People jammed the intersection and sidewalks there, trying to see past the barricades. A reporter with a Minicam stood filming on top of a Channel Five van. A still photographer had shinnied up a plane tree in the fenced front garden of a white Victorian; a second man, probably the house’s owner, was shaking his fist and yelling for him to get down. A pall of smoke lay on the air, tinged with evil-smelling chemical fumes. For an instant I flashed on the explosion at Bootlegger’s Cove, then I put the memory behind me and pushed through the crowd to the barricade. I showed my I.D. to the uniformed officer there, explaining that I worked for RKI. He shouted, “What?” and leaned closer. I repeated my explanation, but he wasn’t impressed. He shook his head and turned his back.
I was about to go look for a roundabout way onto the scene when I spotted Craig Morland. The FBI agent was trying to mingle with the crowd, but his dark suit and red tie stood out among the others’ weekend attire. I shouted his name and he turned and came over to the barricade.
Morland showed his I.D. to the officer and motioned for me to join him. “So when did this happen?” I asked.
“Three o’clock. I’ll tell you, there must’ve been enough black powder in the bomb to take out a mountain.” He put a hand on my elbow, shoved some bystanders aside, and began guiding me along the street.
I said, “When did you get here?”
“Approximately seventeen after. Since then the fire’s spread to the outbuildings and houses on either side of the consulate. Their annex behind, too.”
“Jesus. Fatalities?”
“Of course, but it’s too soon to know how many, or who.”
“Survivors?”
He shrugged.
As we moved closer to the fire the air grew thick with smoke and drifting particles of soot. In spite of it being a coolish day, I felt heat on my skin. The voices of the crowd and the shouts of the firefighters were muted by the roar and crackle of the flames.
Now I could see the consulate and its outbuildings—more accurately, I could see their blackened skeletons. The houses to either side had caught fire; streams of water poured onto them from hoses, hissing and vaporizing. The firefighters were moving to the sides, struggling to keep the blaze from spreading down the block.
In spite of the heat, a chill struck deep to my bones. Once again the memory of the conflagration at Bootlegger’s Cove intruded; once again I pushed it away.
Morland put an arm out and shoved aside an elderly couple who were blocking our path. The woman turned, outraged, but the FBI man kept going without an apology. Mild-mannered, by-the-book Craig had the same violence within as most of us, and he wasn’t keeping it in check all that well. I disengaged my elbow from his grasp and followed along cautiously, in case he should erupt into more extreme behavior.
The street ran with water; I slogged through it, feeling it squish in and out of my too-large sandals. Several yards away, behind one of the SFFD four-by-fours, I spotted a knot of civilians: Gage Renshaw, three RKI security staff, Kahlil Lateef, and—surprisingly—Mick. Their faces were streaked with soot; Renshaw’s trousers were soaked to mid-calf and splashed with what looked to be fire-retardant chemicals.
I said to Morland, “I’ll be over there. Thanks for getting me past the barricade.”
He nodded and headed toward a bomb squad car that was pulled up on the sidewalk.
I went over to the group by the fire department vehicle and touched Renshaw’s arm. “So what happened here?”
He turned, taking me in with an expression of surprise that quickly transformed to fury. “Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Traveling home with Habiba.”
“Where is she?”
“In a safe place.” Thank God we hadn’t contacted Renshaw and had the company jet fly us home from the Mojave! If that scenario had played as Hy predicted, the little girl would have been inside the consulate when the bomb went off.
“Where?” Renshaw demanded. “What safe place?”
I ignored the question and turned to Mick. “I’ve been trying to call you. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“Damned thing died. That’s what I get for buying a cheap model.”
He looked exhausted and discouraged, and my heart went out to him. Silently I vowed to buy him the best cellular unit available and never again to belittle his addiction to technology. “Let’s talk,” I said, and led him away from the others.
Renshaw glared and moved to stop us, then shrugged angrily. Mick and I went to the front of the four-by-four and sat on its bumper. “What happened with Hamid?” I asked. “Start from the beginning.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as though to clear his head. “Okay, I contacted Blanca Diaz like you told me to. She was glad to help, kept me posted on Hamid’s activities. He arrived at the condo very upset. Blanca was staying over; she does that when Ronquillo and Schechtmann are into heavy entertaining, and Friday night it was dinner for thirty. After the guests left, Leila, Sandy, and Hamid stayed up all night drinking and doing coke. Blanca was in and out of the room clearing the party things, and she heard plenty.
“Seems Hamid called his mother from the airport. She wouldn’t let him come to the consulate, and she said that her head of security had told her Habiba was in good hands. She also said that under no circumstances would she let the kid return to the Caribbean with him, and that Dawud had better go back before, as she put it, something dreadful happened. I guess we know what the dreadful thing was.” Mick motioned at the blazing buildings.
“Go on.”
“Okay, eventually Hamid got out of control, ranting about his mother stealing his kid and insisting he wouldn’t leave the city without her. Finally Ronquillo gave him something to bring him down, and everybody went to bed. Hamid was up early though, yelling at Blanca at ten in the morning because there wasn’t any single-malt Scotch left. He went out for a bottle, and they all stayed in on Saturday, doing more drinking and drugs.
