CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Friday

 

From where Jack sat at the top of the bend on 27th Avenue in his black Jeep Grand Cherokee, he had the perfect view down to the Whitney-Cummings' home on Sea Cliff Avenue.

When he decided to get his investigator's license, he knew he couldn't follow clients and do stakeouts on his Harley. The bike was too noticeable. If the sight of it didn't turn heads, the loud muffler did. And he couldn't very well sit on it for hours at a time in the cold night air. He'd freeze his balls off.

His natural inclination for a four-wheeled vehicle would have leaned toward the classics, but staking out a house in a cherry '69 Chevelle SS, his dream machine, would certainly be out of place anywhere in the city. These days, few classics remained on the road, and those that did had most often been restored and were attention-getters even more than his Harley. Silicon Valley money hadn't just turned around the face of the city. Many of those new millionaires converted their wealth into flashy cars—exotics and classics alike.

He'd chosen the Jeep for a number of reasons, but mainly because it could handle the city's hilly landscape, and that it didn't stand out among the thousands of similar vehicles. Yesterday's people carriers and mommy-daddy family wagons had been replaced by today's comfortable SUVs—stylish workhorses. Gazing in his mirrors up 27th, he counted six other SUVs in or alongside driveways, which told him even the affluent preferred them, though he doubted any of these people actually took their vehicles off-roading.

Jack looked back at the Whitney-Cummings home. He didn't have to be inside to know what it looked like. The remodel had made Architectural Digest, and ultimately TV reality shows, having been transformed into one of the residential jewels in the city's crown.

Built on the cliff-edge in 1913, the house had been luxuriously modernized not long after Jennifer Morgan had landed Franklin the Third. On the outside, the house retained most of its Italianate architecture, with high-arched windows and bracketed cornices.

Inside was another story.

Magazine photos revealed each of the rooms had been remodeled in wabi-sabi design—clean, minimalistic lines emphasizing the simplicity of open space rather than lived-in clutter.

Walls had been removed to create wide, open-plan spaces, featuring only a few pieces of bespoke contemporary furniture in neutral colors that blended with the just-off-white walls. Most surfaces were devoid of objects or held bold statement pieces designed to stand out.

Those huge rooms didn't need clutter to beautify them. Wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the space; white walls framed the view like massive murals.

In the Whitney-Cummings house, views looked across the mouth of San Francisco Bay to the Marin Headlands and the Golden Gate Bridge. Who needed clutter with views like that? He'd only need a single comfortable chair facing the water, a tumbler of Jameson 12-year-old whiskey, and the peace and quiet to enjoy it all.

Jack knew from the magazine photos there was a wide glass-sided infinity pool on the cliff-edge—the type of pool that, when you were in it, seemed to merge with the sea.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the view on a night like tonight—a partial moon against a deep blue sky devoid of clouds or fog, when everything seemed in sharp focus and so clear that the Tiburon lights sparkled clearly on the horizon just past the bridge.

Yeah, Jennifer Morgan had definitely scored herself an E-ticket to the good life when she married Franklin the Third.

His stomach tightened at the thought that so much regional beauty was only available to the wealthy, while others were forced to live on the streets because they'd been priced out of their own homes and had nowhere else to go. Even for those whose mortgages had long been paid off, the annual property taxes were crippling. That was something he understood as his mind raced to his empty house in the Sunset District. He wasn't just working to pay his rent over Wong's. He still had a mortgage and property taxes of his own. He really should sell it.

His house was little more than a hundred years old, and one of the few surviving examples of the small houses put up by developers to house the displaced after the 1906 earthquake. The selling agent had recommended they only buy the house for the land it sat on, but Leah had convinced him that tearing down the little Victorian-style house would be destroying another bit of city history, so they'd agreed to restore it.

There was nothing minimalistic or architecturally special about the house. A gentle grin tugged at his lips as he thought about how Leah had turned their house into a home, full of cozy furnishings and personalized touches. If there was a flat surface, she found a way to fill it with something—framed photos, shells she'd found on any of the beaches around the peninsula, plants, and knickknacks she'd collected through her life. Those had been some of the things he'd boxed up to keep, though he wasn't sure why. He hadn't unpacked them in the apartment, and it wasn't like he could take them with him when he pulled out his Beretta for the last time.

