thirty-four

The next morning, we took my car. Parking near the wharf is difficult at best, even on a weekday—we stood a better chance of finding a spot with my Geo. From the crest of Russian Hill, we had a panoramic view of the bay. The sky was cloudless and the deep blue of the Bay sparkled like scattered diamonds as wind currents ruffled the waters. The buildings of Alcatraz were stark white against the bare cliffs of Marin.

I trailed a cable car, full to capacity, and did my best to keep one set of wheels off the metal tracks and not skid down the hill. We descended to Bay Street, past Aquatic Park and the cable car turnaround. The tourist season was in full swing. The park was already crowded with portable stalls selling souvenirs and jewelry, a juggler doing tricks and a guitar player with his case open for donations. We cut down Jefferson to Millie’s Crepe House.

We were the first customers of the morning and settled in at an outdoor table, perched on a small pier a few feet above the water line. We were bundled up in sweaters Gale had loaned us. The smell of fresh fish and brine filled the air and seagulls swooped and cried above us, ready to dive for crumbs. Cheryl and Gale ordered omelets and I chose the blueberry crepes. We dug in as soon as our waiter arrived with our orders.

Gale sprinkled salt on her dish. “I’ve got to go into the shop today and organize some things for the psychic fair next week, but I want you to stay in touch with me.”

“Sure. Any special reason?” I asked.

“I have a distinct feeling there’s more you’re not telling me. I think you’re more involved than you should be.”

“Gale, I haven’t even set up all the charts.”

“Yeah, well, I know you. You’re like a pit bull once you get an idea in your head, so just be careful. Some of these people may not be as nice as you think they are. One of them is already dead.”

“Whatever happens, Julia, you can count me in,” Cheryl offered.

Gale turned to her. “And you too. You’re a babe in the woods. You’ll get yourself in trouble. I just know it. Now that you’re a gay divorcée, you have to be careful. There are a lot of sharks out there, not just in the Bay.”

“Yes, Mom,” Cheryl replied, smiling.

It was then I remembered the precious package I’d been carrying around. “Oh, I completely forgot. I meant to show this to you both last night, but it slipped my mind.” I pulled out the sapphire and platinum bracelet, now back in its Rochecault box. I showed it to Gale.

“Did you say this woman was a waitress at a bar?”

“Pretty strange, huh?”

“Well, somebody with some serious bucks bought this for her then.”

“That’s what I want to find out. I haven’t shown it to Brooke yet, but I ran it by Rob, and he didn’t recognize it. Geneva’s afraid that Moira might have stolen it.”

Cheryl leaned back in her chair, sipping coffee. “I know where this came from. I know the shop.”

“Rochecault, right?” I said.

“Yup. I have a friend who works there. Very pricey place. It’s on Maiden Lane near the Gucci shop. Maybe she can tell us who bought it. I’ll go down there with you if you want.”

“That’d be great.”

Gale turned to Cheryl. “Don’t forget about the open house on Sunday. I’ve spoken to the realtor and she’s expecting us.”

Cheryl nodded. “I haven’t forgotten. I’m just not sure …”

“I’m sure,” Gale said. “Julia, I want you to come and see it too. I really want Cheryl to get this apartment. I think it’s a great deal. Just right for her. Fabulous location and now she’ll have some money to work with.”

Cheryl groaned. “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, but I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.”

“You’re ready, honey. Don’t doubt that.” Gale gave me a penetrating look. “And as for you …” She trailed off without finishing her sentence. I avoided her look and didn’t reply.

We settled our bill and clambered back in the car. Traffic was heavier now. We escaped the tourist fray at the wharf and headed back up the hill. I pulled into the circular drive to drop Gale off. James wasn’t on duty at this hour and the doorman stared at us as though we’d taken a wrong turn.

“Snobs,” I muttered under my breath.

Gale waved at the doorman, who, recognizing her, hotfooted it to the passenger door and quickly opened it.

