My mother’s incessant childbearing—four, and in the middle they’d adopted me. Charlene’s similar pattern. My brother John was a good divorced father to his two boys, but my brother Joey had died a junkie, and my youngest sister Patsy now had five children by four different men.
True, Ma was Catholic and there hadn’t been as many methods of prevention in her day. You couldn’t really blame John’s divorce or Joey’s addictive personality on growing up in a houseful of kids, but I sometimes wondered if Joey, the quiet but rebellious one, had lacked the attention he needed to set him on a less destructive path. And Charlene and Patsy had blindly followed Ma’s example.
I’d never wanted children. It used to embarrass me to admit it; after all, it wasn’t a “natural attitude” for a woman. But then I’d connected with many other women who felt the same way and realized it didn’t make us unwomanly or unfeeling or downright evil. It was mainly that we sensed we wouldn’t be good parents, and that would be unfair to our offspring.
I love kids, young adults even more. And a good thing too, because I have all these young people—both related and not related—who flock around. They aren’t mine, but in some ways they are, and I care for them as I would for my own. It’s been a pleasure watching them grow and change, but without the ultimate responsibility for them.
8:20 p.m.
A car, gray, one of those nondescript models whose shape always makes me call them “sausage cars,” pulled up at the corner of Moraga and stopped. A figure got out and moved into the dark to the west. Looked like a man, but I couldn’t be sure.
Mick said, “I’ll check it out.”
“Stay out of the light. And be careful.”
“Right.”
I switched off the light above the rearview mirror so it wouldn’t go on when he opened the door. He slid from the car and melded into the darkness. I sat, watching and waiting, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, and thinking about that voice on the phone. It had sounded familiar, but I was certain I hadn’t heard it recently. Not in connection with the Warrick case, anyhow.
It wasn’t long before Mick slid back into the car. “Whoever he or she is, I can’t locate them. To the right of the chapel there’s a patch of open space with stained glass windows overlooking it. The back and left side are wooded. That’s where I guess he is. We should call the cops—”
“Not yet.” I opened my door.
Mick grabbed my arm. “Shar, let me go with you. It’s too dangerous alone—” And then he saw the .357 Magnum I’d just removed from my purse.
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “Give me ten minutes. If I’m not back by then—”
“I’ll come running.”
I closed the door with just the slightest click and moved slowly across the intersection. At this time of night, there was little traffic—none at present. It was cold, and fog misted the treetops. Eucalyptus, cypress, and pine trees—many more than a hundred years old—crowded in on my right; their combined pungent smells filled my nostrils. Although I was some distance from the Bay the wind was chill and briny. Again I heard the bellow of the foghorns. Lights winked here and there from what I knew were pale stucco houses with red-tiled roofs, but they were screened by the trees and dimmed by the mist.
In spite of my brave words to Mick and the comfort of the .357, experience had taught me that many of these nighttime meetings ended up in firefights and fatalities. I had no idea who this person was or why he had summoned me here.
At the other side of the road I paused, avoiding the lighted front of the chapel, and listened. Heard nothing.
Okay, which was the best approach? On the side with the open space and stained glass windows, I’d make an easy target. Of course, so would he. If I moved close to the shrubbery he might try to jump me. And he might be armed—a flashlight, a gun, God knew what else.
So confuse him.
I continued along the road to the left, moving away from the chapel lights’ glow. After about a hundred yards, I found a break in the shrubbery and slipped through. The small sounds I made sounded glaringly loud to me. I stopped to listen, but heard nothing but the wind.
When I reached the back of the chapel, the terrain there wasn’t as overgrown as I’d thought it would be. Cautiously I moved forward, slipping my flashlight from my left-hand pocket. Stiffened when a dark shape crouched beside the chapel wall materialized ahead of me.
My foot slipped on the needle-covered ground, and before I could surprise him, the noise alerted him. He whirled, straightened, and rushed at me. I had a swift impression of a Giants baseball cap, a beard, a blue-and-yellow athletic jacket, as I dodged to one side.
He staggered past me, then righted himself and came at me again. But he tripped over something and went down in a forward sprawl. By the time he pushed up, I had the flashlight as well as the .357 trained on him.
He was nobody I’d ever seen before.
He stumbled to his feet, shielding his eyes. Decided against another attack and tried to run away instead. He didn’t get very far because in the darkness he missed seeing a cypress tree and plowed headlong into it. The sound of impact was like a melon splatting on pavement.
Silence. Then a whimpering sound, as if from a hurt cat or dog.
My flashlight beam found him again. He was lying on the ground, clutching his left arm; from the angle he held it at, it looked to be broken. His eyes squeezed shut again in the glare from the flash, then opened to slits.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.
“Me?” He coughed, panted. “I’m…nobody.”
The voice was the same as the one I’d heard on the phone. I raised the gun. “Who?”
“You…wouldn’t know the name.”
“Try me.”
No answer.
“You tried to attack me. Why?”
More silence, except for his heaving breath.
“Why?”
“I want my lawyer.”
Jesus, I wasn’t even a cop and he was already lawyering up!
10:44 p.m.
