How to Crash a Killer Bash (16 page)

“Mom!” I screeched like a lost child into the crowd of tourists. Only she was the one who was lost. And with Alzheimer’s, that could turn into a serious situation very quickly.

“Mom! Mother!”

With rising panic, I scanned the immediate vicinity for a woman in a fur coat, with a French twist and knockoff Coach handbag. The blur of people passing by made me dizzy as I tried to spot my mother’s familiar face.

She couldn’t have gotten far—could she?

I glanced over at the bay and saw a sprinkling of lights in the darkness—boats heading back to their docks. I shivered as I realized how close the water was. My skin broke out in goose bumps at the thought that she might have—

“Stop!” I said aloud, forbidding more morbid thoughts from taking over.

Find her!
I commanded myself.

She hadn’t just vanished into thin air.

The phone call! The one I’d received when I threw away the trash.

The caller had asked about my mother. And seconds later she was gone.

My heart pounding, I grabbed a man walking past. “Have you seen a woman . . .” I stopped. From the wide eyes and disturbed look, I guessed he didn’t speak English.

I gave up and moved on, questioning half a dozen other tourists who either shrugged, shook their heads, or looked at me as if I were a crazy person. Beads of sweat broke out along my forehead and my armpits tingled.

Where the hell had she gone?

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a kiosk manned by a security guard and ran over.

“Can you help me?” I asked breathlessly through the opening in the glass window. “I’ve lost my mother . . . ,” I panted. “She has Alzheimer’s. Do you have some kind of PA system or some way to help me find her?”

The young man looked fresh out of security guard school. His mustache was sparse, his uniform ill-fitting, and his look eager. “You mean like a Code Adam?”

“What?”

“Code Adam. When a kid is lost, we radio-contact security guards and police in the area. Unfortunately, we can’t seal the area, since it’s outdoors, but—”

“Yes!” I said, cutting him off. “Please! Do a Code Adam or whatever. My mother is about five eight, around a hundred and fifty pounds, wearing—”

“I want to report a crime!” came a strident voice, interrupting me from behind. I turned around, irritated at her rudeness, and caught my breath.

“Mother!”

“Presley!”

“Where
were
you? I’ve been looking all over for you! I thought you were—”

“I was robbed!” she said to me, then turned to the security guard. “Mugged! Violated! Purse snatched!”

“Calm down, lady,” the guard said, resting his hands on his hips. “Can you describe the man?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a man. It was a woman. I was sitting on the bench over there.” She pointed to the spot where we’d had our chowders. “She came walking over, and all of a sudden she grabbed my purse and starting running—that way.” She indicated the interior of the pier. The area was swarming with a multicultural crowd illuminated by old-fashioned street-lamps.

“I tried to chase her, Presley, but she was too fast. . . . I got a little turned around. . . .” Looking befuddled, Mom took my arm, her hands trembling. “I’m tired, honey. Could you take me home now?”

“Sure, Mom.” I gave her a comforting hug.

“One last question, ma’am,” the guard said. “Can you describe the mugger?”

“I only caught a quick look at her. Reddish hair, medium length, partly covered with a scarf that looked Egyptian. Dark, oversized sunglasses—not brand-name. She was wearing a black sweatshirt and matching pants, sort of like a jogger.”

“Great job, Mom,” I said, truly impressed with her short-term recall. By tomorrow she would have forgotten most of the details, but at the moment, her ability to remember so much was impressive.

“What kind of shoes was she wearing?” I asked.

Mother thought for a second. I could almost see the wheels turning as her green eyes gazed out the bay. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“She wasn’t wearing running shoes. They looked like just regular black dress shoes. But she ran so fast, I only got a glimpse.” Mom looked down at her slender, empty hands. “I feel so naked without my pocketbook.”

I left my contact number with the security guard on the chance Mom’s purse was found, but I had a feeling it was a lost cause. By now it was in a Dumpster and the contents in the thief’s pocket.

