Seven p.m., Thanksgiving night. A chill in the air. Mist clings to the streetlights while buoy bells and mournful foghorns float up to me from the Bay. I'm standing still and alert in the strip of park between Larkin and Hyde at the base of Russian Hill. The old clock tower at Ghirardelli Square is barely visible through the vapor.
I've chosen this location and also the hour, insisting the meeting take place after dark. Judd argued for Fort Mason Park in daytime, but I took a hard line, figuring that anything he wanted would not be good for me.
I wait under cover of a small grove of olive trees a hundred feet back from the street, beautiful ancient, gnarled specimens with thick black twisted trunks. Beneath these boughs the air smells good, sweet and loamy. And from here I can watch for Judd's approach.
The fog is heavy, this place is dark and isolated, there are no pedestrians and, it being a holiday, traffic is sparse. But I'm not worried. Having already physically defeated Judd, I have the psychological advantage. Moreover, in darkness my vision is far superior to his, and tonight, unlike the night I was sandbagged in Sterling Park, I'm on guard.
I know this territory well, traverse it regularly. Although a good two hundred feet below the summit of the hill, it is but three blocks from my building. I often walk down here via the Larkin steps, guided by the anise scent of wild fennel that grows so luxuriantly in the city. Anise, of course, is an olfactory cousin of licorice, that haunting aroma Dad smelled on Skeleton-man's body.
A mid-size Toyota approaches, slows, speeds away. Three minutes later it reappears. This time it pulls into a parking space on Bay, then hovers, lights and engine on. I tense; this must be him, the timing is right and the behavior appropriately peculiar. A minute passes, the driver cuts his engine, waits a few seconds, douses his lights and gets out.
I recognize him immediately, the aggressive waddle, extended paunch. He's even carrying an overstuffed briefcase the way a harassed lawyer should. I watch from my hiding place as he peers about, then paces back and forth, never straying far from his vehicle. Several times he stops, checks his watch, looks toward me and the trees above. Finally, nervously, he goes to the benches where I told him to wait, chooses one and sits, cradling his briefcase in his arms.
I peer around to be sure no one's lurking. I search the shadows beneath surrounding trees for human forms. I scan the crest behind, the flat fenced-off reservoir above, finally the backs of the buildings behind me on Chestnut Street, where several large view windows are dimly lit.
No uncommon movements, visible confederates, nothing extraordinary or out of place. This is a dog-walking area, but tonight the haze has confined evening strollers to residential streets. The only sound, beside the buoys and foghorns, is the erratic rumbling of the cable beneath the tracks on Hyde.
I stoop, step out from beneath the boughs, straighten up, stand still, scan my surroundings again. Judd, back to me, sits quietly on his bench. I'm eager to go to him, but hold myself back. Five minutes more, I decide, to be certain he's alone. Then I'll approach him from behind.
Judd moves as if to turn. "Don't!" I order. I hear the same labored breathing I heard in his office after I knocked him down. "Let's make this quick," I snap. "Give me the names."
"Yeah, and what do I get?" he asks, his voice whiny, shrill. "You hand over the tape, how do I know you didn't make a copy?"
"You don't. Which is why I won't be handing over the tape."
"What?" He's outraged. It comes back to me now—how much I dislike him. "I thought we had a deal." Again he starts to turn.
I place my hand on his sweaty pate, am revulsed at the touch. "Face front! We do have a deal. You give me the names, you don't get disbarred." He squirms beneath my palm. "Of course I've copied the tape," I tell him, "deposited it with friends . . . as I have all the incriminating photographs I took since I started delving into this vipers' nest."
"Why should I trust you, missy?"
How I loathe that word! Sensing he's stalling, I turn, check the trees behind, see nothing, focus again on the back of his head.
"My deal expires in twenty seconds. Talk or I'm walking away."
"You can't!"
"I am!" I retreat a step.
"Wait!''
"Talk!"
"Sure." Suddenly he turns, a light flashes and I go blind.
An extremely brilliant lamp, a strobe, has been fired point-blank at my face. Instinctively I start running up the hill, feeling my way blindly, scrambling, grasping desperately at gravel and weeds.
I open my eyes, see nothing, but hear someone climbing behind. Propelled by terror, I rush on as slowly my vision clears. At the top of the ridge, I turn and look down. I have but a split second to glimpse the scene below before lights flash again, twice this time, from two different points. Again blinded, I turn and rush forward, colliding with a fence.
I know where I am, at the fenced perimeter of the old underground Francisco Street reservoir, closed off by the Water Department because the roof is weak. I turn right, run along the fence, brushing one hand against the metal. There are at least two people chasing me and both have strobes. If I trip and fall, they'll overtake me. I must outrun them even though I can't see. If I can keep from looking back, I'll gradually regain my sight. But if I turn to face them, they will strobe me again, and then I'll be at their mercy.
The air's chilly but I sweat as I stumble along the path. I can see now, better every second, can also hear my pursuers' steps. Not Judd, I'm certain; he's a waddler, couldn't move this fast. Who are these people? Where did they come from? Then it hits me: they must have been hiding in Judd's car. He hid his strobe in his briefcase, fired it at me, then they got out with strobes of their own and chased me up the hill.
I scramble back down toward the olive trees, choose one, hit the ground, crawl on my belly beneath the branches until I reach the trunk. So long as they can fire off strobes, I don't have a chance. If I turn to fight, they'll blind me; if I try to hide, they have lamps to find me out.
I hear them now moving in the darkness. They know I'm in the grove. I catch a glimpse of one. He's holding a cell phone to his ear. They're conferring, coordinating their search. In a minute one of them will spot me. If I'm to survive I must move fast, gain back my advantage—superior vision at night.
I choose the one closest. In silhouette he looks familiar, but even with my sight restored I can't make out his face.
I crouch, ready to rush him, waiting for him to turn his back. Rita said: Use your camera as a ball and chain. Merge with it. I wrap the strap of my Nikon around my hand until there's but a foot of slack.
He steps closer, stops and stares. Now he's just fifteen feet away. When he turns, I charge. He hears me, raises his strobe. Swinging my camera, I knock it from his hands. On the reverse swing, I smack him in the side of the head. He goes down. I stamp hard on the strobe, hear the lens and bulb crack beneath my shoe. He groans, moves. I kick him, then hear a shout. His colleague is charging at me from below. I turn just in time to avoid another burst of light, dash back up the hill, stumbling on my own shadow as the strobe flashes again and again like a hot lash against my back.
Ping! Something nicks the earth beside me. Ping!Ping! Two more nicks, closer. Must be bullets! I scurry along the north-south reservoir fence, prepared to rush up the Larkin steps.
Suddenly another figure rises before me. I turn. Behind me the man with the gun is gaining fast. Cornered! I rush the new man, am about to strike him with my camera, stop just as the strobe behind me fires off. The light reveals Drake, illuminated like a ghost, his face chalk-white and flat. Confused, I drop my camera. Drake pulls me to him, pivots, pushes me down, then through an opening at the bottom of the fence.
