I grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy? There’s two of them. We’ll go back in and call the police.”
Eric ignored me and ran toward the men. I watched in disbelief as he grabbed the man on the bike and pulled him to the ground. The other man, who was about seven feet tall and built like a tree trunk, grabbed Eric from behind. The man on the ground picked himself up and hit Eric in the face with a sickening crunch I heard all the way across the parking lot. I felt as if I’d been dropped into a bad kung fu movie. I started running toward them, then stopped short. Eric was moving so quickly that all I could see was a blur of arms and legs. Tree Trunk toppled to the ground with a thud. The other man backed away from Eric with his hands up, then turned and ran up the road, leaving his friend to meet his fate.
I walked over on unsteady legs. Tree Trunk had rolled himself into a fetal position and was groaning quietly.
“He’ll be all right,” Eric said. “I hardly touched him.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, but before he covered it up I saw that his nose looked like a squashed cupcake and blood was flowing freely out of his nostrils. Even his cheekbone looked askew.
“Eric, they broke your nose!” I gasped.
Eric turned to the motorcycle, which was lying on its side in the dirt. With one hand still on his face he picked it up and set it on its kickstand.
“Eric, we’ve got to get to a hospital. Your nose…” I fluttered around him, pulling at the handkerchief. Eric grabbed my shoulder to steady me.
“Angela, I’m fine, really. Nothing’s broken. Just a little bloody nose, that’s it. All part of the game.”
He removed the cloth and smiled at me. Sure enough, his nose and cheek looked completely normal, except for a little blood under one nostril.
I blinked hard and looked at him again, but nothing had changed. “Eric, your nose was broken. I know it was.”
“My nose is fine, you can see that. Only believe what your eyes see, isn’t that what you said, Angela?”
Eric dropped me off at the Ocean House so I could pick up my car, and then followed me home to make sure I got there safely. I hoped we would get to say good-bye again, but after he watched me back into a spot in front of the building he waved and took off. I got out of the car and sniffed the breeze, certain that I could detect molecules of that maddeningly delicious odor. He had said nothing about seeing me again, so I was left once more at his mercy. At his mercy. I shivered at my choice of expression.
I went to bed but couldn’t sleep, so I sat in the living room until the sunrise paid its compliments to the Golden Gate Bridge. The day’s memories flipped through my mind like a slide show. Lucy looking like Sleeping Beauty in her white nightgown. Les telling me she had met a “real vampire.” Sansome smiling in the back of the squad car. Eric’s copper hair creating a curtain around me as we sped down the highway. The scrape of something sharp against my neck. A broken nose magically healed. When the slide show ended I waited for the explanation that would answer all of my questions, but none came. Certain words skittered at the edge of my consciousness, but I refused to acknowledge them. Guilt and fear mixed freely with excitement and happiness to create a cul-de-sac where all my emotions bottlenecked. I couldn’t think any further than the next five minutes.
When the sun filled the room I closed the blinds. Then I went to bed and slept until a police siren bore into my consciousness. I checked the clock. I was going to be late for work again, that made three days in a row. I considered taking a sick day, since I was certainly feeling ill, but being at work seemed preferable to moping around the house. I didn’t have any client meetings, and Dick let us observe Casual Friday if we weren’t going in front of the public, so I put on a pair of nice jeans, flat shoes, and a beaded cashmere twin set from the 1970s. Even with two layers of sweater I was still cold, so I topped everything with a heavy black wool coat.
The first thing I did when I got to the office was google Eric Taylor and Harbinger, International. There was a professor of chemistry at Tulane University named Eric Taylor who had written way too many articles in obscure (to me) science journals. There was a corporate lawyer in New York specializing in public finance. There was a major league baseball player. There was a musician who was going to be playing at the Freight and Salvage on Saturday night. I looked up that guy’s photo to make sure he wasn’t the Eric I had in mind, and he wasn’t. There were Harbinger, Internationals in Hong Kong and Bangladesh, one making computer parts and the other a textile manufacturer. It was starting to look like Eric Taylor had managed to avoid the octopus tentacles of the Internet. Finally I tried googling Harbinger, International and San Francisco. One entry came up describing a company that dealt in “international real estate investment and management.”
There was a phone number and a downtown address listed. When I called an intelligent sounding female voice said that Mr. Taylor was in a meeting and could she take a message. I said no and hung up. The address was on California Street, only a few blocks from HFB. I checked my watch. I could be there and back in under an hour, unless the job required stalking.
In the reception area I ran into Dick, who was coming from the conference rooms. He blocked my way, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot and looking miserable. I could tell he knew what had happened yesterday and was searching for something to say to me. Finally he reached for my hand and shook it. I understood that this was as close as he could get to a hug.
“Angie, the police called me last night, they informed me that you found Lucy. I’m very sorry that you, well, I’m very sorry. How are you faring?” Dick wiped his cheek, his eyes moist, his Rudolph nose glowing.
“Thanks, Dick, I’m all right.” I didn’t feel all right, but it seemed like that was the response everyone wanted from me.
