Lucidity Read online

  In the back were two small desks and a table with a fancy cappuccino machine sitting on top of it. A young woman with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail sat at one of the desks, working on an iMac. She poked her head around the computer when Madden walked in but didn’t get up.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Frank Marcus.”

  “He just went to get a scone,” she said. “He should be back soon. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait.”

  She didn’t seem opposed to that. “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked cheerily. “We also have cold drinks.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just wait over here if that’s OK.”

  Madden sat down on the couch, which was firm yet comfortable. Nevertheless he felt uncomfortable sitting there. Or perhaps awkward was the better word. He checked email on his phone and then turned to the various shelter magazines fanned out neatly on the coffee table. Architectural Digest, Dwell, Atomic Ranch, Elle Decor. He’d seen them before but never opened any of them. Never had any interest.

  He lived in a ranch-style house in West Menlo Park that he’d bought for $65,000 in 1975. It was worth well over a million today, maybe two. Most of the current MPPD cops couldn’t afford to live in the area. Several commuted across the Bay from Fremont and other towns just over the Dumbarton Bridge. Or even further out. He’d been one of the few locals, a graduate of Woodside High, which, in his day, during the Vietnam years, had earned the nickname Weedside.

  His wife had consulted some of these magazines when she’d remodeled their home. He remembered her chattering away in rapid-fire Spanish with their Mexican contractor, discussing the pages she’d torn out and collected in a folder.

  His wife was from Nicaragua, the former housekeeper of his former boss, Pastorini. Now, twenty-one years and two kids later (their daughter was in high school, their son a freshman at UC San Diego), except for the color of her skin and her charmingly accented English, she was hard to distinguish from the rest of the suburban moms. Her bourgeois transformation was both a source of pride and consternation, for he could have done without some of the things she wanted. But he also knew he couldn’t have it both ways.

  “Hello, how can I help you?”

  Madden looked up and there he was, Frank Marcus, standing toward the back of the room, looking much older but still dapper in jeans and a well-pressed, untucked white dress shirt with two buttons open at the top. In his hand he held a scone wrapped in thin wax paper. He hadn’t come in through the front door, but a back entrance that wasn’t immediately visible.

  “Oh, wow,” Marcus said before Madden could speak. “It’s you, Detective, isn’t it? Charlotte, do you know who this is?”

  Charlotte, the young woman at the iMac, looked at Madden, then at her boss. She had no clue who he was.

  “This is Detective Madden,” Marcus said. “He was involved in that whole Sinatra impersonator case. And the one with the doctor. What was his name? Cogan, right?”

  Neither registered with Charlotte.

  “He was in People magazine,” Marcus tried again. “Like a four-page spread.”

  “Oh, wow,” Charlotte said.

  Marcus came over to the table, and transferring his scone to his left hand, went to shake Madden’s hand with his right. His hair was thinning and flecked with gray, but he looked tan and healthy. The former bartender had done alright for himself.

  “She’s not from around here,” Marcus explained. “She doesn’t know. When did you move here, Charlotte?”

  “A little over a year ago.”

  “Fresh off the boat,” Marcus said. “Connecticut.”

  “Massachusetts,” Charlotte corrected him. “I went to school in Connecticut.”

  Marcus didn’t seem to hear her. He was truly beaming, which seemed weird to Madden. At his book-signing event years ago, Marcus had been quite frosty, though, looking back, it might have been a wee bit intimidating to have six pissed-off cops standing in the back of the room, staring daggers.

  “I’d heard they were making a movie out of your story,” he said.

  “Kevin Spacey, right? How’s that going?”

  “It’s not,” Madden said, standing. “There was some interest but they haven’t moved forward.”

  “Yeah, it can take years. My book got optioned. Got picked up twice by two different production companies, but they never did anything with it. But I did get well compensated.”

  “Actually, that’s what I’m here for,” Madden said.

  “What, to get compensated?”

  “No, for your book. I wanted to talk to you about it. And the case in general.”

  Marcus looked a little surprised.

  “Oh,” he said, “I thought you wanted to sell your house. It’s a good time to sell.”

  “I know,” Madden said. “My wife wants to upgrade. Get a bigger place. But we’ll have both kids in college soon, so that seems stupid.”

  “Upgrades can save marriages, Detective.”

  “I’ll stick to cars and jewelry,” Madden said. “They’re cheaper.”

  “To each his own,” Marcus said. “So, why the interest in my book? You back on the case?”

  “I was never really on the case. It was always Pastorini’s. And, as you know, Burns worked it, too.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry to hear about Chief Pastorini. I read that he had a stroke and had to step down. How’s he doing? He was always a big guy. And he almost chain-drank coffee. Or was it Diet Cokes? Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t have a heart attack.”

  Pastorini had lost some weight but was still big. Opera singer big. Some of the guys used to refer to him as Luciano, which he didn’t take too kindly to, though he did like Pavarotti.

  “He’s still got some paralysis on his left side,” Madden said. “But his speech has gotten better.”

  “Well, send him my regards.”

