Crazybone (19 page)

Agonistes was in the same business, but rivals we weren’t. His caseload was almost exclusively high-tech: electronic surveillance, debugging services, industrial espionage, that sort of thing. He could have served as the model for the Gene Hackman character in
The Conversation
, except that he had four kids as well as his long-suffering wife, two of them in college and one who kept getting busted for drug use; he was a workaholic because he always needed money. To hear him tell it anyway. He was a good guy for the most part — we’d done some mutual back-scratching over the years, always on a monetary basis — but a little of him went a long way. His two middle names were Poormouth and Cheap.

It took fifteen minutes for him to respond to the page. We exchanged the usual amenities and friendly insults, after which he said, “I suppose you need a favor. I never hear from you otherwise.”

“That goes both ways, George.”

“Well, you know how busy I am.”

“Sure. Don’t worry, Pm ready and willing to pay for what I want.”

“The magic word. You now have my full attention.”

“Simple job, won’t take up much of your time. I’ve got a place that has an armed alarm system and I need to get inside without setting it off. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds like another illegal trespass, like the last job I did for you.”

“I’m not after bugs this time. And you don’t have to enter the premises with me. Or even stick around after the system is disarmed.”

“Uh-huh,” he said again. “I’m in the sensitive end of the business, remember? I get caught screwing around with alarm systems, I could lose my rep if not my license. I got mouths to feed, college tuitions to pay for, bills up the yang.”

The usual Agonistes lament. I countered it by saying, “Saint George. Never done anything illegal in his stellar career, never even once bent the rules.”

“Screw you,” he said, but without heat.

“Come on, I’m not asking much here. And I’ve got a good reason or I wouldn’t bother you in the first place.”

“You and everybody else that wants something.”

“Ought to be a piece of cake for a man with your talents. You’ve forgotten more about electronics than most so-called experts will ever learn. If the Watergate boys had had you along, they’d never have gotten caught.”

“I don’t roll over for flattery, pal.”

“Right. For money, only money.”

“We’re all whores to one degree or another. What kind of alarm system?”

“M.A.S.”

“Madsen, eh? Not the best, not the worst. What type?”

“I don’t know from types. Digital key pad outside, probably another one inside. Pretty standard, I’d say.”

“Cameras or motion sensors?”

“I doubt it. Looks like doors and windows only.”

“What kind of building?”

“Private house.”

“Where?”

“Greenwood.”

“Uh-oh. High-risk turf.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “The neighborhood’s not ultra-exclusive and the property’s secluded. Nobody’ll see you working, nobody’ll show up to squawk.”

“Except possibly the owners.”

“Guaranteed that won’t happen. You can do it, can’t you?”

“Oh, I can do it.”

“Piece of cake, right? How much?”

“Well... five hundred?”

“Jesus, George, I’m not asking you to get me into City Hall. Besides, I think I’m likely to end up paying for this out of my own pocket.”

“No way to lay it off on your client?”

“I doubt it.”

“You wouldn’t be b.s.ing me, would you?”

“Have I ever? I’m a poor working stiff, same as you.”

“Oh, all right,” Agonistes said. “Make it two-fifty. That’s my bottom line.”

“Fair enough.”

“For you, maybe. When d’you want the job done?”

“Soon as possible. Some urgency here, George.”

“You couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I could if I have to, but it won’t make me happy.”

He let me hear an elaborate sigh. “I’m on a job right now, in the city, and I can’t leave until it’s finished. Looks like most of the day. I couldn’t get down to Greenwood much before five.”

“Five’s okay with me.”

“Meet where?”

“There’s a library on the main drag, middle of town. I’ll be waiting in the parking lot.”

“Bring your checkbook,” Agonistes said. Then he said. “Better yet, make it cash,” and rang off before I could put up an argument.

Kerry said, “She’s still asleep. I just looked in on her.”

“Poor kid must be exhausted.”

“Yes, and she feels safe here. She’s really taken with you, you know.”

“Taken?”

“Savior, protector, father figure all wrapped together.”

“Grandfather figure is more like it.”

