There was senselessness, too, in the fact that Bobby Foster, although innocent, was still incarcerated, due to the ponderously slow machinations of our criminal justice system.
Senselessness in the fact that George wasn’t with me.
That Saturday night he’d sat across from me in a North Beach restaurant, candlelight showing new lines of pain etched into his rough-hewn face. Held my hand as he told me he was moving back to the Palo Alto house, to be near Laura while she remained in the psychiatric clinic and, later, to support her when she was discharged as an outpatient.
“It won’t be forever,” he’d said, “but it’s something I have to do. I owe it to her. To myself. In a way, to you.”
I shook my head, unable to comprehend.
“I know I can’t ask you to wait for me,” he added. “I don’t see why you would. But when it’s all over, when she’s on her feet again, I’ll come to you, see if you’ll still have me.”
“We could just-”
“I know what you’re going to say. I can’t do that to either of us. You shouldn’t have to share a burden that’s really mine alone; I couldn’t stand to always be leaving you with the knowledge that I’d be going home to another woman.”
“So what…?”
“When I’ve worked this out, we’ll see if you want to start again. I know I will.”
He was an honorable man, George Kostakos. But sometimes on cold, lonely nights, I cursed him for that honor. And when I was feeling particularly low, I wondered if his scruples would have remained intact had I not been the one who exposed the sad truth about his daughter’s life and death.
The drizzle was turning to real rain now. I ignored it, turned up my collar, kept walking. South Park was silent, deserted. A pall had settled over it these days, thick as the pall of the smoke from the fire. I wondered if it would ever come alive again. If I would.
A car turned in from Third Street. Its headlights blinded me. I shielded my eyes, waiting for it to pass.
It pulled to the curb a couple of yards away from me. A voice said, “Hey, lady, want a ride?”
Rae, in her old Rambler American.
I went over and leaned down, looking through the window at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Detective work. I followed you. I’ve followed you here several times now. Don’t you think you ought to give it up?”
“Give what up?”
She gestured out the window at the park. “All of this. The past. Get on with your life.”
Normally I would have been furious at such interference. But suddenly I knew that this was the one person who did understand. At least as much as I did.
“What we’re going to do,” she went on, “is go get some Thai food. I found a great new restaurant. Cheap, too.”
“Rae-”
“Then there’s this little club, way out by the beach. Jazz. I’m friends with the drummer. The piano player’s interesting; you’ll like him.”
“Rae, no fix-ups.”
“It’s not a fix-up. We’ll just stop in, have a few drinks. I usually get them on the house. If we stay till closing, they’ll take us out for burgers-Clown Alley’s open twenty-four hours-and Jim-that’s the piano player-knows of this ferry service that runs bay cruises all night long, even in the rain.”
I started to say no. Hesitated. Looked back over my shoulder at the park, cold and sodden in the darkness. Straightened and looked over the roof of the car at the deeply shadowed ruins of Café Comedie.
“Why the hell not?” I said.
Rae was right: it was time to get on with it.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this McCone mystery. Now check out the rest of Marcia Muller’s SHARON MCCONE series – all available as ebooks and audiobooks from AudioGO!
1 Edwin of the Iron Shoes
2 Ask the Cards a Question
3 The Cheshire Cat’s Eye
4 Games to Keep the Dark Away
5 Leave a Message for Willie
6 Double
7 There’s Nothing to Be Afraid Of
8 Eye of the Storm
9 There’s Something in a Sunday
10 The Shape of Dread
11 Trophies and Dead Things
12 Where Echoes Live
13 Pennies on a Dead Woman’s Eyes
Plus two short story collections: McCone and Friends, and The McCone Files.
The Shape of Dread Page 26
