“I’ll find them for you.”
I stood up. The pain from the gravel lacerations was sharp. As we went down the walkway beside the ruins of my house I turned my head away. On the street I saw that both entrances to my short block of Church were cordoned off. The pavement was wet and glistening in the lights from the fire trucks, and the firemen were clearing up their equipment. Neighbors in bathrobes milled about; a few patted me sympathetically as Chelle and I moved toward a captain.
“You the owner?”
“Yes. Sharon McCone.”
He told me his name was McCullough. “You’re not injured?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Any idea of how this happened?”
“No. I had the furnace cleaned last fall, the ducts too. The hot water heater was new. The house was fully rewired a couple of years ago when we put on an addition. We don’t store flammable substances in the garage.”
The garage. My car. Oh, shit.
And then I thought of everything else I’d loved and lost: photographs; my old Nikkormat camera; quilts made especially for me by my sister Patsy; a steamer trunk that had been in my family forever. My grandmother’s garnet earrings that I wore only on special occasions were in a US Navy ammo box anchored to the floor in the upstairs bathroom. My fish were by now boiled in their aquarium.
McCullough looked away, understanding what I was going through. A sudden wind brought whiffs of oily smoke to my nostrils and I hunched over, coughing and spitting phlegm. Chelle held my shoulders.
After a moment the fireman said, “We’ll have our inspectors out at first light. They’ll determine the cause. You have someplace to stay where we can contact you?”
“Next door.” I gestured toward Chelle’s house.
She gave him the phone number.
I took a last look at what had used to be my home. A skeleton rising against the sky, and a mound of steaming rubble. I stumbled, and Chelle steadied me.
Why? I thought. How the hell did this happen?
When we reached the steps to her house, I had to sit down. Trish, Chelle’s mom, rushed out with an afghan and wrapped it around me. I clutched one of the banister posts and cried again.
My diplomas—high school and UC–Berkeley. The little box of photos and souvenirs from my former lovers. My favorite books. Records, tapes, and DVDs. Paperweights, now cracked or shattered. The bookends, two rabbits purchased at great cost by Hy, that supported my Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. The dictionary itself: I seldom used it any more, the Internet being quicker and easier, but sometimes I browsed through it, picking up esoteric lore.
How do you start over from a monumental loss like this?
I took a deep breath, leaned against Trish. All it did was pollute my lungs, and I coughed spasmodically.
Trish said to Chelle, “Go get my inhaler, please.”
To me, she added, “I have asthma, and I think the inhaler will help you.”
I thought: Nothing will help me. I said, “Thank you.”
But the inhaler did help. After a few minutes I was breathing and thinking more or less clearly.
Chelle and Trish leaned against me, supporting me on either side. I said, “This fire was not a freak accident. It was arson.”
A despicable crime that takes everyone and everything a person cherishes—sometimes her life.
“Why do you think that?”
“A former client—Daniel Winters—hired somebody to beat me up. The guy—Dixon Cooley—is in custody, but Winters is still at large.”
“Why does this Winters have it in for you?” Chelle asked.
“I exposed him for insurance fraud. He went to prison, and it destroyed his career.”
“Enough for him to want to kill you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve made any number of worse enemies in the criminal world over the years.”
Mother and daughter hugged me, but I finally looked at the still-smoking ruins of my house.
Rage was rising in me—the kind of fury I hadn’t experienced in quite some time. It made my muscles go stiff, my teeth grind. A harsh metallic taste flooded my mouth.
Whoever had set this fire was going to pay dearly—through legal channels or otherwise.
Frankly, I preferred the possibilities of “otherwise.”
7:11 a.m.
“I’ll be home as soon as possible,” Hy said.
RI had finally gotten through to him, and he’d called the Curleys’ number immediately. The family hadn’t been disturbed; they always rose early.
“Where are you?”
He hesitated. Need-to-know basis. Then he said, “Dubai.”
“I’m not sure I even know where that is,” I said. “Except that they’ve got the tallest building in the world or something.”
His voice was strained with the same sadness and bitterness I was feeling. “Doesn’t matter. The airport’s good, and I’ve got buddies who can get me out quick on a fast plane.”
“I love your buddies, Ripinsky. Someday we’ll have to give a party for all of them.”
“Only if we win the lottery and rent a stadium. But my buds and I stick together, just like you and I.”
“Just like you and I.”
7:30 a.m.
Trish brought me a cup of coffee, made soothing sounds, and sat down on the bed in their tiny guest room. “You feel like you can eat something?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“I’m so sorry about your house. But the cats are okay; they’re in the kitchen eating as if they’ve never seen food before.”
“I…I almost lost Jessie. She was under the bed, and I couldn’t get her out. And I lost everything else.” I started to cry again. Trish silently patted my arm.
Nothing about the previous night—or early morning—seemed real. But it didn’t feel like a nightmare, either. Nightmares are easily recognized, are usually explained, and fade fast. Last night would never fade.
Rae arrived, bringing some of Mrs. Wellcome’s—her housekeeper’s—blueberry muffins. I refused one, and Trish left us to be alone for a while.