“Don’t put yourself down. She loved her father, but I doubt he was ever really there for her. You were when she needed somebody the most.”

“As long as she doesn’t put too much faith in me.”

“She knows how had the situation is,” Kerry said, “even if she doesn’t know what it’s all about. The important thing is, she trusts you.”

“Trusts you, too.”

“Not completely, but I hope she will. How do things look down there?”

“The same — not good. But I’m trying to be optimistic. It’s going to be a long day.”

“You do what you have to. I’ll take care of Emily.”

“It may not be the only long day, you know.”

“Understood.”

“I mean, this thing could—”

“I
know.
I thought we settled all that last night.”

“Yeah, but if it gets to be a burden on you—”

“I’ve put up with you for ten years,” she said. “That means I can put up with anything. Don’t worry about me and don’t worry about Emily.”

Tamara said, “Man, that’s some caper those people pulled off. They had halls, you got to give ’em that.”

“And plenty of luck. But they paid a damn heavy price.”

“Lot of sleepless nights in ten years, I’ll bet. No wonder Mrs. Hunter didn’t want a detective messing around in her life, dredging up the past and blowing her cover. You think crazybone Cotter’s still hunting her?”

“She thinks he is, that’s the point. Either that or she’s afraid the blown cover will stir up his desire for revenge, bring him after her again. Her sister’s just as panicky. Two of them feeding each other’s paranoia.”

“ ‘The guilty flee where no man pursueth.’ ”

“More than likely,” I agreed.

“Man must really be some kind of monster. Messed up her head so bad she never got over it.”

I agreed with that, too. Then I said, “See what you can find out about Philip Cotter — fill in the missing pieces.”

“Right. So what about Mrs. Hunter? Running again, by herself or with somebody? Dumped the kid on her sister and just took off?”

“Best-case scenario.”

“Uh-huh. Golf pro mixed up in it, maybe?”

“If he is, he’s not running with her. Not yet, anyhow. Still on the job at Emerald Hills; I talked to him before I called you. He says he hasn’t heard from Sheila Hunter since midday Friday.”

“You believe him?”

“At this point I don’t know what to believe.” I told Tamara about my appointment with George Agonistes. “With any luck there’ll be something inside the house to give us some answers.”

“Better hope
she’s
not inside, you know what I’m saying?”

“Worst-case scenario. Let’s not go there.”

“What about the kid?” Tamara asked. “You and Kerry gonna keep her at your place?”

“Until her mother turns up one way or another. She’s got no place else to go.”

“Yeah. You tell her about her folks?”

“Not yet.”

“Gonna tell her?”

“Somebody’s got to,” I said. “I’d damn well prefer it to be her mother.”

“Couldn’t pay me enough for a job like that.”

Enough on that subject. I said, “The Archie Todd case. What’d you turn up?”

“Plenty,” she said. “Murdered or not, that old man sure got himself taken before he died. Screwed out of his life savings — every last penny.”

“Inco and John Klinghurst.”

“Phony investment scam, right. I called up Dunbar Asset Management yesterday. They didn’t want to tell me anything, but I silver-tongued the dude who handled Archie Todd’s account. Closed out in full in late September.”

“So that’s it.”

“That’s it. He wouldn’t tell me how much Todd had or what he did with his holdings, but you just know he transferred everything straight to Inco of California.”

“What about Klinghurst? Who is he?”

“CPA. Partner in a small outfit called Business Services, Inc. Offices on outer Geary. Another CPA with a get-rich-quick scheme, same as Emily’s old man. And everybody thinks accountants are dull and boring.”

“Does my mother-in-law know him?”

“Said she’d heard the name but couldn’t place where. She’ll get back to us if she remembers.”

“Captain Archie’s tax accountant, maybe.”

“She said no. Man did his own taxes.”

“Connected to the lawyer, Evan Patterson?”

“Not according to him. Told me he didn’t know anything about Mr. Todd pulling out of Dunbar, never heard of Inco of California or John Klinghurst. I didn’t come up with any facts that’d make him a liar.”

