Eileen typed furiously on the laptop. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be needing one of those wrist braces I saw every other person wearing.
“How long did Krissy have before Clara would have pulled the plug?”
But an answer to my question was preempted by an alarmingly strangled sound from the large man near the door.
“Yes, Flank?”
He gestured with his head, and we saw the danger: Jim Stoddard on fast approach. He hadn’t come into the long hallway through the lobby door, so I wondered if there was a back door to the area somewhere. You never know when that sort of thing can come in handy.
Stoddard opened the glass conference room door and said, “Knock knock!”
Surprisingly, nobody said, “Who’s there?”
Jim glanced uneasily at Flank, who stood menacingly at close range. He couldn’t help the menacing part, but the closeness was definitely deliberate. Flank, apparently, wasn’t a Jim Stoddard fan.
“Listen, there’s a party tonight to celebrate shipping 7.3.”
Which was largely meaningless, but we all made vague congratulatory sounds.
“You’re all invited, and I hope you’ll come.”
How could he possibly look lasciviously at both Eileen and me simultaneously?
Simon apparently felt left out. “Where are we going?”
“Edinburgh Castle. Do you know it?”
One of the great dive bars of San Francisco. Of course we knew it.
“Seven o’clock, and Papa Zak is buying. Don’t be late.” He winked and left.
“Are we going?” Simon asked.
“It would be a good opportunity to observe people away from the office,” Brenda said, but she didn’t look thrilled at the prospect. “Although…”
“Although I’d sooner be poked in the eye with a sharp stick,” Eileen finished for her. “I’ve had just about all I can take of that guy for one day.”
Brenda nodded in complete agreement.
“Well, I suppose we don’t all need to go…” Simon looked at me.
Ugh. “All right, I’ll go. But I have to pick up Jack first and then I’m going home to change.” Although I had no idea how to dress for a geek celebration. “I’ll meet you there later. In the meanwhile, just take good notes.”
“Notes! Right! I’m your man!”
Assuming we wanted our report on cocktail napkins.
Chapter Twenty-six
I’d gotten an email from Jack telling me that he and Harry had decided to get in some afternoon golfing in Lincoln Park. Since the Lexus was in the shop, and likely to be there for some time, he’d asked me to pick him up when I got off work.
My initial reaction had been…golf? It seemed a little damp for that sort of thing to me. Then again, the way Harry plays, more time was likely to be spent at the clubhouse bar than on the course.
I left Flank guarding the gang as they wrapped up for the day, and I headed across town in my little VW—which was starting to grow on me, but I’d never have admitted as much to my husband.
Something about driving in the fog made me thoughtful. Maybe it was the way the mist swirled around the streetlights in the evening dark, or just the fact that I was driving across town, in the city of noir, trying to figure out if I’d spoken with a murderer that day. In any case, my mind started wandering, and I found myself thinking about nerds.
Not to sound like a thirty-something-year-old fogey, but in my day nerds were nerds. Even at young ages, they were clearly identifiable by their short-sleeved dress shirts—worn all the way buttoned up—and their mechanical pencils. Some throwbacks still even sported those five-pound HP calculators with hundreds of colored function buttons.
Don’t even get me started on their glasses.
The more advanced of them walked the halls of junior high discussing what they’d done on their Atari the night before, and exchanging computer printouts of Snoopy or the Starship Enterprise composed entirely of asterisks and dashes.
How times change.
The nerds had won the culture wars, and now geek chic was in. You only had to look at current trends in eyewear to know that.
But I couldn’t help wondering, for someone like Jim Stoddard or Bob Adams—who were old enough to have been there for the origin of the species—was it all sweet revenge? Or was part of them still stuck in high school, watching the football players score with the pretty girls and seething with resentment?
I thought of Bob Adams’ expression as the younger and infinitely hipper engineers had dismissed him in the break room. Even though he was an exec and they were lowly whatevers, he wanted their approval. He wanted to be cool.
Did he want it bad enough to kill?
The phone rang and I nearly swerved into an oncoming bus.
“Hi, Pumpkin.”
“Hi yourself.” I escaped with my life and made the turn from Van Ness onto Geary. “I should be there in ten or fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.” And barring further disasters.
“Great. But I’m not at the clubhouse. They close at six. I walked up to the Palace of the Legion of Honor. I’m sitting on the front steps, so I’ll see you when you get here.”
“I’ll try not to confuse you with the Thinker.” Rodin’s furrowed-browed figure was stationed in the outdoor courtyard of the museum.
“That should be easy. I’m in better shape.”
I hung up on him.
***
The fog got thicker as I headed out toward the ocean. The museum sits on a hill in Lincoln Park overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and much of the city. A circular drive in front of it—complete with a fountain—has to be the classiest parking lot in the city. On a clear day the views are spectacular.
This was not a clear day.
I turned on my wipers once or twice before I got to the park entrance. I went up the hill through the golf course, and when I got to the top I could see that the fountain was off and the parking lot was practically deserted. What I didn’t see was Jack on the front steps.