“Lucy was a peerless employee.”
I hope no one asks you to deliver her eulogy.
“Yes, she was. Dick, I was just wondering, what did the police say to you about Lucy’s death? Did they ask you about anybody?”
Dick frowned. “They posited a number of questions about Lucy’s work, who were her friends, whether she’d been in any conflicts with a client or anyone else. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to help them much. Lucy didn’t exactly confide in me.”
I decided to try a different method. “Well, I wondered, because they were asking me about Les Banks in particular.”
Dick leaned closer, like he was going to tell me a secret. “They also asked me about Les,” he whispered. “They want to interrogate him about Lucy. ‘Not a suspect at this time,’ that’s what they said. ‘Question him in connection with her death,’ they said.”
He almost smiled, but controlled himself. Leave it to Dick to become enamored of the vocabulary of homicide inspectors.
“So, did Les come to work today?” I whispered back. Silently I begged for the answer to be yes. I wanted Les to talk to the police and explain everything in such a way that he would be instantly exonerated.
Dick shook his head. “No one has seen him today.”
Had Les run away? I must have looked ill, because Dick said, “Angie, why don’t you go home? There’s no reason for you to be here today. You’ve had a shock.”
I thanked him for his concern and said that work would be the best medicine for me, but that I was going to take a little break and have a coffee. He nodded and let me go. I passed Theresa at her desk in the reception area and she looked up from a pile of tissues, her nose and eyes so red from crying that she looked like a white rabbit with a head cold.
“Oh Angie,” she squeaked when she saw me, “you poor thing!”
“Thanks, Theresa. I’m all right. It’s going to take a while, for all of us.”
Theresa blew her nose into another tissue. “Lucy was always so professional with me. She never asked for things at the last minute.” She looked pointedly at the row of offices in front of her, “unlike some other people around here.”
I gave Theresa what I hoped was a sympathetic smile, then told her I was going to be out of the office for an hour or so.
With its multifaceted, gleaming red façade, the Bank of America Building is one of the main landmarks in the Financial District. In front of this building is a sculpture. Like many works of art, this one had consequences the artist never intended. It is a glossy black rock, about twenty feet high, more or less in the shape of a closed fist. Almost as soon as it was installed some wag dubbed it “The Banker’s Heart,” and the name stuck. I touched it as I passed and its coldness stung my hand. Black hearts, hearts of stone, all the images it brought to mind seemed like bad omens. I almost hoped this wasn’t his office.
I checked the location of Harbinger, International on the directory next to the elevators. It was on the fourteenth floor. The elevator opened into a foyer with walnut paneling and thick carpets that muted every sound. A small waiting area contained a Japanese tansu, three upholstered wing chairs, and a coffee table with an array of magazines arranged in a neat fan. The ones I could see were Architectural Digest, Art and Antiquities, Kiplingers, and Fortune, arranged alphabetically.
A receptionist was sitting at a curved desk that was empty of everything except a glass vase of bamboo and black stones. She was the epitome of professionalism, dressed in a tan suit with a silk blouse, brown hair in a bun, light makeup. She was in her mid-forties, neither beautiful nor unattractive, just competent-looking. She wore a headset, into which she was speaking German. Harbinger, International was living up to its name.
“May I help you?” Her smile came quickly and faded just as fast.
“Yes, I’d like to see Eric Taylor.” I tried to sound assertive.
“I’m very sorry, but he’s not in at the moment. Did you have an appointment?”
Last night I did. That was my rationalization for lying. “Yes, we did.”
The receptionist looked confused. She peered at an invisible calendar under the overhang of the desk. “And your name is?”
“Angela McCaffrey.” Now I wished I hadn’t succumbed to Casual Friday. I pulled my coat more tightly around myself.
“I don’t see it on the schedule. May I ask the nature of your business?”
“We’re discussing a real estate opportunity, and time is of the essence. I really need to talk to Mr. Taylor today. Can you give me a number for him?”
She shook her head sadly. “I really am sorry. There’s no way for me to reach him at the moment. If you’d like to leave your card, I’ll have him call you as soon as possible.”
There’s nothing like unerring politeness to take the wind out of your sails.
Back at the office, I tried to focus on work by writing a To Do list, but the first piece of paper my eyes lit upon was a Post-it telling me to call my mother, so I guiltily put that at the top of my list. I hadn’t found the Plump n’ Tasty Chicken art, the ostensible reason for my visit to Lucy’s house, and I was sure I wouldn’t be allowed back to search for them even if I wanted to, so the next item was to get Creative to generate some new copies. But it was Les who had drawn the pictures, and I was sure I wasn’t going to see him at work today. I wondered if the police had arrested him. I hoped not, because I believed him when he said he didn’t do it, although I had only a gut feeling to go on.
The desire to establish Les’s innocence brought out the detective in me. Before I knew it I was thinking about the messages on Lucy’s voicemail, and wondering whether there were any clues to her murder in them. Flipping to a fresh page on my notepad, I started a new list, titled: “Lucy’s Voicemail.”
