While Other People Sleep

by Marcia Muller

  And looked in at Las Vegas.

  A large subterranean room, its lighting directed at green felt tables; clots of people gathered around them as dealers sent cards sliding across the felt and croupiers spun their wheels. Smoke clouds rose toward the ceiling; cocktail waitresses circulated. I heard talk and laughter and the occasional exultant gasp. I'd visited many such rooms in the state of Nevada.

  But here in the state of California such rooms were illegal.

  Nobody was paying attention to me. Quickly I looked around for Lee D’Silva. My breath caught when I glimpsed her, over by the roulette table—

  But, no, that wasn't D’Silva. Merely a blond woman who now held her teal-blue wrap over her arm. Who really didn't resemble D’Silva at all.

  Disappointment dealt my stomach the kind of weightless, hollow feeling as when an updraft slammed the Citabria. Desperately I scanned the faces of the other players. The movie actor, the writer, and their party were there. Two other people I recognized from their frequent appearances in the society pages of the local papers; another was a well-known local politician, still another a state senator.

  But no D’Silva; no Auerbach, either. Of course, they could be in an office somewhere—

  A hand grasped my upper arm. I looked around, tried to jerk free. The hand held. It belonged to the doorman who had earlier admitted me.

  “Ms. D’Silva,” he said with icy politeness, “you'd better come with me.”

  Russ Auerbach was leaning over a table in a small office, hands flat on either side of a computerized spreadsheet—studying the night's take, no doubt. Up close he looked older and more tired than he had from a distance: just another overextended small businessman at the end of a hard day. He kept his eyes on the sheet and sighed heavily.

  “Jesus, Lee,” he said, “what're you doing here—and why're you wearing that stupid disguise again? Grow up, will you?”

  The doorman had thrust me into the room and withdrawn without relieving me of the key card or attempting to search my purse. Now I reached behind my back and shot the dead bolt while bringing out the .357.

  “Wrong woman, Mr. Auerbach.”

  Slowly he straightened, small eyes narrowing as he focused first on the gun and then on my face. He licked dry lips before he asked, “Who're you? And what is this?”

  “My name's Sharon McCone. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “… You're the woman Lee wanted to work for. Did she give you her key card? If that crazy bitch sent you to threaten me—”

  “I'm here about Lee, not on her behalf.”

  “And the card? Where'd you get it?”

  “I found it among some of her things.”

  “I should've taken it away from her, but instead I just canceled it. When you settled your drink tab, it was rejected, and the bartender recognized the name that came up on the account and called me. I told him to let her drink her wine and then ask her to leave.”

  “He didn't, though.”

  “No, you headed back too fast for him. He called me again, I said to pass you—her—through and get Danny to bring her to me. Then we'd have it out once and for all.” He paused, eyes on the .357 again. “Why the gun?”

  “I don't know you, don't know what your relationship with Lee D’Silva is. If you're a friend of hers, we've got problems.”

  “I'm not her friend. And there isn't any relationship—not since a couple, three weeks ago.”

  I studied him for a moment, then slipped the gun back into my bag and took out one of my cards. “Mr. Auerbach, why don't we sit down. It's in our best interests to talk.”

  Russ Auerbach had met Lee D’Silva at the bar of Club Turk the previous November. She told him she frequented a number of the establishments on the slope of Nob Hill. “Likes her nightlife kind of off center and gritty,” he said, “same as she likes her sex life.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don't talk about my women, past or present.”

  “Come on, Russ. You know you want to tell me.”

  He smiled, showing small, pointed teeth. “Maybe I do. Broad put me through hell. Lee likes her sex rough—and plentiful. When I started with her, I knew it was a nonexclusive. She goes with a lot of guys.”

  “She take you home?” I was wondering if he'd seen her collections, and what he thought of them.