I checked the mirror to make sure nobody was behind me, then put the car in Park. I didn’t really feel like getting out in the cold to go husband hunting.
The main entrance to the museum is at the far end of the Thinker’s courtyard, and an open portico is at the front. The portico is supported by a double row of columns, the rear of which has security fencing to keep people from wandering around when the museum is closed. There’s a wide central walkway up to the building, with lawns, flowerbeds, and large horsy sculptures on either side.
I finally spotted Jack. He was on the portico, which presumably gave him some shelter. And he hadn’t yet noticed me because he was shadowboxing, moving lightly on his feet and jabbing at the air.
He was probably only doing it to stay warm, but I had to admit he looked good in motion. He has this athletic grace thing, and—
I lost my train of thought, such as it was, when I saw something weird happen to the column just left of Jack. It was like a little puff of dust came off it, sparkling in the museum’s floodlights. He hadn’t noticed, but it happened again, this time a little higher, and I suddenly knew what it was.
Someone was shooting at Jack.
Another puff appeared on the column, this time taking out a chunk of it. “Jack!” I yelled as I put the car in gear.
There were iron posts at the end of the walkway, so I gave the wheel a sharp turn to the left and gunned the engine. I took out a floodlight, went sailing over five shallow steps, and tore up the lawn to the building. I slammed on the brakes and came skidding to a halt just in front of the portico.
“Get in!” I shouted. Which is when all the glass in the car exploded.
“Get out!” Jack yelled, pulling a gun from under his jacket and opening fire on something behind me.
I dove out of the car and stumbled to the portico. I took cover behind a column, staying low. Ridiculously, I had the car keys in my hand.
“Jack—”
“Stay down!” he
shouted. “Are you hurt?”
I took a quick survey. Scraped in a couple of places, but not seriously. “No! Jack, who is it?”
He didn’t answer. He was too busy shooting.
A bullet zinged by and chipped a corner off the large marble base of the Thinker behind us.
“Jack, they could hit the statue!”
He took a second to look at me like I was insane, then crouched behind the column next to mine as the shooter opened fire again. “I hardly think art preservation is our main concern right now, Pumpkin.”
I winced as bits of marble fell between us. Maybe he had a point.
“How many bullets do you have left?”
“One.”
Not the answer I was hoping for.
“What are we going to do?”
More bits of marble, coming from a different column. The shooter was moving.
Jack didn’t answer. He just pointed the gun and shot.
Directly into the museum door, at the far end of the courtyard.
“Jack!” I couldn’t believe he’d wasted his last bullet. But then the sirens went off and I got it.
Lights flashed, bells clanged, air horns went “whoop-whoop.” It was fabulous.
In the middle of all of it, I thought I heard an engine fire up. Jack took a split-second look down the drive, then fell back against the column, the tension leaving his body.
He looked over at me. “Ready to go?”
I nodded.
He stood first, and waved an arm from behind the column. The theory behind which, I supposed, was that if it wasn’t shot off we could proceed with our departure.
It wasn’t shot off.
I stood shakily. When I turned and looked at the bullet-riddled little bug, I nearly sank down again.
Jack caught me. He held on for a moment, then said, “We have to get out of here.”
I nodded again. I could do that.
He took the keys from my hand. “Maybe I’ll drive.”
Probably a good idea.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Traveling in a car with a missing windshield isn’t exactly conducive to casual conversation. You have to yell over the noise, and if your husband suddenly stops at a light you may find yourself shouting things like, “Should I carry the gun while you’re driving?” which can frighten the pedestrians.
So after one or two attempts, I gave up and concentrated on looking like it was perfectly normal to be roaming around town in a shot-up VW.
Jack took the lower road through Lincoln Park, then cut through the residential Sea Cliff area and turned into the Presidio. Once we were in the former military installation, he seemed to relax. There were hardly any cars on the narrow roads.
He headed downhill, and finally came to a stop in the deserted west parking lot of Crissy Field.
I looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. With the fog and the drizzle and the darkness I shouldn’t have been surprised that no joggers were out using the paths along the bay.
“Jack, what are we doing here?”
“Get everything you need out of the car,” he told me.
What I needed was a stiff belt of whiskey. “What?”
He reached into the back for my laptop bag, and shook the broken safety glass off. “We’re leaving the car here, Charley. Is there anything else you need?”
“We’re leaving the car here?”
Being shot at gets my adrenalin going, but the same apparently can’t be said for my mental powers.
“There are security cameras at the museum. The police are already looking for it. We need to leave it here and report it stolen right away.”
“Oh.” I looked around. I had my purse and Jack had the laptop bag. “I think that’s it.”
He got out. I had one more look around the interior of the car, took the only other thing I wanted, and got out.
“You’re bringing the flower?” The bright pink gerbera daisy that had been in the dashboard vase.
“You gave it to me.” I looked up at him. It’s possible I wasn’t thinking quite clearly yet.