“I think I’ll have a word with him. He better treat you right when you pull up to my house.” Gale climbed out and Cheryl moved into the passenger seat. Gale turned and leaned down to the passenger window. “Remember what I said, Julia. I don’t want to see either of you in any trouble.”

We nodded and smiled.

She shook her head in frustration. “Ciao. Kisses.” She waved back at us as she entered her building.

I appreciated her concern, but I was slightly miffed that she considered me such an idiot I wouldn’t be able to stay out of trouble. It was a good thing I hadn’t mentioned getting locked in the storeroom at Macao with illegal substances.

We exited the semi-circular drive and turned toward town. Cheryl was on her cell, hoping to reach her friend at the jewelry store. She clicked her phone shut. “We’re in luck. Shahin’s there today. I told her we’d be in to see her.”

I followed Bush Street down to Union Square. The square rises above the bordering streets in a mound topped with a concrete plaza and a spire commemorating the Civil War. The regular denizens were in attendance, but a milling crowd was setting up booths for an art fair. An elderly man bundled in sweaters sat on a bench feeding pigeons. At another bench, a teenage couple was locked in a clutch. Cars had lined up to enter the parking garage under the square and I joined the queue. Pedestrians jaywalked around the car as we inched forward. When we finally neared the entrance, I breathed a sigh of relief the lot wasn’t full.

Maiden Lane is a narrow street between Grant and Stockton that runs into Union Square and lays claim to some of the priciest shops in the city. We waited at the traffic light and hurried across the street. Rochecault was halfway down the narrow street, next to a restaurant with outdoor tables. Unusual estate pieces and handmade creations were displayed in the window. We stepped into the front vestibule and Cheryl rang the bell. A young woman with short dark hair looked up from the interior of the shop and pressed a buzzer allowing us entry through a second door.

“Cheryl! Hi.” The woman waved from behind the counter.

“Shahin, this is my friend Julia.”

She smiled widely and shook my hand. Her complexion was smooth and dark. She had a brilliantly white smile and a wide generous mouth with full lips.

“Hi, Julia. Cheryl tells me you have something you think was purchased here?”

“I’m fairly sure. It belongs to a friend who found it in her sister’s apartment. We were hoping you might be able to tell us anything you know.”

“Let’s have a look.”

I dug through my purse and opened the box once more, spreading it out for Shahin’s perusal. She took a jeweler’s loupe from a drawer under the counter.

“Oh. Yes. I’ve seen this before.”

“Do you remember who bought it?”

She thought for a moment. “It does look very familiar. But I can’t recall right now. We sell estate jewelry and one-of-a-kind pieces like this, sometimes made on the premises. This design is unusual, and the precious gems and semi-precious—two different tones of blue—give it a lot of depth. The platinum too. It’s beautiful. Let me ask Amir—he’s one of the owners. He might remember.” She walked through a door into the back of the shop and returned a few moments later.

“Yes. He remembers the piece. He said it was sold a few months ago. I’ll check our ledger book.” Once again, Shahin walked to the end of the counter and disappeared behind a screened-off area. She returned immediately carrying a large, bound ledger.

“You write everything down?”

Shahin nodded. “We have computer records too, but the guys here are kind of old-fashioned. They like to keep a handwritten record as well.”

She opened the book to early March and ran her finger down the columns. After five pages, she spotted it.

“Here it is. See, here’s the description. Here’s the jeweler’s name and the date. April 5th. It was sold for $5,500.”

“With a credit card?” I held my breath.

“No. Cash. Not even a personal check. Wow!”

“Is that the buyer’s name in the last column?”

“Yes, we do keep a record in case there’s a repair needed, and we send out reminder cards when holidays are coming up, that kind of thing. We can’t give out customer information though. I’m sorry.”

Shahin looked at Cheryl and gave her a wink. She jotted down a name and address on a pad of paper and slid it across the counter toward Cheryl. “Sorry Cheryl, I can’t help you with this,” she added in a slightly louder voice for the benefit of the man working in the rear of the store.