  “Never. She said she had a flat on Potrero Hill, but it was off limits. One place that was hers alone. I thought that meant she was married or had a live-in, though when she'd’ve had time for either I couldn't imagine. Anyway, she usually came to my place, or we did it here in the office.”

  I looked around the little room.

  Auerbach said, “She wasn't into comfort.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Wasn't even a relationship, really. I didn't take her to dinner; we didn't go anyplace together. All we did was fuck and talk, mainly about her. She fascinated me, but I didn't really like her.”

  “What fascinated you, aside from the obvious?”

  “Before we go any further with this, tell me why you're interested in her. Did you hire her and get screwed over?”

  “I didn't hire her, and because of that she screwed me over.”

  “Welcome to the club—no pun intended.”

  “Let's get back to what fascinated you—and what she did to you.”

  “Okay. Lee's a very driven person, probably the most driven I've ever met. Flat-out perfectionist. Everything she does, she has to do it right; she doesn't cut herself any slack, ever. And she has these mood swings from one extreme to the other, with absolutely no middle ground. When she's down, she's really harsh on herself, and when she's up … Well, then it's like she's a completely different person. She flies an airplane, you know that?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, that's one example. She can fly a fuckin’ airplane, for Christ's sake, but it's not good enough because it's the wrong kind of plane. The one she wants to fly is more difficult to learn to land, and she's got it into her head that that's what she's got to do, and right away. I ask her why. She says she's got to be better. Better than what? I ask. Just better, she says.”

  Better than me.

  Auerbach shook his head. “Jesus, I can't even get on a jumbo jet without slugging down about six drinks, but she thinks she's not good enough because she hasn't learned to fly this little tiny plane yet!”

  “Did you ever give her money?”

  “What the hell kind of a question is that? I don't have to pay for it!”

  “Sorry, I didn't mean to imply that you do. But while you were talking about her flying, I started wondering where she got the money to pay for it. I know her salary history, and I also know what her flat rents for. There wouldn't be much left over for flying lessons.”

  “Well, I never gave her a cent, but somebody must've. She was one well-financed broad.”

  “Why d'you say that?”

  “Her clothes, her grooming. And I met a guy at one of my other clubs who'd gone with her; he said she'd taken him home. He couldn't remember exactly where—she drove, and he was pretty drunk—but it was some little studio, not the flat on Potrero Hill. So she was paying rent on two places.”

  “Or has a place she can borrow. This guy—who is he?”

  “Regular customer at Napoli. Jim something. I don't know his whole name.”

  “Next time you see him, will you call me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks. Okay, you've told me why Lee fascinated you. Now, what did she do to you?”

  “Call it a betrayal of confidence.”

  “How?”

  “I can't go into it. There're other people involved, and, like you said earlier, I don't know you. Or trust you.”

  “In my business, I have to be discreet.”

  “About your clients’ affairs, yes. But I'm nothing to you.”

  She'd threatened to betray his confidence about the gambling club or some other illegal activity, no doubt. And she'd probably threate
ned to expose his associates, too. I needed to know exactly what had happened, and there was a way to work around this snag.

  After a moment I said, “I assume you have an attorney on retainer.”

  “Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

  “Get him on the phone. Tell him to hire me to investigate Lee D’Silva.”

  “The hell I will! I took care of her personally; she's history.”

  “Have him hire me to investigate her—for a dollar. Which I will loan to you.” I took one from my bag and laid it on the table between us.

  A slow smile spread across Auerbach's face as he picked it up. Then he reached for the phone.

  “I was thinking with my balls,” Auerbach told me. “For Christmas I gave her a membership in the casino—that key card. She'd noticed something was going on, was at me to tell her about it. So I thought, Why not humor the crazy kid? Maybe she'd stick around more. After that she was around plenty, but not because of me.”

  “She's a gambler?”

  “Hell, no.” He shook his head. “I never once saw her at the tables. She'd just watch. We get a lot of important people in here, and they interested her. At least that's what I thought at first.”

  “And later?”