We race across the asphalt. I'm terrified. I know the reason this area is fenced, the weakness of the roof, can feel it cave beneath my feet.
"We can't cross here!" I tell him. "We'll fall through."
Drake whispers: "Stay with me. You'll be safe."
He guides me to a wooden walkway that angles across the asphalt. I glance back, spot our pursuer wriggling beneath the fence.
Drake lifts up a flap of asphalt, pulls up boards, throws them aside.
"Down," he orders.
"Into the water?"
"It's empty. Go down, Kay. Feel for the ladder."
Ping!Ping! More shots. I find a footing on the ladder, scamper down, several times feeling Drake's heels as they scuff my head. Just as I reach the bottom, the silhouette of our pursuer appears in the hatch above. I jump for the floor. Drake leaps too, then yanks the ladder from the opening. It crashes down, raising a cloud of dust. I turn away and choke.
It's black down here, the floor is covered with debris and muck, there are pillars at regular intervals, the ceiling is twenty-five feet high and the smell is of old iron, rust and rot. Drake guides me toward the Hyde Street side. The man in the hatch opening is firing his strobe, trying to find us in the gloom. I flatten myself behind a pillar, draw in my legs, freeze. My vision has grown keen; I don't relish the thought of losing it. I shade my eyes, then peer around, taking care not to look directly at the strobe.
This reservoir, I recall, was built in the last century. For years there's been talk of making it safe, retrofitting it to withstand a magnitude-8 quake. Meantime it's been sitting here, a vast subterranean space, forest of old columns supporting a crumbling roof, dusty, unused, uninhabited by anything except rodents and an occasional vagrant.
In the distance I spot another ladder leading up to a second hatch. Our pursuer apparently sees it too, for he and his strobe disappear from the opening. I hear his footsteps on the roof. I whisper to Drake we must pull the second ladder down. Drake brings his finger to his lips. The ceiling creaks. He grins.
The groan of wood under strain. Splintering, then a scream as a huge piece of roof crashes down. An explosion of dust. I turn away. When I look back up, the night sky's visible. The man pursuing us has fallen through. When the echoes die, I hear his cries in the darkness, like the whining of an injured dog.
To approach or not? I hold Drake back; the man may still have his gun.
"Is there another way out?"
Drake nods, starts crawling. I crawl after him through the dust toward the sound of traffic on Hyde. By the time we reach the reservoir wall, the moans of our fallen pursuer have grown faint. Suddenly there's a roar as a cable car ascends. I think of myself with Sasha, just a few weeks ago, walking up this hill which I am now beneath, en route to our first kiss at my door.
Drake motions toward rungs built into the wall. He climbs, I follow, until we are at the top, parallel with the slanting sidewalk. We swing ourselves up, Drake pushes out a section of grillwork, then we crawl out between close-fitting struts. At last in the open, I gulp fresh inky fog.
"You saved my life, Drake." He's stunned when I take his face in my hands, plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. I feel him withdraw. When we were in danger there was contact; he grasped me, pushed and pulled me to safety. Now that we're safe, he retreats back into his solitude.
He lowers his eyes. "I am always watching out for you, Kay."
"I know." I gesture toward the reservoir. "He's s still down there. I've got to call the cops."
He nods sadly.
"You won't stay?"
He shakes his head. "Be careful. The other one—"
"I'll be careful." I touch his hand. "Thanks."
He reenters the park. I watch as he skits along the reservoir fence toward Larkin, disappears in the fog. He will climb back up to Sterling Park; I know, hole up again among the trees and shrubs and from there gaze up at my window. I wish that one time at least we could hug one another, but I know this is something my secret watchman of the woods will not permit.
I walk up to Chestnut, find a pay phone. My finger trembles as I punch in Hilly's number. Thank God she's home! Excited, she hears me out. When I'm done she says: "I'm on my way." I replace the phone, venture carefully back toward my vantage point among the olive trees, noting that Judd's car is no longer on the street.
I'm looking for the other man, the one I hit in the head. There was something familiar about the way he moved I couldn't place. No trace of him now, but I do find my Nikon and the strobe I smashed. To my amazement Dad's old camera still works; beneath the black exterior it's solid brass.
I pick up the broken strobe, examine it. Brand-new. Judd brought them here expressly to blind and kill me. How did they know I'm photophobic? I look down at my hands; they're still shaking. I drop the strobe in the dust.
I feel no pity for the man I struck or the one lying at the bottom of the reservoir. I have no doubt that if they had caught me, they'd have heaved me through that very roof.
Three squad cars pull up, then Hilly in her Volvo. I tell her about Judd. A minute later a police rescue unit arrives, followed by an ambulance. Hilly joins them. I watch through the fog as men and women with flashlights go to the reservoir, peer down through the hole. A crew arrives with a portable block and tackle. Another crew sets up a generator and lights. Rescue workers descend. I start taking pictures, hear the crackle of police radios, watch as the injured body of my pursuer is hoisted up.
He's placed on a stretcher, rushed down to the ambulance. Hilly walks to where I'm standing. She's carrying another broken strobe and a .22 automatic in a Ziploc bag. There's some kind of attachment on the barrel. Hilly tells me it's a silencer.
"It's Vasquez," she says. "He can't move. Lots of broken bones." She stares at me, smiles, shakes her head. "Can you believe it, Kay—chief of Felony Prostitution shooting at an unarmed woman with an illegally silenced gun! Jesus hot fuckin' dog!"
I tell her why I'm not surprised, that I suspected he was Judd's partner in the scam.
She tells me Vasquez is crying for his lawyer, that she's sent a team to find Judd and arrest him, also put out a call to all hospital E.R.s to look out for the man I hit.
"There's plenty of blood," she tells me. "Looks like you whacked him good."
"I'm thrilled."
"Seen him before, Kay?"
"I think so. Can't remember where."
"It'll come to you." She steps closer, smiles again. "Last night I checked Knob's record at Pelican Bay. They try and train the boys up there, teach them a trade so they can find work when they get out. Guess what? His job was in the kitchen, apprentice meat cutter." She curls her lip. "They say near the end he got pretty good." She pauses. "I'm going to pick him up. Wanna come along?"
As we drive over the top of Russian Hill, followed by two squad cars, each containing a team of uniformed cops, I catch glimpses through lit windows of cheerful domestic scenes, families clustered in comfortable living rooms relaxing after Thanksgiving dinner. Down on Polk it's a different story, lonely singles sitting in all-night Chinese restaurants, staring at their food. In doorways the homeless lie like broken dolls, while the addicts in the alleys peer at us with haunted eyes.
