by Meg Gardiner
"Let's walk toward Fort Mason," Jo said.
The Jack Russell ping-ponged around the woman's feet. She made a ticking sound. "Cosette. Come."
"David Yoshida didn't send me," Jo said. "I'm here because of Callie Harding."
"She's not usually late. Maybe she's stuck in traffic." The woman scrutinized Jo. "You're not exactly what I was expecting. But Callie likes to play things close to the vest. And we'll find out if you have what we want soon enough."
"What do you want?" Jo said.
"She didn't tell you?" She pulled on the dog's leash, frowning. "Do you have a CV?"
"Not with me."
"That's probably prudent. Before anything else, you need to understand that this isn't for everybody."
"I'm sure."
"Do you? Do you realize who I am?"
Her eyes were hazel. Her identity wouldn't come to Jo.
"I'm not going to lie. I should, but I don't."
An unamused smile. "So dishonesty isn't your sin. That's okay. We have enough members who've borne false witness. We can use a new twist." The woman tossed her leonine hair and lifted her chin. "Xochi Zapata."
So-shee, she pronounced it. Maybe for Xochitlan, or Xochiquet-zal, though she didn't look like an Aztec princess. Didn't look like she'd ridden out of the desert to fight yanquis, either. She looked like a white-bread suburban Anglo. Albeit a pageant-contestant Anglo, buffed by the gleam machine.
She was XZ. And Jo realized where she'd seen her: on a billboard on a Muni bus, posing with other members of the team.
"Your News Live, right? You're the business reporter," Jo said. "The fast-food expose."
" 'Swimming on a Sea of Grease.' That's it."
Jo remembered now. McDonald's made you fat. She also recalled an interview conducted aboard a CEO's private jet on a flight to Aspen. Zapata reported Silicon Valley stories and attended festivals of capitalism around the globe.
"Can I tell you who I am and why I'm here?" Jo said.
"We'll get to that." Zapata looked annoyed at the interruption. "My point is, our club isn't simply confidential. It's exclusive. So before anything else, we need to know if you have the stuff it takes to be a member."
"What's that?"
Jo heard the faux innocence in her own voice. She was going to need to wash out her conscience with soap. But she wasn't about to stop listening.
"You tell me," Zapata said. "What would you bring to the party?"
My grandma left me a collection of Tokugawa-era museum-quality samurai pieces. I eat Krispy Kreme doughnuts a dozen at a go.
"I'm a consulting forensic psychiatrist for the City of San Francisco, UCSF Medical Center, and the San Francisco Police Department. I can supply you with references and a list of my publications."
"Honey, that's great, but it's hardly sexy."
"I solved the Jeffrey Nagel hanging. That was thought to be a case of sex."
"Your bona fides can't relate to your patients or your caseload. The secret has to be yours. And it has to be dirty." She scrutinized Jo again. "Though trust is an issue. We wouldn't accept someone who divulged her patients' secrets. You might divulge ours as well."
"I would never violate doctor-patient privilege."
"Good. We count on our members not to speak about the club to outsiders." She smiled knowingly. "We're not the White House. We don't tolerate leaks."
"I can keep quiet. I keep secrets locked up tighter than the grave."
"Excellent." Zapata tossed her hair again. "To be blunt, we need to see that you've got some heat. Frankly, I don't know if you have the prestige. If Callie's nominating you, that's definitely in your favor. But you understand, you'd come in at the lowest level."
"Which is?"
"Basic membership. Fun, camaraderie, plenty of excitement." She smirked. "The frisson will be there. But rising to more exclusive levels would have to wait."
"Understood. How will it work?" Jo said.
The wind blew back the collar of Zapata's suede coat. She was wearing a necklace on which hung a black diamond.
"You provide your resume. Give us both halves, and girl, it had better be convincing. Your prestige and your dirt." Zapata's hazel eyes were intense. "We need hard evidence. Whatever secret you're keeping, you need to provide evidence that it actually occurred. And you need to provide proof that you're the one who did it. You can't claim credit for other people's shame. That's tacky."
