Ghosts In the Heart

Brendan.

CHAPTER 1

SAN FRANCISCO, OCTOBER 2006

The lock clicked sharply and the door to the apartment swung open. Alexander Aneiren Mckenzie, Senior Lieutenant, of the San Francisco Police Department Major Crimes Division eased wearily into the entry way. The Iceman Cometh. The overused and trite jibe, coined by a department wit who had probably never seen the play, and employed by those other officers who resented his probing intellect and coldly aloof demeanor seemed appropriate. Another man returning home late on a Friday evening after a week of grindingly exhausting work might breathe a sigh of contentment. Another man might exhibit some semblance of relief, as the burdens of the profession eased away. Mckenzie did neither. He might live in this apartment, but he found no refuge there.

The rooms that lay before him exuded an aura of calculated austerity that matched his own. Others who lived alone, as Mckenzie did, often developed a fussy neatness - a compulsion to preserve all things in a proper order. His apartment extended far beyond that lifestyle. Even the most obsessive disciple of structured living usually left some visible evidence of human habitation. Mckenzie did not . Although he had occupied this apartment for nearly five years, there was no trace of him, no discernible sign of his existence. There was no physical evidence that any particular individual resided there. He was a wraith in his own existence.

There was, nevertheless, an undeniable elegance about the apartment. The photographer for Architectural Digest might have just stepped out. The feature could have been entitled Minimalist Living in the City by the Bay. From the polished hardwood floor in the foyer to the gleaming European kitchen/dining area, to the functioning fire place in the living room, the image of money well spent was unmistakable.

The outer wall in the living room was solid glass from floor to ceiling, providing a spectacular view of the city looking down Russia Street toward the water. Mckenzie, however, rarely glazed out at the twinkling lights and the distant silhouettes of ships crossing the bay. This evening he pulled the cord to close the curtains, thinking once more that he should sell the place. The monthly maintenance fees strained the limits of his salary. He was never entirely certain whether Marcus had left it to him in a belated attempt to heal years of a painfully strained relationship or as one last massive practical joke. The thought of pushing his estranged son to the edge of bankruptcy would have amused the elder Mckenzie.

Looking around the apartment, Alex could often hear his father’s nasal tone If you had gone to law school the way I told you, you wouldn’t have any problem affording the place. Yes Father, Alex thought, but then I might have ended up as an unprincipled, money grubby shyster like you. Even in death, the Mckenzies could not close the rift between them.

Walking out of the living room and down the hall toward the master bedroom, he loosened his red silk tie. Entering the bedroom, he removed the jacket to his carefully tailored blue pinstripe suit. Mckenzie did not believe that he was vain, but he did enjoy nice clothes. Wearing a suit crafted by one of San Francisco’s better tailors gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction.

Marcus’s voice was back in his head again. If you had become a lawyer instead of a policeman, you wouldn’t have to wear a suit that’s three years old. Hell, his father’s ghostly voice echoed through his consciousness. "If you hadn’t been passed over for Captain again, you could have afforded at least one new one.

Thank you Father, Alex thought. You know how much I appreciate your insights. He could hear Marcus shout angrily at the polished sarcasm. In his memories, Marcus was always angry.

As he carefully hung his jacket and tie in the closet before removing his shoulder holster and placing the pistol in the bureau drawer, Mckenzie caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. This had to be Marcus McKenzie’s last bitter jest. As he aged, Alex could see the resemblance to his father becoming ever more pronounced.

In his later years, Marcus had allowed the excesses of rich living to add flesh to what had once been a lithe body. The extra weight had probably contributed to the massive heart attack that ended his life at the comparatively young age of sixty-seven. Even then, father and son had shared the same flashing dark eyes, high cheekbones, and hawkishly aquiline noses.

