Victims (12 page)

“All right,” she said, “as long as your time is so valuable, why don’t you tell me what you want to know, which questions you want answered?”

“I’d like to know everything about your husband. Anything and everything. Starting at the beginning, and ending the last time you saw him.”

She thought about the request for a moment. Then she shrugged, signifying that she had nothing to lose by telling the story. “I’ve known Gordon for four years. I met him when I went to work for him, as his secretary. That was just before he moved to San Francisco—with his wife and son. There were two of us running the New York office after he left. From the first time I saw Gordon, I liked him—a lot. Maybe it was because we came from similar backgrounds. We’re both Jewish, both from poor families. We both grew up in New York—in the wrong neighborhoods. Gordon’s father died when Gordon was five years old, and his mother’s health was always bad. So Gordon had to work from the time he was twelve. It was the same with me. I always worked. All the way through C.C.N.Y. I worked. When Gordon was sixteen, he started with a bail bondsman, doing odd jobs. Two years later, he was working for a small loan company. By the time he was twenty-one, he was managing the business. When he was twenty-five, he started his own small loan business. Then he got into venture capital. By the time he was thirty, he was working on his second million, maybe his third or fourth million. About that time he—”

“Excuse me. What’s venture capital, exactly?”

“It’s investment banking on a small scale. He invests in small businesses, new businesses, and takes a piece of the business in lieu of cash repayment on the loan. If the business makes it big, so does Gordon. If the business fails, it’s a writeoff. Right from the start, he was a success—a big success. About that time, when he was thirty years old, he met Marie Guest. She’d just divorced her first husband, a man named Beresford, who had married her for her money.”

“How long have you and Kramer been married?”

“About two years.”

“When did Kramer decide he wanted to take John?”

“Do you mean take him physically? Or try to get custody through the courts?”

“I mean physically.”

“About six months ago, I’d say. Gordon was divorced three years ago. The divorce almost ruined him—financially, and emotionally. I don’t know how Guest did it. Gordon never talked about it. But, somehow Guest forced Gordon to leave San Francisco, permanently. So Gordon went back to New York, where he still had an office—where I was still working. He began working like a madman, to forget about his wife, and Guest, and his son. We started going out together. Then—” Momentarily she hesitated, obviously reluctant to venture into intimacies. “Then I moved in. I quit working for him, and moved in. Except that—” Her lips curved in a tight smile. “Except that I never saw him, he was working so hard. We lived together for six months, and then we got married. We—” She broke off again as her gaze wandered thoughtfully away. I saw her eyes soften. In that moment, with her vulnerability fleetingly revealed, I felt the tension between us easing.

“You’re happily married, then.”

She nodded. “Yes. It—” She swallowed. “It’s like I said before. We understand each other. We always have.” She paused again, her eyes still soft, lost in memory. Then, bringing herself back to the present, she began speaking more concisely.

“As long as we were living together, it never seemed to bother Gordon that he couldn’t see John. He never talked about it. Sometimes I’d ask, but he’d always close me off. But then, when we got married, he started to talk about it, about how much he missed John, and how much he wanted to see him. But for a while, I thought that, mostly, it was anger and not love for John. He’d always say that Guest took everything from him—his money, his business, even his son.”

“He didn’t blame his wife, then. Only his father-in-law.”

She nodded. “Gordon’s never been angry at Marie. From the first, almost, he thought of her as a victim. Just like he was a victim—he, and John, too. It got to be—” She broke off, shaking her head. “It got to be an obsession with Gordon, what Guest was doing to him. That’s part of the reason, I think, that he wanted so badly to take John. He was determined—absolutely determined—that Guest wasn’t going to turn John against him. So last February, I think it was, he came to San Francisco, secretly. He saw John—waited outside John’s school, and took him for a ride in his car. They were only together for a half hour. But, God, that half hour changed Gordon. I met him at the airport, when he came home. And it was pathetic, almost, to hear him talk. I remember feeling sorry for him, and also a little scared for him, too. I mean, the experience of seeing John made him frantic, almost. He said that, once he got John, he’d take him out of the country, if he had to do it. He’d even made plans. He transferred money to a Swiss bank account. A lot of money.”

