Muller, Marcia - [11] Trophies and Dead Things(v1.0)(html) Read Online Free PDF Page B

with Greg comes
under the heading of good police relationships. I'll check in with you
later."
    Next I phoned the local branch of
Thomas Y. Grant Associates; the switchboard operator told me Mr. Grant
worked out of his home office and gave me that number. When I called it
and requested an appointment, Grant's secretary hastened to caution me
that his legal practice was restricted to men. I said my business was
personal and concerned a substantial bequest left to him by an All
Souls client. That prompted her to put me on hold. When she returned,
she said Mr. Grant could fit me in at ten-thirty and gave me a Pacific
Heights address on the section of Lyon Street that borders the Presidio.
    The final item on my mental list
was to try to contact Jess Goodhue at KSTS. The anchorwoman, I was
told, would not come into the studio until three or three-thirty. I
left my name and number and said that if I didn't hear from her, I'd
check back then. After I replaced the receiver in its cradle I stared
indecisively at it: should I call Greg for an appointment or just drop
in? Finally I opted for setting a definite time and punched out the
number for his extension at the Homicide detail of the SFPD. He was
there, and sounded pleased to hear from me. When I explained what I
wanted to talk with him about, he invited me to lunch.
    "We could try the South Park
Cafe," he added.
    "No," I said quickly. South Park,
a curious little street in the newly trendy SoMa district near the Hall
of Justice, had figured in the investigation when I'd met and lost
George Kostakos; it still held painful memories for me.
    ". . . Oh, right," Greg said.
"Well, there's always Max's Diner."
    "Why don't I meet you at your
office, and we'll decide then."
    He agreed and we hung up.
    I went to dress for my
appointment with Thomas Grant. After some deliberation I chose a gray
wool suit with a short skirt and a long double-breasted
jacket—a Chanel knockoff that nevertheless had been outrageously
expensive and worth every penny of it. It's the outfit that Anne-Marie
has dubbed my "schizoid suit," because it's businesslike and sexy at
the same time.

    The fog had continued through the
weekend and into that morning. Even the quiet streets of Pacific
Heights—where the residents are normally blessed not only with
affluence but also with good weather—were finely misted. I parked my MG
in front of the address Grant's secretary had given me and got out,
shivering slightly from the cold.
    The house—one of only a few that
backed up on the thickly forested grounds of the Presidio—was a large
one. Its brown shingles, leaded-glass windows, and shiny black trim
were of an early twentieth-century style that abounds in that part of
the city. An arched wooden gate led into a bricked front yard shaded by
an acacia tree. The bricks had been swept clean of every leaf. Raised
flower beds bordered the small yard at the base of its high wooden
fence. The geraniums that grew in them were planted at precise
intervals; they looked prim and stiff, as if standing at attention.
    Grant's secretary, who greeted me
at the door and introduced herself as Ms. Angela Curtis, looked prim
and stiff, too. Her blond hair was cropped in a style that immediately
suggested the word "efficient"; she wore a plain gray suit, simple gold
jewelry, and sensible low-heeled pumps. Although she was around my age,
she seemed a much older woman. As I watched her cross the large
oak-paneled entry to tell Grant I was there, I tried—and failed—to
imagine her running on the beach, or laughing and eating and drinking
with friends, or making love, or any of the other things that normal,
vital women enjoy doing.
    When Ms.Curtis vanished through
a closed door to the right of the wide central staircase, I turned and
studied my surroundings. The other doors
that opened off the room were shut, too, as if Grant sought to separate
his professional and personal lives. There was a red Chinese rug on the
parquet floor and a large