While Other People Sleep

by Marcia Muller

  Laying a trap?

  I went back down the hall and located the inside staircase; a door next to it led to a closet containing the circuit breakers. I went in there and flipped the ones for the hallways and the elevator. Then I climbed the stairs.

  On the third floor I waited by the stairway till my eyes adjusted. Cold up there, and clammy. Smells of fresh lumber—and Dark Secrets.

  Soon I could make out shapes: narrow rectangular windows a few shades lighter than the blackness around them; more concrete support pillars. None of the walls had been finished; the entire floor was a maze of wood framing and copper piping. Electrical conduit snaked between the studs, and underfoot was uneven concrete, cracked and pitted. Surely a woman's shape would stand out among these sharp angles.

  I listened for a telltale sound, heard nothing. Narrowed my eyes, waiting for some sort of motion. She didn't move. She didn't even seem to breathe.

  Finally I began to slip through the maze, gun extended in both hands. She gave no reaction to me showing myself; the element of surprise hadn't worked. I'd have to flush her out—

  Sudden movement and sound behind me. I whirled. A figure ran up the stairs and a door slammed.

  On the roof. So she was going to play a cat-and-mouse game.

  It was a game I knew how to play too.

  I crept up the stairs to the roof, opened the door a crack. The night was reasonably clear for a change, with high scattered clouds and a bright moon. By its light I saw a raised area floored in iron mesh, with a huge kettle-type barbecue in its center—the so-called roof garden that ads for the lofts boasted of. A step down was the composition-covered roof itself, but the elevator housing blocked most of it from my view.

  She was somewhere down there. I'd wait her out till dawn, if necessary. Eventually she'd have to show herself—

  “So how am I doing, McCone?”

  The voice came from behind the elevator housing, loud and demanding.

  I drew back into the stairwell.

  “I'm good, aren't I? Good as you. Maybe better.”

  I couldn't tell a thing about her normal speaking voice; the shouting would distort that.

  “Lots better!”

  A chill shot along my spine. Because as soon as I heard those words I realized what they meant.

  She'd set this up knowing full well I wouldn't believe it was Rae calling me. And she'd known I'd come anyway. Somehow she'd become so intimately attuned to the way my mind worked that she'd known exactly what I'd do.

  Well, I still had the advantage; I was at the top of the stairs, armed. And I'd disabled the elevator.

  I shoved the door farther open and yelled, “All right! You got me here. Let's have this out—now!”

  Amused laughter.

  “The elevator's out of commission. There's no way off this roof except through this door, and I'm prepared to wait you out.”

  Silence.

  “You're in a no-win situation. Come on out.”

  No response.

  Then I heard a scuffling noise at the far side of the roof. More laughter, as if I'd told her a good joke—and coming now from below. I pushed through the door, skirted the elevator housing; behind it a ramp led down to a level midway between the roof and the third story. And on its inside wall a door was swinging shut.

  Dammit, I'd bought into her entire plan! She'd led me all over this building as if I were on a leash. The woman was a lot smarter than I'd given her credit for.

  So put yourself inside her head, McCone. What will she do now?

  Go around to the other staircase and come after me?

  No, she doesn't want a direct confrontation—at least, not yet.

  Simply leave, having had her fun for tonight?

  Not that, either …

  “Oh, God!”

  I ran down the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. The building's security alarm sounded as I reached the second-story landing. Panting, heart pounding, I got to the ground floor just as the front door slammed. I skidded around, wrenched the closet door open, hit the breaker for the alarm. The deafening noise stopped instantly.

  But I'd worked in security; it wouldn't take long for whatever company monitored this building to arrive to investigate what they'd assume was a malfunction.

  I rushed through the garage, slid under the partly raised door, and ran down the alleyway to Main Street.

  When I got to my car I found a piece of legal paper tucked under its windshield wiper. Printed on it in block letters was a single sentence: so WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE so GOOD?

  Tonight while other people sleep, I pace. To the front parlor, to the sitting room, to the kitchen, and back again. The house is quiet, too quiet. The cats are awake, wary, feeling my tension. I haven't spoken with Hy in nearly a week, and I sense our connection becoming staticky—emotional static, both his and mine.

  The woman even guessed where I would park my car. She's smart, very smart. She's tapped into my mental processes, my reactions, my strengths and flaws. She's been in this house, maybe at the pier, too. I'll have to have both places swept for bugs, get the security code here changed, change the code for my cell phone. I've already spent an inordinate amount of time canceling credit cards and requesting new ones. And then there's all this unwanted merchandise …

  God, I don't need this! My life is totally disrupted. My identity's being stolen from me.

  Identity. What is it, anyway? A name? A physical appearance? An address, phone number, and all the other numerical codes that allow us to function in contemporary society? A profession? An avocation? A personal history? A series of connections to fellow human beings?

  Identity is the inner you, the unique way you think and act and respond. When a stranger has such a strong grasp of those things that she can manipulate you, you're losing your absolute essence. Your soul.

  Yes, that's what she's doing. She's trying to steal my soul.

