No Footprints (13 page)

‟Who're you looking for?” I asked Mac.

The clatter and chatter bouncing off the marble made it easy to miss anything said to me, or to pretend to. Without responding, he turned toward the dais and eyed the four guests of honor: a tall, striking blond man who looked too outgoing to be a nerd and, if not, then too young to have amassed enough of a fortune to give away; a frail woman in a dress the same green as mine; and the Saparitsas, who were parents of a woman who'd been in Mike's year in school. He'd once, long ago, been to a party at their house and when he stumbled back home at 2:30 am he'd made such a racket he'd woken me up. Coming into my room, he'd leaned against the wall, sliding down till he was sitting on the floor, and started telling me about the place. The only thing I remembered now was that their house had more bathrooms than ours had rooms.

Mac was eyeing the lot like gaffers and techs do the lunch table (and actors wish they could).

‟Checking out the field, Mac?”

I must've hit a nerve. He started, fussed over his wine glass, and said, ‟Women are better backers. Better prospects. Arty and all.”

‟Really?” I said with full bore sarcasm, but he was already off toward the dais on his own. There was an elderly woman up there but he wasn't looking at her.
Ah, so
it's just
hot babes who're the money pots.

I'd've given him more thought if it hadn't struck me that a charity event like this was the type of thing Jessica Silverman might have been racing out to earlier. Philanthropists and those seeking generosity tend to frequent the same events. And how many would be scheduled on a Monday? I glanced around for someone who'd know her and ended up having a burst of conversation with the police chief, who drew a blank. I smiled at a deputy city attorney, then at the head of the Film Commission. But when I responded to a short, wiry guy he started a conversation that sent me onto the thin ice of white lies.

‟You remember me, from high school? Warren Llekko? Doing great,” he all but shouted. ‟Financial Counseling . . . Newsom”—the former mayor? Or not?—‟downturn, no way. New projects . . . big money.” One hand slipped around my waist, the other now waving to the blond man on the dais across the room.

‟Aaron!” he called, for the benefit of those within five feet of us. ‟Adamé!” There was no chance of Aaron Adamé hearing. But Llekko's maneuver created a flurry in our spot, like a stone lobbed into a pool.

The honoree turned in time to trace the shouted summons to a man embracing a redhead half a head taller than he. A look of annoyance crossed his face. I wondered if Llekko noticed.

‟Aaron's always making such a deal about how devoted a husband he is, how it's all for his wife. It's just his schtick. No one believes it, not about any guy like him.”

Guess Warren did notice, after all.

‟His wife's not even here. Guy gets a big honor and she blows it off. All for her, sure!” he added, with the righteousness of the recently snubbed.

Aaron Adamé's wife, who was also Macomber Dale's connection, i.e., the reason why Jed and I, and everyone else on our set, still had jobs. My ears perked up. ‟Why isn't she? Here, I mean?”

‟One of those artsy, I-want-my-own-identity babes. Likes doing her own thing and then telling everyone else how to do theirs. Everyone's relieved when she doesn't show.”

‟Really? The wife of a big donor like that?”

‟The luncheon.”

‟Huh?”

Warren did a broad double take. He was so clearly pleased with the story he'd get to tell that it kind of ruined his pose of insider disdain. ‟I thought
everyone'd
heard about it. Society charity luncheon, a dozen
society babes, planning to aid hunger in the city. Outside, on the sidewalk, is a group of the unwashed hungry. Adamé's wife walks in just as the other guests are being seated, veers into the kitchen, has the waiters load the entrées onto carts, and wheels them out to the sidewalk.”

I laughed.

‟It was all over the media. She didn't even attempt an apology. Just arrogant. And clueless.”

‟That's so annoying, isn't it?” But, of course, he missed my point.

