Carol Sister O'Marie - The Missing Madonna

The Mission District was home to the City’s largest collection of Victorians, and this way she could drive by them without an argument. Maybe the view would improve her disposition. Even as a child, Kate had loved riding by the old Victorians, especially at dusk, like now, when the lights began to show through their bay windows. Over the last few years, many of them had been refurbished and painted in bold colors to bring out the fretwork or the bracketed cornices.

It was still fun to drive slowly along Dolores Street, comparing the houses on the east and on the west. During the earthquake and fire of 1906, her father had told her, the houses on one side of the broad, palm-lined street had been saved, but those on the other side had burned. Driving south, it was easy to see that the houses on her left were postfire, unlike those on her right.

Gallagher, she sensed, was just getting ready to complain about her circuitous route when she pulled up across the street from a forest-green awning announcing, in white script, Alphonso’s Bistro. Kate hadn’t expected the small storefront restaurant to be quite so trendy.

Even as they walked toward the bistro, Kate knew she shouldn’t be here. Gallagher was right, although she would never give him the satisfaction of saying so. This case was Honore’s baby. She had no real desire to help him out. Yet, for some reason, she couldn’t help pushing Gallagher’s buttons. What did Flip Wilson used to say? “The devil made me do it.”

She was concerned about the missing woman, of course; and if her probing helped Mary Helen’s friend, she thought philosophically, all the better.

Shivering, her partner opened the plate-glass door to the dimly lit bistro. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” he asked as soon as he and Kate had stepped inside and onto the plush carpet.

“What do you mean?”

“The joint looks like a house of ill repute, to put it politely.”

Kate took in the red flocked walls, the lush carpet, the imitation hurricane lamps. “Oh? And how do you know?” she asked, then watched him fight to control his temper.

Before he could formulate a calm answer, a short, square, plain-looking man bustled toward them. The only remarkable thing about him was the way he had taken a long strand of hair and stretched it back and forth across the crown of his head. Finn! Kate recognized him immediately from Honore’s description. It must have taken a lot of concentration and even more brilliantine for the man to make that series of V’s across his bald pate.

“How many?” Blinking nervously, his hazel eyes darted from Kate to Gallagher and back again. Kate knew he was sizing them up. “Cops, right?” he said almost immediately.

Kate flashed her badge. Knowing Homicide had no business asking questions, she hoped he wouldn’t look too closely. Fortunately he didn’t.

“I can pick you guys out anywhere.” The man shrugged good-naturedly. “What can I do for you, Officers?”

Another couple came into the small restaurant and stood behind Kate. “Why don’t you take care of these people,” she said. “We can wait”

Looking grateful, Finn ushered the pair to a table at the far corner.

“I thought we were coming in here for a drink,” Gallagher growled in Kate’s ear. “Like I told you, you have no business-” He stopped short. Finn was back.

“I’m Al Finn, the owner. What can I do for you?” He held out a broad hand. “Always glad to cooperate with the police. I contribute to the Police Athletic League, you know.” Kate remembered that Honore had mentioned that.

After they had shaken hands and introduced themselves, Kate wasn’t sure just what she wanted to ask him. She glanced over at Gallagher, who glared back. Obviously, her partner was going to be of no help at all.

“We are here about your employee, Erma Duran. She’s been reported missing.”

“Oh, yeah, Erma.” He licked his lips. “Another officer, a black guy, was in here asking about her.”

A party of five ducked into the restaurant out of the cold. Finn switched his attention to them. “Will you excuse me, Officers, while I seat these people?”

“Sure. May we look around?” Kate asked.

“Be my guests,” Finn said, or at least Kate thought he did.

Hands in pockets, Gallagher followed her through the restaurant. He leaned against a stainless-steel sink, folded his arms, and watched her avoid the cooks and poke around the kitchen. Everything about him said he was seething.

Opening a door, Kate peered down a dark flight of stairs.

“Basement,” the dark-skinned dishwasher wearing a turban said flatly. Wiping his hands on his apron, he reached around the doorjamb for the light switch. A single bulb lit the steep stairs.

Halfway down the flight, she heard Gallagher close the door behind her. She could tell by the way he stomped down after her that she was about to catch hell. Even though they had been partners for almost four years, he still treated her like one of his daughters. Kate steeled herself. Much as she hated to admit it, sometimes-like now-she reacted as if she were his daughter.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he roared.

“Looking around.” Kate jutted out her jaw in the same stubborn way she had used to defy her father.

“I know that! I thought we were here for a drink.” His eyes blazed.

“We were, but the opportunity just presented itself.”

“What opportunity? You know damn well we’re out of our jurisdiction. I told you we have no business here. I told you you can’t go butting your damn nose into-”

“You told me?” Kate felt her face flush. She stepped closer to Gallagher. “You told me? What right do you have to tell me? You’re my partner, not my father,”

“Don’t bring up your father, God rest him! The guy must have been a goddamn saint not to have wrung your stubborn neck. If you were mine, I’d have been up on charges long ago.” Gallagher glowered at her. Kate did her best to glower back.

Neither of them had heard Finn open the door at the top of the basement steps.

“I was wondering where you guys had went,” he called.

Hoping he hadn’t overheard, Kate began to scan the basement. It was your average San Francisco turn-of-the-century basement: concrete sloping floor, narrow door at the far side leading to an alley probably once used by the coal man, wooden storage shelves along the rough concrete wall, two large laundry tubs streaked with rust. The whole place smelled of dampness and disuse.

Carefully descending the steps, Finn stood next to Gallagher. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Damned if I know,” Gallagher barked, then softened, realizing the owner was not at fault. “My partner here is just looking around. Seeing what she can come up with that might give us an idea about the missing woman. Seems some nun friends of hers are pretty worried about her.”

“Oh, them. Yeah. I was pretty worried about her myself”-Finn rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet, blinking-“until last night.”

“What happened last night?”

“She called.”

“She called?” Kate could feel her face redden. Why hadn’t anyone told her?

“Yeah. Like I told them all. The day she left she told me she’d call when she got settled. She didn’t want the kids to know where she was. Can’t blame her. They were starting to drive her crazy.”

Really miffed now, Gallagher glared at Kate. “I can see how kids, anybody’s kids, could drive you crazy.”

Finn recognized a comrade spirit. “Those three clowns are real crazy-makers,” he said. “Couple of days ago, the worst one, in my opinion, drove me to doing something I probably shouldn’t have done.”

The man sounded so remorseful that for a moment Kate wondered if she should stop him and read him his rights.