Mick descended the staircase, paused at the second-floor apartment. Except for the fact that he was Caucasian, the man who had buzzed him in resembled a sumo wrestler.
“You don’t look like no fire inspector,” he said.
“They called me in unexpectedly. I didn’t have time to put on my uniform. Do you know the other tenants here?”
The man glowered at him, seemed about to shut the door without answering, and then changed his mind. “What the hell,” he said. “There’s the Battlin’ Bartletts”—his thumb jerked at the ceiling—“and the couple on first. Don’t know their names, but they’re young, just slumming. Right now they’re in Carmel and a year from now they’ll be living in Cow Hollow.”
“Can you describe them?”
“She’s kind of little, but strong. Works out a lot. I think her hair’s blond, but I’m not sure. His is. He’s big, built. Guess he works out too.”
“Do you know what they do for a living?”
The man shook his head. “She’s in and out all the time, might not work. He’s gone overnight a lot, some kind of salesman, maybe. Say, how come a fire inspector’s askin’ these kinda questions?”
“I think I may know them through friends.” Quickly Mick changed the subject. “I noticed four mailboxes.”
“Yeah, there’s a basement studio, looks out into a light well. People come and go. I think they’re dealin’ drugs.”
“The current tenants?”
“Ain’t no current tenants. The management company hasn’t bothered to fill the vacancy since the people who were renting it moved out a couple of months ago.”
“You know their names?”
A shrug, muscles in the big shoulders rippling. “Hilda and… something. Maybe Mack. Don’t know a last name or where they went.”
“And the management company?”
“Real Good Properties, over on Masonic. Stupid name.”
“So these people who come and go are now squatters?”
“Not really. They just use it as a drop for drugs.”
“What kind of people are they?”
“All kinds. Junk don’t discriminate about the class of folks it hooks.”
“Can you describe any of them?”
Another shrug. “Guys in suits, straight from the Financial district. Guys in rags, who can hardly stop shaking. Beautiful women. Ugly women. People with no teeth, people with rashes and needle tracks and infected scars. Young kids—thirteen, fourteen—bent on ruinin’ their lives. Pregnant women with no regard for the babies they’re carryin’. Like I said, junk don’t discriminate.”
A hollow feeling started under Mick’s breastbone. He thought of Molly, Lisa, and his other siblings, felt grateful that they were insulated from such lives, not only by money but by love.
“Isn’t there anybody you can describe in detail?” he asked.
The man shook his head. “Pretty soon they all look alike. You know what I mean?”
Sharon McCone
After we passed through Canadian customs at Kelowna, I phoned Phyllis Brent. Her operatives had reported that no one had left the Jackson house all day, she said, and gave me directions to it. “My people will maintain surveillance in case there’s any trouble.”
When I ended the call I said to Hy, “She’s got two operatives out there. The tab on this is going to be horrific.”
“Let Saskia pay for it. She’s the one who wants Darcy back. Besides, you could always write that true-crime book you’ve been using as an excuse for asking questions. I bet Rae’s publisher would take it on.”
“Great. Add to my notorious reputation. To say nothing of destroying Saskia’s and Robin’s privacy.”
“Face it, McCone, all of this is going to come out publicly. Better you should benefit from it than somebody else. Because you know writers are going to pounce on it. Look what happened with the Diplo-bomber and the Ever-Running Man.”
Yes, a couple of true-crime writers had gotten prosperous, if not rich, on those stories. The first one I’d cooperated with, only to be misquoted. I refused to speak with the second one.
“But… write? Me?”
“You just put one word after the other.”
“That’s simplistic. Writing isn’t easy.”
“Then get Rae to coauthor it.”
We’d reached the rental-car counter. “We’ll see,” I said.
The Jackson house was on the lakeshore. By the time we reached it darkness had fallen. It was huge, of stone and wood, with large lighted windows that showed a spare contemporary interior.
I studied it, said to Hy, “At night you can just look into their lives.”
“It’s pretty far from any neighbors. And maybe they don’t mind being looked at.”
“It would make me edgy as hell.”
“That’s because you know what dangers the darkness holds.”
As he spoke I saw two men and a woman walk into a front room carrying wineglasses. After a moment another woman joined them.
“Cozy,” I said. “You wouldn’t think they had a care in the world.”
“The Jacksons probably don’t. And the Tullocks have an illusion of safety here.”
“Which I’m about to shatter.”
Jack Tullock came warily to the door after a man—presumably his host—called him. Tullock looked trapped when I showed him my credentials. His eyes searched the shadows, settling on Hy, who stood slightly behind me.
He said to his host, “Harrison, it’s okay. Go back to the party.” To Hy he added, “And who the hell are you?”
“An associate of Ms. McCone.” He handed him his card.
Tullock examined it, then crumpled it in the palm of his hand. He said, “Don’t you people ever stop? First that Savage guy, now you. I got a right to my privacy.”
“Not where an open murder case is concerned.”
“Christ! I’m tired of hearing about it! I just want to be left alone to live my life in peace.”
“I’m sure that was what Gaby DeLucci wanted too.”
