Read Online How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) by Rebecca M. Hale - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
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Given the archives Spider had been accessing, the project likely related to something much older, some aspect of San Francisco’s long-forgotten history.
Unfortunately, that guidance only served to widen the inquiry—and to increase the PM’s concern.
The city had more than its fair share of dark secrets, and a number of them were hidden in the dusty files in the basement where the intern was searching.
• • •
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR had finally confronted Spider, gently but firmly insisting that he share the details of his special project. It hadn’t taken much persuasion; after a minimal resistance, the intern appeared relieved to share the burden of his secret.
Spider was set to reveal everything to the PM the night of the lengthy board of supervisors meeting to select the interim mayor. They had planned a late dinner at a garlic-themed restaurant in North Beach. The venue was the young man’s choosing, a payback for the earlier oyster and snail torture he’d endured.
The PM remembered sitting at a booth inside the Columbus Street eatery, checking his watch as trays filled with plates of grotesquely over-garlicked dishes floated past his booth. His eyes had begun to water from the aromatic stench, and he sensed an anticipatory heartburn building in his stomach.
But Spider never showed. The garlic mashed potatoes the PM had ordered for the intern went cold. He was about to give up and leave when his cell phone rang.
The PM had puzzled at the number. It was Mabel, the outgoing mayor’s administrative assistant. He recalled her voice as she politely conveyed the news: informative, but, true to her reserved personality, emotionally detached.
Afterward, he’d hung up the phone and sat in stunned silence.
He’d been so shocked, he’d eaten the entire plate of stinky potatoes.
• • •
“IF ONLY I’D stepped in sooner,” the PM lamented. It was a thought he had repeated over and over in the weeks since the staffer’s death.
“I might have prevented this tragedy.”
Chapter 13
BENEATH THE VENTILATION SHAFT
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR entered the basement level of San Francisco’s City Hall and started down a side corridor, pausing every few feet in front of open office doorways to peek inside.
He was in a lesser-used corner of the building’s basement, away from the public administrative activity that took place on the opposite end. It was a quiet, remote location, with only the occasional low-level staffer or intern passing through its windowless depths.
After about five minutes of wandering, the PM stopped, turned his head sideways, and listened. He thought he’d heard a familiar noise.
He held up a hand, raising a finger toward the ceiling. There it was again—the squeaking of wheels.
His somber face broke into a broad smile. A moment later, a grungy man clad in faded overalls rounded the corner. He used a mop to push a plastic bucket filled with dingy gray water.
“My friend,” the PM said, stretching out his hand to clasp that of the janitor. “So good to see you.”
The PM knew everyone who worked in City Hall—from the most powerful professional advisers to the lowest-level staffers. He worked hard to maintain these relationships. They were his primary means of keeping tabs on the ins and outs of San Francisco politics.
While many high-profile figures liked to think they knew everything that went on inside the building, they tended to limit their information to sources of equivalent stature.
The PM had learned to seek as many inputs as possible. He would stop and listen to anyone who had something to say, no matter the person’s station. The lower the social standing, he’d found, the more reliable the insight. In his experience, no confidant was more valuable than those working in janitorial services.
The cleaning corps circulated virtually unseen throughout every inch of the vast domed structure. They were the first to detect when a scandal was about to break, and they
Given the archives Spider had been accessing, the project likely related to something much older, some aspect of San Francisco’s long-forgotten history.
Unfortunately, that guidance only served to widen the inquiry—and to increase the PM’s concern.
The city had more than its fair share of dark secrets, and a number of them were hidden in the dusty files in the basement where the intern was searching.
• • •
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR had finally confronted Spider, gently but firmly insisting that he share the details of his special project. It hadn’t taken much persuasion; after a minimal resistance, the intern appeared relieved to share the burden of his secret.
Spider was set to reveal everything to the PM the night of the lengthy board of supervisors meeting to select the interim mayor. They had planned a late dinner at a garlic-themed restaurant in North Beach. The venue was the young man’s choosing, a payback for the earlier oyster and snail torture he’d endured.
The PM remembered sitting at a booth inside the Columbus Street eatery, checking his watch as trays filled with plates of grotesquely over-garlicked dishes floated past his booth. His eyes had begun to water from the aromatic stench, and he sensed an anticipatory heartburn building in his stomach.
But Spider never showed. The garlic mashed potatoes the PM had ordered for the intern went cold. He was about to give up and leave when his cell phone rang.
The PM had puzzled at the number. It was Mabel, the outgoing mayor’s administrative assistant. He recalled her voice as she politely conveyed the news: informative, but, true to her reserved personality, emotionally detached.
Afterward, he’d hung up the phone and sat in stunned silence.
He’d been so shocked, he’d eaten the entire plate of stinky potatoes.
• • •
“IF ONLY I’D stepped in sooner,” the PM lamented. It was a thought he had repeated over and over in the weeks since the staffer’s death.
“I might have prevented this tragedy.”
Chapter 13
BENEATH THE VENTILATION SHAFT
THE PREVIOUS MAYOR entered the basement level of San Francisco’s City Hall and started down a side corridor, pausing every few feet in front of open office doorways to peek inside.
He was in a lesser-used corner of the building’s basement, away from the public administrative activity that took place on the opposite end. It was a quiet, remote location, with only the occasional low-level staffer or intern passing through its windowless depths.
After about five minutes of wandering, the PM stopped, turned his head sideways, and listened. He thought he’d heard a familiar noise.
He held up a hand, raising a finger toward the ceiling. There it was again—the squeaking of wheels.
His somber face broke into a broad smile. A moment later, a grungy man clad in faded overalls rounded the corner. He used a mop to push a plastic bucket filled with dingy gray water.
“My friend,” the PM said, stretching out his hand to clasp that of the janitor. “So good to see you.”
The PM knew everyone who worked in City Hall—from the most powerful professional advisers to the lowest-level staffers. He worked hard to maintain these relationships. They were his primary means of keeping tabs on the ins and outs of San Francisco politics.
While many high-profile figures liked to think they knew everything that went on inside the building, they tended to limit their information to sources of equivalent stature.
The PM had learned to seek as many inputs as possible. He would stop and listen to anyone who had something to say, no matter the person’s station. The lower the social standing, he’d found, the more reliable the insight. In his experience, no confidant was more valuable than those working in janitorial services.
The cleaning corps circulated virtually unseen throughout every inch of the vast domed structure. They were the first to detect when a scandal was about to break, and they
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