Lifetime Achievement Award
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Looking for Yesterday.
LETTER TO SHARON McCONE FROM CAROLYN WARRICK, PROSPECTIVE CLIENT:
Dear Ms. McCone,
The world’s forgotten me. No more mentions in the press. No requests for interviews. No photo ops. The websites are being taken down. I’m yesterday’s news.
And I never got my message across.
Firearms. They should not—cannot—be allowed in the hands of the wrong persons.
I know the truth of that. Oh, yes, I know. I saw my four-year-old sister, Marissa, with the blood drained from her tiny face. Saw my nine-year-old brother, Rob, staring down in disbelief and horror at the gun he’d just accidentally fired.
And my best friend, Amelia, ripped and shattered by bullets on her living room floor.
When I was unjustly arrested for the crime, I thought I could make a difference. State my beliefs to the court and press, leave a legacy for all the countless victims of the indiscriminate sale of firearms.
Right from the beginning everything went wrong: People magazine didn’t go into the issue, and adding insult to injury, they used a bad picture of me—dirty hair and crow’s-feet and snarly lines around my mouth. Oprah and all the other talk shows turned me down. I guess they didn’t consider a woman who supposedly killed her best friend in a hideous manner and then was acquitted an entertaining draw.
Now I have my opportunity: Greta Goldstein wants to co-author a tell-all book with me, but Jill Starkey, that bitch who used to be with the Chronicle and covered my trial, is writing one of her own and trying to block ours. Starkey has attacked me in her columns from the first, and now she’s bound and determined to profit from a false accounting of the crime I didn’t commit.
Truth is, I feel cheated. I suffered all that pain, spent months in jail, endured that awful trial. I deserve to tell my story. Greta Goldstein’s a best seller, and a profitable book would help me escape from my boring little job in the real estate agency; my tiny, damp, behind-the-garage studio apartment in the outer Sunset district; the defection of my friends and family members. I want to set the record straight about the loss of Amelia and Jake.
Always those losses.
Amelia, my best friend, and Jake, my former lover. She: shot multiple times by, as they now say, a person or persons unknown. He: believed the police’s original case and couldn’t bear to lay eyes on me. He’s as good as dead, as far as I’m concerned. I bet that after I was acquitted, he couldn’t bear to look at his face in the mirror, either. At least I hope so.
Am I bitter? Damned right I am. Am I going to do something about this empty, empty existence? I hope so. I am requesting that you reinvestigate my case. I know this is unusual, since I was acquitted, but surely you understand how public opinion often overrides the judgment of a jury of one’s peers. If you would grant me the opportunity of a meeting with you, I would be extremely grateful.
Yours sincerely,
Carolyn Warrick
TUESDAY, JANUARY 3
10:00 a.m.
Already I was tired. These boxes: how had I accumulated all that stuff during the years when my agency was located in the—now doomed—Pier 24½? Cardboard cartons filled the floor space in my new office on the top story of the narrow, blue house on Sly Lane, a short block above the Embarcadero, below Tel Hill and Coit Tower. I wanted to shove them down the chute to the incinerator and turn up the flames.
My office manager, Ted Smalley, had found the building shortly before the city’s port commission had served notice on us to vacate the pier. I’d been dubious about the new location at first, but the underground parking garage and elevator—the old-fashioned kind with the metal grille—had seduced me. And the view was superb, even better than that from the pier, because I was looking out over the bay from a height of exactly 143 feet above sea level (a fact I wouldn’t have known, except that Ted had been given a handheld altimeter for Christmas. It had become his constant companion so, as he put it, he would always know how high he was).
But all those attractions didn’t hold a candle to the building’s unsavory past—
My intercom buzzed. I picked up, and Ted said, “Your new client’s here. Carolyn Warrick.”
I had a new client? For an instant it didn’t compute. Then I remembered her letter, which I’d received nearly a week ago. It had intrigued me and I’d researched her case, which had only intrigued me more.
I said, “Show her to the elevator, please. And warn her about the mess up here.”
“Roger, wilco.”
With the acquisition of the altimeter, Ted had become fond of using aviation terms.
I stood up, brushed dust off my jeans and sweater, and went to the elevator. It began whining and clunking its way up—noises that still alarmed me, even though the brand-new inspection certificate mounted on its wall said it was good to go.
When it arrived and settled—bumping some—I opened the grille. A woman peered out at me, her brow wrinkled and her mouth turned down. She was about my height, five foot six, with blond hair skinned back from a heart-shaped face and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. Better dressed than I, in a dark green suede jacket, black pants, and black boots.
“Ms. McCone?” she asked.
“Please, call me Sharon.” I extended my hand to her, mostly to keep her from tripping, since the elevator hadn’t quite aligned itself with the floor. “And you’re Carolyn Warrick.”
