Last dance, p.8
Last Dance, page 8
“Not much. How soon can you get downtown?”
I glanced across the bed at Rosie, who was covered by a sheet and sleeping soundly. “Give me forty-five minutes.”
“Meet me at Victoria Pastry in North Beach. Tyler Benson comes in almost every morning.”
16
“IT’S THE NEXT BIG THING”
“You sure he’s coming?” I asked.
Pete looked out the window of the café at the corner of Columbus and Filbert in the heart of North Beach. “My sources tell me that Tyler Benson comes here every day at this time.”
His sources are usually right.
At seven o’clock on Wednesday morning, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet aroma of St. Honore cake, homemade cannoli, hand-baked amaretto pignoli cookies, and espresso. We were sitting at one of a half-dozen tables at Victoria Pastry, the century-old bakery where my grandparents bought birthday cakes when they were a little flush. For its first hundred years, it was located at Stockton and Vallejo, across the street from Little City Meats, which is still going strong. About a dozen years ago, it moved to its current location near Washington Square Park, down the street from the magnificent Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Church.
Pete’s eyes darted up the street. “Right on time, Mick. Follow my lead.”
I would never think of doing otherwise. I took a bite of my apple Danish and waited.
An athletic young man with buzz-cut blonde hair and sporting a navy Patagonia fleece bearing the logo of a failed crypto company entered the café, his phone pressed to his ear. He informed whomever he was talking to that he would consider his proposal.
I started to stand, but Pete stopped me. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Wait until he orders.”
Got it.
Benson went up to the counter and ordered a pastry and a cappuccino. He grabbed his breakfast and looked around.
Pete smiled and gestured at the empty chair at our table. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Feel free to join us.”
“Thanks.” Benson took a seat, sipped his coffee, and resumed looking at his phone.
Pete pretended to take a drink of coffee from his empty cup. “You’re Tyler Benson, aren’t you?”
“Uh, yes.”
“I’ve read a lot about you. You’ve had an amazing run of investments.”
“Uh, thank you.”
“It’s an honor to meet you. This is my brother, Mike.”
I love watching Pete work.
I played along. “Nice to meet you. You’ve been involved in some very exciting projects.”
Benson’s phone was now on the table. “I have.”
“Congratulations.”
Pete held up a finger—the signal for me to let him do the talking.
“You live around here?” he asked Benson, already knowing the answer.
The tech entrepreneur pointed at Coit Tower. “Telegraph Hill.”
“I’m a bit surprised that you aren’t living in one of those new towers down by the ballpark and Chase Center.”
Benson smiled. “I have a condo down there, too.”
I wasn’t surprised. According to Pete, Benson also had an estate in Atherton, a condo in Maui, a McMansion next door to Charles Schwab near the seventh fairway at Pebble Beach, and a six-thousand square foot pied-a-terre on Central Park West.
Benson added, “I like North Beach. I’m a fourth-generation native of San Francisco. My great-grandfather ran a dry-goods store a few blocks from here and played baseball on the North Beach playground.”
He also made a boatload of money when he sold his business to the affluent Magnin family and moved into a mansion around the corner from Dianne Feinstein in Presidio Terrace.
Pete feigned admiration. “Mike and I are only second-generation.”
Benson gave us a well-practiced phony smile. “It isn’t a contest.”
With guys like you, everything is a contest.
Pete kept his voice conversational. “How did you get started in the investment business?”
He inherited a lot of money and got really lucky.
Benson seemed willing to overshare with a couple of strangers. “I started in college at Harvard.”
Everybody who attends Harvard always finds a way to mention it.
He added, “I was in the same dorm as Mark Zuckerberg.”
I’m impressed.
“Then I got my MBA at Stanford.”
Stanford alums always manage to work that into the conversation, too.
Benson feigned modesty. “I worked at Andreessen Horowitz for a few years.”
Where you took advantage of your family’s connections and wealth.
He added, “About five years ago, I decided that I wanted a little more flexibility than Andreessen could offer, so I went out on my own.” He nodded as if to reassure himself that he had made the right call. “It’s worked out nicely.”
Pete nodded repeatedly and pretended to be impressed as Benson listed a dozen investments he had made which returned billions. He neglected to mention any losers.
“You still big on crypto?” Pete asked.
“Never was,” Benson insisted. “I’ve pivoted to AI. It’s the next big thing. It’s going to disrupt the world.”
We’ll see.
We chatted for a few more minutes as Benson nursed his coffee, ate his pastry, and expounded upon his investing acumen. He struck me as a pretty smart guy with excellent credentials, even better connections, and, most important, family money. In fairness, if I had found myself in similar circumstances, I probably would have done the same thing.
“You got any kids?” Pete asked.
“Not yet,” Benson said. “Maybe someday.”
“I have a daughter who is finishing her sophomore year at UC Santa Barbara. Mike’s daughter graduated from USC and is working at Pixar. His son is at Cal.”
“Fine schools,” Benson said dismissively. He might have added, “But not Harvard or Stanford.”
