thirty

I was eating at Giuseppe’s Pizza and Antho was delivering pizza to make ends meet. I had probably passed this place hundreds of times but had never noticed the name on the door. Given its proximity to the financial district, it wasn’t surprising that offices in the area would use Giuseppe’s as their favorite place for take-out and deliveries. Dani had never mentioned that her boyfriend worked for the very business that had delivered to the 16th floor of the Montgomery building on the day of Jack’s murder. Had Antho been the delivery guy on that fateful day? And had Dani bothered to tell the police her boyfriend had access to the building? She would have known if he had been working that Sunday. I stood up and tossed my paper plate and napkin into the trash bin by the counter. The heavy-set man was preparing yet another pizza. This one with pineapple and hunks of ham, a desecration of the real thing in my humble opinion.

“Excuse me.”

The pizza maker didn’t look up when he answered. “Yeah?”

“The guy who just left … he looks familiar to me. I think I know him. Is his name Antho?”

His hands stopped moving and he looked up. “Are you a friend of his?”

“We have a friend in common. Listen, by any chance, what days does he deliver for you?”

“What’s this about?”

“I was just wondering if he did your deliveries last Sunday?” I imagined takeout orders wouldn’t be too heavy on a day when most offices were closed, so Antho might have been the only guy working on a Sunday.

“Are you a cop?” The pizza maker’s tone became belligerent. “If you are, then I’ll spare you the trouble, because the cops have already been here asking questions, and I don’t have time for this crap.”

“No, no, really, I’m not a cop,” I assured him. I wracked my brain for a good lie that might elicit some information from this bulldog. “Look, this is kind of embarrassing. I’m a friend of his girlfriend. They had a fight ’cause he didn’t show up for a date last Sunday afternoon and she’s been thinking he’s seeing somebody else. He told her he wasn’t, he was working.”

“Oh, for chrissakes, whaddo I look like, his mother?” The man shook his head.

“I told you it was embarrassing.”

He stared at me, a disgusted look on his face. “Yeah, that’s his regular day. He’s the only guy I can get to do deliveries on Sunday. He works one to five. The kid plays music so he won’t come in till the afternoon. You happy now?”

“Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“Good. Now can I get back to filling my orders? I got work to do.” He shook his head. “What next?”

“Thanks,” I said as I pulled the door open and beat a quick retreat. He was still muttering to himself as the door closed behind me.

Was this too much of a coincidence or what? The one person not connected to the firm who entered the building on Sunday, the day of Jack’s murder, was the boyfriend of a woman who worked at the firm. Delivering pizza would give him lots of mobility anywhere in an office building. He wore a shirt and a cap with a logo and walked around with pizza boxes in a big vinyl warmer bag. He might get mugged for the pizzas, but otherwise, no one would even glance at him twice.

I cut up to O’Farrell and found Adam’s building, a four-story gray edifice next to the parking garage next to Macy’s. The lobby area was marble with brass fixtures and so was the elevator. Sinclair Investigations took up a section of the top floor. A receptionist greeted me and I asked for Adam Schaeffer. She made a quick call and then pointed to a side corridor. “You’ll find him down there.”

Adam was standing in the hallway, waiting, and indicated his small office. “Welcome to my domain.” I stepped inside. A large window overlooked the three-way intersection of Market, Stockton, and Ellis.

“I was hoping you’d call, but this is better. What can I do for you?” He smiled.

“I was wondering if you’d found any information on Hilary Greene?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t forget, and I’m not ignoring you. I’ve just been so busy with a couple of new clients. But we can have a look now. We can probably find a birth date, maybe even a social security number. And we can definitely do a property search.”

“Great. I’ll watch over your shoulder.”

Adam sat behind his desk and turned to the keyboard. “Did you have a chance to talk to David?”

“Yes, I stopped by the hospital. He’s complaining a lot, so I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Adam plugged in the address of the art gallery on Fillmore and, sure enough, it told us the date it had been sold, the price for the small one-story building, and the buyer’s name: Hilary R. Greene. Bought one year after her divorce from Jack.

“Is Greene her maiden name? I thought she told me she’d been married once before Jack. Can we look up marriage records or name change records with this program?”

