“I don’t think so,” I said.
“You don’t think she’s mixed up in anything we could use?”
“I meant that it’s not an investigative course we’d care to pursue.”
“Why the hell not? You’re a detective, aren’t you?”
“With a selective list of services. Digging up dirt for use in divorce cases isn’t one of them.”
“So don’t dig it up. Couldn’t you just happen to stumble onto something somewhere? You know the kind of thing it would take—”
I was already on my feet. “End of conversation, Mr. Krochek. And end of our working arrangement.”
“Wait a minute. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … Look, I’m desperate here, you can see that. Grabbing at straws.”
“I understand and I sympathize, up to a point. You just passed that point. Good luck.”
“For God’s sake …”
I said, “You’ll get our final report in the mail,” and put my back to him and walked out.
JAKE RUNYON
He had a heavy caseload that week. The Krochek skip-trace, an employee background check for Benefield Industries, a suspicious wrongful death claim for Western Maritime and Life, and a domestic case that Tamara had taken on pro bono. That was the way he preferred it—the fuller the plate, the better. Weeks like this one, he could put in a fair amount of overtime as well as a full workday. He seldom asked for overtime pay, or even mentioned the extra hours; meals, gas and oil, and parking fees went onto the various expense accounts, that was all. Money wasn’t the reason he worked long and hard. It was the activity, the need for movement and business details to occupy his time and his mind. Downtime meant the cold, empty apartment on Ortega Street and old movies on TV that did little to keep him from thinking about Colleen and the two decades they’d had together, or feeling the bitter frustration of his estrangement from Joshua.
His life wouldn’t be quite so bad now if Joshua would understand that his mother’s poisonous vilification had been a product of alcoholism and revenge and had no basis in fact; unbend a little, make room for some forgiveness. But that wasn’t going to happen. For a time, while Runyon was investigating the gay-bashing of Joshua’s unfaithful lover, he’d thought that there was a chance of establishing cordial relations, if not a reconciliation, but Andrea’s brainwashing had been too complete. No contact in months now, his few phone calls unanswered; the one time he’d gone to Joshua’s apartment, the partner had refused to let him in. Hopeless. If it weren’t for the job, the support he’d gotten from Bill and Tamara, his move down here from Seattle would’ve been a total waste.
By Friday, when Tamara handed him the pro bono case, he had the rest of the load well in hand. A one o’clock interview in Hayward to finish up the employee background check was all for the afternoon; he said he’d be back in the city no later than four. So Tamara set up an appointment for him to meet with the new client, Rose Youngblood, at five at her home in Visitacion Valley.
It was a worried mother job: son or daughter gets into a hassle that can’t or won’t be taken to the police, so mom goes the private route. The agency seldom handled that kind unless the client was well-heeled, and then with reluctance, but recently they’d started taking on selected cases involving African-Americans, Latinos, and other minorities who needed investigative services but couldn’t afford them.
Tamara’s idea. Give a little something back to the community, now that the agency was solidly in the black. It was all right with Runyon. Clients were clients, corporate or individual, rich or poor.
Rose Youngblood was a black woman in her fifties, widowed and living alone in the home she’d bought with her husband thirty years ago. Employed in the admissions office at City College of San Francisco. Active in community service and church work. She hadn’t contacted the agency directly; she’d been referred by Tamara’s sister, Claudia, a lawyer who did some pro bono work of her own in the African-American community.
The problem was Rose Youngblood’s twenty-six-year-old son, Brian. Whatever trouble he was in evidently wasn’t the usual sort the twenty-something set got into these days. Stable young man with a well-paying job as a freelance computer consultant, she’d told Tamara; never gave her a moment’s worry until now. Raised as a God-fearing Christian, good head on his shoulders, worked hard, had a bright future—all the proud maternal platitudes. Except that recently somebody had assaulted him, for a reason he refused to talk about, and she was fearful that his life was in jeopardy.