she said. “I hardly need see you to the door. It’s not far. But I will.”
Nerys smiled. “Thanks.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Nerys opened the door. “For what it’s worth,” she said, pausing and resting her hand lightly on Annie’s arm, “I’ve heard good things about you, and I’ve seen you around County HQ a few times. I always rated you. I thought you were all right. I liked you from the start.” She leaned forward and quickly pecked Annie on the cheek, then glanced down shyly at the doormat.
Annie thought Nerys was looking at her legs, and she shifted awkwardly on her feet. Suddenly, she felt self- conscious that she was only wearing the black leggings and baggy white T-shirt she had put on for meditation and yoga. The T-shirt only came down as far as her hips, and she felt exposed. “Look, Nerys,” she said. “I’m flattered and all. I don’t know…you know…what ideas you’ve got about me or anything, what you might have heard, but I’m not…you know…”
“Oh, no. I know you’re not gay. It’s okay. Don’t worry. I wasn’t making a pass. Honest. Anyway, you’re not really my type. I just said I think you’re all right, that’s all.”
“Appearances can be deceptive.”
“I take my chances where I find them.”
When she had gone, Annie closed the door and leaned back against it. Not my type. What had Nerys meant by that? Should she feel insulted? What was wrong with her? Was it even true? Nerys’s actions had seemed to belie her words; she had definitely been flirting at times.
Annie was also struck by the troublesome thought that if Nerys Powell, Warburton and the rest of the AFO team were going to be sacrificed on the bloody altar of public opinion, then the detectives who were supposed to have briefed them thoroughly would be lucky if they got to walk away. The walking stick. The dicky heart. Should Annie or Gervaise somehow have been able to find out about those and warn the team that went in? And whether they could have or not, would they be expected to have done so? Because that was ultimately all that mattered: what Chambers and public opinion thought they should have done, not what had actually happened, or why. These were not comforting thoughts.
Annie locked the door, opened another bottle of wine and settled down to a nature documentary about elephants on BBC2.
BANKS OFFERED to pay the bill, but Teresa would have none of it.
“My country, my treat,” she said.
In the end there was nothing he could do but capitulate. They had enjoyed a marvelous dinner at an intimate Italian restaurant she had chosen in North Beach, and the last thing he wanted to do now was spoil the mood with an argument over the bill. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a great choice. Wonderful.”
“Somehow, I think the company helps, don’t you,” she said, giving the maitre d’ a quick smile as he discreetly whisked away the tray.
Banks shared the last of the wine between them and set the bottle down on the red tablecloth. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it certainly does.”
“What’s wrong?” Teresa said. “You suddenly sound sad.”
“Do I?” Banks shrugged. “Maybe because it’s my last night here.”
“You mustn’t think that way.”
“I mustn’t?”
“No, of course not.” The waiter returned with the credit card receipt. Teresa added a tip and signed it with a flourish. Then she picked up her purse. “Let me just visit the powder room,” she said, “then I want to show you something.”
Banks nodded. While she was away, he sipped his wine and glanced at the slightly garish commercial painting of Lake Como on the wall opposite him. Annie wouldn’t like it, he thought, finding it odd that he should suddenly think of Annie when she was thousands of miles away. Maybe it was time to go home. But he was certainly enjoying his evening with Teresa. She was recently divorced, she had told him over dinner, with grown-up kids and grandchildren, and she worked as a child psychologist back in Boston. This trip was a present to herself on her decree absolute coming through, and an excuse to visit her family. She was also, she told him, thinking of moving permanently to California and had been making a few exploratory calls regarding jobs and accommodation.
The little restaurant bar was to the right of Banks, and he could see out of the corner of his eye the rows of bottles gleaming. Should he suggest a Cognac? Perhaps it would be best to wait until they got to the hotel bar. After all, Teresa had already paid the bill here. And there was something she wanted to show him.
Teresa took his arm as they walked out on the quiet side street and made their way toward Columbus, busy and brightly lit, past the Condor on the intersection with Broadway. Instead of taking Grant, with its arches, pagodas, restaurants and cheap souvenir chops, they walked down Stockton, a street of small grocery stores with piles of exotic vegetables and dried goods out front. Even at ten o’clock it was still crowded with shoppers haggling over their purchases and testing the quality, spilling from the sidewalk onto the road. Banks remembered his old sergeant in London, Ozzy Albright, telling him that San Francisco had the biggest Chinatown outside of China itself. They had been in the London Chinatown at the time, much smaller, during his last case down there in 1985. It was a case that had come back to haunt him just before he came away, as such things often did, which was why he thought of it now. You might have to wait a lifetime for justice, but sometimes you got it in the end. Like karma.
Teresa was chatting away at his side, and Banks realized he hadn’t been listening, had been drifting into times past. “Where did you say we were going?” he asked.
She gave him a sharp glance. “I didn’t,” she said. “It’s a surprise. I told you.”
“Right.”
Soon they left the crowds behind. There were fewer shops and the street became darker. “This is the Stockton Tunnel we’re walking on,” Teresa said. “And what we want is…” She looked around her, as if verifying something with her memory. “Over here.” She pointed to a small alley over to their right atop the tunnel off Bush Street, running parallel to Stockton. It was called Burritt Street, Banks noticed as they approached. “Sorry,” Teresa said. “It’s been a long time.”
“What is it?” Banks asked. “Are you leading me down a dark alley?”
Teresa laughed. “Not very far down,” she said. “It’s here. Look.”
And she pointed to a plaque on the wall. Banks could just about read it from the ambient streetlight. ON APPROXIMATELY THIS SPOT MILES ARCHER, PARTNER OF SAM SPADE, WAS DONE IN BY BRIGID O’SHAUGHNESSY.
Banks stopped and stared. So this was the place where it happened. He turned to face Teresa and grinned.
“Well, you did say you were a detective,” she said. “I just thought you might find it interesting.”
“I do. I’ve just started reading the book, too. I’d never realized…
I mean, I know the story isn’t true, but the city is so vivid in the book, almost a character in its own right. I never thought I’d…I’m stuck for words.” He read the plaque again. “But it gives away the ending.”
“Yes, it does, rather, doesn’t it? But is that so important?”
“I’ve never thought so,” said Banks. “Besides, I’ve already seen the movie, and so far the book is following pretty closely.”
“I think you’ll find it was the other way around. Here,” Teresa said, fumbling in her purse. “Stand right next to it. I’m going to take your picture.”
Banks stood. First came the flickering of the anti-red-eye, then the flash itself. While Banks was still blinded by the light, a voice came from the end of the alley.
“Would you like me to take one of the two of you together?”
By the time Banks could see again, Teresa had handed her camera to the man, whose wife, or girlfriend, stood looking on, smiling, and she took her place next to Banks, resting her head on his shoulder by the plaque. The camera flashed again. The man checked the display to see that it had come out all right and handed the camera back to Teresa, who thanked him.
“How did you know he wouldn’t just run off with your camera?” Banks asked as they went down the steps beside the tunnel.