With the fierce personal discipline that characterized every aspect of his life, Mckenzie, at

forty-eight, still maintained his physique through an exercise regime that left younger officers gasping in frustration when they tried to match him. Unfortunately, as the early streaks of gray broke the flow of his dark hair, and a spider web of wrinkles took shape around his eyes, he could see Marcus creeping up on him. The father he had battled for most of his adult life had found a peculiarly effective way to haunt him.

Smothering a sigh, Mckenzie turned and walked back down the hallway to the kitchen. He opened the cabinet nearest the refrigerator, removed the bottle of cognac, and filled the crystal snifter he kept beside the bottle. It was a stronger drink than he usually permitted himself but it was Friday. Even the Iceman could allow himself a little leeway on the weekend.

He sipped the tawny liquid, feeling the warmth flow down his throat as he replaced the bottle and closed the cabinet. With the kitchen restored to the same precise order, he moved to the adjoining living room and sat down in a leather arm chair. Punching the buttons, he turned on the television and the attached DVD player. The screen came to life as the opening notes of a lyrical piano solo announced the beginning of the Maurice Laviere score.

Leaning back in his chair, Alex took another sip of his cognac and closed his eyes. Sometimes he wondered whether bothering to turn on the television had become a needlessly superfluous act. In the deep recesses of his memory, he knew every word of dialogue, every note of the music, every scene in the film. Nevertheless, there was still nothing like watching it again and again and again.

On the screen, an open bowed vaparetto, the ubiquitous Venetian water bus, was working its way down the Grand Canal. As it swung around a broad curve, the camera panned briefly toward the crowd gathered at the fish market before turning back to the front. The Ponte di Rialto bridge filled the frame. For a moment the viewer could take in the matchless beauty of that ornate structure - the multiple curves of the intricately carved ballustrates and the high central archway that gave watercraft passage through the canal. The opening title, Holiday in Venice, was superimposed on the screen as the piano gained the romantically lush support of the full orchestra.

The credits rolled while the camera moved across the line of tourists gathered by the rail, waving at the approaching vaparetto. As the camera reached her, standing at the apex of the central arch, a breeze swept up the canal and her dark auburn hair billowed in the air. It seemed that God himself had gasped at the sight of her. Her delicate white skin provided a pristine setting for the sparkling blue eyes that glistened in the sunlight. At that moment, she recognized someone on the vaparetto as it was about to pass under the bridge. She laughed and waved. Anticipation and a touch of tender vulnerability all combined to illuminate her face.

Mckenzie pushed the pause button on the remote just as the credits displayed her name on the screen below her image, Mireille Marchand. Mckenzie took a sip of cognac and raised his glass toward the picture frozen on the television screen. Bonsoir, ma coeur he whispered.

It was that image, that very moment in the film, when a grumpy seventeen year old Alexander Mckenzie, sitting in a darkened theatre, had felt his heart drop out of his body. He had been dragged unwillingly by the nubile cheerleader he was dating - he had actually forgotten her name - to see a romantic woman’s movie instead of Rocky that was showing down the street. He was giving the screen only half-hearted attention while sliding his hand across his date’s knee when Mireille appeared on the Rialto Bridge. He had stared transfixed at a manifestation of beauty more complete than anything his young mind had ever envisioned.

Alex pushed the play button and the film resumed. He knew that he had hardly been the first teenaged boy to develop a crush on an unattainable female personality. From the beginning, however, he had been more than just another hormonal adolescent having wet dreams about his Farah Fawcett poster. From first sight, Mireille Marchand had awakened a longing ,a desire more searching, more demanding than anything he had ever experienced before or since. Thirty years later, she was still a void in his life that had never been filled.

He had slipped off alone to see the movie six more times. He searched out everything he could find in print about this vision that he could not expel from his mind. Within a month, he could repeat details about her life with the same assurance, that the mature Alexander Mckenzie would display when testifying at trial about an extensive criminal investigation.

He knew the hospital in Avignon where she was born. He knew the name of her father, her mother, her two sisters. He could recite the titles of the obscure French films where her acting career had begun in bit parts. He knew the place on the road in eastern France where she died.