Enough of him! If Jessica Silverman was here and I missed her, because of Warren Llekko . . . ! I turned and asked a woman in a nearby group if she knew her. When she shook her head, I moved to another trio. But I didn't fare any better with them. Mac was visible on the dais haranguing the frail woman in green. Her back was to me, showing her stiffly hunched shoulders. Her whole posture said
long suffering.
Adamé was talking to someone though with nowhere near the animation. The two of them reminded me of the contrasting picture of girls and boys relating: the two little girls facing each other, the boys staring straight ahead but talking just the same. In all his gesturing and moving Mac had edged a bit in front of Adamé, and his whole being implored the frail woman: ‟Assure me I'm more than him.”

Near the dais, watching, stood Declan Serrano.

I edged farther away, asked another group for Jessica Silverman, and a third. Despite my hunch I was startled when the next person I asked indicated a tall gray-haired woman in a silver silk suit with a sapphire brooch. It was the woman Serrano'd been with a few minutes ago. Close up she looked even more elegant. ‟Darcy Lott,” I introduced myself. ‟I called this afternoon.”

Jessica Silverman wore silver? It made me smile. But I could see why she'd made the choice. ‟As I said, I'm interested in the Ginger Rampono Fund.”

If she thought I wasn't potential benefactor material, she was cool about it. There's too much new money in the Bay Area to be sure of anyone's status. ‟Ginger's fund's just that, a bank account set up for her. She's one of the girls under our overall umbrella.”

I nodded. Few things are as easy as getting the head of any charity to talk about it. ‟You just got a large gift, I heard.”

‟A terrific one. Enough to send her to the perfect prep school and then on to college. If she's careful, there'll be enough for a year or two of graduate work.”

As I made a properly appreciative face, she spotted someone, flickered her fingers in a wave, and looked slightly abashed as she turned back to me. ‟We do have reliable regular donors—our honoree's wife for one. He gets the attention—and well deserved—but she's created a small but ongoing payment fund for such young girls.”

‟For Ginger Rampono?”

‟And others. But Ginger, yes. We were going to have a little ceremony this morning, right here actually, to honor the generosity of San Franciscans and show how one special contribution can change a girl's life.”

The mélange of talk, silk rustling, and shoe leather against the marble floor was growing louder. I leaned in toward her. ‟All that for two hundred twenty dollars?”

‟You're missing a couple zeroes and some change.”

‟Two hundred twenty thou? You sure?” I'd meant the two hundred and twenty dollars Tessa had sent, the twenty-buck increase from her monthly two hundred. What was she talking about?

‟Believe me.” She paused, lifted her glass to her lips, and considered me. She may possibly have drunk some of the wine, too.

‟To be in that accident and then to be put into foster care . . .”

‟So you know her?”

I made a sound too soft to hear over the buzzing echoes in the room, letting her translate it into what she wanted to hear.

She nodded. ‟Of course, virtually no child enters foster care without experiencing problems. But being with other kids acting out—well, I'm sure you get the picture. Ginger's the kind of youngster who might be overlooked. I oversee a lot of small funds for children, but with her, I worried. She needs someone to push her, to care.”

‟Two hundred thou!
Someone
cared.”

‟Yes.”

‟And Tessa Jurovik's two hundred a month—”

‟How'd you know it was every month?” She was staring right at me, with a look of suspicion that seemed to surprise her every bit as much as it unnerved me.

How
was definitely not a topic I wanted to get into. I went with the
know
part. ‟Tessa's contributions were all the more impressive considering how little she had herself.”

Silverman hesitated. She still looked wary. Before I'd brought up Tessa, we'd been on safe turf, discussing nothing that hadn't been in the news at some point. Now discretion battled curiosity. I needed to push a bit.

‟Do you know Tessa?”
As well as I do?
my tone indicated. I'd used this technique so often now I felt like I
did
know Tessa.

‟Not really. Other than last Friday's call our contact's mostly been email. Once or twice she dropped off checks but I didn't see her.”

‟She must have been ecstatic when she heard about that huge donation.”

Silverman hesitated.

‟You told her, didn't you?”

