by Meg Gardiner
Daniel kept his hand on Emily's shoulder. "When we get to the hospital, I'll get you a toy helicopter. They don't have a Harry Potter helo. What do you play with, Barbie?"
Emily didn't answer. She looked in pain, and petrified. Jo took her hand.
"G.I. Joe?" Jo put a smile in her voice. "Winnie the Pooh?"
Emily looked at her with her wide eyes. "Tickle Me Elmo."
The chopper shuddered and swooped up on an updraft. Over the headset Jo heard the pilot say, "We're gonna have to pack it in."
The pilots began talking about turning around. Jo watched the landscape speed by below them. A flock of birds swooped white against the green of the hillside.
Daniel listened to the pilots' chatter and said, "Can you make Petaluma?"
Jo knew what he meant: Go back to Bodega Bay and with every hour they waited for the weather to ease, every hour that passed before they could evacuate Emily, her chances diminished.
"No," the pilot said. "We don't have the power to clear the mountains."
Jo held on to Emily's hand. The girl couldn't hear the entire conversation, but could probably sense the tension in the helicopter. The copilot asked whether they could make it to Bolinas, at the far edge of Point Reyes National Seashore.
The pilot said, "Bolinas doesn't have a hospital. We're turning around."
Daniel yanked off his headset and fought his way forward to the cockpit.
Over the howl of the wind and the engine Jo heard their argument. She stroked Emily's hand with her thumb. The chopper was straining for level flight. They were thirty miles from Bolinas. Daniel was begging the pilots to try for San Francisco. They were telling him to sit down.
Daniel said, "If you can make Bolinas you can make the city."
"You want to bet your life on that?" the pilot said.
The cracking sound reverberated from the cockpit like a sledgehammer blow. The noise in the chopper rose to a roar and the temperature plummeted.
In her headphones Jo heard, "Bird strike."
Her head whipped around. She saw the windshield. It had a fat circular crack, smeared with white feathers and red bird guts.
"Seagulls, fuck," the copilot said.
"Find me an LZ," the pilot said. "Sit down, Beckett. Right now. We can hold it and get on the ground. As long as nothing gets in the intake—"
Bad juju.
From above the roof came a horrible whack. It was exactly what it sounded like. The engine inhaling birds.
The engine coughed. The engine shrieked. The pilot said, "Put it down, now. Open space, a hill, trees, anything but steep mountainside."
His voice was as labored as the engine, and Jo felt the first thread of fear.
A new sound blared: an alarm on the control panel. Jo saw a red light flashing. The engine shuddered, and the shudder rang through the fuselage and into her back. The rain pelted against them. She heard the words no pilot wants to speak.
"Mayday. Mayday."
The Cadillac crawled up Russian Hill. Skunk chewed his lower lip, scanning the side streets. The black Toyota 4Runner had to be around here somewhere. He'd followed it from Fort Baker, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and through the marina before he dropped back so the military guy wouldn't spot him. Then it turned off Marina Boulevard and headed into this neighborhood above Fisherman's Wharf, and he lost it.
He burrowed deeper into the red leather seat. The Spider was in the 4Runner, and she had the names.
Skunk peered through front windows along the street. This was turning into a pricy neighborhood. Apartment living rooms had fancy track lighting and bookshelves. People in turtlenecks were drinking red wine. From real wineglasses.
The Cadillac crept along. At the top of the hill a little park was dark with trees, old Monterey pines shuddering in the breeze. A big brick mansion with a balcony was dimly lit.
He drove on. This was useless.
At the bottom of the hill he parked near Ghirardelli Square. The tourists were out in force, the Ghirardelli sign all lit up, cable cars clanging, everybody buying chocolate and clam chowder. He called Perry. Mr. Pray-and-Pay.
The phone didn't even ring before it was answered. "Update me."
Like always, his skin skidded at the mechanical buzz of Perry's voice synthesizer. Skunk talked fast, following the rule: thirty seconds, no more. All the big stuff—salient points, the boss called them—had to be told one two three, tickBOOM.
