“I was waiting for you to bring it up. They’re not going to give it to me, are they?”
“Well, Parkhurst didn’t want you to get anything. He says the bomber came to you, rather than you tracking him down. And that you didn’t even get his identity right. He blames you for Kahlil Lateef threatening to file suit against the SFPD for false arrest; he was having breakfast in the dining room at the Stanford Court, where he was staying yesterday morning when they nabbed him. Parkhurst also claims it was a task force member—me—who first made the Diplo-bomber, conveniently forgetting he’d suspended me, of course. And he’s pissed about you blowing Newton away and letting Hamid get killed. Actually that’s only the short list of his reasons for denying you. I won’t bore you with the rest.”
“Jesus!” I dropped W.C. on the deck, jumped up, and began to pace. “What the hell did he expect me to do under the circumstances? You’re alive, aren’t you? There won’t be any more bombings. What else does he want? He damned well knows Hamid provoked Newton, and wasn’t worth the powder to blow him to hell anyway. You found Newton by accident, for Christ’s sake! Talk about a situation that illustrates why we have the word ‘coincidence’ in the language! And it’s not my fault that Lateef’s litigious—”
“You’re getting part of the money.”
“I’m…” I stopped pacing and stared at Adah. “How much?”
“A quarter.”
“…A quarter of a million dollars?”
“Uh-huh. Craig and I leaned on Parkhurst, and a number of the others on the task force backed us up. You know what he said when we settled? ‘It should keep that dreadful woman off my back until I can pack up and leave town.’”
“Asshole.” But I said it without much rancor. My mind and emotions had slipped into low gear. A quarter of a million dollars. So much money. What the hell would I ever do with it?
“I want you to have part of it,” I told Adah.
She shook her head. “Can’t accept, much as I’d like to. If I did, the tarnish would really be on the old shield.”
“They’re reinstating you?”
“To Homicide, providing I see a shrink for a while.” She scowled.
God help the poor shrink, I thought.
“Craig convinced me that I should at least give it a shot,” she added.
“Craig, huh?”
Adah looked down into her wineglass. “He’s not so bad, McCone, once you get to know him. And he’s sure let me lean on him in the past twenty-four hours.” Quickly she changed the subject. “So, what’re you going to do with the dough? Take a trip around the world? Buy yourself a fancy car and duds? Upgrade your sorry lifestyle?”
I hadn’t a clue. Fortunately, I was saved from contemplating it by the doorbell. “Excuse me a minute.”
Anne-Marie, Hank, and Habiba stood on my front steps. The little girl’s hand was tucked into Hank’s and she stared down, her head bent, much as she had throughout our long journey from the Caribbean. Well, small wonder: First she’d lost her mother. Then she’d lost her father, her grandmother, and her home all in the space of forty-eight hours.
“Hope you don’t mind us stopping by,” Hank said. “We’ve just come from a conference with Ambassador Jalil.”
“Of course I don’t mind. And I’m very glad to see you, Habiba.” When she didn’t respond, I squatted and tipped her chin up. Her eyes looked dully at me, but she took her hand from Hank’s and thrust it into mine.
“Let’s go out to the deck,” I told all three of them. “Adah’s here too.”
I ushered them back there and, with Habiba clutching at the leg of my jeans, fetched wineglasses for the adults and a Coke for her. When I sat back down she crawled into my lap and I cradled her protectively. “So,” I said, “tell me what happened with Jalil.”
Anne-Marie glanced at the little girl, smile lines crinkling around her eyes. “Kahlil Lateef was also there; he’s been named to succeed Mrs. Hamid as consul general. Both he and Jalil feel that since Habiba’s been raised in America and attended American schools, going to live with relatives in Azad would prove very difficult for her. And they also feel that remaining in familiar surroundings will help her to get over her loss.”
Hank added, “Lateef’s going to be operating out of a hotel for some time, and while he wants to play a major role in Habiba’s life, he admits he doesn’t know a thing about child rearing. As a result, Jalil’s consented to grant Anne-Marie and me temporary custody of her. Mavis had no family, and he’s her next of kin, so it should pose no problem.”
The little girl was sitting with her back against my chest; all I could see was the top of her bowed head. “Are you happy with that arrangement, Habiba?”
She mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“That child-rearing stuff? They don’t know anything about it, either. But that’s okay. My”—her voice faltered briefly—“my nanny Aisha and my Grams already taught me table manners and things like that. Besides, I like Anne-Marie and Hank, and Uncle Kahlil promised I can see him whenever I want to. And…” She tipped her head back, presenting me with an upside-down view of her pale face. “And if I stay in San Francisco, I can see you and Hy, too. If you want to.”