He rubbed his tired eyes, forcing himself to focus on his task. This was part of what he hated about stakeouts—all the random bullshit the quiet of the vehicle forced through his brain.

He checked the time. 11:23 p.m. Ginnie had told him there were times when her husband was all man. Maybe he'd surprised her tonight.

His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he'd missed dinner so he could get over here early. He should have brought snacks. He took a swig from his water bottle, hoping to give his stomach something to concentrate on while he kept his mind on the job. He decided to give it another hour before heading back to his place.

From where he sat, most of the house was obscured by trees. Only the gate was immediately visible. If Franklin decided to leave, it would be through this gate.

Something diverted his gaze above the trees. The pale light cast by the partial moon was just enough to silhouette a figure in what looked like a glassed-in observation room on the roof. A second flash quickly illuminated Ginnie's face as she lit a cigarette, which meant she was facing the street. Could she see him in the Jeep, or was she watching for Franklin to leave?

His phone screen lit up and Ginnie's name appeared with the buzz of the incoming call.

"You okay?" he asked on answering.

"He's crazy. I don't know what to do."

"What happened?"

"The same shit, but I just can't get through to him. He won't listen to me. This is not the way real men behave. Every day the man I married is slipping away and this . . . this new woman he thinks he is comes out."

"Did he hurt you? Tell me what happened," he pressed.

He heard her take a long drag on the cigarette and the waver in her voice. "Tonight, he told me he's thinking of transitioning. I told him there was no way in Hell that was going to happen. He's my husband, and it'd be a cold day in Hell before I'd authorize that kind of spend."

"What did he say to that?"

Ginnie spluttered. "He told me there's nothing I can do about it. It's his life . . . blah blah blah. It's his money . . . blah blah blah . . . This is who he is . . . blah . . . he'll do what he wants . . . blah . . . I can leave if I don't like it . . . fucking blah. It's the same thing."

"You said he's getting worse. What's worse if this is your normal argument?"

"It's not necessarily something he's doing, but . . . I don't know. There's something in his eyes that's different. He's becoming more, I guess, aggressive. When we argue, we normally just throw insults at each other. Then he cries like a little girl."

"And tonight?" he prompted.

"Tonight, he was stomping around, flailing his arms, shouting. Real drama queen stuff. Like this is how real women behave, for God’s sake," she said dramatically. Jack laughed to himself at the irony of her words. "As we argued, I followed him into the kitchen. He pulled out a knife. I thought he was going to slice a lemon and lime for his regular evening G&T, but then he started waving the knife around while he yelled at me. I told him to put it down so we could talk like normal adults. He came toward me with it so I ran. He laughed but he didn't chase me. I came up here to the sunroom on the roof and locked both of the doors on my way up."

"Both doors?"

"Mmm-hmm," she said through another drag of the cigarette, her breath audibly shaking over the phone. "The one here in the room, and the other at the foot of the stairs. I know it's weird, but that's how my husband wanted it when we remodeled. Anyway, if I hear him breaking through the downstairs door, at least I have some extra time to call for help . . . or 9-1-1, or whatever . . . before he gets through the glass door."

There was a long pause on her end.

Jack asked, "Do you want me to call the department and have a patrol car swing by to check on Franklin? You can't very well stay up there all night. If he's drinking—"

"No." She cut him off. "I'll wait until he leaves before coming down. I need to figure things out. Maybe I can get him into therapy. He'll be the ruination of this marriage."

"Are you sure he's leaving?"

"He goes out every night around midnight. I know his routine . . . tarts up, has a drink, then leaves."

Just then, the gate slid open. "Must be midnight," Jack said without looking at his dash clock. "I'll follow him and see where he goes."

Ginnie moved closer to the window facing the street. Jack assumed from that vantage point she could see into the inner courtyard. "He's in his Mercedes."

