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Marly said no to everything, her face frozen to stop her emotions from breaching the banks of a lake of bitterness. She emphatically claimed that she was and had been an ingenue when Holly hired her, unprepared to handle the complex emotions of both of the Frickes.
“Arthur can back up everything I’ve said,” she spat. “There are no secrets from Arthur Bevaqua. He knows everything. Good luck, Sergeant. I’m a dead end.”
CHAPTER 87
I WATCHED MARILYN STEIN walk away; stiff, angry, and not afraid to show it. I wondered if she was the one who’d made the phone call to Jamie on his last morning, if she had summoned him to his death. Had she hired someone to put him down? Had she done it herself? It would take a few phone calls to airlines to see if Marilyn Stein had flown from New York to San Francisco earlier this week.
I looked around for Richie, saw he was still working the crowd. I also saw brooding women, men drinking alone under shade trees who looked away as I caught their eyes. There was a touch on the back of my arm. I turned around. Rae Bergen was there with a tall, good-looking man of about forty.
She introduced me and Conklin to Christophe Picard, her ex-husband and companion of two decades. Christophe, a chef, said, “By the way, I have a bistro on Sacramento Street—Chez Bonhomie. You are both welcome to drop by and speak with me anytime. I doubt I know anything useful, but I’ll definitely serve you a meal you won’t forget.”
Rae said, “See that gloomy young man over there by the drinks? Gray jacket? That’s our son, Brock.”
I looked and saw a college-age boy standing beside the bar area. Brock was taller than Rae, had an athletic build, and had a look on his face I couldn’t read.
I mentioned wanting to speak with Brock, get his impressions of his uncle.
Rae said, “Good luck. Brock barely even talks to us. I had to plead with him to come to the funeral for my sake. Don’t be offended if he just walks away from you.”
Christophe said, “Sergeant, Brock’s generation would rather text than talk, and he’s in his own world at school—four hours from here.”
The door to the chapel opened, and the guests filed inside. I took Richie’s arm and followed the mourners into the chapel, where we took two seats on the aisle at the rear.
The service was ecumenical. The officiant was Judge Susan Anderson. She had not known James Fricke III, but she spoke as a woman who understood the loss felt by those saying last goodbyes to the dead. Anderson exhorted them—us—to think of the good life Jamie Fricke had lived.
She asked who would like to speak, and hands went up. Arthur Bevaqua stood, took the podium, and spoke of Mr. Jamie as a man who’d shaped his life and taught him to strive for excellence in all things. Arthur said that he loved Mr. Jamie and Mrs. Holly and always would.
Most of the eulogies were given by people I didn’t know well. I noted that neither Jamie’s first wife nor his sons had flown in to attend his funeral. Not even by Zoom. Rae tookthe podium to say that she’d known Jamie since before she’d been maid of honor at his and Holly’s wedding.
“Although I don’t believe in an afterlife, if there is one, Jamie will be having a party for Holly, for their friends who have passed. God bless Jamie and Holly. God bless us all.”
I took note of these rehearsed speeches, especially those from Jamie’s former lovers, and excepting Patty Delaney, no one fell apart or crossed a line. A prayer was offered by Judy Borinstein, and Sage Dugan, a member of the staff, sang a hymn in French, “J’irai la voir un jour.” At one point her voice had cracked, but she’d taken a breath, then picked up where she’d left off.
Conklin and I paid our respects to Jamie in his casket at the front of the chapel; a man no longer powerful, narcissistic, charming, unfaithful. We signed a visitor’s book, and I left my phone number and email address in the space provided.
We left the chapel before the hearse and the limos took the long drive out to Cypress Lawn in Colma. Rafe Talbot brought our cars around to the front of the house.
“Good luck, Sergeant,” Rafe said to me. “You still have Greta’s number? My girlfriend? Please call me there if I can help in any way.”
I wondered again about Rafe, this pleasant middle-aged man who’d done time for car theft at nineteen. He lived on the Fricke property and was closely tied to Jamie’s movements. We would need to talk to Rafe Talbot again.
As Conklin and I walked down the path to our cars, I composed a short email on my phone to Team Fricke, copied Brady, and pressed Send.
CHAPTER 88
THE JUDGE’S CHAMBERS were lined with bookshelves, carpeted in Oriental rugs, and appointed with midcentury modern furnishings. Judge St. John himself looked as though he’d stepped off the cover of a plump 1955Lifemagazine featuring the California Department of Justice.
He sat behind his desk facing the door, with the window behind him looking out on Bryant Street. Red Dog sat to the judge’s right. Yuki Castellano and her deputy sat at right angles to Parisi. Schneider sat across the room from the prosecution, with an empty seat beside him for Cates.
Also to the judge’s right was a thirty-two-inch TV on a stand, Tyler Cates’s image on the screen. Cates was sitting on a metal slab bed, with a blanket, no mattress. His head was in his hands and his body language told all. The young man was depressed or worse. On the screen, court officer Robert Wells, who was well-known around the Hall, approached the holding cell.
Cates asked, “What’s up?”
Wells said, “You, your attorney, and the prosecution are meeting with the judge now. If I were you, I’d behave.”
“Who asked you?”
“Do as you wish,” said Wells and unlocked the gate. He cuffed Cates and walked him out of the holding cell.