“Caro.” She followed me into the office, glancing around at the stacks of cartons.
I invited her to sit down, motioning at the pair of clients’ chairs.
“Sorry about this—we’ve just moved.”
She selected a chair and sat. I took the other. There are some clients who feel more comfortable with you across the desk from them in a position of authority. Others want you beside them, to be their friend and—possibly—confessor. I sensed Caro Warrick was one of the latter.
“What a wonderful view,” she said tonelessly.
“Thank you. When I get these cartons unpacked, I hope to enjoy it. Now, what can I do for you?”
She drew a deep breath. “Of course, you’ve read my letter.”
“I did, and I’ve refreshed my memory of your case on the Internet.”
“I’m surprised you agreed to see me.”
“Why?”
“Well, the details are pretty sordid. Supposedly killing my best friend over a man, trashing her apartment after she was dead, trying to kill him after he found her body.”
“You were acquitted. And you can’t be taken to court again—double jeopardy.”
“Acquitted, yes. But the stigma is still affecting my life. Many people have doubts about the justness of the verdict. As I explained in my letter, I haven’t been able to get a decent job or afford a decent place to live. My family and friends have deserted me. Apparently everyone needs more proof of my innocence than the opinion of a jury of my peers.”
“And you want me to supply that proof.”
“As I said, so I can make it public in the book I’m co-authoring with Greta Goldstein. And I need it done quickly: a local journalist who has a vendetta against me is writing her own book and trying to block publication of mine.”
“I know of Greta Goldstein’s true-crime works. But who is the local journalist?”
“Jill Starkey.” Her mouth twisted as if she’d bitten down on something sour.
“I see.” Jill Starkey, a former ultraconservative columnist for the Chronicle, had covered Warrick’s trial; her reportage had been negatively, even viciously, slanted. “Why do you say she has a vendetta against you?”
“I’ve always been a staunch supporter of gun control. For years I worked as an assistant director of the San Francisco Violence Prevention Center, and I had a close connection to IANSA—the International Action Network on Small Arms. Jill Starkey is a vocal member of the NRA. At my trial I spoke in my own defense, citing my beliefs and wor
k as a reason why I couldn’t have shot my friend. May I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“What is your stance on gun control?”
Not an easy question to answer. “I own two guns—for professional reasons only. I have a carry permit, but the weapons stay locked up most of the time. I take practice at the range very seriously.”
“In short, you’re for responsible gun ownership.”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I’m rabidly against firearms—with just cause. My father owned guns and kept one loaded in his bedside table drawer. That’s where my nine-year-old brother found it before he accidentally shot my four-year-old sister to death.”
God. That would make a believer out of anyone.
“Would my position prejudice you against working on my behalf?” Caro Warrick asked.
“No. I’ve worked for all kinds of people whose beliefs differed from mine.”
“In what ways?”
“Politically, religiously, racially—you name it. I learned something from each of them. All of them, I hope, made me a more understanding individual. Besides, our views on gun control aren’t as far apart as they might seem to you. I’m for strict licensing. The need to demonstrate a reason for possessing a weapon. Background checks. Required practice; I’m a pilot, and I have to fly so many hours a month to remain current.”
Warrick still looked skeptical. “Have you ever killed a person, Ms. McCone?”
“I don’t see as it’s relevant to your case.”
“That’s a yes, then.”
“Okay, yes. In defense of myself and others. The nightmares still plague me.”
She nodded, apparently satisfied with my reply. “Will you take me on as a client? Help me end my own personal nightmares?”
I considered. The woman fascinated me; so did the weapons issue. Also, I had too much time on my hands lately: my efficient staff had settled into our new offices and were proceeding with business as usual. Hy was traveling a lot between the various offices of the international executive protection firm he owned. Close friends were away on winter vacations. Hell, I hadn’t even found a good book to read lately.
Instead of committing, I said, “Tell me your side of the story.”
Three years ago last October, shortly before her twenty-sixth birthday, Warrick had discovered that her best friend, Amelia Bettencourt, was having an affair with her lover, Jake Green. She allegedly confronted Bettencourt at the latter’s apartment on Nob Hill and, in the course of a violent argument, shot her twelve times. The crime scene, according to newspaper accounts, was chaotic—items of furniture and smaller objects smashed, walls sprayed with blood and other human matter, windows shattered by so many bullets that it indicated Warrick had reloaded her weapon—a nine-millimeter semiautomatic—and gone on venting her anger even after her friend was dead.
Jake Green was coming to pick up Amelia for a dinner date and heard the shots from the hallway. He rushed inside and discovered Amelia’s body and was phoning 911 when someone stepped out of the shadows and fired on him. He dropped to the floor unhurt, and within seconds the intruder left the apartment.