“You say he saw John secretly. Why secretly? He had visitation rights. He wasn’t breaking any laws, seeing his own son.”

“I know. I asked him the same question. He said that he’d’ve had to get his wife’s permission for the visitation. And he didn’t want to go through that.”

“Did you know he’d hired Lester Bennett to steal the boy?”

“Yes. But he also told me that Bennett reneged. That’s when he started making his own plans.”

“Was he working with anyone, planning to steal John this time? Was anyone helping him?”

“No. No one. He was going to do it himself, this time. All by himself.”

“Did he ever mention Charlie Quade?”

“No. Never. That’s—” She blinked. “That’s the man who was killed.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Kramer. That’s the victim.” I paused, thinking about what she’d said earlier—and thinking, too, about Katherine Barnes, Charlie’s permanently damaged girlfriend. “Another victim,” I said. “There’s a lot of them in this case.”

“But only one dead.”

“That’s right,” I answered. “Only one dead.”

“Who was he, this Charlie Quade? I don’t even know.”

“He was a private detective. When Alexander Guest discovered that your husband intended to take John, Guest hired guards to protect the boy. He hired a guard, full time, at Marie’s house. And, when he took John on the weekends, he hired Charlie Quade. Did you know that—know that John was guarded, day and night?”

“No. And I don’t think Gordon knew, either.”

“I think he did. At least, he knew there was a guard at Marie’s house—a full-time guard.”

She didn’t reply. Instead she asked, “When can I see Gordon? I brought a lawyer with me. Lieutenant Friedman said that, after I talked to you, I could see Gordon—me, and the lawyer, too.”

Instead of answering, I said, “There’s one thing about this case that puzzles me. Maybe you can help me with it.”

She eyed me cautiously for a moment, then said, “I’ll try. What is it?”

“Your husband is a successful businessman. He’s got rights, as a citizen, and he’s got rights as a father. Now, I can see how Alexander Guest, with his connections, could intimidate almost anyone. I can also understand how hard it would be, to win in court against him. After all, he’s one of the best trial lawyers in the country. Even if he wouldn’t plead his own case, he’d have the very best legal talent available, pleading for him.

“But, as I say, your husband has rights, especially as a father. And he’s aware of these rights. So I don’t understand how Guest could flatten him out so completely. It seems like Kramer just rolled over and played dead. And that doesn’t sound like him—not according to the way you describe him. And not according to my impression of him, either. To me, he looks like a fighter. Not a quitter.”

“Gordon’s no quitter,” she said. “You’re right, he’s a fighter. But—” She looked away. Tension tightened her face as she decided how to answer. “But Gordon made mistakes. And Guest—” She hesitated. Then suddenly, resolutely, she shook her head. “That’s got nothing to do with John, or this—this Quade murder. And I don’t want to—”

Once again, my electronic beeper began shrieking. When I asked to use her phone she agreed. Then she asked again when she could see her husband. I glanced at my watch. The time was 4:10
P.M
.

“As soon as I can talk to Lieutenant Friedman, I’ll tell him to authorize it. How long will you be in town?”

“I’m not sure. I might have to go back to New York tomorrow, to see about money for Gordon’s defense.”

I nodded, went to the phone and dialed Communications. Moments later, Friedman came on the line.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Can you talk?”

“No.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t classified. It’s just a surprise.”

“You sound like Canelli, building the suspense.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “Comparing me to Canelli. I thought we were buddies.”

“What’s the surprise?”

“The surprise is, you’ve got a lunch date tomorrow. With Alexander Guest. You’re to be at Jason’s at 12:30.”

Jason’s …

One of the city’s best, most expensive restaurants, famous throughout the world. I remember reading that Alexander Guest held court at Jason’s every day for lunch, always at the same table, reserved only for him.

“Well, I said, “you’re right. I’m surprised.” I glanced at Diane Kramer, who was sitting as before, thoughtfully staring out the window at a cable car coming down the Powell Street Hill. “What’s the background?”

