“No. I found out about the flat by accident two months ago-one of those odd coincidences. I’d parked right in front of the building and walked a few blocks to the DMV-naturally, their lot was full-to renew my driver’s license. When I got back to my car, Jen was coming down the steps, and I called out to her. She was so shocked at running into me that she couldn’t come up with an excuse for being there, so she invited me inside and explained.”
“And you believe her story?”
“I have no reason not to.”
“Well,” I said, standing, “I think we’d better go have a look at this flat.”
The block of Fell Street where Jennifer Aldin rented her flat was lined with tall, narrow Italianate Victorians, most of which were broken up into three units. Across from them the forested Panhandle was cloaked in mist, and in between traffic rushed by on the busy crosstown route.
Rae parked her new BMW sports car in front of the building and motioned at the second story. “That’s Jen’s, the one with the blinds drawn.”
I got out of the car and looked up at the bay window. Maybe it was some trick of the light, but even from this distance it looked as if the place were empty, perhaps abandoned. When Rae joined me on the sidewalk I asked, “Does she have garage space, or park on the street?”
“The day I ran into her, her car was out front. Both times when I was here today I drove around, but didn’t spot it.”
I studied the entrance, up a steep flight of steps from the street level. Three doors, each with an iron security gate across it. “Well, let’s ring the bell and see if she answers now.”
We climbed the steps. Rae indicated the door in the middle, and I pressed the buzzer. The bell rang above, a hollow sound. I pressed again, and again. No response.
I said, “I don’t suppose she keeps a spare key hidden out here.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s look.”
A large rubberized doormat covered much of the marble floor. I lifted it, peered underneath. Nothing. I then turned my attention to the big potted jade plants to either side, went over and tipped one. Nothing under it. I felt around in the pot, but came up with only fallen leaves and dirt.
“Check the other,” I said to Rae.
She tipped it. Beneath lay a key.
I picked it up and slid it into the gate’s lock and it turned. One chance in three, and we were in. I hesitated, debating the situation. Even though Jennifer was our client and her husband had asked us to locate her, we’d be committing criminal trespass.
Rae pushed my hand away from the key. “Jen gave me this spare so I could keep an eye on the place.”
“Oh yeah? And what if she’s hiding out in there and decides to contradict that statement-to the police?”
“She’s not there. I can feel it.” She turned the key and opened the gate. Unlocked the inner door and stepped inside.
Ahead of us a steep staircase rose to the second floor. Musty air came to my nostrils, smelling of old carpet and dry rot. I followed Rae, shutting the door, and we climbed to a long hallway that ran the length of the building. Off it were several closed doors and an archway that opened into the front room. Rae called out to Jennifer, but there was no reply.
I went through the archway, found a living room with a small gas fireplace and an armchair with stuffing leaking from tears in its maroon upholstery. Nothing else.
Rae said, “That chair must’ve been here when she rented the place; Jen would never own anything that shabby. The time I ran into her, she took me directly back to the kitchen and dining area at the rear, where she had a drawing board set up.”
I backed out of the room and went to the first door off the hallway. A bedroom, empty. The next led to a bathroom with a claw-footed tub and pedestal sink, the one after that to a smaller room containing only a toilet- standard arrangement in flats of this vintage and type. Another empty bedroom, and the hallway ended at the kitchen. It was old-fashioned, with outdated fixtures and high wooden cabinets whose top shelves even a tall person would need a ladder to reach. It looked as if a wall had been knocked out between it and the space where the drawing board sat. That, a stool, and a blue canvas chair were the room’s only furnishings.
I said, “Why would she rent a place this big, if she only planned to come here to work?”
Rae shrugged. “The building’s old and in poor repair; maybe the rent was cheap.”
“No rent’s cheap in San Francisco, and I doubt that would’ve been a consideration, anyway.”
“Well, she did say something about the light being good in this room.”
I moved around the kitchen, examining its few contents: a tumbler and a wineglass in the sink, a couple of plates in one cabinet, a few pieces of cutlery in a drawer, a corkscrew on the countertop. The stove was old, its oven encrusted. The fridge held nothing but a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a carton of milk with a two- week-old sell-by date. The remaining cabinets were empty of anything but mouse droppings.
Why had a woman of Jennifer Aldin’s means rented such a dismal, depressing flat? How could she possibly stand to spend time here? Why, if she needed a quiet place to work, hadn’t she rented a light-filled loft in SoMa? Or an attractive apartment in one of the city’s many new high-rise buildings?
Rae was standing at the drawing board. I went over, and she pointed to the large sheet of paper spread there. It was a charcoal drawing: arcs that formed a series of parabolas that flowed one into the other. In the large, central one was a woman’s face, and when I leaned closer I recognized it as identical to the newspaper photograph I had of Laurel Greenwood. And at each corner of the sheet, in smaller parabolas, were figures: two little girls and two men. The faces of the girls and one of the men were well drawn, but the other was a question mark.
Jennifer, Terry, and Roy. And another unidentified man.
Whatever her reasons for renting this particular flat, Jennifer didn’t come here to work on designs. She came to try to make sense out of what had happened to her mother.
“Jesus,” Rae said, “she’s worse off than any of us suspected.”
“Apparently. How long ago did she rent the flat?”
“She said six months, but now I’m wondering how truthful she was with me.”
“We’ll have to find out who owns the building, get the details.”
We were on our way back across town to the pier. Rae, always a fast driver, was working the gears as if she wanted to punish the little car for her friend’s possible betrayal.
“Take it easy,” I said. “You don’t want to get a speeding ticket because you suspect Jennifer wasn’t completely candid with you.”
She eased off on the accelerator. “I just don’t get it, Shar. Maybe she’s really gone crazy, like Mark keeps saying.”
“Maybe.” But my thoughts were taking another tack. “You know Mark pretty well, right?”
“Well enough. He and Ricky are close. Sometimes I tease him-Ricky-about how two such enormous egos can possibly fit on Mark’s little sailboat. Ricky says he has to leave his on the dock, otherwise they’d sink.”
“How did Mark and Jennifer meet?”
“Through a mutual friend, I think. Why?”
“I’m just wondering about the marriage. He’s a good bit older than her, and they really don’t seem to have much in common.”
“Well, I suppose there is an element of the trophy-wife syndrome there. Mark likes to show her off, and she
“Mark handles a lot of money. Is in a position where he needs to maintain the trust of his clients.”
“Yes. I’d say he handles billions. And is worth millions himself.”
“What about Jennifer? Is her business successful?”
“She does pretty well, charges big fees for her designs, but she’s not in Mark’s league.”
“So he wouldn’t stand to benefit financially if something happened to her.”
“Well, I suppose there might be a substantial life insurance policy on her, but it would be nothing compared to- What are you getting at, Shar?”
