When I left the Fairmont there was only one cab in the drive and it was being loaded with four men wearing turbans. No other cabs were in sight, so I hoofed it down Nob Hill. The Transamerica pyramid was brilliant in the sunshine. The Embarcadaro buildings stood in homogeneous solidarity against the plethora of architectural designs that surrounded them. Sailboats dotted the Bay, their sails like confetti against the blue water.
I turned right at an intersection and saw where I was heading. To the south, toward the Marriot, just four or five blocks from the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, was a tall building made of pink granite trapezoids mixed in with long strips of blue, mirrored glass. Up on the pediment, in pink neon regalia, were the words Salazar West.
I wondered about Sam Sometimes as I hurried toward the building. No one seemed to know anything about him. He didn’t even have a real name. According to Jennifer, he paid prostitutes for companionship. Could he have murdered Melissa in a twisted attempt to find a family? He was, after all, the first climber to get to the body. That would have been easy if he knew where it was all along.
I ran across Market against a Don’t Walk sign. SOMA, the neighborhood South of Market, was under construction, being transformed from a rough, ugly mix of vacant lots and drag queen bars into an upscale combination of restaurants, shops, art galleries and dotcom startups. The renewal was spearheaded by the building of the SFMoMA and, to a lesser degree, the Salazar West tower.
The lobby of the clothing company was a study in contrasting stone. Black granite made up the floor. The walls were white marble and tinted glass. Across the top of the atrium stretched pink neon tubes that shimmered like tracer bullets in front of the black ceiling.
I walked up to the central reception desk where a heavy young man sat. Under the wrap-around counter one would find a bank of TV monitors. But instead of a guard’s uniform he wore a black shirt with a cleric’s collar and black pants. The shirt had a small pink Salazar West logo.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“I’m a writer on assignment from the Salazar family,” I drawled. I put a lot of space between the words. Never mind my scruffy unshaven, no-sleep look. We writers are nothing to worry about. “Specifically, Jennifer Salazar. She has directed me here to talk to your P.R. manager. Just a few questions is all. Won’t take but a minute.” I leaned on the counter expectantly.
“Your name, please?”
“Owen McKenna.”
The man regarded me for a moment, then picked up his phone. He punched some buttons and waited. “Zack Hanover at the front desk. I have a gentleman here who would like to speak with Ms. Ramirez. No, I don’t believe he has an appointment. Says he is working for a Jennifer Salazar.”
Zack waited a minute. “Thank you,” he said and then hung up the phone. He looked up at me. “Someone will be down in a minute. Please have a seat.” He gestured toward an arrangement of leather couches that were overhung by potted Ficus trees. Their leaves glistened as though they were waxed each morning. I sat.
Five minutes later a young Asian woman with long black hair, black dress and sensible-looking black pumps approached me. “Mr. McKenna? I’m Share Woo. I’ll take you to Ms. Ramirez’s office.”
We rode a black marble elevator with recessed pink lighting and got out on the fourteenth floor. The view of the Bay was the first thing I saw through floor-to-ceiling windows. “Nice place you people got here,” I said.
The woman looked up at me and smiled politely. “Ms. Ramirez is very busy. But she has a few minutes available before her eleven o’clock appointment. If you’ll wait here.”
I sat on another leather couch. My watch said 10:50 a.m. I studied the art on the wall adjacent to the big windows. Two large canvases by famous artists. One had two bold areas of color, one red, one cream, separated by a thin line. The other canvas was a mix of black and white stripes super-imposed over a swirl of lines. I could retire in style by selling just one of them.
“Mr. McKenna? Ms. Ramirez will see you now.”
I was ushered into a large office. A tiny woman wearing a tan business suit stood up from behind a big teak desk and reached over and up to shake my hand. Her silver earrings caught the sunlight pouring in the tinted windows. Her lipstick was the color of garnets.
I introduced myself and told her I was writing a biography of the Salazar family.
“Please have a seat,” Ms. Ramirez said.
This time it was an arm chair, but leather just like the couches. She sat in her leather, swivel desk chair and leaned back slightly. Above her was another canvas, with frantic, gestural lines on a multi-colored background. I pointed at the painting. “You’ve got some serious art,” I said. I spaced the words out slowly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” she smiled. “You’re fond of abstract expressionism?”
“No, not really. I like art where you can tell what it’s about.”
Ms. Ramirez’s smile took on the edge of a sneer. “If you don’t understand modern art, you shouldn’t judge it. The world is overrun with Philistines.”
I shifted in my chair, making myself more comfortable. “Oh, I know I’m naive,” I said. “I understand some of the intentions of the New York School.” I gestured over my shoulder toward the reception room. “And the impact of the Motherwell out there is undeniable. But when Barnett Newman starts talking about the dichotomy of subject and object with his bifurcated paintings, I admit, I’m just not up to it.” I pointed at the painting behind her. “Now that deKooning. There’s something a guy like me can sink his teeth into. The painter goes wild with gesture in a splash of abstract lines and colors, yet the nude woman that emerges is unmistakable.” I grinned at her.