“You married?”
“Divorced.”
“Sorry.” Pete gave him a reassuring nod. “Mike and I have both been divorced. It was hard at the time, but it worked out for the best. I’ve been married for a long time. Mike has a long-term relationship. Hopefully, things will work out for you.”
“Thanks.” Benson finished his coffee and reached for his phone. “Thanks for sharing your table. Nice meeting you.”
“Nice meeting you, too. Actually, there was something else that I wanted to ask you about.” Pete kept his voice even. “Mike is with the Public Defender’s Office. He’s representing César Ochoa. I’m an investigator and helping with the case. Your name appeared on a list of people who were at For Gentlemen Only on Friday night.”
Benson tensed, but he didn’t say anything.
“You probably heard that the body of a dancer named Chloe Carson was found in the alley behind the club on Saturday morning. We’re trying to find out what happened.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“You were there on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“You go there often?”
His voice filled with irritation. “Occasionally.”
“I’m not passing judgment, Tyler. I’ve probably spent more time at clubs than you have. Did the police ask you for a statement?”
“Yes. I told them that I didn’t know Chloe Carson, I don’t know your client, and I don’t know anything about what happened on Friday night.”
“Did you ever talk to César?”
“He’s the doorman, right?
“Right.”
“I may have said hello when I entered the club.”
“Did you know Chloe Carson?”
“No.”
That conflicts with the information provided by Jerry Henderson.
“Did you see her on Friday night?”
“If she was onstage, I saw her.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No.”
This also conflicts with Henderson’s account.
“Did she interact with César?”
“Briefly. It looked like they were arguing about something.”
“Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“No.”
“Did she get into it with anybody else that night?” Pete asked.
“She got angry at the sound guy after the sound went out during her performance.”
“Jerry Henderson?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Anybody else?”
“She got into an argument with a lawyer.”
“How do you know it was a lawyer?”
“Because he was on the opposite side of a deal that I was working on a few years ago. His name is John Foreman.”
17
“WE HAVE AN UNDERSTANDING”
“Nice to see you again, John,” I lied.
The managing partner of the megafirm of Story, Short, and Thompson extended a hand, flashed a practiced smile, and lied back to me. “Nice to see you, Mike. It’s been a long time.”
At one-forty-five on Wednesday afternoon, I was standing in his corner office on the fortieth floor of Four Embarcadero Center. While most big law firms have opted for smaller spaces even for senior partners, John Foreman’s thirty-by-forty-foot space retained the splendor of a bygone era. Then again, it was probably fitting for the chairman of the third-largest law firm in the world, where revenues hit five billion dollars last year.
I admired his panoramic view extending from the Marin Headlands to the Golden Gate Bridge to Mount St. Helena to the Berkeley Hills and finally the Bay Bridge. “Nice view.”
“Thank you.”
Foreman was a couple of years older than I was, with chiseled features, a Roman nose, a head of coiffed silver hair, and the supreme self-confidence of a man with a twenty-five-million-dollar book of business. Notwithstanding the fact that big law firms had transitioned to business casual years ago, he still wore a top-of-the-line Armani suit, a custom Egyptian cotton dress shirt, and a three-hundred-dollar Salvatore Ferragamo necktie. My source at the firm (Nady’s husband) told me that Foreman takes home a cool twenty million a year.
I took a seat in the soft leather chair across from his immaculate desk that was handcrafted from fine oak. A matching conference table, credenza, and bookcase finished the ensemble. His walls displayed a half-dozen Picasso lithographs that cost more than his undergrad and law school tuitions at Harvard.
He sat down in his ergonomic chair and glanced at a state-of-the-art laptop—the only nod to Twenty-first Century technology in the opulent space. He was one of the most successful mergers and acquisitions attorneys in the world, but his office showed no signs of day-to-day legal work. A rainmaker of his stature had an army of junior partners and associates for such drudgery.
He was still displaying the phony smile. “I don’t think we’ve chatted since you left the firm.”
“Probably not,” I replied.
Foreman and I were partners for a short time at Simpson and Gates, a megafirm at the top of the Bank of America Building where I worked after Rosie and I split up. White-shoe firms like S and G don’t like attorneys who represent criminals because they don’t have a lot of money and they scare away the corporate clients. I was unceremoniously fired after five years when the power partners—including Foreman—decided that I wasn’t pulling my weight. Foreman moved over here after Simpson and Gates broke up.
He feigned sincerity. “You and Rosie have done very well.”
I can play this game, too. “Thank you. So have you.” I pointed at a photo of a supermodel-beautiful young woman posing in front of the eighteenth hole at Pebble Beach. “I remember when your daughter was in grammar school. She’s very pretty.”
“Actually, that’s my wife.”
Oops. “Sorry.”
“Diane and I split up shortly after you left the firm. It was difficult, but we’re on good terms. I was married to another woman named Marla for five years. That didn’t work out, either. Amy and I have been together for three years.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Marla was his paralegal at Simpson and Gates. I don’t know where he met Amy.
