The Man in the Microwave Oven Read online

  I thought of all the fights I’d heard about and came up with what seemed like the most pressing, or at least the one with the most money at stake. The real estate market in San Francisco was the hottest in the country; ramshackle cottages in the outer neighborhoods were selling for more than a million dollars. A one-car garage in the Mission District had recently sold for $300,000. “What if it was someone who thought it would prevent the condo development somehow?”

  Nat made a “maybe” grimace. Two of our residents had recently sold their adjoining buildings for princely amounts to Amos Noble, a notorious developer of third-rate condominium buildings. He’d used a straw buyer to hide his interest until it was too late for the sellers to change their minds, which was generally agreed to be underhanded. He and Katrina had made no bones about his plan to demolish the two buildings. So far, neighborhood opposition had kept the wrecking crews at bay, but no one was sure for how long. While we waited, the owners of buildings on either side of the proposed condo had also been approached to sell. They were holding out so far but, threatened with months, perhaps years of major construction next door, I could understand why they might take the money and run. If they did, the owners of two more neighboring buildings might do the same thing, and the dominoes falling would change Fabian Gardens beyond recognition. The conflict made the association meetings more contentious than usual, which was saying something. Meanwhile, the buildings had been empty for months, providing a place for rallies and demonstrations against the project and its developer, as irritating and obvious as a broken tooth.

  The neighborhood had been a refuge to me; I hated to see it destroyed, and I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a massive construction site taking up half the street, blocking off parking and filling the air with construction dust. Nat was clearly picturing the same scenario. “Doubtful. It’ll go ahead—it’ll be a two-year nightmare of dirt and noise and backhoes parked in the street, and sidewalks blocked off, and I’m already wishin’ I lived somewhere else.” He tipped his glass and finished his wine. I poured us both another glass, emptying the second bottle. “It leaves the D’Allessios as suspects number one and two, since their place is next door, but they’re in their seventies, and I’m pretty sure Katrina could take them,” Nat said.

  “A gun trumps just about anything, though, doesn’t it? If one of them was sitting in the passenger seat, they could shoot her without a struggle or anything.”

  “Just because they’re Italian doesn’t mean they’re gangsters, English. They sponsor the local Grandmothers Against Gun Violence group; I’d lay money they’re not packin’.”

  I snorted.

  He went on. “On the other side it’s all renters. I guess they wouldn’t want to move and lose their rent controlled apartments, but Angie Lacerda’s gettin’ married and movin’ out anyway, and Jesus and his partner, whatsisname, have been gone all month on that hike through Machu Picchu or wherever the hell they went. So they didn’t do it.”

  “Darkest Peru somewhere. They might have paid someone, you know, a hit man,” I said doubtfully.

  “You sayin’ ‘hitman’ in that accent of yours is the damdest thing I’ve heard all week.”

  I ignored that. “A couple of people switched sides recently,” I said, thinking of my friend Sabina and her surgeon husband, Kurt. “Maybe money or blackmail or some other kind of pressure?”

  “I don’t think Katrina’d be above blackmail. Seems like just her style. She sure tried”—he stopped short—“Anyway, I wouldn’t put anythin’ past her.”

  I concentrated on not looking self-conscious, since I was fairly sure Katrina’s heavy-handed hints the day before were a prelude to exactly that. It was typical Katrina, giving me a taste of her poison without actually making me swallow.

  I needed the wall between my real life and my fake life to hold. For that to happen, I needed to know what Katrina had found out about me, and I suddenly realized there might be a way for me to find out.

  “Where’d you go, Theo?” Nat asked suddenly.

  I started and looked at him. “Sorry. Do you know what happens to a lawyer’s cases and files if they die suddenly?”

  “Okaay,” he said, drawing it out, “quick change of topic. But you’re not the only one thinkin’ ahead. I already asked my lawyer friend Ricky. He says it’s not unusual, ’pparently, to have a plan all organized to turn their stuff over to some other lawyer who’s agreed to take care of things.”