"I didn't know," Jo said.
"Oh, yeah. It's far too easy to claim credit for an act. Proving your involvement—your authorship, call it—is a lot harder."
Authorship. These people thought of bad deeds as creative acts.
"But to be frank, you might be sharp and ambitious, but I'm not convinced that you're enough of a power player for us. Not yet, anyhow." She glanced across the park at Jo's truck. "Generally we don't talk to folks who drive beat-up pickups, except when they come to the house with a mower in the back."
Zapata looked again at her watch, ran her hand over the band, seemingly annoyed. "Where is Callie?"
Jo stopped. Holding back any longer would be both untenable and cruel. "She's not coming."
"Excuse me?"
"She's dead."
Zapata's head snapped back as if she'd been hit. "Dead?"
"Last night. The wreck at the Stockton Street Bridge. I'm afraid Callie was the driver of the car that went through the railing."
Zapata stepped back, almost physically rejecting the news. "Jesus.
Oh, no." She put her manicured hands to her face. The Jack Russell ran around her legs, tangling her in the leash. Then her eyes sharpened.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm a forensic psychiatrist. I—"
"I heard that. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm performing a psychological autopsy on Callie."
Zapata's hand went to her forehead. "You're from the police. Oh, my God—"
"No." Jo thought madly. She needed to keep her from bolting. "You're part of the black diamond group. You, Callie, David Yoshida—"
"How do you know about that?"
"You and Callie were supposed to meet here with another person—S.S."
Panic lit her hazel eyes. "Jesus Christ." She backed away, looking around frantically. "You can't talk about this."
"I'm sorry, but you can't—"
"You're a therapist—you can't talk about what people tell you."
"That's only when—"
"Ten seconds ago you bragged you'd never violate doctor-patient privilege. Try it now and I'll take you down. I told you, you do not want to pick a fight with me." She turned, took two steps, and turned back, pointing a finger. "I can crush you under a blizzard of destructive publicity. I'll get the medical licensing board to investigate you. You'll be reduced to cleaning toilets in some dirty psych ward. You'll wish you shoveled dog shit for a living."
Jo tried to slough off the image and the insult. Zapata was white with anger, but blinking and breathing rapidly.
"You're frightened," Jo said.
Zapata glared, shook her head, and ran her manicured fingernails into her hair. She couldn't have drawn more attention to herself if she'd hoisted her shirt and flashed the tourists at the cable car stop.
"You're scared to death," Jo said.
Doe caught in the high beams. Zapata hesitated for another second, as if fearing to twitch, and then rushed forward and grabbed Jo's arm.
"I saw the raw feed, the footage from our camera crew at the crash site. It was horrible. For christsake, what happened?" Her hand was cold. "You performed the autopsy—did somebody kill her?"
"The medical examiner performed the autopsy. I'm looking at Callie's mental state." She held Zapata's gaze. "Do you think somebody killed her?"
She looked like she was about to cry. "Tell me. Off the record. In confidence."
Jo balked. "I'm gathering information to prepare a report. I can't promise confidentiality."
"If I were your patient yo
u could."
"You're not."
"I'll hire you."
"No."
Zapata looked like she was crawling with bugs and wanted to tear open her own flesh with her long nails to get rid of them. She gripped Jo's arm.
"Then join us. I'll approve your application to join the club."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's great. Lots of benefits. It's exciting. Sexy. Come on, you'd love it. You were already asking about it—"
"You're bribing me? No."
"And later there'll be prizes—cars, trips, recognition. As long as you don't tell anybody about it."
Jo felt torn. She was obligated to write a report for the police department. She wasn't obligated to divulge every scrap of information she obtained. And Amy Tang had given her an explicit mandate to dispense with protocol. Just get to the bottom of the psychic well.
"Why don't you tell me what's scaring you so bad?" Jo said.
Joggers were passing. On the park lawn, a kid was flying an orange kite. Jo nodded at the seats high up in the amphitheater and took Zapata's arm.
"Come on."
She led Zapata up the stairs to the top row, well away from anybody else. The wind was cooling, the amphitheater in shade from the pine forest on the crest of the hill at Fort Mason.
