Martinis and Mayhem (10 page)

“How dreadful.”

“Yeah. He walked on a technicality. But no, Mrs. Fletcher, I wasn’t involved in the investigation into Mark Steffer’s murder. But I followed it close. Like most people, only I had a little more inside info.”

“I would imagine.”

“Between you and me, the investigation was not destined to win any awards for police work. A classic case of deciding who did it, and using what you come up with to ‘prove’ it. Like I said, that’s between us.”

“I understand.”

“She never should have been convicted. Not on what we turned up. Her lawyer was a joke. She had plenty of money but went for flash over substance. The jury must have been out to lunch.”

“Wasn’t there an appeal?”

“Sure. But the original judge had been okay. No errors. Just a lot of sighs at her attorney’s posturing. The verdict stood on appeal.”

“Not our system of jurisprudence’s finest hour.”

“I’ve seen worse, like in my case. Anyway, Mrs. Fletcher, you said in poking your nose into the Steffer case you might have made an enemy or two. Correction. I didn’t mean anything negative by putting it that way.”

“I didn’t take it negatively,” I said. “ ‘Poking my nose into it’ is an apt way of describing it. And yes, I might have rubbed someone the wrong way.”

“Who?”

I shrugged. “No one who knew I intended to take my stroll on the Golden Gate this morning.”

“Who did know?”

“No one.”

“Not possible.”

“It’s not?”

“No. How did you get to the bridge?”

“Cab.”

“Get the driver’s name?”

“No.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Westin St. Francis.”

“Nice hotel.”

“The best.”

“Nobody there knew you were planning your walk?”

“I don’t think so. Oh, I may have mentioned it to my waitress at breakfast this morning.”

“Uh-huh. Continue.”

“I think I told the doorman. I had to wait with him until he hailed a taxi for me. You aren’t suggesting that—?”

“Who else?”

“Let me see. The cabdriver who drove me last night. It was his suggestion that prompted me to do it.”

“Name?”

“No idea. Actually, he was the second person to suggest the walk.”

“Who was the first?”

“Robert Frederickson. He—”

“Mark Steffer’s former partner in that cutesy kids restaurant.”

“Exactly.”

“You get around, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I try.”

“Frederickson suggested you take that walk?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of Mr. Frederickson?”

“Handsome. A little too slick for my taste.”

He laughed. “Oily guy.”

“Yes.”

“Who else knew you’d be out on the bridge today?”

“No one. Oh, I mentioned the possibility to an old friend.”

“Who happens to be?”

“Chief Inspector George Sutherland of Scotland Yard.”

“George? He’s a friend?”

“Yes. You obviously know him.”

“Sure. Hell of a guy. Worked his side of a murder case with me years back. He’s here in San Fran at the FBI seminar?”

“Yes.”

“Give the crusty old Scot my best.”

“In those words?”

“Sure. That’s it for the list?”

“I think so. No. I mentioned it to my publicity agent this morning when she called.”

“What is your publicity agent’s name?”

“Camille. Camille Inken. Surely you don’t think that—”

He smiled and put the cap on his pen. “See, Mrs. Fletcher? You tell one person something, you tell half a dozen. And they tell another half dozen. Pretty soon, the entire population of San Francisco knows.”

“Point well taken.”

He stood and I followed his cue. “Feel safe enough to go back to the St. Francis? Like a lift?”

“No, I’m fine. But thank you for the offer.”

“I insist.”

“Then, I guess I accept. Can’t say no to a detective when he insists.”

He pulled a large manila envelope from a desk drawer and motioned for me to follow him. We climbed into his unmarked car parked in front of police headquarters, and minutes later were in front of the hotel. “Buy you a drink, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked. “I’m off duty.”

“At this hour of the morning?”

“Middle of the night for me. I’ve been on since midnight.”

“I’m afraid a drink is the last thing I need, Detective Josephs. But thank you anyway.”

“Mind if I ask you a favor?”

“Ask and I’ll see if I mind,” I said.

He hesitated before saying, “Believe it or not, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m writing a cop novel. I’m about halfway through. I’d really appreciate it if you’d take a look at it.” He smiled his most ingratiating smile, picked up the manila envelope from where he’d placed it between us, and handed it to me.

I took it and said, “I’d be delighted and flattered to read it, Detective. And I’m sure you’d be willing to do a favor for me in return.”

“Tell me what it is and I’ll decide.”

“What’s fair is fair,” I said. “I’d like to see the files on the Steffer case.” I mirrored his smile.

He smacked his lips and took a deep breath. “You drive a hard bargain for a writer, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Not such a hard bargain,” I said. “I’m not asking to take any files with me. I’d just like to peek at them. In your presence.” When he continued to ponder what I’d suggested, I added, “My publisher has published a number of very good books written by former law enforcement officers like yourself. If I think your manuscript has merit—”

“Okay,” he said. “It’s a deal. But you’re not to breathe a word of this. Understood, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Understood.”

“It’s strictly unofficial. On my off hours.”

“Of course.”

“When do you want to see the files?”

“How about now? You said you were off duty.”

“Okay. When will you read my manuscript?”

“Tonight.”

“Let’s go.”

When we were back in his office, he told me to sit tight. He returned quickly. “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, here’s the Steffer files.” He handed me a disk. “You can access them on my computer here in the office, but you can’t leave with it. Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” I said.

His computer was on. He inserted the disk and pulled up the files. “You sit here, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve got something else to do. Anybody comes in, tell ’em you’re doing part-time work for me.”

“Okay.”

“And remember, Mrs. Fletcher, this is between you and me.”

“Yes, sir!”