  “He might have another stroke if I do that,” Madden joked. “You guys were way too sensitive,” Marcus said. “I was respectful. I know how much effort was made. I wasn’t out to make you guys look bad. I worked my ass off to put that thing together. I worked almost four years on it.”

  “Right now that’s neither here nor there,” Madden said. “You knew some things, but not everything.”

  “I knew more than you did.”

  “I know. And that’s why I’m here. I’d like to use you as a resource.”

  “So you are working on the case then?”

  Madden nodded. “I have a private party who’s interested in solving it once and for all.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t reveal that right now.”

  “The family?” Marcus prodded. “Which side? His brother’s still got some money. But he never hired someone before so why hire someone now? So hers?”

  Madden maintained his best poker face. “My client would like to remain anonymous.”

  Marcus smiled. “That makes you what, a PI? PI Madden?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I want to help. People contact me all the time. A lot of them are nutjobs but sometimes I get what seems like a credible tip. And I do an update on my website each year. As you know, the whole experience transformed my life. I wanted to do another book, but then I got involved in all this real-estate stuff with my wife, and it’s a hell of a lot more lucrative—we’re just killing it, frankly—so I put the writing on the back burner. I do a fantastic company newsletter each month, though. Have you seen it?”

  He turned to Charlotte. “You looking at porn again, Charlotte?”

  “I’m updating that Atherton listing with some new photos,” she said.

  “You got a copy of this month’s newsletter?”

  She slid open a filing cabinet and after rummaging around, emerged with a single sheet of paper with printed material on the front and back. She set it on the edge of the table but didn’t get up to give it to Marcus. He had to
come over and get it.

  “It’s data heavy but I keep it entertaining and also throw in a little gossip,” he said, handing it to Madden. “Most people read it digitally, of course. But it’s got a bit of a following. A couple thousand people read it each month. I even have an advertiser now. We’re monetizing it.”

  “That’s great,” Madden said, doing a poor job of feigning interest. He scanned the first page of the newsletter, then said:

  “So you think our old friend Ross is dead? Or is he walking around somewhere with one arm shorter than the other?”

  Marcus smiled. “Cutting right to the chase, Detective. Literally. I like that.”

  “When you were promoting the book, you seemed to be of two minds. Was that just for publicity sake? You know, to get people talking and stoke the debate?”

  “That’s a good way to put it. I mean, it’s weird, right? You find part of the guy, but not the whole guy. And then there’s his wallet and passport. I’ve said this many times before. From what I could tell—and I was there in Vietnam—the whole thing seemed a little staged. And look, the F.B.I. was in there and they said some things just didn’t check out. Say what you want about the F.B.I.—I know some law enforcement in this country isn’t all that impressed with them sometimes—but let me tell you, the two guys I dealt with were thorough. I was personally grilled for two days. They spoke to a lot of people in and around those villages. And by the way, the only reason I went there was because you guys gave me the tip that he’d been sighted in that area.”

  “Well, maybe you understand why people felt the way they did when your book came out. They felt betrayed.”

  “I blame my editor for that. She wanted to play up the tension between my investigation and yours. And at least they didn’t get in any trouble for leaking information they shouldn’t have.”

  “We publicly said we had information that led us to believe he was in Vietnam. We wanted people to know that.”

  “But you didn’t say exactly where. And I got some other tips. I purposely didn’t say how I got some of the information I got. They should have been happy about that.”

  Madden sighed. This is exactly what he thought would happen if he went to see Marcus. Old wounds would open. They’d argue. And nothing but anger and frustration would come out of the meeting. He’d hoped he’d be able to overcome his allegiances and take a more measured, calculated approach. But he was stupid for thinking he could.

  “Look,” he said, “this was probably a bad idea coming here. If I ever want to sell my house, I’ll have my wife contact you. It’ll make a good starter home for a junior Facebook manager.”

  He turned and started to walk towards the door but Marcus stopped him with what he said next.

  “I think he’s in the States.”

  “Who? Ross?”

  “Yeah. And he may have been here for years. I think he came back pre-9/11.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he’s had some contact with his family. I know you guys were monitoring them for years.”

  More than monitoring, Madden thought. Pastorini used to stake out family members’ houses at Thanksgiving and Christmas, hoping he’d show up. He claimed he just missed Ross a couple of times.

  “I just haven’t had the time or inclination to follow up on some of the leads I’ve gotten,” Marcus said. “I just pass them on to my contact at the F.B.I. Life’s too copacetic now to get sucked down that rabbit hole again.”

  “But you said you wanted to help.”

  “I did, didn’t I? Well, you got me inspired there for a minute, Detective. I was idealistic once. Stacey was my friend. Every fiber in my body wanted to bring that bastard husband of hers to justice. But the book, going through that, brought some closure for me. I’d always wanted to write a book. I didn’t know what it would be about, but I knew I would do it. And after I finished, it was weird, but I knew I wasn’t a writer. I knew I wanted to do something else.”

  “It looks like you made the right decision,” Madden said.

  “I will help you, though. Give me a few days and I’ll gather up what I have.”