“Thank you for seeing me on short notice,” I said.
“Professional courtesy. Besides, we go back a long way. And I’ve always believed that it’s good policy to cooperate with the PD’s Office.”
This is probably the first time you’ve ever spoken to anybody from the PD’s Office.
“How can I help you?” he asked, trying to sound genuine.
“I’m representing César Ochoa, the doorman at For Gentlemen Only. You may have read that he’s accused of killing a dancer named Chloe Carson on Saturday morning.”
“I heard about it. Very sad.”
Here goes. “This is a bit awkward. The police reports included a list of people who were at the club on Friday night and Saturday morning.” I cleared my throat. “Your name was on it.”
The phony smile finally disappeared. “I was there.”
“You go there often?”
“From time to time. I live in the neighborhood.”
I glanced at the photo of his wife, but I didn’t say anything.
He spoke up again. “We have an understanding.”
Open marriage? Polyamory? Swinging? Old-fashioned infidelity?
His tone remained conversational. “Amy understands that I’m going to watch young women dance on occasion, and I understand that she’s going to meet men when she and her girlfriends go to Italy in the summer. We’re adults. We’re completely honest about it.”
“I’m not judging.” Yes, I am.
“I recall that you were once a priest. I suspect that you’re probably a little more judgmental than I am.”
This wasn’t covered at the seminary. “I’m not a priest anymore.”
The fact that he and his wife agreed that it’s okay to cheat didn’t surprise me. I was, however, a bit taken aback that he was so nonchalant about it. Then again, when I was at Simpson and Gates, it seemed as if I was the only partner who wasn’t sleeping with an associate, secretary, or another partner. Even during the dark days when Rosie and I were getting divorced, neither of us ever cheated, and we wouldn’t consider the possibility nowadays. Pete says that I’m old-fashioned. I guess I like it that way.
“Do you know César?” I asked.
“I didn’t know him well, but I said hello to him when I entered the club.”
“Did you see him have any interactions with Chloe Carson on Friday night?”
“No.”
“Did you know her?”
“I know that she was an excellent dancer.”
My eyes found their way to the photo of his wife, who bore a resemblance to Chloe. “Did you talk to her on Friday night?”
“Briefly. I told her that I enjoyed her performance.” He eyed me. “If you’re wondering whether I ever requested additional services, the answer is no.”
I was, and your answer conflicts with what we heard from Benson. “Tyler Benson was also at the club on Friday night. He told us that you got into an argument with Chloe.”
“Not true.”
“He was lying?”
“Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and say that he was mistaken.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Around one.” He said that he went straight home. “I live on Green Street about a ten-minute walk from For Gentlemen Only.”
“Your wife can corroborate your whereabouts?”
“She’s in Italy.”
There was a knock on the door, and his secretary entered the office. She was another attractive young woman.
“Your two o’clock is here, Mr. Foreman,” she said.
“Thank you. We were just finishing.”
She excused herself and left the office.
I sensed that this interruption was planned. “You talked to the police?”
“I did. I told them that I didn’t kill Chloe Carson, and I don’t know who did.”
“Do you think that César is capable of murder?”
“He’s always been nice to me.”
Not exactly the answer to my question. I handed him the printout of the customers who were at For Gentlemen Only on Friday night. “Recognize anybody?”
He scanned the list. “F.X. Quinn is an organizer for the theatrical union. He lives in North Beach and is planning to run for supervisor.”
“Did you see him have any interactions with Chloe Carson?”
“Briefly. They were arguing in the back of the club as I was leaving. I don’t know what it was about.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
He gave me a knowing look. “He’s a political guy, Mike. He won’t be hard to find.”
18
“I WAS WORKING”
Francis Xavier Quinn took a draw of his Stella Artois, wiped his lips with a paper napkin, and set his mug down on the table. “Good to see you, Pete. It’s been a few years.”
My brother nodded. “Good to see you, too, F.X.”
At three-thirty PM, Quinn, Pete, and I were sitting at a wobbly table with mismatched chairs next to the bar at Gino and Carlo’s, which the Rossi family has operated on Green Street in North Beach since 1942. The dive is housed in a ramshackle two-story building two blocks east of Columbus Avenue. Flanked by Caffe Sport and Golden Boy Pizza, Gino and Carlo’s smelled of beer, shrimp scampi, and pizza. It’s always been popular among cops, firefighters, longshoremen, and blue-collar workers because it opens at six AM. In addition to hosting countless celebrations and memorials, it was once the informal office of the legendary one-eyed muckraking journalist, Warren Hinckle, who held court at a table in the back with capable assistance from his ever-present basset hound, Bentley.
Pete took a sip of coffee. “Thanks for meeting us on short notice.”
“Always happy to help an old friend.”
That’s a bit of a stretch. Ten years ago, Quinn hired Pete to keep an eye on his now-ex-wife. It took Pete a couple of days to confirm Quinn’s suspicions that his wife was cheating. Pete’s efforts led to a favorable divorce settlement, and Quinn had referred other clients to him.
