Free As a Favor by Susan Dunlap Page A

Hayward Fault from Contra Costa County in the north almost to San Jose in the south. The streets wind steeply upward, overhung by branches of live oak and liquid amber, and lined by four-bedroom houses clustered close together. Turning north just short of the summit, I wondered how a welfare supervisor could afford a house here.
    But Alec Effield turned out not to live in a house. He had a flat over the garage, ten feet to the left of a large, dark, Queen Anne house. The brick steps to Effield’s flat matched the curved walkway to the main house. The yard showed signs of a flower garden recently pulled up. The grass was cut, the edges trimmed.
    As I climbed Effield’s steps, I could hear the sounds of Ravel.
    I knocked and when the door opened, identified myself.
    Soft light, soft music flowed up behind the man who, in turn, identified himself as Alec Effield, giving him the aura of a celestial character from a Busby Berkeley musical. His eyes were the palest blue and his flaxen hair was barely distinguishable from his gently tanned face, his beige turtleneck, and beige slacks. But as he asked why I was there, his voice was jarring. He had the last vestige of a New York accent, and even it sounded faded. In another year or two he would blend perfectly into his beige surroundings.
    Waving me inside, he turned off the music and turned on an art deco lamp. The brighter light showed a carefully understated room; the only signs of use were two indentations close together on a toffee-colored love seat. Whoever was responsible for the second depression was not visible.
    I decided on a direct approach. “I’m afraid Anne Spaulding may be dead. We found clothing that appears to be hers by the Bay.”
    Effield gasped, a timid sound.
    I waited, giving him time to recover. “I’m sure you want to help us.”
    “Yes, of course. It’s awful. Anne?”
    “Did she have any enemies?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Kinky friends?”
    “Oh, no. Not Anne.”
    “We don’t have much to go on, but we do know she was accepting bribes from her clients.”
    Effield’s pale eyes opened wider. He looked around, as if hoping his friend would emerge suddenly and answer for him. “Surely, Officer, surely that couldn’t be true.”
    “I’m afraid it is. It’s common knowledge.”
    “But that’s not possible. I would have heard if Anne had done anything like that. Ours is a small office. Perhaps if you’d seen it—”
    “I’ve been there.”
    Effield lifted a brass letter opener from the end table and moved his fingers precisely back and forth along the sides of the blade, carefully avoiding the sharp edges. “You say it’s common knowledge. You have people who will swear that Anne took money from her clients?”
    “Yes.” Maybe was closer to the truth.
    Effield shook his head. “This is awful. Nothing like this has ever happened in our office. I just can’t believe it.” He put the letter opener back on the end table. “But I suppose it must be. I just wouldn’t have thought it of Anne.” He groaned. “This is terrible. I vouched for her. She used me as a reference. What will they think?”
    “You knew Anne back East, is that right?”
    “Yes. In New York.”
    “How did you come to know her there?”
    “We both worked for the welfare department. She was there briefly, only a few months. But she had completed training. She did know the job.” He seemed anxious that I see the validity of his recommendation.
    “And were you friends in New York?”
    Effield seemed to consider this. “Acquaintances. I lost track of Anne after she left the department, and then I ran into her right before I came out here. She followed, well, not followed, but she came here later and she knew I’d be at the department here and she called and asked to use me as a reference.”
    A toilet flushed. I flipped a page in my notes. There was a lot of ground I needed to cover before we were interrupted. “Then there are Anne’s clients who