“Gaby, Gaby, Gaby! I’m sick of hearing about her. Like she was some sort of martyred saint. Well, she wasn’t—not by far.”
“Why don’t you tell me about her, Mr. Tullock? You told Mr. Savage you had something to get off your chest.”
“That was before—”
“Before what?”
“Before I knew my family was in danger.”
“From…?”
“Chuck Bosworth called, left a message that I should watch my back. I called back twice to some bar in San Francisco, but he was never there.”
“His call made you run up here to Canada?”
“No, I had another call.”
“From?”
“A woman who wouldn’t identify herself. Wanted a hundred thousand bucks to keep quiet about my past. A hundred thou, for Chrissakes! I’ve got zip in the bank, and my ranch alone wouldn’t bring that much.”
“And that was a serious enough threat to make you abandon your home?”
“Hell yes. The woman was serious, and she knew the whole story. Knew things even I didn’t.”
“Why don’t you tell us about those things?”
“Because they’re none of your goddamn business!”
“I can make it the Yamhill County Sheriff’s Department’s business.”
“What you’re talking about happened two years ago, in another state.”
“Open murder case,” I said again.
“Damn you!” Pause. “I better talk to my wife.” He shut the door.
Hy and I waited in the star-shot darkness. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it encouragingly. After a few minutes Tullock opened the door and motioned us in. He seemed somewhat chastened after the conference with his wife.
“Beth says it’s time for the truth to come out.”
We followed him inside.
“Not in there,” he said, motioning toward the room where the other people were gathered. “Beth’s waiting for us
on the patio.” He led us through the house to a deck where embers glowed in a large grill and heat lamps radiated warmth. A woman sat there, hugging her arms across her breasts: a short, plump blonde whose prettiness was beginning to fade.
“This is Beth,” Tullock said.
We greeted her and sat side by side on a wicker sofa.
Tullock took a chair next to Beth’s and reached for her hand. “Beth knows I was pretty wild years back. Got into drugs, dumped my first wife and daughter, took off on the road. Ended up in rehab in San Francisco. Made friends with a couple of other former addicts, Laura Mercer and Chuck Bosworth. What she don’t know about is the thing with Gaby DeLucci.”
He looked at his wife, and she nodded encouragingly.
“Gaby was a volunteer at this place where we hung out, trying to stay straight. She pulled us all together, named us the Four Musketeers. But it turned out Gaby had an agenda: she was an orphan and her legal guardian, this prick called Clarence Drew, had been molesting her for years. Made tapes of them together, and she wanted us to steal them from his house. Not only that, she wanted him dead. Told us to take some other stuff, so it’d look like a robbery gone bad. Said she’d pay us big bucks.
“Molestation, that’s pretty bad, but it ain’t in me to kill somebody. Laura and Chuck, they were all for it. Gaby said she’d ‘keep Drew occupied’ while we got into the house. But I… What happened was all my fault. I went to see Drew, told him to leave Gaby alone and give me the tapes. He said there weren’t any, it was consensual sex, and if I didn’t lay off he’d call the cops.”
Tullock paused, shaking his head. “With my record, what could I do?”
I said, “Did you warn Gaby about what you’d done?”
“I did. She just laughed, said Clarence wouldn’t do anything. She had a ‘date’ with him that night, and nine o’clock was when we should break in. I was supposed to tell Laura and Chuck, but I didn’t. Instead I went to a bar, made sure I was seen there, and got myself blind drunk. Next morning the headlines were all about Gaby being found dead in the park.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“A guy like me, going up against the likes of Clarence Drew?”
“Not even for Gaby’s sake?”
“No, not for nobody’s sake. Soon as I heard Gaby was dead, I split. Came up to Oregon, reconciled with my daughter. Went to work for my uncle, met Beth, and when my uncle died he left me this ranch.” His smile in the glow from the coals was sardonic. “Also left me his animals. I don’t understand why the hell he wanted them—especially that damned camel—but they’re living creatures and I treat them the same as he did. Same way I’ve always treated everybody.”
His eyes defied me to say, “Even Gaby?”
Darcy Blackhawk
I hurt all over….
His ribs. His head. Both shoulders. His ankle.
He was lying on the floor in a small, cramped space, his face in a drying pool that smelled like puke. The little brown girl was gone. How long since she’d left him here?
If she never came back he’d die here, alone.
No!
Shar. She’d almost died when she was shot that time. What did they call people like her? Survivors?
If she could survive, so could he. Shared blood had to count for something.
He tried to move, but the pain was so bad it made his eyes water. Or maybe thinking of Shar had made him cry. She didn’t know he was here, wherever he was, and hurting. Nobody did.
Everybody he’d ever known had forgotten him. Mom, Robbie, Shar. Dad and Laura too, because death meant permanently forgetting. He’d never had many friends; once people got close enough to really know him, they pulled away. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t like other people, but he still had feelings. He still needed to be loved.
All alone.
He ran his dry tongue over his lips. Tasted blood. That girl, she’d slapped him. Yanked on his hair. Kicked him in the head. Then she’d shot him full of junk.
Why?
Something she thought Lady Laura gave him. But he’d never had anything of Laura’s.
Laura was dead, and the cops thought he’d done it. That was what the girl had said.
