Bar.”
“Get
out of here, Henry, before I throw you out,” he said, rising. “Now.”
I
stood up. “All right. Thank you for your time — Steve. And here’s my card.” I
flicked it on the desk.
I
shut the door behind me, and stood outside waiting to see if he picked up the
phone. He didn’t. I went out into the street. I’d blown it. My purpose in
coming to Abrams was to find out for whom he worked and the extent of his
relationship to Hugh. Instead, I’d implied misconduct on his part and
threatened him. Those were courtroom tactics, not the way to handle an investigation.
But then, I’d been thrown out of a number of offices during this investigation.
I seemed to be making people uncomfortable. That was some progress. Now, if I
could only get them to talk. I set off in the darkness to find Grant Hancock.
*
* * * *
Grant
lived in a twenty-eighth floor condominium in a building that rose above
Embarcadero Plaza. I walked there from Abrams’s office through the early
evening. Seagulls squawked overhead as I approached the blue awning that marked
the en trance. A doorman stood just outside the double glass doors. He wore a
blue blazer over gray flannel trousers. I noted the bulge beneath his jacket
where he strapped his holster. It was an odd neighborhood for a luxury
high-rise, but there were spectacular views of the bay from the condos and, at
night, it was as quiet in the streets as a graveyard. In the noisy, cramped
city in which new construction was constantly obliterating someone’s view,
peace and a vista of Sausalito from the living room were reason enough to pay
the toney prices for a few hundred square feet of condo.
I
identified myself to the doorman and he called up to Grant’s apartment. A
moment later I boarded a dimly-lit elevator that carried me to the
twenty-eighth floor.
I
rang the bell and he opened the door. Behind him, in the darkness, candles were
burning, and his window framed the bridge and the lights of Marin blazing
across the bay. He still wore the slacks from his suit and a button-down shirt
the shade of pearl; purchased, no doubt, from one of those men’s shops that
sell to you only if your great-grandfather had an account with them. The three
top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of tanned and
expensively maintained flesh. His sandy hair was clipped short above his ears
and the handsome, expressionless face was as mysterious and self-contained as
ever. He smelled of bay rum, and his clear blue eyes took me in with a long
detached look. I could see myself in that look; disheveled, thin, dark beneath
the eyes and getting grayer, liquor on my breath. I heard, for the first time,
music playing softly in the room, guitar and flute.
“Come
in, Henry,” he said stepping back. I took it all in and smiled. The room was a
joke. The candles were set in a pair of silver candlesticks atop an orange
crate. There were some pillows stacked against the wall and an elaborate stereo
system but no other furnishings. There was, I remembered, a mattress on a box
spring in the bedroom and a butcher block table and two chairs in the kitchen.
The refrigerator was apt to be stocked with wine, fruit juices, vitamins, some
apples and cheese. The kitchen shelves contained a few mismatched plates of heirloom
china and beautiful old wine glasses. He was holding one in his hand. The years
had faded for a moment and all my feeling for him came back with an intensity
that made my heart pound. And then he took a step and the feeling passed as
quickly as it had come.
“I
see the decorator hasn’t been in yet,” I said, more edgily than I’d intended.
Grant
shrugged. “When I get lonely for furniture I go to my father’s house. A glass
of wine? Or do you want to stick to whiskey?”
“Wine,”
I said. “I was drinking scotch with a lawyer.”
“A
seemingly innocent pursuit,” he observed drily, pressing a glass into my hand. “You’re
awfully thin, Henry. Still
“Get
out of here, Henry, before I throw you out,” he said, rising. “Now.”
I
stood up. “All right. Thank you for your time — Steve. And here’s my card.” I
flicked it on the desk.
I
shut the door behind me, and stood outside waiting to see if he picked up the
phone. He didn’t. I went out into the street. I’d blown it. My purpose in
coming to Abrams was to find out for whom he worked and the extent of his
relationship to Hugh. Instead, I’d implied misconduct on his part and
threatened him. Those were courtroom tactics, not the way to handle an investigation.
But then, I’d been thrown out of a number of offices during this investigation.
I seemed to be making people uncomfortable. That was some progress. Now, if I
could only get them to talk. I set off in the darkness to find Grant Hancock.
*
* * * *
Grant
lived in a twenty-eighth floor condominium in a building that rose above
Embarcadero Plaza. I walked there from Abrams’s office through the early
evening. Seagulls squawked overhead as I approached the blue awning that marked
the en trance. A doorman stood just outside the double glass doors. He wore a
blue blazer over gray flannel trousers. I noted the bulge beneath his jacket
where he strapped his holster. It was an odd neighborhood for a luxury
high-rise, but there were spectacular views of the bay from the condos and, at
night, it was as quiet in the streets as a graveyard. In the noisy, cramped
city in which new construction was constantly obliterating someone’s view,
peace and a vista of Sausalito from the living room were reason enough to pay
the toney prices for a few hundred square feet of condo.
I
identified myself to the doorman and he called up to Grant’s apartment. A
moment later I boarded a dimly-lit elevator that carried me to the
twenty-eighth floor.
I
rang the bell and he opened the door. Behind him, in the darkness, candles were
burning, and his window framed the bridge and the lights of Marin blazing
across the bay. He still wore the slacks from his suit and a button-down shirt
the shade of pearl; purchased, no doubt, from one of those men’s shops that
sell to you only if your great-grandfather had an account with them. The three
top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of tanned and
expensively maintained flesh. His sandy hair was clipped short above his ears
and the handsome, expressionless face was as mysterious and self-contained as
ever. He smelled of bay rum, and his clear blue eyes took me in with a long
detached look. I could see myself in that look; disheveled, thin, dark beneath
the eyes and getting grayer, liquor on my breath. I heard, for the first time,
music playing softly in the room, guitar and flute.
“Come
in, Henry,” he said stepping back. I took it all in and smiled. The room was a
joke. The candles were set in a pair of silver candlesticks atop an orange
crate. There were some pillows stacked against the wall and an elaborate stereo
system but no other furnishings. There was, I remembered, a mattress on a box
spring in the bedroom and a butcher block table and two chairs in the kitchen.
The refrigerator was apt to be stocked with wine, fruit juices, vitamins, some
apples and cheese. The kitchen shelves contained a few mismatched plates of heirloom
china and beautiful old wine glasses. He was holding one in his hand. The years
had faded for a moment and all my feeling for him came back with an intensity
that made my heart pound. And then he took a step and the feeling passed as
quickly as it had come.
“I
see the decorator hasn’t been in yet,” I said, more edgily than I’d intended.
Grant
shrugged. “When I get lonely for furniture I go to my father’s house. A glass
of wine? Or do you want to stick to whiskey?”
“Wine,”
I said. “I was drinking scotch with a lawyer.”
“A
seemingly innocent pursuit,” he observed drily, pressing a glass into my hand. “You’re
awfully thin, Henry. Still
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