Holiday in Venice had been an unexpected success at the box office. To cash in, the producer rushed to release her second English language film, The Diamond Thief in late summer. A light-hearted crime caper, it was an even bigger hit. Mireille’s face began to pop up in print media of every type from serious film journals to glossy fashion magazines. The still camera loved those ethereally blue eyes as much as did the movies. The trade papers were rife with rumours of future projects for this young French phenomenon, including a report that she was being considered for a lead role in the latest historical epic being developed by the famous British producer, Colin Berkley.

The newspapers later reported that it was the Berkley film that had put her on the road late that October night. She had been visiting friends in the small provincial village of St. Aubert when she abruptly decided to drive back to Avignon. Supposedly, she wanted to catch an early flight to Paris, and then on to London for a preproduction meeting with the director and her expected costar.

The story had not made the front page in San Francisco. Two pages in and below the fold, the heading noted that French Actress Dies in Single Car Accident. Alex had been sitting at the breakfast table with Marcus and his soon to be ex-step mother, Brittaney. She had been poking, in a desultory fashion, at her egg white omlet while Marcus intently studied the file he had brought to the table. Except for the law, Marcus Mckenzie quickly became bored with most things. It was a trait that was already edging Brittaney out of his life - although she had not yet grasped that inexorable process. Stepmothers two and three would be smarter and more predatory. Alex hated participating in this strained tableaux of a happy family at breakfast but silent endurance was generally preferable to another of his increasingly bitter oral confrontations with his father. Concentrating on the newspaper was usually the best way of getting through the meal. Alex’s gasp at the moment he read the article was so sharp, so painfully audible, that it broke even Marcus’s fixed attention on billable hours.

What’s the matter? he asked, more irritated by the interruption than from any genuine curiosity. When Alex’s voice, hoarse with emotion, started to recount the article, Marcus interrupted with a snort of contemptuous dismissal. So there is one less French slut. He chuckled at his own wittism. An easily replaceable commodity.

Another teenaged boy might have shouted at his father, raging against his heartless insensitivity. He did not. Alexander Mckenzie was already the Iceman in training. He slowly rose to his feet and folded the newspaper under his arm. He looked at his father with the dispassionate expression of a scientist examining a failed experiment. Without another word he turned and left the room. Neither Marcus or Brittaney grasped the fatal escalation of the conflict between father and son that had just occurred.

Another sip of the cognac warmed his throat as he watched the television screen intently. Mireille steeped out of a gondola and walked briskly across the wide expanse of St. Marks Square. The vast center of the city was filled with tourists and pigeons, but the throng could not hide her. She was wearing a deceptively simple white dress cut just above her knee and high heeled shoes that clicked on the pavement while accentuating her long beautiful legs. As she neared the Doge’s palace, a male voice called out her character’s name Marie! She turned to face the actor playing her lover and her already animated expression came alight with an ecstatic joy almost beyond the capacity of the screen to contain. There were times, many times, when the adult Alexander Mckenzie had concluded that he truly was demented. Boys had hopeless crushes, even grown men could entertain romantic fantasies, but eventually you put such things away. You grew up, you matured, you forgot about those imaginary loves. He had not. He could not. Every time he heard her voice, he felt his heart shake with a pain that would not heal.

More than twenty years ago, Carrie, his ex-wife, had given up her attempt to fill the emptiness he carried with him. As she walked out the door for the last time, she had looked at him and sadly whispered I won’t compete with a ghost, Alex. I can’t win that fight. But neither can you.

Mckenzie drained the last of the cognac from the glass. He pushed the mute button on the remote control and leaned has head back again closing his eyes. Over the years, he had made various attempts to study French with varying degrees of success. He had reluctantly concluded that he would never master the accent but he had a fair grasp of the vocabulary. Now with his eyes shut and his imagination supplying the images, he felt the need for only a brief expression Je Taime, ma amour, Je Taime.

The sudden ringing of the telephone shattered his reverie.