He left, and I scanned the first file:

 

 

As I wrote Fernandez’s name on a piece of paper, the door opened. It was Detective Josephs. “Find something interesting,” he asked, positioning himself to view the computer screen, and the paper on which I’d written the name. “Phillipe,” he said. “That’s the cabbie.” He rolled his eyes. “A monument to credibility. His glasses looked like aviator goggles.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said, remembering Bobby McCormick’s description of the taxi driver’s eyeglasses.

“Even the judge laughed when the defense demonstrated his less than twenty-twenty vision. But the jury didn’t seem to care. Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m glad to see I could be of some help. I’ll be here all day tomorrow if you want to call and let me know how much you enjoyed my manuscript.”

“This is all I get to see of the Steffer files?” I said.

“Afraid so. Look, maybe we can—”

A man poked his head into Josephs’ office. “Walter, you on?”

“No. I was just leaving.”

“Sorry, babe, but you’re here, you catch it. We’ve got a jumper on Golden Gate.”

Detective Josephs looked at me and frowned.

“A jumper?” I asked. “Someone has jumped off the bridge?”

“Who’s she?” the other detective asked about me.

“A—friend. All right. Let’s go.” To me: “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. Call me tomorrow. Maybe we can work something out.”

“I certainly will call you tomorrow,” I said, standing and getting ready to leave.

“And hey, Mrs. Fletcher, be sure to read Chapter Four. Fry your hair. Have a nice day.”

I turned off the TV in my suite and shook my head. That was it? That was the extent of the play the media planned to give the story of a person leaping to his death from the world’s most famous bridge?

I had to remind myself, of course, that jumping from the Golden Gate was not an especially unique or startling event in San Francisco, any more than a mugging was in New York City. Twenty-third suicide of the year? Back home in Cabot Cove,
one
suicide was big news, worthy of weeks of breakfast gossip at Mara’s Dockside Luncheonette.

I then found myself wondering how the San Francisco police made a determination of suicide when someone fell to his death from the Golden Gate. Failing an eyewitness, how could anyone be certain that a victim hadn’t been pushed over the edge? Hadn’t been murdered?

Someone had certainly tried to kill me that morning by “helping” me over the railing. And although there had been many other people within viewing distance of the event, no one seemed to have seen it happen. If my attacker had succeeded, I, too, would have been considered a suicide, although probably generating more media coverage because I was from out-of-town, and had achieved a modicum of fame through my books.

I’d left police headquarters ambivalent about what to do, or where to go next. I decided as I walked that I’d been denying the impact of the attempt upon my life just hours earlier. Once I made that admission to myself, it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, causing my legs to weaken, and my breathing to go shallow and rapid. I hailed a passing cab and told the driver to take me to my hotel. But I quickly changed my mind. I needed to eat, and to draw upon the splendid day it had become.

The driver dropped me at Fisherman’s Wharf. I took a table in a pleasant outdoor café, sated my sudden appetite with a large crabmeat salad and two glasses of iced coffee, and renewed my energy by soaking up the spirit of passersby as they went about their day on the famous wharf.

I did some window-shopping back at Union Square before returning to my suite. The only purchase I made was a bouquet of fresh pink tulips from one of several flower markets on the square, the vendors owing their existence to Michael de Young who in the late 1800s allowed Italian, Belgian, and Irish youngsters to sell their flowers in front of his office building without police harassment. They were eventually licensed in 1904, and their colorful stands, along with the chess players, soapbox orators (shades of London’s Hyde Park Corner), panhandlers, and hand-holding lovers give the square’s famous park much of its character. I promptly placed my purchase in a vase supplied by room service. I often buy flowers for my hotel room when traveling because even the most opulent hotel benefits from personalizing.

I was disappointed that George hadn’t called. I’d left a message for him after leaving police headquarters. Must be in meetings all day.

I looked at my watch. The afternoon had slid by too quickly. It was almost five o’clock. I was tired, could easily have succumbed to fatigue and taken a nap. But I didn’t want to do that because I knew I’d wake up groggy and lacking energy. George’s conference would be winding down for the day. Should I try to call him again? I decided instead to head for the Mark Hopkins, call him from the lobby, and take my chances that he’d be free for the evening.

I really needed to talk to him about my misadventure that morning. I’d thought about calling Mort or Seth back home to discuss the incident, but didn’t want to worry them. In the past, when I’d called from a distant city to report an attempt on my life, or some other imbroglio in which I’d become embroiled, they’d responded by jumping on a plane and racing to my side. Sort of the “damsel in distress” reaction. But I didn’t want that. Despite their sterling intentions, they invariably complicated things for me. Bless them. But better they remain in Cabot Cove.

Discussing my incident on the bridge with Detective Josephs that morning hadn’t done much to satisfy my need to share it with others. I glanced over at a table on which I’d put his manuscript. I’d promised to read it that night, which I would do, of course. But he wouldn’t get any substantive response to it from me until he’d lived up to his part of the bargain. I needed more time with his computer files on the Mark Steffer murder case. You give a little, you get a little. You give a lot, you get a lot. That would be my operative ground rule from now on when dealing with the detective.

As I closed my door behind me, I heard the faint ringing of the phone inside the suite. Go back and answer? By the time I dug out my magnetic card, aka key, from my purse, it would probably be too late. Whoever was calling could leave a message. If it was George, I’d see him soon enough.

As I rode down in the elevator, I changed my mind about surprising George at the Mark Hopkins. Simply showing up would place an unfair pressure on him in the event he’d made other plans for the evening, personal or professional.

The lobby of the St. Francis was bustling that late afternoon. Well-dressed businesspeople mingled with less well-dressed tourists, many of whom had made the hotel’s famous lobby part of their sight-seeing itinerary. The St. Francis is considered by travel writers to be the grand belle of San Francisco hotels, with its stately marble columns, breathtaking oversize flower arrangements, and rococo gold balconies.