After Bush Street we come upon hustlers. Hilly says she's surprised to see them out. I tell her what I learned from Tim, that around holidays business is always good, the streets filled with lonely johns, married men seeking rough trade, obsessed chicken hawks yearning for sweet boy-love in the night.
We spot Knob, standing with Tommy and Boat, beside the door of The Werewolf. Hilly drives a block, pulls over, confers with the cops in the squad cars, returns to talk to me. The cops, she says, will scoop up all three, separate them, run the kids down to the Hall of Justice, place them in cubicles. She'll take Knob in her car on a longer, slower ride around the city. Certain he'll ask for a lawyer, she wants to talk to him informally first. I can't come along, but I'm welcome to meet her later at the Hall.
"Aren't you afraid to be alone with him?" I ask.
Hilly grins. "He's already done one five-year stretch for felonious assault. I kinda doubt he wants to go back for life."
I walk home, shower, change and then, in an attempt to stop my hands from shaking, clean my camera and reload. The shaking's so bad I can barely get the fresh film aligned.
Calm yourself. Find your center, Kay.
I go to my office, look down through the window at Sterling Park. Drake's down there, I know, possibly, this very moment, gazing up at me.
I phone for a cab. On my way out the door, it suddenly comes to me—the identity of the third man with the strobe.
I return to my office, check the photos pinned to the cork. Yes, now I'm certain—it was Sarah Lashaw's lover and tennis coach, the man I know as Roy.
The receptionist at the Hall of Justice phones for Hilly. She comes down to meet me, glow of triumph on her face. I sign in, a guard hangs a visitor's ID around my neck, Hilly escorts me back up to the Homicide Division.
I tell her about Roy. She beams. "It fits. The house of cards is falling fast."
In her office she instructs the duty detective to call the Lashaw house in St. Helena, get the full name of the resident tennis coach. Then she takes me into a viewing room.
The cubicle on the other side of the one-way glass is small, oppressive like a cell. I think: Maybe this is the one where the T case detectives worked over Dad. Knob faces us. He doesn't look like king of the Gulch tonight. His eyes are puffy; there're bruises on his. cheeks.
I turn to Hilly. "What'd you do to him?"
She grins. "Explained a few facts of life. Like whatever happened he was going down, the only question being whether he'd get life or lethal injection."
"Okay if I take his picture?"
"Be my guest."
As I trip the shutter, I think I see him wince.
"He's in recovery," Hilly says. "That's normal after a confession. Come on, I'll show you the videotape."
She escorts me to another room, equipped with TV monitor and VCR, gestures me to a chair, slaps in a tape, fast-forwards it, stops.
"Here's the good part," she says, restarting the tape at normal speed.
I lean forward. This, I feel, is a moment I ought to savor.
Knob, sobbing, desperate: "I swear I didn't kill him!"
Hilly's voice, sympathetic, calm: "But you know who did?"
Knob, crying, insistent: "Wasn't me!"
"But you did something, right?"
A moan, a nod: "Helped clean up, that's all."
"Clean up? What does that mean?"
"He was dead. I did some cutting. I swear—he was already dead."
Hilly freezes the frame.
She has things to do, leaves me alone to watch the rest of the tape. I stare spellbound as Knob tells how Crane became his most important client, the huge amounts of money Crane paid him to procure boys.
"He kept wanting them younger, prettier. I broke my ass trying to please the guy. Then he met Rain, liked him. . . which wasn't good for me. See, Rain worked freelance. He wouldn't cut me in."
"You hated Rain for that?" Hilly asks.
Knob winces, shakes his head. "Wasn't personal. Business, that's all it was. He stole my best client. It's tough out there."
"Tough?"
"I had expenses. I was paying out big to Vasquez."
"For what?"
"Protection. If I didn't pay, he'd run me off the street."
"You the only one who paid him?"
"No, everyone does. He knows everything going on, names of all the important johns, who pays how much and what they get for it. He knows Crane, takes money from him, too. Knew Rain. When Crane got in trouble with Rain, he was there to help."
"What kind of trouble?" Hilly asks.
"Rain stopped seeing him."
"Dropped him?"
Knob nods.
"Why?"
Knob shakes his head. "Didn't like the way Crane kept crowding him, I guess."
"You said Crane paid big."
"He did, but Rain didn't care. Last month he comes to me, asks me to find Crane someone else. 'Get the guy off my back, I'll give you a split,' he says. So then we were friends again."
"What happened?"
"Beginning of October, when Rain stopped seeing him, Crane started talking crazy. One night he tells me since he can't have Rain he wants the next best thing. I try to fix him up for a three-way with Tommy and Boat, but this isn't what he's got in mind. Turns out he wants Rain's twin, the girl."
Amoretto! I marvel at how her story keeps getting entwined with this. And certainly it makes sense: if Crane couldn't have Tim, he'd have his androgynous twin, Ariane. Boy, girl—small difference if the game was about possession.
Knob requires little prompting now. Studying his face, expressionless eyes, listening to his matter-of-fact tone, I'm mesmerized as much as repelled. I even think I catch a glimmer of relief. Cool and amoral as he is, Knob isn't a pure sociopath, just a Catholic boy gone bad, carrying a burden of guilt. To confess to Hilly is to seek absolution, a first step toward redemption. She wants so much to understand him; he tries so hard to make her understand.
After all, he keeps insisting, he didn't kill anyone, just helped clean up. . . and was thus but a bystander to the drama.
"Scene with the girl didn't work out. Way I heard, got nasty too. I think that was Crane's plan—belt the girl around, get Rain mad. Then Rain'd have to come see him." Knob laughs. "Oh, Rain got mad all right. Real mad. Said he was going to go after the guy, report him, sue his ass. I told him, 'Don't do that!' It's the number-one rule on the street. You don't tell on these guys. They got too much to lose—family, reputation, whatever. You threaten them, try and blackmail, they're as likely to kill you as pay you off.
"Not that Crane had the guts to kill anybody. Least I didn't think he did. More like he'd hire someone to do the job. There're plenty of guys on the Gulch, addicts and whatnot, they'll do anything you pay 'em enough."
But Knob had underrated Crane, who, as it turned out, was quite capable of killing Tim. Knob didn't know what happened, only that Crane came to him and Vasquez afterward with twenty-five thousand cash each to clean up and cover up the killing.
Right away Knob knew what to do—cut Tim up and dispose of the pieces. Then Vasquez got the bright idea of tying the Homicide Division up in knots. He'd wash Tim's torso with licorice-scented soap, then apply designs and the number "7" to make it look like a copycat T killing. Knob, figuring the head and limbs would never be found, bagged and dropped them into an alley dumpster. Vasquez, hoping the tricked-up torso would be found, ditched it in open sight in Wildcat Canyon.
"So, see, I didn't kill anyone," Knob says, pleading for sympathy. "I'm bad, but not that bad. Like I said—the kid was dead. Guy offers you a bundle to clean up, what would you do? Huh?"
