San Francisco Night (3 page)

Nightingale picked up a rental car from Avis at the airport, a blue Ford Escape with less than a thousand miles on the clock, and had bought new clothes at a WalMart.  He booked himself into the La Luna Inn motel and asked for a room away from the main road, Highway 101. Nightingale was dog-tired from traveling, but a shower and change of clothes put him in a fit state to work. He was in a diner drinking coffee and waiting for a burger when his cellphone rang. The number was blocked, but he took the call.

“Is that Jack?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Lee Mitchell. I’ve just spoken to Joshua and he told me to call you.”

“Yeah, he’s out of town.”

“Joshua says you’ll help me.”

“I’ll do my best. Where are you?”

“I don’t know you, Jack. I don’t know you from Adam.”

“I understand. But I work for Wainwright. And he’s told me to take care of you.”

“They’re on to me. And if they get me, they’ll kill me. And worse.”

“I’ve got your back, Lee. Now listen to me. The phone you’re calling me on? Is it yours?”

“It’s a disposable cell with a new Sim card.”

“Good job. But as soon as this call is over, dump it. Use landlines from now on. Public payphones are best. Where are you staying?”

“A hotel. In Oakland.”

“Did you register in your own name?”

“Of course not. And I paid in cash.”

‘Where did you get the cash from?”

“What?”

“The cash. Where did you get it from?”

“An ATM.”

“Near the hotel?”

“Shit. Yes.”

“Don’t go back to that hotel, Lee.  Don’t go anywhere near the ATM. I’ll pick you up.”

“They can track my phone? And my credit cards?”

“It’s possible,” said Nightingale. “In my experience the sort of people you’re dealing with can do pretty much anything they want. What are you wearing?”

“My regular clothes. Polo shirt. Chinos.”

“Buy something else, something you wouldn’t normally wear. A hoodie would be good. And carry something.”

“What?”

“Anything. A carrier bag. A rucksack. Anything that stops you looking like a banker on the run. Now where can I pick you up?”

“I’m scared, Jack.”

“I know you are. But I can help you.”

“When does Joshua get back?”

“Tomorrow. The day after, maybe. He’s overseas. Give me a time and a place, Lee. I’ll take care of you.”

“Okay, okay. How about Alcatraz? There are always lots of tourists around. Take the nine-ten boat tomorrow morning. What’ll you be wearing?”

“Light raincoat, black Levis, brown shoes. I’ve got dark hair and a boyish smile.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I was trying to lighten the moment,” said Nightingale.

“Yeah, well don’t. Just be at Alcatraz tomorrow.”

“Why Alcatraz? Why not just come to my hotel?”

“Because, like I said, I don’t know you and I don’t know who to trust. The only way to Alcatraz is by ferry so I’ll get there early and see everyone who arrives. If I see anything that doesn’t feel right then I’m canceling.” The line went dead.

Nightingale’s rental car came with a dashboard-mounted SatNav. He tapped in the location of the St Thomas More Assisted Living Facility and waited for directions. The voice was female, she sounded blonde and pretty but strict with no discernible sense of humor but she got him where he wanted to be in under thirty minutes. Nightingale parked opposite the facility, switched off the engine of his SUV and lit a cigarette. He opened the window and blew smoke. The building was larger than he’d expected, brighter too, with peach and cream walls and red Spanish-style roofs. The name of the facility was posted above a glass entrance in the center of the building. There were lawns in front, with wooden benches and large planters dotted around for decoration.

His cigarette finished, he headed for the front door.  It was locked, so he pushed the bell. After a minute a tall bald man in a white jacket and black trousers appeared on the other side of the glass door and opened up. “Help you, sir?” he said.

“I’m a reporter,” he said. “Is there someone I can speak to about Mr. O’Hara?”

“It’d be Ms. Winthrop you’d want to see, but she’s busy.”

“I’d only need a few minutes.” He flashed the man his most winning smile.

The man stepped aside to let Nightingale in. “Have a seat and I’ll see if she can see you.”

Nightingale sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. Leading off from the lobby were two corridors, and as he looked down them he could see some of the residents leaving or going back to their rooms. None of them looked to be in good shape. There were powered wheelchairs, oxygen cylinders, walking frames, sticks and everything happened very slowly.

The man in the white coat was back.

“Ms. Winthrop will see you sir, this way.”

