Free As a Favor by Susan Dunlap Page B

don’t live where they’re supposed to.”
    Effield looked up, startled.
    I was on shakier ground here. “Mr. Effield, Anne has twelve adult cases with addresses at three Telegraph Avenue hotels.”
    “Yes,” Effield said slowly, “we do have clients living in hotels.”
    “These women don’t. I’ve already checked one hotel and none of them lives there. No one remembers them. There’s nothing to say they exist.”
    Effield sat.
    Water splashed in what I supposed was the bathroom.
    “Oh,” he said.
    The water stopped. A door at the back of the room opened a crack.
    “This is overwhelming. First you tell me Anne’s dead, then you say she was accepting bribes, and now you say her cases have the wrong addresses.” Effield’s head shook ever more slowly. Finally he said, “I’m trying to think how that could be. Perhaps, yes, perhaps Anne was in the process of changing their addresses. You see, Officer, a lot of clients are transients of sorts. They come to Berkeley and they need to have an address in order to apply for aid, so they live at one of those hotels where it’s easy to find a room cheap and the management asks no questions. A lot of places won’t rent to welfare recipients.”
    “But they don’t live there, Mr. Effield.”
    “I’m getting to that.” Now he seemed quite confident, protected by his bureaucratic knowledge. “As soon as aid is granted, the client can look for another place, and those hotels being what they are, most people move on quickly. So what you saw are, no doubt, people who’ve moved and notified the department of their change of address.”
    “Can you show me any proof of that?”
    “I don’t know. What type of thing did you have in mind?” He seemed uneasy. He swallowed, then looked directly at me. “Nat Smith’s worked with Anne. He should know what went on in her cases. Maybe you should ask him.”
    In spite of my nametag, Effield didn’t make the connection and for once I was profoundly thankful for a common name. To Effield, I said, “I will be talking to all the workers, but right now I need evidence. The case folders must have some listing of the new addresses. I could run down the clients, if they exist.”
    “All of them?”
    “It depends on time.”
    “Well, the thing is, Officer, I am bound by the rules of confidentiality. Much as I’d like to get this straightened out, I just can’t reveal the addresses of twelve clients, not even to the police. I could be fired for a breach like that.”
    “I see. You’ve got your rules. I could get a court order—” I let the statement hang, hoping it would bring forth some offer. It was a threat I didn’t want to have to carry out—one I doubted I could get approved.
    The bathroom door opened and a woman started out.
    I caught her eye and shook my head.
    Effield had been too involved in his thoughts to notice. “Suppose,” he said, “I can arrange for you to see one of those clients. I could find out if one of them would be willing to talk to you.”
    I considered that, picturing Effield meticulously going through the stack, choosing the least offensive client. “No, that’s not good enough. Not representative.”
    He sat, his eyes nearly closed, so that his whole body seemed devoid of color. His eyes opened and his gaze lifted till he nearly met my eyes. “Why don’t you choose the client?”
    “I still don’t like you arranging it.”
    “I’m afraid there’s no other way within our rules.”
    Picturing Lt. Davis’ exasperated expression as I discussed a court order, I said, “Okay.” And glancing through the list I had copied, I chose a name from Delehanty’s hotel, one I knew didn’t live there. “How about Yvonne McIvor?”
    “Yvonne McIvor?” the woman behind Effield asked in a listless voice. “Who’s that?”
    Effield turned. It was a moment before he said, “I’d forgotten you were here. This is Mona Liebowitz,” he added to me. I recalled Mona Liebowitz’s name from the