No Footprints (19 page)

‟Contract?
Contract?
So there really is one? I thought that asshole was just shaking me down!”

‟Whoa! What contract, with who?”

He stared, as if trying to figure me out.

I stared back.

‟Don't play the innocent! I saw you walk in with him. It's your movie he's backing.”

‟
That's
the contract, the deal with Dale? Why would she be so unnerved by that?” It just didn't compute. ‟Are you sure?”

‟Oh yeah! Everyone within five yards heard him ranting about Varine being in on some deal. She had a contract with him. Hadn't paid. Now she owed him big money. It was crazy, and, let me tell you, it was embarrassing. We don't ignore our obligations. I don't know what Harriet Knebel thought, but—”

‟That wasn't the idea. Believe me. He was just supposed to be meeting and greeting, drumming up support for the production. Not making enemies.”

‟I told him—okay, not politely—to leave. That's when the guy attacked me and you know the rest.”

‟But why even bother with him to begin with?”

He paused as if considering. ‟I don't know the details. This was Varine's thing. But, Dale's father did us a good turn years ago, when it mattered. So now his clown of a son's on the skids, desperate. I know Varine—she'd figure how could she say no?”

‟Still, why get so distraught?”

‟I don't know! Look, I just don't know.”

We were so wound up. Too many questions with no answers. The big question was Varine, her state of mind, her safety. I had to—

Without warning, Adamé clicked a number on his cell. ‟This is Aaron, Varine's husband. We've had an emergency. I'm having trouble reaching her. Have you seen her in the last couple days?” I couldn't hear the reply but he seemed to be steeling himself for the final admission. ‟Can you tell me who to call?” Then, ‟Let me know if you hear anything. It's important.” He disconnected and punched in a new number.

I watched him repeat the sequence four times, always gracious, but crisp enough to keep the other party from gushing or questioning. Each
time without success. At the end, having gotten no encouragement, he visibly sagged.

Then, as suddenly, he sprang up. ‟I can't sit here. I've got to . . . I'm going to her studio.”

‟You know where it is?”

‟Of course. But I never went there, not even a drive-by. It wasn't easy, but I never let on I knew.”

I had a whole bunch of thoughts about that. ‟I'm going with you.”

We whipped down the elevator, him questioning me about the apartment in the Bagpipe Arms. The door opened onto the lobby. Adamé strode to the valet parking for his car. I wouldn't have been surprised if Scatto from Security appeared and grabbed me.

But it wasn't he.

‟You almost got me fired!” Marc was blocking my way. He was keeping his voice down, but not his anger.

‟Sorry. Really. I”—it galled me to have to admit—‟panicked. Anything else I did would have ended up incriminating you.”

‟And yourself.”

‟There's that. But I was incriminated anyway and I've promised to pay. So, you're in the clear.”
Unless you're spotted with me now.
A nicer person might have mentioned that. Instead, I said, ‟We're still trying to find her. There's been no word at all. You were the last person to see her.”

‟Good luck.”

‟Wow, that's a little cold for a woman you spent the night with just yesterday.”

‟Yesterday is not today.”

‟And that means?”

He stared at me a moment, then shrugged. ‟Nothing. It means nothing at all.”

He turned away.

‟Not hardly. What changed things?” I caught his arm and held him there. ‟Did you see each other today?”

‟I saw
her
. She . . .
she
saw a bellman.”

Behind him I could see Aaron Adamé looking around for me. ‟What happened?”

He pulled away.

‟Was she in the suite? Did she call you? What? Marc, this is a woman who's trying to kill herself!”

He inhaled slowly, straightening, the way people do when gearing up for decision or escape. ‟Do you see that shop over there? The mannequin.” He nodded in the direction of a boutique on the far side of the lobby. Its window framed a single elegant mannequin dressed in a honey brown tweed suit that was such a period piece it took me a moment to realize it was actually for sale.

‟She was dressed like that?”