My assailant was Dixon Cooley, a not-very-bright minor league hoodlum from LA who had been wanted for aggravated assault since 2010. His identity and address were all he would give up to the cops, and his lawyer, Michael Falvey, a well-known defender of rich, guilty, and/or publicity-seeking clients, arrived at the Hall of Justice within an hour and went into conference with his client. I gave a brief statement and was told I could go home, provided I came in for a more complete statement in the morning.
Michael Falvey representing a small-time thug? That suggested Cooley was connected to someone with big bucks and a strong desire to remain anonymous. Was he supposed to kill me? Beat me up? Threaten and intimidate me? Could be any of the three; Cooley wasn’t talking on advice of counsel. Since the Warrick case was the only one I was working at the time, it seemed likely there was a connection. But no one I’d contacted regarding the case really fit into the category of persons who hire professional muscle.
When the police finally let us go, an officer gave us a ride back to my car in the Presidio.
I asked Mick, “Are you staying at the Tower tonight?”
“No, my place. Alison needs space to sort things through.” After a pause, he added, “I need space too.”
“Then I’ll just drop you off.”
“I didn’t mean space from you. I just need time to focus without everything hanging over my head.”
“I get you.”
“So come on—keep me company.”
11:33 p.m.
Mick’s studio, down the Embarcadero from the doomed Pier 24½, reminded me of the flight control center in an airport. Three thirty-plus-inch computer monitors were mounted on the walls; keyboards, modems, scanners, and shelves holding spare parts surrounded us. That was it, except for a blue futon on a sagging wooden frame, a chessboard with pieces halted in the middle of a game, a tiny kitchen, and an equally tiny bathroom. The place was immaculately tidy, which surprised me, given
Mick’s tendency to shed unnecessary clothing and leave it on the floor.
Still, it was no wonder he spent so much time at Alison’s, I thought. For most of his life Mick had grown up in big, luxurious houses. But maybe this was his cocoon.
A cocoon, the place we can hide and be safe, is something we all wish for. Mine, in my childhood fantasies, was a deep pit full of warm fur pelts where friendly people had put me to help me escape from my enemies. I didn’t know where the pit was, who the kind people were, or what kind of enemies I had, but the fantasy put me to sleep whenever I indulged in it.
I lounged on the futon, trying not to nod off. “You staying here tonight?” I asked him.
“Yeah.”
He continued with his searches. “What’re you looking for?” I asked.
“When I went to check out that guy’s car at the Presidio, I snapped a photo of the license plates with my cell. The ‘sausage car’ was an Enterprise rental, to Cooley. But it wasn’t the only vehicle at the scene that’s related to your case. Remember the van parked on that same block?”
“Yes.”
“It was registered to old RadioactiveMac.”
Daniel Winters, the angry former client; he must’ve been the one who hired Cooley and Falvey. And he’d gone to the Presidio to watch his revenge exacted in person.
Just let him wait to see the revenge I planned to exact.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 12
3:11 a.m.
I woke myself by snorting like a pig. I’d fallen asleep on Mick’s futon.
God, I thought, I’ve probably drooled on his pillow.
Mick wasn’t there, but a note was posted on the screen of the largest of his monitors: “Gone home to talk with Alison. Here’s a list of Amelia’s friends who said she’d been afraid before she was killed.” It was complete with home addresses and various contact information.
I squinted at the time on the screen.
After three a.m. Where did he get his energy?
I sat up, retrieved my cell from my bag, and almost called him. Stopped myself; this was a critical point in his relationship with Alison. They didn’t need any interference.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to curl up in my own bed with my cats and await a call from Hy. But I didn’t feel like driving across town to Church Street in the middle of the night.
I wrapped my arms around Mick’s pillow—yep, I’d drooled on it—and temporarily turned off my overactive mind.
6:08 a.m.
Why are those big eyes staring at me?
I must have been dreaming. No, I was half awake and the eyes were actually computer monitors—big ones. Of course—I’d fallen asleep at Mick’s. For a moment I watched the screen savers: Alison smiling in front of a Christmas tree; Hy and me at Touchstone; a hideous, leering gorilla. I wondered what the gorilla signified, then decided I didn’t really want to know.
Daylight. And Mick still wasn’t back. It must’ve gone well with Alison. I wondered if I would become a great-aunt soon.
I went into the bathroom to clean up and straighten my slept-in clothes, but that didn’t make me look much more presentable, and I had to go to the Hall of Justice to give a more complete statement on the assault upon me by Dixon Cooley.
Time to go home for a shower and a change of clothing before beginning my day.
9:05 a.m.
“Dixon Cooley won’t talk about his attack on you,” said Inspector Kay Singer of Robbery and Assault. “Thanks, or no thanks, to Iron Mike Falvey.”
“I think it was a man named Daniel Winters who hired both of them. And I think Cooley or Winters was responsible for the elevator crash at my agency’s building.”
“The elevator crash? Oh, yeah, I read about that. What makes you think so?”
“Didn’t you receive a report from one of my operatives about the presence of a vehicle at the Presidio scene registered to Winters?”
Singer shuffled through the file on her desk. “No…yes, here it is. Who’s Winters?”
