Conklin looked up at the brick buildings, built at the same time as the Ellsworth house. As Nicole had said, the windows were false, brick outlines with no glass, which made the one real window in the next-to-last building stand out.

“There’s a window on the top floor of number six.”

“Number six has been boarded up for years,” Nicole told him. “I’m pretty sure that window opens onto a stairwell.”

Conklin had gotten what he could from Nicole Worley’s running on about the history of the house and San Francisco. Now he wanted answers.

“Who does the gardening?”

“Ricky someone. I can find out.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not currently. Not seriously. No one I’ve brought here.”

“Have any of your friends been hanging out here recently?”

“Inspector Conklin, I’m starting to feel that you’re harassing me.”

“Nicole, would you rather come to the police station and spend a few hours with me and Sergeant Boxer? We can hold you as a material witness.”

Her eyes welled up. “I don’t bring my friends here.”

Conklin pressed on.

“Have you seen anyone on or near the grounds who struck you as out of place?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“What about those star tours? Do the tourists come into the garden?”

“No, and they don’t come into the house either. It’s strictly an outside-the-front-gate lecture series.”

“Thank you, Nicole. I need your contact information.”

Conklin smiled, gave her a pad and a pen. Watched her write, took back the notepad, and handed her his card.

“I’ll need the gardener’s name and number, and if you think of anything, anything, call me anytime.”

“I will certainly do that.”

Conklin nodded at the tech who was photographing one of the grave markers.

“We’ll be here for a while. Until we know who those seven victims are and the circumstances of their deaths, we’ll be turning over every stone.”

Chapter 22

I’D GROWN UP seeing Harry Chandler’s face in both huge Hollywood productions and tight, well-produced independent films. He was sexy, had terrific range, and was convincing as a hero and as a villain.

I’d checked out Chandler’s bio before getting on the road to South Beach Harbor, and as I’d expected, his story was now colored by the disappearance of his high-society wife, presumed dead. Much had been written about Chandler’s trial and acquittal, a story as dramatic as any film since Citizen Kane.

Popular opinion had it that even though the evidence wasn’t there, Chandler had nonetheless been involved in the crime. He had made a few pictures since he’d been found not guilty of murder, including the iconic Time to Reap, a cynical look at the meltdown of the global economy.

Chandler had won an Oscar for that performance. His second. I have to admit, I was eager to see him in real life.

It was only a four-mile drive from Vallejo Street to South Beach Harbor and the yacht club, both of which were part of the gentrification of the industrial area that had started in the 1980s.