Ms. Ramirez’s smile was gone. She regarded me silently for a moment. “What is it I can do for you, Mr. McKenna?” Her voice was wooden.
“Jennifer Salazar said I should call on the Public Relations manager to get information on the Salazar family, you know, business history, all the thrill-a-minute stuff that makes a family like the Salazars so exciting.”
“Jennifer is a little girl,” Ms. Ramirez said, her suspicions obvious.
“Was,” I said. “They sure do grow up fast, don’t they?” I chuckled. “Actually, Gramma Salazar - that’s what we call Mrs. Salazar - she said I should just talk to the chairman of the board. She was going to call him. But I liked Jennifer’s idea better. I’d hate to bother the chairman. Anyway, Jennifer said that as P.R. manager, you’d probably know better than the chairman who in the company could best fill me in on all those exciting moments where family matters intersect with the business. It’s just one side to the book, of course, but an important side nonetheless.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. McKenna, but I need to see some authorization from the family before I can proceed.”
“Well now, Ms. Ramirez. I’m not like an IRS agent or something. I’m just a writer. We don’t carry authorization papers.” I reached for my wallet. “If you want my drivers license, see who I am and all that, help yourself.”
She gave me a dismissive wave before I had my wallet open. “You must see it from my perspective.”
“Of course, you’re right.” I pointed toward her phone. “Why don’t you call up the Salazars. Ask Helga if Gramma is around. She’ll tell you.”
“Helga?”
“Their housekeeper. She’s sort of the gatekeeper for the telephone. Normally, you can’t get past her if you’re not a family friend. But mention my name, she’ll let you through.”
Ms. Ramirez hesitated.
“Here,” I said, smiling. “I know the number.” I stood up and picked up her phone. “You dial nine on this thing?”
“Uh, yes, but...”
“Great,” I said, ignoring her protest. “I punched 9, then dialed Street’s number.
“Hello?” Street said in my ear.
“Good afternoon, Helga. Owen McKenna calling. How are you this fine day?”
“Owen, what are you doing?” Street said.
>
“Is the weather still nice, or are you having another one of those spring snow storms?”
“You’re talking for someone else’s benefit, is that it?” Street said.
“Hot sun, blue skies? Great. Anyway, sorry to bother you, but on this biography thing? I’m here at Salazar West and they need authorization before talking to me. Is Gramma around? No? Okay, how about Jennifer?” I heard Street talking to Jennifer in the background. Then Jennifer picked up the phone.
“Hello, Owen? What’s going on?”
“Hi, Jennifer. Owen McKenna here. I’m down in San Francisco at Salazar West, like you and Gramma told me?”
“I get it,” Jennifer said. “I’m supposed to play along.”
“Right,” I said. “So I did like you said and looked up Ms. Ramirez. She’s been most helpful. But before she gives me any of the background information that will help me on our little project, she feels she should have authorization from the family. Of course, I hate to bother you, but I’m very glad that they are so protective of your privacy and all. Anyway, Helga said Gramma was out, but maybe you could explain to Ms. Ramirez about the biography of the family and that it is all right to talk to me.”
“This is fun!” Jennifer said. “I’ve never played tricks like these before. Just to make sure I do it right, I should establish my identity, drop a few bits of insider information and then ask her to tell you whatever you want, is that it?”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll put her on.” I handed the phone to Ms. Ramirez.
“Hello. This is Ms. Ramirez. Is this Jennifer Salazar?”
I walked away from the desk and admired a Robert Brady sculpture that stood on a pedestal. It was carved of wood sticks and depicted a woman with wings. Behind me I heard Ms. Ramirez asking some questions that few besides a Salazar would know the answers to. After a minute she hung up.
“It seems, Mr. McKenna, that you are legitimate. I’m sure you understand that I must be careful.”
“Of course.”
“Now how is it that I can help you?”
“Gramma and Jennifer have told me nearly everything I need about the last eight or ten years. But prior to Melissa’s death, I know little. Gramma is still too upset about that horrible event to talk about it. And Jennifer was too young. So what I really need is someone who knew the business and the family well. A family friend who Gramma and Jennifer have forgotten to mention. Or a company officer who’s been around for many years, especially if they are familiar with the lake house. Then I’d like you to call that individual and ask them to talk to me.”
Ms. Ramirez put her fingertips together. “There is one gentleman who comes to mind. He goes back way before the plane crash that killed Abraham Salazar and his son Joseph.” She paused. “But he and Abraham didn’t get along well. And he is feeble. He might not be willing to talk to you.”
“Will you ask him?”
“Yes.” She picked up the phone and started dialing. “He was an early investor in the company. Had a lot of stock. But there was a series of disagreements and he left the company.”
“What is his name?”
“Immanuel Salazar. Abraham’s older brother.”
TWENTY-FOUR