by Alan Cook
Chapter 6
"Hello."
I was surprised at how fast my father picked up the phone. He
obviously wasn't asleep. I had expected he would be. I was still
preparing what to say to him. "Oh...hi Dad."
"Karl? Where are you?"
"In San Francisco."
"I know that. Are you all right?"
"Of course. But Ned..."
"I know about Ned. The San Francisco Police called me over an
hour ago. You weren't with him?"
"No. I was supposed to meet him at ten, but he never showed up."
"Thank God you're all right."
I had never heard my father so concerned about my safety. "I'm
fine, Dad. But someone should call Mrs. Mackay."
"I did that, myself. She has friends with her now. The police
didn't know anything about you so I called Arrow and she told
me what hotel you were staying at. I called the hotel, but you
weren't there."
A lot had taken place while I was out of the loop. I said, "The
police are on their way here."
"Are you at your hotel now?"
"No. I'm at the home of James Buchanan." Looking out his picture
window at a postcard view of a lit-up Golden Gate Bridge.
"James Buchanan? How do you know him?" He sounded incredulous.
"I didn't until tonight. Ned said to meet him here." Lights of cars
moved in both directions over the bridge, like fireflies on parade.
There was silence at the other end of the line. The doorbell rang.
I said, "I think the police are here now. I'd better go."
"When are you coming home?"
"Tomorrow morning." It occurred to me that it was already
tomorrow.
"I'll talk to you when you get back."
"Dad? Is there anything I can do while I'm here?"
"No. Everything is taken care of." "Dad, I'm...I'm sorry about Ned."
"So am I." His voice cracked.
There wasn't anything else to say. I said goodbye and hung up.
Stan opened the front door and admitted a woman and a man,
dressed in civilian clothes.
The woman said, "I'm Detective Washington and this is Detective
Lawson, San Francisco Police Department." She showed him a
badge. "I would like to speak to James Buchanan."
"I'll take you to Mr. Buchanan," Stan said. "You might also want to
speak to Karl Patterson." He indicated where I was standing a few
feet away in the living room. "He flew to San Francisco from Los
Angeles with Mr. Mackay this afternoon."
"Yes, we do want to talk to Mr. Patterson," Detective Washington
said. And then to her partner, "I'll talk to Mr. Patterson. You talk
to Mr. Buchanan. You know what to ask him."
James had cleared the casino immediately after we had found out
about Ned's death. He seemed very upset. Everybody had left,
including all of the young men, except Stan and a couple of others
who were closing things up downstairs.
Stan escorted Detective Lawson to James' office, where he had
closeted himself after kicking everybody out. Detective Washington
came into the living room and introduced herself to me. She had a
strong voice and her demeanor and body language said she was in
control of the situation; her black hair was cut short and her blue
pantsuit was the color of power. She was tall, with graceful
movements, and I suspected she could take care of herself in a fight
as well as any man.
"I'm sorry about Mr. Mackay," she said, softening her voice a little.
"Thank you."
"I'm glad we found you. One of your father's people gave us the
name of your hotel, but you weren't there."
"I was here." Obviously. Okay, Karl, get control.
"May I ask you a few questions?"
"Of course."
She sat in an armchair and motioned me to a sofa facing it. She
produced a pencil and a spiral notebook.
"When was the last time you saw Mr. Mackay?" she asked.
"About 6:30 or a little later. We flew up from LA together and he
drove me to my hotel. Then he...well, I thought he was going to
a business meeting."
"Where was this meeting supposed to be held?"
"At the Golden Palace Restaurant," I said, remembering what Stan
had said.
"Did Mr. Mackay tell you he was going to this meeting?"
"Yes. Actually, he didn't tell me the name of the restaurant. I got
that from Stan, the fellow who answered the door. Mr. Mackay
was supposed to be here at ten."
"Did you know that Mr. Mackay never actually went to the Golden Palace?"
"I didn't find that out until Mr. Buchanan called the restaurant
looking for Mr. Mackay."
"And when was that?"
"Just before he called the police. About a half hour ago."
Detective Washington made some notes and then said, "What
did you do after Mr. Mackay left you off at your hotel?"
"I checked in. I was hungry so I ate dinner at a restaurant
nearby. Then I rested in my room."
"Why are you staying at a different hotel from Mr. Mackay?"
"Uh, because..." I was going to say because I was paying for it
myself, but that wasn't true and it was easily verified. "It was a
last-minute arrangement. I guess that was the easiest place to
get a room."