  Saturday

  OPEN TODAY, 10-4: LOFT LIVING AT ITS FINEST

  The banner hung limp across the facade of the old warehouse; the building looked as dingy and gray as the sky. I pushed through its door and turned left into a makeshift sales office where three men in suits stood talking and drinking coffee. One put down his cup on a folding table stacked with brochures and came forward.

  “Welcome to Vintage Lofts,” he said, extending a business card. “Are you familiar with the concept of live-work space?”

  “Yes, I am.” And he wouldn't be happy if I voiced my opinion. The loft concept has always struck me as a colossal real-estate scam. You pay upwards of two hundred thousand for a relatively small space equipped with nothing more than piping for the plumbing—whose location locks you into a limited number of floor plans—and then either finish it yourself or pay somebody else to do so. And the developers, who have probably bought the property cheap, walk away with huge profits.

  The salesman offered a price list. “As you can see, we've sold a number of units already, but some are still available on every floor.”

  I scanned the sheet. The third-story units ran close to three hundred thousand. “These top-floor units,” I said, “do they have views?”

  “Well, not in the sense of bay vistas, if that's what you have in mind. But their windows are large, and the rear units have skylights.”

  They'd need skylights; there were no windows at all at the rear. “And how many of them are left?”

  “Ah, most of them, actually.”

  Meaning the people who'd looked at them weren't as gullible as the developer had hoped. “I'd like to take a look around up there.”

  “Certainly. The entire building's open today. Just take the elevator and all the time you need. And don't forget to check out our roof garden!”

  I intended to.

  The third story was shadowy, even with daylight filtering through the windows and skylights. Building supplies were piled near the elevator, but a thick layer of dust lay over them, and the place had an abandoned feel about it.
Having both remodeled and added on to my house, I had a fairly good sense of how construction projects come together, but I couldn't visualize what this one would look like when completed. Not that I cared; I was here to search for some tangible trace of the woman who had led me on a cat-and-mouse chase through this building last night.

  I took out my flashlight and systematically began prowling around. Anything at all—a lost button, a discarded tissue— would enable me to believe that the woman was not as clever as I imagined, but I came away empty handed. Next I went to the roof, stepped off the iron-mesh area, and checked behind the elevator shaft. I found two cigarette butts, but I doubted they were hers; there hadn't been any tobacco odor in the air, either here or at my house after Sunday night's intrusion.

  When I went downstairs the salesman accosted me, looking hopeful. “What do you think of the building?”

  “Very interesting.”

  “I have a list of contractors we recommend for the finish work—unless, of course, you plan to do it yourself.”

  Contractors who undoubtedly gave kickbacks. “Actually, I'd like to see a list of people who have already purchased units. Would that be possible?”

  “Uh, I'm sorry. That's confidential information.”

  Bullshit. It was a matter of public record. “The reason I ask, a couple of acquaintances of mine mentioned buying into a place that sounded like this. They had very good things to say about the management company and the contractors.”

  “If you could give me their names, I can check.”

  “One's Sharon McCone. The other's … Sue Macmillan.”

  He went to the table and opened a loose-leaf notebook that was lying there. “No, neither has purchased a unit.”

  “I'm almost certain Sue did. Let me describe her: she's got honey-blond hair, features that I guess you could describe as cute, is about my height and weight.”

  “Doesn't ring a bell.” Turning to the other salesmen, he asked, “Either of you guys close a deal with somebody like that?”

  One shook his head. The other said, “If I had, I'd've asked her for a date.”

  I said, “Are you three the only salespeople?”

  “That's right. And we'll be happy to answer any further questions you might have.”

  Any questions except the important one: How had the woman gained access to the building? The same way I did, or…?

  It was only one o'clock, but before I visited Vintage Lofts I'd sifted to no good result through the garbage I'd snatched from the alley the night before; arranged for RKI to sweep my home and offices for bugs; requested that my cellphone code be changed; gone to the post office to send back the unwanted mail-order items; stopped by Nell Loomis's studio and found her not there again; and dropped off the MG for servicing. It wouldn't be ready till three, so I decided to go to the pier and clear up some remaining paperwork—or maybe just sit and think.

  When I got there, I was surprised to see Mick's new motorcycle parked at the foot of our stairs. The sleek black Yamaha was a coming-of-age statement of sorts, as Charlene and Ricky had adamantly refused to buy him one for his high school graduation present, and Mick loved it almost as much as his PowerBook. My sister was still upset about him buying it—somehow she blamed me, presumably for paying him a good enough salary that he could afford it—but once Mick passed the appropriate safety courses, Ricky had conceded it was good transportation. And I'd benefited from the purchase, because the prospect of riding the bike the few blocks down the Embarcadero from the condo he leased had made him my most prompt employee.

  When I tapped on his office door, my nephew called, “Friend or foe?” without taking his eyes off the computer screen.

  “Depends on how you feel about taking on some extra work on a Saturday.”

  “Oh, hell, I thought you were Sweet Charlotte.”

  “Nope, it's just me—about to complicate your life. What're you working on, that hidden-assets case?”

  “Yeah, I've about got it wrapped up. We'll be going to the Boondocks for lunch on Monday.”