“That’s all right. Thanks anyway. We appreciate your time,” I replied.

Shahin buzzed us out of the shop. On the sidewalk, Cheryl pulled the slip of paper out of her pocket.

“Wait. Not here.” I spotted outdoor tables next door. “Let’s get a cappuccino.” We grabbed a table and a waiter immediately swooped down and took our order.

“That was awfully trusting of your friend. How do you know her?”

“We were in a French cooking class together a few years ago and we’ve stayed in touch since then.”

“Now let’s see what’s on that paper.”

Cheryl had stuck the note in her purse. She dug it out and passed it over, peering over my shoulder.

“‘L. Barron, 443 Vallejo Street.’”

“Do you think that’s a phony name and address?” Cheryl asked.

“Who knows? We don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman.”

“We could go ring the bell and see who answers.”

“And if there really is an L. Barron, and he or she calls the police? What if Moira stole it from him or her? I really don’t want to bring any more trouble down on the Learys.”

Cheryl was thoughtful for a moment. “You said Geneva didn’t recognize it. So either Moira stole it somewhere or she had a wealthy benefactor. How do you know this sugar daddy wasn’t a sugar mommy?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but anything’s possible. If you’re going to steal jewelry from someone, you usually wouldn’t be able to get the box it came in too, would you?”

“No, I guess not,” Cheryl agreed. “And Moira herself could have bought it and used a phony name and address. What about this Andy guy she was dating?”

Our waiter arrived with our cappuccinos. I waited until he moved away before answering. “There are some suspicious things about his financial state. But he doesn’t appear to have a lot of money.”

“Wealthy people don’t necessarily walk around with that kind of cash, either. Of course, it’s the best way of not leaving a paper trail.” Cheryl sipped carefully at the foam at the top of her cup. “Listen, maybe I’ll buzz through the Gucci shop and browse a bit, now that I’m here and have some bucks coming to me. Want to join me?”

“Love to, but I’m going to try to visit Brooke.”

“That sounds depressing.”

I nodded in response. “No doubt, but she’s still in the city jail. Although Geneva said if they were going to hold her, they could move her someplace else. And speaking of depressing, I’ll be at the wake tonight, but it won’t be late. If you’re free, do you feel like a drink after? There’s a place I’d like to check out.”

“I’m game. Give me a call later.”

We finished our drinks and parted on the corner of Maiden Lane. I headed back to the parking garage and retrieved my car. I drove across Market, turning on Howard, and followed it to 7th Street. A dirt parking lot nearby charged only twenty dollars for the day. What a bargain. This was a San Francisco far removed from the glittering heights of Telegraph Hill or Nob Hill and the breathtaking views of the Bay. The closest water was China Basin, once only neglected piers built on sunken ships and filled land. Market Street cuts a diagonal swath through the city and has always been the dividing line between the right and the wrong sides of town. As time passed and the land south of Market, now called SOMA, became more and more valuable, the developers have taken over, building a civic center, a new museum, and condos in an area called “South Beach” in realtorese speak.

Granted, there were fewer vacant lots and industrial storage properties now, and office space once housed on Union Street had slowly moved to upscale new quarters around China Basin, but the heart of the area had not changed. Truly organic neighborhoods take time and aren’t thrown up quickly by developers. At night, few residents walk the streets in spite of the occasional restaurant or club opening. In my opinion, the city still psychically resists spreading over that boundary.

The wide stairs of the jail at 425 7th Street were thick with bird droppings. Garbage swirled on the sidewalk and against the curbs. I pushed through the door of the squat gray stone building and stood in line while visitors placed items on the moving mini-tarmac of the security station, much like an airport. I passed through the metal detector. After that, a California Department of Corrections officer held out a large device like a padded microphone and passed it all around me, up and down, to check for weapons.