She seemed satisfied with that answer, but things were moving
too fast. I wanted to stop and rewind the last few hours; they
hadn't come out right. Should I have become concerned sooner
about Ned not showing up? What good would it have done? Why
did he lie about his meeting? Did my father blame me for his death?
In answer to another question, I explained as well as I could my
reason for coming to San Francisco, but only about getting
business advice, not the part about checking on Ned. My words
sounded lame to me. I wondered if I would believe myself if I
were the interrogator.
When she asked at what time I had left the hotel I told her about
walking to the Buchanan residence. She raised her eyebrows when
I mentioned walking. Was it because nobody walked here? She
asked me what route I had taken. I told her.
"Did you see or hear anything suspicious when you were walking
on Grant Avenue?" Detective Washington asked.
"No. Just the usual tourists and locals...the shops..."
"Did you go on any other streets in Chinatown or did you stay on
Grant?"
"I stayed on Grant until I got to Columbus."
"And you didn't hear any gun shots."
"No! Why?"
"Because Mr. Mackay was shot in an alley just off Grant, probably
about the time you were walking there. Of course, the noise level
is so high that I would not have expected you to hear the shots.
Or anybody else on Grant, for that matter."
Then why did she ask me? Was I a suspect?
I must have looked like a scared rabbit because the corners of
Detective Washington's eyes crinkled slightly and she said, "It's
nothing to worry about. Just the fact that you were so open with
me about your route would lead me to believe your story. In any
case, when I talked to your father he said that you hardly knew
Mr. Mackay and I'm sure you have no motive for killing him."
That made me feel better, but maybe she was just trying to get me
to lower my guard.
"A couple of other things," she said. "Mr. Mackay's body was found
in a dumpster. Since he's pretty hefty it probably took two men to
get him in there. Preliminary estimate is that he hadn't been there
more than half an hour. He was found by a homeless guy looking for
food. Lucky for us or it might have been hours, or even days,
before he was discovered."
But not lucky for Ned. It didn't matter to him. She asked me several
more questions, which I answered carefully.
Detective Lawson appeared at the entrance to the living room. He
was less impressive looking than Detective Washington, with an
expanding waistline and a receding hairline. The checked sport coat
he wore had seen better days and may even have been in style once.
He said, "Mr. Buchanan showed me the log he keeps for guests. Mr.
Patterson was logged in at 10:24."
Detective Washington nodded. "That squares with his story," she
said, indicating me.
I was still recovering from the shock of learning I had been so close
to Ned. I said, "Can you tell me what time Mr. Mackay was found?"
She consulted her notebook. "At 9:25 we received a call saying that
there was a man in a dumpster just off Grant and that shots had
been heard a few minutes earlier. He was dead by the time the
paramedics got there. He had three gunshot wounds, including
one in the chest.
"My partner and I were called. We got to the scene about 9:45. His
wallet was gone, but an attaché case was beside the body. There
was a leather notebook inside with some of his business cards in it."
"Do you think it was a robbery?" I asked. I had felt so safe when I
walked through there.
"It appears at this time that robbery was the motive. His wallet is
missing, as I said. But we would like to know what he did from the
time he left you until he was shot and why he said he was going to
a meeting when he wasn't."
I wanted to know those things too. And his wallet had been taken,
with all his money--and more important, his credit cards. The
companies should be notified. However, I suspected my father was
already working on that. There didn't seem to be anything else for
me to do. I asked, "Do you, uh, need me to identify him?"
"If you would."
Detective Lawson, who had been talking to Stan by the front door,
said, "Mr. Buchanan has volunteered to identify the body."
James Buchanan came into the living room, looking haggard and
limping noticeably. He said, "I've known Ned all his life so it's logical
for me to identify him."
I started to protest, thinking it would be too much for him, but he
insisted and I stopped pressing since I really didn't want to do it.
As an afterthought I asked, "Did you find Mr. Mackay's rental car?"
"The key was in Mr. Mackay's pocket," Detective Washington said,
"and we got a description of the car from Hertz. We're searching
for the car now." She looked at me and said, "Thank you for your
help, Mr. Patterson. If we have any more questions we know where
to find you." And to James, "Are you ready to go, Mr. Buchanan?
We'll drive you to the morgue."
James put his hand on my shoulder and said, "As I said, I've known
Ned all my life. This is...a terrible tragedy. Please convey my sorrow
and sympathy to your father."