Green immediately suspected Warrick was the killer—a suspicion he relayed to the investigating officers. They questioned her, and she claimed innocence, but two eyewitnesses said they’d seen her leaving Amelia’s building earlier that evening. Bettencourt’s family was prominent in city political circles, and Jake Green, an up-and-coming stockbroker with a large Montgomery Street firm, was intent on revenge. Caro Warrick was indicted and, in the spring, the case went to trial.
Warrick’s attorney was Ned Springer, a public defender with a degree from what many considered a diploma mill in Idaho and less than two years of trial experience. No one expected he would win such an open-and-shut case, which was perhaps why the prosecution was not as prepared as they should have been. In the course of the trial, Springer stressed Warrick’s staunch aversion to firearms and advocacy of gun control, and also brought a number of inconsistencies to light.
The murder weapon was never found, and according to state records, Warrick had never bought or owned a gun, nor was she the type of woman who would have known how to acquire a Saturday night special. The presence of Warrick’s fingerprints in Bettencourt’s apartment proved nothing, because Warrick often visited there. Warrick, a real estate saleswoman, had been showing a house in the Richmond district at a time that would have made it nearly impossible for her to have arrived at the Nob Hill building by the time of the murder. And no blood-spattered clothing or other evidence of the crime had turned up in her apartment in the Marina district. Plus Jake Green’s obvious vengefulness worked against the prosecution.
Juries are notoriously unpredictable. Caro Warrick’s had surprised many by exonerating her of her friend’s murder. Now Caro wanted me to help exonerate her all over again.
I told her I’d think about it and get back to her within twenty-four hours. She asked about my fee and found it reasonable. After she left, I ignored the unpacked boxes and returned to my desk, swiveling to look out at the rain-soaked waterfront.
SHARON MCCONE MYSTERIES BY MARCIA MULLER
COMING BACK
LOCKED IN
BURN OUT
THE EVER-RUNNING MAN
VANISHING POINT
THE DANGEROUS HOUR
DEAD MIDNIGHT
LISTEN TO THE SILENCE
A WALK THROUGH THE FIRE
WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP
BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT
THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND
A WILD AND LONELY PLACE
TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN
WOLF IN THE SHADOWS
PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES
WHERE ECHOES LIVE
TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS
THE SHAPE OF DREAD
THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY
EYE OF THE STORM
THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF
DOUBLE (With Bill Pronzini)
LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE
GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY
THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE
ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION
EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES
NONSERIES
CAPE PERDIDO
CYANIDE WELLS
POINT DECEPTION
ACCLAIM FOR MARCIA MULLER AND
CITY OF WHISPERS
“McCone is the new breed of American woman detective… redefining the mystery genre by applying different sensibilities and values to it.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Enjoyable… It’ll certainly keep you entertained.”
—Charleston Post and Courier (SC)
“A gripping mystery… crisp dialogue, great plot, and the sharp and savvy detective make this one of the best reads of the year.”
—Toronto Saturday Star
“The narrative shifts perspective among several of the main players… lending the novel an overview not always possible when writing strictly in the first person. Marcia Muller, a recipient of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award, is up to the task. And hey, if you like this story, there are 28 additional McCone novels in this long-running series!”
—BookPage
“Sharon McCone is one of the most interesting fictional private detectives in the genre today… there is never a dull moment during one of her cases… The final chapters are full of action and will keep you guessing until the end.”
—BookReporter.com
“One of the treasures of the genre.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Alternating chapters narrated by different characters add to the suspense of the intricate plot, which propels readers through a San Francisco few tourists see—from Colma, the city’s necropolis, to the exclusive mansions of Sea Cliff—and to a harrowing, haunting denouement.”
—Publishers Weekly
“One of the world’s premier mystery writers.”
—Clev
eland Plain Dealer
“Ms. Muller’s plotting is masterful, with her sure-footed, economical storytelling—even with the changes of narrator from chapter to chapter—supporting the plot as it glides easily along. And that takes some great writing.”
—New York Journal of Books
“Her stories crackle like few others on the mystery landscape.”
—San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle
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Contents
Welcome
Dedication
Sharon McCone
Tuesday, September 7
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Darcy Blackhawk
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
Darcy Blackhawk
Wednesday, September 8
Sharon McCone
Darcy Blackhawk
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
Darcy Blackhawk
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Darcy Blackhawk
Sharon McCone
Thursday, September 9
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
Darcy Blackhawk
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
Darcy Blackhawk
Sharon McCone
Friday, September 10
Darcy Blackhawk
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
Darcy Blackhawk
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
Darcy Blackhawk
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Saturday, September 11
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
Mick Savage
Sharon McCone
City of Whispers Page 20