“It was a Coach bag. You gave me that purse, Presley.”

“It was just a knockoff, Mom. I can get you another one—a real one, next time.” I gave her a squeeze. “Did you have anything of value in it?”

“Of course. Everything. My identification, the keys to my building and my room, my cosmetics. Pictures of my old beaus. My pills. Address book. A letter from the mayor . . .” She continued to list the contents as we walked to Delicia’s Smart Car. Nothing of any real monetary value, but those personal items were priceless to her. How she held all that stuff in one bag was a mystery to me. The items that really concerned me were her ID and keys.

On the drive to her building, I asked her more questions about the woman who had grabbed her bag. Pickpockets and purse-snatchers often frequented heavily touristed areas in the city, but this thief seemed odd. Rather than the expected young guy in baggy pants and a dark hoodie, this woman sounded more like one of the many joggers who ran along the Embarcadero.

Except for the scarf and the shoes.

“Did you notice anything else unusual about her, Mom?”

“Not really. I think she was short—shorter than me. Not very attractive, but she had beautiful red hair, very silky looking. I wondered what kind of conditioner she used. . . .”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“No, not a word. I thought she was going to join me on the bench, but instead she just walked up, grabbed my purse, and ran. It took me a minute to realize what had happened.” She started to tear up.

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s just a purse. We can replace it, and most of the contents.”

She dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “It’s not that. It’s . . . the way people are these days. You used to be able to leave your front door unlocked, even here in the city. Now you can’t sit on a bench in a public place without worrying if someone is going to accost you. And a woman at that.”

I’d been burgled a few times on Treasure Island and knew how she felt. Shocked. Vulnerable. Invaded. But this theft bothered me even more. The thief had her address and keys. I could only hope the perp was after what little cash my mother had, rather than her personal information.

I used my key to get her into her building, then explained to a staff member what had happened. I requested that the lock on her door be changed and she be issued a new key. There wasn’t much I could do about the key to her building.

“ ’Bye, Mom,” I said, seeing her to her room and using my copy of her door key to let her in. She moved slowly, and I could tell she was exhausted from the emotional strain. “Get some sleep. I’ll call you in the morning.”

I left the building with a sense of dread and glanced around the dark street for anyone who might look suspicious. After I’d entered the Smart Car and locked the doors, my iPhone chirped, alerting me to a new IM. I rarely used the messaging system—not many knew my IM address—but I pulled out the phone to read the words on the screen:

A chill of fear ran through me.

Picture? What picture?

Another chirp, this one signaling a new e-mail. I tapped the envelope icon, and the message popped up, along with a photo. Staring me in the face was a photo of my mother and me enjoying our seafood meals on the bench just an hour ago.

I glanced at the address information, my hand trembling. It read:

Exhausted, I headed home to spend some quality time with my cats and catch up on my sleep.

 

The next morning, having overslept, I took a quick shower and had a quicker breakfast, then called my mom to see how she was doing. She didn’t answer her phone, so I left a message, asking her to call me back.

I spent a couple of hours at my office, catching up on party requests, then searched the Internet for information on “How to send an anonymous e-mail.” I found step-by-step directions from
About.com
. Although it sounded like an involved process, it must have been easy enough for any computer-savvy person to accomplish. According to the information, the anonymous sender uses a “remailer,” which forwards the message to the recipient without a trace of the sender’s return address.

Two hours later, there was no sign of Brad. Raj, Berk, and Rocco were in their offices working, but Delicia’s and Brad’s offices remained dark. I checked my watch. Ten o’clock. The museum would be open, and hopefully Christine would be at her desk.

I jumped into the Smart Car and made it to the de Young in record time, passing over a dozen other Smart Cars in a rainbow of colors along the way. Half of the other drivers waved at me, as if we were all in some secret club. Apparently this was
the
car to drive in the city. I parked easily, turned off the motor, and took several deep breaths to help me relax, nearly hyperventilating in the process. I locked the car and headed for the museum entrance. On my way I punched Brad’s cell phone number. He answered just as I reached the security checkpoint.