CHAPTER 2

Mckenzie looked at the ringing telephone with a momentary spasm of surprise. The Department used his cell phone when it needed to contact him. The number for the landline was unlisted and he had given it to no one except. . .

He picked up the receiver and brusquely snapped Yes?

The voice at the other end was felicitous, polite, and empty of even a single note of genuine sincerity.

Good evening Mr. Mckenzie. This is William at the concierge desk. I am sorry to disturb you, but there is a lady and gentleman here who wish to see you. They are not, however, on your approved guest list.

That is because I do not have an approved guest list.

Just so, Mr. Mckenzie.

In a less exalted building, William’s role would have been filled by someone known as the doorman. The Renaissance Tower would not, however, countenance such a pedestrian designation. The gates to privlege were zealously guarded by people named William or Arthur - concierges who, despite their polished images of solicitous urbanity, were never able to conceal an unmistakable conviction that a mere policeman was an inappropriate resident. Sometimes, Mckenzie thought that he continued to live in the Tower because it irritated William.

Who are the people who want to see me? Even as he asked the question, Mckenzie suspected that he already knew the answer.

There was a pause as if William were ascertaining the identity of Mckenzie’s would-be guests. Of course, he had already done that but the delay allowed him to retain the initiative in the conversation.

It is a Mr. And Mrs. Peter Stewart, sir.

Upstairs, Mckenzie ruefully shook his head. Some people simply would not quit.

All right, let them come up.

Of course, Mr. Mckenzie, and if you like, I would be happy to record their names on an approved guest list for you. William could grovel and strut simultaneously.

Fine. Do that. Mckenzie hung up with only slightly more emphasis than was necessary. Snapping off the television, he picked up the crystal glass and quickly replaced it in the kitchen cabinet. Once again the apartment had been swept clean of any evidence of his presence. Like an actor in a post-modern existentialist drama, he stepped onto a bare and empty stage waiting for his uninvited co-stars to make their entrances.

In an elevator gleaming with polished glass and darkly stained wood, Peter Stewart looked lovingly down at his petite and only slightly pregnant wife. Their eyes, his pale blue and hers exotically dark, joined together in an invisible embrace. Peter was smiling broadly, but Brenda Stewart patiently waited until the elevator door silently closed before bursting into laughter.

What a pompous asshole, she gasped after bringing an infectious merriment under control.

Peter leaned over and lightly kissed his wife’s lips. Shh, he whispered. We cannot have our unborn child hear his or her mother use such foul language.

Hypocrite Brenda laughingly responded. you are the one who curses like a drunken sailor.

Only under duress. Besides when a man does it, it’s considered macho.

Bull… and then Brenda silently mouthed Shit. I’ve married a hypocrite and a chauvinist."

Maybe Peter replied. But its too late for you to run now. Wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into an embrace, Peter marvelled again that after two years of marriage, he found her just as magical as he had on the first day they met. His memory of that day retained a precise clarity. He had been interviewing an obviously uncomfortable doctor at San Francisco General Hospital in connection with an insurance fraud case. In the midst of that discussion, just as the doctor’s memory seemed to be improving, a young nurse had barged unceremoniously into the office. She had a patient’s chart grasped tightly in her hand, and appeared oblivious to anything she might be interrupting. To Brenda Zhang, the well-being of a patient trumped any and all other concerns.

After her questions had been answered and she had swept out of the room with the same electricity with which she had entered, Peter found himself unable to concentrate. More accurately, he could not concentrate on the important investigation that had brought him there. The rising star in the county prosecutor’s office was consumed by the image of the exotically beautiful Chinese-American woman who had just left the room.

The doctor was both mystified and relieved. The intense young prosecutor who had been grilling him intently moments before about billing practices now appeared interested only in obtaining an introduction to the nurse who had disrupted his interrogation. Clinging to the hope that cheerful cooperation with the authorities in any area might prove beneficial, he escorted Peter Stewart down the hall. There he provided the requested introduction. Thus, in the prosaic and unromantic corridor of a major urban hospital, Peter Stewart met Brenda Vivian Zhang. At that moment he was doomed.