"I will." There didn't seem to be any adequate words for the situation.
"Stan will drive you back to your hotel." James actually smiled slightly.
"I know you lost our bet, but considering the circumstances it's the
least we can do."
# # # #
Stan also said some words of sympathy as he drove easily up the hill
on the almost-deserted street. It was after 1 a.m.
"Did you know Ned?" I asked, wondering how long Stan had worked
for James.
"Not real well, but he's come to the house several times since I've
been there. I found out he and James grew up together. They also
came to this country together, and eventually went their separate
ways, but lately they've been talking to each other a lot."
"How did you know where Ned's business meeting was supposed to
be?" I asked, and then realized that I sounded like the police.
Stan didn't seem annoyed at the question. "Ned called James at our
office last Friday. James was out of the building so I took the call.
Ned asked me whether he could meet with James Tuesday
evening--tonight. He said he had a dinner meeting at the Golden
Palace, but he would come over to the house afterward."
It occurred to me that Stan had known I wasn't Ned when he first
saw me on the monitor. He must have consulted James before
letting me in. I asked, "Did Ned do much gambling?"
"He talked a lot, drank a little and did some gambling, but not much
that I recall. He didn't seem to have the passion for it that some
of the guests do."
This was at variance with what James had said. Of course, if it was
true that no real money was changing hands, maybe that explained
Ned's behavior. Perhaps a compulsive gambler wasn't compulsive
when there was nothing real at stake. If that was true I couldn't
be a compulsive gambler because I liked to play games, regardless
of the stakes.
I wanted to ask Stan about the legitimacy of the casino operation,
but why should he tell me anything? Instead, I asked, "How long
have you worked for James?"
"About two years. I went there right from the Stanford business
school."
Another MBA. "Isn't that work a little...beneath your talents?"
"Oh, I only work at the house one night a week. I work at the
corporate headquarters the rest of the time. James makes all his
management-track people do that. He says it's good to get some
real-world experience. That's true, I suppose, if you want to end up
running a casino."
I wasn't going to show my ignorance by asking what corporate
headquarters he was referring to. I said, "I noticed that all his
employees were men. Doesn't James have any women working for him?"
Stan took his eyes off the road and looked at me. Since we were
cresting the top of Hyde Street and the pavement had disappeared
from in front of us I hoped like hell he'd look back at the road. I felt
like Steve McQueen's detective must have in the chase scene from
the old movie, Bullitt. He finally turned his eyes back to the road
and said, "What are you, a spy for the government equal opportunity
people?"
"No."
He chuckled. "James just prefers men to women."
We arrived at my hotel. He pulled up to the front door. "Thanks for
the ride," I said. We shook hands and I asked, "Do you have far to go?"
"Back to the Buchanan place. I live there."
As Stan drove away I stood there for a minute and gulped the
cool night air. It brought back some sense of reality to me.
Everything that had happened since I had entered James
Buchanan's home was outside my known world. But I was afraid
it would end up being a quickly fading dream.
I would fly home in the morning, talk to my father, commiserate
with him briefly about Ned. He would formally thank me for trying
to help, say he didn't need my services anymore, probably have a
check made for me. Then we would go our separate ways again.
As for Ned, my father would make sure that his wife and children
were provided for, financially. He would attend the funeral, perhaps
give a eulogy. Then he would set about finding a replacement for
Ned. The company stock would drop briefly, but it would recover.
Detective Washington and her partner would file their report. They
would attempt to find witnesses to Ned's shooting and fail. The
case would go on the books as an unsolved murder. Life would go
on. Without Ned.
I walked into the hotel and asked the night clerk how I could get to
the airport in the morning. He said he would get me a reservation
on a shuttle bus. I also asked for a wakeup call and gave him
several dollar bills from my wallet.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor, unlocked my room with the
plastic magnetic card I had been given and went in. I used the
toilet, brushed my teeth and threw my clothes in a chair. My travel
clock read five minutes of two; I set the alarm for 6:30, not trusting
the wakeup call. I wouldn't get my usual eight hours of sleep.
Almost as an afterthought I noticed the message light blinking on the
telephone. I pushed the appropriate buttons and listened to messages
from my father and Detective Washington. Their messages were old
news, but the shock of Ned's death returned. I hung up the phone.
As I collapsed on the bed I wondered whether I would get any sleep
at all. I had about two minutes of wondering and then I stopped
wondering about anything.
Aces and Knaves copyright ©2002 Alan L. Cook
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