Last Fairytale, The (18 page)

“Sometimes. What’s happening?”

“Would you like to meet for breakfast? I thought we could compare notes.”

This was a surprise.

“Ummmm, sure. Where’d you have in mind?”

“A little dive downtown that serves the best hotcakes on the planet.”

“We call them pancakes around here.”

Mack chuckled. “Now don’t go messing with my childhood memories.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Tell me how to get there, and I’ll meet you in half an hour.”

* * *

The dive turned out to be a shotgun-style café a few blocks east of the Fillmore Street station. The pancakes came in every flavor known to man. Gen ordered whole-wheat topped with bananas and walnuts. Mack went with a stack of blueberry buttermilk and a side of eggs, hash browns, and bacon. From the looks of it, he was willing to take on a lot at once.

They smiled over their menus, at ease, it seemed, almost immediately.

“Detective Hackett.”

“Yes, Miss Delacourt.”

“The eighties called. They want their sunglasses back.”

He laughed and hooked his shades into the neck of his faded t-shirt. “Don’t you think they make me look unreadable?”

“Only to people who couldn’t read anybody without a manual.”

“Astute. Psych 101?”

“Reverse psychology. It made you drop the aw-shucks routine and use words like unreadable and astute.”

“So tell me what you see.”

“Someone who doesn’t want to reveal much about himself until he’s ready.”

The corners of his mouth tipped up into a quirky little smile that suggested she was right.

“But that describes half the world,” she continued. “So don’t go thinking I’m psychic or anything. Where’d you go to college?”

“Annapolis.”

Gen put down her fork and cleared her throat. Maybe he was unreadable, after all; she’d surely misjudged. “When I saw the dog tags, I figured you for a boot.”

Mack’s hand went to the chain around his neck. He lowered his eyes and caressed the metal between his fingers. “These were my brother’s.”

Gen’s smile faded. “Were?”

“Helo pilot. Died in Afghanistan.”

Gen dropped her face into her open palms and shook her head. “I have a big mouth.”

“Nah. It’s okay.” He grinned at her. “He had a big mouth, too. You would have got along great.”

Gen was saved by the slip of a waitress who bore down on them carrying plates the size of turkey platters. Mack jumped up and relieved her of one.

She laughed and thanked him, but told him to sit and eat. “Mack, you know I can do my job. Look at these biceps.” She placed Gen’s breakfast deftly before her and flexed a gym-toned arm.

When she was gone, Gen leaned across the table and whispered, “Do you always come to the aid of damsels in distress? Is that why you became a cop?”

His eyes twinkled. “Absolutely not. The women I meet on the job aren’t usually date material. Not most, anyhow.” His expression changed to serious. “I wanted to be a cop because I was naive enough to think I’d be good at getting to the truth.”

“Sounds like a story in there somewhere. Not sick of it yet, huh?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you like police work?”

He nodded. “I do. We exchange our lives for a career. We better love what we’re doing.”

“And what do you think about San Francisco? It must be a world away from growing up in the South.”

“Yes ma’am, I do enjoy this city.” He hooked a thumb toward the window. “It’s everything Tennessee isn’t, but I feel at home. I know it sounds wild, but I think I was meant to live here.”

Gen tipped her fork toward his plate. “As long as you can eat hotcakes once in a while.”

“That’s right. And grits a time or two every year.”

Gen made a face. “I never understood the fascination of grits.”

“You haven’t had my Momma’s.”

They ate in companionable silence. Gen worked her way through her meal and thought about the note she’d left Bree. That she’d be home by ten o’clock that morning but would call if she was held up. That there was leftover egg casserole in the fridge for breakfast.

And what she hadn’t said, of course, which was where she was going. Who she would see when she got there. Now why was that?

“How is Miss Butler?”

Gen looked up from her plate and studied him. “So you’re the mind-reader then, not me.”

“You had a thoughtful look on your face. It wasn’t hard to make the leap.”

“She’s okay. Physically weak. We’re feeding her good stuff and that’s been keeping us all occupied. She would absolutely love these hotcakes. I’ll have to bring her here.”

“She was lucky.”

“She’s a strong girl and a good swimmer.”

He angled out of the chair and retrieved the coffee pot from behind the counter, then filled their cups. “I’m a regular,” he said.

