Tell No Lies Read online

  Daniel coasted through the crowd, practically nudging folks aside with the front bumper, Cris at the window like a dog frantic to escape. Leo throttled behind them in his tank of a Ford Bronco. Parking was a mess, so Daniel let Cris out and kept on with Leo. By a miracle they found meters close to each other a block over. A quarter bought a whopping seven minutes, and Daniel was broke at fourteen minutes. Leo palmed him some spare change to max out the meter, and they jogged back to find Cris.

  She was sitting on the crowded curb across the street, arms resting on her knees, staring despondently at the ongoing eviction. Leo lingered nearby as Daniel lowered himself beside her. They watched, Cris wiping her cheeks at intervals.

  Even the gang members looked melancholy. “Way of the mothafuckin’ world,” one remarked sagely, and Cris said, “Stow it, Rags.”

  At the base of the telephone pole beside them was a streetside altar—flowers, a mini–teddy bear, and a photo of a young teenage girl with long lashes and soulful brown eyes, wearing a confirmation dress. The wooden pole was still pitted from where the bullets had been dug out. The unacceptable, right here, every day.

  Cris interrupted his thoughts. “This used to be the Fillmore. Not just ‘the Fillmore.’” She lifted her arm, pointed southeast. “The Church of John Coltrane was over there. The devout brought instruments, sat in with the band. For three decades they fed the homeless. Then the landlord doubled the rent. Gone. And right here”—she jerked her head north—“the old Winterland Arena. All those psychedelic light shows. Hendrix played there, ’member? The Doors, Zeppelin, the Dead. The night they closed, Bill Graham rode onstage on a giant joint. Today … apartments. And now the apartments are going, and I protest that. Maybe I am stuck in the past. Maybe your mom’s right. Dot-com was just the latest gold rush. And now the new new economy, Web 2.0.” Her hand circled, tracing a rising spiral before falling limply to her lap. “This is how it’s always been, and this is how it’ll always be, and I need to just grow the fuck up.”

  An elderly Filipino woman exited the complex and made halting progress across the street, heedless of honking cars. An antique birdcage swung at her side. Various family members trailed, holding lamps, trash cans, suitcases with broken clasps. The woman was steered toward a rusted car, but she demurred, veering off to sit at the edge of a planter, the birdcage on her thighs. She mumbled through the bars to the white macaw as her family members pleaded and gestured.

  Releasing a sigh, Cris rose. She and Daniel walked over and cut through the cadre of frustrated family members. Cris leaned down, tried for eye contact. “Hello, Mrs. Gao.”

  The woman didn’t lift her gaze. She kept mumbling in Tagalog. A disinterested grown-granddaughter type translated. “She say Dinky does not like change.”

  Cris stared at Mrs. Gao helplessly as she continued to mumble.

  “She say Dinky has delicate stomach.” The granddaughter chewed her gum, half listening, then chewed it some more. “Dinky is too old to move. Dinky will die of heartsickness.”

  Mrs. Gao finally raised her sagging eyes to Cris, her lips still moving.

  The granddaughter examined a chipped fingernail. “She say, ‘Why can’t you do anything?’”

  * * *

  Cris finally left for home with Leo, Daniel staying behind to help the Gaos load up a succession of vehicles that appeared, one after another, with roof racks embellished by ingenious bungee-cord configurations. Given Cris’s pregnancy, he didn’t want her hauling boxes up and down the stairs.

  He thought about how lovely it would be to be alive when the baby was born.

  Too late he noticed the parking-enforcement officer patrolling in a tiny wheelbarrow of a vehicle, even more ridiculous than his own smart car. He set the final suitcase on the curb and ran, digging in his pockets for the change Leo had given him.

  He spotted the ticket on his windshield and cursed. But when his gaze lowered, all petty aggravation evaporated. In his palm were a few quarters, spit-polished and brand-new.

  His stomach roiling, he poked them apart, exposing the dates.

  They were all over twenty years old.

  Chapter 58

  Speeding across the city, Daniel reached Dooley.

  “Where are you?”

  “Coming up on your house, actually,” she said. “I was gonna stay with you, drive you over to Metro South later.”

