After enlarging it, I used my software to sharpen the images so I could read the caption beneath the picture. Even though I no longer had Frank's notes, I recognized a few of the names from his files. Good. I had them in writing again. Then I found something that made me sit back in my chair and say "Damn."
Diva, who had curled up on my lap, did not appreciate my tone or my shift in position and took off with a hiss.
Why had Frank failed to note this? He never mentioned this person in his files—unless I'd missed it. A bigger question loomed. Why didn't the Rankins tell me their daughter, Sara, had been in the youth group? According to the caption, Sara Rankin was right there in this photo for God and everyone to see, standing next to guess who? Lawrence. She had long blond hair, a perky smile and dark brown eyes much bigger than her father's. She and Lawrence were the tallest kids in the group.
Maybe Frank's investigation focused on the group members present the night of the murder and that's why his notes didn't include Sara Rankin. The pastor's wife mentioned that her daughter had been on a mission trip, so the girl could have left home long before Mason was killed. Still, the fact that their daughter knew Lawrence seemed like an awfully significant piece of information to omit from our conversation— especially since I'd asked who was in the group more than once. Had the same information been omitted before? Could Frank Simpson have known nothing about Sara Rankin and that's why she wasn't mentioned in his files?
Okay, I thought. I should give those people the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the pastor and his wife were so traumatized by their daughter's death that year, they failed to remember she knew Lawrence, or maybe decided it wasn't relevant. No matter what the reason, this required a very close look. I took down the names of the other members in the picture and began Googling them, starting with Sara Rankin.
The first thing I expected to find was an obituary, and I did. Sort of. A notice appeared in the religion section of the Chronicle in December 1987, an invitation to celebrate the life of Sara Rankin at the Church of the Reverent Life. I found one earlier reference to Sara: January of 1987, in a list of Confederate Legion debutante candidates—a crew of young women selected every year as the most gorgeous and precious relatives of men who had served in the civil war—on the Confederate side, of course. This social ritual still went on today and always made me shake my head in amazement when I saw newspaper pictures of all those pretty young girls with ties to slavery. I figured they didn't even realize what they were doing—or maybe I was the one who knew diddly-squat. Better not judge without the whole story, I guess.
Having not learned much about Sara, I picked the next name on my list. Nothing. Not until I ran a search for Oscar Drummond did I get dozens of hits. He was a financial planner and his name and face were all over cyberspace—almost unrecognizable as the face from the photo, since he'd gained more than a few pounds. His big smile gave him away, though. To meet with him on a Saturday might be tough. All I could do was try. I got an answering machine when I phoned, but mentioned in my message that I was the late Charlie Rose's daughter. A mention of a late, rich father would get a quicker response from a financial planner and sure enough Mr. Drummond called back in thirty minutes, eager to meet.
Forced to change clothes again, I chose something more appropriate for dinner downtown. Not a skirt, but khaki pants and a pink striped shirt that did not show my belly button even though I was pretty proud of my abs. I'd been running and working out with Jeff for almost a year.
The downtown streets were still crowded with late afternoon shoppers, but I managed to find a parking place in a theater district garage. I enjoyed a pleasant breeze as I walked two blocks to Birraporetti's, a fun Italian restaurant with "a heck of an Irish bar," as they liked to advertise.
Drummond was waiting for me at the hostess station, as eager as a groom in the last hour of the reception. I hate mentioning my money. It makes people act like they wouldn't be surprised if I spit a few gold nuggets at their feet before I spoke.
Drummond's infectious smile was the same as in the photo. He wore a charcoal suit, probably Armani, but I didn't think he could button that jacket if push came to shove. Not over the banjo belly. I never mentioned when I called that this wasn't about forging a relationship with him to manage my millions, so he was about to be let down big time.
"How good is your memory?" I asked, after we were seated in a booth far from the noisy bar and had given our drink order.
"As good as it should be, Ms. Rose. I manage a hundred clients, and if it weren't confidential information, I could tell you what the earnings are to date on their portfolios without so much as a glance at my computer. I customize to meet their individual goals, as any good money manager should."
I took a card from my purse and handed it to him. "Wonderful. Then I'm sure your memory can help me."
He kept the smile going. "Your father was quite the entrepreneur. I wish we could have met, but you—" He looked down at my card and fought to hide his confusion. "You, um, have a business of your own aside from your late father's?"
"Yes. Not as lucrative, but far more satisfying."
He rebounded quickly. "Great. I assume you're looking for help building and maintaining your assets while you pursue your new project?"
"It's not about money, Mr. Drummond. Sorry."
Though he was beginning to understand I hadn't met him here to hire him, he was still optimistic. I suppose that's what financial planners specialize in— optimism.
"I'd be excited to help you with anything, Ms. Rose."
I'd printed out the youth group picture and I placed it in front of him. "Do you remember any of these people?"
He picked the page up, stared at it for a second. "Where did you get this?"
"At the Church of the Reverent Life."
"Whoa. That was aeons ago. What I remember most is that life did not turn out too well for a few of my friends. A good life takes planning and hard work, Ms. Rose. When we're done with your inquiries, I hope you'll let me give you a quick little summary of the services I—"
"I'm sure you remember Lawrence as one of those unfortunate people you were referring to?" I cut in.
"Yes. He was a good guy. Ballplayer. Never understood why he messed up his life like that. For a stupid fifty dollars. Never made sense."
"What if he didn't mess up his life? What if someone else messed it up for him, set him up?"
"Are you serious?"
"Serious as Greenspan. I know Lawrence's story, probably better than anyone does right now, but I want to learn more about Sara Rankin. This picture was taken in '86. Did she continue attending meetings in '87? More specifically, was she present the night Lawrence was arrested?"
Before he could answer, my chardonnay and his scotch on the rocks arrived. We both sipped our drinks, and then Drummond said, "I believe she'd left the country sometime within the month before the murder on a mission trip to Mexico."
"She didn't come back?"
Drummond pursed his lips, shook his head sadly. "They never found her body as far as I know. She fell off some mountain carrying water to a campsite. Sweetest girl you'd ever meet. I had a crush on her for a year."
"Did anyone else have a crush on her?"
"I think all the guys did, which I'm sure worried her parents."
"How old was she?" I asked.
"Sixteen. Having a minister for a father is probably difficult for a girl—especially ultraconservatives like Pastor and Mrs. Rankin. Sara was strong-willed, though. Used to argue religious points better than anyone. If she'd wanted to date, I think she would have."