Once through, I filled out a form with my information and the name of the prisoner I was visiting. I was then allowed to enter a large waiting room, painted in two-tone industrial green with benches along the sides of the walls and parallel rows of benches filling the center of the room. One wall had narrow rectangular windows, covered with metal bars, just below ceiling level and at least twelve feet from the floor. The entire room was illuminated by neon-tubed light fixtures hanging from the ceiling on chains. The overwhelming odor in the room was disinfectant overlaid with fear and sweat.

Perhaps thirty people were waiting for their visit with a prisoner just as I was. Every ten minutes, a guard entered the room through a locked double door and called out a name. Someone would rise, raise their hand, and move quickly toward the guard and through the door.

The time passed excruciatingly slowly. Under the pallid glow of neon lights, we all looked like prisoners of war. Most of the waiting were women—wives, mothers, girlfriends, and sisters of the incarcerated. Two tattooed men in droopy gangbanger pants who sat together looked like they belonged on the other side of the door.

After an hour’s wait, a female guard called my name. I followed her down a long hallway and through another set of doors. I was wanded once more, my purse and jacket were taken from me, and I was asked to pass through yet another metal detector. Then I was shown into a small narrow room, one wall fitted with bulletproof glass and a long vinyl counter running under the glass. A telephone receiver hung on either side of the glass. I took the molded plastic chair on my side of the partition and waited. Eventually, the door opened and a female guard escorted Brooke into the room. She looked even thinner but still moved with grace. She stopped short when she saw me and hesitated. Then she sat down slowly on her side of the plastiglas and picked up the telephone.

“Julia …”

“I hope you don’t mind that I came to see you,” I said.

Brooke’s normally pale highlighted hair looked heavy and matted under the neon lighting. She wore no makeup and only a two-
piece bright orange shirt and pants, with no belt. Her skin was strained tight over the bones of her face and seemed almost translucent. She looked down at her hands, clenched together on the counter.

“No, I appreciate your coming.” She stifled a sob. “It doesn’t look good for me.”

“Don’t say that. If you’re not guilty, stick to your guns.”

“Oh, Julia. Attorneys and prosecutors and judges play just as many games with your life in this world as in the corporate world. Just insisting on your innocence doesn’t cut any ice. There’s not one woman in here who’s guilty. Didn’t you know, we’re all innocent?” she said with a bitter laugh.

“What does your husband have to say?”

“Rob’s been fantastic. Thank God. He knows I love him and I’d never have done anything so ridiculous.”

“What do you know about these emails the police supposedly have?”

Brooke’s shoulders slumped. “About a year ago, Rob and I were fighting a lot … we were even talking about a divorce.” She twisted her fingers nervously. “Moira, I remember, sent an email that said something like ‘Let’s bump him off for the life insurance,’ but she meant it as a joke. I know she did. I don’t think I even responded to it. It was just at a time when she knew we were fighting and maybe talking about going our separate ways.”

“But weren’t there others?”

“Yes. That’s what I don’t understand. Moira would have had to be the one to send the other emails. But I can’t imagine her doing that.”

“Geneva said she used to visit you at your office.”

“Oh, sure, she’d come by to see me. A few times she brought Ashley in, that sort of thing. I’ve tried to remember … I know she used my computer sometimes to look things up.”

“Did anyone else have access to your office computer?”

“No. No one outside the company, certainly.”

“What about your computer at home?”

“Well … yes. Moira used it occasionally.”

“What did the emails say?”