“What’s Klinghurst’s past history?”

“No police record, city, state or federal. Some trouble with the IRS a few years ago, when he had his own agency — suspicion of collusion to defraud — but he was never prosecuted. Fast and loose type. Business Services, Inc., has that rep, too.”

“His private life?”

“Divorced five years ago, no kids. Been at the Kirkham address about that long. Bought himself a brand-new Lexus last month. Not much doubt where he got the money for it.”

“There has to be some tie to Captain Archie, Redwood Village.”

“None I could find.”

“The ex-wife?”

“Nothing there. She moved out of state after the divorce.”

“Well, there’s a connection somewhere,” I said. “We don’t have enough evidence to nail Klinghurst for fraud, or even to stir up an official investigation. Murder’s a strong possibility, all right, if Captain Archie realized he’d been cheated and threatened to blow the whistle, but there’s nothing to back it up or to involve Klinghurst. The missing link is how he and Todd got together in the first place.”

“I’ll keep working on it, blow off my afternoon classes if I have to. No problem.”

“Up to you. Meanwhile I’ll check out Klinghurst’s neighbors.”

“That mean you’re coming back up here now?”

“I might as well. I’m not meeting Agonistes until five — that’s seven hours, and there’s not much I can do down here to fill up the time.” Except run around talking to people who wouldn’t want to see me and wouldn’t be likely to tell me anything they might know — people like the three rumored past lovers of Sheila Hunter, and Smith again in person, and Doc Lukash and Anita Purcell and Richard Twining and any other member of the country club set who knew Mrs. Hunter. Frustrating waste of time, without either leverage or conclusive knowledge. And potentially counterproductive. If there were no leads in the Hunter house, then tomorrow I’d have to bite the bullet and start making the rounds. But not until then.

“Want me to try Mrs. Wade again?” Tamara asked.

“No. Prodding her will only get her back up.”

“I like that old lady, you know? Reminds me of my granny. Tough old meat with a real sweet center.”

I laughed. But Tamara was serious.

“We gonna nail this bastard Klinghurst for her, boss, one way or another. Slimeballs that prey on old people, take their money and what little time they got left, they’re the worst breed of lowlife there is.”

“Amen to that. You know something, Ms. Corbin?”

“What’s that?”

“I like
you.
Tough young meat with a real sweet center.”

San Francisco is essentially two cities when it conies to weather. East of Twin Peaks, the downtown area, is the sunny side, where warming air and wind currents scrub the skies clean on most dry days. West of Twin Peaks, the largely residential ocean side, is the fogbelt where you can spend days, even weeks shivering under a chill gray canopy and never once see the sun. San Franciscans get used to this phenomenon, which is not to say they like it much if they’re westsiders. My flat is on the sunny side and Kerry’s condo is atop Twin Peaks, right on the dividing line, but I was born out near Daly City and I know all too well what it’s like being one of the “fog people.”

The Inner Sunset is also on the gray side, close to Golden Gate Park and the upper reaches of the Haight-Ashbury. Old San Francisco, less dramatically changed than some parts of the city but still undergoing a slow metamorphosis. The rising Asian population in the Outer Sunset has spread inland from the ocean; many of the faces and small businesses on Irving Street, the neighborhood’s commercial hub, are Chinese. Panhandlers and dope peddlers work the area now, and there is evidence of graffiti, vandalism, the subtler forms of urban decay. Still, it’s a reasonably safe and comfortable area to live in as long as you don’t mind the weather.

The fog was in, thick and dripping, when I pulled up in front of John Klinghurst’s building a few minutes past eleven. The architecture here was mixed, everything from one of the brown-shingled cottages built in the aftermath of the 1906 earthquake to newish, five-and six-story apartment buildings. Klinghurst’s was a narrow, two-story, stone-faced edifice that had probably been somebody’s private home back in the twenties. There are a lot of places like that in the city, most of them cut up into two, three, or four flats, or several tiny apartments. This one housed four flats, two up and two down: there were four mailboxes in the cramped vestibule. Klinghurst lived upstairs, in 2-A.