was living with Mama in that apartment above Psychic Readings by Alisha; figure he still drove that light brown Buick LeSabre. Then chances were, it’d be parked somewhere in the vicinity. Private garages cost a bundle in the city, public lots weren’t cheap, either, and it’d be costing him and Mama enough as it was to live and work their con. So it had to be street parking whenever he was in the neighborhood.
She’d thought of this last night, but driving around and trying to pick out a light brown Buick in the dark didn’t make much sense. Lot easier to identify colors and models in daylight. There wouldn’t be many brown Buick LeSabres parked in that neighborhood, and only one with a scrape and dent on the right front fender.
Turned out there weren’t any.
She drove around there for an hour, roaming two and three times over every street within a six-block radius of the Fillmore address. Just one Buick compact and it was white, not light brown, and it didn’t have any fender dents.
Bust.
She consoled herself with the thought that maybe she’d just missed him; maybe he’d gotten up as early as she had and gone off on some business or other. Worth coming back again, unless she turned up a better lead in the meantime. Even if Lucas wasn’t living with Mama, he’d come visit her at some point, wouldn’t he? Sooner or later she was bound to get lucky.
Alisha’s last name was Jones.
And she was Jamaican.
Sure. Right. And the Pope was Jewish and the oil companies cared deeply about the environment and true love was waiting for Tamara just around the corner.
At 10:00 a.m., when Eldon Management Company opened for business, she called them up and identified herself as a representative of the city treasurer and tax collector’s office. Every now and then when you used a ploy like that, the person you talked to was leery enough to ask for a callback number and you had to either improvise or blow it off. Usually it worked with no hassle, though, and it did this time; the nasal-voiced woman at Eldon didn’t question Tamara when she fed out her line: calling because it had come to the office’s attention that one of the company’s Fillmore Street tenants had failed to apply for a business license. Information, please, on the proprietor of Psychic Readings by Alisha.
Alisha Jones. Jamaican by birth, immigrated to the United States two years ago. Occupied the space, which also had a small apartment at the rear, for the past three months on a one-year lease. Paid first and last month’s rent in cash. Was anyone else’s name on the lease? No. Had Eldon checked Alisha Jones’s references or examined her green card? The woman hemmed and hawed and finally admitted that they “hadn’t found it necessary” to do either one. Did they have any other information on their tenant, such as a relative who might be living with her? Sorry, no, they didn’t.
The woman asked then if Eldon should take action against Ms. Jones for her noncompliance with the city’s business practice laws. Tamara said, “No, don’t say anything to Ms. Jones. We’ll contact her directly,” and managed not to bang the receiver down.
Running a search on Alisha Jones would be a waste of time. Too many Joneses in the world, even if by some miracle that was Mama’s real name. Instead Tamara called Marjorie, the agency’s contact at the DMV, gave her the BMW’s license plate number. Ten minutes later she had the name and address of the registered owner.
Which wasn’t anybody named Roland. Or even a man.
Viveca Adams Inman, 4719 North Point, San Francisco.
Viveca-Vi for short.
Married to Roland? Back on the Net to find out. And the answer was no.
Widow of Jason K. Inman, who’d made a pile of bucks in the marine salvage business and died four years ago of complications from gallbladder surgery, age fifty-five. No children. Her age now: forty-one. And judging from her address, she’d inherited a nice piece of city real estate close to the Marina Green and the yacht harbor.
She was also white.
So what was a black switch-hitter named Roland doing driving a Beamer registered in her name? Friend? Neighbor? Lover? How about chauffeur or trusty black gofer?
Tamara sifted through the Google hits on Viveca Inman. Most were mentions of her in connection with her husband; those since his death were mostly from Chronicle social columns. Arts patron, regular at social and charity events, hosted this or that dinner party. One brief mention of interest, a little over a year ago: with the aid of a “psychic consultation” she’d decided to authorize the writing and publication of a university press book about her husband and his salvage operations. So were Vi and Roland both into psychics? Could be Inman was a potential investor, too, and she was the one who needed “another reading” before making up her mind. Her charity work and dependance on psychics fit that explanation.
What didn’t fit anywhere yet was Roland.
Here and there in the columns men were mentioned-“Mrs. Inman was escorted by So-and-So,” like that-but Roland wasn’t one of them. Not his real name-an alias he used to hide his identity from new down-low club recruits? Could also be he kept a low profile for reasons of his own, or because of the racial difference. Or maybe he was a trusted employee after all, permitted to use the Beamer on his days off. Looks could be deceiving; Tamara knew that if anybody did. So could intelligent-sounding voices and nice clothes and a smooth line.
Next step? The obvious was to call up Viveca Inman on some pretext or other and ask about Roland straight out, but Tamara couldn’t think of one that didn’t sound contrived and the last thing she wanted was to arouse suspicion. One other possibility occurred to her: Joe DeFalco, Bill’s buddy who worked as a reporter and feature writer for the Chronicle.
She got DeFalco on the phone, told him briefly what she needed. Naturally he wanted to know why she was interested in Viveca Inman. The man was always looking for a story, something that would help him make a bigger name for himself. An old-fashioned muckraker, Bill called him, with a yen for a Pulitzer Prize that he’d never get.
Nothing juicy or newsworthy, she told him, just an insurance case the agency was working on that didn’t involve Inman directly. No lie there. He said, well, if it turned into anything important, she’d better let him know or he wouldn’t do any more favors for her or her partner. She said okay, and DeFalco said okay, he’d talk to the paper’s society editor and get back to her ASAP.
While she waited, Tamara ran the b.g. search Jake had asked for on the East Bay trucker, Bud Linkhauser. Easy job. She was just wrapping it up when DeFalco called back.
“I don’t have much for you,” he said. “Nobody named Roland in Inman’s life, at least not for public consumption. If there was, Isabel’d know it.”
“Men in her life, black or white?”
“Lots of men. Very popular lady. Money and good looks equal a long line of sniffers in the social set.”
“Yes, but does she date black men?”
“Isabel says no. Strictly white on white.”
“Black neighbors?”
“In the Marina within spitting distance of the yacht club? Don’t you wish.”
“What about African American employees?”
“Again, no,” DeFalco said. “And if your next question is, is she prejudiced against blacks, that’s another no. One of her charities is an adoption program for crack babies born in the ghettos.”
Score one for Viveca Inman. “But she is into psychics?”
“In a big way. Consults regularly, won’t make any major decisions without getting her cards read and fortune told.” He let loose a derisive snorting sound that resonated like a fart. “A load of crap, if you ask me. Psychics are in the same class with mediums, astrologers, gypsy fortune-tellers.”
“Lot of people believe in them.”
“A lot of people believe the government has our best interests at heart, too. One of these days I’m going to write an expose.”
“On psychics or the government?”
“Hell,” he said, “both.”
“Any particular psychic Inman sees?”
“Different ones, probably compares readings.”