"How did they find out about us?" Zapata said.
"They?"
"How did you find out about us?"
"Xochi, that's irrelevant now."
"It's secret, don't you get it? They're killing us, aren't they?"
Jo couldn't tell what the woman wanted more—to suck up information or to unload whatever she was holding in. Jo went quiet, and like a client in therapy, like a journalist, Zapata filled the silence.
"It's obvious. Somebody talked." She pressed her hands to her face. "I feel so betrayed." She turned to Jo. "Did Callie tell?"
"I don't know."
Zapata was staring straight at her, but her eyes seemed far away. Her face was pale with pink patches on her neck.
"Xochi, what exactly is the Dirty Secrets Club?"
"It's ..." She shook her head, as if deciding to hold back, and then shrugged. "It's a playroom, a party, a confessional. . . . You a Catholic?" Zapata glanced at the cross around Jo's neck. "You understand the importance of confession?"
"Yes, I do."
"But it's supposed to be foolproof. It's impossible for information to leak."
"Why?"
"It just is. It's supposed to be fail-safe."
"But you think it's not."
"Either somebody's talking out of school, or—" She lowered her head. "Or one of the members is killing us. Jesus." She raked her nails into her hair.
"How'd you get in?" Jo said.
Zapata cut a glance at her. "You think I'm going to tell you my secret? Right. The day that happens is the day you tell me yours, sista."
Jo didn't respond. Zapata looked at her with disdain.
"Everybody has a dirty secret. Even you."
Jo sat quietly. She had an intuition: The Dirty Secrets Club was absolutely secret in the same way black holes suck in everything by the force of gravity. Nothing escapes a black hole, not even light.
Supposedly. But astronomers know that black holes eject X-rays in powerful bursts.
The Dirty Secrets Club had to be like that. It had to feed on negative energy. Like every clique in history, there would be a buzz around it. A sense of I'm in. It would reverberate at some subaudible harmonic frequency when members were near one another. Because there's one thing about cliques: Nobody can truly enjoy being in unless they can lord it over the people who are out.
Zapata ran her red fingernails over her thighs. A pelican swooped low over the cove and speared into the water, going after a fish.
"Xochi, this is important. Who's the third person who's supposed to be here?"
Zapata looked at her like, You have to be kidding.
Jo leaned forward. "I know David Yoshida and Maki were both members of the club. They're dead. And Callie didn't turn up here today, because she's dead, too. Where's the third person?" Jo said.
"Oh, shit."
Jo held her gaze. "Who is it, Xochi?"
Zapata's lips parted. She seemed frozen with indecision.
"S.S.," Jo said. "For the black diamond meeting. Please."
Zapata shook her head.
Jo felt anger flash behind her eyes. "People are dying every forty-eight hours. Who is it?"
Slowly, quietly, Zapata closed her eyes. "Scott Southern."
"The wide receiver?"
Zapata nodded. She put her hands over her mouth, as though she couldn't believe she'd said it.
"Thank you," Jo said.
Zapata pressed her hands to her lips. Her knuckles were white.
"Xochi, what was Callie's secret?" she said.
Zapata frowned at her. "You don't know? I thought. . ."
Jo's cell phone rang. She ignored it. And heard her name being called.
She looked across the park. Shit. Amy Tang was jogging toward them.
"Who's that?" Zapata said.
"She's a police lieutenant," Jo said.
"I thought—" Zapata got to her feet, pulling on the dog leash. "You set this up all along?"
"No. Please—don't go."
Jo reached for her. But Xochi Zapata was running away.
16
Amy Tang jogged up. "You shouldn't be here by yourself."
On the street, Zapata's Audi screeched away. Jo shook her head. "You blew it. She was a member of the Dirty Secrets Club."
"That could have been dangerous."
"Spare me. You gave me carte blanche to find out why Callie died. I don't have to clear my interviews with you."
Tang looked at the road. "We'll go after her."
"She'll clam up." Jo put her hands on her hips. "Why are you here?"