  “Do not go in. Leo Rizk—the guard at our house? Who my mother sent? He’s involved. He gave me quarters—brand-new-looking. Like the ones at the crime scenes.”

  “Okay, just hang on.” Her breath whistled across the receiver. “Spell his name.”

  Daniel did.

  She said, “If he’s a suspect, we need to call for backup, surround the house.”

  Daniel flew down Webster, bottoming out the car, throwing sparks. “There is no way I’m leaving him with my wife. Meet me at Lafayette Park by the tennis courts on the east side. That’s the most secluded area. It’s two blocks from the house. I’ll get him there.”

  He could hear Dooley’s car screeching into a U-turn. She said, “We need to do this slowly and properly.”

  “Dooley, I’m getting this guy out of my house and away from my wife. You can be there or not.”

  He hung up, dialed again, running the math in his head. Leo had access to their house, their schedules, and—given his background—God knew what else. A true inside man who’d somehow earned Evelyn’s trust. He’d appeared on their doorstep immediately after the woman in the rain, as if he’d been waiting. He was a different build from the killer—too short—and he’d been with Cris during Daniel’s run-in at Kyle Lane’s house, but if he was working in concert with a group member—

  Leo picked up after the first ring. “Yes?”

  “Leo, I need you to meet me up the street at Lafayette Park by the tennis courts. Dooley uncovered a new clue. We know who the killer is. And we need your help.”

  “I shouldn’t leave the house. Or Cristina.”

  “I’m the one with the death threat on my head.”

  “And she’s a pregnant woman. Not to mention a great way to get to you. If, say, the killer wants to ensure you’ll go to a set location at midnight tomorrow, all he’s gotta do is grab her.”

  “Dooley has a tail on the killer right now,” Daniel said. “He’s in Bayview. It’s safe. Get here now.”

  He hung up and veered onto Washington, the park zooming into view. The patch of not-quite-level ground surfed a hump between steep rises, the surrounding streets lined with pricey Victorians. He found a spot and jogged toward the tennis courts, where Dooley waited in the thickening dusk, thumbs hooked through her belt like an old-school sheriff.

  “He’s on his way,” Daniel said.

  “I have backup coming.”

  “They’ll scare him off. He’s a hard-core trained operative.”

  “No shit. I just ran him. He’s got no record. As in—no record. Who the fuck is this guy you let into your house?”

  “My mother hired him for us. She’s generally good on due diligence.”

  Dooley whistled. “The rich are not like me and … me.”

  Leo’s bald dome appeared first, bobbing over a rise of grass. He cut past a dog chasing a Frisbee and threaded through a few folks reading on beach towels, heading for where they waited in the least populated part of the park.

  Daniel looked at Theresa. A bead of sweat tracked down her neck. She smiled tightly.

  Leo approached, spread his arms wide, a rare broad gesture. “What?”

  Daniel sidled to Leo’s left so the man would have to turn slightly away from Dooley. Over Leo’s head on Gough Street, he saw two cop cars pulling up to the curb.

  Daniel said, “We found a clue that linked us to the killer.” He held out his fist. Opened it.

  In his palm, Leo’s shiny coins.

  Puzzled wrinkles appeared in Leo’s forehead.

  Dooley’s hand moved to her hip. There was the faintest snap, and then she said, “I wa
nt you to put your—”

  Leo spun, so fast it was like a cartoon blur. His foot swept Dooley’s calves, and she went down. Her gun remained precisely in place, aimed at him, except he was now the one holding it. His hands whirled, the magazine falling to the dirt, the lead bullet popping from the chamber, and then the slide clicked back and forward, the spring assembly bounced in the air, and the barrel came free of the slide.

  The gun, field-stripped in about three seconds, lay in pieces on the ground at Leo’s feet.

  Empty-handed, he blinked twice, seeming only now to realize what he’d done.

  Daniel barely had time to register what had happened. But one thing was clear: If Leo was going to do something bad, he’d have done it already.

  “Sorry, Officer.” Leo extended his hand, hoisted Dooley to her feet. “Didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Dooley asked, crouching to retrieve the parts of her gun. “You don’t exist.”

