He gathered up the envelopes full of photographs and then looked at the framed items on the walls: high school diploma; Future Farmers of America awards; topographical map of the area; aerial photograph that must be of the ranch; studio portrait of Rosa; ribbons from the Yamhill County and Oregon State fairs.
Next Mick went to the computer. Apparently Tullock wasn’t all that concerned with others getting into his files; his password was stored. Mick clicked through the icons: bookkeeping; calendar; to-do lists. None of them had been added to in weeks. No documents stored on the hard drive. He clicked the e-mail icon: no new messages except for spam; no sent mail. The trash file was clogged—more of the usual catalogs and political plugs and fundraising pleas. A week-old reminder from Rosa that he’d scheduled a dentist appointment for after his NA meeting the following morning. A note from a fellow NA member called Marco asking if he’d come in early and help with setting up the coffee. Mick noted Marco’s address. A one-liner from Tullock’s wife telling him dinner was ready. Mick smiled; a lot of people he knew sent messages to each other from even closer proximity. Sometimes he e-mailed or texted Derek even though they were in the same office, seated a few feet away from each other.
He supposed whoever had ransacked the office could’ve deleted any messages that would give away his identity. If so, any deletions would still be on the hard drive. It was a widely held myth that deleting or double-deleting an item erased it for good; if you knew where and how to look, you could find its cyber footprint.
Mick went out to his rental to fetch his laptop. Linked the computers and began his search. Plenty buried on the hard drive, but nothing that had any significance for him. Whatever had spooked Tullock hadn’t arrived electronically.
But something had spooked him—badly—and Mick’s instincts told him it had to do with Gaby DeLucci’s murder.
Sharon McCone
I woke to light filtering through the kitchen windows, realized I’d fallen asleep on my computer keyboard. Put my hand to my cheek and felt the indentations from the keys on my skin. Jesus! What time was it?
The clock on the stove showed nearly ten. I’d wasted half of the morning.
I tried Mick’s cellular number. It still wasn’t working, but that could mean he was on a flight coming home. I hoped.
My dreams had been uneasy and confusing; my body was slick with the kind of sweat that comes from a bad night, and my muscles were cramped from sleeping in an odd position. I took a long hot shower, during which I planned for the day. Dressed and made a couple of appointments. Called Saskia to give her an update, but she was in court. Robin wasn’t home. I had an urgent need to reach out to someone who would understand my love/hate feelings for Darcy.
Finally I dialed the wisest but frequently most inscrutable man I’d ever known—my birth father, Elwood Farmer.
“You are upset, Daughter.”
Daughter! This from a man who on our first meeting wouldn’t let me into his house until I’d “assembled my thoughts.”
“Yes, I am. Have you ever met Saskia’s son, Darcy?”
“No, I haven’t had the displeasure.”
“He’s missing.”
Silence.
“And she’s asked me to locate him.”
More silence. He was probably lighting a cigarette. I’d been trying to get him to quit, but he was stubborn about giving up an almost lifelong habit. When I spoke of the dangers of lung cancer he just shrugged or said, “Sooner or later something’s gonna take me out.”
“Elwood, I don’t like Darcy!” I said.
“From what I understand of the young man, that’s not an unusual reaction. But let me ask you this: do you have to like the persons you look for?”
“No, of course not. But this is complicated.”
“Only because you allow it to be.”
Now I was silent.
“Darcy is a pain in the ass. A boil on the butt of society.” Elwood tells it like it is. Always. And often in terms that do not become a wise man.
“Unfortunately,” he added, “he’s also a boil on the butt of your mother. They are exceedingly painful to remove.”
“And to sit on.”
“True.”
“So what is it you’re telling me?”
“Don’t you know?”
I was beginning to get his drift. I needed to separate the personal aspects of the case from the professional. I should search for my half brother as if he were a stranger a client had hired me to find.
“Thank you, Elwood.”
“If you wish, you may call me Father.”
After I broke the connection, I sat holding the phone, stunned. Since I’d discovered our blood relationship, we’d spent very little time together. He’d come to San Francisco only once, to visit me when I was in the Brandt Neurological Institute, and I’d had little chance to escape to Montana, a state I’d loved at first sight. But our relationship had strengthened over the miles, and now this exceedingly reserved man called me Daughter and had given me permission to call him Father.
Down the Peninsula to Palo Alto. My first stop there was at a nondescript stucco apartment complex on Alma Street near Stanford University—the type built to house students in the eighties. It was well kept up, with new paint and purple-and-white African daisies growing in raised beds in the courtyard around the small kidney-shaped pool. The manager, who had been listed in the phone book under the complex’s name—Palm Grove—was Vincent George; he lived in a ground-floor unit off the arched entryway.
I’d called ahead, and Mr. George had readily agreed to see me. He remembered the tenants of apartment 215 well, due to the “unfortunate circumstances” of their leaving. Now he served me a soft drink and led me into a fenced patio whose plantings mirrored those in the courtyard.
“Those girls,” he said, deep lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes and mouth, “it was such a shame, with their whole lives ahead of them. Of course, the blond-haired one—what was her name?”
