14

TAMARA

She’d been in better spirits come morning. The feelings of loneliness and isolation were night creatures that crawled away in the daylight and left her focused again on Lucas and Alisha.

The first thing she’d done was drive over to the Western Addition. Scouting mission this time. Figure Lucas 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.”

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.

No way would she let it happen.

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