He led Nightingale to a dark wooden door, knocked and showed him in. The office was large and bright, with one wall pretty much all window and an expensive looking wooden desk at the far end. It looked solid rather than veneered and there was a matching nameplate on the desk which informed him he was in the presence of Elaine Mayfield Winthrop - Facility Director.

Ms. Winthrop was around forty, blonde, though probably not by birth, wearing black glasses with upswept frames and a dark green business suit, though the desk prevented Nightingale from seeing whether it came with a skirt or pants. She didn’t get up as he entered, and showed no inclination to shake hands. “Please have a seat. Marlon tells me you’re a reporter. How may I help you?”

Nightingale settled into his chair, looked straight into her eyes and smiled again. “I’m working on an article about old folk who disappear, maybe create a little more interest in their cases. People are always far more concerned about children than vulnerable adults. Maybe I could redress the balance a little”

“You’re from England?”

“Yes, but I’ve been working in the States for a few months now.” He flashed her what he hoped was a boyish smile. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Mr. O’Hara?”

“Father Mike, we called him. The police have already asked us a lot of questions.”

“I’m sure,” said Nightingale. “I’m not trying to investigate the case, just maybe try to get a human interest angle on it. It was five weeks ago, is that right?”

“Yes, the eighteenth. We noticed at lunch time that he hadn’t come in, we looked everywhere and found no sign of him.”

“How long had he been here?”

“Five years.”

“And how old was he?”

“He was eighty-three.”

 “He was frail?” asked Nightingale.

“Not at all. In fact, for a man of his age, he was in fine physical shape, but he had advanced Alzheimer’s. He didn’t know who he was or where he was. He couldn’t do much for himself. Except light cigarettes and read his Bible.”

“He was a smoker?”

“Yes, a lot of priests are. They tend to drink quite a lot too, but that wasn’t a possibility here. Compensates for giving up other things, or so I’m told. He used to sit on the bench out front whenever the weather was nice enough, like I said, smoking and reading the Bible.”

“You let a man with advanced Alzheimer’s sit out front alone?”

“He wasn’t the sort to wander. It seemed to make him happy, sitting outside. When he first came to join us, he was far more self-aware, and that’s the way he always liked to spend his days. He was quite safe out there, the attendants checked on him every half hour or so, and he always came back in at the lunch or dinner bell.”

“Until the day he didn’t?”

Ms. Winthrop sighed.

“Until the day he didn’t. When we noticed he wasn’t in for lunch, we searched the building and the grounds. His Bible was still on the bench, but not a trace of him. He’d just disappeared. Of course we called the police. We were...are... desperately worried.”

“Were the police any help?”

Ms. Winthrop looked pained. “Not really, no. I filed a missing persons report but I got the impression they weren’t going to do much in the way of a search. I tried the Chronicle but they weren’t interested, either.”

“Can you tell me the name of the officer who took the report?”

“She was a very nice lady came to the school.” She frowned. ”Now what was her name? Inspector Chen, I think?” She pulled open a desk drawer.

“She’s Chinese?”

Mrs. Dalton nodded.” Lovely lady, very sympathetic. She came to see me when I first reported Father missing and said that the police would do their best but I never heard from her again. I did call but she was never in the office. I think I have her card here somewhere. Now where is it?”  She smiled triumphantly. “Ah, here it is.” She handed a business card to Nightingale. On the left of the card was the seal of the San Francisco Police Department and its motto – ‘Gold in Peace, Iron in War’.

“As you’ve probably realized, the police are only really interested if the missing person is a child or a pretty girl. Father Mike was an old man.” She shrugged. “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”

“Could I see his room, if it’s not too much to ask? I’d like to get a feel for the way he lived.”

“I don’t see why not.  His room is as he left it, the diocese had paid his fees until the end of this month so nothing’s been touched.”

“And what happens at the end of the month?”

“We have a long waiting list of potential guests, so in all likelihood his belongings will be put into storage and the room re-allocated. Unless of course, he returns before then.”

“And you don’t think that’ll be happening?”

“To be honest with you, no. He couldn’t have taken care of himself for three weeks, so unless someone has been looking after him.” She shrugged. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? I can’t understand how a man can simply just disappear in this day and age. Anyway, I’ll get Marlon to show you his room. It can’t hurt.”

She touched an intercom button on her desk and asked whoever answered to send Marlon in. The tall, bald man re-appeared inside a minute.

“Marlon, show this gentleman to Father Mike’s room, if you would.” She smiled at Nightingale. “I’m nearly done for the day, so Marlon will show you out when you’re done. Perhaps you’d be good enough to send me a copy of the article when it’s done?”