“We can access city and county information. That should give us any marriage records or name changes.”

Adam entered a search for “Greene,” and, scrolling by year, started searching for Greene with an “e.” There had to be hundreds with no “e,” but only about two hundred with an “e.” Patiently, he moved the down arrow as I looked over his shoulder.

“Do you know the name of her first husband?”

“Not a clue.”

We finally found it, second from last in the list of Greenes. A license had been issued in San Francisco County on May 4, 1999, to Edward Greene and Hilary Ragno.

“Well, well, well,” Adam said. We stared silently at the screen for a few moments. “So Hilary is related to our Len/Luca, huh?”

“Looks that way,” I responded. “And Henry Gooding is connected to Ragno.”

“How do you know that?” Adam asked.

“Because it was Gooding who suggested him to my friend Gale for the art show.”

I made the decision to tell Adam about the break-in at my apartment. I was still afraid he might try to keep things from me, but I felt I needed to confide in someone. I was still very shaky about the whole thing. And given David’s condition, I hadn’t wanted to say anything to him at the hospital.

“Julia, why didn’t you call me?” Adam was thunderstruck.

“I don’t know … I’m sorry. I know you would have helped. I called my friend Gale, who stayed the night with me.”

“More importantly, why didn’t you call the police? Whoever did it might have left fingerprints.”

I couldn’t find the words to convey the feeling of invasion, and my desire to clean up the mess as quickly as possible.

“I do think you should talk to Sergeant Sullivan about this.”

“I don’t want to tell him my theories. He’ll think I’m completely nuts. He’ll dismiss anything I have to say. I just know it. Unless I can find something more solid … and I’m frustrated.”

“Whatever you want in the way of help, you’ve got it. I don’t think you should be sticking your nose into this anymore, though. Someone’s obviously singled you out. You don’t have a security alarm in your home?” Adam asked.

“No. I went through some trouble last year, but after that, I never felt the need.”

“Maybe that’s something I can set up for you and have it installed. I can stop by later to check things out.”

“Well … okay. Thanks.” I was certainly attracted to the man, but I was starting to feel a little fenced in. Security systems, no less! “You probably still haven’t had a chance to locate Rebecca Moulton, have you?” I asked.

“I did check a couple of databases on that one, but nothing yet. I’ll keep trying. I’ll call you if I find anything, okay?”

“And another thing. Do you remember the pizza delivery last Sunday to the building?”

“Ye-e-e-s,” Adam said slowly.

“Well, Dani Nichols’s boyfriend, Antho, is the delivery guy on Sundays for Giuseppe’s Pizza. It was him. He was actually the guy who delivered the pizza.”

“Well, that’s not so suspicious. Dani works in the building. They both live locally and he has an afternoon job when he’s not playing music. I wouldn’t hoist a red flag over that. Besides, the police checked on that delivery, and it was a real order that came from an accounting firm. So I can’t see that he could’ve engineered an excuse to actually be in the building at that time.”

“I guess you’re right.” I felt deflated.

“Look, it’s nerve-wracking not to have any answers, and after a while, it preys on your mind, and you start to suspect everyone and everything. I don’t mean to squelch your ideas, but … just let the police do their job. The things that need to come to light, will.”

“I guess you’re right. I’m seeing things in the shadows.” Not to mention bad dreams. I glanced at the clock on Adam’s desk. It was almost two o’clock and I wanted to get to the Chronicle to talk to my old friend Don Forrester. I wasn’t sure what hours Don might be working and I didn’t want to miss him. I picked up my purse and stood.

“Hey, what’s the rush? Was it something I said?”

“Sorry, no. I have another stop to make. I can fill you in later.”

Adam stood and followed me out to the elevator bank. He pressed the down button and took my hand. I could see the receptionist watching us. “I wish we were alone right now.”

I smiled. “Me too, but we should be discreet. I have the feeling you’re already the subject of gossip.” Adam was a good-looking man, and perhaps several women in his office had eyes for him. I stepped into the elevator. “Oh, before I forget”—I held my hand out to stop the door from closing—“what are you doing Saturday night?”

