City of Whispers

by Marcia Muller

  In my dreams this morning I was flying. But over desolate terrain with no sign of human habitation. Heaps of rubble that once had been cities; ravaged farmland; rivers running red; seas shrinking to puddles. No place to land, no reason to either, and in a short time I’d be out of fuel. Then I’d go out in a sputter of the engine and a swift, spiraling descent—

  “McCone?” Hy said. “You all right?” His hand was warm on my shoulder.

  “Unnh?”

  “You were moaning and twitching.”

  I flopped onto my back, wiped my sweaty face with my forearm. Hy’s blondish-gray curly hair was tousled, his swooping mustache feathered out on one side so his rough-hewn face looked unbalanced. And his eyes—brown, flecked with gold—were concerned.

  “I was dreaming,” I said. “The date…”

  “Yeah.” He gripped my shoulder harder. I hadn’t lost anyone in the terrorist attack, but he had: RI’s New York offices had been located on the seventy-second floor of the North Tower; all 102 employees had died.

  We were silent for a long time, remembering the ways in which our world had changed forever.

  Then he said, “So what’s happening with Darcy?” We’d had more important things to do than talk when he’d arrived after two this morning.

  I explained as best I could. “I’m beginning to have a bad feeling about this. He most certainly needed money; he didn’t bother Robin or Saskia because Robin’s made it clear she’s had it with him and Saskia would have insisted he get help, possibly have him institutionalized. He probably thought he could hit me up for some, but he hasn’t been in touch since last Tuesday.”

  “Maybe he got it from somebody else.”

  “He doesn’t know people with money to spare.”

  “From some kind of job?”

  I just gave him a look.

  “Knocked over a liquor store?”

  “Not smart enough. This is a guy who tried to shoplift a whole ham by stuffing it under his hoodie, remember?”

  “Maybe somebody’s taking care of him, then. He’s kind of scabrous, but there are people who enjoy the challenge of rehabbing losers.”

  “A woman,” I said.

  I sat up and began ticking off items on my fingers. “We know he was with a woman at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. We have a description of her that sounds as if she’s a retro hippie. She probably took him to the cemetery in Colma where Gaby DeLucci’s buried. She may even have been with him when he came here in the middle of the night. Mick did what he could to identify her, but there just wasn’t enough to go on. He gave up and reassigned it to Derek, who’s had no results either.”

  “Could she be the same woman who visited Clarence Drew the day before he hanged himself? The one the maid thought he’d thrown out?”

  “No way of knowing.”

  “Okay,” Hy said. “Drew had been having sex with Gaby—maybe he was also one of those guys who likes to watch.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. But why would he want to leave evidence lying around?”

  “Maybe he thought his home was impregnable.”

  “What, that puny dog I found hiding in the cupboard was going to ward off intruders?”

  “Did he have a security system?”

  “Inspector Fast said it wasn’t functioning.”

  “Disabled?”

  “Frayed wire in the outside box. It’s an old system, so it could’ve just given out.”

  “Or been helped out.”

  “… Right.”

  “D’you think Darcy has any knowledge of alarm systems?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Someone else tampered with it, then.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugged. “You’ll find out.”

  Yes, but how? And where to start? If experts like Mick and Derek couldn’t identify the woman who had been with Darcy, I certainly didn’t stand a chance. And if the SFPD hadn’t a clue as to who had tampered with Drew’s security system—if, in fact, it had been tampered with—I couldn’t come up with one either.

  In the shower I reviewed my mental list of people connected with the case. It was pitifully short: the Nobody and Lady Laura were dead, as was Clarence Drew; Tick Tack Jack and his family had disappeared into Canada. Everybody else I’d talked with was peripheral, except for Lucy and Park Bellassis, and I sensed I’d wrung all the information from them that I was going to get.

  Hy was off to RI headquarters—his way of keeping busy on this most painful of days. The neighborhood was Saturday quiet. Quieter, maybe, than usual.