‟It's not our policy to reveal—”

‟But surely, after all those years of penny pinching to make her contribution every month,
surely
you let her know.”

‟Please don't repeat this. But, as you say, how could I
not
share that wonderful news? Not the source. We never reveal a donor's name without permission. Not until the donor does, at any rate.”

‟Here? Tonight?” I couldn't believe my luck. From somewhere to our left I heard the sound of shattering glass. It was all I could do now not to turn, but I didn't dare break our contact.

Her attention shifted. ‟Weren't you with him?” She was looking toward the dais—looking at Mac.

He was on the dais, waving his arms, but to what purpose I couldn't tell. Nor did I want to know. I needed to get him out of here before he ruined not only his reputation but Jed's and mine.

Yet I was so close. ‟Jessica, will the announcement be here?”

‟Here? No, no. This isn't that kind of event. It's small potatoes in this crowd, a couple hundred thou.” As if to instruct, she informed me, ‟A contribution says as much about the contributor as the beneficiary. No one announces a gift without considering the economic, the social, and the business ramifications.”

‟But didn't you announce it this morning, at the little celebration you mentioned?”

For the first time she looked shaken. With great effort I stood silent and waited.

‟Ginger”—she raised her voice over the roar behind me—‟was nicked by a car in an intersection that morning and she was too upset—”

‟Omigod, like when her mother died?”

‟No, nothing like, except the intersection part. Ginger was just walking across the street and a bumper scraped her shin. She's okay. But she'll be glad to get out of the city. It was unnerving for her.”

‟So how's it
not
like the accident with her mother?” I'd raised my voice to be heard over the din.

‟I thought you knew about Ginger. Don't you—”

‟Just tell me!” I practically shouted.

But she was no longer paying attention to anything I was saying. Automatically I followed her gaze.

Mac was mimicking pulling up and back, and—oh shit!—pointing at me. He had to be carrying on about me pulling Tessa back on the bridge. I dropped my purse, bent down, and took my time getting back up.

Now Mac was shoving the honoree, Adamé.
Shoving him!
Like this was a schoolyard. There was a space around the two of them and the older woman honoree. She was too close to them. Adamé said something. Mac shouted. He grabbed Adamé by the shoulders and gave him a hard push, sending him backward. For an instant I thought Adamé was going to fall, but he steadied himself. He raised an arm. He was going to sock Mac!

I needed to get out of here fast. Do it before Mac's outburst engulfed me, our movie, and Jed's and my good names.

I grabbed Jessica Silverman's arm. ‟Ginger Rampono's accident today—how was it different from the one a few years ago?”

She looked startled.

‟Look, it's a matter of public record!”

Still she didn't speak for a moment. ‟It didn't have to happen.” She sighed. ‟Ginger was in the passenger seat. She wasn't wearing a seat belt. Her mother was driving. No seat belt, either. Mrs. Rampono swerved, hit the gas instead of the brake, lost control, slammed a wall. Just missed three pedestrians.”

‟Why?”

‟A bike messenger cut in front of them.”

‟What happened to him?”
To her?

I could guess the answer before she spoke. ‟Disappeared.”

Time to kill. Could there possibly be a worse concept? Time, every moment of it, is so magnificent. Time is spectacular—even if instants of it could be freezing. But she'd realized how to get clothes. And food. Now, full, and warm, she's standing at Coit Tower taking in the evening over the bay.

The bay that she is not moldering in.

She's on the bike, which isn't moving, and she's balancing. It's where she is right now, balancing between the open, free wonder of life and the tense focus she'll need for the meeting an hour from now. She's not afraid, though. She
would
have been a couple days ago, but now the power is hers. She won't be demanding much. She doesn't want money, she never did, not for herself, only for Ginger. She would have given her life for Ginger. And now Ginger will be okay. And she is still alive. Both!

But that crosswalk attack this morning had been a warning. One she needs to push back against hard. That's not going to be a problem. She has the phone and the power and she can expose everything at will. If she decides to, she can.