“Of course I want to, and so does Hy.”
Habiba regarded me solemnly for a moment, gave a brisk nod, and went back to staring down at her lap.
Joslyn asked, “So which one of you is she going to live with?”
“Oh, Hank,” Anne-Marie said quickly. “I’m too much of a…cleanliness Nazi, but he won’t mind the…disorder a child can create.”
“What she means is she hates kids.” Allie had just jumped onto the deck’s rail; Habiba pushed off my lap, went over, and began petting her.
We all exchanged concerned looks.
Habiba looked over her shoulder and flashed us a weak grin. “Joke. This morning she told me that I’m a lot more interesting than most adults she knows, and next week she’s taking me to the Academy of Sciences.” She went back to petting the cat.
Anne-Marie watched her thoughtfully—and affectionately. She saw me observing her, shrugged, and quickly changed the subject. “So how’re you two doing?”
“Fair,” Adah said. “McCone has some good news, though: she’s a quarter of a million dollars richer.”
“The reward?” Hank asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“What’re you going to do with all that money?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Buy Mick a new cellular phone, I guess; he’s heartbroken over the demise of the old one.” I paused. They all looked expectantly at me. “And there’s a woman in the Caribbean who helped me a lot; her organization could use a donation.”
“That’s it?” Joslyn asked.
“Hey, let me get used to the idea of the money before I start spending it.”
Hank glanced meaningfully at Anne-Marie. She nodded. He said, “I’d better bring this up now, because I hope it’ll affect your plans. I’m leaving All Souls.”
“What!” Hank had founded the co-op. He was its senior partner. No, more than that—he was the soul in All Souls. “Without you, it’ll wither up and die.”
“No, it’ll just become something else. We’ve agreed to dissolve the existing partnership; the partners who choose to remain will reincorporate under a different name. I’m betting they sell the building and move downtown before the year is out.”
A wave of sadness swept over me. Every time I’d considered moving my offices elsewhere it had comforted me to think that my old friends and associates would still be there for me in the big Victorian in Bernal Heights.
“Don’t look that way, Shar,” Hank said. “The co-op you’re mourning doesn’t exist anymore.”
“I know, but…What’re you planning to do?”
He smiled at Anne-Marie and took her hand. “How does Altman and Zahn, Attorneys-at-law, sound?”
“You’re leaving the Coalition for Environmental Preservation?”
I asked her.
She nodded. “I’ll still act as counsel to them. And guess what else? Ted’s coming along as our office manager.”
Suddenly my sadness vanished. I knew what they were about to propose.
Joslyn said, “Well, all three of you are going to be in the market for office rentals. Anybody have an idea where you’ll relocate?”
My friends looked hopefully at me.
I said, “I don’t know about the neighborhood, but I’m certain of one thing: I want to be next door to a brand-new husband-and-wife law firm.”
6,500 Feet Above The Central Valley
May 31, 11:21 A.M.
It was a high beautiful world up there and not the least bit lonesome, because a fully recovered Ripinsky rode in the rear seat of the Citabria.
Through the headset he said, “You told Clearance Delivery we were VFR for Little River.”
“You bet I did. We’re going straight to Bootlegger’s Cove and not stirring for a good long time. You need to convalesce, and I want to sleep for a week.”
“Sounds good to me.” He was silent for a moment. “How’re you dealing with what happened?”
I shrugged, my attention on the controls.
Again he was silent. A few minutes later he said, “Maybe you should consider it your personal Ban Kach.”
My breath caught. He had only once discussed the incident that for nearly two decades had lived in the darkest corner of his psyche. I’d thought it forever off-limits.
He added, “You knew you were setting Hamid up to die, just like I did those Cambodians. When Dan Kessell changed my return flight plan from Chiang Mai to that abandoned village near the border, it was clear what would happen. I told myself it didn’t matter because I was being well paid and they were corrupt, murdering druglords. And when one of them came at me begging for help in that clearing where the other corrupt, murdering druglords were slaughtering them, I didn’t think twice about putting a bullet through his head so the guys with the Uzis would think I was on their side. It was only afterwards that it mattered.”
In the intimate confines of the plane, with his voice coming close through the headset, the retelling took on special meaning. I nodded, turning it over, seeing the parallels.
He added, “Just let it go, McCone.”
Below us farmland gave way to the foothills of the Coast Range as I set course for the South Bay and a quick jog up the continental shelf. I found my thoughts drifting to early June at Bootlegger’s Cove—a time of foggy beach walks and woodsmokey lovemaking in front of the fireplace.
On the other side of San Jose Hy suddenly asked, “Say, did Renshaw make good on your ten-times-or-nothing wager?”
