There were two desks inside the Patterson Realty Company offices, each of them occupied when I walked in. The man was long and lean, forty or so, wearing a brown suit that didn’t fit him very well, owner of a gap-toothed smile and greedy eyes that locked onto yours and hung on as if they couldn’t bear to let go. The woman was a few years younger, with short hair dyed henna red, a thin red mouth, and too much makeup on her narrow face; her choice of clothing wasn’t too appealing, either, a pale green pantsuit and yellow blouse that clashed with her hair. Allan and Doris Patterson. First impression: real estate bottom-feeders. Just the kind you’d expect to find in the front row at a city-held tax auction.
They were glad-hand friendly until I told them who I was and that I was investigating the harassment of Margaret Abbott. No more smiles, then. Allan Patterson’s gaze quit hanging on to mine and never quite came back again. Off with the sheep’s clothing and out jumped the wolves with fangs bared.
“That Alvarez woman hired you, I suppose,” Patterson said with more than a little nastiness.
“My client’s name is privileged information.”
“Oh, sure. Privileged. Damn her, she’s out to get us.”
“Why would Helen Alvarez be out to get you?”
He said, “She’s an old busybody who ought to mind her own business,” as if that answered the question.
“The point is, Mrs. Abbott is being harassed and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it.”
“Well, my God,” Doris Patterson said, “why come to us about that? We don’t have anything to do with it.”
“We’re not vandals,” he added. “Do we look like vandals?”
Loaded question. I didn’t answer it.
His wife said, “What earthly good would it do us to subject the Abbott woman to petty vandalism? We’ve already lost her property, thanks to that bleeding-heart judge.”
“I’m not here to accuse you of anything,” I said. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“We don’t have anything to say to you. We don’t know anything; we don’t want to know anything.”
“And furthermore, you don’t give a damn.”
“You said that, I didn’t. Anyway, why should we?”
“Because an old woman in trouble deserves a little compassion?”
“Not that crazy old woman. Or her even crazier friend. Not after all we’ve been put through, all the legal fees they cost us.”
Patterson said, “If you or the Alvarez woman try to imply that we’re involved, or that we’re in any way exploiters of the chronologically gifted, we’ll sue for defamation of character. I mean that—we’ll sue.”
“Exploiters of the what?” I said.
“You heard me. The chronologically gifted.”
Christ, I thought. Old people hadn’t been old people—or elderly people—for some time, but I hadn’t realized they were no longer even senior citizens. Now they were the “chronologically gifted”—the most asinine example of newspeak I had yet encountered. The ungifted agency types who coined such euphemisms ought to be excessed, transitioned, outsourced, offered voluntary severance, or provided with immedate career-change opportunities. Or better yet, subjected to permanent chronological interruption.
So much for the Pattersons. A waste of time coming here; you couldn’t get them to admit to anything even remotely illegal or unethical, no matter what you said or did. All the interview had accomplished was to confirm Helen Alvarez’s low opinion of the pair. I’d be satisfied if it turned out they had something to do with the vandalism and scare tactics, but hell, where was their motive? Opportunistic assholes, yes; childishly vindictive tormenters, no. And unfortunately there is no law against being an asshole in today’s society. If there was, 10 percent of the population would be in jail and another 10 percent would be on the cusp.
Charley Doyle, Mrs. Abbott’s nephew, worked for a glass-service outfit in Daly City. I called to see if he was in, and he wasn’t: out on a job and not expected to return until late afternoon.
I spent the rest of the morning checking in with Helen Alvarez—no further incidents at the Abbott home—and then interviewing several of Mrs. Abbott’s neighbors. None of them had anything enlightening to tell me. A few had opinions, though, as to who was responsible for the vandalism; the Pattersons topped the list, followed by Everett Belasco’s “bums or street punks.”
I had no appetite, so I skipped lunch and drove downtown to the agency. Tamara had promised to do some background checking on the principals in the case and I thought there might be something in the data to give me a direction to move in. But she wasn’t there; Jake Runyon was holding down the fort. The background info wasn’t there, either. Usually she prints out Internet material, my computer skills being what they aren’t, and leaves the papers on my desk. No papers today. And no note of explanation.