PACIFIC HEIGHTS
APRIL 16, 1906. 8:00 A.M.
As Hunter gathered evidence aboard the ill-fated launch, I conveyed what I knew of his father's activities in the days and hours prior to his death. I gradually realized Hunter was crafting his entreaties to elicit any hint that I might have tipped off someone to his father's activities. I had been tortured by the possibility since I learned of Byron's disappearance. Nothing terrified me more than the notion I might somehow be responsible. Hunter's insinuations did nothing to ease my distress.
While Hunter and I searched the launch, Mayor Eugene Schmitz was leaving his house on Fillmore Street in Pacific Heights. Sporting his trademark slouch brim hat, he climbed into the red Model N Ford driven by Chief Jessie Donen, who had just left the Ferry Plaza, where his men were still arresting demonstrators.
"His idiot sons found him floatin' facedown near Angel Island," Donen offered. To the Pacific Heights residents they passed, the burly chief seemed almost jubilant, clear-eyed and cocksure beneath his blue cap, the brass buttons on his whipcord uniform glowing in the morning light.
Schmitz, in contrast, appeared tired and wan as they putted up Union Street, dodging milk wagons and bakery drays. "So, Chief, what do I tell reporters when they ask me?"
"Tell 'em you don't know nothin' from nothin'. Just like you always do when things get dicey."
Donen had never been fond of Eugene Schmitz, and the Mayor had always chafed at Donen's abrasiveness. That morning, it was the least of Schmitz' worries. The Mayor was scheduled to meet that morning with Daniel Burnham, famed designer of the Chicago World's Fair, to discuss his sweeping plans to remake the entire city of San Francisco.
Burnham's plan, delivered months earlier, was to paddle-shovel the city into oblivion and recreate it on the order of Paris. It called for arrondisements arranged in concentric circles, neighborhoods wrapped around neighborhoods, transforming the hills into bulls-eyes of boulevards and gardens. Schmitz had hated the idea since inception, but Boss Rolf insisted it be their legacy to make the city more than just a symbolic "Paris of the West," not to mention reaping millions in construction contracts, building permits, and franchise fees.
Donen turned south on Van Ness, stopping at Clay Street for cross-traffic. He idled in the shadows of a French-empire mansion with towering parapets and tiled mansard roof, the home of Rudolph Spreckels, sworn enemy of their regime.
A folded newspaper hit Schmitz in the chest and nearly sent him out of his gray English tweeds. As the Ford jerked forward, he pulled a nickel from his watch pocket and flipped it toward the curb, where the dirty-faced newsboy caught it in his apple hat.
Schmitz opened the Bulletin to the front page and scanned the story on Byron Fallon's disappearance. It offered scant information but substantial speculation, finishing with "if foul play is proven, then let those responsible find themselves dancing at the end of a noose."
On the second page, Schmitz located Fremont Older's latest editorial invective, written prior to the awful events.
THE PAINT EATERS
A sane populace would soundly defeat the ridiculous Burnham Plan if put to a referendum. Only another conflagration of Jerichon proportions could make its implementation anything but corrupt folly. His Honor, Mayor Eugene Schmitz, who once described his greedy minions at City Hall as 'so desperate for boodle they would eat the paint off a house,' is now prepared to start eating the houses.
The Ford stopped on Larkin Street near the side entrance to City Hall, beneath the shadow of the massive bronze Goddess of Progress that sat astride the towering Beaux Arts dome, her nose upturned as if to avoid the scent of things below.
Donen sped off the moment the Mayor's feet touched ground.
Schmitz crossed the wide street in spasmodic jumps, cursing the tardiness of the manure trucks. An onslaught of journalists in shapeless suits started huffing in his direction, shouting questions.
"Mr. Mayor. What about the rumors Byron Fallon's own men did him in?" While Schmitz scanned his sparse imagination for a suitable response, more shells were lobbed.
"The Tongs are fumin' about the brothel raids. Is Chief Donen plannin' to haul the hatchet-swingin' bastards in?"
"Shanghai Kelly has been kicking up dust about the war on the crimps and boardinghouse keepers. Is he a suspect?"
Schmitz gazed over their heads, losing himself in the spring explosion of poppies and marigolds in the planter boxes around City Hall Plaza. He had become adept at sidestepping every challenge to his administration, but that morning fear had left him without defense. "Chief Donen is heading a thorough investigation of this tragic accident. He has requested that all responses come from his office. Lieutenant Fallon was a dedicated public servant who will be greatly missed."
Schmitz found reprieve when Adam Rolf's Phaeton turned the corner from Market Street onto Larkin.
Immediately the reporters flocked in Rolf's direction, leaving His Honor a chance to slip inside his ostentatious palace. Tommy's scowl informed all that City Attorney Rolf had no comment.
Schmitz' heels resounded off the marble portico and echoed into the hollow dome seven stories above. He and Rolf, with Tommy trailing, reached the elevator and stepped into the polished mahogany interior.
"Eugene. You look positively frightened."
"Excuse me, Adam, it’s not often I'm the entrée at a lynch party. Every damn reporter from every damn newspaper wants to know what we're going to do about the death of the most popular police officer in the whole damn city!"
"And the profanity, so uncharacteristic. Perhaps when Caruso leaves, you might consider a trip to Monterey. Play a little golf at Del Monte, have a mineral bath."
The elevator stopped at the second floor. Schmitz strode quickly ahead of Rolf, bursting into the anteroom of his office.
Before he was halfway through the room, the mayor's secretary intercepted him with a stack of messages.
"Not now, Bertrand. Tell everyone I'm holed up in my office with a bout of apoplexy."
Bertrand slunk back to his desk as Schmitz and Rolf barreled into the Mayor's office, leaving Tommy outside standing watchdog.
Tommy managed to leave the inner door ajar, a fraction of an inch, as per Rolf's standard order.
"Tell me you know nothing about this, Adam. Tell me Byron Fallon just happened to fall off his boat the same night Shanghai Kelly decided to attend the theater."
"You know, Eugene, I'm a small man. No one listens to a small man, regardless of how brilliant his ideas. You, you are magnificent; imposing, attractive, an empty vessel into which I pour these grand ideas. I can make a governor, a senator, maybe even a president of you. Or, you can defy me, start pretending you are not party to all this, and God's wrath will seem a minor inconvenience compared to mine."
Bertrand squeezed past Tommy and stuck his head inside the door, just far enough to remove it quickly if circumstance demanded. "Mayor Schmitz, sir. Mr. Daniel Burnham is on the phone. He insisted I interrupt you."
"Tell Mr. Burnham that we won't be razing and rebuilding the city of San Francisco for at least a few more days. And don't bother me again!"
Bertrand slid out, closing the door until Tommy caught it and motioned him back to his desk. The burly goon stood with his back to the door, his ear turned toward the thin opening.
"Wonderful speech, Adam. The sword and the olive branch, Heaven and Purgatory as simple alternatives. Now. Tell me. What happened to Inspector Fallon? And try not to leave anything out."