  “Huh. When does that happen?”

  “I guess it has to be done pretty quick so deadlines and court dates don’t get missed. I bet Katrina’s office will be closed up by the cops for a day or two, but they’ll release it, so—any day now.”

  Nat was giving me the side-eye, and I tried to look thoughtful. “So—the condo project will probably go ahead with whoever this new lawyer is.”

  “Ricky’s guess would be yes—he said a change like that at the legal end of things wouldn’t bother or delay things much.”

  I rapidly reviewed what little I knew about lawyers. If Grandfather’s solicitor here in San Francisco was typical, lawyers were belts-and-braces cautious, keeping paper files in their offices in addition to computer files on a distant server. Presumably the police had removed Katrina’s computer as part of their investigation, but they would have no reason to remove the duplicate paper files—would they? And if not, they would be available to anyone with access to the file room. Whatever Katrina had found out about me would be there.

  Assuming Nat was right about the police investigation time line, if I was going to get into her office to look around, it had to be soon.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I spent parts of the next two days checking things out at Katrina’s office building to see if my half-formed plan was feasible, and buying a few things I thought I’d need. I’d never wanted a set of lock-picks before, but I learned they could by purchased online with twenty-four-hour shipping and a couple of locks to practice on. I picked up some simple white cards from the stationery store, then spent half an hour at the flower shop on the corner and made a quick stop at Out of the Closet to rummage through their shabbier offerings. Like almost every used clothing place in the city, they had an assortment of items for the drag queen diva about town, including outrageous wigs, size-14 stiletto heels, and super-sized feather boas, but I didn’t need much, and everything fit into the small paper sack I carried back to Aromas.

  Getting into Katrina’s flat wasn’t difficult, thanks to the practice locks and another sleepless night. The cousin was a potential problem, but I expected him to be asleep at the other end of the apartment at four a.m. What I didn’t expect was the coffee maker to be burbling away on the counter of the open-plan kitchen. I had the door open several inches before I realized I should have allowed for an insomniac journalist. I risked a quick peek around the door, saw no one, and leaned in to grab what I needed. I didn’t even step inside. I closed the door as quietly as I could, and ran with my ill-gotten gains.

  I’d already made my apologies to Nat for skipping a morning at The Coffee and asked Haruto to open Aromas on Tuesday morning. Davie, my teenaged helper, was coming in after school, so if I needed it, I had all day. I hoped I wouldn’t need it.

  A twenty-minute cab ride and a short walk got me to Katrina’s office, which was in a building on the blurred dividing line between Chinatown and North Beach on Columbus, a couple of (very steep) blocks from the heart of the Financial District. At seven a.m. it was raining lightly, and I was standing across the street under a shallow awning. We were in the middle of a significant drought. It rained so seldom that a heavy rainstorm could bring people out of their homes to marvel. A thunderstorm with lightning might just as well have been a Fourth of July fireworks display. Everyone dressed in layers, so we could deal with fog or a rapid dip or upswing in temperatures, but rain usually caught us by surprise. Groups of people tended to cluster under shelter and, even at this early hour, several people were under the awning with me, staring rese
ntfully up at the sky.

  As the rain stopped and my rain-averse cohorts moved on, a woman in the maroon jacket of the building’s security guards came out of a side door into the alley. She handed a mug to a ragged man crouching under a tarpaulin stretched between a wooden pallet and a shopping cart. She talked with him for a moment or two, then went back inside.

  The Beaux Arts building with its planters of disciplined boxwood wasn’t new, but it was well maintained, providing a glossy and expensive habitat for medium-level legal and accounting firms. I’d watched the routine at the security desk the day before, mostly from outside, but also while casually sipping a smoothie in the small lobby café. The security guards were friendly and personable, attentive to the building’s high-powered tenants. I’d checked on the location of fire stairs and emergency doors, which was always good information to have.

