Treasure Hunt

And at last something gave way in her and she nodded. “Okay.”

He pulled his hand away from her chin and straightened up. “That’s settled, then. Once and for all.”

She saluted again. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Once and for all.”

“You want to talk to this Linda Colores?”

“I could.”

“Okay,” Hunt said. “Go for it.”

Nearly the size of a football field, the Green Room at the San Francisco War Memorial was on the second floor of the stately marble building next to the Opera House on Van Ness Avenue. Floors and pillars in the vast room were of marble. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high and the featured colors were gas chamber green trimmed with gold. The room was earthquake rated for 1,300 people, though it easily could hold many more than that. For Como’s memorial, city employees were on hand at both sets of doors to turn mourners away and prevent the room from getting overfilled.

Hunt got there early enough to get in without any problem and he looked around to see an oversized photograph of a smiling Dominic Como hung from the wall behind the podium. Hunt had already walked by one of the long tables piled high with brochures of the Sunset Youth Project, the Battalion Special Corps, and pledge cards for the reward fund. The large portable screen up against the front wall indicated that the service was also going to include a video or a slide show.

Hunt was begi

Now Ellen was surrounded by a mob of well-wishers and fellow mourners-perhaps some of them family members, but also a large host of mostly African-American men, women, and teenagers who Hunt assumed were Como’s associates, fellow workers, and many of the beneficiaries of his charitable work over four decades.

But then in the sea of faces, Hunt spied a familiar one on the outskirts of the group surrounding Ellen, and he gradually made his way up near the podium and touched the arm of the man who’d discovered the tire iron in the lagoon.

“Mr. Rand?” he said, extending his hand. “Wyatt Hunt.”

Rand recognized him right away, shook the proffered hand, and said half-jokingly, “You ain’t here to tell me I already got that reward, now, are you?”

Hunt gri

“Not really. I never met the lady. I’m just payin’ my respects.” He raised a hand and mouthed a hello to someone he knew and then came back to Hunt. “Good to see this kind a turnout. ’Specially after all that in the paper today. I don’t know where they got all that, make Dominic look like some kind a… I don’t know what. You see that?”

“I did.”

“So what’d you think?”

“I think Jeff Elliot usually gets his facts right.”

“So you think Dominic was skimmin’ some a that?”

“I don’t know what to think, to tell you the truth. I didn’t read it so much that he was skimming something for himself as that he was only supposed to use certain money for certain things, and maybe he didn’t care so much about that.”

“You got that right. He just put it where they needed it. And all that about his car and people ru

“I do.”

“You do things first, you ask permission later, that’s how he was. An’ nothin’ wrong with that, you ask me.”

“You feel the same way about Len Turner?”

The name alone cast a shadow over Rand’s face.

“You got a problem with him?” Hunt asked.

Rand shrugged. “Don’t hate him. Different breed of cat, that’s all.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, like Dominic, he one of us, one of the people.”

“And Turner’s not?”

This brought a tolerant smile. “You go have a word with the man. You find out soon enough.”

“I already have, and I will again. And I believe you.” He turned to where Rand had glanced and finally saw Turner with a small knot of other mourners in somber conversation. “You know those other people over there with him too?”

“Some. That big, good-looking woman behind Ellen, talkin’ to him now, that Lorraine Hess, Dominic’s number two. Next to her is Al Carter.”

“Dominic’s driver.”

Rand nodded. “One of ’em. Then the couple holdin’ hands, that’s Jimi and Lola Sanchez, from over at Mission Street.”

“Those are a lot of my reward people,” Hunt said. “I’m going to mosey over there and say hello. Good talking to you, Cecil.” He’d gone two steps when he stopped and turned. “Oh, and as soon as I know anything on the reward, I’ll get back to you.”

Rand showed some teeth. “I be waitin’ by the phone.”

When he got close to the Turner group, Hunt hung back for a minute to listen. As opposed to the scathing CityTalk column, the death of Nancy Neshek hadn’t made it into this morning’s newspaper. But still, from radio, television, phone calls, and the Internet, word had obviously gotten out, and now this core group of nonprofit professionals was discussing her death.

Hunt waited for a lull in the flow of the conversation, then stepped in. “Excuse me for interrupting,” he said, “but I thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”

Turner took over and made the introductions all around, and when he’d finished, Hunt said, “I couldn’t help overhearing what you were talking about.”

“Nancy can’t really be dead,” Hess said. “I can’t believe that. It can’t be true.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Hunt replied, “but it’s an absolute fact.”

Turner asked Hunt, “You think this is co

“How could it be?” Hess asked the group at large. “How could any of this even be happening?”

Carter, calm but firm, put a hand on Hess’s arm. “Lorraine. Think about it. How could it not be co

“Nobody knows about that one way or the other,” Hunt said. “Cause of death was the same. Blunt force trauma to the head. Beyond that it’s all conjecture.”

“So you’re saying someone killed her?” Turner asked.

Hunt nodded. “Without a doubt.”

“Lorraine’s right. This is unbelievable.” Jaime Sanchez put his arm around his wife and drew her in closer to himself. He looked to Hunt for an answer. “Do you have any idea what this is all about?”

“No,” Hunt said. “The timing suggests a co

“What was the question?” Turner asked.

“She never got to ask it. She wanted to talk to me in person, but never got to it.”

“And this is why we’re paying you?” Len Turner asked. “This and the Chronicle story this morning?”

The question was so unexpected and so hostile that for a moment it stopped Hunt in his tracks. But not for too long. “I knew nothing about the CityTalk column until it came out this morning. And even if I had known about it, I would not have been able to stop it. Jeff Elliot writes what he wants. We are doing what you’re paying us to do, Mr. Turner. We’re following up leads as quickly and efficiently as we can.”