He dropped the laptop and grabbed me. For an instant I thought we were about to get shot at again, but Jack just crushed me to himself, muttering all sorts of half sentences and muffled phrases that added up to something quite nice. When he finally released me the flower was a goner, but I felt completely restored.
“What are we doing now?”
He slung the laptop bag over his shoulder, grabbed my hand, and started walking fast.
“Jack, the Warming Hut looks closed,” I told him. It was the little café at the end of the path where you could get a nonfat latte and feel virtuous after your workout. That is, if it wasn’t locked and dark.
But he wasn’t heading for the café. He was heading for the fishing pier. Probably the coldest, windiest place in all of San Francisco, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Jack?”
“I have to get rid of the gun, Charley. You stay here.” He left me on the path and jogged out across the wooden pier, which stretched into the bay almost directly under the Golden Gate Bridge. When he got to the far end, he took the gun from his pocket and pitched it out over the water.
I had a bad feeling that I knew what he’d say when he got back, and I was right.
“Feel like taking a walk?”
***
I can’t count how many times I’ve gone running at Crissy Field. Its wide gravel path along the water is perfect on a sunny day. You don’t even notice the distance from the east parking lot to the fishing pier and back. But I’d never done it in new Via Spiga pumps after getting shot at and ditching my car.
This time I noticed the distance.
But, by the time we made it the mile or so to the little bridge at the tidal marsh, the cavalry had arrived. Granted, it was in the form of Flank behind the wheel of an enormous black Hummer that Harry had recently acquired, but by that point I didn’t much care.
“Harry must have sent him,” Jack said. He’d spent most of our slog along the waterfront on his cell phone. First the police, to report the car stolen, then Harry, to make sure a second gunman hadn’t targeted him after he and Jack had split up. Then Mike, and I don’t know who else because my feet hurt too much by then to pay attention.
“Why the hell didn’t Harry just give you a ride after golfing?” I asked. My uncle could have at least inconvenienced himself a little to spare my husband from being used for target practice.
“He ran into some crony on the course, and they decided to go to another bar when the clubhouse closed. I’d have gone with them, but the bar was in Vegas. They were taking the other guy’s private jet.”
Typical.
“He’s on his way back now,” Jack told me. “They said they’d turn the plane around when I called.”
Great. Harry would probably be home before I would.
Flank got out of the car and did his best to cover all conceivable angles around us, performing an intricate series of commando/bodyguard stances while opening doors and shoving us in to safety. It was like watching a water buffalo attempt ballet.
I sank against Jack in the back seat, and his black leather jacket made a squelching noise. Or maybe it was me. Then Flank did something which was in flagrant violation of the law, for which I will always be grateful.
He handed me a flask of whiskey.
***
Once home, all I really wanted was a hot shower and to throw away my shoes. But I had a feeling everyone I knew was about to show up on my doorstep, so I settled for toweling myself off and changing into dry sweats before heading back downstairs to ask my husband a few questions.
Starting with “How long have you been carrying a gun?”
He was in his office, and—I don’t know how he does this stuff—perfectly dry in fresh clothes. He gave me a distracted sort of look.
“On and off since I was about twenty-two.”
I took a breath and told myself it wouldn’t be helpful to kick
him.
“How about if we just stick to discussing the gun that’s at the bottom of the bay?”
“You’ll have to be a little more specific.”
“Jack!”
“Okay, okay.” He touched something on his keyboard and the computer screen changed. Then he gave me his attention. “I started carrying that gun this week. And before you start giving me a lecture on gun control, I think you should admit that it came in pretty handy—”
“Why don’t I have one?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’m the one who’s undercover. I think I should have one too. And I think you should admit that another one would have come in pretty handy—”
“Charley, the last time I gave you a gun you shot somebody. And as I recall, you didn’t enjoy it.”
True. Nevertheless… “That doesn’t change the fact that another one would have come in damn handy tonight. And it might have come in damn handy in the Broadway Tunnel the other night too.”
He did a sort of teeth grinding thing before he answered.
“You’re telling me you would have opened fire in the middle of a crowded city street?”
“Well, of course not. Not if you put it like that. But—”
My argument was cut off by the sound of the doorbell.
Harry, probably. Flank would have raised the alarm for anyone else. I had the sneaking suspicion that our bodyguard planned to spend the night parked outside our house. And, for once, I didn’t mind.
“We’ll finish this later,” Jack said, on his way to the stairs.
Damn right we would. I followed him, picking up the pace when the bell rang again, and thinking I knew exactly what I was going to say to my uncle for running off to Vegas and leaving Jack alone in the fog.
Jack opened the door.
“Harry—”
But it wasn’t.
“Inspector Yahata,” Jack said. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
My brain did that nuclear meltdown thing it does whenever I see the detective. How had he known it was us at the museum? I mean, okay, he probably heard it was our car involved, and maybe he thought the “it was stolen, officer” story was a little fishy, but—
Suddenly he was in my hallway and hitting me with that unnerving x-ray glance.
How to Succeed in Murder Page 18