“Hey, Presley.” He knew it was me from his caller ID.

“Hold on,” I said, as the guard searched my bag. She waved me on. “Brad, if someone sends an anonymous e-mail, is it airtight, or can it be traced?”

“You got a remailer?”

Why was I not surprised that he was familiar with an anonymous mailing program? “Yeah. At least, that’s what the return address says. Is there any way to find out who it’s from?”

“It’s not easy, but a hacker could probably do it. If the sender uses two or three remailers, and sends the message in an encrypted form, it can be tough. You have to have a GnuPg, PGP keys, know the steps. But it’s possible. What’s up?”

“I’ll explain later. Thanks.”

“Wait! Presley, what’s going on?”

“I can’t talk now. I’m at the museum. I’ll tell you everything when I get back. Any news on the dead guy?”

“Haven’t heard back from Melvin yet. Listen, Presley . . .” He paused.

I waited. “Yeah?”

“Nothing. See you when you get back. Maybe we can grab a burger and beer at the Grill, talk about all this.”

Was this a date? The Treasure Island Bar and Grill isn’t the most romantic place on the island—it’s the
only
place—but they serve great garlic fries, and the view of the yachts, Bay Bridge, and city skylines makes up for the limited menu.

And what was he not telling me?

“Brad, what aren’t you telling me?”

“It can wait.”

“Fine, but at least tell me how your brother’s doing with Delicia’s case.”

“Like I said, we’ll talk. I want to know more about this anonymous e-mail.”

I hung up, puzzled at Brad’s lack of candor and hesitant manner. Something was up. Whatever this “date” was about, it would have to wait. I already had a date—with the elusive curator of the de Young museum. Only problem was, she didn’t know it.

“I’m here to see Christine Lampe,” I told the volunteer at the desk, deciding on another ruse.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, a thin smile crossing her well-worn face.

“Yes. Well, not exactly. But I’m Presley Parker. I hosted the event here the other night. Christine was in the play, and I have some museum things to return to her.” Some of us with ADHD are quick on our feet when it came to making stuff up. I learned it in school when the teacher asked questions and I didn’t have an answer. Great deflector.

“I’ll have one of the security guards see you up. Please wait over there.” She nodded for me to move over to the side of the large desk so paying patrons could slap down their money to view the latest art and artifacts. Five minutes later a security guard appeared.

“Sam!” I said, happy to see his pleasant face.

“Ms. Parker! You’re back again? They’re going to have to name a wing after you if you keep showing up. You’re our most frequent visitor these days.”

Sam nodded to the volunteer and gestured for me to follow him to the elevators. The doors opened, and I stepped in, followed by Sam. He passed his security card over the sensitive panel, then pushed number four.

“So, have you learned anything about the murders?” he said, after the doors closed.

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Not much. How about you?”

“Nothing. And we’re under a lot of pressure here, as you can imagine. Especially me, since both happened on my watch. To tell you the truth, I read a lot of detective stories, but this mystery has got me stumped. I mean, why would anyone want to kill our most productive benefactor? Sure, she wasn’t the most popular person in town, but she did so much good for the de Young, raising all that money when the city wouldn’t come through.”

“Any idea who the guy in the frog pond was?”

He shook his head. “So far he’s a mystery man. There are a lot of homeless people in the park. Although . . .”

The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out. I paused outside and held the doors open. “Although what?”

He looked up and down the hallway, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Well, people are talking, you know?”

My eyes widened. “About what?”

“It’s just gossip, but a lot of the staff are whispering about Mary Lee’s ‘friend,’ ” he said, adding finger quotes.

“What friend?” I said, puzzled. Then it dawned on me. “You mean, a lover?”

He peered around again, then nodded to a closed office door a few steps away.