Stewart finally came hurrying from the direction of 3rd Street. “Sorry it took me so long,” he said. “Couldn’t find a parking place.”
She made herself say, “No problem.”
“Cold out here. How about we go up to your office?”
“Not necessary. This won’t take long. The tape?”
“You want the recorder, too?”
“Just the tape, unless it won’t play in a Sony digital.”
“It’ll play. Sony’s what I’ve got.” He brought the recorder out of his coat pocket, removed and handed her the tape. “I played a little of it back,” he said. “The lounge was noisy, but you can hear most of what we said pretty clearly.”
“When did Roland and Hawkins talk about the deal they’re in with Zeller? What point on the tape?”
“Toward the end. As we were getting ready to leave. I picked up the check, by the way. Figured I should.”
“Put it on the expense account.”
“I will,” he said. “I take it you want me to go to the club meeting in SoMa Saturday night?”
“Probably, if you can keep from having sex with one of them.”
He laughed. “Cost you extra if I can’t.”
Tamara just looked at him.
“Okay, not funny. Sorry. Don’t worry; I can handle it.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she said. “What’s the SoMa address?”
“One-eight-seven-seven-nine Harrison. Top-floor loft, Unit Six. You figure on being there?”
“I don’t know yet. See what happens between now and Saturday.”
“If you do want me to go and Zeller shows, I could find a way to slip out and give you a quick call, let you know. And then see what I can find out about him—where he lives, what he’s doing for his bread.”
“And get him talking about his mother, if you can.”
“His mother? Why?”
Tamara stonewalled the question.
Stewart shrugged and said, “Okay. What’s her name?”
“Alisha. But you’re not supposed to know that.”
“Anything else?”
“If there’s any relationship between him and Roland, aside from the club thing.”
Stewart nodded. “You want the whole evening recorded, all the sports rap?”
“No need. Just anything that’s relevant to Zeller, his mother, Roland.”
“You got it.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, said, “Be seeing you,” and went away toward 3rd at a fast walk.
Tamara crossed the street, unlocked the front door to the building, and climbed the stairs to the agency offices. Stewart had been thoroughly professional tonight, except for that one wisecrack; hadn’t come on to her at all. Good. Fine. And yet, in spite of herself, she couldn’t help feeling a vague disappointment. The man was a hound and the only women hounds didn’t bother to hit on were the ones nobody wanted, the skanks and woofers. A tacit rejection to make her feel unattractive and undesirable . . .
Pathetic.
Don’t start trippin’ on yourself, girl!
In her office, the first thing she did was to boot up her Mac and check on Psychic Readings by Alisha. There was a listing in the current city directory; Tamara made a note of the phone number. No Web site, no other Net reference. City treasurer and tax collector’s office next. No Business Registration Certificate. And no application for a New Business Permit on file.
So Mama hadn’t been operating here for long. Three months max, that was about as long as you could get away without applying for a business license in San Francisco before you got caught. One more strike against Alisha. One more reason to believe she was into a bigger scam than phony psychic readings.
Tamara ran the Fillmore Street address to find out who owned the building. Eldon Management Company. Thomas Eldon, president. Address on Sutter Street downtown. Eldon Management owned three contiguous buildings on that block of Fillmore, in fact, but none of the tenants’ names was listed. Tomorrow she’d try to pry Alisha’s last name out of Thomas Eldon or one of his representatives, and at that it probably wouldn’t be her real name. Good bet that she’d paid her deposit and rent in cash and that the management company, like a lot of them, wasn’t too scrupulous about making background checks.
Something else that would have to wait until the morning: finding out who Roland was. State law forbid licensed detective agencies from running direct DMV license searches to get the names and addresses of registered car owners. She had a contact in the bureau who’d do it for her, but only during business hours.
Time for Stewart’s tape. She plugged it into her Sony digital, fast-forwarded to near the end, ran it back and forth until she found the exchange he’d told her about. Lots of background noise, as Stewart had said, but with the volume turned all the way up the men’s voices were clear enough—Roland’s was a deep baritone—and you could understand all but a few words here and there.