Seeley didn't know who she meant, and didn't want to hear that it was her.
“Judy Pearsall called this afternoon and asked if you were going to be at Joel's. She's on the school's board-she's on lots of charity boards-but she doesn't usually come to these things.”
“She said she'll be there?”
“No, but the way she asked about you, I'm sure she will.”
Judy didn't impress Seeley as someone who chased strangers on a whim. He said, “She doesn't believe the police, that her husband killed himself.”
“How could any wife believe that?”
“Especially if her husband's life insurance has an exclusion for suicide.” Seeley didn't like to think that about Judy, but the apartment with its good address, high ceilings, and fine plaster walls was not cheap, nor was her daughter's private school tuition.
“I'm sure you have a soft spot for widows and children, but Judy doesn't need insurance money. She's from one of the old San Francisco fortunes-sugar, something like that.”
They were crossing a broad avenue, and parked cars lined both sides of the street ahead. For some reason, in this flat, well-paved town, almost all of the vehicles were mammoth four-wheel-drive SUVs.
Renata said, “I'm sorry I never met your wife.”
“Clare.”
“Do you have a lady friend back in Buffalo?”
Before he could answer, Renata said, “Here's Joel's.”
“No,” Seeley said.
White-jacketed valets collected keys and cars at the entrance to the property. Warshaw's house, at the end of fifty yards of cobblestone drive, was two stories of light-colored stucco, fl at-roofed and vaguely French, as if the architect had Versailles in mind with the rooftop balustrade and stacked quoins where the two wings joined the main part of the house. Contemporary sculptures, two of them brightly painted, dominated the sloping lawn. The other, of twisted rusting iron, Seeley recognized as the work of a former client in New York. The wail of a saxophone pierced the air.
With Renata, Seeley passed through a bright, high-ceilinged foyer to a flagstone terrace. The band, saxophone still soaring, was on the terrace, and more sculptures followed a gravel pathway that wound through three or four acres of lawn ending in a line of redwoods.
A striped tent the size of a house had a small stage and rows of folding chairs inside. An amateur-sounding auctioneer, his voice amplified by loudspeakers hidden in the trees, was soliciting bids for a spa weekend for two at Big Sur donated by a resort. Guests, wineglasses in hand, moved between tent and terrace. A few of the older men were in blazers and sport shirts, but most, like the younger ones, were in jeans or rumpled shorts, polo shirts, and running shoes. The women, glossy blondes, formal in skirts and heels, looked like they had dressed with more elegant companions in mind. The faces were lean, tanned, and, for all the smiles, fierce.
Renata touched Seeley's elbow and whispered, “Your new groupie.” He turned to see Judy approaching them. Renata gave her a quick greeting. “I'm going to find the drinks,” she said, and left.
“It's good to see you,” Judy said. “Bob used to meet Joel here, rather than at the office.” She frowned. “Apparently the CEOs down here like to stay close to home.”
Like kids in a sandbox, Seeley thought. “Is this for Lucy's school?”
She shook her head. “Lucy goes to school in the city.” She saw the question in his expression. “I went to Hill School when it was all girls. They started admitting boys fifteen years ago.” Again, her expression told Seeley that she didn't approve.
“Was there a reason you asked Renata if I'd be here?”
Her mouth moved for a moment, but no words came-Seeley realized that he had been too direct-but she quickly recovered. “What does someone do if they think the police aren't looking sufficiently into a crime?”
“You could hire a private investigator.”
She shook her head. “I don't think so.”
“You could have a lawyer look into it. Have you talked to any of your husband's partners?”
“Heilbrun, Hardy's a San Francisco firm. That's where its influence is. They don't know anyone in San Mateo.”
Seeley remembered Barnum saying that he had started out as an assistant district attorney in San Mateo. “Do you know Ed Barnum? Vaxtek's general counsel.”
The noise from the tent had grown and Seeley noticed that more guests were crowding into it.
“He called me. He said he talked to the police and they were doing everything they could do. But-”
“But you don't trust him?” He knew what was coming.
“I know we've just met, but I trust you.”
Why, he asked himself, hadn't Lily been as trusting. “I don't know anyone in San Mateo.”
“I know this sounds silly”-her eyes didn't waver-“but you remind me of Bob, and I suppose that's why I trust you. I know you're busy with the trial, but I was hoping you might make a few inquiries.”
Seeley could think of no way to say no. It wasn't the demands of the trial that concerned him; he could handle those. What he couldn't manage were Judy's expectations and the possibility that he would fail them.
“What have the police told you?”
“Nothing, really. Bob spent the day at his office. They're trying to track down who he had lunch with, but they know he had dinner with Chris.”
“Palmieri?”
She nodded. “Would that be unusual?”
“They were preparing for a major trial. It would be unusual if they didn't have dinner together.”
“They went to an Italian place in the Marina they both liked. Chris was the last person to see Bob.”
Not the last, Seeley thought, just the last one the police knew about.
“Were there any new people your husband met who he talked about?”
She started to shake her head, then stopped. “When I took Lucy to the airport this afternoon-she's on her way to France with the school choir-she told me that once, when Bob picked her up from choir practice, she saw him sitting in the auditorium with the other parents, but when practice was over, he was gone. She went into the hall, and he was by the staircase, talking to another man, a stranger.”
“When was this?”
“Maybe a week or so before Bob died.”
“Did she describe the man?”
“No. Bob told her he was involved in a case he was working on.” She looked away for a moment. “God, I miss him.” It wasn't a complaint, just a statement of fact.
“Have you told the police about this?”
She shook her head. “I just learned about it.”
“Do you think she could describe the man?”
“I suppose so. She comes home in five days. The trip was planned long before Bob died. We're trying to make everything as normal as we can.”
“Did she tell you anything else about the man?”
For the first time since they met, Judy smiled. “Maybe it was going to France, her remembering.”
“What's that?”
“Lucy said the man spoke English, but he had a French accent. Could that be a connection? That the man Bob was talking to was French?”
“I'll make some phone calls,” Seeley said.
“That's all I was hoping for.” Her eyes, filled with hope, told Seeley what he already knew-that he should have said no.
Seeley nodded in the direction of the tent. “Are you interested in the auction?”
“No,” she said, turning to go. “I just came to see you.”
The crowd now overflowed the tent and Seeley took a place by the entrance. He recognized the trim white-haired man on the stage as a former pro quarterback, and later coach, who had gone on to make a comfortable fortune with a string of auto dealerships. The white tennis shirt and light-colored slacks showed off his tan and he moved about the stage with an athlete's grace. He spoke softly into a handheld microphone about his connections to the Hill School-his daughter was a graduate and his grandson was the school's present quarterback-and then, raising his voice and blinking into the make-shift spotlight, he cried, “So let's do something for the kids!”