"Southern had the names. They were on his body when he got dragged out of the bay. And I know who has 'em now."
The Spider had the names. He didn't know who she was, or why she always showed up at the scene when somebody from the DSC died, but. . .
"This spider, she always shows up," he said.
The quiet on the other end of the line was spooky. He waited, dreading the next burst of the robotic voice.
Perry had the lights off. Darkness felt safer to him; he had superb eyesight. When people heard the electro-larynx emanate from the night, they sometimes shit themselves. Right now, however, he kept the volume low.
"Where is she?" he said.
"She slipped the tail. But I know which neighborhood she went into."
"If you can't find her, you'll have to draw her out again."
"I was that close to grabbing the list, boss. I can't believe Southern went over the rail with it in his pocket."
"Regret is a useless thing, Skunk. All that matters is getting the names of the people who started all this."
"And we're closing in on the bastards."
"They took what didn't belong to them."
"And we'll get it back. With interest, I know, boss."
They had taken much more than mere money, things he could never get back. Dignity, normality, his voice; sometimes it seemed like his very independence had all been stolen by the Dirty Secrets Club, and for what—a rich people's game?
Object lesson. They ran off with the cash. Lying there on the floor of the warehouse, he'd heard them. He won't talk. They thought they'd fixed it, that he wouldn't talk because no lowlife racketeer would ever go to the police, but they also thought they'd fixed it so he couldn't talk, ever again. Two people, a steel pipe, the chain, the pain, but even when he lay on the concrete floor, and dragged himself to the door, and heard the sirens closing in, he knew the two who hurt him were just underlings. They were playing a game, doing it for somebody in the background who had set him up. Some A-list club member thought that sending their little minions to fuck him over would insulate them.
Wrong.
Because he didn't talk. They did. They began bragging about how they robbed him and left him to die. They got away two years ago, but they'd made a mistake. They opened their mouths when they thought they were safe. And word had got out.
Now he was close to finding out who set him up.
Five hundred thousand bucks these people had stolen from him. Five hundred K, and they had used it to make themselves even richer. Perry wanted that money back. It was part of evening the scales. Skunk, his agent, was going to get a cut. Fifteen percent, if he tracked these people down.
Before the fuckers died, of course.
"Tomorrow, Skunk. I'll be downtown at three p.m. I want the names by then."
Skunk sounded alarmed. "Three o'clock?"
"My attorney is a persuasive man. The other side agreed to move things forward."
"That's less than a day."
"Think about your seventy-five K. That should incentivize you. It's not just a target list, it's your next vintage Cadillac."
"Right. It just gives me indigestion, that's all."
"This woman, the Spider—she always shows up?" Perry said. "Then give her a reason to do that."
Jo woke with an old ache. Sun and the foghorn were tangling again, and she opened her eyes to see the white ceiling, the red comforter ruched around her, orange pillows heaped by her knees, the bed warm and piled with everything except her man. Shit. The clock said six forty a.m. October 31st. Halloween. She rolle
d over, and felt a full-on tactile memory of Gabe Quintana holding her against him.
Flustered, she threw off the covers and got up. This wasn't the right time. Thinking about Quintana this morning could only lead to grief. She jumped in the shower. When she got out she pulled on a pair of jeans and a white long-sleeved T-shirt. Opened the shutters and saw dawn creeping up the walls of the houses on the street. The day was gold and blue. Next door at Ferd's, the door to the balcony was open and the curtains were fluttering in and out. She turned away, but motion on the balcony caught her eye.
Ferd's monkey was perched on the head of one of the Roman statues. He was hunched like a Notre Dame gargoyle, tearing into an orange. His little fingers peeled it with the precision of a neurosurgeon. A neurosurgeon on crystal meth.
Ferd rushed out, tying a bathrobe around himself. "Mr. Peebles, how did you open the door?" His face was covered with shaving cream and his glasses were sliding down his nose. He grabbed the monkey. "You gave me a fright. Don't do that."
Stepping gingerly across the cold balcony, as if hopping across hot coals, Ferd dashed back inside and closed the door.