  I puttered around the house with Alex and Jessie underfoot, pointedly avoiding the newspaper and its rehashes of 9/11. Finally I called Mick, who sounded despondent.

  “Alison’s off at one of the commemorative services,” he said. “She wanted me to go, but I’d rather do my remembering in private.”

  “I get you. How about putting in some overtime?”

  “Sure—work’s supposed to be good for what ails you.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal….”

  Mick Savage

  He left his bike in the driveway of Rae’s and his father’s sprawling house on the bluff above China Beach and went around to the kitchen door, where he saw Rae and Mrs. Wellcome having coffee in the breakfast nook. They waved for him to join them and, after pouring himself a mug from the space-age machine on the counter, he squeezed in beside Rae.

  “Shar’s assigned me to your neighbors,” he said.

  “The Bellassises, you mean.”

  “Right.”

  “She really think they’re involved in these deaths?”

  “I don’t know. What can you tell me about them?”

  Rae glanced at Mrs. Wellcome, who said, “The marriage is troubled. The husband is absent a lot, and the wife seldom leaves the house. She drinks.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A car comes and goes. A red Honda. It pulls into the garage, and you can’t see the people in it.”

  “How often does it come?”

  “A few times a week.”

  “How long does it stay?”

  “Half an hour, no more than an hour.”

  Rae said, “It could belong to Lucy’s sister, Torrey Grant. Or Torrey’s boyfriend, Jeff Morgan. Apparently they come over a lot to borrow stuff or use Park’s computer. Lucy doesn’t get along with them, but she allows it.”

  “Why, I wonder?” he said.

  “You know how families are.”

  Oh yes, I was an expert in that area.

  Mrs. Wellcome said, “My kitchen window over the sink allows me a view of the Bellassis garage. I make a point of knowing what goes on in this neighborhood.”

  Rae said, “Mrs. Wellcome is an honorary operative of the agency. And extremely perceptive.”

  The housekeeper gave her employer a look that said, “Don’t patronize me, you twit.”

  Mick grinned widely. He said, “So it’s pretty hard to keep track of what goes on over there at the Bellassis house?”

  “At any house. This is hardly a neighborhood where you can peer over the back fence or into windows.”

  “And I suppose if I kept a surveillance, I’d stand out.”

  “On that motorcycle of yours?” Mrs. Wellcome snorted. “Someone would call the police and tell them the Hell’s Angels were taking over.”

  “What about on foot?”

  “Nobody walks here. Unless they have a dog. And we don’t have one on hand right now.”

  “Sometimes kids walk,” Rae said, “but there aren’t a lot of them around here.”

  Mick eyed her thoughtfully. “Didn’t you say Molly and Lisa are here this weekend?” His younger sisters lived with his mother and stepfather in Bel Air, but they spent every other weekend with Ricky and Rae.

  “Yes, and they’ve been moping around all morning because Ricky and his band are rehearsing downstairs in the studio. I banished them to the Hellhole.”

  She sounded irritated. Mick knew Rae had never consi
dered herself cut out for parenthood; still, she enjoyed the girls’ visits and gave in easily—too easily—to their numerous demands.

  Mrs. Wellcome said, “Better the girls be in my kitchen than that band.” Soon the practice session would be over, and the kitchen would be crowded with five hungry men foraging for sandwich makings and guzzling beer. “They have no respect for order.”

  “Why don’t you ask Lisa and Molly up here?” Mick said.

  “Why, when we have this little moment of peace?”

  “I need to deputize them.”

  “You mean like in a posse?” Lisa, the chubby blonde, was a fan of Gunsmoke reruns.

  “Sort of,” Mick said. “No horses, though. All you have to do is play whatever it is you play on the sidewalk and keep watch on a certain house.”

  Molly, dark and slender, frowned. “I don’t think we’ve ever played on a sidewalk.”

  “Not even hopscotch?”

  “What’s hopscotch?”

  Ah, the overprivileged life. “Well, do you know how to play cards?”