  “Lee fancies herself a hot-shot private eye like you. I guess you know that. But, shit, the woman works for a bunch of alarm installers; uses a computer good, but so what? If you ask me, she couldn't detect her way out of a paper bag.”

  He was underestimating D’Silva—but, then, so had I. “Go on.”

  “Well, what she was really doing here—and with me—was gathering evidence on me and my associates. Them I'm not gonna say anything about, except that we got a pretty good cooperative arrangement in various lucrative areas, and I made the mistake of talking to Lee about it. So she decided she was gonna make a name for herself by exposing us and our important clients. Get her face in the papers, ensure she got the job with your agency. She'd sneak around in this stupid disguise that didn't fool anybody, and she'd photograph and tape stuff. Finally somebody noticed what she was doing and tipped me.”

  “This disguise—I take it she looked somewhat like me in it.”

  “Yeah. The bartender—he's new, never knew Lee—described you when he called back here. I was sure you were her.”

  “Did you ever ask her why she wore it?”

  “Sure. All she would say was that she liked to live different lives, and it was part of the fantasy.”

  “The fantasy?”

  Auerbach shrugged. “That's all she'd say.”

  “Okay—somebody tipped you to the picture-taking and taping. Then what?”

  “I had my condo swept for bugs, the club, too. They were there, and in most cases the circumstances were such that she was the only one who could've planted them.”

  “So you … ?”

  “Confronted her. Bitch actually bragged about what she'd done, said she had the evidence in a safe place and was going to go to the police and the D.A.’s office with it. I laughed at her.”

  “Why?”

  “Let's just say I got those angles covered, and the little fool was too naive to figure that out.”

  Payoffs or holds over people at high levels? “What was her reaction?”

  “She didn't believe me. It didn't fit her perfect plan. She kept coming at me, wouldn't back off.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe you don't want to hear this.”

  “Look, we have a deal.”

  “Christ! All right, what I did: We were here in the office. She got more and more out of control. Shouting, screaming, taunting me. So I took her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. Started choking her. Real quiet, I told her that if I ever saw her in any of my clubs again, or anywhere near my home or my associates, I'd kill her with my bare hands.”

  The flesh on my arms rippled unpleasantly.

  “I kept on choking her till she almost passed out. Then she peed in her pants and skulked out of here like a whipped dog. And I've never seen or heard from her again. Not a pretty story, is it?” He tried to put on a regretful face, but his eyes shone defiantly, almost proudly.

  I watched him for a moment, keeping my emotions to myself.

  I asked, “Exactly when was this?”

  “You mean the date?” He reached for a calendar, flipped it backwards. “A Tuesday, February four.”

  Tuesday, February 4. On Wednesday D’Silva had gone to work at Carver Security and tossed the key card that she'd never be able to use again into her desk. That night she'd gone home to find the turndown letter from me. And the combination of the two events had sent her—the perfectionist, overachiever, would-be private investigator and pilot— into her crazy emotional tailspin.

  Tonight I'm dreaming—I must be dreaming—that I'm flying the Citabria over high-tension wires that have been severed by a storm. They spark and crackle and writhe like huge snakes in the violent wind, lashing at the plane. I make S-turns among them as I sometimes do between billowing coastal clouds.

  Hy's not with me. My connection with him is cut as surely as those wires. There's an occasional spark, yes, but mainly I don't feel anything. Nothing but this lonesomeness and a panic that makes my breath come short. I want to ask him how to avoid the crackling wires, but he's out of reach.

  I continue making S-turns as I try to spot a landmark on the ground below.

  There it is—the safe and familiar. A triangulation of lights against the blackness. Something's important about those lights and what they represent—something I ought to remember.

  One of the wires arcs above the plane's nose, almost tangles in the prop. I dive to escape it. When I'm clear, I put in full throttle and outrun the storm.

  Friday

  I knew it was going to be a peculiar day when I spilled coffee on the cat.