  Gone were the days when a person—a photographer, say—could wander into a building, check the directory, and take the elevator to any floor she wished. Security had gradually become so stringent in the aftermath of the 101 California Street mass shooting that in some newer buildings the elevators only responded to chipped cards carried by the tenants. I once spent an embarrassingly long time in an elevator like that, inspecting the sleek, button-free interior, wondering how to close the doors.

  Katrina’s building was a little too old for that level of high-tech, but guards still inspected a visitor’s ID, took a photo, had you sign a log, and then called upstairs to make sure you were expected. The only exception to the routine was early morning. Lawyers got to work early—very early—long before the support staff clocked in, and I was betting that a call from the security desk would go unanswered.

  I had a moment’s qualm because if I was successful, someone might lose their job. On the other hand, if I was successful and lucky, no one would know I’d been there.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wearing threadbare jeans, a ragged baseball cap, and a shabby hoodie over my thrift store T-shirt, I made my way over to the security desk carrying an enormous basket of orchids in artfully moldy clay pots, surrounded by pounds of moss, several yards of gauzy ribbon, and a couple of helium balloons. The polished dark green marble floor was slippery with wet footprints and dripping umbrellas, and I didn’t have to fake having trouble balancing everything. When I reached the security desk, I leaned into it and trapped the basket with my stomach to take some of the weight.

  “Delivery for—er—” I pretended to check the envelope dangling from a miniature shepherd’s crook, “Mr. Bhagatveer Singh Bhambra, front desk receptionist at Roberts and George, on the fourth floor.”

  The security guard, her shoulders stretching the limits of her uniform jacket, checked something on her monitor and flicked a few crumbs of moss off the glass counter. “Leave it here. No one’s in the office yet. We’ll get someone to take it up when they get here.”

  “The sender is proposing to his boyfriend and wants the orchids there when Mr. Singh Bhambra arrives this morning, and I have directions—”

  “Who the hell proposes in the lobby of an accounting firm?”

  “So can you take them up for me?” I consulted a list. “The pink ones go by his headset; the yellow ones on his chair, and the white ones are supposed to go in his rubbish bin.” I looked up, wide-eyed. “I know, right? But this is all supposed to mean something to them both. Just tuck the moss around the pots.” I glanced up at the huge clock above their desk. “He’ll be here soon; he’s coming in at, like, eight, with some musicians. God, that’s confusing—I mean Mr. George will be here in half an hour, and Mr. Singh Bhambra will be in later. This sounds really lame, right? But I guess if you’re a partner you can be lame. I’ll have a few minutes to get some java before I have to get back to the shop.” I started to heave the orchids up, dropping more moss and a few leaves onto the pristine glass reception desk.

  “Java?” She smirked. “You’re not from around here, huh? Look, kid, I don’t know how this can work; I can’t leave the desk, even for a proposal and I can’t let you into the offices.”

  I smiled and waved the white plastic card I’d pilfered from Katrina’s apartment. Luckily, it didn’t contain a specific office or suite number, just the building’s logo and the word “GUEST.” “It’s okay, Mr. George left us a card. He knows my boss real well.”

  She took the card, looked it over, and consulted her doughy-looking partner with a look. The partner tipped his head agreeably. “Okay, take off your sunglasses, I’m gonna take your picture and I need to see some ID.”

  I handed over a phony ID. It looked like the kind issued by the local legal aid program for the homeless, who sometimes needed to prove who they were and of course didn’t usually have driver’s licenses. It was a risk, but a small one—I’d seen her giving coffee and a few kind words to the rough sleeper in the alley more than once.

  “Way to work your way up, kid,” she said gruffly as she returned it, and then I felt guilty and hoped she wouldn’t lose her job.

  I frowned at the camera, fairly certain my green wig, nose rings, and ratty baseball cap would give me enough cover. I watched her finger on the camera button and, as it twitched, I moved slightly to coincide with the click of the shutter, just as a bit of added insurance. “Go on over to elevator B. It’ll take you up to the fourth floor.”

  “Okay, but don’t spoil the surprise. Mr. George won’t be happy; he’s a real prick. Sorry,” I added, trying to look shamefaced.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty common around here,” she said with a wink.

