“Okay. Don’t push it. I’m making headway on my own.”
“So you are working,” he said. “You big dumb bastard.”
“I’ve got my reasons.”
“What happened to you and your cop friend, is that it?”
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s it.”
“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Me too.”
I lay down on the bed for half an hour, to rest and do some thinking. Carl Emerson seemed like the best bet so far to be the man behind Jimmy Quon; but I still could not link him up to Eberhardt. Emerson was a gambler, and gambling was illegal, but the police didn’t hassle high rollers, just the parlor operators like Lee Chuck. What could a man like Emerson have done to put Eberhardt on his case? That had to be it, and it had to be something heavily illegal; there was no other possible reason why anyone would try to bribe a police lieutenant. And yet from all I’d learned so far, Emerson was a supposedly reputable businessman.
Well, maybe his ex-wife had some answers for me. She was the only other lead I had at the moment. Except for Emerson himself, and I was not ready yet to confront him.
I got up a little before five, bundled into my overcoat, and went downstairs. I checked the street again before I left the building; still no sign of Quon. And there was nobody on my tail when I drove over to Vallejo Street.
There were no parking spaces near 2860; I had to leave my car three blocks away in a bus zone. This time when I climbed up onto the porch and rang the bell next to Jeanne Emerson’s name, the speaker box crackled after ten seconds and a woman’s voice said, “Yes, who is it?”
“Mrs. Emerson?”
“Jeanne Emerson, yes?”
“My name is Lloyd Rable,” I said. “I’m an investigator for North Coast Insurance. I’d like to talk to you about your ex-husband, if I may.”
Silence for a couple of seconds. Then, “What about him?”
“Mr. Emerson has applied for a large policy with my company. I’m making a standard procedure check into his background.”
“You’re investigating him?”
“Yes, that’s right — a routine investigation. I thought you might be willing to give me a few minutes of your time.”
“I’d be happy to. Just a second.”
The front door lock began to buzz; I went over and pushed inside. A lobby elevator took me up to the fourth floor. I found 4B, down to the left, and knocked on the door, and it opened on a chain and a woman peered out.
I blinked at her, startled. “Mrs. Emerson?”
“Ms. Emerson, if you don’t mind,” she said.
I gawked a little; I couldn’t help it. She was not what I had expected — and yet she was already more than I’d hoped for.
Jeanne Emerson was Chinese.
Fourteen
She took the business card I handed her through the opening, gave it a cursory glance, and then closed the door long enough to remove the chain. “Come in, please.”
I went in. She was about thirty, slender, finely boned, with glossy black hair parted in the middle and hanging curtainlike down the small of her back. Her face was a perfect oval, each feature symmetrical; the eyes dominated — olive-black, expressive, slanted only just a little. The only things that kept her from being beautiful were a tracery of lines around the eyes and a bitter curve to her mouth.
When she had the door closed she led me out of a narrow foyer into a Victorian-style living room: heavy old furniture, a couple of Tiffany lamps that may or may not have been genuine, a small Queen Anne fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. The walls were covered with blown-up photographs, most black-and-white, the rest sepia-toned; all of them were contemporary cityscapes, but they had an old-fashioned, almost brooding quality that somehow managed not to be oppressive in that dark room. In one corner, a stereo unit tucked into a cabinet played softly, something classical, with lots of stringed instruments. There was nothing Oriental in the room except her. Even the faces in the photographs were all either black or white.
She indicated a Victorian chaise and I sat down on it. She said, “Would you care for something to drink?”
“Thanks, no.”
“Well, I think I’ll have a Scotch. I just got home a few minutes ago and it’s been a long day.”
She went to a sideboard, opened it, took out a bottle and a glass, and poured herself a healthy slug, no ice, no mix. When she came back with it to where I was she caught me looking at the photographs. One in particular — a study of the De Young Museum, clouds piled up the background, people on the steps, that was both sensitive and oddly haunting.
“Do you like them?” she asked. “The photographs?”
“Yes. They’re quite good.”
“My work,” she said with some pride. “I’m a free-lance photojournalism”
“Ah.”
“Most of them have appeared in magazines. New West, San Francisco Magazine, a few others.”
“You must be very successful.”
She moved one shoulder in a small delicate shrug. “I make a living,” she said, and arranged herself on a ladder-back chair with a tufted seat the color of burgundy wine. She was wearing a white blouse and a long black skirt; the skirt made rustling noises when she crossed her legs. She took a sip of her drink and watched me over the rim of the glass, waiting.
I said, “Some of the questions I have to ask are personal. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You said Carl has applied for a large policy with your company?”
“Yes. A life policy. Also a substantial policy on his home in Burlingame.”
“I’m sure he can afford it. I understand his company is flourishing these days.”
I nodded. “He seems to be solvent, at least as far as Mid-Pacific Electronics is concerned. But I’ve learned that he has a penchant for gambling.”
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes; they were steady, dark with some sort of contained emotion. “That’s true,” she said. “Gambling is his second favorite pastime.”
“His second favorite, did you say?”
“His favorite is women.” She said it matter-of-factly. Nothing changed in her expression, except that the curve of her mouth got even more bitter. “But you were asking me about his gambling. You want to know if he loses heavily, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Not very often, no. He’s very good at it.”
“Even professional gamblers suffer losses from time to time,” I said. “Would you know if he’s had any major setbacks in the past few months?”
“No. I haven’t seen Carl in close to three years, and we don’t communicate.”
“You’ve been divorced four years, is that right?”
“Yes. Four years.”
“I understand his favorite game is poker. When you were married did he have a regular place he liked to play? Here in the city, I mean. I know he goes to Las Vegas several times a year.”
“Not that I can remember. Carl and I didn’t communicate very well then, either.”
“Did he ever gamble in Chinatown?”
She took another sip of her Scotch, studying me. “Why do you ask that? Because I’m Chinese?”
“Well... yes.”
“Are you surprised that he was married to a Chinese woman? You seemed startled when you saw me.”
“I guess I was. The issue hadn’t come up before.”
“If you knew Carl, you wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why is that?”
“He has a passion for the Chinese. My people, their way of life — all things Chinese.”
So that’s it, I thought. The case against Carl Emerson was solidifying, beginning to take shape. He was the man I wanted; I could feel it now, heavy and growing, like a tumor.