Purchase’s inner sanctum was big enough to have a cozy little sitting area at one end, complete with a couch and some leather chairs. He invited me to sit, offered me coffee “or something stronger,” and when I declined on both counts, poured himself a cup of coffee so dark it had the color of India ink. Then he plunked himself down companionably in the chair next to mine.
“New Orleans blend,” he said, indicating the cup. “Not too heavy on the chickory. Sure you won’t try it?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well,” he said, and sipped, and said, “Ah,” and smiled again. He did Tammany Hall Jovial well, but it was wearing thin on me; I hoped he would segue into one of the others pretty soon. Even Mr. Hard-Ass would be preferable.
I said, “You’re a busy man, Mr. Purchase, and so am I, so let’s get right to the point. I’m not here to do you any harm. If you’ve checked me out — and I’m sure you have — you know I have a long-standing reputation for discretion, honesty, and straightforward business practices. Your name came up in a case I’m working on. As far as I know, the case has nothing to do with you; but there’s a chance you may know something that will help me get to the bottom of it, so I’d like to ask you some questions. Whatever you say to me is strictly between us — it goes no farther than this office.”
“Well stated.” Purchase’s smile was gone now; he’d adopted a serious, attentive mien. The Confidant. He set his mug down, leaned closer. “You wrote Nedra Merchant’s name on your card. Is she your client?”
“No. She’s involved with a party connected with my client.”
“I see. Are you investigating her, then? Gathering evidence against her for some reason?”
“Not at all. I don’t intend her harm in any way. Nor does my client.”
“Then why are you interested in my relationship with her, such as it is?”
“I’m not. But I have reason to believe you know her fairly well, and I—”
“Who led you to believe that, may I ask?”
“Confidentiality, Mr. Purchase.”
“Yes, of course. But I’d like to know what your confidential source alleged was the nature of my relationship with Ms. Merchant.”
“That it was personal.”
“Sexual?”
“Personal. Was it sexual?”
“It was not. Nedra and I were friends, nothing more.”
“Were? You’re not any longer?”
“I haven’t seen her in quite some time,” Purchase said. “We no longer move in the same circles.”
“How long a time?”
“Nearly two years.”
“And how long did you know her before that?”
“A few months. We met at a political fund-raiser.”
“Did you spend much time together?”
“Not much, no. I took her to dinner twice, as I recall. And with my wife’s knowledge and consent, I might add.”
“Did you and Nedra discuss personal matters?”
“What sort of personal matters are you referring to?”
“Her private life. Did she confide in you?”
“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“For instance, the names of men she was intimate with—”
“No. That topic never came up.”
“Her plans for the future? Places she liked to visit, where she went when she wanted to get away for a while?”
“I don’t recall discussing those topics.”
“Has she ever sent you postcards?” I asked.
The question caught him off guard. “Postcards?”
“Picture postcards. When she was away on a trip.”
“Hardly. Nedra?” He frowned. “Why do you ask that?”
“I thought you might have heard from her recently.”
“Well, I haven’t. I told you, I’ve had no contact with the woman in nearly two years.”
“Does the abbreviation ‘Thorn.’ mean anything to you?”
“Thorn?”
“The first part of a word like ‘Thornbridge.’ ”
“No,” Purchase said. He tugged at his lower lip. “What does that have to do with Nedra?”
“It might help me find her.”
“Find her?”
“She’s been missing since early May.”
“I don’t... missing? My God, you mean something’s happened to her?”
“It’s a strong possibility.”
“She simply... vanished? Without a trace?”
“Minute traces, that’s all.”
“And you’re trying to find her after all this time?”
“Among other things, yes,” I said. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the circumstances of my investigation. Confidentiality, as I said before. But I am interested in knowing why she left the city so suddenly and where she is now.”
“The police? Have they been told?”
“Not yet.”
“But they will be?”
“Unless I can track her down myself, within a reasonably short period of time.”
He tugged at his lower lip again; I could almost hear his thoughts grinding together. “If they are called in,” he said at length, “I would be in your debt if you didn’t give them my name. If I could help in any way, of course I would; but I can’t. And you know how the media can distort the most innocent situation, make it into something sordid.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’d be very grateful. I mean that.”
Now he was Mr. Sincerity. And The Bargainer, covering his tail. If I balked even a little, and he perceived me as a threat, he’d become Mr. Hard-Ass in a twinkling.
I said, “If it’s not necessary to give the authorities your name, Mr. Purchase, then I won’t do it. Fair enough?”
I thought he might argue the point; he wanted a firm commitment. But he didn’t argue. Maybe his intelligence reports had stressed the fact that I wasn’t somebody who could be intimidated or bought off. Or maybe he was just being circumspect.
“Fair enough,” he said, and put an end to our little interview by getting to his feet and holding out his hand. I stood, too, shook the hand even though I didn’t much feel like touching him again. “I hope you find Nedra safe and sound. She’s a fine person; I was proud to have her as a friend.”
I nodded without speaking.
“If there’s anything I can do — privately, just between you and me — don’t hesitate to call on me. Will you do that?”
“Count on it, Mr. Purchase.”
I went out of there thinking that he was a slimy son of a bitch. And that he had yet another persona among his repertoire, one that he’d slipped in and out of the whole time we were talking — particularly where his relationship with Nedra Adams Merchant was concerned.
The Liar.
This time, when I took myself out to Castle Street in Daly City, Eddie Cahill was home. Or at least the white Ford van was there, parked in front of the third row house from the corner.
I pulled up across the way, next to the weed-clogged vacant lot. It was colder out here, windier, with low-riding clouds that worked with the sun to create a light-and-shadow show. I sat for a few seconds, watching the run-down neighborhood alternately turn from pale gold to dull gray, getting my mind clear on what I wanted to say to Cahill. Then I crossed the street and went along a cracked walk and banged on the door of his rented row house, the way authority knocks.
He opened up pretty quick. Not much reaction when he saw me; just a facial tightening along the jaw and under the cheekbones, until the skin in those places was tight as a drumhead. The blue eyes had malice in them. He was wearing Levi’s jeans and a white knit pullover that showed off muscle-knotted arms and well-developed pecs. Lifted weights in prison, I thought. The knuckles on his right hand were wrapped in a thin, crude bandage: badge of dishonor from last night’s attack on Victor Runyon.