It took Peter two days to arrange a dinner date. At her request, he picked her up at the hospital at the end of her shift. She came out the door after changing from her nurse’s uniform into a tightly tailored green and white cocktail dress with her long black hair bushed out of her work-day ponytail. As he watched her sensuous walk, he knew instantly that his bachelor days were ending. If he had not feared that she would think he was crazy, he would have proposed that night. Instead, he waited almost two full months.

He missed her long black hair. The short style she now wore had been adopted for personal convenience after she accepted the rotation to the intensive care unit. He had teasingly called her a Chinese elf, and then almost choked on his witticism when she announced that she was pregnant. She promised that she would let her tresses grow back out when she took maternity leave. That prospect pleased him even though he knew he would still find her beautiful if she were to shave her head.

The numbers on the indicator board flashed sequentially as the elevator ascended toward the twenty seventh floor. Abruptly the light hearted humour on Brenda’s face was replaced by an unspoken suspicion.

Peter, she pronounced every word with a slow and perfect clarity. You did tell him that we were coming by tonight, didn’t you?

Peter Stewart’s expression was a portrait of disingenuous sincerity. Yeah, well . . . sort of . . . just not in so many words.

Brenda sighed with a knowing exasperation. What did you tell him in so many words?

I told him I’d see him later.

Brenda again wearily shook her head. Peter, we can’t force him to be our friend.

We can try. Peter Stewart’s face displayed a single minded determination. Bren, he needs friends. He works too hard; he drives himself to the limit in every case he takes on. He won’t kiss ass or suck up to the big guys, so they dislike him, call him names behind his back, and don’t give him the recognition he deserves. Stewart almost spit out the epithet. Bastards.

Brenda tenderly caressed her husband’s face. I thought we were trying to avoid bad language in front of our child.

Stewart smiled adoringly at his wife. Didn’t that sound macho to you? Before she could answer, the elevator door silently opened on the twenty seventh floor.

In the apartment Mckenzie stood, arms folded staring at the door, awaiting his unexpected guests. Pete Stewart was a hard working prosecutor. He was even a nice guy, for a lawyer, and Brenda was a sweet caring young woman. Nevertheless, he was too old to be adopted and he had no desire to adopt someone else. Despite that, these two seemed determined to pull him into their lives. The chilly formality that he used to hold the rest of the world at arms length did not seem to deter them. The Stewarts had taken on the challenge of building a friendship with him regardless of his resistance. Maybe I am just going to have to be a little sterner with them, he thought. Let them know that I am not interested in any kind of social relationship.

Mckenzie’s thoughts were interrupted by the firm knock on his door. Pulling open the door, he realized, not for the first time, that being deliberately unpleasant to the Stewarts was not something he could countenance. It would be like kicking a puppy. This attractive young couple, smiling so warmly at him, were becoming part of his life whether he sought it or not.

Brenda stepped inside first and kissed his check. Good evening Alex.

Brenda., Peter Mckenzie responded. I didn’t expect you two.

Brenda shot a mildly critical gaze at her husband who tried to evade it with a burst of infectious enthusiasm.

Pizza! he said. There is a great place we know over in Sausilito and we are going for pizza.

And you needed my permission before you could leave the city? Mckenzie tried to maintain a wearily dry tone, but he found himself unable to suppress a smile.

They had moved into the apartment and Peter was closing the door when he broke into a laugh. Listen to that. A joke from Lieutenant Alexander Mckenzie. Who says you don’t have a sense of humour?

Brenda linked her arm with Mckenzie and smiled sweetly. Not a very funny joke but still a good start.

No, we didn’t come to get your permission. We came to get you. Peter was smiling but some of his prosecutor’s determination still echoed in his voice. We know what time you left the precinct so you haven’t had time to have dinner. You need to come with us and get something to eat.

