age, barely old enough to drink. She and her husband and kids had been to a couple of case celebration parties at Hunt’s warehouse/home, and as far as she was concerned, Hunt was okay. She agreed that the reward idea was at best stupid and at worst distracting, but she pointed out that it was no more stupid or distracting than half of the political things that San Francisco’s Police Department had to put up with every day. She was willing to go with the flow.
Down on the Embarcadero, the morning cloud cover had lifted and mostly dissipated. Now a gauzy sunlight bathed the outdoor tables as Sarah was gearing up on her summation. “So we’ve got nothing on his activities after five forty- five last Tuesday. The wife, Ellen, didn’t even call to say she was worried about him and hadn’t seen him until almost seven o’clock on Wednesday night…”
“Apparently,” Juhle put in, “he frequently stayed out late at some fund-raiser or another, got home after she was asleep, and was up and out the next morning before she got up.”
“Didn’t sleep in her bed? Or in their bed?” Hunt asked.
“Evidently not,” Russo said. “Or not that she noticed.”
“America’s fun couple,” Hunt said. “So where was she Tuesday night, then? The wife?”
Russo didn’t have to consult her notes. “She walked up to Chestnut and went to a movie, The Reader. It checks. At least, that’s what was playing there that night. Still is, for that matter.”
“She went alone?”
She nodded. “That’s what she says. Got home around nine-thirty, read for a while, went to sleep around eleven.”
The waitress arrived with their food. All of them were having the Cuban pork sandwiches and iced tea and the young woman put the plates down, saying, “And today’s award for most original order goes to.. .”
Everybody got a little chuckle out of that.
And then the waitress was gone and Hunt took a bite of his sandwich and said, “But nobody saw him on Wednesday all day, right? He didn’t come into work?”
“Right,” Juhle said.
“So it was Tuesday night?”
“That’s close enough,” Russo said. “ME says he can’t be sure, but it’s not a stretch to say he didn’t come home Tuesday night because he was already dead.”
“How about his phone?” Hunt asked. “Who’d he talk to?”
“Lots of people,” Juhle said. “And I mean like forty different numbers in or out the last day. All of whom we’ve called, by the way, and most of whom we’ve reached. But the last completed call in or out was at nine-forty. After that, it all went to voice mail. And the cell site information says he’s where his driver said he left him.”
Russo held up a much-scribbled-upon computer printout for Hunt’s edification.
Juhle stopped his chewing. “Police work.”
“And a darned fine job of it too,” Hunt said. “And what did all these good cell-phone-talking citizens have to say?”
“Everybody so far,” Russo said, “has had a completely plausible reason to have talked to him, and about half of those are verified by Como’s calendar anyway. No ancient acquaintances that we’ve come across.”
“Maybe it wasn’t true, what he told his driver.”
“Maybe that,” Russo conceded. “Or maybe the driver-Al Carter-didn’t tell us the truth about what Como told him.”
Hunt put his sandwich down, looked across at Russo. “Any sign of that?”
She shook her head. “Not really, no. Carter got the limo back to Sunset’s headquarters, where they keep it parked, at six-thirty, when it was still light out. Three witnesses there agree with that timetable. And there’s no motive for him anyway. Carter’s loyal as a dog. He’s been driving Como around for something like eight years.”
“But wait,” Juhle suddenly said. “Let’s back up to the first thing Wyatt asked about that. Maybe what Como told this guy Carter wasn’t true. Maybe he wasn’t meeting an old friend after all.”
“Devin likes the idea of a woman being involved,” Russo said.
“Who’s that?” Hunt asked, all innocence.
“Young girl,” Juhle said. “Really, really beautiful young girl, I think even Sarah will agree…”
Russo nodded. “Even Sarah admits she’s very pretty.”
“In fact”-Juhle leaned halfway across the table to Hunt-“she is so incredibly beautiful she’ll make your teeth bleed. Alicia Thorpe. Twenty-five or so, volunteering at Sunset-”
“-and Como was having an affair with her?”
“That’s the problem.” Juhle shook his head sadly. “If he was, they both were damned discreet.”
“And so,” Hunt asked, “how would she be involved then, exactly?”
Russo let herself chuckle. “Probably not, is your answer. And Devin’s answer after we talked to her. And mine, too, while we’re at it. And Dev so badly wants an excuse to go look at her again. I told him if he kept it up I’d have to tell Connie.”
“Hell,” Juhle said, “I’ve already told Connie. Now she wants to see her too. I’m thinking of taking Connie out to Morton’s and spending a million dollars just so we can both look at her.”
“Morton’s?” Hunt asked.
“She’s the hostess there,” Russo told him.
Hunt looked over at Juhle. “Is she there Tuesday nights?”
Juhle pointed back at him. “Not the last one. She could have been anywhere.”
“Did you ask her?”
Juhle threw him a withering gaze. “Oh, I must have forgot. What a good idea.” Then, “Of course I asked her, Wyatt. She, like Mrs. Como, was home alone watching television. Except if she really was out with Como.”
“But alas,” Russo said, “we have nothing like any evidence on her.”
Hunt’s cell phone went off and he brought it to his ear and had a short conversation. When he closed it, he said, “Well, I’m glad you took this opportunity to get me caught up on all the excellent police work and progress you’ve made so far. That was Tamara from my office and it looks like we’re going to be in business together for a while.”
Jaime Sanchez came up from the Mission Street Coalition offices to downtown to have lunch with Len Turner at the Olympic Club, a venue in the grand tradition of old San Francisco. The spacious, high-ceilinged dining room conveyed a tone of gentility and leisure. Here all voices were well-modulated, controlled; there was no unseemly hurry or vulgar clothing on display. Almost all of the male diners today-and today, as every day, they were mostly male-wore conservative dark business suits and ties. One could order, of course, nearly anything from the waitstaff, but the buffet was so staggeringly laden with all manner of foodstuffs-from cold cuts to chicken three ways; from smoked salmon to poached and sauteed fish; pastas and potatoes and a carving station with leg of lamb, prime rib, and fresh ham-that most guests availed themselves of that opportunity.
Sanchez wore his own personal uniform-unpolished brogues, a pair of well-worn khakis, a blue blazer with some years on it, and a light orange shirt with matching woolen tie. He enjoyed flouting this bastion of privilege with his inadequate attire. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and his relatively short physical stature, along with the general swarthiness of his complexion, didn’t make for much of a presentation, either, at least in this crowd.
To hell with ’em, he thought. He knew he was here because of what he represented.
His partner, Len, on the other hand, couldn’t have looked more natural here, and couldn’t have fit in more easily. Sanchez thought that he had probably come here as a child, on his father’s knee. He knew not just the greeter and the waiters by first name but the bussers behind the buffet.
Well, he told himself, this was why Len was so valuable to have as a partner. The man was not only a skilled negotiator (and lawyer), but he cultivated an ease that inspired confidence, the sense that everything was as it should be, and under control. Even in rarefied settings such as this one, Len was always at home. Tall, aristocratic, fit, and tanned. Could it all be just genes? That, to Sanchez, was a scary thought.
Now they were returning from the buffet. In contrast to Sanchez’s overheaping plate of fettuccine, green beans, French fries, Caesar salad, and prime rib, Turner’s plate held a small bit of petrale in lemon-caper sauce, a few slices of scalloped potatoes, and three spears of asparagus.
As they sat down, two of them at their four- person, white-tablecloth table, Sanchez forced a laugh. “I’ve got
