Chapter 9

“You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain,
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you?
Don’t you?”

One sunny Saturday morning, out of the blue, Vanessa reached across the kitchen table, took my hands, and recited her rendition of Mr. W. H.

“You’re my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I know that love will last, we’re forever strong.”

Walker beamed with pleasure. Pilar looked solemnly on, taking it in.

I opened a bottle of Four Seasons red. Courtesy of Bobsy.

I like to drink, but I’m not hooked on booze. I like the taste though. And the effect. Unlike many, I mix grape and grain without worry. But there’s something about that first drink of the evening. The best.

As I take that first sip, I remember that Bernie DeVoto quote, “The rat stops gnawing in the wood, the dungeon walls withdraw, the weight is lifted, your pulse steadies and the sun has found your heart, the day was not bad, the season has not been bad, there is sense and even promise in going on.”

Well, I don’t remember it exactly. I have to look it up.

“All the Federales say They could have had him any day They only let him slip away Out of kindness, I suppose”

Felicity Adams drives me up to San Francisco. I’m getting to like her, she shows up on time and doesn’t ask stupid questions. Like why am I having her follow Nelson employees. And she doesn’t shirk, will work as many hours straight as I need her to.

Plus, she likes Walker. Flirts with him when he visits. In general, I like people who like my son. Nevertheless, I’d had the Sullivans background her. Before I trusted the Uber driver to become my accomplice in tailing the Nelson workers.

Felicity is in her 30s, close enough to 40. Pretty, in a demure way. Medium height, medium weight, brunette. Good smile.

She drops me off in the Financial District, time for some old fashioned B & E at chez Emmonds.

The elevator drops me where it’s told to on Four and I walk to Josh’s door just like I belonged there. It took me almost three and a half minutes to finesse his lock, I time myself. Just a habit.

I know he’s out, Felicity and I watched him leave. But I make a quick tour anyway, just to be sure there are no overnighters still lurking.

Nope.

She’ll call me if he returns.

The living room is still messy, ditto the bedroom. Didn’t make his bed, Josh. Of course I’m now above such pedestrian chores, have my own housekeeping staff in Palo Alto, doncha know?

I head straight for the file cabinet, it takes under a minute to pick the lock on the vertical bar securing the four drawers. I start with the bottom one, odds are that’s where anything valuable will reside.

I’m wearing disposable gloves, probably an over-caution on my part.

There’s only one folder, marked MONEY. I flip through it, nothing I didn’t already know thanks to the Sullivan incursions.

The contents of the other three drawers are even less interesting. Josh’s passport, one trip to Europe, a vacation that I already knew about. Bills, he was mostly up to date. Rent receipts.

Fuck.

I spend another 20 minutes looking for hidden stuff. Nada. I don’t bother with his laptop and iPad. Been there, done...

Double fuck.

I tidy up and re-lock and get ready to call Felicity.

“Hey, who are you? Does Josh know you’re here?”

Triple fuck.

I turn casually around. She’s around 50, blowzy, suspicious. And nosy.

“I dropped off the Portman file. Josh gave me his key.”

“Yeah?” Giving me stink eye. Bitch.

“Yeah.”

When I first read the acronym, SENS, I deciphered it immediately. Strategies for Engineered Negligible Senescence. Well, maybe not immediately.

Senescence, I vaguely remembered. Or Google did. Something to do with those pesky cells that stop dividing. Also, with aging, the word ‘deterioration’ comes to mind.

Bunny was translating from BobsySpeak, “Mr. de Gray believes aging isn’t inevitable.”

Bobsy, “It fucking isn’t.”

“If we...”

“When we.”

“When we eliminate inflammation, good things start to happen. Inflammation is a nasty fucker -- arthritis, heart disease, dementia, cancer.”

Bobsy spoke Science Tongue for awhile.

Bunny, “Cells stop dividing after 40 years or so. They accumulate inside us, secrete proteins which cause inflammation...”

Bobsy.

Bunny, “When cells are dividing, they’re vulnerable to mutations. So evolution stops the division process after 40 years or so. Senescent cells. They’re like a tumor-suppressing mechanism.”

I licked my lips, thinking about tequila. Just a quart or so.

“If -- when -- we find a way to eliminate those senescent cells, we could maybe eliminate the aging process.”

Bobsy. Then Bunny, “Think of a body like a car. The warranty runs out, but they can still replace parts.”

Bobsy, “For fucking ever.”

I said, speaking for the first time in a long time, “The effects of getting rid of those ... um, cells? On humans?”

No answer from the usually garrulous Bobsy. His eyes flicked sideways. I didn’t ask him where the replacement parts would come from.

Getting paid $1,500 a day has its benefits. Besides getting paid $1,500 a day.

Commerce Bank sent me a friendly letter. Raising my line of credit with its ‘take the cash anytime’ offer. Bumped up the limit on my one credit card from $6,200 to $9,000.

Euforia was doing well enough that Vanessa started paying herself. Just $500 a week, but it felt like she’d turned the corner, restaurant-wise.

Also on the home front, the kids lobbied Vanessa and me for a dog. Puppy, really.

She and I discussed it, briefly. We were in accord -- Walker and Pilar would be responsible trustees.

The search began. Walker was adamant, “No puppy mills.” Agreed. Vanessa and I drove them around to shelters, rescue operations, owners who had changed their minds.

The winner was a lucky little guy. Plump, all paws and ears and soulful eyes. A Border Collie. Smart little guy too. Playful. And hungry for affection. Borders need a lot of attention, but that’s what they make kids for.

Hobo had an accident now and then. After time, you could tell it bothered him, he was embarrassed. He soon learned to stand by the front door and wag when it was time.

Hobo slept with the kids. Vanessa and I didn’t inquire as to the Sex Life Effect. Their business.

There’s a saying that I believe in. It goes something like, “If you want to know what happened, read history. If you want to know how it affected people look at art.”

Felicity and I are at the Museum of Modern Art, San Francisco version, and looking at the Fischer Collection on the fifth floor. Abstract art, mostly from the 60s, with Judd, Warhol, Lichtenstein, and crew. The pop art looked at, and reflected, the social and political changes that were sweeping through the country at the time.

This was in contrast to the subjective nature of abstract art of the previous decade.

I know this, because that’s what the brochure tells me.

Mainly we’re killing time, waiting to drive down to SFO to pick Daddy up.

Being a little out my league in San Francisco, well feeling that way anyway, I casually drop the one art quote I know that’s attributed to B. Brecht, “Art is not a mirror held up to society, but a hammer with which to shape it.”

Felicity looked at me.

“I never flew First Class before Bobsy.” Daddy was smiling, happy. Which made me smile, happy.

He looked good, more color these days. Wearing his navy blazer over a blue button down. Looked more like a retired businessman than a retired cop. Except for his thick black brogues. Street-comfortable. Arch supports for standing hours at a time.

Felicity was driving us to Anderson Mothwitz to make an unannounced call on Ms. Anderson. Daughter of one of the two co-founders. Because I’m a trained investigator, I figured out the second co-founder’s name began with M.

I knew she was in town, I’d called to verify that little nugget before retired Homicide Captain Dave Jennings headed to the airport. Which was about a 200 mile drive north of KC.

The AM building looked like it could be in any business park in any city in the country. One level with parking around back. A discrete sign that didn’t say they moved millions of dollars into speculative ventures.

The receptionist reminded me of one of Bulldog Bannerman’s Dragon Ladies. That is to say, formidable. But I soldiered on, “Mr. Jennings and Ms. Jennings to see Ms. Anderson.”