Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Afternoon
The San Francisco Public Library had all the past ghosts of the Chronicle on microfiche in a musty old basement corner that was three times quieter than a tomb. If Waverly died there, no one would find her for a week. It took some time and eyestrain but she eventually found a June 12, 1949 article titled Woman Falls to Death, reporting about a woman found at the base of a building in the downtown area early Saturday morning.
The cause of the fall was unknown.
The woman was 24-year-old Kava Every, an architect who worked at Bristol Design Group. She was an attractive blond with a white smile and a Haight Street address.
There was no mention of a red dress.
Shelby Tilt.
That was the reporter’s name at the top of the article.
Waverly hunted down a librarian, got a copy of the microfiche printed for five cents and headed out of the guts of the building into very welcome sunshine.
The air was in the low-70s, a good 20 degrees cooler than Denver, and had a salty hang to it.
It felt more like spring than summer.
From the library in the Civic Center, she hopped on a red Cal Cable trolley that took her into the downtown area on the east side of the city.
The buildings were taller than Denver.
The buzz was louder.
The traffic was faster.
She found the address she was looking for, took the elevator to the third floor and got dumped in a vestibule. To the left was a copper door set in a glass cinderblock wall. Lights and movement on the other side distorted through the rounded glass bricks.
The place was hopping.
Above the door was red lettering.
Bristol Design Group.
She took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped in. The reception desk was cluttered with papers but had no human inhabitant in the chair. Waverly stood in front of it and waited.
A minute passed, then another.
Lots of men scurried around plus an occasional woman but no one paid her any attention.
Then a man appeared from her left and handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Run down to Murphy’s and get me an Italian sausage with everything, plus an RC and a bag of chips.”
He was in his mid-thirties and wore it well, in a rough, manly way.
His eyes were wolfen-blue.
He reminded her of a Marlboro billboard.
She looked down to see if he was wearing a ring. He wasn’t, but his pinky finger was missing. She had a strange urge to touch the stub.
He must have seen the expression on her face because he said, “It got shot off. If you’re temping for more than just today, I’ll tell you about it some time. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Temping tomorrow too?”
She shrugged.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Then she noticed something.
His shirt was buttoned wrong.
She unbuttoned the top button, re-buttoned it in the proper hole and said, “Just follow my lead the rest of the way down.”
He smiled.
“I can’t believe nobody told me.”
She shoved the ten in her purse and headed for the elevator. Over her shoulder she heard, “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Waverly Paige.”
He was Sean.
Sean Waterfield.
He was happy to meet her.