“Lucy Grant.”
“Right. She wasn’t killed, but she was damaged all the same. I’d see her coming home from her classes all hunched over and looking down at the ground, and it wasn’t the weight of her backpack that caused it, but the death of her friend.”
“How long did she stay on here?”
“Till the Christmas break. Then she was gone for good.”
“Did she have any friends, frequent visitors?”
“Only the boy that Gabriella DeLucci had been seeing. Park, they called him—unusual name. He’d come around looking sad too, and sometimes they’d go out together. What happened to Lucy and Park?”
“She married him.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Good. They have each other for comfort.”
Or something, I thought. I doubted either of them provided the other with much in the way of comfort, to say nothing of love.
“Gabriella and Lucy must’ve had other company. Women friends, perhaps?”
Mr. George frowned thoughtfully. “Lucy studied at the library a lot; at least every time I’d see her going out, she’d wave and call, ‘I’m off to the library, Mr. G.’ Gabriella was usually with Park.”
“Do you remember anybody else who visited?”
He frowned, thinking. “Well, there were some people who turned up right after Gabriella moved in—two men and a woman. They asked what apartment she was in. I called her from my office to make sure it was all right to give them the information. You have to be so careful, these days…. Anyhow, she told me no, asked me to say only her roommate was home. And I did—it’s my job to protect the tenants.”
“How did the people react?”
“Left quietly. Were more polite than I would’ve expected from the likes of them.”
“What were they like?”
“Not quite, you know, clean. And poorly dressed.”
“Can you describe them?”
“The woman had light brown hair. One man was white and young, looked like he’d h
ad a hard life. The other man was black and quite a bit older.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“I’m afraid not. Are you in touch with that girl—Lucy?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Tell her hello for me. They were nice girls, both of them.”
“I’ll tell her, Mr. George.”
Next stop, Peet’s Coffee and Tea on Homer Street, a few blocks closer to the university, where I had arranged to meet with Will Smead, the faculty advisor to whom both Gaby and Lucy had been assigned.
Smead was a husky, balding man with horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt imprinted with WORD POWER. He rose when I came up to his window table, asked what I would like to drink, and went to fetch my cappuccino.
“Now,” he said when we were both seated, “what would you like to know about Gabriella DeLucci and Lucy Grant?”
I’d expected some cautiousness on his part, a request that I not name him as a source or involve him in a potential court case, but he seemed willing—even eager—to talk.
“You were their faculty advisor.”
“Yes, both were majoring in English. My specialty is Shakespeare, with emphasis on the tragedies. It has been my experience that young, overprivileged women are particularly drawn to them, possibly because of a lack of tragedy in their own lives.”
“Gaby DeLucci had experienced tragedy. Both her parents were killed in an accident when she was twelve, and she had no family.”
He considered that, running his fingers around the rim of his coffee mug. “Yes, but I didn’t sense that she’d experienced any real grief. She seemed… dissociated from her emotions.”
One of the many documented responses to sexual abuse.
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“It’s not easy to define. The girl lacked passion. In fact, sometimes she seemed almost automatonic. She could quote reams of Shakespeare, but without any genuine involvement. We put on an end-of-term production of Othello, and I mistakenly cast her as Desdemona—she was dull as a stump in the role. She didn’t seem to have any friends except for Lucy Grant. During our initial—and only—consultation, I asked her about her aspirations, her dreams. She seemed genuinely puzzled by the question; all she said was, ‘I never dream.’ ”
“Did she mean sleep-dream, or that she had no hopes for the future?”
Smead shrugged. “She didn’t encourage me to pursue the subject.”
“I’ve been told she had a boyfriend.”
“I don’t know about that, but I wouldn’t doubt it, as attractive as she was.”
“What about extracurricular activities? Charity work?”
He shook his head. “You have to understand that I had only the one conference with her, observed her in class for half of one term. She didn’t reveal much about herself, was quiet and didn’t relate.”
“What about Lucy?”
“A normal, high-spirited individual. Unfortunately, she was having difficulty keeping up with her class work. She wasn’t really Stanford material. If she hadn’t left school voluntarily, I suspect she would have flunked out.”
“How many conferences did you have with her?”
“Only the one. We’d scheduled another, but she canceled. Understandable, considering the circumstances. I was not surprised when she didn’t return after the holidays.”
“Back to Gabriella: you say she showed little emotion, and yet you cast her as Desdemona.”
“Yes. I thought a meaty role would bring her out of her shell. Also there was something about her… a haunting or perhaps haunted quality that seemed perfect for a portrayal of that doomed woman.”
He paused, seeming to listen to the echo of his words. “I don’t believe in extrasensory perception, but somehow I knew Gabriella DeLucci’s life would be a short and unhappy one.”
Since I had to drive right by SFO on my way back to the city, I decided to have a look at the Bellassis FBO. It would be a short detour and not time-consuming.
The FBO was a long, low building with big windows overlooking the general aviation tie-downs; tall palms grew close to it, casting their swaying shadows against the large slabs of white stone facing. I parked and entered a large lobby filled with overstuffed furnishings and decorated in soothing shades of blue—an ideal place for tired pilots to relax between long flights. A tall man in a white shirt with first officer’s epaulets on its shoulders sprawled in one of the chairs, but otherwise the lounge was empty.