  “Of course I don’t exist,” Leo said. “There’s a guy you can call in the 202 area code who can explain to you why that is. Until then, you want to tell me what this is about?”

  The backup officers crested the hill to their left, and Dooley waved them off in disgust.

  “The change,” Daniel said. “These perfectly polished coins. They were found at two of the crime scenes.”

  “Those?” Leo said. “I got those coins from your mother.”

  Daniel’s mouth moved, but no words were coming out.

  Theresa said, “When?”

  “I met her at a restaurant before she hired me. I had no money for the meter. She gave me change from her purse, just like I gave it to you.” Leo stepped back, suddenly concerned. “But that’s not the key question right now.”

  “What’s the key question?” Dooley asked.

  Already Daniel was running for his car, dialing his cell phone. “Who’s watching Cristina?” he said.

  Chapter 59

  The phone and the doorbell rang simultaneously, awakening Cris where she’d dozed off on the couch. She started for the phone, but a commotion on the porch diverted her attention. She hesitated before tentatively starting down the stairs.

  Midway to the first floor, she heard a frenzied pounding on the door, then a woman’s moaning: “Help me. God, oh, God, he’s after me. Please open up! Please help me!”

  Cris rushed down the final steps and peered through the peephole. A head loomed in distorted close-up—a Hispanic woman, her face battered, strings of hair caught in a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. She cast fearful glances over her shoulder, then rapped on the door again. “Help me, please! Please let me in! He’s coming after me!”

  At five o’clock the sky still held enough light for Cris to see past the front yard to the empty street. No pursuer was in evidence.

  She turned off the alarm, gripped the deadbolt, started to turn.

  Then froze.

  The woman’s wails came through the door, her fear tangible. “What are you waiting for? He’s gonna kill me! Look what he did to me! Please help!” The words flooded out between bursts of panting. “He’s almost here! Please…”

  The foyer tile, a plain of ice beneath Cris’s bare feet. Her thin arms trembled. She stared at her hand on the deadbolt, nausea swelling as the woman’s wrenching sobs washed through her.

  Just when the cries reached a pitch Cris thought she couldn’t withstand, they were abruptly severed, as if someone had hit PAUSE.

  With dread, Cris moved her eye again to the peephole. The woman’s face remained there, but it held a perfect stillness, the bruised mouth set in a confident sneer. Her tongue flashed into view, tasting the blood on her bottom lip.

  Cris eased out an uneven breath. She took a slow step back. And then another.

  The door rocked in the frame, a resonant boom that rattled the miniature Zen garden on the accent table. A cry escaped Cris’s lips, and she instinctively covered her ears.

  The kick, way more forceful than anything the woman could have managed.

  Another boom, this one even louder. But the reinforced wood held.

  Cris stepped back again.

  Silence.

  Then the sound of footsteps running away.

  Two sets of footsteps.

  Cris’s wavering hand found the stairs behind her, and she lowered herself to the bottom step and let the fear shudder out of her.

  Chapter 60

  They found Cris in the foyer seconds after her would-be assailants had fled. Daniel, then Theresa, Leo, and six uniformed cops had spilled into the house. Radios blared. Additional cars were dispatched through the neighborhood, but there was no sign of Viviana Olvera or her partner.

  At least now they knew how the Tearmaker had gotten his victims to open their doors. By sending Viviana first to ring the bell and feign terror that her attacker was close behind. Her freshly beaten and swollen face, glimpsed through the peephole, had convinced each victim to unlock the door. The Tearmaker probably waited just out of sight, ready to lunge once the deadbolt was retracted.

  Cris’s hands were still shaking as Daniel helped her upstairs and explained to her about Leo’s getting the shiny coins from Evelyn.

  Cris asked, “Do you really think your mother has some … involvement in all this?”

  “I have no idea. Dooley’s going to my mom now.”

  “You need to go, too. She’s your mother.”

  “I need to stay with you.”

  “Leo’s here now. Door locked. Alarm on. I’ll be okay. Go see what the hell Evelyn has to say for herself.”

  Daniel’s neck had knotted up, but he still managed to nod.

