Eugene Schmitz and Supervisor Rutledge. Both had insisted that repairs were being made in good order.
And pigs could fly, Quint had groused as he left City Hall. Schmitz was almost as crooked as Rutledge. The whole mess stank like rotten fish. But he couldn’t just start making accusations. He needed solid proof.
The key to that proof had come yesterday, in the form of a phone call to his desk at the Chronicle. Virginia Poole, a clerk on Rutledge’s staff, had, by sheer accident, come across the damning letter in a stack of papers she’d been given to file. Knowing what she had, and being a woman of conscience, she’d called Quint and offered to give the letter to him.
He’d arranged to meet her the next evening in a bookshop off Portsmouth Square. When she’d failed to show up, Quint, who’d had the foresight to ask for her home address, had sensed that something was wrong.
Sadly, his instincts had been right.
Sick with dismay, he rose to his feet. At some point, Rutledge must have missed the letter and realized it had been scooped up with the other paperwork. Grilled by her boss, Virginia would have denied seeing it. But she’d probably been too nervous to convince him. One call and the hounds in Rutledge’s pay would have been on her trail, with orders to silence her and get the letter back.
It seemed indecent not to cover the poor woman with a sheet, or at least close her eyes. But Quint knew the police would soon be here, alerted by the very thugs who’d committed the crime. If they discovered his presence, he’d be hauled into jail as a murder suspect; and with so many cops in Rut-ledge’s pocket, odds were he wouldn’t live long enough to see the inside of a courtroom.
Leaving by the back stairs, Quint slipped into the alley and cut a meandering course down Telegraph Hill to Montgomery Street. The mist-shrouded night was damp and chilly, the lighthouse a great blinking eye in the darkness behind him. Foghorns echoed mournfully across the bay.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Quint lengthened his stride. Tomorrow at work he would call in some favors, find out whether Virginia’s murder was being investigated or merely hushed up. He would also make inquiries about her daily routine, talk to her friends, her family if she had any. With luck, maybe he could—
Oh, bloody hell!
Quint halted as if he’d slammed into a brick wall.
Tomorrow morning Clara and Annie would be arriving by train, all the way from Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado. Quint had arranged to take the entire week off. He had cleared his calendar of appointments, freeing his time to show them the city.
For weeks he’d looked forward to the visit. Six-year-old Clara was the most important person in Quint’s life. Every minute with the little girl was a gift. And Annie Gustavson, her maternal aunt, was always pleasant company. Neither of them had ever been to California. They were eager to experience the marvels of San Francisco.
Now this mess had dropped into Quint’s hands, and he had no choice except to deal with it.
It was too late to postpone the visit. Their train would be arriving at the Oakland terminal at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. After such a long trip, he could hardly put them back onboard and send them home. Nor could he walk away from a story so rife with urgency.
What the devil was he going to do?
Quint hailed a cab to take him back to his Jackson Street apartment. Somehow, for the coming week, he would have to be in two places at once. If it meant working early mornings and late nights, or leaving Clara and Annie on their own once in a while, that couldn’t be helped. Virginia Poole had given her life to expose Rutledge. Whatever it took, Quint vowed, he would make sure she hadn’t died in vain.
“Where’s the ocean, Aunt Annie? I want to see it!” Clara bounced with excitement. Her nose smudged the window of the first-class railway car.
“All in good time, Miss Clara Seavers.” Annie resettled her weary buttocks against the vibrating seat cushion. She adored her sister Hannah’s child, but three days and nights on a rattling train with an active six-year-old had frayed her nerves. She looked forward to a quiet lunch, a lovely hot bath…and Quint. Especially Quint.
Damn his charming, impossible hide!
Maybe after this week, she would finally be over him.
Frank Robinson, who owned the hotel in Dutch-man’s Creek, had asked Annie to marry him three times. He was decent, kind and passably handsome, with enough money to keep her in comfort for the rest of her days.
Her sister Hannah thought she was crazy for turning Frank down. “You’re twenty-three years old, Annie!” she’d fussed. “What are you waiting for, a knight on a white horse?”
The question was wasted breath, and both sisters knew it. Quint Seavers was no shining knight. But Annie had worshipped him since her teens. That was why she’d turned down Frank Robinson and every other man who’d come courting. To say yes would be to turn her back on Quint—who, in all the years she’d loved him, had barely given her the time of day.
Annie had jumped at his invitation to bring Clara to San Francisco. She’d yearned to experience that great, pulsing city known as the Paris of the West. She was eager, as well, to see the new fashions and copy them for her clients back home. As for Quint…
Annie sighed. She had no illusions about why he’d sent her the ticket. He needed someone to accompany Clara and act as a nanny during the visit. Well, fine. She was determined to have a good time anyway. And she would do her best to see Quint through clear eyes. If she could convince herself the man wasn’t worth pining over, maybe she’d be ready to go back home and accept Frank’s proposal.
“Will Uncle Quint be there when we get off the train?” Clara asked.
“He said he would.”
“Did he promise?”
“In a way, I suppose he did.”
“Then he will.” Clara nodded happily. “Uncle Quint always keeps his promises! How much longer is it?”
“Not much longer. We should be there in time for lunch.” Annie slipped an arm around the little girl. “What do you suppose your mama and papa are doing without you?”
“I’ll bet Papa’s taking care of the ranch. And Mama’s resting. The doctor says she needs to rest a lot so the new baby won’t come before it’s s’posed to.”
Clara had always been a perceptive child. But Annie was surprised that she understood about Hannah’s difficult pregnancy. After a near miscarriage, her doctor had ordered bed rest for the next two months. Her husband, Judd, Quint’s older brother, was rightly concerned about her.
“And what about Daniel?” Annie asked, changing the subject. “What do you think he’s doing?”
“Being a pest. He’s always being a pest,” Clara said, dismissing her three-year-old brother. “I hope the new baby pesters him just like he pesters me. It’ll serve him right.”
“Clara, Clara!” Annie hauled the child onto her lap. “Here, look out the window. We’re coming into Oakland now. Soon you’ll be able to see San Francisco Bay. It’s almost like the ocean!”
“Will we ride on a boat?”
