The late and very great writer Nelson Algren offered three pieces of advice I've always remembered: never eat at a place called Mom's, never play cards with a man named Doc, and never sleep with anyone who has more troubles than you do.
That first weekend together, I broke rule three vigorously with Colleen, who had more problems than anyone I'd ever broken rule three with before.
In between reading case files and studying new evidence and information, we made love like they were about to repo the equipment—which they just might. It was a loving, sweating, kissing, soul-shaking, heartrending, earth-moving, near record-breaking engagement. I had never known a woman who affected me in as many ways as Colleen did. It was as exciting as first love, as scary as sudden death.
We made love with our eyes open, taking in every moment, every sensation, no distance between us, neither holding back anything.
When I got back to work, I concentrated on Bruce Bearden.
Colleen had never heard of Bearden prior to the trial. Her chief impression of him was that he had an astonishing ability to remember hundreds of details from the case files, complete with cross-references and index numbers.
I got Zane to give up the remainder of his weekend and dig up Bearden's past. He uncovered plenty of surprises.
Bearden had been an orphan, adopted by a truck driver and his wife, raised with three stepbrothers. The father drank, the mother worked to help the family survive. It was unclear why they adopted him, although they did receive county welfare until he was eighteen.
He was a brilliant albeit disturbed adolescent. He had a black belt in tae kwon do, belying his wimp image. He graduated third in his high school class and in the top ten percent at UC Davis, but had been turned down at several law schools because he lacked financial resources. He might have been admitted to a lesser school and received financial aid, but the only places he originally applied were Berkeley, Stanford, Hastings, and USC.
After failing to be admitted to any of his first choices, he went to work as an investment banker for Harrison-Goldblume and Associates, a firm with close ties to William Farragut.
Calvin Sherenian eventually got him admitted to USC and paid his tuition. Bearden directed his anger at having been snubbed for eight years into his law studies, graduating second in his class. He had been with Calvin ever since.
Old neighbors said he'd been arrested twice as a teenager, once for sneaking into the San Francisco Zoo while drunk and throwing stones at some gorillas, and the second time for using his tae kwon do skills to beat up a much bigger kid. A check of public records revealed nothing, typical of juvenile offenses. According to a boyhood friend, now Bearden's bitter enemy, it was Officer Warren Dillon who'd had both arrests quashed.
I wondered if Bearden was actually dumb enough to do the job on Lynne McBain himself, or if the ten-grand had been rejected by McBain and subsequently used to hire a killer.
The fact that Bearden had arranged to meet "J.N.," who I assumed was Inspector John Naftulin, was another very disturbing revelation.
I had always considered Naftulin a good cop in spite of his presence on the crew that had lynched me. Now I figured him for involvement in at least two homicides, Simcic's and McBain's.
In addition to checking out Bearden, I sent Arnie to Big Sur to verify Lynne McBain's alibi for the night of the Farragut murder.
The same bartender who'd been on duty the night of the Farragut murder was there when Arnie stopped in. He claimed that a very drunk McBain had spent the night in his bed. Two of his housemates confirmed it. He never saw her again.
I had to believe that Lynne McBain had neither the guts nor the smarts to have William Farragut murdered. Finding whoever had taken Ghiberti's silver plates was my only real hope.
I had Henry Borowski begin surveillance on Bruce Bearden, staking out Bearden's place from half a block away in the Firenze Plumbing van. When Henry tired, Martha would take over. I thought of having Martha sidle up to Bearden, use her charms to draw whatever information she could from him, but rejected the idea as far too dangerous.
Somehow, Colleen's affection and the intensity of our feelings created a grand buffer that helped to block the fear. As soon as we took our hands off each other, as soon as I opened up another evidence file or received another report from Henry or Zane, my stomach started churning and the anxiety grew.
I had to find the link between all of this and Farragut's murder, the last piece in the puzzle. I had decided to concentrate on two things.
The first emerged when Arnie made a startling find in the evidence files under "Miscellaneous Reports." There had been three similar burglaries in Pacific Heights and Presidio Heights during the eighteen months preceding the Farragut shooting, and all were still unsolved. The burglars had similar MOs: nighttime entry through a rear or side entrance concealed by a large wall or hedge. None was a professional job. Things had been knocked over and spilled, lights left on, tools taken from storage rooms and used to pry open drawers.
Things of no value had been taken: a woman's favorite hat, a telephone answering machine, two bottles of wine with the owner's name stamped on the label. And the burglars had only hit a few rooms in the enormous houses; they seemed to know right where the good jewelry was kept, which drawers to look in, which closets to rifle.
They were amateurs, but they had cased the places prior to the break-ins. They might actually have been inside the houses before the burglaries.