“There’s no background, really. At least, not that I know about. He called an hour ago, and asked for you. I said you were out in the field, and wouldn’t be back, probably. He asked for your home phone, which I refused to divulge, naturally. Then he ordered me to instruct you to appear at Jason’s tomorrow. I hope you’ve got a clean shirt.”

“I hope so, too.”

“T
RY THE REX SOLE
,” Alexander Guest advised. “It’s the house specialty.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll have the breast of chicken.”

“Wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“You don’t drink?”

“No,” I answered. Then, remembering Marie Kramer, and wondering what his response might be, I decided to say, “I used to drink, too much. I had to quit.”

“Almost everyone I know drinks too much. Including myself.”

I made no reply.

“Are you A.A.?”

I shook my head. “No. I should’ve joined. It would’ve been easier, I think. But I didn’t.”

“You don’t share your problems with others.” It was a statement, not a question. Alexander Guest had made another pronouncement.

“I suppose that’s right. I hadn’t ever thought of it that way.”

As if he’d expected the answer, Guest nodded perfunctorily, acknowledging what he obviously considered a compliment. Then, still looking at me with his impersonal gray eyes, he said, “You’re an atypical policeman, Lieutenant. Most policemen are very narrow, very suspicious, not very sensitive. You’re a different breed, it seems to me. What’s your background?” He asked the question brusquely, as if he were cross-examining me, and expected an immediate answer.

Toying with my fork, I smiled to myself. Then I shrugged. Even though it was a story that I seldom told, I somehow felt no resentment at the question, no reluctance to answer him. I felt as if he were challenging me to a contest. To win, I had only to do the unexpected, and answer honestly. “I played football in high school, here in San Francisco. In my senior year, I was all-state halfback. That got me a football scholarship to Stanford. After I graduated, I played pro ball for two years, with the Detroit Lions. I was always just ahead of the cut, though, and when I got my knee injured, they dropped me. About that time, my marriage started to come apart.”

“You say you were on a football scholarship. Does that mean you were born poor?” As he spoke, a sardonic smile teased one corner of his mouth.

“I suppose it does. My father was a small-time realtor, here in the city. When I was fifteen, he cleaned out his bank account and left town with his ‘girl Friday.’ My mother went to work for Sears, selling ladies’ dresses.”

“What about your father? What happened to him?”

Deciding whether to answer, I looked at him silently for a moment. He was still playing his little game, still challenging me to tell him the truth. It was a game that only he could win.

Yet, for the same perverse reason that I began the story, I decided to finish it. “He and his girl Friday went to Texas. My father always drove big cars—too fast. They were killed in west Texas, in a head-on collision.” I drew a deep breath, then added, “He was driving a Packard. But it turned out that he was behind three payments.”

“And you’re bitter.”

“Yes. I’m bitter. Still.”

“The other night, you said you had two teenage children. Are they still in Detroit?”

“Yes.” I hesitated again, then decided to say, “My wife was—is—a socialite. She got married again—to a socialite.”

“You don’t think much of socialites.”

I shifted my grip on the fork, and began eating a tossed green salad. “No,” I answered, “I don’t think much of socialites.”

“My daughter is a socialite. Or, at least, she came out. It was her mother’s idea, not mine.” He smiled. “When I think about it, my side of the family couldn’t qualify for the social register. So we’re at about the same rung on the ladder, you and I.”

“Except that you’re richer.”

He nodded, picked up his own fork, and began eating his own salad. “That’s true,” he said, “I’m richer. No question.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were acknowledging that, yes, certain people were naturally superior to others, and therefore were entitled to more—of everything.

We ate for a time in silence. As I ate, I looked at the diners, the waiters, at the interior of Jason’s. The customers were about what I’d expected: successful-looking men and beautiful-looking women, most of them so sure of themselves and their status that they didn’t bother trying to impress each other. They simply ate, and talked quietly. The waiters, dressed in tuxedoes, were also sure of their status. They were businesslike and quietly attentive, but never servile. The interior of the restaurant was less ostentatious than I’d imagined: turn-of-the-century dark wood paneling, simple white paint above the plate rail. But the thick white damask tablecloths, generous white linen napkins, gleaming silverware and sparkling goblets established Jason’s claim to world-class fame. The food—and the prices—confirmed the claim.