‘Real rare. It’s happened before. Why isn’t it my business? Like I said, I’m sorry. But the dude got caught, right? It’s all over.’
‘The note?’
‘No. Nothing on it worth keeping. No return address, if that’s what you mean. Typed.’
Gratelli shook his head.
‘Wait a minute, trash hasn’t gone out this week. Could have the box and the note.’
The box did reveal the messenger service. The note was printed by a laser printer. He took them both. Fingerprints? He doubted it. The messenger service wasn’t much help. Earl Falwell’s get-out-of-jail-free donor had left the box and a note with more than enough money to handle the delivery. They were left on the counter of the service. Whoever left the package and instructions had managed to come and go unseen.
‘What?’ Gratelli said. Most of the calls to Earl Falwell in the past thirty days came from public telephones. The selection was random. The sites were scattered about the Bay area, mostly around North Beach and Chinatown. One was from the Hall of Justice on Bryant. McClellan’s direct line. One was from Tennessee. It hadn’t been identified.
Gratelli dialed the number.
‘Mildred O’Donnell, Valley Farms, how may I help you?’
‘I’m not sure you can,’ Gratelli said. ‘I’m trying to get some information on Earl Falwell.’
‘Earl?’
‘Yes, do you know him?’
‘My grandson. Why are you asking about him?’
‘I was trying to locate him,’ Gratelli lied. He hadn’t prepared himself to deliver the news of Earl Falwell’s death and the circumstances surrounding it.’
‘He’s in San Francisco. Is something wrong?’
‘What kind of farm do you have there, ma’am?’
‘It’s not really a farm. We sell bulbs, flowering bulbs.’
‘Like what kind?’
‘Lilies, iris, daffodils.’
‘Tulips?’
‘Oh yes. Award winners. Our best sellers.’
‘And roses?’
‘No, no. Roses don’t grow from bulbs, Mister…’
‘Gratelli. Sorry to have bothered you.’
‘It had to be Earl,’ Paul said to Julia while he fixed coffee. It was his apartment. Paul sat at the small kitchen table. Julia moved into the other room. ‘Had to be,’ Paul repeated. Julia looked out the window. The second floor was high enough to see over the single story buildings across Hayes. She could see the wide expanse of the hills rolling south out of the city and the square stair-stepped houses that dotted them.
‘I’ve always liked this view,’ she said.
‘You’re not listening,’ Paul said.
‘I am.’
‘You want this to keep going on? How else could it be? The guy was connected to the killings long before you. He comes back. How else would he know where you live? You want to think that the killer is out there. You want to live that way for the rest of your life?’
‘Paul,’ she said, urging him to understand. ‘I can’t help what I feel. You want it to be Earl so that it’s all over.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Of course, I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I like all this. Who knows?’
‘I’m sorry. Explain it to me.’
‘I doubt if I can in a way that makes sense. I don’t know that I know the killer. I just believe that I would know him if I were as close to him as I was to Earl-what’s-his-name.’
‘I’m still confused.’
‘You’re so cute when you’re confused,’ Julia said smiling.
‘Being Chinese, I thought I was inscrutable.’
‘Cute and inscrutable. Maybe inscrutably cute. Or cutely inscrutable.’
‘You’re so calm,’ Paul said.
‘Listen, I’ve spent months being a basket case. I’m not sure I have anything to lose.’
‘Your life,’ Paul said, ‘if you’re right.’
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure I mind so much the idea of dying. I just mind like hell the idea of this sonofabitch making the decision.’
‘The top notes are your first experience,’ said Daniel Alexander, a young black man who seemed to enjoy his task – to explain the nature of scent to a San Francisco homicide inspector. ‘The middle note is the second experience, a second scent if you will.’
‘So,’ Gratelli said, trying to form a question while seated self-consciously in an ornate chair on the other side of an equally ornate table from Mr Alexander in what appeared to be some sort of parlor. ‘If someone smelled butter…’ Gratelli said, waiting for some sort of confusion to overtake the perfumer’s calm, unlined face.
‘Butter yes,’ he said, smiling. ‘Absolutely. Not at all odd. Was there another scent? Leather perhaps?’
Gratelli was stunned. ‘Yes. Leather.’
Mr Alexander nodded. He rose from his seat, went to a large, wall cabinet and brought out some bottles and dabs of cotton. ‘Here,’ he said, letting the cotton absorb a tiny bit of clear liquid. ‘Smell.’
‘Something citrus,’ Gratelli said.
‘Take the scent in more slowly, for a longer duration. Do you smell butter, perhaps leather? It’s subtle, but you can pick it up if you try to distinguish different qualities of the scent, allow yourself to discriminate. Maybe we can call it the levels.’
‘Yes, butter.’ Gratelli kept breathing it in. ‘Yes, leather, for Christ sake.’ Gratelli was amazed.
‘Hmmm hmmmn,’ Daniel Alexander said. ‘It’s quite like wine. If you pay attention, there’s much more than just one level of taste.’ He smiled at Gratelli’s amazement. ‘In scents, you see, there’s a top note, a middle note and most probably a bass note, which lingers for quite some time. Even though scent is altered by the human pheromones through perspiration, there are characteristics of some colognes and perfumes that remain pretty consistent.’
‘So is this the only cologne that has this leather and butter combination?’
‘No. In fact this pairing of scents used to be quite common, but it is rare enough today. It is also quite costly.’
‘Really?’ Gratelli said.
‘What you are picking up is ambre gris. It’s only found in tropical seas. All of it is a bit morbid in a way. The sperm whale eats octopus, you see. The whale, however, is unable to digest the beaky matter of the octopus and therefore that particular matter results in intestinal calculi that is eventually ejected by the whale. It’s found floating in the sea. It is soluble in alcohol and the essence is employed in the blend with other perfumes to give the scent a lasting property.’
‘How lasting?’
‘Centuries.’
‘What?’
‘Depending on the amount and the way it’s blended. It clings to woven fabrics. It’s been detected in material more than three hundred years old.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. Of course, the wearer adds his or her own special, very individual touch. Essentially perspiration. The very thing that people try their best to disguise. If George Washington had worn it, I suppose a good bloodhound could still determine which beds he really slept in.’
‘What about washing? Can it be detected after the stuff has been washed or dry cleaned.’
‘That’s what they say. I haven’t run any tests myself. It’s part of the lore, though. I suspect it’s true.’
‘Which perfumes use this… substance?’
‘Many of the expensive, fine scents.’
‘Perfumes I can find at Macy’s, Nordstrom?’
‘A few. Certainly the custom-made perfumes and colognes.’
‘Custom made?’
‘Of course.’
‘Like suits?’
‘Yes. Custom scents. Designed for the desire or the need or the whatever of the individual. That’s what I do. One gets tailored clothing, handmade shoes, and made to order perfumes. Why not?’
‘I don’t know why not,’ Gratelli said.
‘No way,’ Lieutenant Thompson said. His gray eyes refused to meet Gratelli’s.
‘I can’t do my job,’ Gratelli said.
‘Too weird. You have to have more than that.’
‘If I had enough to convict, I wouldn’t need a search warrant right now. I can’t be sure without it.’