“I can see that.”

Mack returned the carafe and came back to the table, then slid his empty plate to the side. “Time to compare notes. You want to start?”

“For openers, I’m curious if you’ve turned up anything about Vonnegon’s brother, Russell Yates. What’s the story?”

“What’ve you got for me?”

“A little information about mushrooms.”

“Okay. Obviously, Yates and Vonnegon have different mothers. Abraham Vonnegon and his first wife, Patience, grew up dirt-poor in rural Pennsylvania and got married right out of high school. She supported him as a secretary while he went to college and earned degrees in business and chemical engineering.

“They moved to the Bay Area for his first job. She started out as her husband’s secretary at Elergene, but stayed home after she had Taylor. Meanwhile, he climbed up the corporate ladder and into the owner’s daughter’s bed on the side. When Taylor was five, Abraham retained a lawyer and kicked wife number one to the curb. Got custody of the kid. Patience was cut loose with almost nothing. She dropped off the radar at that point.

“So Vonnegon races to the alter with the boss’ daughter, Nadine, and takes over the company. Wife number two has Russell less than a year later. Only one child from each marriage.”

“Why’s his last name Yates and not Vonnegon?”

“Stage name, I guess. He’s an actor. He also holds a more or less figurehead position on Elergene’s Board of Directors.”

“Where do you think he is now?”

“No idea. He has a passport, but there is no record he left the country. One of his friends says when he’s between jobs it’s not unusual for him to hermit off and write a screenplay. Doesn’t really need to work, because he’s got income from a trust fund. He could be anywhere.”

“Credit cards?”

“So far he hasn’t used one, but he could be holed up in a cabin talking to his muse.”

“Or he could be dead in the bay, like Bree nearly was.”

“There’s always that chance. Not much we can do until he washes up.”

Gen wrinkled her nose at the thought. “What about his car?”

“Gone. No trace of it so far.”

“You’ve checked his house, of course. Anything?”

“Yeah. A baggie of dried psilocybin mushrooms. A little lab equipment. Looks like he either dealt or just got high on a regular basis. Residue in a couple of beakers suggests he was trying to boil down the mushrooms.”

“Are they poisonous?”

“No. Too many can make you sick, but mostly they just get you high. You know, Alice in Wonderland. You eat them and watch the world pulsate while things shrink and expand. Fun stuff.”

“First-hand experience?”

“No way, woman.” He laughed. “I’m a chicken. My world is peculiar enough. You?”

“A little pot in college.” When he faked a shocked expression, she added, “Hey, it’s California. So Yates was doing a little clandestine lab work. Did he have a chemistry degree?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t download instructions from the Internet. We also checked the house in Tiburon. Found his prints there, some clothing, not much else.”

“I would have loved to be along on that expedition.”

“Not much to see. The place was expensive but lived-in. Big rooms on a single level. Ritzy furnishings and a bar stocked with pricey booze, but no food in the fridge. A high-end telescope overlooking the bay. We were in and out in ten minutes.”

“So what’s your take?”

“Same as before. Looks like Yates and Ducane had a mutual interest in psychoactive drugs. They may have been collaborating on a home-grown mushroom derivative, maybe distilled a toxin. It could have been a mistake. The kid could have taken it by accident. Or, Yates may have administered it.”

“But why? What was his motive?”

“The million dollar question. Got any ideas?”

“No.” This time it was Gen who retrieved the coffee pot and poured them another cup.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Bree and I visited a mushroom expert. Seems it’s common knowledge both psilocybin and poisonous mushroom varieties grow in the woods not far from here. That might support the mix-up theory.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Like you said, we can’t know whether they ended up with a toxic variety by accident or on purpose. Only Ducane could have told us. Or Yates, or Catherine Robeson. If we find them and they tell the truth.”

“They’ll turn up eventually.”

“The professor we spoke to said death wouldn’t be immediate, but hypothetically, if the chemist’s compound was really strong, the end could be quick.”

Mack nodded. “That’s what the toxicologist said. We’ve pinpointed Ducane’s timeline that day. He got to work at six in the morning. He brought his lunch. The only time he was with anyone else was during an executive meeting late that afternoon. A couple people report he was looking tired. After that, no one saw him leave the premises.”