  I was leaning down to pat Ralph and the mug tipped and there he was, sodden and singed. “Oh, Jesus!” I exclaimed and reached for him, but he escaped my grasp and ran down the hall to where the pet door used to be before his sister returned one night with an enormous rat that later died behind the refrigerator. Ralph's head connected solidly with the closed-up space on the wall, and he staggered back, shaking it. I hurried to him, but he cringed and yowled to be let out. As he stalked away across the deck, he flashed me a look of betrayal. I retreated to the sitting room to make some calls, feeling guilty as hell.

  According to the man who answered the phone at RKI's Buenos Aires office, Mr. Ripinsky and Mr. Rivera were still out in the field and unavailable. La Jolla told me Gage Renshaw and Dan Kessell were similarly occupied. In Dan's case, that was an outright lie, since he seldom left his office, preferring the company of a dozen or so stuffed portions of animals that he'd personally slaughtered to that of his fellow humans.

  About the only thing that was cooperating this morning was the weather, which had turned colder and beautifully clear.

  I was partway through the comics when the phone rang: Hy's friend from the FAA. He gave me the name of the examiner who had signed off on Lee D’Silva's private license, a Novato cop named Joe Bartlett. I reached Bartlett at home and told him I was thinking of hiring D’Silva and paying for her to get her commercial license so she could fly for the agency; what did he think of her skills?

  “Skills're fine. She's great under pressure. We went up for the check ride in a Cessna 150, and … You fly?”

  “I learned in a 150.”

  “Well, then, you know how sometimes the doors can pop open in flight if you haven't closed them with the windows open?”

  “Uh-huh.” It had scared the hell out of me the first time it happened.

  “Well, that's what D’Silva's door did on takeoff, but it didn't faze her. She put on flaps, opened the window, tried to slam the door shut. Didn't work. So, cool as can be, she said to me the way a seasoned pilot would to a nervous passenger, ‘I'm having a little trouble with this door, so I'm going to go around and make a full-s
top landing. I'll secure the door, and then we'll start over.’”

  “Pretty impressive, on a check ride where you're nervous anyway.” What was it Stacey Nizibian, the SFPD expert on stalkers, had said? Something about them remaining cool under conditions that would have the rest of us climbing the walls. “Just out of curiosity, who was her flight instructor and where did she train?”

  ‘Woman named Sara Grimly—”

  “I know her. She's at Petaluma Municipal.”

  “Not anymore. She got married, moved to Los Alegres.”

  Los Alegres, where I'd also trained with a woman flight instructor. D’Silva had replicated my flight-training experience.

  After Bartlett and I ended our conversation, I got out a rumpled and torn sectional chart—my instructor had often joked that they were called sectionals because they came apart in sections—and located Paradise, where D’Silva had grown up, Los Alegres was only a short detour from a direct course there, so I called the fixed-base operator—flight school, sales, rentals, and repairs—and asked if Sara Grimly was teaching today. She was, had gone out on an early flight and would be back at ten. I left a message asking her to meet me at the Seven Niner Diner, the airport restaurant, and hurried to get dressed. On the way to Oakland I tried not to obsess about Hy, but failed to the point that I nearly rear-ended a pickup on the Bay Bridge.

  As I preflighted the Citabria, I realized my dream last night had proved to me how totally our connection had broken down. I missed him more than ever, felt myself sinking further into depression and near panic. But once I was out of Class C airspace, the bad feelings lifted; in this place, the cockpit where we'd flown together for so many hours, it was impossible not to feel some optimism. There's something about physically cutting loose from the earth and all its problems that creates hope.

  And at this point, hope was all I could count on.

  Sara Grimly was in her mid-twenties, dark haired and petite. She seemed even smaller than when I'd first met her, probably because she was dwarfed by the 1600-pound Cessna that she and her student were pushing into its tie-down—him guiding with the tow bar, but Grimly doing most of the work.