Given the Whitney-Cummings' wealth and stature, Jack assumed the Mercedes would be one of the luxury models. What pulled out was a sleek, black Roadster, and Franklin barely missed the still-opening gate as he pulled onto 27th and sped past Jack's Jeep.

"Thanks. I'll get back to you later. Take care of yourself and don't hesitate to call 9-1-1 for help if you need it."

"Go get that son of a bitch!"

Jack disconnected. Ginnie certainly had a mouth on her. It probably didn't help her cause when she argued with Franklin.

"All right, then," Jack said under his breath. Finally, some action. Still wearing his seatbelt, he tossed his phone onto the passenger's seat and started the Jeep. He switched on the low beams and swung around to follow the Roadster up 27th. He caught up with it crossing El Camino Del Mar and heading toward Golden Gate Park.

Keeping a safe distance, he continued up 27th to Fulton where the Roadster turned left and paralleled the park. Jack forced himself to not think about how Travers had used Leah's disappearance to stage bodies around the park, just to get under Jack's skin.

He kept his gaze on the Roadster as it sped alongside the Panhandle and continued east toward the Financial District.

Where the hell is Franklin going? He certainly wasn't just blowing off steam or he might have diverted into Golden Gate Park, or he could have taken a shorter drive by turning right from the driveway and heading to Lands End. No, he had to have a specific destination in mind.

At Divisadero, just before the Painted Ladies at the Alamo Square Park, the Roadster slowed then hooked right without signaling onto Divisadero Street, now heading south and into the Haight District.

Jack knew the road forked at Waller Street—straight to remain on Divisadero or bank left for Castro Street.

The pit of his stomach tightened when the Roadster veered left as they neared the Waller junction. Jack knew then where Franklin was going.

The Roadster slowed to a stop at the traffic lights on Market Street. On the green, it crossed the junction but didn't pick up speed. Instead, the Roadster swerved left into a driveway just beyond the Castro Theatre. The Majestic Lounge in glowing neon lights illuminated the front of the building. The Roadster just missed a crowd of people on the sidewalk who parted like the Red Sea. Jack wasn't sure if these people were waiting to get in or just dancing on the sidewalk. Even through the Jeep's factory soundproofing, thumping music vibrated through the vehicle.

He hung back for a moment before pulling into the club's driveway, instantly recognizing what he'd thought was an alley where he'd found Pepper Mint, aka Bob Johnson.

By the time Jack made it into the lot, Franklin had backed into a handicap parking space—asshole—as if he was entitled to it. The Roadster stood out like the proverbial sore thumb in a parking lot full of economy and other budget vehicles. His Jeep probably stood out too, so he stayed in the shadows a moment longer while getting his bearings.

A small Toyota pulled out just then, so Jack headed toward it. He slowed to let Franklin stride past the Jeep. He seemed clueless to the fact he was being followed.

Jack wasn't sure what look Franklin was going for. While his seemingly tailored outfit mimicked his wife's classic style, his makeup had been applied too heavily, and his wig looked like he'd dragged it behind the Roadster on its way across town. Jack thought he knew then what happened to Baby Jane. And she'd obviously been drinking.

He watched Franklin disappear through the club's back door before reversing the Jeep into the open space. Shutting off the engine, he looked at the dashboard clock. 12:15a.m. He logged into the Majestic's online site and checked business hours—2a.m.

"Great," he groaned under his breath.

How was he going to get the photographs Ginnie paid him for if he couldn't get near Franklin?

He swallowed hard at the thought of going inside. Not that he had any hang-ups over homosexuality. More that he didn't want to draw attention to himself as the only straight guy in the place, or worse, draw Franklin's attention.

"Fuck it!"

Before extricating himself from the Jeep, he grabbed his phone off the passenger seat and his spare black leather jacket off the backseat—the department still had the jacket Leah had given him.

He shoved his arms into the jacket sleeves as he strode to the door, then switched on the phone's video app and slid it into his breast pocket. If he couldn't get photos, he'd at least get video, and hopefully some stills from that.