But attorneys aren’t the only breed to take their money-loving ways before the public, up close and personal. Televangelists started the trend and in some markets are still flourishing; now any number of other professional groups are taking up the advertising cudgel, too, including one I’d have liked to believe was above that kind of hucksterism — the private investigator. Not long ago I’d heard about one licensed P.I., back East somewhere, who had made and marketed a videotape called “Do You Know Who You’re Dating?” aimed at people who want to check out potential spouses or housemates before they get too involved. On his video the detective tells you how to identify a philanderer and/or fortune hunter, how to spy on someone, and — naturally — how to go about hiring the “right kind” of private investigator.
Maybe one of these nights, I thought, I’ll turn on the tube and there Eberhardt will be, wearing one of his cheap suits and Goodwill ties, puffing on a pipe and flogging his services in that stiff, humorless way of his. “Hello. My name is Eberhardt. I am the sole owner and operator of Eberhardt Investigative Services. My offices are located in a crummy building on Eighteenth and Valencia, but they’re only temporary. I specialize in all types of cases and I guarantee results. I do all my own work — I don’t need anybody for anything. I’m the best, the smartest, and someday I’ll be the biggest dick in San Francisco.”
But it wasn’t funny.
It wasn’t funny at all.
Eucalyptus drive is on the west side of the city, close to the Stonestown Mall and San Francisco State University. The building in which Walter Merchant did business was a four-story nondescript pile that also housed doctors, dentists, and other professional services. Merchant seemed to be fairly successful at the personal-injury racket: he had a six-room suite on the top floor, and two junior partners. His anteroom wasn’t such-a-much: muted colors and a minimum of furniture and decorations, which may or may not have been calculated to provide a businesslike, no-nonsense first impression. Either way, the redheaded legal secretary fit right in. She was young and attractive, but she wore glasses and a severely tailored suit, and her welcoming smile was both courteous and competent.
I gave her one of my business cards and a request to see Walter Merchant on a routine matter concerning his ex-wife. Her only reaction was a slightly raised eyebrow. She invited me to have a seat and took my card through one of the inner doors. I had a seat, and when she didn’t return immediately I picked up a copy of People magazine and thumbed through it. I was skimming a story about a twenty-five-year-old baseball player who had written a “tell-all” autobiography — ludicrous for several reasons, not the least of which was that a twenty-five-year-old baseball player who could read much less write a book was a Smithsonian rarity — when the secretary reappeared and said that Mr. Merchant was free at the moment and would be happy to give me ten minutes of his time.
Merchant’s private office differed from the outer one in that law books covered one wall and a big aquarium stood in front of another. Inside the tank, vividly colored tropical fish darted in and out among rocks and shimmery green underwater plants. “Neons, rasboras, and mollies, mostly,” he said when he saw me looking at the tank. “The two yellow-and-white ones with the black-tipped fins are my prizes. Amphiprion percula, very rare.” I nodded and smiled, as if I knew or cared what amphiprion percula were. He told me anyway. “Clownfish,” he said.
Merchant was more or less what I’d expected. Late thirties, tennis-and-handball trim, with shrewd brown eyes and lank brown hair thinning at the crown. Well but not flashily dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, pale-green shirt, yellow paisley tie; gold watch on one wrist, square opal ring on the third finger of his other hand. Calm, confident, take-charge manner. Vigorous handshake, professional smile. Perry Mason would have been proud of the dignified image he projected.
When we were seated, him behind his exec’s desk with his hands tented under his chin in an attentive posture, he said, “I’ve heard your name, of course. One of our city’s foremost investigators.”
Me and Hal Lipset, I thought. I showed him a disarming smile of my own and said through it, “I’ve been at the game a long time.” We were like a couple of smart mongrel dogs in an alley, sniffing around each other, trying to pick up the right scent.
“It’s not a serious problem that brings you here, I hope.”
“Not serious, no.”
“Something about my ex-wife.”
“A routine insurance matter. I do a fair amount of background checks and claims investigation.”
I was prepared to embellish on that with some specific fabrications, but Merchant seemed satisfied. He said, “I see. Well, what is it you’d like to know?”
“You’ve been divorced five years, is that right?”
“Closer to four and a half.”
“Amicable split?”
Small pause. Then he shrugged and settled back in his chair. “Not at the time. There were some bad feelings, wrangling over assets — the usual frictions when two people dissolve a marriage. Once tempers cooled... well, she didn’t give me any reason to hire a bodyguard and I didn’t give her any reason to change the locks on the house.”
“So you don’t bear her any ill will.”
“None whatsoever. Nor does she bear me any.”
“Are you on friendly terms?”
“Cordial would be a better word.”
“How long since you last saw her?”
“About a year. We had lunch one day last fall.”
“Since you talked to her?”
“Six months. I check in with Nedra once or twice a year, to see how she’s getting along.”
“Do you know much about her current affairs?”
“Affairs? You mean business affairs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I understand she’s doing quite well,” Merchant said. “Built up her graphics design business into a real moneymaker.” On that last there was an undercurrent of what might have been resentment, as if he’d have preferred her to be a little less independently successful.
To prod him a little I said, “Not such a money-maker in recent months. She’s evidently had severe financial problems — missed utility and credit-card payments and three installments on a new Mercedes before she got caught up again.”
“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. And a little pleased, too, though he tried not to show it. “That’s odd. I mean, I had the exact opposite impression of her finances. That she’d gone to the head of the class.”
“How so?”
“My last three alimony checks,” Merchant said. “She hasn’t cashed them.”
My turn to be surprised. “Still hasn’t cashed them, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
“How much are you paying her per month, if you don’t mind my asking?”