Hilly reappears to tell me Crane and Roy have just been picked up at Sarah Lashaw's San Francisco house. I'm impressed with the way she's handling things. Without a supervisor to slow her down, she's moved decisively. Now with Crane under arrest, I have to agree that yes, the house of cards is falling fast.
"The way it comes down," she says, "Vasquez and Knob were accessories after the fact. They'll both get life sentences for that. Crane'll get the needle, Roy and Judd'll do serious time for trying to kill you. It's all over now except for the trials."
I shake my head. The riddle is solved. Now that I know the story all the pieces fit: Crane, the Chicken Hawk, kills Tim to shut him up; Knob, the Butcher, cuts up Tim's body; Vasquez, the Bad Cop, ornaments Tim's torso to complicate the investigation.
But why did Crane have to kill Tim? Why not just pay him off? I think I know. Crane, I believe, tried to pay, but Tim refused his money. Ariane, his beloved twin, had been brutally beaten; no amount would stop him from bringing Crane down.
In the morning Joel and I attend the arraignments. The courtroom is packed with squabbling lawyers, bored cops, irritable bailiffs, terrified spouses, some with infants in their arms. Judge Helen Lesser, gray-haired and gaunt, presides.
The players perform like robots, each accused person approaching the bar with counsel, listening to, then answering the charge, followed by a brisk argument over bail, a quick decision by the judge, a stroke of the gavel, then a rapid march-off to the wings.
We sit through a string of minor cases: pickpockets, prostitutes, shoplifters, persons accused of peddling without a license. At one point Hilly approaches with an attractive young Asian-American woman whom she introduces as Assistant D.A. Patricia Chu. Pat Chu, Hilly tells us, will be prosecuting the Lovsey defendants. We shake hands, Pat returns to her table, Hilly whispers: "She's young but one of the best."
The clerk calls Luis Vasquez.
One Laurence Granby steps forward, former police officer, now shiny-suited defense attorney specializing in the representation of accused cops. His client, he tells Judge Lesser, cannot appear, being presently in the hospital recovering from a fall. He presents papers allowing him to plead in his stead.
The charges are read: attempted homicide; corruption; obstruction of justice; accessory after the fact to murder. Granby tells the judge that his client pleads not guilty. Mr. Vasquez, he argues, being a sworn law enforcement officer with strong ties to the community, should, upon his recovery, be released without bond.
Pat Chu, with just the slightest hint of a snarl, argues for confinement. Judge Lesser agrees, orders Vasquez transferred to the jail ward at Cal Med. "Next!" she tells her clerk.
J. F. Judd appears, accompanied by his former law partner, a rumpled old-timer named Jeremiah Waldroon. The charges: false representation; solicitation of corruption; conspiracy to commit murder. Waldroon asks for minimum bail. Judge Lesser sternly sets bond at $400,000.
Raymond Crogan, a.k.a. Knob, accompanied by public defender Wendy Aronson, is called next. Knob pleads guilty to the charge of accessory to murder. Pat Chu informs the judge that Crogan has agreed to testify against other parties in return for being allowed to plead to a single three-strikes offense. Since there can be no bail for a three-strikes offender, Judge Lesser sets a date for the formal plea and sentencing. Knob is led away.
Next up is Peter Royal, known to me as Roy, dressed in pressed chinos and tennis shirt, head swathed in bandages. His lawyer assists him in pleading not guilty to the charge of attempted murder, then asks for bail.
"My client," he pleads, "is the injured party here. Truth is, the person he's accused of trying to kill, tried to kill him . . . and nearly did."
Pat Chu explains that the victim, namely me, was acting in self-defense. She asks for $500,000 bond. Judge Lesser agrees, smacks her gavel, asks the clerk to call the next case.
The room becomes still. This is what everyone's been waiting for. Marcus Crane, toupeed, dressed in dark gray slacks, bespoke sports jacket and Pacific-Union Club tie, walks confidently to the bar, accompanied by J. Carter Hackford, possibly the best and certainly the most expensive defense attorney in San Francisco. The charge: first degree murder.
During the reading, Crane, head held high, stares straight ahead. But scanning the courtroom, I spot Sarah Lashaw. Our eyes meet. She glares raw hatred. I turn away.
Hackford argues for bond; the charge, he says, is based solely on the testimony of a lying street hustler and convicted felon. He lists various important corporate and charity boards upon which Mr. Crane sits, his role as scion of one of the city's oldest, most distinguished families, the lack of any criminal record and the absurdity of the notion that such a man would attempt to flee.
Pat Chu reminds the court that this is a capital case, describes the brutality of the crime, the overwhelming evidence and the fact that no citizen, no matter his station, is entitled to special privilege.
Judge Lesser agrees, remands Marcus Crane to the custody of the Sheriff's Department, to be held in jail pending a preliminary hearing.
Outside we're swarmed. TV and print reporters, photographers and videotape cameramen press close. Even though I'm wearing shades, I hold up my hand to protect my eyes.
The questions fly at me:
"Is it true Tim Lovsey was a hustler?"
"You took photos of Crane soliciting kids, right?"
"Why'd they want to kill you, Kay?"
Keeping silent, I try to work my way through, Joel gently pushing his press colleagues aside to create a path.
Suddenly the crowd parts, then deserts us. A far bigger attraction has appeared.
"Mrs. Lashaw—is it true your husband's part of a ring of chicken hawks?"
"Sarah! Did you know Mark Crane was gay?"
"How's your tennis coach involved?"
"Did you put him up to it?"
"How's it feel to be married to a child molester?" The questions resound as Joel and I escape the crush.
Out on Bryant Street, Joel turns to me, winks.
"You'll be on TV tonight, kiddo."
Sasha is on duty, so I go over to Dad's on Cherry Street to watch the evening news. Since I'm more interested in his reactions than in seeing myself, I study him as he waits for my appearance. He's nervous but also rooting for me, I can tell, actually looks proud when I come on.
"Oh, boy!" he says. "That's it, darlin'! Give it to 'em, give it to 'em good!"
Since, in the film clip, I speak not a word, it must be my silence that he likes.
"No, it's you, darlin'—your dignity, the way you move. Class! They recognize it. Now that Lashaw lady—she comes off like a tart."
I have to smile. His vocabulary's so quaint. Tarts, fairies, tootsie-babies—such archetypes populate his mind. But if he's an old-fashioned guy, his heart is big and his integrity intact. When the news segment is over, he flicks the set off.
"So what's next, darlin'? When're you planning on digging up Billy's stuff?"
"Joel thinks we should give it a month."
Dad nods. "Good idea. Wait till after the holidays at least."
Hilly, Joel, Ice Goddess Kirstin, Sasha and I meet to celebrate the publication of Joel's front-page story in the Bay Area News. We assemble at the bar at Zuni, my favorite San Francisco haunt because of its food, conviviality and eccentric triangular flatiron space. When our table is ready we ascend to the balcony. Conversation and laughter bubble up to us as we eat. This, I think, is San Francisco at its best—happy, youthful, still a little wild.