  “Go fish,” Lisa said. “I always win.”

  “How about playing go fish on the sidewalk while you watch this house for me?”

  “Is that allowed?” Lisa was very concerned with rules. Nobody could imagine where she’d gotten that trait from.

  “Yes, it’s allowed.”

  Molly said, “I was gonna watch a video.”

  “The video will be here when you’re done.”

  “It sounds like work. Lots of work. We ought to be compensated.”

  “Compensated.” Out of young mouths big, greedy words come.

  Mick sighed. “Five bucks apiece.”

  They looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Small change.

  “Five bucks apiece,” Rae said, “or I’ll tell your father you both peed in your Aunt Shar’s cat box during your last visit.”

  “We didn’t!”

  “Anyway,” Lisa said, “it’s Alex and Jessie’s cat box.”

  “Same thing. Do you and Mick have an agreement?”

  In unison, “… I guess.”

  “Good,” Mick said. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

  Sharon McCone

  Phyllis Brent called me from Vancouver, BC, at four-thirty that afternoon.

  “We’ve located Jack Tullock and his family,” she said. “They’re staying with friends, Harrison and Lily Jackson, outside of Kelowna.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Northwest of here, in the center of the province. Beautiful town on Okanagan Lake. Do you want us to continue surveillance?”

  “Until you hear otherwise from me. What’s the nearest airport?”

  “Kelowna International.” Phyllis laughed wryly. “Don’t ask about the ‘International.’ Horizon Air flies to SeaTac, where you can catch a feeder flight.”

  “How long a trip to Kelowna?”

  “From San Francisco? Over fifteen hours, with two plane changes and layovers.”

  God, the thought of half a day on one of those turboprops that Horizon operates put a chill on me. I merely said, “I’ll let you know my ETA.”

  I set down the phone, thought for a moment, then called Hy. “Where are the RI jets currently?” I asked. The company had a fleet of three, but their exact location was hard for an outsider to keep track of.

  “One’s in Mexico City, another in Chicago. The Citation’s here.”

  “I need a ride to Kelowna, BC. Will you take me?”

  “When?”

  “Soonest.”

  “I’ll start preflighting.” Hy loved flying RI’s Cessna Citation, an eight-seat jet and the fastest civilian plane in existence. I wasn’t qualified to pilot it, but I’d taken the controls a number of times when we were up together, and it made Two-Seven-Tango, our Cessna 170B, seem like a slug.

  It was six in the evening and the sun was well above the horizon when we took off, but soon it sank, a brilliant red sphere on the horizon. It made me think of our platform overlooking Bootleggers’ Cove on the Mendocino Coast, where we’d shared so many sunsets. We hadn’t been to Touchstone in a while, or to the ranch that Hy had inherited from his stepfather near Tufa Lake in the high desert, and I missed them both.

  The thought of owning three paid-off properties would have thrilled most people, but since I loved them all it made me feel divided. When I was walking the cliff at Touchstone I’d long for King, my horse in the high country. At the ranch I’d ride King, wishing we were on a bluff trail above the sea. And at home in the city everyday life would sometimes consume me.

  Well, it was a classy predicament.

  Hy said, “The rental-car situation at Kelowna is good; I booked us a midsize with Enterprise. And customs is reported to be fairly easy. You did remember your passport?”

  “I’m not a child.” I realized I sounded short with him. “Sorry. This case is really getting to me. Saskia called before I left the pier, all bent out of shape. Darcy’s given her so much trouble that I’m not sure he’s worth finding.”

  “Maybe whatever’s going on will have knocked some sense into him.”

  “Nobody’s ever used the word ‘sense’ in connection with Darcy.”

  We fell silent as the western sky flamed red, purple, and gold.

  Mick Savage

  Lisa came running into the kitchen at a little past six, as Mick and Rae and Ricky were talking of having the leftovers from the band’s foraging for dinner. The musicians, most of whom lived in the LA area, had left to fly home or visit friends and lovers in the city.