‟She moved quickly across the lobby to the main entrance. When she noticed me, she nodded like any other rich lady to her gigolo and kept going.”

‟The same woman you spent the night with?”

‟The same skin and bones. Beneath the flesh, who can say? I am not often so naïve. I hoped . . . I brought the tray and . . .”

Adamé had moved to the center of the lobby, scanning the area. In a minute he'd be gone with or without me.

To Marc I said, ‟What about that contract she couldn't avoid? The one she talked about the night before?”

He shrugged. ‟Renegotiated.”

‟What?”

‟Something changed. Enough for her to buy new clothes.”

I looked over at the mannequin in the shop window, and in that moment Marc was around my side and through the service door behind him, the one I hadn't even noticed and he had been watching.

But I had more pressing concerns. I caught up with Aaron Adamé as he cleared the main entrance and made for his waiting X6. But I'm a pro.
In one smooth dive I opened the door and slid into the seat as the car shot onto the street.

There's no way to drive down from Nob Hill without qualifying for stunt pay. Adamé chose the drop-and-bounce route to the Embarcadero, crossing cable car tracks, nearly plowing through pedestrians in Chinatown, jumping lights and screeching around corners. At a light on the Embarcadero where there was no option but to stop, he said, ‟She'll be there,” as if assuring me, as if positive thinking would make it so.

I knew it couldn't be true. It made no sense for her to buy a whole new look, not clothes she liked, but ones she could point to and purchase quickly, if she was going back to her old life.

But the bike? Did she fly down that hill, on a bicycle, wearing a vintage tweed suit and dress pumps and praying her handbrakes would hold? Or did she haul the bike into a cab for the near vertical trip, and chance leaving a trail? In fact why not jump on the bike in her biking gear and maneuver the steep hill down to Union Square? Macy's, Saks, Bloomingdale's, Neiman Marcus, they were all there, half a mile away. She could have had her pick of looks.

Oh.
She'd've had to sign the credit card there. In the lobby boutique she could charge the clothes to her room. What did that tell me?

She didn't want her signature on record now.

Was it at the hotel? I'd have to find that out. Later.

Now it was all I could do to keep from being banged around like seeds in a maraca. Adamé shot through the Mission, every turn seemingly spur of the moment, every stop a near-windshield event. When he pulled up by the apartment, forbidding as the neighborhood was, I was relieved. Her building was shabby in daylight, and darkness did not improve it. The streetlight was broken and shadows coated the stucco cube like extra layers of soot.

He opened his door. ‟Wait here.”

‟No way.” I was out and onto the sidewalk. ‟Entrance on the side.” What light there was on the street didn't make it to the narrow path between buildings. I'd be stumbling over rats—alive or dead—before I realized they weren't just mounds of garbage.

Naturally, then, there was no light over the door. I rang the bell, surprised that that worked. We stood, ears perked.

‟Nothing,” I muttered, and proceeded to press all three buzzers.

They rang into silence. I tried the doorknob, but now when I needed it to open, it didn't budge. Of course she wasn't here. Still, I pounded again.

There was just enough light to reveal Adamé next to me shaking his head.

Behind us, on the street, I heard glass breaking.

‟Damn, that's all I need! Hey, get away from that car!” He raced toward the sidewalk.

I shot a glance at the second-story window. If she was there, this'd be the time she'd be peeking out of the edge of the shade.

Nothing moved, not enough for me to make out in the darkness.

On the street, someone was yelling back at Adamé.

Jeez! Didn't the guy have any street sense? I bolted down the steps after him. I found him facing a figure about his own height, burly but shaky enough that his most potent weapon was probably his smell. Still, if you live on the streets, carrying a knife makes sense. Adamé must've had the same take; he already had his wallet out.

Or not. He wasn't handing over his entire billfold in panic. He was giving the guy a couple of bills. He was patting his shoulder. He looked like he was about to hug him.

And now he was bouncing back to me.