  “Great. I love their steak sandwiches. Let's take Charlotte along. Speaking of her, where is she while you're slaving away?”

  “Hot on the trail of a client who's weird.”

  “Jeffrey Stoddard. She tell you what's wrong with him?”

  “Nope.” Mick swiveled to face me, his face earnest and somewhat perplexed. “You know, when I first came to work for you, I thought the business was glamorous and cool, but I never figured out till recently how … addicting it is. I mean, Lottie and I could be snuggled up in bed watching rotten Saturday-afternoon horror movies on TV and eating popcorn right now. But instead I'm ruining my eyesight in this stuffy office and she's off God knows where in the rain.”

  “And you both love it.”

  “So do you, or you wouldn't be here.”

  “Well, Hy's not in town, so snuggling isn't an option. You want to tell me what you've got?” I motioned at the computer.

  “Documentation of money in a tax-dodge account in the Caymans—in the guy's girlfriend's name. And a down payment on a condo on Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman— again in the babe's name.”

  “You can prove that the funds moved from his account to hers?”

  “I can prove it—thanks to Lottie. She's got contacts at financial institutions all over the place.”

  “Then we'll definitely take her along to lunch. And I'll see your report on Monday. In the meantime, d’ you want to take on something else?”

  “Sure, what?”

  “The Vintage Lofts building on Beale Street. I need to get as many particulars as possible on each person who's bought a unit there.”

  “Easy. I'll do a search by site address and have it to you within the hour. Which case file do I allocate the time to?”

  “None. This is personal.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “And private.”

  Seventeen people had been foolish enough to purchase live-work units at the lofts; nine were women, and their names were not familiar to me. The database gave their current addresses, but three were post office boxes, and it would take time to check out the remaining six for resemblance to the woman. Time, and transportation.

  At a little before three I asked Mick to drop me off at All-Foreign Motors in the Mission district. Eager to show off his bike, which I'd yet to be given a ride on, he agreed, but drove there with the kind of exaggerated caution he'd have employed if it was my mother on the seat behind him. I'd have liked to think this was because he wanted to protect the one who signed his paychecks, but I suspected otherwise and kept wishing he'd do something outrageous to reassure me he didn't consider me that old and fragile.

  Bennie, my regular mechanic, was just closing the MG's hood when I stepped into the garage. “Hey, Sharon,” he said, “that rebuilt engine's in great shape. Was worth the money, even though you accused us of highway robbery.”

  He'd rebuilt the engine years ago, before I'd even met Hy. “You're never going to let me forget that comment, are you?”

  “Nope. I'm guilt-tripping you into bringing it back to us.”

  “So what's the damage this time?”

  He wiped his hands on his coveralls, went to the computer, and started printing out my invoice. “My advice to you is to keep the car a long time, even do another rebuild if you've got to. It's damn near a classic.”

  I eyed the MG thoughtfully. “I don't know, Bennie. When it starts to go again, a new car might be in order.”

  Shock furrowed his chocolate-colored face. “No way!”

  “Well, by then it might be time.” I took the sheet he ripped from the printer and scanned it. Shuddered dramatically.

  “It's never time to get rid of a beautiful machine like that,” he insisted. “Besides, what would you buy to replace it? One of those nothing Japanese models that all look alike?”

  “I haven't gotten that far in my thinking yet.” I handed him my American Express card—the only one I was able to
use till the new Visa and MasterCard were issued; fortunately, I hadn't yet charged anything on it this year, so there wasn't a receipt bearing its number in my home-office desk.

  Bennie slid the card through the machine. “You'd have to look pretty hard to come up with a car that can hold a candle to the MG. I don't know, though—how about a Porsche?”

  “God, no! Rae calls them asshole-creating machines, and she ought to know. Both she and Ricky turn into maniacs behind the wheel of his.”

  “Speaking of Rae, she hasn't brought the Ramblin’ Wreck in lately.” Rae's former car, an ancient Rambler American, was one of the few Detroit models Bennie would work on.

  “The Wreck has gone to the big auto-salvage yard in the sky. She's driving a Miata now. And getting married.”

  “Well, tell her congrats, and to skip the dealer servicing on the new car. Miatas and me get on just fine.” He frowned at the credit-card machine. “What the hell? Your card's been refused.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It's been canceled.”

  Damn her! How had she managed that? Oh, right—the folder that had come when the new card was issued, bearing instructions about what to do if it was lost or stolen; that was in the desk at home.

  “You got another card?” Bennie asked.

  “No, I… lost my wallet, and I'm waiting for new ones. I'll write you a check.”

  “Hey, don't bother. Just bring the new card in when it comes, and I'll run it through. And do me a favor? Keep the MG.”

  Nell Loomis looked the same as the last time I'd seen her: close-cropped carrot-colored hair, outrageous green eye shadow, and ratty jeans and T-shirt with a rubber darkroom apron over them. At least that was my impression until I noticed she'd gotten her nose pierced a few times and had a small tattoo of a vulture on her right forearm.

  She caught me looking at the vulture and said, “So I like them. They're very patient birds. D’ you want to come in or just stand there staring, McCone?”