto the quiet, pretty street, then slowly walked the perimeter of the room, admiring the art on the walls. I could feel Lana’s eyes following me. I turned and said, “I don’t know whether you know it or not, Mr. Lana, but Kimberly Steffer and I have had a number of face-to-face conversations. I happen to believe in her innocence, and have been spending time here in San Francisco attempting to prove that she did not kill her husband. I will, of course, ask her whether she remembers such a comment from Brett Pearl.”

He joined me where I stood by a high-curved archway leading to the bedroom. “I hope you do, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

We were very close to each other, no more than a few feet separating us. I’d noticed during the police lineup his feminine features. Now, being in such close proximity, I was struck even harder by that observation. With longer hair, and appropriately dressed, he could pass for a woman. His skin was smooth and flawless, no hint of a beard line. Detective Josephs said that Lana had once made a living as a female impersonator.

“I was told by someone that you had worked as a female impersonator, Mr. Lana.”

If I thought the question might make him nervous, I was wrong. He immediately said, “For a couple of years, as a matter of fact. I loved it. I was good at it.”

“Is there much work for female impersonators?” I asked.

He laughed softly. “There is here in San Francisco. I worked at Finocchio’s. Have you been there?”

“No, I haven’t. But I’ve heard about it. You must have been very good to work there. I understand it’s the best club of its kind.”

“It sure is. I’d still be there, except they like to change performers on a regular basis. Actually, I had a pretty long run at Finocchio’s. If you’d like to go there some night, I can arrange VIP treatment for you.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, crossing the room, picking up my cup, and draining the last of the tea. “I may take you up on that.”

I took my handbag from the floor and came to the center of the room. “I really must be going, Mr. Lana. I have to admit that I’m having trouble accepting that Brett Pearl jumped from the bridge, rather than having been pushed. But I’ll take your word for it. By the way, how do you know for sure he jumped? He really might have been pushed. After all, having made a comment to Kimberly Steffer a long time ago that he would kill himself hardly stands as evidence that that’s what he actually did.”

“No, Mrs. Fletcher. I
know
he jumped because I saw him.”

“You were on the bridge when he jumped?”

He trained his eyes on the Oriental rug and said softly, “Yes, I was. We’d been arguing for almost twenty-four hours. It had more to do with his refusal to acknowledge his homosexuality than it did with our breakup. We both knew that the relationship was going to end. It had been going downhill for quite a while. I loved him very much, and couldn’t stand his refusal to acknowledge who and what he was. I pleaded with him to come out into the daylight. Living that kind of lie is a horrible burden for anyone, Mrs. Fletcher. I know. I lived it for too long myself. The most liberating, joyous day of my life was when I decided to no longer live the lie.