Sasha's great. Everyone likes him. But as dinner progresses, Hilly slips into a funk. When Joel asks what's the matter, she says being without a date makes her feel odd-man-out.
"Jeez, Hilly," Joel says, "now that you're famous you'll get hit on all the time."
"Yeah," she says, brightening. Then just as quickly she deflates: "But then how'll I know it's me she likes and not just the true-blue image?"
A few days of euphoria, then the letdown. It's all wrapped up . . . except it's not. Exposures, I think, will work. I'll have a book, a coherent story with beginning, middle and end. But still there's something missing. In my anger and the passion of the chase, I forgot about my loss. Now I miss Tim terribly. His smile, eyes, beauty, the perfect planes of his face, the way he used to touch me when we talked. I long for closure, cannot find it. His twin, carrying at least some portion of his spirit, somewhere roams the earth. I know I must find her, that until I do I cannot rest.
Early December days are clear this year, the light oblique and sharp. Hard to imagine winter rains are coming soon. In daytime it's balmy, people walk around in jogging clothes. I spot a Santa Claus standing on the corner of Mason and Sutter ringing a bell in shorts. At night the air is crisp; the city sparkles beneath the moon. I study various neighborhoods through my telescope, recalling David deGeoffroy's certainty that Ariane must be nearby. Why hasn't she come forward? Surely she knows of the arrests. She also knows who I am and how to find me, but I have no notion of where to look for her.
Joel's call awakens me from a dream. I answer groggily, brain fogged with sleep.
"Crane's dead, killed himself."
"What?" My head clears fast. "When? Where?"
"Last night. In jail. He wasn't on suicide watch. He was acting so cocky the jailers left him alone. Somehow he got hold of a belt, used it to make a noose, got up on a stool, secured the belt to the window bars, kicked the stool away. They're pissing blood downtown. Hackford's yelling the cops railroaded an innocent man, hounded him unto death. Lashaw was just on the air fuming with indignation. It's all the fault, she says, of a sick, obsessed girl. That's you, kiddo. And a scummy journalist, me. She named us both."
"Jesus!"
"Don't worry. She and Hackford'll be sorry. I just got off the phone with Pat Chu. The D.A.'s office believes in the public's right to know. They'll release details of their case this afternoon."
At five I turn on my TV, watch the press conference live. Pat Chu is terrific, smooth, even-tempered, precise, and she presents a devastating brief. She's got it all, chapter and verse, even the gun used to shoot Tim, registered to Crane and found in Knob's hooch. She shows the knives Knob used to do the cutting, the wad of money he received from Crane, Crane's lease on the Washington Street pied-a-terre where he engaged in sexual acts with underage boys. Best of all, she offers serology reports showing that traces of Tim's blood were found in the love nest, on the carpet where he fell after he was shot and in the drain of the bathtub where the butchering was carried out.
"The evidence," she says, "'is overwhelming, as Mr. Crane surely recognized. Naturally we deplore his suicide. We'd have much preferred to take our case to a jury. Still, we must surmise that Marcus Crane took his own life to spare himself and his family a blistering defeat at trial."
Joel wants me to attend Crane's funeral, to be held in Grace Cathedral. I decline. I have no wish to stand outside in a vulture's pack of photographers ready to pounce when Sarah Lashaw appears.
I've had more than enough of that doomed, demented couple. Like specimen insects, they'll be pinned forever in my memory. Instead I spend those hours working quietly in my darkroom, where the safety light gives off a comforting glow.
An image emerging slowly from a sheet of photographic paper immersed in developer—the magic of it stirs me still. It's the same feeling I get when I look out at the city at night. I smile at the wonder of it, the mystery.
Two weeks before Christmas, Dad again asks me to join him, Phyllis Sorenson and her daughters on their holiday trip to Honolulu. But he doesn't demur when I remind him we agreed a joint vacation wouldn't work.
"I'll miss you, darlin'."
I tell him I'll miss him too.
"Just hate to think of you all alone."
"I won't be alone. I'll be with Sasha."
"That's right." A pause. "You know, I really like that boy!"
I thank him, but haven't the heart to respond that I wish I liked Phyllis as well.
In fact, Sasha, having learned his lesson at Thanksgiving, has reserved a room for us at Treetops in Big Sur. Our stay, he promises, will be "sybaritic." Needless to say, I can't wait.
December 16. Hilly stops by to return my Contax G and Zeiss 28mm lens, discovered in Knob's hooch in the Tenderloin, the little room he rented at the corner of Turk and Jones. Both are in as good shape as they were the night Knob grabbed them. I'm thrilled. I love this little camera which has served me so well, and am mystified Knob didn't try to sell it.
In fact, Hilly tells me, Knob kept everything—the pistol Crane told him to get rid of, the butcher knives he used, even Tim's clothing, wallet and keys. She thinks it's because, during the time he served in Pelican, Knob acquired convict traits—compulsive neatness, covetousness, an inability to throw anything away.
Just before she goes she slips me a transcript copy of his amended confession.
"It's got a few more details," she says.
I place it on my bedside table, then, uncomfortable with the notion of sleeping so close to it, hide it away in a drawer.
Still it oppresses me. Why, I wonder, can't I just sit down and read the damn thing? After all, it's an essential part of the story. If Exposures is to be a proper account, I must know everything that happened.
After three days I give in, take it to the living room, lie down on my couch and start to read.
Soon I'm enveloped. Then I come to the part where my life intersected with the described events. The night Tim was killed, when I went out to meet him on the Gulch, I spotted Crane—whom I dubbed Baldy at the time—speaking with Knob, then handing him a package I was sure contained drugs. A few seconds later, passing Crane, I noticed he was upset, but when I asked Knob what their conversation had been about, he shrugged the encounter off.
In fact, I now learn from Knob's amended confession, it was during that brief exchange that Crane paid him to get rid of Tim's body. A few minutes after receiving the money and the key, Knob went over to Crane's Washington Street pied-a-terre, hauled Tim's body into the bathroom, placed it in the tub and commenced his grisly work.
There is fascination in madness. Crane, according to Knob, was truly mad:
". . . I'm in the bathroom cutting. Suddenly he comes in, this weird look on his face, says he wants to keep Rain's head. I ask him, 'What're you going to do with it, man? Make love to it, put it on the wall like a fuckin' trophy?' 'I want it!' he says. He tries to grab it out of the tub. I slap him down. 'Look,' I tell him, 'I got work to do, I don't need this kinda shit.' Vasquez comes in, pulls him into the other room, so I get on with the job. . . ."
Yeah, the job.
