Tamara asked, “Close women friends I can talk to?”
“Isabel says her best friend is Tricia Dupont. Another rich widow big into charity work.”
“Tricia Dupont. D-u-p-o-n-t?”
“Right. Lives in Sea Cliff. But if you want to talk to her today, you can reach her at the Senior Center at Aquatic Park. She does volunteer work with the senior literacy program one day a week and this is it.”
“Anybody else I can talk to?”
DeFalco gave her two other names, both women. Then he said, “Don’t forget, Tamara. If there’s anything worth a story in this case of yours, you let me know right away.”
“Count on it.”
He made the farting noise again and broke the connection.
Talking to Tricia Dupont in person was better than trying to pry information out of a stranger over the phone. A call to the Senior Center got Tamara a reluctant appointment for ten minutes of the woman’s time, but not until twelve forty-five. That gave her time to make another pass around the Western Addition neighborhood.
Still no light brown Buick LeSabre, with or without scrapes and dents.
The San Francisco Senior Center at Aquatic Park was in the old ship-shaped Maritime Museum at the western end of Fisherman’s Wharf. Nice location when the weather was good; lawn, beach, the long Municipal Pier that jutted out into the bay were right across a driveway and parking area behind the building. Not so nice today. The wind that came whipping in off the water was meat-locker cold, creating rippling whitecaps on the bay’s gray surface. Terrific. Tricia Dupont hadn’t wanted to meet inside the Center but outside on the stadium-like bleacher seats that stretched above the strip of sandy beach where the whack jobs who pleasure-swam in the frigid bay waters congregated. Freeze her ass off out there.
Mrs. Dupont was in her late forties, tucked and Botoxed, dark haired under a cloth cap and no doubt a lot warmer in an expensive lamb’s wool coat than Tamara was in her down jacket. First thing Mrs. Dupont said after they shook hands was, “You’re a private investigator, Ms. Corbin?” She sounded a little dubious. Not because I’m a black woman, Tamara thought wryly, because I’m a young black woman.
“That’s right.” She proved it by showing her creds.
“And the case you’re investigating involves Viveca Inman?”
“Not exactly. If she’s involved at all, it’s indirectly and without her knowledge.”
“I see,” Mrs. Dupont said, still dubious. “But why come to me? Why not talk to Mrs. Inman? Or have you done that already?”
“Not yet. I need more information first.”
“Which you believe she won’t give you. Is that it?”
“I’m trying to save her some grief, Mrs. Dupont. But I can’t do that without more evidence than I have right now.”
“I don’t understand. What kind of grief?”
“Do you know anything about a charity designed to help black families in need? One she’s thinking of investing in?”
“No, I… Oh, wait, yes. The O.S. Fund.”
“O.S.?”
“Operation Save. Vi was looking into it as a possible investment.”
“What can you tell me about this fund?”
“Not very much. She didn’t go into details. Is there something wrong with it? Is that what you’re investigating?”
“Partly. Roland the one who suggested she invest in it?”
“… Who?”
“Roland. Friend or acquaintance of Mrs. Inman’s.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“African American, heavyset, good-looking, about fifty.”
“Well, that might be anyone. Vi is very active in the black community.”
“She knows him well enough to let him use her car.”
“Her car? Which car?”
“Silver BMW. He was driving it last night.”
“Ah, the Beamer. She must have sold it then.”
“Sold it?”
“She just bought a new Ferrari. She also has a Mercedes-she doesn’t need three cars.”
Who does? Tamara thought.
“Alfred,” Mrs. Dupont said.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, of course, that’s who it must be. She mentioned he was interested in the Beamer.”
“Who would Alfred be?”
“Alfred Mantle. If he did buy the Beamer, he’s the man you’re looking for-he fits your description. I’ve never heard him called Roland, but I suppose that could be his middle name.”
“What’s his relationship with Mrs. Inman?”
“Professional. He’s one of the attorneys who handled her late husband’s business affairs.”
“For which firm?”
“Lynch, Fosberg, Snyder, and Lynch. But he’s no longer with them, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“He was appointed to the bench two years ago. He’s a Unified Family Court judge now.”
Tamara took that in. And pretty soon she was smiling, slow and sardonic.
“Is something amusing, Ms. Corbin?”
“No. Just thinking of something somebody told me.”
James, quoting Lucas: Said the other guys were professional people or businessmen, all married men and none of ’em judgmental. Then he laughed like something was funny. Said, well, except one man who was but wouldn’t be… Fuckin’ double-talk.
Uh-uh, not double-talk at all. Lucas’s idea of a clever joke.
He hadn’t meant “judgmental.”
He’d meant Judge Mantle.
W hen she got back to the agency, she ran a check on Operation Save. They had a Web site, but there was no other information on the fund-and she went in pretty deep on the search.
According to the Web site, Operation Save was a charitable investment fund designed to help black home owners get current on their mortgage payments in order to prevent foreclosure. There were a lot of testimonials from people in various cities in California and photographs of homes that’d been “saved,” plus offers of prospectuses and additional info. E-mail link, but no street address or telephone number. On the surface it all seemed straightforward and aboveboard-the soft-sell kind of charity that played on the “help your brothers and sisters in their time of need” theme. But if it was legitimate, why wasn’t there any more available information?
It smelled like a scam to her.
Anybody could set up a Web site loaded with photographs and testimonials and brotherhood BS. Smoke screen to help rope in the marks. It was just the kind of con a couple of no-conscience grifters would come up with. Nasty. Preying on African Americans with cash in the bank and a streak of altruism mixed in with their hunger for more. And the pretense of helping black folks who genuinely needed bailout money made it even worse. One of Ma’s friends in Redwood City had lost her house to bank foreclosure and so had an S.F. couple sister Claudia knew-African Americans who’d finally gotten a piece of the American Dream, thanks to relaxed credit standards, only to lose it again when the whole mortgage thing blew up and the economy went into the toilet.
But Lucas and Mama didn’t care about any of that. Hell, no. The proliferation of loan defaults by brothers and sisters was nothing more to that pair than the setup basis for a big con, the score of a lifetime.
Only it wasn’t going to happen.
