Chapter 6: Killing It, Frankly - Lucidity

WHEN HE WAS ON THE POLICE FORCE AND INVESTIGATING A CRIME, Madden would often show up at a person’s home or place of business without warning. In most cases it was best to retain an element of surprise and not leave a potential witness or suspect time to prepare.

In his new role he wasn’t quite sure what the protocol was, but he decided to stick with his old script. So two days later, his bank account flush with the $20,000 from Shelby, he showed up unannounced at Marcus’s small office on Hamilton Avenue, a tree-lined street a few blocks over and parallel to University Avenue, the Main Street of downtown Palo Alto.

The author of Never Found Never Dead was no longer a writer. Several years ago he’d joined his wife in the real-estate business. She’d left a larger firm to start her own boutique operation that, if the press clips were to be believed, had prospered mightily by catering to newly-minted millionaires of the tech boom and foreign clients, mostly Chinese.

The office looked more like a furniture store or art gallery than a realty office, with wide-plank white wood floors and white walls. On one side of the room there was a pewter-colored modern leather couch facing two matching leather lounge chairs, a glass table sitting on a carbon-colored shag rug between them. A large-screen TV was mounted on the wall behind the couch, showing CNBC with the sound muted.

In the back were two small desks and a table with a fancy cappuccino machine sitting on top of it. A young woman with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail sat at one of the desks, working on an iMac. She poked her head around the computer when Madden walked in but didn’t get up.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Frank Marcus.”

“He just went to get a scone,” she said. “He should be back soon. Do you have an appointment?”

“No. If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait.”

She didn’t seem opposed to that. “Can I get you some coffee?” she asked cheerily. “We also have cold drinks.”

“No, thanks. I’ll just wait over here if that’s OK.”

Madden sat down on the couch, which was firm yet comfortable. Nevertheless he felt uncomfortable sitting there. Or perhaps awkward was the better word. He checked email on his phone and then turned to the various shelter magazines fanned out neatly on the coffee table. Architectural Digest, Dwell, Atomic Ranch, Elle Decor. He’d seen them before but never opened any of them. Never had any interest.

He lived in a ranch-style house in West Menlo Park that he’d bought for $65,000 in 1975. It was worth well over a million today, maybe two. Most of the current MPPD cops couldn’t afford to live in the area. Several commuted across the Bay from Fremont and other towns just over the Dumbarton Bridge. Or even further out. He’d been one of the few locals, a graduate of Woodside High, which, in his day, during the Vietnam years, had earned the nickname Weedside.

His wife had consulted some of these magazines when she’d remodeled their home. He remembered her chattering away in rapid-fire Spanish with their Mexican contractor, discussing the pages she’d torn out and collected in a folder.

His wife was from Nicaragua, the former housekeeper of his former boss, Pastorini. Now, twenty-one years and two kids later (their daughter was in high school, their son a freshman at UC San Diego), except for the color of her skin and her charmingly accented English, she was hard to distinguish from the rest of the suburban moms. Her bourgeois transformation was both a source of pride and consternation, for he could have done without some of the things she wanted. But he also knew he couldn’t have it both ways.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

Madden looked up and there he was, Frank Marcus, standing toward the back of the room, looking much older but still dapper in jeans and a well-pressed, untucked white dress shirt with two buttons open at the top. In his hand he held a scone wrapped in thin wax paper. He hadn’t come in through the front door, but a back entrance that wasn’t immediately visible.

“Oh, wow,” Marcus said before Madden could speak. “It’s you, Detective, isn’t it? Charlotte, do you know who this is?”

Charlotte, the young woman at the iMac, looked at Madden, then at her boss. She had no clue who he was.

“This is Detective Madden,” Marcus said. “He was involved in that whole Sinatra impersonator case. And the one with the doctor. What was his name? Cogan, right?”

Neither registered with Charlotte.

“He was in People magazine,” Marcus tried again. “Like a four-page spread.”

“Oh, wow,” Charlotte said.

Marcus came over to the table, and transferring his scone to his left hand, went to shake Madden’s hand with his right. His hair was thinning and flecked with gray, but he looked tan and healthy. The former bartender had done alright for himself.

“She’s not from around here,” Marcus explained. “She doesn’t know. When did you move here, Charlotte?”

“A little over a year ago.”

“Fresh off the boat,” Marcus said. “Connecticut.”

“Massachusetts,” Charlotte corrected him. “I went to school in Connecticut.”

Marcus didn’t seem to hear her. He was truly beaming, which seemed weird to Madden. At his book-signing event years ago, Marcus had been quite frosty, though, looking back, it might have been a wee bit intimidating to have six pissed-off cops standing in the back of the room, staring daggers.

“I’d heard they were making a movie out of your story,” he said.

“Kevin Spacey, right? How’s that going?”

“It’s not,” Madden said, standing. “There was some interest but they haven’t moved forward.”

“Yeah, it can take years. My book got optioned. Got picked up twice by two different production companies, but they never did anything with it. But I did get well compensated.”

“Actually, that’s what I’m here for,” Madden said.

“What, to get compensated?”

“No, for your book. I wanted to talk to you about it. And the case in general.”

Marcus looked a little surprised.

“Oh,” he said, “I thought you wanted to sell your house. It’s a good time to sell.”

“I know,” Madden said. “My wife wants to upgrade. Get a bigger place. But we’ll have both kids in college soon, so that seems stupid.”

“Upgrades can save marriages, Detective.”

“I’ll stick to cars and jewelry,” Madden said. “They’re cheaper.”

“To each his own,” Marcus said. “So, why the interest in my book? You back on the case?”

“I was never really on the case. It was always Pastorini’s. And, as you know, Burns worked it, too.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry to hear about Chief Pastorini. I read that he had a stroke and had to step down. How’s he doing? He was always a big guy. And he almost chain-drank coffee. Or was it Diet Cokes? Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t have a heart attack.”