“Mick let me know what happened,” Rae said. “He’s as sick about this as I am.”
“Nobody could be as sick as I am right now.”
Rae sighed. “I can’t dispute that. I want you and the beasts to come stay at our house.”
“Thanks, but your puppy…” Rae and Ricky had recently adopted a little chocolate Lab.
“Frisk is gentle—he won’t bother the cats.”
“Okay, we’ll come.”
“Hy too. He’s already on his way back from Dubai.”
“How d’you know that?”
“I caught a film clip of him on the early news: he was trying to get onto a plane in Dubai, and apparently the press had heard about the fire, because they were bombarding him with questions—in Arabic, no less.”
“Did he answer them?”
“Sort of.”
So now my linguistically talented husband was mastering Arabic.
Rae said, “Shar, we’ve got to figure out how to handle this.”
“‘We?’”
“I want you to appoint me as public relations director for the McCone Agency.”
“Public relations—why on earth…?”
“The fire’s all over the news; you’re going to be hounded by the media—and not just those from the Bay Area. You don’t need that, and I can run interference for you. I’m a good speaker, expert at evading a direct question, and a talented liar.”
“You’re a novelist.”
“My latest book has been delivered. The next isn’t due for a year and a half. And look at it this way—what are novelists but people who lie for a living?”
She had a point.
“So exactly what do I need you to do?” I asked.
“As I said, I’ll run interference. While reports on ordinary house fires don’t focus much on the residents’ professional or personal lives, the stories on yours already have.”
<
br /> “Stories?”
“Various media outlets have been bombarded with messages accusing you of being allied with radical Muslims, terrorists, drug cartels…well, you know the lineup. They’ve described Hy as an ecoterrorist and insurgent.”
I sat up, shaking free of my blanket.
“Hy? Me? They can’t print crap like that, can they? It’s libelous!”
“So far they’ve held off. But it’s not exactly libelous because they’d be reporting on what information they’ve received, rather than what their opinion is. If the messages continue, they’re bound to use them.”
“And destroy our lives and careers. How do I stop this?”
“That’s why you need me.” She pulled a notebook from her purse. “First of all, I want to set up a press conference. Not with you or Hy there, but with me as your representative. Before they’re even publicized, I’ll brand those messages as a smear campaign. And I’ll divulge as many of the details of the case you’re currently working as you’ll allow. Then I’ll depict you as a martyr to somebody’s guilt and fear. I’ll ask for tips on whoever might’ve done this. And say that we aren’t allowing them to intimidate us. It might flush whoever’s behind this out of whatever cave they’re hiding in.”
“Jesus, overnight you’ve turned into a pit bull.”
“It’s been coming on for a long time, ever since the media did that number on Ricky and me when we hooked up. And I’m tougher than a pit bull; they can be great dogs if you train ’em right, but nobody’s ever been able to train me.”
No, no one ever had.
4:45 p.m.
The session with Rae had been intense. After she left I napped. She’d said she’d pick me up and take me to her house at five, but I was ready fifteen minutes early. The Curleys’ house was silent, all of them going about their daily business, so I waited in the living room, which overlooked the street, but from which I couldn’t see the ruins of my house. When Rae’s car—a sleek red Jaguar—pulled up to the curb, I grabbed both cat cages that the Curleys had loaned me and hurried out.
Alex was shrieking. Jessie didn’t make a sound. As Alex yowled all the way across town, I wondered what kind of cat was worse—a loudmouth or one you constantly had to check on to see if she was dead from shock.
Rae and Ricky’s house was in Sea Cliff, an exclusive community above the Pacific south of the Golden Gate Bridge. Many of the homes were Spanish-style, stucco with red-tiled roofs; others were understated modern, with multiple stories scaling down the cliffs to the sea. Rae and Ricky’s was one of the latter; I loved its spaciousness and its views. But today I couldn’t have cared less where I was.
A security guard motioned us through the tall iron gates across the driveway. Over his years as a country music star, my former brother-in-law had been the victim of numerous celebrity stalkings, and he’d learned to take precautions.
We went in through the kitchen door, Alex’s howls escalating. We set the cages down and looked at each other, shaking our heads. Mrs. Wellcome emerged from her quarters in a red sweat suit, her gray hair braided and hanging down her back.
“What on earth have you brought home?” she asked. “A creature from hell?”
“Actually he’s a lovely cat,” I told her. “But he hates being cooped up.”
“I certainly can understand that.” She went to the cage and opened the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Alex crept out and into her arms. “That’s all right, kitten,” Mrs. Wellcome said, stroking him, “nobody likes to be put in jail.” Alex quieted immediately.
I let Jessie out of her cage. She looked around expectantly: Where’s my food bowl?
Mrs. Wellcome said, “I closed the door against Frisk. We’ll need to introduce them gradually.”
“Thank you,” I told her. “I’ll have to go out and get them litter boxes and food—”
“I took care of that after Ms. Kelleher called to say they were coming. They have everything they need, even toys.” Her pale eyes brightened; she was going to enjoy playing with them.