Follow-up police reports stated that no common denominators had been found among the victims: none of them had the same cable installers, laundry service, gardeners, anything.
There was not a single follow-up report filed by Hayden Phillips or any of his private detectives. Reinvestigating the three burglaries should have been their highest priority. A major issue was relegated to the junk pile.
The second thing I focused on was Colleen's previous lover, Tommy Rivera. I knew he'd be testifying soon and his involvement in Colleen's prosecution had bothered me since she'd first told me. Why would Rivera go through such an ordeal, committing perjury to convict what he must have been sure was an innocent woman? Why would he lie on the witness stand with half the world watching? There had to be more to it than jealousy or revenge if he was lying.
I called Colleen into my office. She came in smiling, dressed only in a black satin teddy that came to just above her hips, a thin black string between her cheeks, exposing legs and butt and Frankie's carnal weakness. I smiled back. I went over, put my arms around her, backed her to the closet, pulled out a black robe, wrapped it around her and tied it at the waist.
I was getting ready to ask her about the burglaries in her neighborhood when the phone rang.
It was Henry Borowski. "Bearden is leave house now, he carries big briefcase, haves nervous face, lookink everywhere around before he gets in car."
"Follow him and keep me posted on the cellular."
I told Colleen to stay inside and do exactly what Martha told her, grabbed my own cellular, and ran to the bike.
Plugging in the adapter, I started the bike and tore off down Lombard. I sped through North Beach, past the cappuccino liberals, hit Broadway, and headed through the tunnel. When I popped out on the other side near Van Ness, I hit the speed-dialer and got Henry in the van.
"He iz go toward Great Highway, past zoo."
"Stay with him until I catch up," I told him. I figured the fastest route was out Fell Street, through Golden Gate Park to the Pacific Ocean and the Great Highway.
If Bearden turned north on the Great Highway, he'd be coming straight at me. If he was going south, I could probably hit ninety or a hundred on the beach-hugging four-lane highway heading to Pacifica.
As I sped through the park, Henry called, saying Bearden had turned south. The entire coast along the Great Highway was heavy with fog. It made it harder to speed and greatly improved the chances of dying.
I caught up to Henry, struggling to stay close to Bearden in the fog. The visibility was about a hundred feet as we headed down the Pacific Coast Highway through Pacifica, to Sky Line Boulevard, turning south toward Woodside. We'd "put Bearden in the cradle," me in front in case Henry lost him, Henry on his tail.
Bearden turned off the road in Woodside and headed for a large farmhouse on top of a hill. With the fog clearing, there was an expansive view of the surrounding Santa Clara Valley and the San Francisco Peninsula. I circled back to see Bearden speaking into an intercom box at the gate. It opened and Bearden drove in.
Henry and I stopped at a deep turnout a hundred yards from the drive, a spot with a good view of everything. I grabbed the infrared binoculars from the van and we ran up a hill in time to see Bearden get out of his car.
Through the green haze of the glasses I saw a figure step outside the farmhouse. Rigid bearing, aquiline nose, disappearing hair: Calvin Sherenian coming to greet his protégé. Bearden handed Sherenian the large briefcase.
It got even more interesting fifteen minutes later when Tommy Rivera arrived and drove through the gate.
Bearden and Sherenian both came to the door to greet Tommy Rivera. They shook his hand, looking nervously about to make sure Tommy was alone. Henry had a camera and telephoto lens prepared. Using his shoulder for a tripod, I snapped a couple of quick photos.
The three men entered the house. I couldn't figure it.
Rivera was the prosecution's witness, the guy trying to bury Colleen. So why were Calvin and Bearden, the defense, meeting him down in Smokey Bear country?
I got a little excited, hopeful. Maybe they were paying Rivera extortion money. Perhaps they'd called Rivera, asked for a meeting and were acquiescing to his demands. If he recanted his affidavit, refused to testify, the remaining evidence against Colleen slid back to circumstantial. Her chances for acquittal would grow tremendously, back to a merely scary fifty-fifty.
Soon after, paranoia began to serve me well.
I called the office and asked Colleen who would be the administrator of William's estate if she were unable.
"Calvin Sherenian, why?" I told her I was just curious and suggested she try to get some sleep.
I was afraid to say it aloud, to tell Henry what I really suspected.
Calvin and Bearden could easily have been bribing Tommy Rivera to recant his testimony. But the longer I thought about it, the more I doubted it. Too many people had too much to lose if Colleen was acquitted and Farragut's diaries fell into her hands. They all feared that she'd turn them over to the newspapers.
I feared the worst.
Calvin Sherenian was trying to get Colleen convicted. He was paying Tommy Rivera to testify against his own client.