Chapter 10

Walker and Pilar are a fixture around town, a constant couple. And a fixture in the Wrigley as well. They both solemnly do the bidding of the Grand Duchess, Anastasia Nikolaevna, one of two permanent hotel residents.

Anastasia and Wally Maypole had checked in a few years ago and simply never left. They pay a few bucks from time to time out of some dimly remembered sense of obligation.

The Duchess regards the hotel staff, plus Walker and Pilar, as lieges put on earth to do her bidding. The kids enjoy her imperious style and keep a straight face as they deliver, say, a fresh almond croissant from the local bakery.

‘Liege’ is one of those funny words, isn’t it? It means its own opposite. Like ‘cleft’ and ‘oversight’ and ‘left’. The term is ... an auto-something. Or anti-something. Well, look it up if you’re curious, I can’t do everything for you.

Back home, Vanessa turned to Pilar, “How much porn is he watching these days?”

I checked my son out, not even pink. Good.

Pilar, thoughtful as usual, said, “Not that much. I have him watching some bi stuff.”

“Boys as well as girls?”

“Of course.”

“Good girl.”

Ivan Sokolov had changed clothes. But if I weren’t the kind of detective who notices stuff like that, I wouldn’t have been aware of the sartorial switch. November Man still looked as drab as ever.

My plan, brilliant in its simplicity, was to liquor him up and get him to blab. Confess, if I’m lucky.

One hour and three drinks later -- mojitos, not vodka for him, red wine for me -- I had made scant progress. Zero would describe it pretty well.

Since hearty, then sexy, had accomplished nothing, I tried on grave and judicious. A slightly better fit, but still prêt-à-porter, I’m afraid. We migrated from the bar to the restaurant and Sokolov switched to beer. Excused himself twice to redistribute the beer.

Nothing ventured and all that, I flat out asked him, “Any of those rumors true? The God Pill? Experimenting on humans?

“Fuck no, you nuts?”

Matt Whitney, Lina Paloma’s new husband was working with an immigration attorney in Bogotá, Colombia. Not on citizenship problems, Lina and Pilar are wired in, thanks to Bulldog.

No, Matt is working long distance to try to sort out the ownership issues on Lina’s former home in Hondo. The mortgage is paid off, but no taxes have been paid since Lina and Paloma made that long trek to the US.

The goal is to clear up the finances, reconstruct the paperwork, and put the house up for sale. Lina has no intention of ever returning to Colombia, but the house, even vandalized, should be worth something.

Franklin O’Leary, the failed Jesuit running the St. Jeremy shelter on Sacramento Street, tried to hide his surprise when Daddy flashed his FBI tin. I caught a flicker of ... something. And if I did, retired Homicide Captain Dave Jennings certainly did.

“What’s this about? We’re just a little shelter. Hanging on as best we can.”

Our financial adviser, Gertie Oppenheimer, had explained what advantages a 501© (3) operation like St. Jeremy had. “No federal income tax liability, that’s the main thing. Once the fucking IRS, those cocksuckers, approves it. Plus donors get a tax write-off.”

“What looks odd about St. Jeremy?”

Gertie and I were, courtesy of the Sullivan twins, leafing through the shelter’s shoddy financials.

“Nothing, Winter. Standard stuff. They don’t have an aggressive outreach program, nothing heavy in development.”

“Development?”

“Soliciting donations.”

“Oh. Is there any way to see who is claiming deductions? For giving money to St. Jeremy?”

“Not from this bumf. You would have to look at individual tax returns.”

“Can you tell which donations were in cash? As opposed to checks?”

“Not really. Why?”

I sighed. Such a slender thread. “Because a Mormon is tithing to a Catholic charity.”

Gertie didn’t denigrate Daddy’s reasoning. “That is odd. Is he observant, or a Jack Mormon?”

“I’ve never seen him go to church. Or temple.” One of the observations I hadn’t known I’d known until just now.

Daddy answered O’Leary, “Routine, your shelter may be of peripheral interest to a larger investigation. Unlikely, but my boss is a stickler.”

I held my smile. I guess, in this one instance, I am Daddy’s boss. In a way. I mean, it is my case.

We were in San Francisco talking with O’Leary because I wanted Daddy’s take on the quiet man working in relative obscurity. Just like my friend, Sister Mary Packer had done back home.

Plus, I was now refocused on the nexus between O’Leary and Dickie Axelrod. The Sullivan’s combed through Axelrod’s 1040 forms for the last five years and found no charitable deductions. Yet O’Leary had told me that Axelrod was donating $2,000 a month to the shelter.

As Felicity drove us back to the airport, Daddy said, “Something’s off.”

