evidence is flawless. What I am offering is a documentary of my own making. The truth, in the individual facts presented, is reliable. But don’t forget that every image I submit is in my own frame and there are countless frames I cannot provide.
Inspector Stone has said that the past is irrelevant, that my treasure hunt of evidence has no real purpose. But he is wrong. Knowing what happened to my family is not enough. I need to understand how it happened, because maybe then I can convince myself that it could have happened to any family.
ONE YEAR AND EIGHT MONTHS AGO
O ne year and eight months before my sister disappeared, it was the third week in May and I was three months into Ex-boyfriend #6. Name: Sean Ryan. Occupation: Bartender at the Red Room, a semiswank joint in the Nob Hill area. Hobby: Aspiring novelist. Unfortunately that wasn’t his only hobby. But I’ll get to that later.
My mother and I had been surveilling Mason Warner for the last five days. Warner was a thirty-eight-year-old restaurateur who ran a successful bistro in North Beach. We were hired by one of his investors, who suspected Warner of skimming cash from the business. While a forensic accountant would have been more suited for this job, our client didn’t want to raise any eyebrows. Warner had the effete handsomeness of a modern-day movie star and he wore nice suits; therefore, my mother stood by his innocence. I liked the job because Warner was on the move most of the day, so I wasn’t trapped in a car for eight hours listening to my mother say, “Why can’t you bring home a guy like that?”
I followed Warner into an office building on Sansome Street. I’d worn a baseball cap and sunglasses, so I decided to join him on the elevator ride to see his ultimate destination. Fortunately it was a crowded elevator. I entered first, hit the button for the twelfth floor (of a twelve-story building), and slipped into the back corner. Mason got off on floor seven. I followed him out of the elevator, removed the cap and glasses, and hung back until Warner turned a corner. He entered the office of a psychoanalyst, Katherine Schoenberg, MD. I returned to the lobby and waited in the foyer. I turned my radio back on and told my mom that we had an approximately fifty-minute wait ahead of us. She decided to get coffee. I sat down on a leather bench and read the paper. Five minutes later, Warner was back in the lobby, heading outside.
“Subject is on the move,” I said into the radio.
“Take point. I’m still at the coffee shop,” said my mom.
Normally we’d have given Warner a generous head start and let my mom run the tail from the car. However, without a second visual, I needed to keep my eyes on the subject continuously until my mom could provide backup. I dropped the newspaper and shadowed Warner outside. The second I was out the door, Warner turned back around and proceeded straight in my direction. I fished through my purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I quit smoking years earlier, but a cigarette still is the best prop there is in our line of work. As I patted down my pockets, looking for a book of matches, Warner stepped in and gave me a light.
“Stop following me,” he said, offering up a charming smile before he casually walked away.
I should have known: Men like that never go to shrinks.
That night, Ex-boyfriend #6 and I were having drinks at the Philosopher’s Club, an old man’s bar in West Portal. It’s too clean to be a dive, but it has just the right amount of wood paneling and dated sports posters to remind you that this is not a place catering to the San Francisco elite. I saw the image of a martini glass adjacent to the words “Philosopher’s Club” as Petra and I were riding the L train on the way back from her birthday celebration. 1 There was something about the sign that compelled us into the bar and we stayed the whole night, mostly because of our bartender Milo’s bottomless bowls of peanuts and
Inspector Stone has said that the past is irrelevant, that my treasure hunt of evidence has no real purpose. But he is wrong. Knowing what happened to my family is not enough. I need to understand how it happened, because maybe then I can convince myself that it could have happened to any family.
ONE YEAR AND EIGHT MONTHS AGO
O ne year and eight months before my sister disappeared, it was the third week in May and I was three months into Ex-boyfriend #6. Name: Sean Ryan. Occupation: Bartender at the Red Room, a semiswank joint in the Nob Hill area. Hobby: Aspiring novelist. Unfortunately that wasn’t his only hobby. But I’ll get to that later.
My mother and I had been surveilling Mason Warner for the last five days. Warner was a thirty-eight-year-old restaurateur who ran a successful bistro in North Beach. We were hired by one of his investors, who suspected Warner of skimming cash from the business. While a forensic accountant would have been more suited for this job, our client didn’t want to raise any eyebrows. Warner had the effete handsomeness of a modern-day movie star and he wore nice suits; therefore, my mother stood by his innocence. I liked the job because Warner was on the move most of the day, so I wasn’t trapped in a car for eight hours listening to my mother say, “Why can’t you bring home a guy like that?”
I followed Warner into an office building on Sansome Street. I’d worn a baseball cap and sunglasses, so I decided to join him on the elevator ride to see his ultimate destination. Fortunately it was a crowded elevator. I entered first, hit the button for the twelfth floor (of a twelve-story building), and slipped into the back corner. Mason got off on floor seven. I followed him out of the elevator, removed the cap and glasses, and hung back until Warner turned a corner. He entered the office of a psychoanalyst, Katherine Schoenberg, MD. I returned to the lobby and waited in the foyer. I turned my radio back on and told my mom that we had an approximately fifty-minute wait ahead of us. She decided to get coffee. I sat down on a leather bench and read the paper. Five minutes later, Warner was back in the lobby, heading outside.
“Subject is on the move,” I said into the radio.
“Take point. I’m still at the coffee shop,” said my mom.
Normally we’d have given Warner a generous head start and let my mom run the tail from the car. However, without a second visual, I needed to keep my eyes on the subject continuously until my mom could provide backup. I dropped the newspaper and shadowed Warner outside. The second I was out the door, Warner turned back around and proceeded straight in my direction. I fished through my purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I quit smoking years earlier, but a cigarette still is the best prop there is in our line of work. As I patted down my pockets, looking for a book of matches, Warner stepped in and gave me a light.
“Stop following me,” he said, offering up a charming smile before he casually walked away.
I should have known: Men like that never go to shrinks.
That night, Ex-boyfriend #6 and I were having drinks at the Philosopher’s Club, an old man’s bar in West Portal. It’s too clean to be a dive, but it has just the right amount of wood paneling and dated sports posters to remind you that this is not a place catering to the San Francisco elite. I saw the image of a martini glass adjacent to the words “Philosopher’s Club” as Petra and I were riding the L train on the way back from her birthday celebration. 1 There was something about the sign that compelled us into the bar and we stayed the whole night, mostly because of our bartender Milo’s bottomless bowls of peanuts and
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