“Anything served during the meeting?”

“Someone brought in a tray of soft drinks. They were already poured.”

“Did Ducane have one?”

“No one can recall. Anything else?”

“Friend of mine gave me a tip. It’s pretty vague, but apparently there’s an unknown group out there somewhere doing big-time mushroom research that’s not aboveboard. He doesn’t think it’s Elergene.”

“Who’s the source?”

“Secret Service.”

“Ah.” Mack sipped his coffee. “You’re well connected.”

Gen shrugged and pretended interest in a couple sitting at the counter.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Mack said. “As for the rest, we’ll have to wait and see what happens.” He put some bills on the table and they pushed back their chairs, rose, and walked out to the street.

They faced each other on the sidewalk.

“You don’t talk like a lawyer.”

Gen laughed. “I could spout some courtroom jargon if you like.”

“No thanks. I like it, it wasn’t a complaint. It means you don’t need to show off, and that’s a good thing. So why are you sad?” He touched her arm. “It’s not just what happened to Miss Butler.”

A stab of pain flared across her face before she could stop it, followed by annoyance. Just what she didn’t need, a cop asking about her feelings. She broke eye contact to study the crowd streaming along the sidewalk. When she looked back, she held his gaze. “It will pass.”

Hackett’s lips tipped up into that understated smile. He drew on his sunglasses. “Everything passes. But I don’t like to think anyone has hurt you.”

They stood for a moment, regarding each other in silence.

“I could kick his ass, if you like.”

She laughed again, and thought how good the laughter felt. “Breakfast is enough. Thanks, though.”

Mack saluted, then jammed his fists into his pockets. “Do tell if y’all come up with anything new.” He nodded and turned away, whistling a popular country song.

She watched his back until he was swallowed up by the throng of humanity heading for work.

The side entrance was unlocked, just as the production manager said it would be. Gen pushed the door open and entered a wide, windowless hallway with doors staggered on either side. Most of them were closed. She skimmed the occupants’ brass name plates as she went to find the stage.

Somewhere in the depths of the building she could hear a raised voice. Another chimed in, then another. She was going in the right direction.

The door at the far end of the passage opened to the theatre. A single light illuminated several actors in the midst of a dress rehearsal for a medieval play. Shakespeare, from the looks of it. Gen took a seat near the back, but she’d hardly settled in when the scene ran down.

A voice in the darkened room dismissed the players. “Thanks guys. Great job. That’s it for today. Sonia, get that skirt hemmed so you don’t step on it when we’re live. We don’t need the actors flat on their faces.”

A buzz of laughter rippled through the cast as they exited to one side. Gen rose and walked down the aisle, then climbed the steps and followed the group backstage.

“Excuse me,” she called.

The woman with the too-long dress looked at her.

“I wondered if I could have a minute.”

“And you are?”

“Gen Delacourt. You’re Sonia Thompson, right? I’m a private investigator looking for Russell Yates. I understand you knew him.”

Sonia’s face did not light up at the mention of his name. She hesitated, then glanced toward her dressing room door. “Sure. Come in, I need to change.”

Gen followed her into a cramped cubicle strewn with period clothing and shoes. The actress moved behind a screen and unzipped her dress.

“Do you think the Bard would have approved of those new-fangled fasteners?” Gen asked.

Sonia laughed and draped the bodice across the top of one panel. “We try to hide them so they’re not obvious to the audience. Costume changes would be a nightmare if we had to unbutton two dozen buttons every time.”

She re-appeared wearing jeans and a long-sleeved jersey that was once bright green and sat at the dressing table. She pulled her hair from its messy bun and twisted it into a ponytail atop her head, then stared into the mirror and began to remove her make-up. “What’s this about Russell?”

“Do you know him well?”

Sonia’s reflection smiled back at Gen. “As well as two people who lived together for a year know one another.”

“How long ago was that?” Gen used her foot to slide a stool away from the wall and sat down.

“We split eight months ago. Stayed friendly enough, though. I mean, the San Francisco theatre community is small, you know? We run into each other all the time.”

“But not recently.”

“Not for a few weeks. He had a part in this play, but he gave it to the understudy not long after rehearsals started.” She looked pointedly at Gen. “Russell didn’t need the job.”

