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 exposé.”
“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.