Her disposition hadn't improved with time, but then, I hadn't expected it to.
She led me into her cluttered studio: a large white room with a long light table and a seating area in one corner. Light boxes and rolled-up backdrops and props for the magazine ads that she shot here lined the walls. This week, apparently, the subject was cat food, specifically a brand called Royal Repast.
“Fuckin’ critters,” Loomis said, motioning at the stacks of cans as we sat down on her shabby sofa.
“Cats?”
“Not all cats—I've got three at home myself—just Royal Repast's pampered darlings. Four of the most spoiled-rotten animals I've ever encountered—including humans. They don't like Royal Repast. They're junkies.”
“Junkies?”
“Catnip junkies. The food's gotta be sprinkled with the stuff before they'll nibble at it. And then they get so stoned they fall asleep real fast. It's taking an eternity for this shoot. So what the hell d’ you want after all this time? Information, I suppose.”
“Right.”
“You paying?”
“Of course.”
“How much?”
“Twenty.”
“Sixty.”
“Forty.”
“Done.”
“What d'you want to know?”
“The olive-drab door three to your right—who rents the place?”
Her face went very still. “What're you messing with, McCone?”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“I don't understand.”
“Smart woman like you? I read the papers. Don't think I haven't kept up with you.”
“Then you know I can't talk about my cases or clients. Who rents that place, Loomis?”
“… The guy's name is Sandy Coughlin, and he's into a lot of things.”
“Such as?”
“Things that kill people. Explosives, guns—you know.”
“Drugs?”
“Nope, Sandy's strictly a shoot-’em-up, blow-’em-up kind of guy.”
“How would somebody go about making a connection with him?”
“Come on, McCone! You know how to do that.”
“No, I meant how would the average person go about it?”
“Well, he wouldn't walk up and knock on that door. Coughlin's paranoid, and his … clients come recommended.”
“By … ?”
She examined her ragged fingernails for a moment. “This is all rumor, of course, but I've heard that he caters to militant factions.”
“Left or right?”
“Doesn't matter. He's what my dad used to call a shit-disturber. Likes to see people riled up and mean. That fire-bombing of the abortion clinic last month? They say the explosives came from Sandy. A couple of the Saturday night specials used to kill that Russian refugee family in the Richmond might've been his. And so it goes.”
“He makes a profit and foments divisiveness and hatred as a by-product.”
“You got it. Ol’ Sandy enjoys manipulating from behind the scenes and then watching innocent people get hurt or die.”
Oh, Ted, what's going on with you? What?
Saturday night
Six addresses of women who had bought into Vintage Lofts and thus would have access to the premises. Three of them not home. When I'd dropped in on the others, in the guise of an insurance investigator, I'd found that none bore the slightest resemblance to me or to any of the descriptions of my impostor. Mick was working on getting street addresses for the ones with post office boxes, and I'd check out the others when time allowed, but I really didn't hold much hope for this line of investigation. In fact, I was beginning to suspect I'd again been made victim of a clever plan devised by someone who had figured out how my mind functioned.
Fruitless labor, but at least it had filled a few hours of my otherwise empty Saturday night. I'd run no surveillance on Ted, as Neal had told me they were staying in—something he didn't sound happy about. I had nothing going on socially; all my friends were either out of town or had plans that didn't include me. Hy hadn't called; it was as if he'd been swallowed up by the Argentinian jungle. Hell, I couldn't even fret about being spied on or having my home invaded by a crazy woman; RKI had discovered and removed bugs there—but not at the pier—and also changed the alarm system's security code.
Normally I'm not a person who feels at loose ends. I'm outgoing, but I also treasure my private time. I love to read, I am fond of music and films, and I'm a consummate putterer. Left to my own devices, I can amuse myself for days at a stretch. And I like being alone at home, wrapped in the illusion that it's the one place where nobody can get at me. But tonight… well, I was twitchy and bored.
I checked the clock on the VCR. Nearly midnight, so why wasn't I tired? I stared at the phone. Why didn't Hy call? True, I'd been unavailable much of the day, owing to a dead cellphone battery that was still recharging, but why hadn't he left messages on the home and office machines? When we were separated we tried to keep in touch as frequently as possible, and he'd have been sure to call when he got my message. If he got my message. Unless …
No, I wasn't going to go there. This was a routine fact-finding trip, not a crisis situation. Unless …
No, McCone. Get back to the problems you can—maybe— do something about.
I surveyed the scattered sheets of legal paper on which I'd been attempting to analyze both the problem with Ted and my problem with the impostor, and felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. I was too close to the Ted situation, too involved in my own. On Monday I'd turn them over to a fellow investigator whom I trusted—
The phone rang. Hy, at last! I snatched up the receiver.
“Shar?” Neal's voice, ragged and breathless.
“What? What is it?”
“We need you here. There's been a shooting—”
In the background Ted said something indistinguishable.
“Shooting? Is anybody hurt?”
“No, nothing like that. But I—”
Ted said, “Dammit, give me that phone!”
I asked, “Have you called the police?”