  He followed Dooley across town in his own car because he was due at Metro South in a few hours. At the Fairmont, Dooley made an aggressive entrance, and Daniel had to intervene to settle the head concierge, who finally divulged that Evelyn had made an early dinner reservation at the Tonga Room on the lower level.

  They rode the elevator down, Dooley badging the hostess at the podium as Daniel bulled past into the humidity rising off the indoor faux lagoon. The place was a Disney-Polynesian explosion, with tiki totems, bamboo screens, and thatched-grass umbrellas beneath a ceiling strung with colorful lanterns. He spotted Evelyn and James sitting alone at the lagoon’s edge and started toward them.

  As he neared, four large men rose from surrounding tables to encircle him, and he almost took an adrenaline-charged swing before realizing that they were his mother’s security detail. James sorted the mess from one end, Dooley from the other, Evelyn relaxing all the while in her chair and slurping a concoction from a fruit-laden glass the size of a fishbowl.

  By the time Daniel and Theresa took up chairs opposite Evelyn, a monsoon rain was showering the lagoon from sprinklers in the ceiling, and then a barge of a stage floated forward and a stout woman in a tropical wrap dress began warbling out “Bali Ha’i.” Daniel had to shout over the commotion, his explanation about the coins seeming only to enhance the confusion. Evelyn sipped on and ignored the cell phone lighting up at intervals beside her pupu platter. The singer was belting out the crescendo now, each lyric sending darning needles through Daniel’s temples, and then the mechanized skies cleared and the barge retracted like the shrinking head of a tortoise and there were just the three of them—mother, son, and homicide inspector—blinking at one another in the sudden semi-silence.

  The screen on Evelyn’s phone lit again, and, exasperated, Daniel said, “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  She twirled a diminutive umbrella in her manicured fingers and said, drunkenly, “Because Vimal keeps calling.”

  Dooley held up her hands, signaling time called. “Let me put this bluntly, Mrs. Brasher. Until we can clear this up, you are a person of interest in multiple murder investigations.”

  At this, Evelyn pulled back her head and laughed. Not her calculated titter, but genuine amusement. Then she reached for her sequined clutch purse. Dooley stiffened a li
ttle, but Evelyn merely unsnapped the gold clasp and dumped the contents onto the tablecloth. Lipstick tubes and change rolled everywhere, many of the coins bright and polished. Evidently pleased with herself, she tossed the emptied purse aside.

  Staring at the shiny coins where they’d landed between the spareribs and the crab Rangoon, Dooley and Daniel remained speechless.

  “In 1938,” Evelyn began grandly, “the St. Francis Hotel began washing all their coins after complaints that dirty change was soiling the white gloves of their female patrons. A tradition that persists to this day.” She paused for a dramatically timed sip of mai tai. “So as much as it truly pleases me to be ‘a person of interest in multiple murder investigations,’ I feel obliged to point you in a not-so-wrong direction.”

  Dooley leaned away until the chair caught her shoulders with a thud. “I can’t believe we missed that.”

  “You were asking the wrong class of people.” Evelyn set down the empty bowl of her cocktail, plucked up a lustrous dime, and displayed it like a guitar pick between thumb and forefinger. “In San Francisco, darling, everything comes down to money.”

  Chapter 61

  With her marble columns and classic brown brick, the St. Francis Hotel is known as the Grand Dame of Union Square. Hammett used her as the model for the St. Mark in The Maltese Falcon, and Daniel observed—as he and Dooley passed beneath the historic master clock in the lobby and wound their way up the grand staircase—that not a whole lot had changed since then.

  In short order they found themselves in the so-called cleaning closet at the end of a narrow little hall by the general cashier, where, surrounded by machinery from the twenties and thirties, they listened with strained patience as Arthur Carroll, master coin washer, explained the process. With his duck-headed cane, wire-frame glasses, and cleanly parted white hair, he was a stalwart gentleman, precisely how Daniel would have envisioned a master coin washer.

  “See this giant silver-burnishing machine? It was built before ball bearings were invented, so it runs on grease cuffs. The change goes through with lead buckshot and 20 Mule Team Borax, which froths into a kind of gray meringue. Removes all the grime of the outside world.”