“I stayed put in my car across the street. Nothing happened. The fucking phone gave out sometime, and I didn’t discover it till around ten, when I tried to call Maggie to ask her to bring me more sandwiches and coffee. I was starving, and I still had some Cokes, so I drank them to fill up and then I kept having to take a leak. One time an old lady walking her dog caught me in the bushes and threatened to call the cops. After that I stayed in the car and pissed into an empty can.”
Welcome to the real world of the private investigator, I thought. “Okay, what happened today?”
“Hamid left the condo around two-thirty in a Yellow Cab; I got its number. He came here. It didn’t look like the security guards were on the side door; he went right in, and he hadn’t come out when the bomb went off. Shar, I’ve never seen anything like it.…”
No security people on the side door? Renshaw never would have permitted such a lapse. But Malika Hamid could have ordered them away, or diverted them in a manner that wouldn’t have prompted them to notify their supervisor. Habiba had told me that her grandmother always sent everyone except for her old nanny away from the consulate when Dawud came to call.
Her insistence on preserving the fiction that her son disappeared years ago had gotten both of them killed.
I asked Mick, “Did anybody follow Hamid?”
“Besides me? Nobody that I could make.”
“Any deliveries after he got there?”
“No.”
Then the bomb had been in place beforehand. The bomber had known the security guards would be taken off; he’d known Dawud would be there. I thought about Joslyn’s phone message: “…too close to home for comfort.”
Too close to the Azadis’ home for comfort?
* * *
Mick and I went back around the four-by-four. Renshaw wasn’t there anymore, but Kahlil Lateef sat on the curb, tears making tracks in the soot on his rough-featured face. I sat down next to him.
“Such ruin,” he said. “Such ruin.”
“Where were you when
the bomb exploded, Mr. Lateef?”
“I was taking my daily walk. I walk to the Marina Green and back—early on the weekdays, later on Saturdays and Sundays.”
“Mrs. Hamid—do you know what she had planned for today?”
He shook his head.
“Did anyone survive besides you?”
“I do not know.”
I looked thoughtfully at Lateef’s bent head, recalling his frank dislike of Malika Hamid, his fondness for Mavis
When I glanced up, I saw Renshaw and a tall man with iron-gray hair whom I recognized as Ed Parkhurst, head of the task force, walking my way. “Excuse me,” I said to Lateef and went to join them.
Renshaw scowled and motioned for me to back off. I kept going. “Mr. Parkhurst,” I said, “Sharon McCone. I’m a consultant to Mr. Renshaw.”
Parkhurst ignored my extended hand. “You’re the investigator Adah Joslyn was leaking confidential information to. We found out about that after we placed her on leave.”
I didn’t acknowledge the implied accusation. “Any word on her situation?”
“That’s also confidential.”
“I hardly think so, since he’s boasted on the Techno Web about taking her hostage. Why do you suppose he hasn’t made his demands?”
Parkhurst sighed. “As you see, he’s been otherwise occupied.”
I turned to Renshaw. “Any idea how Malika Hamid got your people to leave the side door unguarded?”
“Sharon, enough!”
“Have you told him yet?”
“What?”
“About the—”
Renshaw grabbed my arm, excused himself to Parkhurst, and hustled me off to the other side of the four-by-four. “Goddamn it, Sharon, when’re you going to stop trying to dictate how I conduct my business? I’ll tell Parkhurst about the messages when I feel it’s appropriate.”
“And when is that?”
“After I consult with my client.”
“Consult with Malika Hamid?” I motioned at the smoking skeleton of the consulate. “Not likely, unless you’re into channeling.”
“We don’t know that Mrs. Hamid is dead. But even if she is, I’m still bound to act in Azad’s best interests. I’ll discuss what to do with Ambassador Jalil—”
“Oh, stuff it, Gage! It’s a little late to worry about protecting Azad’s image. People have died. Some of your people have died. It’s time to get everything out in the open. We need to sit down with Parkhurst and tell him everything; I need to tell both of you what I’ve found out.”
Renshaw’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. He leaned toward me on the balls of his feet, poking his index finger against my shoulder as he spoke. “I’ve had about all I can take from you, Sharon. You’re to deliver the Hamid girl to me by six o’clock, latest.”
I stepped away from his prodding finger and matched his glare. “You’re not getting your hands on her.”
“You’ll do as I say if you want to avoid trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“In three little syllables—kidnaping.”
“Well, Gage, in four little syllables—accessory.”
“I never authorized—”
“Yes, you did.”
“There are no witnesses, nothing in writing.”
“But, as you pointed out, RKI paid for my ticket and expenses. Habiba’s return ticket, plus a couple of aircraft rentals. You sent her passport down by courier. I reported to you all along; my phone bill will show the credit-card charges.” He opened his mouth to speak, but I played my ace in the hole. “Besides, your partner Ripinsky was with Habiba and me all the way back.”
He was silent.
