Joe Gores - Cons, Scams, and Grifts

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘deliberately,’ ” said Kearny.

“Beat up as she was, she winked at me,” said Giselle. “I read that as letting me know that she was getting back at her husband.”

Hec shrugged and said, “Since Winslett belted her right there in court, they won’t even call Ellen to the stand.” Then he asked, “So do I file against San Mateo County for false arrest? And against the prosecutor for criminal persecution?”

“We file suit,” said Dan, “but then at some point we let them talk us into withdrawing the charges. Leaving them owing DKA a great big favor.” He tipped Tranquillini a secret wink. “But we can go after the Winsletts full bore.”

“Yeah,” said Hec zestfully. “They’ve got assets. His Cherokee, her new Lexus, that house in Pacifica—”

“Don’t you dare!” exclaimed Giselle in outrage.

“Why the hell not?” asked Kearny, too overtly astonished.

“Why not? She’s got a little baby coming! Where’s she supposed to raise the child — in a tent?”

Kearny gestured to Hec. “See what I mean? Women!”

As Giselle realized she’d been had, Kearny’s beeper went off. He took it off his belt to check the number.

“Stan Groner at the bank,” he said.

Giselle wordlessly handed him her cell phone. After a low-voiced conversation, he flipped it closed and handed it back.

“On Monday they’re going to auction off all the classics we’ve recovered so far. Stan wants me there to discuss something he can’t talk about on the phone. And he says he’s sure you’ll be there, too...” He paused. When Giselle was not forthcoming, he asked, “Ah — why’s that?”

“If you must know, I’m prepared to bid on my car.”

“STATO,” said Kearny promptly. “Let’s get back to the office so we won’t have wasted the whole day.”

As if he didn’t know, she thought. He didn’t miss much — and he never forgot a license plate. Especially vanity plates.

Like a damned spy novel,” muttered Larry Ballard through clenched teeth as he climbed his third tree of the day. He had spent several fruitless hours in the remote wooded and brushy reaches of the Presidio where, Ramon had said, were the secret places he and Yana had set up drops when she became marime. In this tree it was a rotted knothole twenty feet from the ground. No message.

Ramon Ristik, he decided, must have just a hell of a lot of time on his hands if he could wander around the Presidio finding places to leave secret messages for his sister. Of course Yana being marime meant he couldn’t make contact with her openly.

The last drop was below the farthest corner of the cracked and weed-grown blacktop parking lot for the long-abandoned Presidio Language Institute. Spent and panting, Larry had to thrash downhill through dead, broken-limbed eucalyptus trees to hit a jogging trail. Then he had to find a wooden post that held one end of a cable with a NO TRESPASSING sign hanging off it. If you had enough faith to blindly force your fingers into a tiny opening under one corner of the post’s concrete base...

Larry touched something furry, jerked out his hand with a yelp. Nothing had bitten the ends off any of his fingers, but if Yana had left a message in there, it was safe from him.

Well, all of that had been just a whole lot of fun. And so productive. Still, he had Ramon’s final lead: a certain Meryl Blanchett with an address on Walnut Street.

Bart Heslip took California 37 up over the bridge past closed-down Mare Island Naval Shipyard and out across the flat delta marshes toward the Marin County town of Novato. It was a lovely May day, with a couple of small planes circling overhead and puddle ducks upending themselves in shallow ponds along the road. A raucous V of Canadian geese came up off the wetlands like a living arrow shot from some marsh god’s bow.

According to Bruckner at Marine World, Alzheimer-sufferer Eduardo Moneo lived on Yukon Court, a cul-de-sac in a neighborhood of small post — World War Two houses with attached garages, tidy triangles of yard, a fruit tree or two.

Bart parked in the driveway to go up the walk to a white bungalow with green trim. He carried his clipboard. The door was opened by a small round owl-like woman in her seventies who looked at him dubiously from behind big round glasses.

“My name is Heslip. I’m looking for a Mr. Eduardo Moneo.”

She didn’t quite cross herself. “Mr. Moneo passed away in April. He was such a nice gentleman.”

Well, Bruckner had said the guy was old and frail.

“Are you a relative?”

“No. I’m Helen Lee. My daughter and I are renting from Nadja — she’s Mr. Moneo’s daughter — until the paperwork gets straightened out.” Belated caution showed on Helen’s face. “Exactly what is your interest, Mr. Heslip?”

“We understood the house was for sale.”

“It was. But my daughter and I are buying it, we’ve already put money down. There’s been some difficulty with the title papers, but we hope to close escrow this week.”

“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Heslip with relief. “I’m from the escrow company and we’re concerned about the delay.”

Her face wreathed itself in smiles. She stepped back so Bart could enter. “Please, come in.”

In the small, neat living room, Helen sat in a wingback chair that faced the big-screen TV beside the fireplace. Bart faced her from the sofa with its back to the picture window. On every flat surface were tiny owl figurines of glass, metal, ceramic, carved wood.

“The Realtor hasn’t been very helpful, and frankly, Mrs. Lee, we can’t guarantee title without more information.”

“This house is the only asset Mr. Moneo left Nadja. She had his power of attorney, and the house is in her name. She didn’t want to sell, but she and her husband need the money. Then there was that delay in getting the title papers—”

File that one. “Uh — how did Mr. Moneo die?”

“Nadja said he just sort of wasted away. Her husband’s name is Punka Mihai.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “They sound foreign but they’re just as American as you or me.”

Heslip made a meaningless note on his clipboard. “Have you known Nadja long?”

“I met her at the ‘B’ word in March.” She gave a hearty laugh. “ ‘B’ as in bingo — at Our Lady of Loretto’s on Virginia Avenue. I’m a gambler at heart.”

Bart stood. “I’m very grateful for your time, Mrs. Lee. We probably can guarantee title within a few days.” He showed her his photo of Ephrem Poteet as he had to Bruckner at Marine World. “Just for my report, is this Mr. Mihai?”

“Yes.” Helen’s eyes twinkled. “A handsome man, isn’t he?”

Bart put the picture away. “Do you have the Mihais’ current address? We’ve had mail returned...”

Helen picked up a black-backed address book from the table at her elbow. He guessed she spent a lot of time in that chair.

“Punka looked after Mr. Moneo every day while Nadja was working in the city. They moved down to San Francisco after Mr. Moneo died... Here it is.”

Good old Punka. Bart copied down a Warren Street address on his clipboard. He wouldn’t let Ballard forget that he found Yana’s bolt-hole in a single day of digging, while Larry was still paddling around out in the Richmond District bullrushes.

In fact he’d call Larry right now to rub it in a little.

The call caught Larry in his truck across the street from a graceful ornate Italian Neoclassical apartment house on the corner of Walnut and Washington. Meryl Blanchett, whose name Ramon had given him, had an unlisted phone and wasn’t home. No response at the other two flats.