The next day, the Friday before Christmas, I deliver my important gifts: a carry-on bag for Dad, not too imaginative but he'll need it for his trip; a handmade craftswoman's kaleidoscope for Maddy ("May you always see beauty, Maddy!"); the shell of a chambered nautilus for Rita ("For you, you hard-assed softy! "); a pad of play money for Caroline Gifford at Zeitgeist ("Next time, I promise, it'll be real!"); and a bottle of Courvoisier Extra for Rob Mathews ("With special thanks for your very special help!").
The day Sasha and I are to drive south, I prepare a holiday package for Drake: an assortment of the organic health foods he likes, plus Christmas cookies and a bottle of Italian egg liqueur. I wrap the whole thing up in foiled paper, tie it with a mix of ribbons, slip a couple of poinsettias beneath the bow, then place it on our bench.
I wait awhile, hoping he'll show himself. I want to tell him how things worked out and that now I'm out of danger. He doesn't appear. He's been so elusive the last couple of weeks, I wonder if something's wrong. I take a brief walk around the park, but find no trace of him. When I return to the bench the box is gone. He's here all right; he simply chooses not to show himself. That's fine. I call out, "Best wishes for the holidays, Drake," then return to my apartment to pack.
Treetops is a dream. Our suite is a detached house set up on stilts among the redwoods to protect their roots. We have a fireplace, hot tub, porch furnished with wicker chairs, huge bed made up with incredibly luxurious sheets arranged for perfect viewing of the Pacific.
At night we watch a cruise ship pass, lit up like a city. Then a thick fog hugs us in. In the morning we arise to find whales cavorting in the waves, blowing off fountains of spray. There's nothing to do here except eat, sleep, read, make love and receive deep Swedish-style massages from the staff.
On Christmas morning after breakfast, we take a long hike through the woods. At lunch we exchange gifts: a black silk dressing gown for Sasha, a small framed Indian tantric painting of a female warrior for me.
I'm overwhelmed. The drawing is exquisite. Sasha tells me it's colored, but he thinks the effect is more powerful in black and white.
"How do you know?" I ask.
"I photographed it first to see."
What a fabulous man!
"I'm crazy about you, Sasha. I chose a black robe for you because you wear white all day."
He kisses me. We repair to our tree house to make love. After that a long soak in our hot tub, then a double massage as we lie side by side while a pair of tender-fingered masseuses knead our flesh. This, I think, must be what "sybaritic" means.
Before sleep, I look closely at the painting. It's less than a foot square, yet filled with energy. The woman warrior holds a sword in one hand, a shield in the other. At her feet lies a half-clad male.
I ask Sasha if there's a story to go with it. He says there're a hundred possible stories, and, to demonstrate, he'll tell me one.
"The warrior is you, Kay—powerful, indomitable, a woman of convictions, never to be trifled with. The man is your lover, me, 'slain' by your fierce beauty. We've made love all night. Now we recline declaring our love—you in your warrior's crouch, female power enhanced, I at your feet drained but in bliss."
"Sasha," I tell him, "that's just wonderful."
January 8: foggy, wintry. Hilly, "based on information received from a confidential source," has secured a search warrant from Judge Henry Beck to dig up the area behind Billy Hayes's widow's garage.
Debbie Hayes doesn't act surprised when we show up—Hilly, Joel and me, a van carrying two cops and three criminalists with shovels, trailed by a backhoe and driver from Public Works.
Debbie's a big blowsy middle-aged woman with a Texas twang. Hard to imagine her with Billy, the lean, fast-talking welterweight. But she doesn't object or squawk or carry on. I get the impression she's cried lots of tears in her life and more or less expects disasters.
When I ask if I can take her picture, she invites me into the house. There's a display of family photos on the spinet, no sign in them of kids. I pose her holding a photo of young Billy to her chest, in which, in head-guard and trunks, he receives his Golden Gloves trophy. There's an expression of longing on her face that seems to deepen as I shoot. Afterwards she stands by the window staring out at the men.
"It's s nice to have a bunch of guys around again. Billy used to bring his cop friends home. I miss those days."
She asks me if I think it'll be all right if she takes a case of beer out to the crew, or whether she should wait until they find whatever it is they're looking for.
Dusk comes early in January. It's dark and cold by the time the trench is dug, fifteen feet wide running along the rear of the garage. The backhoe operator had to take special care not to break into the foundation.
I shiver in my jacket as the criminalists start sifting dirt. They wear miners' lights on their helmets; the beams crisscross as they work the pit. A train passes behind the house, hissing its way south to San Jose. Neighborhood kids cluster around to watch. Not much conversation, just steady work by men anxious to finish a tough job and go home.
I keep my eyes on Hilly, wondering what she thinks, why she supposes Billy buried this stuff and to what degree she suspects Dad's involvement. We've tipped her off without telling her the entire story. In return for our tip, she's promised not to delve too deeply. As Joel puts it, she's chosen personal glory at the price of never understanding Billy's motivation. In this matter each of us has used the other: Hilly to greatly advance her career; Joel to break a terrific story; I, as best I understand myself, to preserve the symmetries; all of us to uncover the dead T killer's identity.
Photographing the scene, I try to capture its starkness, the sense I have that we're digging up a grave. A couple of times people call Hilly over, but in each instance the find turns out to be a stone.
Shortly after seven, a cop near the corner of the garage holds up a black polyethylene bag knotted at the top. Hilly takes it to the van, hands it to the chief criminalist. Miraculously, the plastic hasn't torn.
During the opening I fire off rapid frames. Behind me the men light cigarettes while herding against the chill.
Once the bag is opened an odor is released, earthy and, perhaps in my imagination, faintly tinged with licorice. I catch my breath as the criminalist pulls out a set of mildewed clothes, then the hypodermic, the tattooing gear, finally the awful ominous hood slippery with mold.
Hilly turns to me: "Do you believe this, Kay? Fifteen years in the ground?" She turns to the others. "Yes! Yes!" She whoops. They cheer, hug, congratulate. I photograph their faces, the pride, the gloat.
Joel sidles over. "Big moment."
"Absolutely," I agree.
"How do you feel?"
"Nervous. Afraid it'll backfire on Dad."
"Don't worry, kiddo. Hilly'll see he isn't hurt."
"How does she explain it then?"
"An old dead cop's perversity, something like that."
"What'll Hale think when he hears?"
Joel smiles. "That he's been screwed. You know, by the powers that be, the forces of darkness, the conspirators. He was methodical, did everything right, more or less figured out what happened. Only trouble was . . . he didn't know where to dig."
"Any regrets about not telling him?"
Joel shakes his head. "I like Hilly." His smile is sly. "I'm going to have the best cop source in town for years to come, I think."
I'm spending the better part of my days in the darkroom now, marking up proof sheets, printing my selections out. Twice a week, late in the afternoon, I drop by Maddy's to show her my work. She confirms some of my decisions, questions others, but never challenges my premise. Often she'll point out a new direction, a route into the story via an alternate set of images. Guided by her counsel, I make final choices, then return to the darkroom to work up exhibition-quality prints.