Jo made coffee and checked her e-mail and phone messages. Mom; Tina; her older sister, Momo; Dad; Rafe—a full house of relatives, all her parents and siblings, were checking in one way or the other. She e-mailed them all back, refilled her coffee mug, and phoned Amy Tang.
"Updates?" Jo said.
"Dr. David Yoshida died of a barbiturate overdose."
"What about his son?"
"Fentanyl. Two days earlier."
Fentanyl was a synthetic opiate, available by prescription, more powerful than heroin. "Was he a known user?"
"Not heroin, but other drugs. He was in rehab a couple years ago. The family thought he was clean," she said. "We're looking into the circumstances."
"I presume they're suspicious. We know Skunk threatened Scott Southern's little boy."
"If they carried out a threat against Yoshida's son—Christ, that's cold."
"This whole thing is cold."
Tang began tapping her pencil on a desk. "That woman you met at the Aquatic Park yesterday—"
"Xochi Zapata. She should be warned."
"I'm going to pay her a visit," Tang said.
"If she sees you, she'll lawyer up or run. Let me go. She may run anyway, but it's worth a try. I'll give her your card. Fair enough?"
"Tape the interview."
Jo turned her coffee mug on the table. "I'll call you."
She said good-bye, continued turning her mug, and checked the clock. Lawyers got into the office early in Santa Barbara. She needed an attorney who would tell her straight whether what she wanted to do was within bounds. And who could help her dance along the boundary line if she needed to. She picked up the phone again.
Jesse Blackburn sounded surprised to hear from her. "Jo. What's up?"
"Calling in the favor you owe me. Got a question about disclosure and professional confidentiality."
"Fire away."
Jesse was a friend from her undergrad days at UCLA. He was a sharp stick, clearheaded and very smart. The previous year he had drawn on her expertise in forensic psychiatry for help with a case he was trying. Now it was turnabout time.
"I'm working on a psychological autopsy."
She sketched the case for him. He said, "Weird."
"Here's the thing. When I interview people I always put it on the record. Interviews support my report, which might be used as evidence in court."
"But this time's different?"
"I need information and I won't get it unless it stays off the record."
"You want to withhold information from the authorities? Where do you want to draw the line?"
"I want to protect the source's identity. Don't know about the information. I'll follow Tarasoff guidelines, obviously."
When a patient threatens someone's life, clinicians have a duty to warn the intended victim, even when doing so violates privilege. Although this wasn't a doctor-patient scenario, Jo would never withhold such information.
"What have you promised the police?" Jesse said.
"That I'll get to the bottom of Callie Harding's death."
"Are you lying to anybody?"
"Not today."
He laughed. "You say the cops gave you the green light to scrounge any information you need. Take the whole field. Grab anything. Sounds like you're trying to stop something worse from happening."
"You just hit the nail on the head."
"Go for it. No qualms."
She exhaled. "Thanks."
"But that's not all that's bothering you."
"No. Could the police force me to disclose the identity of my source?"
"Yes. This doesn't fall within doctor-patient privilege, Jo."
"You're saying I'll be climbing without a rope."
"Bottom line, yes. That's a risk both for you and your source. Disclose it to her."
Jesse knew a lot about risk. He'd been a world-class swimmer until the day he witnessed a crime. The people behind it tried to kill him, and he now practiced law from a wheelchair.
She rubbed her forehead. "Knew I could count on you to splash a cold bucket of reality in my face."
"You take reality well, Jo. You just wanted me to confirm what you already suspected. Good luck."
She said good-bye. Finished her coffee. Called the television station and was put through.
"Xochi. I'll make you a deal."
Jo paced along the waterfront at the Aquatic Park. The sky was as blue as a fresh bruise. She was wearing a peacoat, a red scarf, and her Doc Martens to keep the wind out. She had her stainless-steel Java Jones coffee mug in one hand and in the other a takeout cup, which she handed to Xochi Zapata.
Zapata shook her head. "Scott, dead—it's crazy." Her face soured. "And a megastory. Jesus."