Mckenzie tried to shake his head; a preface to rejecting their invitation, but Brenda cut him off.

You might as well give up and come with us, Alex. It’s the only way you are going to get us out of your apartment.

The Stewarts had won again. Mckenzie conceded defeat. All right, all right, I’ll go. Brenda you need to have that baby so you can get someone else to mother. Brenda Stewart put her hand on her slightly expanded stomach as her husband’s expression gleamed with pride. You still have a while to go yet before you can get off the hook. Alex again shook his head with a bemused acknowledgment. I’ll get my jacket.

In his bedroom, Mckenzie retrieved a brown leather jacket from his closet. He picked up his official identification and cell phone from the drawer where they were stored. He looked for a moment at his service pistol in the shoulder holster before deciding against it. He still had the back-up 38 in the ankle holster. That should be enough fire power for a visit to a pizza parlour - even in Sausilito.

CHAPTER 3

He leaned his head back against the soft plush fabric of the Escalante’s rear seat. The large vehicle felt like a moving rocking chair as Peter wheeled, turned, and deftly maneuvered the SUV through the early evening traffic. The orange glow of the Golden Gate Bridge loomed in the darkness, and Peter speeded toward that iconic symbol with a facile ease born of experience.

Peter you own what must be one of the most politically incorrect cars in San Francisco.

Yeah, Stewart chuckled in response. I really love the expression on the faces of all the Prius drivers when I roll into the parking lot. A note of seriousness momentarily crept into his voice. Besides, my child is going to be riding in this car in a few months. I’d put armor on the damn thing if I could.

Now it was Brenda’s turn to laugh. Doesn’t my husband sound wildly overprotective, Alex?

Mckenzie closed his eyes and for a split second an image filled his mind. A dark green Renault swerved off a narrow country road. As it tumbled wildly down a steep slope toward a deep tree lined depression, it rolled completely over before crashing to a sudden stop. Flames leaped uncontrollably from the ruptured gas tank and the car erupted into a blazing fire ball. Mckenzie shook his head trying to expel a vision of an accident he had not actually seen. It was one he had imagined ; one that filled his worst nightmares..

No, Brenda he replied softly. I don’t think he is being overprotective. Cars wreck sometimes.

A capacity for boundless empathy guaranteed that Brenda Stewart would always be a uniquely effective nurse. It also meant that she would regularly carry home more residual distress than her less sensitive colleagues. In this case it allowed her to sense the repressed emotion in Mckenzie’s voice. She turned her head to look back over her shoulder at their passenger.

Glittering street lights and the fluctuating beams from passing cars created a kaliadiscopic effect in the darkened rear seat. It was like watching a damaged print of an old movie. The jerky frames alternatively illuminated and then concealed the expression on his face. There had been real emotion in his voice, but nothing in his expression reflected it. His impassive mask had dropped back into place.

Brenda sought to restore the good natured levity that had somehow been lost. Men! Her voice had a jesting levity. When it comes to your toys, you all stick together.

Damn, Mckenzie thought. She heard me. She really heard me. Evidently, the ability to read subtle personality shifts was not limited to an experienced police detective. Mckenzie’s legendary investigative skills had been built on his intelligence, a shrewd power of observation, and a near clairvoyant insight into the personality of those he interrogated. Tonight it appeared that a young nurse had some of the same skill. The protective wall so long in place, shielding his privacy from an unwelcome world had cracked. Brenda Stewart had seen through it. Affection had lowered his guard in a way that hostility never had.

Mckenzie looked with apparent interest out the window hoping that action would serve as a distraction - give him a moment to reconstruct his polished exterior. They were on the bridge now and in the distance the twinkling lights of the town of Sausilito were visible. Once a working class industrial and fishing community, the town had changed dramatically over the years. These days it was more of an artistic and touristy enclave. Gangsters and actors, artists of all types, poets and philosophers, even cartoonists had all lived there. Otis Redding had written Dock of the Bay on a houseboat on the waterfront. Now it reputately had become a center for some of the best restaurants in the Bay area. Mckenzie could not verify the last point. His world had contracted sharply in recent years. He rarely left San Francisco or ate in restaurants. A broader existence lived only in his memory and his imagination.