I wrote, “Moravia, Thursday night.”
Moravia had called on Thursday, telling Lucy not to come to the club the next day. Why would Moravia tell Lucy not to come on Friday, then turn around and invite Kimberley and me on Wednesday? Maybe she was really fed up with Lucy and was already planning to give the account to someone else. Or was it something more personal than that?
Then I wrote: “Les, Saturday morning.”
Les had told me that the last time he saw Lucy was when they fought on Friday night. If this were true, then it made sense that he would call her the next morning, trying to make up. If he had killed her, the message was a cover-up that he knew the police would hear.
But if Les killed Lucy on Friday night, then Sansome was wrong about her being dead only for a day or two. I had a feeling why Sansome thought that, and why he didn’t want to tell me his reason. Lucy’s body had an odor, but not a terribly strong one. That’s why Sansome asked me how long I’d been in the apartment. If she’d been dead for almost a week, I’d have smelled her as soon as I opened the door.
I remembered two coffee cups on the Sunday paper. Someone had been there with Lucy on Sunday morning. Not Les, if his story was to be believed. Maybe the new boyfriend. Lucy went somewhere else, perhaps with him, for the beginning of the week, then ended up back at home, dead, on Wednesday or Thursday.
One thing I could do was check to see where Lucy was on Friday night. Did she go to the House of Usher or was she with Les?
I called the Macabre Factor office, a cavernous former sewing factory south of Market Street. The desks and computers hugged the walls while the center of the room was filled with boxes of Macabre Factor cosmetics waiting to be shipped. Whenever I visited there I wondered anew where the capital was coming from for their advertising campaign. Suleiman had mumbled something about “angel investors” the last time we discussed the budget.
I immediately recognized Moravia’s husky voice reciting the name of the company.
“Hi, it’s Angie at HFB.”
Moravia’s voice turned warm. “Hello, Angie. Did you have a good time at Usher? We never got to say good-bye to you.”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry about that. I started feeling a little ill, so I left early.”
“Eric just couldn’t stop talking about you.”
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and suddenly I was off-task. Why hadn’t I thought of asking Suleiman and Moravia for Eric’s number?
“I’d love to get in touch with Eric. Do you happen to have his number?”
“I don’t have any numbers for him. He’s elusive, that one. But if I see him I’ll tell him you want to talk to him.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I rushed to say. “Anyway, the reason I called is…you know Lucy has been missing the last few days?”
“No, no one told us that. We were just told she was unavailable.”
That was the party line, wasn’t it? If Moravia knew otherwise, she wasn’t going to tell me.
“Well, she was found, I found her, she’s dead.”
I heard Moravia suck in her breath. “Oh my God, really! That’s awful. How did she die?”
“I don’t know really. The police are going to do an autopsy.”
“Well, I’m so sorry. Please don’t worry about our deadlines, we know it will take some time to get things sorted out.”
Under the guise of taking over the account I could ask about Lucy and Moravia’s interactions over the past few days without looking like I was just being nosy. One could even argue that it was a valid reason for me to have been listening to Lucy’s voicemail.
“I think it’s better for all of us if we keep things normal and just go on working.” I took a deep, silent breath. “So I was wondering, when you saw Lucy on Friday night at Usher, did you all come to any conclusions about the creative strategy that I should know about? Was Lucy on board for the ‘normal people embracing the vampire lifestyle’ approach?”
There was some static on the line, as if Moravia was moving from one place to another. “That was a social visit, Angie. We’ve known Lucy since before we became clients at HFB. She had been coming to a private party that we have at Usher on Friday nights. Lately she’d been bringing Les Banks.”
“A private party? Isn’t the whole club private?” I asked, remembering the guest list.
“This is just a little more private. Anyway, she wasn’t there last Friday because the party was canceled.”
“Oh, why was that?”
“I can’t really remember. It happens sometimes.”
After we hung up I thought back over Moravia’s message on Lucy’s machine. I remembered the words distinctly.
“I know you were planning to come to the club tomorrow, but I think it might be better if you didn’t…”
That didn’t sound like the party had been canceled, that sounded like Lucy had been uninvited.
Moravia had said that both Les and Lucy had been attending the Friday parties. Les had said he wasn’t “into the vampire stuff,” so one of them was lying. I needed to talk to Les, but of course I didn’t know where to find him.
Theresa opened the door without knocking. Still sniffling a little, she dropped my mail on my desk. I was rifling through it before the door closed behind her. Before Eric I would let my mail pile up unopened for days at a time, since anything important came by fax, phone, text, or email. But now my mail was precious, because it might contain a message from him.
Today’s precious mail consisted of a copy of Adweek, a circular advertising a half-off shoe sale at Nordstrom, and a brochure for a conference on “Making the Perfect Pitch” in Maui. As I was tossing Adweek onto a pile of other unread magazines, a manila envelope fell out. It looked like a normal piece of direct marketing mail, with my name printed on a label, but its lack of return address or postage indicated otherwise. I swooped on it and ripped it open.