“That’s so good of you.” I suddenly felt drained.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and rest for a while?” Rae said. “I’ve got some calls to make.”
“On the case, are you?”
She winked and said, “You bet.”
I slipped between the sheets in the guest room suite, breathing in their sweet, clean scent. A long, hot shower and a toddy Rae had delivered to my door set me up for sleep.
As I drifted I thought not of the fire but of the many blessings in my life. Wonderful neighbors who had seen the flames and alerted the fire department, then cared for me. Wonderful friends like Rae and Ricky who had insisted on taking me and my cats in. Mrs. Wellcome providing for us. Family, for me, was not only blood relatives, but all the people with whom I’d bonded and grown throughout the years.
And Hy, who was at this moment rushing to be with me.…
9:32 p.m.
“Hey, McCone.”
Hy’s breath and voice tickling my ear. I opened my eyes, rolled over, and looked up at him. His chin was stubbled, his eyes reddened, his hair tangled. Even in such a state, he was the most handsome man I’d seen in my life.
He gathered me into his arms, my head pressed to his shoulder. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “Not the same, but all right.”
I held him and my tears started to flow again. Jesus God, I thought, I was turning into the Vaillancourt Fountain. One of the ugliest pieces of spouting public art in the city, if not the whole country.
“I don’t know what we’ll do,” I sobbed.
“We’ll go on. You have any idea what caused the fire?”
“Arson.”
“That an official finding?”
“No, but it’s pretty damn clear to me.”
“What makes it so clear?”
“First off, the elevator crash. Then two nights ago I was attacked by a thug hired by a disgruntled former client. The thug’s now in custody, but who was there to stop the ex-client from hiring another to torch our house? And then there’s the Warrick case: there must be any number of people who don’t want that dug up. Plus a number of other cases over the years, where my work has aided the law in putting people away.”
“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let the arson inspectors do their work first.”
“I should hear from the fire department today or tomorrow at the latest.”
“If it was arson, we’ll get the son of a bitch responsible and make him pay—big-time. Take it into our own hands if we have to.”
The determination in his voice stopped my tears. Hy and I could take on and had taken on a number of tough characters. We were a potentially lethal team, because we connected on so many levels.
“I’m with you,” I said, “but in the meantime where will we live?”
“Well, we’re in a pretty posh place right now.”
“We can’t stay with Rae and Ricky forever.”
“There’s the hospitality suite in the RI building, or our other safe houses around town.”
RI maintained a number of innocuous locations—apartment buildings in the Sunset and Richmond districts, single-family homes on Bernal Heights and Potrero Hill—that were manned by their top-flight security people. High-risk clients were frequently housed in them until they could permanently be placed in safe locations.
“Since my agency’s operating out of there, I’d prefer the RI building.”
“Good.” He reached for his phone and spoke to someone at his company. “They’ll be getting it in shape right away.”
“I’m glad you’re close to public transit. My car burned up too.”
“We’ll get you another. A rental, in the interim.”
“I loved that car. I loved our house.” I started to cry again.
Hy pulled me closer. “We’ll find another house. Or rebuild, only better.”
“No. We can’t replace…”
“McCone, cars and houses are
just things. What’s irreplaceable is life.”
Yes, our lives, his and mine together. And those of our families and friends—
“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “Ma! If it’s been all over the news—”
“Rae called everybody to reassure them that we’re okay. I’m going to follow up with calls of my own. And now what I want you to do is take this pill and sleep some more.”
“I’ve had enough pills in my life to stuff a camel.”
“Bactrian or dromedary? One hump or two?”
I snorted. Then I laughed. Laughter—the source of healing.
As Hy handed me the pill I said, “I hope to hell I don’t dream about camels.”
SUNDAY, JANUARY 15
4:44 a.m.
When I woke, still in a half-drugged state, in Ricky and Rae’s guest suite, I was alone. I put on one of the robes that hung in the closet and went into the adjoining sitting room. Hy was there, before the glowing embers in the small fireplace, working on his laptop.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Whatever you gave me, it sure kills dreams.”
“Yeah, I keep a supply on hand for the really bad times.”
I knew about his really bad times, and they were far worse than my own. He’d toss and turn, mumbling to himself, then thrash about and cry out unintelligibly. I’d try to wake him, but sometimes he was so firmly in the throes of his nightmares that it took force to bring him out of them. Once he’d actually hit me on the jaw hard enough to leave a bruise before I’d subdued him.
I sat down beside him, put my head on his shoulder. “What’re you working on?”
“Something you can’t see.” He shut the laptop.
“Need to know…”
“Need to know.” He cradled my head in his hand.
Thank God he wasn’t going to talk about linking our agencies again. My mind was not equipped to deal with complex issues at present.
“By the way,” he said, “parts of Rae’s press conference were on the eleven o’clock news last night. I DVRed it for you. She was pretty impressive.”
“Unlike most multitalented people, she’s impressive no matter what she does. When I think of the woman I originally hired.…”
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