You will like this place, Alex Peter assured him. Its run by an old friend of mine from law school.

Pause, let the beat happen and then respond. A restaurant operated by a lawyer. I can’t wait.

Oh, sarcasm. Listen to that Brenda. No respect for the legal profession.

Brenda laughed and again turned her head to look back at Alex. In the headlights of the passing car, she saw him wink at her.

"Don’t worry Alex. Peter’s friend, Mathew, is only the business manager. His wife Sandra runs the kitchen.

I am definitely relieved.

Peter smiled as he steered toward the waterfront. Why did those idiots of the Police Department and the Prosecutor’s office all think Alex Mckenzie was humourless, he wondered. His sense of humour was sardonic, and more than a little subtle, but it was there. Mckenzie used his wit to amuse himself not others whose approval he did not value. It was a compliment to both Brenda and to him that Mckenzie allowed them to glimpse the fire that burned behind his stony exterior.

The Escalante came to a stop outside an unimpressive weathered wooden structure that fronted the bay. Looking across the water, the lighted shapes of the San Francisco skyline dominated by the dramatic upward thrust of the Transamerica Pyramid drew the eye. From this perspective, familiar shapes, structures seen daily could seem cloaked in a magical aura of dreams.

Mckenzie slid out of the SUV’s back seat and opened Brenda’s door before Peter could walk around the vehicle. He held out his hand to help her step down to the asphalt of the small parking lot.

Why thank you, kind sir Brenda’s voice was gentle and sincere. It always was.

As Peter joined them, Mckenzie gestured toward the wooden building and the view beyond. Your friend must be doing pretty well he said. Property with this kind of water front exposure doesn’t come cheap. Even as he spoke, Mckenzie’s analytical mind recognized the inconsistencies in his observation. The property might be expensive but the building was obviously modest and hardly new. The parking lot had only a few cars in it, and except for a small sign over the door proclaiming Trattoria de Alesandra, there was little to even identify it as a restaurant.

The property belongs to Sandra’s uncle Peter said. He was going to tear down the building and develop the site into something else."

Brenda had moved between the two men and linked her arms with both gently urging them toward the door. Like a veteran actress picking up perfectly on her cue, she continued Peter’s explanation. Sandra is her Uncle Benjamin’s favorite niece. When he found out that she and Matt wanted to operate a restaurant, he leased them this place. He said he would give them a year to prove they could do it.

"So how are they doing? Mckenzie kept the doubt out of his voice. It was a Friday night but the Trattoria de Alesandra did not appear to be turning eager patrons away.

It’s coming along Peter said. They have only been open a couple of months and there is a lot of competition in the Sausilito restaurant business.

Mckenzie did not look at Peter Stewart but he had heard too much concealed emotion in too many interrogations to miss it this time. Stewart entertained both hope and concern for his friend’s business enterprise. Concern was beginning to displace hope.

The door, a heavy dark wood with carved designs more ornate than might be expected from the otherwise plain exterior of the building swung inward. An old fashioned tinkling bell mounted on the inside announced their entry. The restaurant consisted of one large dinning room and a deck visible through the large glass door on the far wall. The tables set up for alfresco dining on the deck were covered and unoccupied. The late October chill had overwhelmed any romantic desire for a closer view of the cityscape across the water.

In the dinning room, Mckenzie quickly counted about thirty tables, only six of which were occupied. The short bar over to the right was also devoid of patrons, leaving an obviously bored bartender with nothing to do except aimlessly rearrange the glasses in the rack against the wall.

A young man, Chinese in appearance, was sitting at the small reception desk that held the cash register and an appointment book. Mckenzie suspected that there had been few entries in the book tonight. From the pensive look on his face, the man appeared to be looking