Pastorini had lost some weight but was still big. Opera singer big. Some of the guys used to refer to him as Luciano, which he didn’t take too kindly to, though he did like Pavarotti.

“He’s still got some paralysis on his left side,” Madden said. “But his speech has gotten better.”

“Well, send him my regards.”

“He might have another stroke if I do that,” Madden joked. “You guys were way too sensitive,” Marcus said. “I was respectful. I know how much effort was made. I wasn’t out to make you guys look bad. I worked my ass off to put that thing together. I worked almost four years on it.”

“Right now that’s neither here nor there,” Madden said. “You knew some things, but not everything.”

“I knew more than you did.”

“I know. And that’s why I’m here. I’d like to use you as a resource.”

“So you are working on the case then?”

Madden nodded. “I have a private party who’s interested in solving it once and for all.”

“Who?”

“I can’t reveal that right now.”

“The family?” Marcus prodded. “Which side? His brother’s still got some money. But he never hired someone before so why hire someone now? So hers?”

Madden maintained his best poker face. “My client would like to remain anonymous.”

Marcus smiled. “That makes you what, a PI? PI Madden?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I want to help. People contact me all the time. A lot of them are nutjobs but sometimes I get what seems like a credible tip. And I do an update on my website each year. As you know, the whole experience transformed my life. I wanted to do another book, but then I got involved in all this real-estate stuff with my wife, and it’s a hell of a lot more lucrative—we’re just killing it, frankly—so I put the writing on the back burner. I do a fantastic company newsletter each month, though. Have you seen it?”

He turned to Charlotte. “You looking at porn again, Charlotte?”

“I’m updating that Atherton listing with some new photos,” she said.

“You got a copy of this month’s newsletter?”

She slid open a filing cabinet and after rummaging around, emerged with a single sheet of paper with printed material on the front and back. She set it on the edge of the table but didn’t get up to give it to Marcus. He had to come over and get it.

“It’s data heavy but I keep it entertaining and also throw in a little gossip,” he said, handing it to Madden. “Most people read it digitally, of course. But it’s got a bit of a following. A couple thousand people read it each month. I even have an advertiser now. We’re monetizing it.”

“That’s great,” Madden said, doing a poor job of feigning interest. He scanned the first page of the newsletter, then said:

“So you think our old friend Ross is dead? Or is he walking around somewhere with one arm shorter than the other?”

Marcus smiled. “Cutting right to the chase, Detective. Literally. I like that.”

“When you were promoting the book, you seemed to be of two minds. Was that just for publicity sake? You know, to get people talking and stoke the debate?”

“That’s a good way to put it. I mean, it’s weird, right? You find part of the guy, but not the whole guy. And then there’s his wallet and passport. I’ve said this many times before. From what I could tell—and I was there in Vietnam—the whole thing seemed a little staged. And look, the F.B.I. was in there and they said some things just didn’t check out. Say what you want about the F.B.I.—I know some law enforcement in this country isn’t all that impressed with them sometimes—but let me tell you, the two guys I dealt with were thorough. I was personally grilled for two days. They spoke to a lot of people in and around those villages. And by the way, the only reason I went there was because you guys gave me the tip that he’d been sighted in that area.”

“Well, maybe you understand why people felt the way they did when your book came out. They felt betrayed.”

“I blame my editor for that. She wanted to play up the tension between my investigation and yours. And at least they didn’t get in any trouble for leaking information they shouldn’t have.”

“We publicly said we had information that led us to believe he was in Vietnam. We wanted people to know that.”

“But you didn’t say exactly where. And I got some other tips. I purposely didn’t say how I got some of the information I got. They should have been happy about that.”

Madden sighed. This is exactly what he thought would happen if he went to see Marcus. Old wounds would open. They’d argue. And nothing but anger and frustration would come out of the meeting. He’d hoped he’d be able to overcome his allegiances and take a more measured, calculated approach. But he was stupid for thinking he could.

“Look,” he said, “this was probably a bad idea coming here. If I ever want to sell my house, I’ll have my wife contact you. It’ll make a good starter home for a junior Facebook manager.”

He turned and started to walk towards the door but Marcus stopped him with what he said next.

“I think he’s in the States.”

“Who? Ross?”

“Yeah. And he may have been here for years. I think he came back pre-9/11.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he’s had some contact with his family. I know you guys were monitoring them for years.”

More than monitoring, Madden thought. Pastorini used to stake out family members’ houses at Thanksgiving and Christmas, hoping he’d show up. He claimed he just missed Ross a couple of times.

“I just haven’t had the time or inclination to follow up on some of the leads I’ve gotten,” Marcus said. “I just pass them on to my contact at the F.B.I. Life’s too copacetic now to get sucked down that rabbit hole again.”

“But you said you wanted to help.”

“I did, didn’t I? Well, you got me inspired there for a minute, Detective. I was idealistic once. Stacey was my friend. Every fiber in my body wanted to bring that bastard husband of hers to justice. But the book, going through that, brought some closure for me. I’d always wanted to write a book. I didn’t know what it would be about, but I knew I would do it. And after I finished, it was weird, but I knew I wasn’t a writer. I knew I wanted to do something else.”

“It looks like you made the right decision,” Madden said.

“I will help you, though. Give me a few days and I’ll gather up what I have.”

“I have a list of people I’d like to re-interview from your book,” Madden explained. “I’d like to go over them with you. With these types of cases, enough time passes, and people start to talk more. Ross was an intimidating guy. People were scared of him. All these years later, they’re more likely to say something, especially now that a lot of people think he’s dead.”

“I thought that, too,” Marcus said. “I thought that someone would come out of the woodwork. But no one has. So far.”