  “I have a list of people I’d like to re-interview from your book,” Madden explained. “I’d like to go over them with you. With these types of cases, enough time passes, and people start to talk more. Ross was an intimidating guy. People were scared of him. All these years later, they’re more likely to say something, especially now that a lot of people think he’s dead.”

  “I thought that, too,” Marcus said. “I thought that someone would come out of the woodwork. But no one has. So far.”

  7/ Mr. Plant

  NOT LONG AFTER FREMMER CALLED MORTON, HE HAD A VISITOR. Two uniformed officers escorted what looked like a homeless person over to the holding cell, but didn’t put him inside the room with Fremmer. Instead, they handcuffed him to one of the cell’s bars and left him outside, sitting on a bench.

  The guy had many of the attributes you’d expect from someone who lived his life on the streets. Long hair. Body odor. A layer or two of extra clothing. Bushy beard. Fremmer could barely see his face. What stood out was a red bandana he was wearing around his head and a pair of brand new high-top basketball shoes. His right wrist was ringed with a variety of colored rubber bracelets. Judging from the white in his beard he appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, though Fremmer suspected that if they cleaned him up, he might drop ten years.

  “How long I gotta stay here?” he called after the two cops as they walked away. When they ignored him, he turned his attention to Fremmer. He spoke through the bars, which also had a layer of thick mesh wiring covering them, so there was no way to throw anything or poke anybody through them.

  “Who are you?”

  “The book doctor,” Fremmer replied. “Who are you?”

  “I am the prophet who could not convince anybody of anything.”

  Fremmer let out a laugh.

  “You think that’s funny?” the prophet asked, leaning up against the bars with his shoulder.

  “No. Well, yeah. In a way.”

  “You think it’s funny to have eyes that see into the world when no one listens? You think it’s funny because you rely on the media and the government for the purpose of deciding the truth. Well, they deceive you. They spread falsehoods.”

  Fremmer nodded in agreement. He wasn’t about to dispute that.

  “So, why are you in here?” the prophet asked, suddenly sounding quite coherent. “What’d you get pinched for?”

  “Didn’t pay a parking ticket.”

  The prophet lifted an eyebrow. He wasn’t buying it.

  “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me,” he said. “But don’t lie to me. I don’t like to be lied to.”

  “I’m not,” Fremmer said, suddenly thankful for the bars between them.

  “Yeah, OK. Fuck you and your fucking parking ticket, you double-down dick.”

  Fremmer didn’t get the double-down reference immediately, but then realized it had been lifted from his T-shirt. Duh.

  He braced himself for the tirade to continue, but it didn’t. The prophet turned away aloofly, which Fremmer found interesting. He wondered what his story was. His speech pattern seemed educated. So what had derailed him? Garden-variety mental illness? Probably, but maybe there was a Hollywood hook to his life’s arc. Perhaps a plunge from great heights. It was worth a check.

  “How ’bout you?” Fremmer ventured after moment. “What they have you in for?”

  “They say I pushed a lady in front of a car.”

  Fremmer felt his back straighten. Holy shit. It’s him. They got him.

  “Did you say ‘push’?”

  “They say they have a video of me pushing a lady in front of a car and that it will be in the media soon. It will become a virus. It will be everywhere.”

  “Viral,” Fremmer corrected him. “It will go viral is what I think they meant.”

  The prophet gave him a h
ard look. “The media is a virus.”

  Fremmer weighed a response to that, but didn’t think anything constructive would come out of it.

  “So many people want to tell others how to live,” the prophet went on. “They make a profession out of it. Nobody came to the planet to hate, to be angry and be miserable. Why bother to incarnate if your motivations are hate and anger?”

  “Did you push her?” Fremmer asked.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t mean to.”

  “Because someone offered me money? Hah. Money is a prison.”

  “So, someone offered you money to push her? Who?”

  No response. Instead, the prophet looked upward into Fremmer’s cell, peering up at the ceiling, scanning the corners of the little room. Fremmer wasn’t sure at first what he was looking for, but then he figured it out: a camera.

  “They said you were him,” the prophet said. “But you’re not him, are you? You’re a plant. Well, Mr. Plant, I didn’t push anyone.”

  Fremmer stood up and moved closer to the bars. “I’m not a plant. Or at least no one told me I was. Who’s him? Who’d they say I was?”

  “The Oracle.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The man who took my picture. He said he was The Oracle. And that I was going to become famous. It was my destiny. He saw it. It was foretold.”

  “He offered you money to take your picture?” Fremmer imagined a tourist asking him for a picture, then offering him money.

  “Listen,” the prophet said. “Hear me as I’m intended to be heard.”

  “I’m listening. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What are you talking about? A parking ticket. Hah. Who do you take me for?”

  Christ, Fremmer thought. We’re back to that.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not a plant, and you’re in a shitload of trouble. There’s a woman in intensive care right now. I know her. She’s my client. And if she dies, you’re going to be up for murder. And you’re going to find out real fast that money isn’t a prison. Prison is a prison.”