“They were really … other than the one that was obviously a joke … they were ambiguous for the most part. The police confronted me with them. They said things like, ‘When are you going to wake up, what are you waiting for?’ And then supposedly I wrote back stuff like, ‘You’ll have to help me. I can’t do it alone.’ And another one from Moira said, ‘I know you want to get rid of him. You let me know what you need from me.’ But I swear, Julia, I know I didn’t write those—at least I don’t remember writing them. And I can’t imagine why Moira would write those things to me. But it had to be Moira. Who else had access to my house and my office? It breaks my heart to think that, but it’s the only explanation. Moira loved me, I know she did. But she resented me too. In her mind, I was everything she would never be. This was something she did to herself. It wasn’t the way I felt about her. I loved her with all my heart. My baby sister who could never seem to find her way. So no matter what I did or didn’t do, I was always wrong.” Brooke’s voice broke, but she took a deep breath and continued. “Julia, the only person with a motive for killing Moira was Andy. They fought a lot. I know my sister was out of control sometimes, but they had some violent arguments. Believe me, if anyone in our circle is guilty, it’s Andy.”

I did my best to gauge the depth of her honesty. I have a tendency to take people at face value. I’ve learned the hard way to reserve judgment. After all, I didn’t really know Brooke Ramer. Could she be a manipulative, cold-blooded woman who could set her sister up to commit a murder? Had she planned to make Moira the scapegoat for removing an inconvenient husband? I remembered her Sun-
Venus conjunction in Libra in the eleventh house. I just couldn’t believe her capable of anything so dreadful, and neither could her family. Moira, on the other hand, had always been in trouble. It made much more sense to imagine Moira preparing a scenario that would cause trouble between Brooke and Rob. Motivated by resentment and anger, she might not imagine the consequences of her actions.

“I’m so glad Rob’s been supportive.”

Brooke nodded. “We worked all that stuff out last year. But at the time, it was tough. I felt like we were facing a divorce.”

“I heard Rob wanted another child. A son.”

“He and his first wife weren’t able to have any children, so it was important to him, but …” She trailed off. “I just didn’t want to have any more children. We have Ashley and she’s older now, and she’s fine as an only child. I felt if I had another child, it wouldn’t be possible for me to keep up my work schedule, and my career is very important to me … was …” She laughed bitterly. “I guess that may be moot right now, huh?”

“Rob was a widower when you married?”

“Sondra’s death was terrible for him. He stayed very close to her sister Pamela, though. She thinks the world of Rob. He even gave her half of Sondra’s life insurance money. He felt terrible about what happened, especially since the two sisters had no other family.”

“That was very generous of him.”

“Yes, I know. We’ve stayed in touch with Pamela. We always invite her to holiday dinners with the family. Rob doesn’t want her to feel that she’s alone in the world.” Brooke’s eyes took on a faraway look. “You know, this time last year, we were on a boat trip. Funny how one day, one minute, can change every aspect of your life.”

“You have a boat? That’s lovely.”

“Oh, we don’t. It belongs to a friend of Rob’s. He keeps it moored in the Marina, but we have the use of it whenever we want. His friend travels a lot for his business and can’t really keep an eye on it, so he likes us to use it whenever we can. It’s a good-sized sloop with a full cockpit and galley. Rob was saying just yesterday that when this thing’s sorted out, he wants to plan a trip.” She smiled sadly.

“I can’t believe they’re denying you bail.”

Brooke shook her head. “The police play politics too. Rob worked in the DA’s office before he went to a private practice and I’m the editor of a high-profile magazine. The prosecutors want to look like they’re doing their job. But we’re really not that wealthy, at least not in terms of cash. I’m afraid the legal fees will eat most of it up.”

A buzzer sounded and the same female guard opened a door behind Brooke. Her shoulders sagged.

“That’s it. Our time’s all gone. Thanks for coming, Julia.” She attempted a smile without much success as she was led away.

 

The wind whipped dust and trash up in the gutters as I left the building. I walked along the sidewalk, heading back to the parking lot. It was only mid-afternoon, but the air had turned cold. I wrapped my jacket tightly around me and walked as fast as I could through the lot, trying to remember where I’d parked. The parking guard had collected his fee in advance and now had disappeared. I unlocked the car and climbed in out of the wind, then navigated over the metal teeth set in concrete at the exit and headed home.