“I’ll make sure you get a copy. Thanks for chatting to me, I appreciate it.”

Marlon had the door open and ushered Nightingale out. By the time he closed the door behind him, Ms. Winthrop was busying herself with some papers.

Nightingale followed the big man down one of the corridors, past a number of the other residents. ‛Guests’ had been Ms. Winthrop’s term for them, but Nightingale though that ‛inmates’ might be more appropriate. Wheelchairs, walkers, crutches, sticks and every face showed the pain that any movement brought. Some of them nodded and smiled at Marlon and even looked quizzically at Nightingale, but others stared blankly ahead, and were led along by orderlies. All the movement puzzled Nightingale.

“Where’s everyone going?” he asked.

“Down to the main lounge, I imagine. There’s bingo most nights.”

Marlon stopped outside a room and unlocked it with a master key.

“Here you are, sir. I’ll wait outside, it would be pretty crowded with both of us in there.”

Nightingale stepped into the room. It wasn’t much bigger than a prison cell. The furniture was just an armchair, desk, a wooden chair and a bed, which had raised sides and an electric switch hanging on the wall next to it. Presumably it could be raised by orderlies or nurses. There was also a built-in wardrobe, one half hanging space and the other shelves. Two dark suits, four white shirts, two black ones with clerical collars and a dressing gown were hanging inside. The shelves held underwear, handkerchiefs, socks and a scarf. Everything was freshly-laundered and pressed.

There was a small bathroom attached, It was immaculately clean, with unused white towels on the rails. The toilet, basin and bath were green with handrails placed next to all of them. There was a mirrored cabinet over the basin, which held only a toothbrush, paste and two wrapped bars of soap. Presumably Father Mike hadn’t been permitted a razor.

Nightingale walked back into the bedroom. Apart from the clothes, there were almost no personal touches to the place. There was a clean water glass on top of the bedside cabinet, but nothing else. Nightingale took a look through the drawers, but they were all empty, except the top one which contained an old Bible. Nightingale flicked through some of the dog-eared pages. It had obviously been well read over the years. He slipped it into his raincoat pocket, and opened the door to the corridor.

Marlon was leaning against the wall, his arms folded. “Thanks, Marlon. I can find my own way out.”

The big man gave his head a little shake. “Ms. Winthrop said to see you out, so I’ll walk to the main door with you.”

He didn’t actually say, ‛and make sure you leave,’ but Nightingale thought the implication was clear. Marlon showed Nightingale out and pulled the door closed behind him. Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the darkening sky. He was trying to blow a smoke ring when the door opened again and Ms. Winthrop walked out, carrying a leather briefcase. She saw the cigarette in his hand. “Those things will kill you, you know.”

“They certainly will, Ms. Winthrop. Still, I’ve heard that non-smokers all die too.” Now she was standing next to him he could see that the business suit came with a skirt that finished a few inches above the knee. The glasses had gone, and so had a little of her formal office manner.

“But smokers die sooner.”

“Can I be honest with you?” he said. “Maybe that’s no bad thing. I’m not sure that the extra years would be worth the sacrifice.” He gestured at the door. “No offense, But I’m not sure I’d want to be a guest in there.”

“I suppose a quick tour of our facility isn’t the best advert for prolonging life to its limits. You have another one of those?”

Nightingale proffered the pack, then lit her cigarette. She took a drag, trickled smoke slowly out of her nose, then looked carefully at the glowing end. “Eight years,” she said quietly.

“You gave up eight years ago? Why start again today?”

“I only gave up buying them eight years ago. I still borrow one from time to time. Just an occasional display of rebellion in the great State of Conformity.” She sighed and took another drag.

“Long day?”

“They all are. Where are you staying?”

He told her.

“Do you need a ride? Taxis don’t often prowl for fares round here and I’m headed downtown.”

“I’m okay, thanks. I’ve got a car. Do you have a card? In case I need anything else?”

“Sure.” She took out a metal card-holder, opened it and handed him a crisp white business card. “What about you? Do you have a card? In case something comes up.”

“I’m out,” he lied. He took out a pen. “But I can write my number on one of yours.”

“A reporter without a notebook and cards. This is a first.”

She handed him another card and Nightingale wrote down his number and gave it back.

“At least you have a cell,” she said, pocketing the card. She smoked the last of her cigarette, crushed the butt underfoot and gave him a small wave. “Good luck with your story.”