Adam smiled. “Hmm. Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Well … sort of. There’s a Halloween open house at the Mystic Eye from four to nine, if you’d like to stop by. That’s where I’ll be.”

“I’d love to … if I can get someone to cover at the firm. If there’s any way I can make it, I’ll come. Sorry I can’t promise, though.” He raised his hand in a goodbye as the doors closed.

I exited on Market Street, a little disappointed that he’d been so vague about the open house, but I shrugged it off. A trolley was approaching. I hurried across the street and made it to the doors just in time. I climbed in, paid the fare, and got off a few blocks later.

The newspaper building is dominated by a clock tower at the corner and extends a block in both directions. The interior of the lobby has been renovated in a bland, utilitarian sort of way, but at least now the elevators work a whole lot better. Don’s office, or should I say cubbyhole, occupies a corner of the Research Department on the second floor. I stepped off the elevator and approached the front desk. I asked for my friend and gave my name to the receptionist, a young woman in her twenties with large hoop earrings, choppy black hair, and dark purple nails. While I waited, she picked up her phone, spoke briefly, and instructed me to go down the hall and turn right. I already knew where Don’s office was located, but I had to observe the formalities. I reached his door, which was covered with a collage of horror pic glossy photos and a grinning paper skeleton. I knocked and stepped inside, declaring, “If you think this is going to keep people like me out of your hair, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Don looked up from his video game, a half-eaten tuna fish sandwich in his hand. He and I have been friends since college. When I was living in my apartment in the Sunset District, Don had dated my roommate, Denise, who’d dumped him to join a cult. He’d been morose for months, but eventually ended up marrying his high school sweetheart and now they had an adorable little four-year old boy.

“Julia … hey … whatcha up to?”

I glanced around. Don’s walls were covered with vintage horror flick posters featuring Dracula and the Wolfman. His desk lamp was a plastic skull topped by a purple shade. “Sorry to beard you in your den, so to speak, but I’m here for a favor, if you can do it. And by the way, you’ve really spruced the place up.”

“You like it? Kathy says I’m the biggest kid in the family.” He took another bite of the tuna sandwich. “Plus, I’ve reorganized this entire research section and all our computer files. If they fire me, they’re screwed.” He turned his bag of potato chips toward me. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” I took two. “Listen, I’m trying to get copies of anything the Chronicle ran about the Bank of San Francisco fire. To be more specific, anything regarding a death in that fire.”

“I remember that. It was … what? Five years ago? But between the fire and the lawsuits and any historical follow-ups, that covers a lot of ground.”

“I know. I don’t need that. Just anything in regard to the death of the janitor in the building. His name was Max Moulton.”

“And can I ask the reason for this query, ma’am?”

“It’s about the murders at the Meyers, Dade & Schulz law firm.”

Don raised his eyebrows. “And you’re involved how?”

“I … uh … I’m working for my old boss there, temporarily …”

“You do manage to find trouble, don’t you?” Don narrowed his eyes. “You think those murders are connected to the fire?”

I nodded. “It’s possible. No one else agrees with me, though.”

“This’ll cost you. I want a free solar return on my birthday.”

“You got it.” Don was very fond of the solar return as a predictive tool. Astrologers, meanwhile, are somewhat divided on the subject. Solar returns are based on the theory that at the exact moment the transiting Sun returns to its natal position—in other words, on the individual’s birthday—the resulting chart foreshadows the year to come. Myself, I’ve never been convinced this method works very well, but some clients, like Don, have actually gotten interesting results.

Don had turned to a monitor on the other side of the littered desk, double-clicked an icon, and typed in “Bank of San Francisco.” The screen filled with lists of references.

“Let’s see, the front-page story was printed on November 1st. The fire started the night before. Halloween, strangely enough. Wait a minute, what’s today?”

“October 30th.”

“There’s a reference to injuries and one death.” He read aloud, “‘Authorities believe the body discovered is that of a janitor trapped on an upper floor.’ No information about the cause of the blaze here.” Don moved his mouse down the list on the screen. “Let’s try another search. Let’s use the word ‘death.’” I leaned forward so I could see the screen. “Here we go. There’s an article on November 3rd about the accidental death of Max Moulton. Is that your guy?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s a January 7th article the following year, about the lawsuit brought by his family, his wife I guess. There’s some related articles that reference the fire in relation to safety and inspections in high-rise buildings. Do you want any of those?”