  Getting off the elevator on the fourth floor, and ignoring the arrow pointing left toward the accounting firm of Roberts and George, I turned right and followed signs to Katrina’s office suite.

  I used Katrina’s entry card on the outer door, and to my relief, the lock made several beeps, showed a perky little green light, and clicked open. I turned the deadbolt inside the door to the suite, leaned back against it, took a deep breath of copy toner, old coffee, and floral air freshener, and gave myself a mental high five. Succeeding in my ruse downstairs and opening the door with my purloined key card gave me much more of a thrill than breaking and entering probably should.

  The early hour and the murky weather meant I needed the narrow beam of bright white light from my finger-sized flashlight. The only danger was being seen from the windows of the hotel next door, but the drapes I could see over there were closed. With luck, everyone was still asleep or taking their morning showers, and not planning to fling aside the drapes to enjoy their misty view of North Beach in the rain.

  I left my basket of orchids on the reception desk and walked quickly around the suite to check on the layout. It was arranged in a square, with three glass-walled offices and a conference room on the outside, each with a window, and all helpfully labeled with nameplates. A walkway went around the entire suite, separating the offices from the reception area and an inner row of cubicles, presumably inhabited by lesser beings like assistants and clerks. The central core was shared by the copy machine, a supply closet, a small break room, and the file room.

  I was carrying my set of lockpicks in a case only a hair larger than a credit card. I’d once seen a friend open a lock with a hairpin, so I thought I should be able to do at least as well with actual lock picks. I wasn’t fast, but I understood the principle, and by the time I’d broken into my own flat a couple of times I was confident I could open a file cabinet lock in two or three minutes. The second time my own front door took me less than a minute, I made a mental note to have a burglar alarm installed.

  I pulled on the pair of latex gloves I’d brought with me—CSI was worth watching after all. Katrina’s office door was unlocked, which was explained when a few minutes of careful rifling through her books and desk drawers yielded nothing of any interest. A coffee mug on a coaster and an expensive pen set were the only things on her desk, and the console under the window held an empty crystal vase, a handful of books, and a pair of framed photos of smiling
groups of children. The kids, all wearing brightly colored T-shirts, were flanked by a couple of pleasant-looking, middle-aged nuns. The photos seemed out of character for Katrina, who, as far as I knew, had absolutely no interest in children or nuns or in fact anything except her car, her wine collection, and her work. Abandoning the office, I headed for the file room. It was locked, which gave me a chance to practice my new skill, and, as expected, the file cabinets were locked too. I used up valuable time to open them all. They used a system of numbers on the file folders, not just the alphabet, and it took me a few minutes to understand how to navigate it. I was neat, replacing everything in order, and made my way through the “B”s without finding anything. I hunted for Grandfather’s name, with the same lack of results, and then finally, and with a deep sense of foreboding, found the initial of my real last name. And there it was.

  I quickly sifted through newspaper clippings from my time in London and several photographs. There was a printout of an e-mail from my cousin Frederick; God knows how she’d come across that. Copies of the incorporation papers for Safe Haven Enterprises, which shielded the ownership of my building and Aromas, included my real signature. A sticker on the front had spaces for the name of the person borrowing the file, along with the date. Some of the other file folders had multiple stickers, all filled in and going back a couple of years. Mine had nothing, so I hoped it meant that no one but Katrina had read the contents. l didn’t bother to read the rest of the file; I folded it in half and stuffed it into the back waistband of my jeans.

  I checked my watch. The security guards were going to start wondering where I was. I flicked quickly through the rest of the files in all of the drawers, trying to be both fast and thorough. It looked as if Katrina had put together a dossier on a few of the people living in Fabian Gardens, the ones who had opposed the condo development. I wasn’t sure if that was standard lawyerly procedure or some sort of embryonic blackmail effort. In for a penny—I grabbed that file too. I locked the cabinets and the file room door and went back to where I’d left my orchid extravaganza.