“That wasn't necessary, but—”
“Give it to me!”
There were sounds of a struggle, and the connection was severed.
No police cars in Plum Alley. No crowds on the sidewalk. Whatever had happened, it wasn't critical.
I ran along the sidewalk from where I'd wedged the car on Montgomery, nearly tripping over a low-slung bassett hound that a man was walking. After I let myself into the building with Neal's key, I took the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. Bursting through the fire door on the third floor, I came face to face with Ted. His lips were bloodless, and his eyes glowed hot with rage.
“Go home, Shar,” he said. “You've got no business being here. You'll jeopardize everything.”
“Jeopardize what? What?”
“Neal had no right to call you. Go home!”
Now Neal came out of the apartment, equally enraged. “I had every right to call her, you lunatic! Better Shar than the cops. You're damned lucky nobody phoned 911.”
A door was being unlocked down the hall—someone bothered by the commotion. Ted shoved Neal and me into the apartment and slammed its door.
“All right,” I said, “what's going on here?”
Ted turned, headed down the hallway. By the time Neal and I caught up, he was in the kitchen, pouring brandy into a snifter. Behind me, Neal said, “That's not the solution, Ted.”
“Shut up.”
I considered the situation: Neal was wearing a bathrobe, but Ted was fully dressed. The brandy bottle and snifter had been sitting on the kitchen counter, and in the living room the TV was tuned low to a black-and-white movie. And on the coffee table lay a handgun.
I looked questioningly at Neal. He jerked his head at the wall of glass overlooking the bayside deck. There was a bullet hole in one of the doors, surrounded by a web of cracks.
Ted still had his back to us,
was pouring more brandy. I went over and examined the gun. Twenty-two caliber RG-14, serial number intact, but it wouldn't be registered to Ted. “Well,” I said, not bothering to keep the anger and sarcasm out of my voice, “what we've got here is a classic Saturday night special. And guess what, folks? It's Saturday night!”
“What we've got here is a real problem,” Neal said. “As well as a costly repair job.”
Ted remained silent.
“What the hell were you thinking,” I asked him, “fooling around with a gun in your condition?”
He mumbled something.
“What?”
“I said, you don't know the slightest thing about my condition. So shut the fuck up and go home!”
That did it. I stalked over there, picked up the bottle, and set it well out of his reach. Then I tried to wrest the snifter from his fingers; he resisted, pulled back, and it flew from his hand and smashed on the tiles.
He looked down at the spilled liquid and shards of glass, then back up at me. When I saw his eyes I realized he wasn't drunk; probably he was drinking the brandy to get his anger under control. But now it showed white-hot.
“What were you shooting at?” I asked.
“Somebody was on the balcony.”
“Who?”
“I couldn't tell.”
I went over there and opened the undamaged door. An Adirondack chair was overturned and some barbecue tools were scattered on the deck. I crossed to the railing and looked down into the alley. No one, but the bottom section of the fire escape that scaled the wall beside the balcony had been lowered to the ground.
Ted was watching me, his rage still glowing bright. I went back inside. “Did the person try to enter the apartment?”
“No, he didn't have a chance.”
“You shot at him with an unregistered gun when he hadn't yet attempted to break and enter?”
“The guy was on our balcony, for Christ's sake! Don't I have a right to defend our home?”
“I'm with you on that, philosophically. The law says differently. And, as I recall, you've never fired a gun before— which makes for a very dangerous situation.”
“I can fire it well enough.”
“Really?” I gestured at the glass door. “This is what Sandy Coughlin's twenty-minute course in responsible firearms ownership got you?”
Behind me Neal made a peculiar sound. Ted's face froze. After a moment he asked, “How do you know about Sandy Coughlin?”
Bad slip, McCone! “I have my sources.”
But he'd figured it out. “You've been following me,” he said flatly. He turned to Neal. “You got her to spy on me, didn't you?”
Neal was silent, his face etched into lines of helplessness and despair.
“You did, damn you!”
“Okay, yeah, I did! The way you've been spying on me!”
Ted recoiled as if Neal had struck him. He turned away, braced his hands on the countertop, hung his head. His labored breathing was loud in the silence that followed Neal's pronouncement.
Neal added, “You ever hear of the right to privacy?”
“You ever hear of a rock and a hard place?”
“What does that—”
“I want both of you out of here—now.”
“Ted—” I began.
“Especially you. Get out of here, before you do any more damage. And, Neal, go with her. Please.”
I glanced at Neal. He shrugged and went upstairs to dress. I crossed the living room, put the .22 into my purse, and headed for the door.
“Cooling-off period,” Neal said when he joined me in the hall. “Let's go someplace, talk.”
Neal knew a small, quiet Italian bar on Green Street in nearby North Beach, so we went there and ordered grappa. Only a few other patrons sat at the small tables, and the faces that I glimpsed in the light from candles in wax-covered Chianti bottles were weary. Saturday night winding down and, at least in our case, a good thing.
We sat in silence till we'd been served. Then Neal said, “Jesus, I feel terrible.”
“Me too. It's like he's banished us from his life.”