“No. Just anything to do with accidental death, wrongful death in regard to that fire. Particularly if there are pictures.”

Don continued to scroll down the list on the screen. “Here’s something. This is November 1st, two years after the fire. ‘The Bank of San Francisco claims its second victim.’”

My ears perked up. “What’s that?”

Don read the précis in a monotone. “‘Death by suicide of electrical contractor, Terrence Ward. The ill-starred Bank of San Francisco claims its second victim … Terrence Ward was found dead today of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. The electrical contractor was suspected of negligence in the deadly fire but was never charged.’”

“Any reference to family he might have left behind?”

“No, but we can check the obits for the week following this. Hang on.” Don moved to another site. “Here it is. ‘Beloved husband of Elva Ward. Parents deceased, no children. Funeral services to be held in Minneapolis.’”

“Can you get me copies of the November articles and the later obituary, and any pictures the paper might have run?”

“Sure, take a few minutes. I’ll print them out. Wanna wait here?”

“Yes.” I sat behind Don’s desk, sniffed the tuna sandwich, and helped myself to a few more chips. If I balanced just right, I could rest my feet on the windowsill and see people hurrying below me on Mission. Jack could have been killed for any number of reasons. There were certainly plenty of people who disliked him if not actually hated him. Ira was murdered either because he knew something about Jack’s murder or because his and Jack’s deaths were connected to the threats they’d received. If that connection was related to the Bank fire, Suzanne might really be next. I grabbed Don’s phone and dialed Adam’s office. He picked up on the first ring.

“I’m sorry to keep bugging you.”

“You’re not bugging me.” I could almost see his smile through the phone. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m at the Chronicle doing some research. Can I give you another name to check out?”

“Sure.”

“It’s Elva Ward.” I spelled the name. “She was the wife of the electrical contractor, Terrence Ward, who was blamed for the fire. And he committed suicide.” Adam was quiet for a long moment. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah. Look, I know you’re kind of stuck on your theory, but isn’t that reaching a bit?”

“Maybe. Quite possibly. But I’m curious about whatever happened to her too. After all, she would be the second widow to come out of this.”

“Maybe this guy offed himself for his own reasons. Nothing to do with the fire.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, no problem. I’ll look her up and see what I can find out.”

At that moment, Don returned with several sheets of paper clipped together. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.” I hung up.

“Here’s you go, Julia.” Don passed the sheets of paper to me.

The Chronicle story that had appeared right after the fire detailed the events leading up to the death of Max Moulton. It ran with pictures of the fire itself, and a smiling shot of Max in better days. He was young, thirty years old according to this article, with a wide generous mouth and fair hair worn a little long over the ears. The second article referenced the suicide death of Terrence Ward. It appeared on page fifteen as a filler, and wasn’t run with any pictures of the dead man or his family. I was disappointed. “Any chance you could keep searching and see if any papers anywhere might have included pictures of him or his relatives?”

“Sure. But you’ll really owe me. Two solar returns.”

“You do drive a hard bargain.” I smiled. “We’ll set a date before your next birthday.” I tucked the pages into my purse and thanked him. Don powered up his video game, pushed his glasses back onto his nose, and prepared to wreak death and destruction on cyber persons.

I left his office and followed the corridor back to the elevator bank. When I stepped outside at the corner of 9th and Mission, a brisk wind was blowing, although the day was still bright and sparkling. I hurried toward Market and waited at the traffic light to cross over to the trolley car island. Traffic was heavier now. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long to get back to Montgomery Street and my car.

The sidewalk at the intersection was jammed with people, all of us waiting for the light to change. Cars sped by, attempting to beat the traffic light before it turned yellow and then red. I felt someone pressing against me. Irritated, I turned to see who was pushing into me, but before I could turn my head, I was shoved forward. I stumbled and reached for a pole to catch my balance. My hand slipped and my heel caught on the curb. Cars were wheeling past as I fell forward. A horn blared and I heard the shriek of tires as I hit the concrete.