The visit to Brooke had been draining. I couldn’t begin to imagine what she was feeling, locked up as she was. If she were found guilty, her life would be over—her career, her marriage, and her relationship with her daughter. Even if she was eventually released, how could she rebuild a life? The only blessing she had at this point was the fact that her husband, and her family, believed her innocent.

I maneuvered out of downtown and as I drove west on Geary, I made a quick decision and moved into the left-hand lane. I headed toward Waller and passed by the Alibi bar. I drove a few more blocks, pulled a U-turn, and cruised down the street one more time. A couple came out of a bookstore. A girl with purple hair rearranged a sign in the window of one of the tattoo parlors and some teenagers were hanging out in front of a smoke shop.

I finally spotted him. A man in a wheelchair in front of the church near the corner of Clayton. I parked at Stanyan and walked back. He was corpulent, perhaps early sixties. His legs ended at his knees, but his arm muscles bulged under a sweatshirt. He wore several layers
of clothing. His face was round and babyish with a few days growth of orange-and-gray stubble. Aviator glasses covered his eyes. A baseball cap was pulled down over long greasy hair. His wheelchair was a complicated affair with hand controls and several rubber wheels. I hoped he wasn’t carrying any weapons anywhere in his gear. On his lap was a stack of pamphlets. As I came closer, I could see they were religious tracts.

“Are you here to talk about Jesus?” he cried out to me as I crossed the street. I stopped and watched him carefully. The curb was so deep we were almost eye to eye.

“No, and I don’t want to see him, either.”

He laughed, throwing his head back and treating me to the sight of a row of decayed teeth. “Well, lady, if you’re not into visiting Jesus, then why come to me?”

“Are you Zims?”

“At your service.” He leered at me.

“I’m here about Moira Leary.”

His face darkened. “What about her? Are you a cop?”

“Hardly. Her family wants to know.”

“Crazy bitch. I heard what happened. Doesn’t surprise me.”

“What was she using?”

“Mostly coke, but she was movin’ over to meth. Nobody woulda needed to kill her. She woulda taken care of that herself. Of course, you understand I just heard about this. On the street, you know. Nothin’ to do with me.”

“’Course not.” I replied dryly.

He watched me for a moment. “What’s it to you anyway?”

I remained silent and pulled a twenty dollar bill out of my wallet and folded it up. He snorted in derision. I pulled two more twenties out and folded them up with the first and held the cash up. He snatched it with surprising speed, tucking it into one of the pockets in his many layers.

He looked at me over his aviator glasses. “I wasn’t doin’ any business with her, you know. Not after she got busted.”

That made my ears go up. “When did that happen?”

“’Bout a month ago. I saw the whole thing. They picked her up and took her away. Then they dropped her back a few hours later.”

“She wasn’t charged?”

“Nope.” I waited and watched him closely. “Maybe they wanted something from her. Maybe it wasn’t about drugs. But after that, I didn’t want nothin’ to do with her.”

I tried not to look at his missing legs. He caught my eye.

“’S okay, lady. I’m used to people staring.”

“I heard you’re a vet.”

“Yeah. A long time ago, 1969. Another life. God bless America.” He gripped his controls and suddenly wheeled away, leaving me standing on the street with an empty wallet.

It wasn’t my lucky day. A ticket was stuck under my windshield wiper. I pulled it out and shoved it in my purse. I didn’t want to think what the fine was. I’d hyperventilate later. If Zims could be believed, Moira was picked up by the police and then released. Or picked up by somebody. Was it a drug bust? Or maybe the cops wanted an informant in the neighborhood. That would line up with what Rita had suspected, that the man who stopped into the bar to see Moira was a cop. Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with drugs. Either way, she not only hadn’t been charged with anything, she’d been escorted back.

Andy claimed Moira was cheating on him. Steve thought her brother was supplying her with drugs or the money to buy them. Moira was in possession of a very expensive item of jewelry and was worried she was pregnant. If there was yet another guy, who was he?