“And you?”

Sonia held out her right foot. The wool sock that encased it had a patch on the back of the heel that was wearing thin.

“So where do you think he’s been?”

“No idea. He’s a pretty good playwright. Could be off typing the next big thing, who knows.”

“Where did he usually go to do that?”

Sonia shrugged. “He’d just leave a note and split.”

“He didn’t talk about where he found his muse?”

Sonia’s voice went hard. “He was a guy.” She threw a cotton pad in the trash and picked up a clean one. Gen thought she put a little too much gusto behind the toss.

“Is that why you broke up?”

Sonia shrugged again. “Russell was sensitive. It was easy to hurt his feelings, you know? He was needy. Never satisfied. Always questioning my feelings. Always worried I was going to leave. Even I know you get what you expect to get.”

“Needy and a loner? That’s an odd combination.”

“Yeah, he’d interrogate me about every little thing, but he kept his business to himself.”

“Like what?” Gen sat up a little straighter. “What did he keep to himself?”

“He didn’t share anything, you know? I mean, I had to practically pry stuff out of him. Where he went to school, what he wanted for his future, normal details about his family. It was like he was an agent for the CIA.”

Sonia spread cream on her face and worked it off with a cloth. “Russell was too much work.”

“So where did he go to school? What did he say about his family?”

“Like I said, not much.”

“Was he close to his brother?”

“I have no idea, that’s the point. I lived with him for a year and I never met any brother, you know?” She reached for a hairbrush. Gen could see her knuckles go white where they clutched the handle.

Touchy subject.

“Breakups are tough.” Genny’s voice was soothing. “I’m with you on that one.”

“Oh, yeah? You too?” Sonia turned away from the mirror and contemplated Genny as she brushed her hair.

“Yeah.”

“It sucks.”

“Yeah, it does. A friend of mine would say we need to turn our wounds into wisdom.”

“Wisdom?” Sonia turned back to the mirror. “Guys don’t like smart girls.”

Genny smiled. “Some do.”

“Not the ones I meet.”

The silence had nearly transitioned to awkward when Sonia reached up and plucked a picture from the mirror frame. She studied it for a minute, then passed it to Gen. “Russ. Taken just after we started dating. We were both performing in Hair. It was a good time.”

Gen took the photo. Russell Yates was wearing a shoulder-length, hippie-style wig and a fringed vest and jeans. “He looks happy,” Gen said.

“We both were.”

“Mind if I borrow this?”

“Keep it. I don’t need to be reminded. So why are you looking for him, anyway?”

“His brother hasn’t seen him lately, either.” Gen shrugged. “Wants to be sure he’s okay.”

They chatted a while longer. When the actress began to fidget, Genny took it as a cue to leave. She left her card on the table with an invitation to phone if Sonia recalled anything else, then made her way to the exit.

As she emerged, a ray of sunshine plummeted through the thick cloud cover and hit the street in front of her. She hoped it was a sign she was on the right track.

Behind her, the door opened with a metallic clang and she startled, then turned to see Sonia holding out an envelope.

“I remembered something,” she said. “Russ mailed this to me a month or so ago. There was a note. He returned my house key way back when, but he said he’d forgotten this one. He wanted me to have it.”

Genny opened the flap and looked inside. “If it’s to your house, you should keep it.”

“That’s just it. It isn’t.”

“Not to the garage or something?”

“I don’t have a garage,” Sonia said. “His note said if it didn’t fit my door, would I please hold on to it. Asked me not to throw it away, that he would get it back later.”

“Hunh.”

“Will you give it back when you find him?”

“Sure. Thanks for your help. And hey, I forgot to say good luck with the play.”

“You’re supposed to say break a leg.”

Gen nodded and stuffed the key in her purse.

* * *

“If Vonnegon sends any more flowers, we can open a florist shop.” Gen wrinkled her nose at Bree as she passed through the living room. “Or a perfume counter.”

Bree tucked a bookmark into the novel she was reading and closed it with a snap. “That man is an enigma. I bounce back and forth between hating him and wondering how anyone could be so wonderful. And I still don’t know which feels right.”

“Maybe you should take him to bed and see how you feel about that.”

“Sex would only complicate things.”