“Maybe he has.”
“I can't believe that.” I put my hand on his arm. After a moment I said, “When I made that slip about Sandy Coughlin, you sounded as though you know him.”
“Slightly. Somebody brought him to a dinner party we were at a while back. Nobody was happy about that, and it made for a short evening.”
“But Ted remembered him when he wanted to buy a gun.”
“A gun. Christ! He doesn't even know how to shoot.”
“He's proved that, and his career as a marksman is over; I've got the twenty-two.”
“He can always buy another.”
“That he can.” I sipped the strong brandy.
Neal pressed a hand to his forehead, leaned his elbow on the table. His face looked tired and deeply lined, even in the gentling candlelight; he seemed far older than his forty-five years. “Shar,” he said, “what d'you suppose he meant by ‘between a rock and a hard place’?”
“I've been trying to figure that out, but I can't seem to figure out anything about Ted these days.”
“Me either. And you know what? Maybe I've had enough of trying to understand him.”
“Neal, you're upset and tired and hurt. Don't make any sudden decisions.”
“No, I mean it. I've got troubles of my own, financial problems with the bookstore. I don't think I can deal with Ted's as well—particularly when he won't tell me what they are!”
“As you said, a cooling-off period's in order. You're welcome to my guest room.”
“I'll take you up on that.” He punched my arm lightly. “Thanks, buddy.”
I'd already gotten Neal settled into the guest room before I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. Hy, I thought, and pressed the play button.
The first message was from Ted. In restrained tones he said that he hoped Neal was staying at my house, and would I please leave a message on his machine that we were both okay? He'd sleep better knowing that.
Odd, I thought, stopping the tape. Why wouldn't we be okay? Was someone threatening Ted, holding the safety or lives of his loved ones over his head? Was that why he wouldn't confide in us?
For a moment I considered calling him and demanding the truth. But he'd indicated he wouldn't be answering the phone, and besides, I was so tired that my mind wasn't functioning sharply. Better to talk tomorrow. I dialed, left the message he'd requested, adding, “Sleep well, guy.” Then I pressed the play button for my second call.
“Sharon, Gage Renshaw. Sorry to phone at this hour, but would you get back to me at our La Jolla office? Any time, no matter how late. I'll be here all night.”
I felt as if I'd been showered with ice water. Gage Renshaw was one of Hy's partners in RKI; he would never call me late at night unless something very bad had happened. I punched out the number of their headquarters with trembling fingers. The night operator was expecting my call and put me through immediately.
“Before you say anything,” Gage told me, “let me emphasize that Hy's okay.”
“What's happened? Where is he?”
“We have a hostage situation with one of our South American clients. Hy's handling it.”
“What kind of situation? Where?”
“You know I can't tell you that.”
“Well, what can you tell me?”
“That he's okay and will be in touch as soon as it's resolved. Actually, he's more concerned about you; he's left a number of messages on your machine in the past few days, and you haven't returned his calls.”
“Messages? What messages?”
“I don't know how many or when, but enough to make him worry.”
“I don't understand— Oh!”
“Sharon?”
“Nothing.” My impostor had obviously found the remote access code for both my home and office machines, where they were noted in the Rolodex. Easy for her to listen to and then
erase any number of messages. I began to shake with anger. “Gage, I need to talk with Hy.”
“I can't put you in touch.”
“Then tell him to call me.”
“I'll tell him you're okay.”
“This isn't right!”
“No, what's not right is what's going on down there. This is an extremely critical situation, and I'm not going to jeopardize it by allowing Ripinsky to become involved in whatever's bothering you as well.”
“Dammit, Gage—”
“Sharon.” There was a softness in his voice that I'd never heard before. “You're one of us, in a sense. You can hold it together till the situation's resolved.”
“Can I?”
“Yes. I've seen you hold it together under far worse conditions. And I'll be in touch with an update as soon as I've got one.” Having made one small concession to humane behavior, Gage hung up on me.
I gripped the receiver, stared fixedly at a crack in the wall. Tried to repair my frayed connection to Hy. It still held, but for how long?
Things were very bad for him—I could feel that. Could he feel how bad things were for me? And if so, would the knowledge distract him, cause him to make an error that might prove fatal?
It was the first time I'd ever regretted the intuitive emotional bond between us.
Sunday
When I wandered into the kitchen at close to eleven the next morning, I found a note from Neal propped against the coffeemaker: “I'm going away for a few days to think things through. Will be in touch when I get back.”
I wondered if he'd informed Ted of his decision. Probably not; last night he'd said he wasn't sure he could deal with Ted's problems on top of his own, so he wouldn't have taken the chance of provoking yet another emotional scene.
The coffeemaker's light was on, the carafe full. Thank you, Neal. I poured a mugful, went to the sitting room, and found the Sunday paper lying on the couch. Thanks again.
MAYOR, ASIAN LEADER CLASH AT SUNSET COMMUNITY MEETING
Good. Real good.
HATE CRIMES ON RISE NATIONWIDE
While Other People Sleep Page 10