Zapata was wearing a faded gray sweat suit and old running shoes. A Giants baseball cap was pulled low over her forehead. Her brown hair flailed in the wind. Without makeup, her skin was blotchy. She looked like a wraith of herself.
"I know you're feeling awfully alone. You don't have to," Jo said.
"I can't go to the cops about this—that's what you have to understand. I need you to keep this stuff quiet."
"I promise. Unless you tell me you're going to commit murder," Jo said.
"Truly?"
"Truly."
Zapata's shoulders dropped. It was a gesture of surrender.
"Tell me about the Dirty Secrets Club," Jo said.
She stared at her coffee. "Like I said yesterday, it's a confessional. A way to come clean."
Jo looked at Zapata's sweatshirt. It was unzipped to show her cleavage. She suspected that making a clean breast of things had psychological implications for this woman. She sensed in Zapata a mania for confession. It seemed part of a cycle—misbehavior, shame, confession, relief, followed by a compulsion to misbehave again. Zapata's black diamond pendant glittered in the sunlight.
"That's not the club's sole purpose," Jo said. "You don't sit in a circle seeking moral absolution from your friends."
"No." Zapata's face blotched even more. "Some people brag about the things they've done. For them it's an ego trip. And for some people it's a game."
"Exactly what kind of game? Do you have rules? Competitions? Prizes?"
Cupping her coffee, Zapata shrugged. "Sure. Prizes for the best secret, dirtiest secret, biggest risk taken. Things like that. Harmless stuff."
Jo nodded at the black diamond pendant. "How do you get one of those?"
Zapata raised her cup to her lips but didn't drink. It looked as though she couldn't swallow. Her face crumpled like a piece of paper.
"What if I'm next?" she choked.
"Why would you think that?"
"Maki." She wiped her bitten thumbnail against the corner of her eye. "I tapped him into the club. What if that makes me next in line?"
"I don't know. How did you bring him into the club?" Jo said.
"I interviewed him for a package—a report—about counterfeit designer-label clothing. I met both him and his lover."
"And you invited him to join the club?"
"They were fire and ice, always either snapping or cooing at each other. Maki seemed very cool, so I sounded him out. Told him about my wild youth, and he totally dug it. Eventually I said if he wanted to meet some people I could introduce him."
"You could tell he had something he wanted to unload?"
"Yeah." She looked at Jo. "How did his boat catch fire? Do you know?"
"No."
"What a terrible way to die. Burning—I can't think of anything more hideous." She wiped her eyes again.
Jo gave her a moment. "Yesterday, you insisted that the club was supposed to be fail-safe. Why?"
"Because we only get together in twos or threes, ever. And there's no record of who all the members are. None of us knows the whole roster. It's like a daisy chain—you never meet more than three members of the club. That way confidentiality is supposed to be protected."
Neither of them needed to say the obvious: The club's cell structure was shot full of holes.
Jo drank her coffee. "Your wild youth?"
Zapata tilted her head back. "You have to understand. Before I got into journalism I did things. On film."
"You weren't always a revolutionary warrior queen?"
"Zapata's my ex-husband's name. And Xochi's catchier than Susan. Come on, you understand about the impression a name makes, right, Doctor?"
"Point taken."
"Besides, the skin flicks aren't what worries me. Big whoop, everybody does titty flicks. This was something different." She took a breath.
"I'm listening."
"These weren't garden-variety adult movies. They were a niche product."
Jo raised an eyebrow, curious.
Zapata's smile seemed ironic. "Put it this way—I was a religious extremist."
"Excuse me?"
"It was nun-porn. We all dressed up as religious figures."
"You're joking."
Her expression became matter-of-fact. "No, really. There's a defined market for these films. With quite a devoted fan base."
"Really."
"It's a fusion genre. Bondage, Catholicism, nuns, and priests. We filmed at an old place in the San Fernando Valley." The blotches reddened her neck again. As if wanting to minimize her decadence, she said, "I wore a black rubber Catwoman mask."