But why should he believe her, after what she’d done to him? He didn’t know what to believe, what was the truth and what wasn’t.
Truth. Mom’s favorite word. Always tell the truth, truth will set you free.
Mom. Where were you when all this weird shit happened to me? Busy. In your office. In court. Saving the Indians. Never mind about saving this Indian, your son.
Things were getting fuzzy again. He forced his eyes open. Two of everything. Two bed stand rollers, two edges of a quilt, two right arms… two puncture wounds in each of those arms…
I hurt all over….
Mick Savage
He was already inside the old house, and he doubted any of the people he’d talked with would prevent him from exploring. He found a door off the downstairs hallway, a padlocked one that from what he knew of the layouts of these Victorians would lead to the garage and the basement apartment. He went back there and eyed the lock. Not completely closed, as if someone wanted to make it appear secure but didn’t want to trouble with the key. Mick removed the lock from the hasp and started down.
Narrow wooden stairs that ended abruptly. He misjudged the distance from the concrete floor and almost lost his balance. In his flashlight’s beam he saw that the red Honda was parked in the garage. He went over to it, intending to check its registration, but the doors were all locked. He noted the plate number; he’d run it soon, but not before he searched the entire building.
A short hallway led to a door at the rear, and he went down it. That door wasn’t locked either. He knocked and turned the knob, calling out. No response.
Mick stepped inside, closed the door, and fumbled for a light switch; a bare dim bulb came on overhead. He was in a small room whose only window was high up toward the ceiling, probably overlooking a light well; dark burlap curtained it. The only furnishing was a bed, its covers badly rumpled and smelling of vomit. The room reeked and was hot and stuffy; there was no sign of whoever might have occupied it. He examined the sheets and thin blanket on the bed. On the pillow there were some hairs: yellow-green.
Darcy.
He’d been here. Why?
Mick took a closer inventory of the basement room. A door opened off it into a tiny bathroom; it was so filthy that he hesitated before entering. A used syringe lay on the edge of the sink; he placed it in a plastic bag he found and stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket. Outside there were more vomit and stains that could be blood on the threadbare tan carpet. Two more yellow-green hairs and a streak of blood leading to the door.
He knelt and looked more closely at the streaks. Within them he could see individual droplets, as if Darcy had been bleeding and then had dragged his body over the stains. The blood was potentially a good sign: dead people didn’t bleed. Mick stepped through the door, trained his light on the concrete floor. More droplets, many of them not smeared.
He felt the bloodstains with his fingertips. Still tacky. It hadn’t been very long since Darcy had left, on his own or with help—
A rumbling noise. At first he couldn’t place it. Then, on the other side of the wall, a car started up. By the time he got down the hall and into the garage the automatic door was closing.
Mick ran up the steps and out the front door. No sign of the Honda. Back inside he eyed the closed door to the first-floor apartment, then went over and tried the knob. Unlocked. God, some people were stupid!
They’d left the heat on too; it was hot in there. Mick switched on his flash and moved through the rooms, taking in the décor—lots of splashy, trashy modern art and low-slung furnishings—and looking for signs that Darcy had been there. There were none. On the coffee table he found copies of Flying and Allure. Otherwise nothing.
Okay, legitimate people on a getaway weekend. Carmel, the man upstairs had sa
id, and next year they’d be somewhere like the exclusive Cow Hollow district. They were slumming, he’d said. It was a pattern Mick had noticed: young couples moving to the city for a taste of “real urban life” and, when that life got too real, moving to a more upscale area. One day—probably when they were expecting their first child—they’d be bound for the suburbs, a house with a yard, and a better school system. The trashy art would be left behind. It was doubtful such people even knew what had been going on in the basement of their own building.
Still he kept searching. Exactly what for he didn’t know. The clothing in the closet was typical of urbanites: casual business dress, athletic attire, a dark man’s suit, and a woman’s cocktail dress. The bathroom cabinet contained no medicines or other indications of poor health. Two pairs of running shoes had been kicked off in the living room.
On an end table sat a framed photograph of a couple: tanned, blond-haired, standing on a cliff with the ocean in the background. He took out his cell and snapped a picture of it.
Who were these people? And how the hell could they have any connection to Darcy?
Sharon McCone
My cell phone interrupted the conversation with Jack Tullock. Mick. I excused myself, went to stand at the far end of the patio.
What Mick related to me left me stunned. Darcy holed up in a tiny basement apartment. Blood and vomit. Used syringes. And now, gone again.
For the first time since all this began, I felt deeply for my half brother. The fear and confusion. The helplessness. I’d never hidden—if that was indeed what he’d been doing—but I’d been imprisoned, and I knew all those emotions.
“Are you sure he’s not someplace else in the building?” I asked.
“I talked with the tenants on two and three; nobody’s seen him, and it’s not likely any of them would be hiding him. The first-floor people are away for the weekend. They left their door unlocked.”
“Mick, you didn’t trespass—”
I hadn’t expected him to answer that, and he didn’t. “They have a framed photo, probably of themselves. I took pictures of it with my phone. I’ll put them on the computer and enlarge them.”
City of Whispers Page 14
