No Footprints (17 page)

‟What do you think I am? She's an old lady!”

‟You're saying
he
shoved
you?”

‟Damn right! The asshole!”

‟And then?” I was glancing at the passenger side rearview.

‟He went racing out like there'd been a bomb scare. When I caught up with him he was standing outside and suddenly I'm taking the rap. Like they all thought I'd attacked him!”

I took a deep breath, but it didn't calm me down much. ‟Maybe what you're saying is the whole truth, but you're used to getting what you want and getting it pronto—”

‟
He fucking
shoved
me!”

‟Pull over.” We were a block away from the garage.

He eased to the curb. ‟Did I pass?”

‟What?”

‟Focusing in turmoil, like you told me! Couldn't've done better yourself, right?”

‟What you just told me, was that true?”

‟Sure, but—”

‟Be at my place at 9 o'clock tomorrow.” I slammed the door and Dale shot off down the empty street. I stepped back into the shadow of the nearest building before crossing to the garage.

Just in time to see Declan Serrano's car whip by.

I laughed. I wished I could catch the scene when the cockroach pulled Macomber Dale over. Who'd be the most outraged?

But by then I'd have the junker out of the garage and be out of the Mission.

The garage, known in the family as the mouse hole, was a shabby and cluttered box pressed between bigger commercial boxes that may have changed owners, made, sold, or stored different stuff over the years. There were no visible signs, not even subtle indicators by the mail slot, as to their current incarnations.

Mom and Dad had had a flat across the street before John was born. They'd kept a car here. When they moved out to the Avenues—a mile from Sea Cliff but hundreds of thousands of dollars beneath it—they passed the rundown garage on to a brother-in-law, and he, later, to another relative and, somehow, back to us. After a while the mouse hole had become not a convenience but more like a grumpy cat in a household that once had had mice. We kept it no matter how inconvenient because you never know.

Inside was the junker—the stunt car—next to stacks and jumbles of stuff various Lotts deemed worthy of keeping. The car was pointed out.

Odd.

Oh, wait, one of the film techs had worked on it this morning and parked it. A guy more considerate than any of us Lotts.

From habit I glanced under the hood, drove out, locked the garage door—not that anyone with any small bit of ambition couldn't get in—and headed south out of the city.

Considerate parker or not, the tech had left the car with a new squeal, the kind of thing a conscientious driver would take in to his mechanic and a junker driver just hoped didn't erupt till the heap was in the wrecking yard. (There actually was a tow lot/wrecking yard a couple blocks from the mouse hole, an arrangement that had benefitted both wreckers and Lotts over the years.) I was moving slowly, watching the cross traffic, checking the rearview.

I swung by Mom's house. No one was home, but Mom keeps a closet of emergency clothes for her offspring in need. We take; we leave. I left my cocktail dress and grabbed a plain black one, sandals, and an old leather jacket I'd gotten a deal on in an L.A. resale shop. It'd been years since I'd seen it. My hair I pulled back in a twist so tight I was almost looking at my ears. If Aaron Adamé was home too, he might still recognize me but his first thought wouldn't be: the woman with the guy who attacked me.

Sea Cliff is an anomaly in San Francisco, a couple block residential loop preserved between big segments of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, a spot so exclusive many locals have to look at a map to find exactly where it is. It could be a bit of Scarsdale or a wealthy Chicago suburb with a view of the Golden Gate. Substantial homes sit in the middle of substantial lawns. Grass in San Francisco is like evergreens in Miami. I wondered if these folk had to send their gardener out of town to learn how to mow.

In pretty much any other neighborhood, houses were right behind the sidewalks. Here, though, there were walks leading up the inclines to the doors. Here, unlike in other neighborhoods, cars were not bumper-to-bumper by every spot of curb. I eased the car near the Adamés' walk, closed the car door, not surprised that it no longer locked, and headed to the door, rang the bell, and waited. Inside, there was a dim glow. No car was visible, but it was likely in a garage behind.