A woman in a blue uniform sat behind the reception desk, making entries into a computer. Before she noticed me, a man’s agitated voice came from behind a partition.
“Dammit, Lee, I can’t find the information on the Acme charter. D’you have it?” The man rounded the partition. Jeff Morgan.
He blinked at me, startled. “I know you. Aren’t you Lucy’s friend?”
“Yes, Sharon McCone.”
“Right. Lucy’s not here, and neither is Park.”
“Actually, I just wanted to take a look around. I have a plane at Oakland, but I’m thinking of moving it to SFO. How about a tour?”
“Sure.” Morgan turned to the receptionist. “See if you can find that information for me, and if Park comes in, ask him to join us.”
We went outside. The wind was blowing heavily northeast to southwest, making takeoff and landing difficult for small planes and even the heavies. I looked up at Jeff Morgan: he was a handsome man, his blond hair tousled, his face deeply tanned. He would clean up nicely if he shaved the accumulation of stubble from his chin and put on something other than his scabrous flight jacket—worse by far than Hy’s—and his dirty jeans.
“Actually,” he said, “there’s not much to see. Tie-downs here, hangars over there”—he motioned to our right—“and a smaller cluster of them to our left. Were you thinking of renting a hangar?”
“Probably.”
“What kind of aircraft have you got?”
“Cessna 170B, fully restored.”
“Nice.” We were walking among the tethered planes now: Cessnas and Pipers, a couple of Citabrias, some homebuilts and small jets. “A plane like that deserves its own hangar.”
“I’ll need to see your rental price list.”
“We’ve got them in the office.”
“Have you worked here long?”
“Over two years.”
“And you’ve been with Torrey all that time?”
“She was the one got me the job. We met at this bar we both like—Wildside in the city.”
“Torrey fly?”
“Nah, she’s temperamentally unsuited. Freezes up at the controls. She’s okay as a passenger, though.”
A voice called from behind us. “Yo, Jeff, Sharon!”
Park came jogging across the tie-downs. In his tailored blue suit, his hair well styled, he presented a marked contrast to his employee. “Lee says Jeff’s giving you the grand tour.”
“She’s thinking of moving her plane to a hangar here,” Morgan said.
“I was hoping I planted that notion in her mind the other night. Unfortunately, we don’t have any free hangars just now.”
“Put me on your waiting list,” I said. “I’m in no hurry.”
“Right at the top. Will you do that, Jeff? Now?”
He wanted to get rid of Morgan.
Jeff tugged an imaginary forelock. “Yes, master. See you, Sharon.”
Park glared after him. “He’s such a smartass. If it wasn’t for Torrey and if he wasn’t a good pilot, he’d be long gone.”
I said, “How’s Lucy today? I really enjoyed meeting her.”
“Fit-throwing and all?”
“Oh, everybody pitches a wingding once in a while.”
“Not you.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I like being surprised.”
He was moving too close to me, violating my comfort zone. I stepped away. “Park, it’s good to see you again. I hope a hangar opens up soon. Got to get back to work now.
”
I left him standing next to a gleaming white-and-blue Piper, staring after me as if he wondered where his tentative pass had gone wrong.
Hy called at around two-thirty: the conference with the Swiss bankers had ended to his satisfaction; they’d agreed to honor RI’s existing contract for executive protection. He’d be home late that night or early next morning.
“Can’t wait to be with you, McCone.”
“And me you, Ripinsky.”
Mick phoned a while later, when I’d taken a break from my investigation to deal with some administrative duties and was in conference with Julia Rafael. Julia, a tall, haughty-looking Latina—who wasn’t haughty at all—was my all-around general operative. Her somewhat severe features were softened by her wide brown eyes and flashing white smile. Today she was dressed casually in jeans and a tweedy sweater, her thick black hair in a ponytail. The cases she was working were mainly skips—deadbeat dads, missing moms, wandering teenagers.
Mick was still in McMinnville, he said, and explained about the Tullock family’s disappearance. “The police are assuming it was voluntary but Tullock’s daughter insists otherwise.”
“What do you think?”
“Voluntary and hasty. I’d say they were running from someone. I checked a number down in the city that appeared twice on Tullock’s phone bill; it’s for M&M’s Lounge.”
“Trying to locate Chuck Bosworth.”
“Right. The guy I talked to said he took a couple of calls for Bosworth after he left the night he was shot. The caller wouldn’t leave a number or a message.”
“Male?”
“Yep. Same voice both times.”
“Probably Tullock, wanting to warn Bosworth to watch his back.”
“Probably. He still hanging in there?”
“No, he died yesterday afternoon.”
“Damn! There goes a lead.”
“A human being too, Mick.”
Before he could respond to the mild rebuke, I asked, “When are you coming back?”
“First flight I can book.”
“Good. Check in with me when you arrive.”
I broke the connection and looked at Julia. “What can you tell me about sexual abuse?” I asked her.
City of Whispers Page 10