Some photographers I know hire a printer, but I like printing too much to farm it out. Choosing the paper, selecting contrast, exposure time, burning, and dodging—I never find the process dull. And the fact that it's slow and must be done by hand adds to the pleasure. Available-light street photography is quick; one shoots fast, guided by instinct. Making prints is more like working with traditional art materials, paint or clay or wood.
The treasure trove discovered behind Debbie Hayes's garage yields nothing in the way of fingerprints. Perhaps Skeleton-man wore gloves or time or moisture eroded whatever prints were there. It doesn't matter; in the end it's the hood that takes hold of Hilly's mind.
Well on her way to earning Hale's old title "San Francisco's smartest cop," she and Joel try to run it down, trekking leather store to leather store, smoothly working their way into the Bay Area leather-sex community.
Hilly's lesbianism and Joel's Pulitzer prize don't hurt, opening up doors which an ordinary team would probably not discover were there. Within days they are able to set up a meeting with several senior leather community people, aging experts on the arcane history of their scene. I'm invited, in my role as project photographer, to document the gathering.
Our host is Chet Bellows, a vivacious, charming, grizzled survivor of gay life. White-haired, in his late sixties, decked out in leather vest and worn black leather chaps, he greets us from the window of his Folsom Street loft, when we call up to him from the street.
"Catch!" he yells, throwing down the building key in what turns out to be a knotted sock. Hilly gracefully scoops it from the air, unlocks the building door. We enter a dark lobby, ascend in a freight elevator, then, upstairs, emerge into another world. The loft is spacious, beautifully furnished with antiques, there are good paintings by Bay Area artists on the walls, and case after case exhibiting a vast eclectic collection of books.
Chet introduces us around: David, Fred, Bill, Adam and Cindy, all dressed casually in gear. No giggling here, these are serious scene leaders, "wise-persons" Chet calls them, working on an oral-history project that will document gay and lesbian leather culture as it grew and changed in San Francisco over the past thirty years.
We help ourselves to beer, then Chet introduces Hilly, who explains what she's looking for and shows the gathering what she's got. The wise-persons are fascinated by the hood, which they pass among themselves, commenting on its fine craftsmanship and design.
"Stitching reminds me of Al Jameson's work," Cindy says. "Also the fittings look like his."
The hood makes another round. The men agree: "Does look like a Jameson piece."
"What happened to Al?"
"Died of AIDS in '83."
"His old lover, Dan Fowler—he's still around. I saw him on line at the Castro Theatre a few weeks back."
"Dan'd know for sure."
"Shouldn't be hard to find him."
Chet Bellows goes to the phone, makes a couple of calls, reaches Fowler, who says he'll be happy to come over and give us his opinion on the hood.
While we wait for him, the group reminisces about the T case and what it meant to them at the time, how they feared a backlash from a normally tolerant city on account of the awful brutality of the crimes.
"We were scared," Cindy says. She's a friendly stout woman in her forties, short gray hair, pale eyes, beatific smile. "Back then most folks didn't understand what we do is the opposite of sadistic murder."
"Safe, sane, and consensual," Adam adds. "A lot of folks still don't get it."
As they talk I'm impressed by their gentleness, intelligence, commitment to social justice. These are bright, friendly people who hold down sophisticated jobs: Chet's a retired professor of psychology, Cindy's a midwife, Fred's a computer programmer, Adam's an industrial designer in Silicon Valley, Bill's a flight instructor, and David's an attorney. I can feel the strong bonds of affection between them, forged by years together on the barricades.
"We're queer and we love it," Chet tells us. "We're also a despised minority. We've found the best way to confront our detractors is with solidarity, openness and shared humanity. 'We're your children and you're ours'—that's the essence of our message."
Dan Fowler arrives. A tall, thin, bespectacled, weathered-face guy in his fifties, he wears faded jeans, boots, a wrangler's' jacket, and carries a beaten-up attaché case.
"Oh, certainly—this is one of Al's," he says, taking hold of the hood. "His stitching, his fittings." Although the police lab removed the mold, they couldn't resuscitate the leather. Still Dan fondles it. "He always used best quality hide."
Dan opens his case, pulls out an oversize ledger, leafs through it. "I kept his old design-and-order book."
I catch Joel's eye, then we both turn to Hilly. She cranes forward as Dan stops several times to examine drawings of full-head hoods. Finally, he nods.
"Sure, here it is, order number S-H17." He drums his forefinger on the design, hands the ledger to Hilly. "'S' is for special, 'H' is for hood. This was the seventeenth special-order hood Al made. It's all there—date, customer name, and address."
I read the data over Hilly's shoulder: Burton Boyt Quint, 110 Moraga Street, San Francisco.
Hilly, Joel, and I pile into Melvin, then drive off into the cold night to view Quint's old address. I'm thrilled, Hilly is frothing, Joel is trying to stay cool but I can sense he's excited too.
It's a miracle, we all agree, that Chet Bellows's group identified the deceased leatherworker, and that his surviving companion kept his order book as a memento of the man he loved.
Moraga is in the Sunset, the vast grid of residential streets south of Golden Gate Park that extends to the Pacific Ocean. It's often foggy here, perhaps the foggiest district in the city. Most of the homes are modest two-story flat-roofed cubes erected side by side, painted in what I'm told are pastel hues. The population now is largely Asian-American, but fifteen years ago there was more of a mix. Since Burton Boyt Quint has long since been sent to swim with the fishes, our purpose is simply to find his building, gaze at it, take in the vibes.
It's a dollhouse sort of place, simple one-story bungalow with garage on one side and narrow strip of lawn on the other. It's small, innocuous, and lonely on account of that extra bit of land on an avenue where nearly every other structure abuts its neighbors.
"Perfect place to do bad stuff," Joel says.
Hilly squints as she peers at the house. "Like cut guys up," she says.
Silence. In fact, it turns out, we're all thinking the same thing: What if some of the missing heads and limbs are buried beneath that grass or walled up in the cellar?
"You got your work cut out," Joel tells Hilly, "that is, if Quint's the one."
"He's the one." There's something prideful in her now. An enormous success is within her grasp. She can feel it, can already taste the spoils.
"What'll you do now?"
"Backtrack the name," Hilly says, "come up with a Social Security number. Check military, school, voting and car-registration records. Look through old phone books and trace the ownership of the house. We know the T killer had access to a car if only to carry and dump his torsos. What happened to it? What sort of job did Quint have? When did he disappear? Who was this guy?"
Joel looks at me. "There's one more thing we can tell you," he says to Hilly, "to help you stay on track. It's the only other thing we know and you must promise you'll never ask us how we know or reveal it to anyone."