The outside light came on. The door flew open and Aaron Adamé rushed forward. ‟I was worri—” He stared at me. ‟Who the hell are you?”

‟Darcy Lott. Is Varine here?”

‟No.”

I glanced at my watch. Almost 10:00 am, not late certainly, but late to be just out. ‟Where is she?”

He looked puzzled and it was a moment before it struck me that I'd sounded concerned. I'd sounded, I realized, like a friend who'd been expecting to find her home. I'd played this role, or close to it, with Kristi; was I slipping into it all too readily now? Me, the phony friend?

I scrunched my shoulders. No need to
pretend
shivering out here. It was plenty cold. ‟I really need to see her. I can wait or come back. I know it's late, but this is important.”

He hesitated. Up on the dais, in his elegant suit, he'd looked older and more imposing. Now, in jeans and a navy World Cup sweatshirt, he barely resembled the descriptions I'd heard: mover, dynamo, financial visionary with guts. He'd been described as leading the leading edge but now he just looked edgy and so tired I was almost sorry to be keeping him standing up. For an instant he even seemed to have forgotten I was there. Finally, he asked, ‟How is it you know her?”

‟Through Jessica Silverman.”

‟Ah, yes. You better come in. It's cold.”

It wasn't much warmer inside. The place would be a bear to heat. The entry was about the size of Mom's living room, but there the similarity stopped. The first thing you noticed at Mom's was the clutter on the hall table. Here there were two narrow ones, but no mail, keys, newspapers, notes, much less, and underneath, an array of shoes abandoned by whoever was living there. It was a room to walk through, as, a glance suggested, was the living room.

‟When do you expect Varine back?”

‟I . . . I don't know.”

‟Is she okay?”

‟Yes. Probably.” He was moving like a remote-controlled model car on low battery. Everything about him suggested his normal speed was snappy, and even now, worn out as he obviously was, he started each step with a burst but faded before his foot hit the floor. He seemed surprised to find himself in a much smaller version of the living room, dropped onto a red loveseat, and motioned me to the one opposite.

This little room was set up to be cozier, with bookcases, pictures, an electric fireplace that could have warmed but wasn't turned on, and a bar caddy from which he did not offer me a drink or take one.

I sat. ‟She's
probably
okay? You don't know where she is?”

‟You know how she is.”

‟Yes and no. I mean, I'm not married to her. But you seem worried.”

He shrugged.

The last thing I wanted to bring up was the reception, but I had little choice. I euphemized: ‟I heard comments about her skipping the award ceremony tonight.”

He sighed. ‟Don't people have anything better to gossip about? Don't they . . .” He sighed again, longer this time. ‟It's always like that, people
expecting
her to be here, to be there, like she's my boutonniere. She's entitled to her privacy, her own life. She goes above and beyond and still people expect her to be everywhere! Why should anyone care if she held a glass of wine and shouted over the din tonight?”

‟You
were
being honored.”

‟I'm honored a lot. That's what money gets you. Look, I don't mean to sound like a jerk. But people talk, no matter what. It just makes it hard on Varine.”

‟And you?” I was going to have to roll the dice here. How far could I go without blowing my cover? ‟Aaron, if this—her not showing up tonight—was nothing out of the ordinary, you'd be saying that. It's pretty obvious you're worried.”

He hesitated—and he had the look of a man who never vacillated. Finally, he leaned forward, elbows on thighs, and looked directly at me. ‟I just hope I haven't put her ‛on display'—what she calls it—too much. She doesn't drag me to the Mission, to her studio and, before, I never asked her to get involved in my work. But when I started doing well, there was pressure we hadn't expected. One local columnist actually told her that either she became part of my entourage, so to speak, or soon her absence would be the story and her private life would be gone altogether. I was naïve. I couldn't protect her. Of course Varine knows how much my career means. So, we kept trying to come up with the most she could get away with. But . . . it just never ends, does it?” He slumped.