“Well, he paid my fee in full, plus a bonus for keeping RKI out of a mess—again. But he welshed on our bet.”
“You want me to send out the leg-breakers?”
“Nah, I’m forgiving it. The reward’s overwhelming enough; I seriously don’t think I’m equipped to handle too much money.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself.”
“Oh, hey—I just remembered something. Take a look at the clipping from last night’s Examiner that’s tucked in the side pocket of my bag. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
As he read I could follow along because of the surprised and appreciative sounds coming through the headset. I’d practically memorized the wire-service story that had appeared on a back page devoted to peculiar incidents. Datelined Marigot, the headline read FREAK ACCIDENT CLAIMS GERMAN CITIZEN.
Klaus Schechtmann, a German national residing on Jumbie Cay in the Leeward Islands, was killed late Sunday afternoon when a cannon belonging to a neighbor accidentally misfired.
Schechtmann, 43, owner of the sovereign island, was visiting Zebediah Altagracia, 76, when Altagracia’s Revolutionary War relic discharged while he was cleaning it. Schechtmann was killed instantly.
Altagracia, a local celebrity since he successfully declared the island independent from the United Kingdom in 1971, said he was preparing the cannon for Monday’s celebration of the United States’ Memorial Day.
“We celebrate damn near every patriotic holiday known to mankind here,” Mr. Altagracia told the press, “especially those of people who have been subjugated. I plan to dedicate today to the memory of Klaus Schechtmann. He was a fine man who cared deeply about this island and its inhabitants. I speak for all of us when I say he will be sorely missed.”
An investigation by Interpol is pending, but sources close to the agency say there is little likelihood that charges will be filed.
Hy whistled softly. “All I can say is vive la révolution.”
The end
PRAISE FOR MARCIA MULLER AND SHARON McCONE
“[Sharon 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
“Marcia Muller invented the hard-boiled female private eye genre.…Many have followed her lead, but Muller remains the best.”
—SAN DIEGO UNION-TRIBUNE
“Pace and plotting are very strong, but it’s her characters—especially McCone—who will lure you back.”
—ATLANTA JOURNAL & CONSTITUTION
“Reading the McCone novels in order one can track the astounding literary growth of author Marcia Muller as she hones her skills to scalpel sharpness…a prime example of just how good the noir novel can be.”
—CLEVELAND PLAIN DEALER
“Muller has gotten quietly, steadily better. She is building up steam, not running out of it.”
—NEWSWEEK
In Sharon McCone, Marcia Muller has set the standard for the contemporary female hard-boiled private eye. Her maverick heroine has evolved from a 1960s idealist into a formidable criminal investigator who has not lost her deep, abiding love of San Francisco history and values. In her most action-packed novel yet, Muller sends McCone on a dangerous journey that leads from San Francisco to a secluded Caribbean isle, where family loyalty, patriotism, and secrecy stake their claim on the human heart—which, as McCone knows too well, can be…
A WILD AND LONELY PLACE
For months, the embassies of oil-rich nations have been the target of an elusive terrorist known only as the Diplo-Bomber. A federal task force, which includes one of McCone’s closest police contacts, is stumped—until a botched bombing attempt threatens the San Francisco consulate of Azad, a progressive Arab emirate.
At first McCone is thinking only of the $1 million reward offered by the FBI and the Azadis. But when she learns more about the consulate household, McCone suspects that someone inside the turbulent ruling family may be linked to the bombing. The Azadis’ consul general is the western-educated Malika Hamid, one of only a few Muslim women to brave the world of international diplomacy. An intriguing mix of eastern traditions and modern ideas, Malika is fiercely controlling the lives of her playboy son and his beautiful, alcoholic American wife. Torn between her troubled parents is the lonely, nine-year-old Habiba, a mischievous imp of a girl who takes an immediate liking to McCone.
When little Habiba disappears, McCone follows her trail to a desolate Caribbean island that has its own brand of justice. Now McCone and her allies, including her lover, Hy Ripinsky, find themselves in an arena far larger than any they have been in so far. Here McCone is risking not only her own life but those of many others as the mission takes her dangerously close to the edge of disaster. For this is a battle that could destabilize U.S. international relations—and one in which McCone must literally fight fire with fire.…
MARCIA MULLER is the author of more than twenty novels and many short mystery stories. She has also established a brilliant reputation as an anthologist and critic of mystery fiction. In 1993 she was awarded the Private Eye Writers of America Life Achievement award, and her Wolf in the Shadows was nominated for the 1994 Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Crime Novel and won the Anthony Boucher Award. She lives with her husband, myste
ry writer Bill Pronzini, in northern California.
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