‟That homeless guy, he saw her! Less than an hour ago. On her bicycle, riding away from here.”

‟To where?”

He pointed north.

Toward downtown. ‟Did she say she was going downtown? Or was she just headed that way?”

‟He saw her, didn't talk to her, other than to ask for money.”

‟So she was riding downtown.” Toward BART, to airport transit, to buses with bike racks. ‟That could mean anywhere.”

But he wasn't focused on the future. ‟An hour ago! She was here an hour ago!” He was almost whooping. ‟I'm so goddamned relieved. I can't . . . I didn't realize how frightened . . . I'm just so relieved.”

‟But . . .?”

‟Yes, yes, I know. But she's alive; that's what matters. She could have—I have to say, now that I know she's alive the thought of that bridge turns me to stone. I can't believe . . . But she's not there. She's ridden off to . . . somewhere. Maybe home. Maybe she's home right now. Shall we—”

I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight. ‟Call me. If she's there, you don't want me hanging around.”

He nodded.

‟Call me when you get home, okay? Either way.” If she wasn't there I'd ask about friends and relatives who didn't like him. If she was past renegotiating her contract, they'd be the ones she'd be seeking refuge with. With luck—with a bit of tact—I'd be the one talking to them.

‟Of course,” he said. ‟Soon as I get home.”

Maybe.
‟Give me your cell number.” The Golden Gate Bridge walkway was closed. All was good for the night. So why did I feel so uneasy?

Aaron Adamé dropped me back at the mouse hole to pick up the junker I'd need for tomorrow in Berkeley. In the time it had taken us to drive there he'd moved from saying Varine might have been heading home to picturing her already there, showered, wrapped in the blue and yellow Mexican bathrobe he'd gotten her for Christmas, and nibbling on the cranberry biscotti he'd left out on the table for her. He'd interspersed each comment with thanks to me. He was desperate to get home.

I was equally desperate to get a hold of Declan Serrano. I called the station.

Not in. Did I want to leave a message?

Nope. Would they give me his cell?

Not a chance.

I hesitated, drove a couple blocks, pulled over, and dialed again.

And hung up before the ring started.

A car squealed around the corner, another on its tail. This was not a neighborhood in which to be hanging around hesitating.

Do it or screw it! I redialed Mike.

‟What's up, Darce?”

‟Tell me if there's any way this can put you in a bind, okay?”

‟You sure know how to get a guy's attention.”

Without planning to I'd ended up on what I still was calling ‟Tessa's” street. I pulled over. ‟Can you get me Declan Serrano's cell phone number?”

‟The cockroach! You want the personal cell phone number for the cockroach? Should I get you the devil's home phone, too?”

‟Some'd say it's the same line.”

Mike laughed. ‟Give me ten.” He clicked off.

I didn't have to give him ten at this particular spot. That's why cell phones are mobile.

A car cruised around the corner and stopped.

Byron, the roommate.

And, from the looks of it, his girlfriend. Also, from the looks, he'd never have passed a Breathalyzer and he sure wasn't walking a straight line. Nor was she. I rolled down the window, as much to see if they made it to the door as anything. Byron had grumbled to me about her refusing to spend the night when Tessa was there. That told me something.

A blast of noise came from the house. The two of them started.

‟Fucking bagpipe!” he yelled.

At midnight, this really was a lawless neighborhood.

My phone rang. ‟Mike?”

‟Here you go . . .”

‟Hang on.” I cranked up the window. ‟You got it?”

‟Yeah but—why're you calling him?”

‟Long story. Short is, I was told a homeless man across the street from the Bagpipe Arms saw her leave. But this isn't a neighborhood where the homeless hang out. There might be SROs around. There might be alleys a guy'd sleep in. But it's not like downtown where you'd find them hanging on the street hoping for cash. So, who was this gentleman, hanging out across from the apartment of the missing employee of Declan Serrano?”

‟So you're going to call him and ask?”