‟Maybe she's at her studio.”

‟No! I called.”

‟Not answering the phone?”

‟How am I supposed to know? You're her friend, but don't tell me she always returns your calls. It's not like her. Maybe she didn't—”

‟How long since you've seen her?”

‟How long? Not yesterday. Maybe the day before. She was here; I was gone all day, till late, and then I had some guys over late and I just stayed down here. She's a lousy sleeper.”

‟But in the morning?”

‟Gone.” He shrugged. ‟I went out for a run and when I got back she was gone. No message. I knew she'd be at her studio.”

‟It seems . . .” I was hunting for a euphemism for distant relationship. ‟I don't know her that well, but I have to ask, is that normal?”

‟Hey, it's how we live. She's an artist. She's off in her studio thinking color and shapes and designs. I'm into money and being part of this city. See, your reaction is exactly the problem.”

‟Sorry. I didn't mean to—”

He shook off my apology.

‟You don't have any idea where she is?”

‟She's always . . . gotten in touch.”

‟Always, before you started to worry?”

‟Of—I don't know. No, yeah, okay, there was another time she was gone for almost a week, so maybe—” He nodded as if reassuring himself. ‟This is between us, right? I don't want to be reading about it somewhere.”

‟Of course.” I shifted to almost face him. ‟How'd she seemed recently? Have you noticed changes?”

‟I shouldn't be telling you this. Varine's very private.”

‟It's okay.” I knew I should have said:
you can trust me
or
I won't repeat it
, but concerned as I was about him, still, I couldn't bring myself to lie so totally. If any word he uttered was any help in finding Tessa, no way could he trust me.

But my assurance was enough for him. ‟I guess you could say she's moody,” he said.

‟Do you mean depressed?”

‟She's never been hospitalized, but there are periods she's got to be alone. I don't press her.”

Never hospitalized? It was a pretty low standard. ‟Don't you worry?”

‟Yeah, I worry. How about all the time? Don't you get it—there's nothing I can do. I've got so many meetings and crises, I can't keep up with her, with how she's holding up.”

‟But—”

‟What am I going to do, commit her?”

‟What
are
you going to do?”

‟Now? I was hoping when the doorbell rang . . . She could be in a hotel.”

The hotel! The
hotel!
‟Aaron, that's what I came to tell her. Her credit card was used for a room at a hotel. The Presidential Suite.”

‟She's there?” He let out a thunderous sigh and sank back in the sofa.

‟Wait. I don't know. I have to think a minute.”

‟I'll call—”

‟They'll tell you she checked in. With a bicycle.”

‟A bicycle!” He shook his head. ‟That's so like her, a bicycle in a Presidential Suite! Riding from bedroom to bedroom.” He looked straight at me. ‟God, I was worried, really worried this time. I . . . Shit, I am
so
goddamned relieved! You know, she could've called. We could've had—doesn't matter. Let's go.”

‟Wait. I'm not saying she's there.”

‟Then what?”

‟Someone using her credit card is there.”

He hesitated, then shook off the whole idea as if I hadn't spoken.

‟Let me see a picture of her.”

‟What are you talking about? You're her friend! You know—”

‟Show me the picture!”

‟Behind you, on the shelf there.”

I turned, reached for the frame, stopped dead. ‟Omigod!” There she was, standing beside him, her dark hair sweeping down beneath her chin line as it had been on the bridge. She was wearing the red drum major's jacket I'd hung on to to haul her back over the railing. I pulled the picture closer. ‟Omigod! This is
Varine?
”

‟Of course.”

‟Does she have a twin?”

‟No! She's an only child.” He snatched the frame out of my hand. ‟Just what is this? Who the hell are you?”

‟I'm trying to find—”

‟Leave! Just get out!”

‟I—”

He grabbed my shoulders. ‟Out!”

‟Things could be easier if I went with you.” He didn't object, which kept me from pointing out that only I knew which hotel we were headed to.