  “The red car’s backing out of the garage,” Lisa announced. “Molly’s maintaining surveillance.”

  Too many cop shows on TV.

  “Thanks, honey.” Mick wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Wish me luck,” he said to Rae and Ricky.

  He’d left his bike parked nose-out in the driveway. The engine thrummed and he eased out onto the street where the red Honda was just turning the corner toward the avenues. Molly, on the sidewalk, saluted him as he drove past.

  He lost the red Honda in the clog of Saturday evening traffic on Geary, spotted it again as it turned onto Masonic. As near as he could tell there was only one occupant, the driver. From the shape of the head and the haircut, it looked to be a man. So it couldn’t be Lucy’s sister, Torrey Grant, but perhaps her boyfriend, Jeff Morgan.

  Across the leafy Panhandle of Golden Gate Park and uphill to Clayton Street. A swift left into another driveway and garage. Gone.

  The house looked to be an apartment building—one long flat on each story, and perhaps a smaller unit behind the garage. A Victorian, Italianate, with thick balustrades, cornices under the eaves, and steep steps slanting across the façade to a small front porch. Somewhat shabby, beige paint cracked and flaking. A typical rental with an absentee landlord and an agent or tenants who didn’t give a damn, he thought.

  It was after nine o’clock and mostly dark. Lights shone between curtained windows, and a TV flickered on the second floor. Mick was hungry and thirsty and unhappy with himself because he’d violated one of Shar’s unbreakable rules: always carry bottled water and an energizing snack in your car because you never know when you might have to run a surveillance.

  Would he ever learn? Probably not. But then it wouldn’t matter, if he kept his promise to himself not to do any more fieldwork.

  Occasionally shadows crossed the window coverings, but none were identifiable. He wondered what the hell he was doing here. But something about that car and the way it had been driven bothered him. Something erratic and furtive.

  He waited.

  It was eleven when he ran out of patience. He’d studied the house and realized there was no way around it from the street to its rear, so he’d devised a cover story to gain access.

  He crossed the street, went up the old marble steps, and studied the mailboxes. Four. So there was an apartment in the basement. Labels from top to bottom: Bartlett; Carver; a blank and another blank. He rang the la
st bell anyway, thinking that a person wouldn’t be likely to come all the way up to the foyer, but might buzz him in.

  There was no reply. Okay, there were lights on the second and third floors. He buzzed the second.

  A man answered. Mick said, “Fire inspector. I need to check the wiring.”

  “On a Saturday night? Christ! I suppose you’re being paid overtime for this.”

  “There’s been a complaint—”

  “Yeah, well, I got a complaint too. You people are raking it in and it’s all coming out of my taxes.”

  “Sir, we have a report of a potentially dangerous situation on the top floor.”

  “Only dangerous situation up there don’t have nothing to do with wiring.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Ah, fuck it.” The door buzzer went off and the intercom went silent.

  Mick stepped into the foyer. Musty, none-too-clean-old-building smell; narrow stairs slanting upward toward a landing. At one time this would have been a fine old residence, but now the carpets were worn, the wallpaper peeling, and most of the lightbulbs burned out.

  He rapped on the door of the first-floor unit. As he’d expected from the lack of lights, there was no response.

  Okay, farthest place next.

  After his knock at the top-floor unit, he heard murmurs, footsteps, a female voice saying, “Yes?”

  “Fire inspector.”

  The door opened and a woman with her hair in curlers looked out. Pink plastic curlers, the likes of which Mick hadn’t seen since he was a child.

  From the interior of the apartment a rough male voice said, “Angie, get your ass back in here before I come out there and tear you a new one.”

  “It’s some fire inspector.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Jesus Christ himself. Shut the door and get back here.”

  “Fuck off!”

  “You telling me to fuck off? I’ll show you—”

  The woman slammed the door.

  Right: the potentially dangerous situation here had to do not with the wiring of the building but with the faulty wiring of two people.