settled in beside a plastic bag of quarters to feed the hungry, expensive meter and made a final call to Sueâs cell. âAre you at the Fairmont?â I asked.
âIâm on my way,â she said. âI called Timothy to say good-bye, so I know heâs at the office. This is going to be a long day for you, Natalie.â
âDonât worry about me. I havenât had any liquids since this morning and Iâve got a full playlist of the Stones on my phone. What more does a girl need?â
âI donât know about Gayle, but Timothyâs not leaving the office until six.â
âI just want to be sure,â I said. âNow get to the hotel and have a spa day. Timâs treat.â
Sue was wrong about nothing happening before six. At five thirty-seven, just as I was stretching my legs and getting ready to feed a few more quarters, Gayle Greenwald came out, stood by the curb, and raised her hand for a taxi. One stopped for her almost immediately and they headed west, in the general direction of Pacific Heights.
At five fifty-two, Timothy OâBrien made his own exit, briefcase in hand, and strode up the ramp into the parking structure. I started my engine and waited for his charcoal Mercedes to pull out onto the one-way street. It had just started to rain.
It was kind of a nonevent, to be honest, and probably the easiest tail job Iâve ever done. The Mercedes was driven at a respectable speed, didnât run any stop signs or lights, and wound up right where Iâd expected it to, in the garage attached to the OâBriensâ faux Tudor mansion, one of those long, one-room-deep structures meant to impress. All curb appeal and no depth.
At a few minutes after six, it was dark enough to require indoor lighting, and I watched as the house gradually camealive, room after room. No one else seemed to be home. I was more than a little disappointed. Maybe the man wasnât a cheat, after all, I thought. And then the yellow taxi pulled up.
The person who paid the driver and got out of the cab was not the person Iâd expected. It wasnât Gayleânot unless it was the male version, without the
y
, like the actor Gale Gordon from
The Lucy Show
. But I doubted it in this case.
It was a man in his mid-thirties, pencil thin and dressed to show it off, with skinny black jeans and a formfitting teal dress shirt. He dodged the rain to the covered porch and brushed himself off. When he knocked, the door flew open almost instantly. It was still wide-open when Timothy OâBrien and the man who wasnât Gayle fell into each otherâs arms and shared a passionate kiss.
Okay. This was interesting.
If this had been the only surprise of the evening, it wouldnât have been that big of a deal. Many women have suspected their husbands of infidelity, only to discover that the man they were married to was gay. Even in this day and age. Even in San Francisco.
The bigger surprise came a few minutes later, after I had pulled around the corner and called Sue on her cell. After just two rings, an electronic voice informed me that the phone was no longer in service.
It had to be a mistake, of course. I dialed again and got the same message. Next I called the Fairmont Hotel and asked to be put through to Sue OâBrienâs room. I was informed that there was no Sue or Susan OâBrien stayingthere. Nor was there a Sue or Susan Puskedra. Or a Sue or Susan Puskedra OâBrien.
It took nearly forty-five minutes of rush-hour traffic to get from the curb appeal of Pacific Heights to the Fairmont on Nob Hill. The determined look in my eyes got me taken seriously by the head person on the desk that evening, a petite Asian girl not much older than my daughter.
We stepped into an inner office where she checked and rechecked, first with her computer, then with everyone who had been on the front desk since two p.m. No woman even remotely fitting Sue Puskedra
âIâm on my way,â she said. âI called Timothy to say good-bye, so I know heâs at the office. This is going to be a long day for you, Natalie.â
âDonât worry about me. I havenât had any liquids since this morning and Iâve got a full playlist of the Stones on my phone. What more does a girl need?â
âI donât know about Gayle, but Timothyâs not leaving the office until six.â
âI just want to be sure,â I said. âNow get to the hotel and have a spa day. Timâs treat.â
Sue was wrong about nothing happening before six. At five thirty-seven, just as I was stretching my legs and getting ready to feed a few more quarters, Gayle Greenwald came out, stood by the curb, and raised her hand for a taxi. One stopped for her almost immediately and they headed west, in the general direction of Pacific Heights.
At five fifty-two, Timothy OâBrien made his own exit, briefcase in hand, and strode up the ramp into the parking structure. I started my engine and waited for his charcoal Mercedes to pull out onto the one-way street. It had just started to rain.
It was kind of a nonevent, to be honest, and probably the easiest tail job Iâve ever done. The Mercedes was driven at a respectable speed, didnât run any stop signs or lights, and wound up right where Iâd expected it to, in the garage attached to the OâBriensâ faux Tudor mansion, one of those long, one-room-deep structures meant to impress. All curb appeal and no depth.
At a few minutes after six, it was dark enough to require indoor lighting, and I watched as the house gradually camealive, room after room. No one else seemed to be home. I was more than a little disappointed. Maybe the man wasnât a cheat, after all, I thought. And then the yellow taxi pulled up.
The person who paid the driver and got out of the cab was not the person Iâd expected. It wasnât Gayleânot unless it was the male version, without the
y
, like the actor Gale Gordon from
The Lucy Show
. But I doubted it in this case.
It was a man in his mid-thirties, pencil thin and dressed to show it off, with skinny black jeans and a formfitting teal dress shirt. He dodged the rain to the covered porch and brushed himself off. When he knocked, the door flew open almost instantly. It was still wide-open when Timothy OâBrien and the man who wasnât Gayle fell into each otherâs arms and shared a passionate kiss.
Okay. This was interesting.
If this had been the only surprise of the evening, it wouldnât have been that big of a deal. Many women have suspected their husbands of infidelity, only to discover that the man they were married to was gay. Even in this day and age. Even in San Francisco.
The bigger surprise came a few minutes later, after I had pulled around the corner and called Sue on her cell. After just two rings, an electronic voice informed me that the phone was no longer in service.
It had to be a mistake, of course. I dialed again and got the same message. Next I called the Fairmont Hotel and asked to be put through to Sue OâBrienâs room. I was informed that there was no Sue or Susan OâBrien stayingthere. Nor was there a Sue or Susan Puskedra. Or a Sue or Susan Puskedra OâBrien.
It took nearly forty-five minutes of rush-hour traffic to get from the curb appeal of Pacific Heights to the Fairmont on Nob Hill. The determined look in my eyes got me taken seriously by the head person on the desk that evening, a petite Asian girl not much older than my daughter.
We stepped into an inner office where she checked and rechecked, first with her computer, then with everyone who had been on the front desk since two p.m. No woman even remotely fitting Sue Puskedra
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