“That’s what I figured you’d say. Garcia seems to be getting your attention lately, anyhow.”

No reply. Gen glanced at Bree; she looked as if she was a hundred miles away. Probably comparing the attributes of the two men who were interested in her.

“I love my house,” Bree finally said, “but I’ve spent too much time on this couch My back has permanent imprints from the upholstery.”

Apparently she wanted to change the subject. “How about a few laps in the pool?”

Bree shivered. “That was mean.”

“Too soon?”

“I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get in the water again.”

“Of course you will. All the hours you spent in that pool saved your life, think of it that way.” Gen walked into the kitchen, then popped back out again. “How about we go out to lunch, then head down to the station afterwards to check out the crime scene photos? Garcia wanted you to have another look. Are you ready to do that?”

Bree visibly brightened at the thought. “Yeah. I’d like to get out of here.”

Gen wondered if her mood improved because she might see Garcia, or was it just the chance to go outside? “I’ll give Mack a call and ask if they’re going to be around.”

* * *

When they entered the station, Mack was at his desk working the phones. He pointed toward the conference room down the hall. They nodded and picked their way through the glut of desks and people. By the time they reached the door, he was beside them.

“How are you feeling, Bree?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“I hear they’ve been feeding you well. Has Genny taken you for hotcakes yet?”

Gen didn’t comment, although Bree’s eyes were a question mark when they slid to her. Instead, she fished in her bag and came up with an envelope.

“I have something for you.” She handed Mack the key from Sonia. “Not sure if it means anything, but here you go.”

Mack flipped it back and forth in his hand. “Looks like a storage garage key.”

“How can you tell?”

“See this little row of numbers? They correspond to the units at the bigger places. Who does it belong to?”

“Russell Yates,” Gen replied. “I talked with his ex-girlfriend the other day. Said she hasn’t seen him in weeks”

“You beat me to it,” Mack said. “I called the producer of the play Yates dropped out of, and the guy told me he broke up with someone a while back. It’s on my list to speak with her. You sure she isn’t covering for him?”

“I don’t think so,” Gen replied. “She said he mailed that to her, thought maybe it was the key to her place. But he also said if it wasn’t, would she please hold onto it for him. Seems weird he’d give it away if he knew it opened a storage garage.”

“Yeah.” Mack pocketed the key. “I’ll look into it. Let’s get to those pictures.”

A couple of fat manila folders were on the table. Mack pulled one toward him, removed a stack of eight-by-tens, and placed the photos in front of Bree. “This might be hard. Just try to focus on the room.”

“Thanks for coming down.” Garcia was leaning against the doorframe. “Bree, give us a shout if you see anything that strikes you as unusual.”

Bree nodded, then focused on the photographs. Gen leaned over to look at them, as well.

Someone in the hallway called Garcia’s name. “Be right back,” he said.

The first picture showed Ducane’s legs and feet, and her hands trembled as she stared at the scene. “I never want to be in the same room with a pair of Gucci loafers again.”

“Concentrate on the office,” Gen replied.

Bree took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “The carpet, the desk, the file cabinets. It all looks like I remember.”

She turned the photo over and studied the next; this one showed the desk top. “The phone is in the same place it was after Taylor called the police.” She turned that one over and continued through the stack.

Mack handed the contents of the other file to Gen. “These are pictures of Ducane’s boat the way we found it. You haven’t seen the cabin, so not much chance you’ll identify anything. But it’s worth a shot. Something might jump out at you. Take your time,” Mack said, then left the room.

Gen shuffled through the pictures, then reviewed each one again. “Means nothing to me. I wouldn’t expect it to, though. How are you doing?”

Bree was still looking at the crime scene photos, mainly a shot of the wall beyond where Andrew Ducane’s head would have been. She pointed. “See this empty space on the carpet here, between these two big file cabinets?”

Gen nodded. Framed college diplomas were hung above the wooden units. Several leather-bound books stood upright in a row atop the left cabinet, and a coaster sat at the outer edge.

“I’m not sure why,” she said, “but I keep coming back to this.”

Gen moved closer and studied the scene over her shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking there might have been a glass on its side on the floor right here.” Bree tapped the space between the cabinets.

Gen went to the door. “Mack, can you come here for a minute? Bree remembered something.”