“Meaning?”
“If you find out who did it, let me know the bastard’s name. He won’t get away with it.”
But so often criminals do, I nearly said, but I kept the thought to myself.
At the end of the day I drove to San Francisco on highway 280, the serpentine road that wound through the foothills behind the posh peninsula suburbs and within view of the hidden houses of the rich. The twisted eucalyptus trees stood high and elegantly on those hills and the air was moist with the fragrance of their leaves. Deer grazed those hills and now and then a jeep went flying along the dirt roads with no apparent destination. A line of horses appeared on the horizon and then disappeared behind a clump of oak.
I was passing through some of the wealthiest communities in the country, and the only sign of money was its absence. The developer’s hand was stayed from these hills and woods to perpetuate a view of California as it had existed a hundred years earlier. Even the Southern Pacific commuter train, whose whistle I heard in the distance, was a subsidized prop, reminding listeners of the pristine age before Henry Ford gave wheels to the masses. A hundred years earlier, Grover Linden raised monuments to his wealth, but his heirs bought privacy, the ultimate luxury. Judge Paris lived somewhere in those hills, as safe as money could make him. Like God, he moved a finger and the sparrow fell. To him, a little death. But not to me. I floored the accelerator as if physical speed could make time move faster. I would bring this death home to him, whatever it took.
I followed a curve in the road and when I looked up, the darkened skyline burst across the rose-colored sky of dusk, vaguely Oriental in shape and pattern and decidedly sinister. This was the first time I had returned to San Francisco since Hugh’s death. Those untroubled summery days seemed far more remote than a mere ten days ago. I exited near the Civic Center and came up Market, now nearly deserted as downtown emptied, toward the bay. For all its magnificence the city seemed shabby to me as little gusts of winds kicked up scraps of newspaper and blew them across the street and the bag ladies stood shapelessly in front of dark windows muttering invectives. It would be cold later. I had not thought to bring a coat.
Stephan Abrams’s office was on the fifth floor of a highrise on Montgomery Street. Having called him earlier, I followed his directions and got to his office a few minutes before I was expected. His secretary told me he was on the phone and asked me to sit and wait. I took a look around the office. Chrome-and-leather furniture, off-white walls, industrial gray carpeting, an unnumbered Miro lithograph; all the indicia of unspectacular success. He entered the room and confirmed my image of him.
Abrams was bulky but not fat. He had sharply etched features, a receding hairline he made no attempt to disguise, and eyes that shone from deep within their sockets. He wore a dark gray suit, a white shirt, red silk tie. He looked solid, not one to start a fight but not one to run from a fight either. The perfect all-purpose family lawyer. We shook hands. His grip, predictably, was firm.
“Mr. Rios?” he said. “I’m sorry to make you come up so late in the day but I was booked solid.” “That’s fine. I have another appointment a little later.”
“Oh? Well, then, there’s no problem, is there? You said something over the phone about a client we had in common.”
“Yes, Hugh Paris.”
“Maggie,” he said to his secretary, “why don’t you go on home, now. I’ll close up here. Step into my office Mr. Rios.’’
I went into his office and he followed me in, closing the door behind him. There were the usual framed degrees on the wall, one from Berkeley and another from Hastings Law School, full of seals and flourishes; a little vulgar, I thought. Abrams stepped over to a small roll-top desk against a wall, fiddled with the lock and opened it to reveal a bar. He motioned me to one of the two armchairs in front of a large plain desk in the center of the room. Without asking, he poured two glasses of scotch, Chivas Regal, and carried them over. He sat down in the other chair and handed me a glass.
“So,” he said, “Hugh Paris. At what point did you represent him?”
“I didn’t, actually. I offered but he turned me down. Then you picked up the case and got the charges dismissed.”
“It wasn’t hard, considering the lab report. Your cops have itchy fingers down there, but then that’s true of cops in most college towns when it comes to drugs.”
“The voice of experience?”
“I was a P.D. too, in Berkeley, back in the ‘sixties.” He took a healthy swallow of his drink. I swilled mine around in my glass, to be sociable. I hate scotch. “But the fires burn out.”
“You’re doing well.”
“I have no complaints,” he said. “So, what’s on your mind, Mr. — look, do you have a first name? Mine’s Steve.” He smiled engagingly. I was beginning to dislike him.
“Henry,” I said. “Did Hugh hire you?”
“I was retained on his behalf.”
“By whom? Robert Paris? Aaron Gold?”
“I have to claim the privilege, counsel. But if you speak frankly, then perhaps I can, too.”
“Hugh was murdered,” I said. “That’s to the point, isn’t it?”
“Brutally,” he replied, smiling. “Do you have any evidence to support your assertion?”
“None that I can share with you.” His eyebrows shot up. “But it seems to me that someone who cared enough to hire a lawyer on his behalf might also care enough to assist me in finding his murderer.”
“Anything you say to me, Henry, I assure you will reach the right ears.”
“I don’t deal with middlemen,” I said, tasting the scotch.
“Then why did you come here? To insult me?”
“To give your client a message,” I said.
“A message, Henry?” he asked softly. “If you want to deliver a message, I suggest UPS. Their rates are lower than mine.”
“Tell your client I know who killed Hugh Paris. The police are cooperating and it’s just a matter of time before we nail him. He’s not safe. And neither are you. You may not answer my questions but you’ll answer to a subpoena and, if you’re helping to cover up a crime, I’ll have you brought up before the Bar.”
“Get out of here, Henry, before I throw you out,” he said, rising. “Now.”
I stood up. “All right. Thank you for your time — Steve. And here’s my card.” I flicked it on the desk.
I shut the door behind me, and stood outside waiting to see if he picked up the phone. He didn’t. I went out into the street. I’d blown it. My purpose in coming to Abrams was to find out for whom he worked and the extent of his relationship to Hugh. Instead, I’d implied misconduct on his part and threatened him. Those were courtroom tactics, not the way to handle an investigation. But then, I’d been thrown out of a number of offices during this investigation. I seemed to be making people uncomfortable. That was some progress. Now, if I could only get them to talk. I set off in the darkness to find Grant Hancock.
Grant lived in a twenty-eighth floor condominium in a building that rose above Embarcadero Plaza. I walked there from Abrams’s office through the early evening. Seagulls squawked overhead as I approached the blue awning that marked the en trance. A doorman stood just outside the double glass doors. He wore a blue blazer over gray flannel trousers. I noted the bulge beneath his jacket where he strapped his holster. It was an odd neighborhood for a luxury high-rise, but there were spectacular views of the bay from the condos and, at night, it was as quiet in the streets as a graveyard. In the noisy, cramped city in which new construction was constantly obliterating someone’s view, peace and a vista of Sausalito from the living room were reason enough to pay the toney prices for a few hundred square feet of condo.
I identified myself to the doorman and he called up to Grant’s apartment. A moment later I boarded a dimly- lit elevator that carried me to the twenty-eighth floor.
I rang the bell and he opened the door. Behind him, in the darkness, candles were burning, and his window framed the bridge and the lights of Marin blazing across the bay. He still wore the slacks from his suit and a button-down shirt the shade of pearl; purchased, no doubt, from one of those men’s shops that sell to you only if your great-grandfather had an account with them. The three top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of tanned and expensively maintained flesh. His sandy hair was clipped short above his ears and the handsome, expressionless face was as mysterious and self-contained as ever. He smelled of bay rum, and his clear blue eyes took me in with a long detached look. I could see myself in that look; disheveled, thin, dark beneath the eyes and