Good. Maybe some actual progress.

We got out of the car and I hugged him goodbye. He said, ‘You might want to stake out the shelter. See who else shows up.”

I thought the exact same thing. Just seconds after he said it. Fuck.

When I was maybe 7 or 8, Bulldog Bannerman came to my parents’ home on Meyer Boulevard for dinner. The men didn’t shoo me away when they went out on the patio for cigars. I followed them, I followed Daddy everywhere.

Bulldog, Marine veteran, told Daddy, Army veteran, “War isn’t dying for your country. Make the other fucking guy die for his.”

A lot of people believe the quote is roughly attributable to General Patton, although the origin is actually decades earlier.

Funny the things we remember.

St. Jeremy is on a stretch of Sacramento Street that’s fairly upscale. Hard these days to find parts of the city that aren’t as gentrification continues its relentless march.

But the Catholic Church owns the entire north side of this block. Probably holding out for a better offer. For now anyway, the shelter, an elementary school and a small church are hanging on. I doubt the shelter would be allowed that close to the school, if they didn’t share the same owner.

The other side of Sacramento is residential but also includes a coffee shop, a fern bar left over from the 70s, and a sushi bar. So I should be able to observe the shelter comings and goings fairly unobtrusively.

St. Jeremy rouses its young residents and serves them breakfast at 7. Dinner is at 7 in the evening and the doors are locked at 9. There is a small parking area, maybe 10 cars. Franklin O’Leary drives an old Dodge -- it’s rusty and smokes and rattles.

Over the weeks of on-again, off-again snooping, I became familiar, more than I wanted to, with the staff -- two cooks, four housekeepers. Den mothers probably. A janitor / handyman / security guy.

The priest, Father Rattigan, was a regular coffee visitor at the shelter around 10 in the morning.

O’Leary signed for deliveries, food mostly. I was transported back to my Excella days. Except St. Jeremy did its own laundry.

Many cops find stakeouts boring, I don’t, not usually. And this one was fairly easy. I had different venues to observe from. No one to tail, I simply took a photo of everyone and every vehicle. The work was low key enough that I could attend to other matters, business and personal, while I watched and waited.

I wish I hadn’t looked up, relentless sleuth that I am, who St. Jeremy had been. Tortured and beheaded, that’s our Jerry. Accused of being a Christian. Oh well, reading history was better than looking at pictures of naked mole-rats.

I’m so happy to be married to Vanessa. Delighted. But even so, I have to admit that in bed I still find male engineering more interesting.

I alternated staking out the shelter with following Dickie Axelrod. Either he was hiding something by not declaring his St. Jeremy donations or O’Leary was lying about them. Something was off.

Plus, I had nothing better to do.

I would have followed Franklin O’Leary except he rarely left the shelter. Slept there seven nights a week.

Axelrod lived in San Mateo so his commute to Nelson-Eamons in Fremont had been under 30 miles. Around the same up to the San Francisco shelter. His apartment complex was similar to Bunny Carville’s. That is, it was newish. So the construction materials weren’t shoddy. Up to earthquake standards.

Axelrod lived alone. Had driven to work alone. Presumably drove to the shelter to make his monthly tithe alone.

But that was one more thing I didn’t know. And the didn’t-know list was far more impressive than the other one.

Like my sister Autumn, my boobs started coming in early -- I was 10. And inordinately pleased. From her 12 years of wisdom, Autumn told me, “Boys will pull your bra strap.”

“So?”

“Older boys will start brushing against your chest.”

“Oh.” Upon solemn consideration, I decided I wouldn’t mind that.

A few months later I walked by four middle school boys. I heard one of them whisper, “Tits Jennings.” I hid my smile.

Back and forth, Kansas City to San Francisco, forth and back. I now keep a set of clothes in storage at the Four Seasons. Along with my dear friend, Le Wand.

I was nibbling sushi at the counter of the joint on Sacramento Street when my cell vibrated. I picked it up, not worrying about offending the sushi chef. Unlike many of them, he wasn’t a prima donna. In fact, he had iBuds tucked into his ears as he wrapped. Dude put out good rice though. Excellent.

It was Jessie Sullivan texting me. One of the license plates I’d sent her from the shelter is registered to another Nelson employee. Ernesto Rodriguez, originally from Del Rio, Texas.

I read through the report. Not a Mormon, so that’s one half-baked theory for me to cross off. He’d been raised in a Pentecostal home. Speaking in tongues, exorcism, prophecy, healing, the usual. Maybe snakes.

Rodriguez, 27, made $151,000 a year. Less than Axelrod, but not too bad. No charitable contributions on his tax returns either.