Hilly agrees; how could she not, since we're offering her the keys to the law enforcement treasury? Joel describes the full-body red skeleton tattoo on the T killer's arms, legs and ribs. If Hilly can turn up someone who knew Burton Boyt Quint and recalls a tattoo like that, then, Joel tells her, she's found her man.
Long days in the darkroom trying to produce expressive prints. In a book of photographs, no matter how fine the gravure process, some quality is always lost. As I work I think of my tonal fields—glove-soft grays, glistening whites, velvety blacks—as my palette. In that limited but expressive range, I feel I can convey any color that exists.
Sometimes I stop work to think about the differences between the cases: Quint and the old T case; Crane's murder of Tim. Skeleton-man's crimes, brutal and sinister as they were, contained at least some mystery and passion. But what Crane did to Tim strikes me as utterly, irredeemably evil.
Sasha warms me. After difficult days, I revel in his arrivals at night. Then the feel of his hard dark body, silken skin, the look of his gorgeous deep liquid eyes. In bed he whispers sweet intimacies into my ear. I adore that he whispers, no matter that no one's around to overhear. It's as if we inhabit a country of our own, a dark secret country of love.
Why, I wonder, did it take me so long to come to love him? Surely not on account of any deficiency of his, Sasha being not only beautiful but wonderful as well. And, I tell myself, I must be careful not to blame the Judge. No, the fault was purely mine, my inability, my lack, something that froze up inside when Tim was killed, which only Sasha could warm and melt.
Hilly's making good progress, Joel tells me. If her investigation pans out, it'll be the crime story of the decade. Charbeau and Shanley no longer mess with her, are much too awed and scared. She's been on the fast track since she broke the Lovsey case. It's only a matter of time, they know, before she's given a command position. Joel says she's aiming for chief of Homicide, and if she solves the T case, she may just get it . . . and more.
I drop by Cherry Street to see Dad. There's a new openness between us, has been since he made what we both now smilingly refer to as his "confession." He tells me he's thinking of expanding his social life, which will mean cooling things down with Phyllis. He'd like to get out more, he says, meet new people. The notion of him dating makes me smile.
Drake has disappeared. I haven't seen him in days. Twice I leave him food packages; both times they remain untouched. Has something happened to him? Is he ill? Or has he simply moved away?
I wish he'd contact me, even as I know maintaining relationships is not his forte. Just as he used to glide in and out of the shadows, so now he seems to have drifted from Sterling Park. But to what sort of life? Though he was difficult to talk to, I miss him more than I'd have thought. And a good part of my sorrow comes from the knowledge that if he has left for good, I know no way to find him again.
Hilly has turned up a lot on Burton Boyt Quint, including the fact that he disappeared around the time Sipple was attacked.
His car, a 1979 Ford Mustang, probably stolen from the Haight, was discovered abandoned a few weeks later on Bluxome Street near the CalTrain depot. A Streets Environment tow truck dutifully pulled it to the pound, where, after the requisite thirty days, it was auctioned off.
Quint never renewed his California driver's license or car registration. A month and a half after his disappearance, his landlord, one Kam Yong Choi, had his furniture, clothing, and possessions removed from the Moraga Street house, stored them 120 days and then, in accordance with California law, put them up for auction, the receipts to cover Quint's unpaid rent.
Quint worked in a print shop on upper Geary. The company disposed of its old employment records long ago. But one senior worker vaguely recalls him as ''the quiet guy who one day stopped showing up."
No one on Moraga Street remembers him, but few of the neighbors were living there fifteen years ago. Landlord Choi passed away, the house was sold by his estate, is now the property of a wealthy Vietnamese who leases it out to an immigrant Chinese family, and has neither the interest nor the obligation to allow S.F.P.D. to take it apart.
Tattoos: Hilly wishes she could work that angle, round up old-timers in the tattoo community the way she and Joel gathered the wise-persons of leather-sex. But since she has no justification for asking about a set of red skeleton tattoos, she's at a loss how to proceed.
Joel and I take her to dinner in North Beach, persuade her that her goal of nailing the T killer's identity down one hundred percent will probably not be met. What she should do now, Joel suggests, is write a report to the chief of police on everything she's discovered, making a strong circumstantial case that Quint and the T killer were one and the same. And if the Department chooses not to release it, Joel will write a front-page story depicting Hilly's quest to solve the city's most perplexing series of unsolved crimes.
"It'll almost be better than nailing Quint," Joel tells her. "You'll be seen as a dedicated detective who left no stone unturned. You followed the trail as far as it went. Most people will believe Quint's the guy, and that little shadow of doubt will make the saga even better."
Hilly mulls over that, decides she likes it. "It really is better," she says. "Like having a new lover, when there's still a little mystery left."
Judd' s lawyer, Jeremiah Waldroon, makes a deal with Pat Chu: Judd will plead guilty to one count of solicitation of corruption in return for testimony against Vasquez. The agreement calls for Judd to serve two-to-six in the country club prison in Chino. In addition he'll permanently give up his right to practice law.
Peter "Roy" Royal, on the other hand, has not yet come to terms. Pat Chu is pressuring him to implicate Sarah Lashaw, but Roy is holding out, at least for now. Pat believes Lashaw is paying Roy to take the fall.
"God knows, she can afford it," Pat says.
The end of February brings heavy showers. The city is washed clean by days of driving rain. I find myself depressed. Exposures, which was going so well, has bogged down. The stream of images which, a month ago, seemed to flow so well, now strikes me as awkward, at times even forced. Tim's story is so complex there are times when even I get lost. I think of Mom, the last months of her life, trying over and over to play through Schubert's B-flat sonata, forever stumbling over the repeats, unable to find and play the climax.
Sasha tries to help. He suggests I get out of the house, start a new project or take time off, anything to stop staring out at the rain. I'm too isolated, he says, too wrapped up in work. I need stimulation, fun, something to make me laugh. I disagree. What I need, I think, is illumination, a flash of brilliant light.
The last day of the month, six p.m. Magic time is over. I'm gazing out at the dark sodden city. It's been a windy umbrella-shredding sort of day, about as miserable here as it can get.
The phone rings. Dazed, I pick up.
"Hi, Kay! It's Courtney Hill."
The voice is familiar, but for a moment I can't place the name.
"'You said if I ever heard anything about Amoretto to let you know."
Suddenly I'm alert.
"This isn't definite. . . but then nothing about her is." Courtney laughs. "An ex-boyfriend of mine, part of our old Hard Candy crowd, thinks he saw her down in Mexico a couple weeks ago. He was there on vacation, thought he saw her crossing the street. He called out to her, but she didn't turn. He tried to follow her, but it was night and then he lost her in the gloom. He isn't positive, mind you. She looked different, he says. Older maybe. But the way she moved—if it wasn't her, he says, it could have been her twin."
I try to steady my voice. "Where in Mexico?"
"Resort town up in the mountains, San Miguel de Allende. Cool place, full of expatriates. You might like it, Kay. They got some kind of art school there."