“Gage,” I went on, “there’s a lot you don’t know. Let me tell you what I’ve—”
“No, Sharon. End of discussion. Go ahead and refuse to turn the kid over to me, if it satisfies some twisted need you have for power. But I doubt you’ll be able to refuse a request from Ambassador Jalil—particularly when our State Department lends it some muscle.” He turned and stalked away.
I watched him go, rage spilling over. “Twisted need for power, my ass,” I muttered. So much for sharing what I knew with RKI or the task force. The hell with them.
“What?” a voice behind me asked.
I turned. Craig Morland. “Nothing!” I snapped.
Morland took a step backwards.
“Sorry,” I said. “If you’re looking for Parkhurst, I don’t know where he went.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m through here for now.”
I looked around for Mick, but couldn’t spot him. Didn’t matter; he’d turn up at the office sooner or later. Morland was still standing next to me, looking as though he wanted to say something but was afraid I’d bite his head off again. I’d better treat him decently; he was now my only contact on the task force.
“Craig,” I said, “you look like you could use a drink. Buy you one?”
Twenty-six
An hour later Morland and I were sitting in a booth at the back of a dark Mexican restaurant on Lombard Street’s motel row. Usually I can’t eat when I’m upset and depressed, but the day’s events—combined with the deprivations of my recent journey—had quite the opposite effect on me. I’d already put away huevos rancheros with beans and rice, two Dos Equiis, and an indecent quantity of chips and salsa. Craig had nibbled at a few chips, drunk two margaritas, and was working on a third.
“Used to come here a lot when I was attached to the San Francisco field office back in the eighties,” he said in a sepulchral voice.
I braced for yet another installment of his life story. In spite of my repeated attempts to question him about the case, Morland had deftly steered the conversation to his career history. Without actually revealing much of himself, he’d told me about his work on the New York City bomb squad; about attending Columbia University Law School; about his first and only job as an attorney, in the Brooklyn public defender’s office; about joining the Bureau.
Now he seemed to run out of steam. He looked around the restuarant morosely, as if it didn’t measure up to his memories. “What the hell,” he muttered.
Upset about the bombing, I thought. And about Adah; he withdraws every time I mention her name, cares more for her than he lets on—or than she realizes.
Once again I tried to bring the conversation back to the investigation, this time taking a roundabout route. “How long did you work out of San Francisco?”
“Two and a half years. Then I was transferred back to D.C. For a couple of years I was on an interagency exchange with Scotland Yard. I’d just gotten back to the States when I was tapped for the task force.” He paused. “I wish to hell this waiting was over. Why doesn’t he make his move?”
“Maybe the bombing was his move. Maybe he’s gotten what he wants now.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Azad is the only country he’s hit more than once, and in more than one location.”
“But those other attempts weren’t successful.”
“His attempt on the Panamanians back in ninety-two wasn’t successful, and he didn’t repeat it.”
Morland shook his head. “I don’t think the Azadis are central to the case.”
“Why not?”
“There’s nothing to indicate it.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded me over the salt-encrusted rim of his glass. “Unless you have information we don’t.”
For a moment I considered telling Morland everything; I sensed I could trust him. But he’d have to turn the information over to Parkhurst, who would love to see me charged with obstructing a federal investigation. I couldn’t risk it.
Damn Gage Renshaw and his client confidentiality!
I said to Craig, “I just have a feeling about the Azadis, that’s all. I asked Parkhurst if there was anything new about Adah’s situation, but he wouldn’t tell me. Has the bomber posted anything further?”
His eyes clouded and he sipped his drink before replying. “There’s been nothing.”
>
“You know about the message she left on my machine?”
He nodded. “Marcus on the SFPD passed along the gist of it.”
“If she was right…a man like that—he’d kill anyone who could identify him.”
“We’re acting on the assumption that he’s holding her alive as an insurance policy. We get too close, she’s his ticket out of here.”
I wanted to believe that as much as he did.
My doubts must have shown on my face, because Morland launched into a monologue on the psychological profile of the bomber, much of it aimed at easing his own anxiety. After a few minutes I cut him short by signaling for the check. His earlier recital of his personal history had given rise to an idea, and I wanted to get back to the office and explore it.
* * *
I’d expected All Souls to be holiday-weekend quiet, but instead I heard angry voices coming from the law library as soon as I walked through the door. Ted and—I thought—Mike Tobias, one of the flock of new partners and associates who had come to the firm within the past couple of years. I fled up the stairs, the words “intolerable inefficiency” and “insufferable workaholic” following me.
There had been entirely too much bickering around the co-op of late—serious arguments, as well. During the dozen or so years Ted had presided over the front office I’d seldom heard his voice raised in anger. Now, it seemed, something or someone set him off at least once a day. The co-op had turned into a place that most people were eager to quit at close of business; those who remained stayed closeted in their offices or living quarters.
Upstairs I tossed the horrible shell-encrusted purse on my sofa and dug out a canvas tote from the bottom drawer of one of the file cabinets. My possessions went in the tote and the purse went in the wastebasket. Damned if I was going to carry around that reminder of the hideous journey. Next I sat down at my desk and called Hy’s room at Bakers-field Memorial.
A Wild and Lonely Place Page 27