“A former client who tried to use me to cover up an insurance fraud. This wimp gets out of jail, sabotages my elevator. Posts a threat to me on a cold case site, and then hires a stupid thug to push me around. It’s like kids squabbling on a playground.”
“Squabbling kids don’t carry knives—usually.” She held up an evidence bag containing a wicked-looking hunting knife. “What did Winters hire you for?”
“He’s an idiot archaeologist from UC–Berkeley who claimed his artifacts were stolen and tried to use me to verify his insurance claims were valid; I found out that he’d really sold the stuff. He did time, now he’s out, and using his stupidity to the max.”
“Well, we can’t prove he had anything to do with the assault unless Cooley talks. And it doesn’t look like he will. But we can nail him, at least. All we need is an additional statement from you after you’ve picked him out of a lineup.”
Great, just great! The son of a bitch would legally get away with what he’d ordered done to me. But he wouldn’t for long. He was on my shit list now, and somehow, someday he’d pay for it.
11:05 a.m.
The wheels grind slowly at the Hall of Justice. I was at a medium boil, having wasted my morning when I had more important concerns.
Finally the lineup got under way, and there was Cooley, looking like a depressed rat without a tail. I had to smile, because one of the officers I knew on Vice—really quite a handsome man—had volunteered for the event, and whatever he’d done to his hair and mustache had made him look even worse, like a rat that’d been dunked in Lysol.
I identified Cooley and left the Hall, headed for the office.
There was a message from Richard Gosling, Caro’s therapist. I called but Gosling was with a patient. I considered the list that Mick had compiled of Amelia’s friends, decided that I’d better show up in person to interview them, thus having the advantage of surprise on my side. If any of them had guilty knowledge of Amelia’s death, they wouldn’t have time to prepare a cover story.
Still nothing from Mick. I decided he and Alison had had enough time to work things through. But when I called his cell, he didn’t answer. Well, he’d done this before, but it was a workday, and I was getting tired of reminding him of the agency rule about checking in. I ought to be more understanding, given his current situation. No, I ought to fire him. No, if I did, my sister Charlene would skin me alive—one of the hazards of having relatives work for you in this business.
My phone rang—Dr. Richard Gosling. His voice was low and pleasant, the sort that would inspire confidence in his patients. I explained who I was and what I was after, and there was a pause. Then he said, “You must understand, Ms. McCone, that doctor-patient confidentiality extends beyond the patient’s death. Did Ms. Warrick give you written authorization to speak with me before her…untimely demise?”
“No, but I’d planned to ask for it.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Her brother, Rob, is executor of her estate. Could he authorize it?”
“That’s somewhat unorthodox.”
“As I understand it, the executor is bound to act in the best interests of the estate. It would seem to me that determining who killed Ms. Warrick and why would certainly be of benefit.”
“In what way?”
I dipped into my treasure chest of lawyer-speak, filled from years of keeping my ears opened at All Souls Legal Cooperative. “From what Rob’s told me, while the will leaves substantial bequests to Ms. Warrick’s sister and brother, it mainly benefits two organizations advocating gun control. There are certain pro-gun individuals and organizations that might seek to challenge it. Although the will is valid, anyone, as you probably know, can file a suit. If the judge assigned to the case is favorable to one side or the other—and face it, many of our judges, at all levels, are biased—it may either be tossed out as frivolous or tried in court. If it goes to trial, and even if the judgment goes against the contesting party, there are appeals and
stalling tactics, which would indefinitely deprive the other beneficiaries of their bequests.”
Another long pause. Then, “Ms. McCone, are you sure you’re an investigator, not an attorney?”
“I’ve picked up enough information from an entire career of working with lawyers that I’m sure I could pass the state bar exam with a little coaching.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I believe you could. Here’s what I’ll do: call the brother, and if he has no objection, I’ll ask for written authorization to speak with you and schedule an appointment.”
“Thank you, Dr. Gosling. How long will that take?”
His sigh said, Don’t you ever let up? Aloud he said, “If all goes well, I can see you tomorrow afternoon at two.”
Success! I told myself as I broke the connection. Then I reinforced it by calling Rob Warrick and warning him of Gosling’s forthcoming request.
“No worries,” he said. “I’ll expedite it, deliver the authorization to him in person.”
“How are you doing?”
“So-so.” I could picture him waggling a hand from side to side. “I called the Pines in Santa Barbara to ask how Patty was doing. They said she had a ‘little outburst’ last night, but was now ‘nicely sedated.’ I know what her ‘little outbursts’ are like, and believe me, they’re not pretty. And as for ‘nicely sedated,’ I’ll bet they’ve given her such strong meds that she might as well be on another planet.”
“Did she ever see Richard Gosling?”
“No. My parents were more concerned with her body than her mind. They sent her to a lot of fat farms, with no lasting results.”
“Are they still in town?”
“Hell no. I’m amazed they even came to the service. Probably Ben had business here, so it was convenient. By now they’re in Caracas or Tuscany, or wherever else they go.”
“I’m surprised they can afford to travel so much. Caro said they were in tight straits because of the costs of her trial.”
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