"Fonsecca said you sprinted out of the U.S. Attorney's Office like Lara Croft. He worried you were racing off to play cowboy, and he was right. And he wants Callie's iPod and calendar back." Tang kept scowling, but her annoyance abated. "Maybe he wants to download her American Idol playlist." She ran her hand through her hair. "The Dirty Secrets Club is real?"
"It's real." Jo pulled out her phone. "Scott Southern was supposed to be here. He's not. Can you get his number?"
"From the 49ers? Jesus." Tang frowned and began making calls. The sunlight gave a bright sting to the spray from the whitecaps on the bay.
"Thanks." Tang hung up. "Got it."
She recited Southern's number. Jo borrowed Tang's pen, scribbled it on her forearm, and dialed.
"The Dirty Secrets Club," Tang said.
"It's some kind of virtual confessional. They want powerful and snotty people to give it a cachet."
In Jo's ear, the number rang. A woman answered, sounding rushed. "Scott?"
"No." Jo identified herself and explained she was working with the police. "I'm trying to reach Mr. Southern. Is this . . . ?"
"Kelly. His wife."
She got a mental picture of Kelly Southern. She'd seen the wide receiver's young wife on television, handing their little boy to Scott over the railing at the stadium after a game. She'd looked cheerleader-pretty, and fond of her man.
"I'm at a meeting he was supposed to attend," Jo said.
Long, awkward pause. "Oh no. I'm sorry, I don't..."
"Mrs. Southern, is everything all right?"
"I've been trying to reach him all day. You said you're working with the police?"
"Yes."
"Is he in trouble?"
"Not with the police. Do you think he's in trouble?"
"I don't know where he is. Something's way wrong." Tears edged into the woman's voice. She sounded young and frightened. "He missed practice, the 'Niners don't know where he is. And I got a weird note."
"Weird how?"
"Anonymous. It said Scott has secrets he's keeping from me, and I should think twice about me and Tyler being around him."
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"Do you still have it?" Jo said.
"I gave it to Scott. It scared me. Something's awfully wrong."
"Does Scott have a cell phone?"
Kelly gave her the number. It went on her wrist. Tang was chewing her lip.
"Mrs. Southern, I'm going to try to get hold of him. And I'm going to have you speak to the police lieutenant who's here with me. She's going to call as soon as I hang up." Jo gestured for Tang to dial the number.
"Okay," Kelly said. "Please try. But he's not answering."
Jo hung up and dialed Southern's cell phone. As it rang, she heard Tang take over the conversation with his wife, drawing out more information about the letter she'd received.
Anonymous notes: the poison pill of any campaign to ruin people. Dirty. Stop it.
Southern's cell number kept ringing.
Scott walked.
Skunk wanted to meet him at the vista point on the Marin side of the Golden Gate Bridge, but he was done playing by Skunk's rules. Done letting Skunk's shadowy boss manipulate him. He was ready to overturn the whole thing.
He bent forward against the wind, walking along the east sidewalk on the bridge, heading north toward the middle of the span. Far below on the water, a container ship steamed toward the Pacific. Ahead, the north tower dominated the view, massive and red, the color of iron and spirit. Scott felt as though it was judging him, that it could hammer down at any moment and crush him. On the roadway a river of traffic rushed past at sixty miles an hour. The sidewalk was bustling.
He was through with secrecy. This was as public as he could get. Up here on the bridge, Skunk couldn't do anything crazy without giving himself away. And Skunk couldn't run, either. Deadly traffic to one side. Nothing but wind and water on the other. Air below. Two hundred twenty feet of air, below the middle of the span. He'd looked it up.
At the center of the bridge he stopped and leaned against the guardrail. The view was spectacular. The bright red railing felt cold beneath his hands. The roadway vibrated with every heavy truck that passed.
Turning around, he planted his back against the rail and waited.
When his cell phone rang he let it go for a couple of seconds, the fight song marching into the third measure. Skunk would be pissed off, wondering why he wasn't at the rendezvous, wasn't on his knees begging for mercy. He made Skunk wait.
