The Dirty Secrets Club

by Meg Gardiner

  "Smart. Any luck?"

  "One possible. Right here. The photo just came through from the FBI." Tang handed her the PDA. "Take a look."

  On the small color screen Jo saw a photo taken with a telephoto lens. Three men in a hot dusty climate, aloha shirts rimed with sweat. They were close enough to talk sotto voce, but standoffish. It seemed clear they were doing business, but without much trust. Two men looked unfamiliar. The third, weathered and grim, with sunken cheeks and sunken eyes, had a gruesome scar that ran completely around his neck. Red lumpy tissue fading to gristle. Grisly souvenir of a lynching.

  Sweat pricked her pores. Still staring at the photo, she dodged around Tang and ran up the stairs.

  "Hey!" The lieutenant charged after her.

  "Come on." Jo pumped her way up the stairs. "I've seen that face before."

  "Where?"

  She shouted her answer, but her words were lost beneath the howl of the fire alarm.

  Jo shoved the fire door open. She and Tang ran out into the ICU. The alarm was shrilling. Red emergency lights throbbed on the wall. Nurses were massed in the hallway near Geli Meyer's room.

  The motherly nurse was spraying a fire extinguisher through a doorway. White clouds of carbon dioxide filled the air. Jo sprinted toward her, smelling smoke and gasoline.

  "Jesus—"

  "What's going on?" Tang called.

  A young nurse put out her hands. "Get back."

  Jo held up her lanyard with her hospital ID. Tang pulled out her badge. Seeing it, the nurse pointed down the hall. "That way. He ran that way."

  "Who?" Tang said.

  "The janitor. Who threw the Molotov cocktail."

  "Shit." Tang drew her weapon. "Exits?"

  "All kinds. Corridor leads to other departments, and there's stairs ..."

  Tang took off. "Get Security. I'm calling for backup."

  Jo pushed through the crowd. The nurse with the fire extinguisher inched forward into the burning hospital room. In the corridor Jo saw an abandoned janitorial mop and bucket.

  "The patient?" she said.

  "Nobody's hurt. It's an empty room."

  The smoke, she saw, was seeping from the room next to Meyer's. Head thumping with relief, she ran to Meyer's door. The bed was empty.

  "Where's Geli?"

  "Waiting area. We grabbed her and moved her out of harm's way."

  The nurse with the extinguisher called, "It's out." She came out coughing, fire extinguisher hanging from her hand. "How the hell did he get in here?"

  The young nurse turned to Jo. "The guy was loitering outside Geli's room. I didn't recognize him, so I asked for his ID. He grabbed this bottle, lit it, and threw it into the empty room, then took off."

  Jo went into Meyer's room, to the closet, and got the girl's purse. She walked back past the elevators and around the corner to the waiting area. Geli was huddled on a sofa, with her IV hanging on a stand beside her. She was wrapped in a blanket, clutching her knees with whitened knuckles. She saw Jo and looked simultaneously relieved and horrified.

  Jo sat down, opened Meyer's purse, and dumped it on the sofa.

  "Hey," the girl said.

  "You need to talk. Now." Tossing aside Meyer's lipstick, lighter, and junk, she found the wallet and rifled through it.

  Jo pulled out the snapshot. The Kansas farmer with the Reservoir Dogs smile and the silver poker-chip belt buckle. Mr. Tarantino Gothic.

  She compared it to the long-range photo on Tang's PDA. They were before and after shots.

  It was Pray.

  The fire alarm continued ringing, like a hammer. Jo held up the snapshot. "What's his name, Geli?"

  "Him?"

  "Please don't tell me the photo came with the wallet." She showed Meyer Tang's PDA. "This shot was taken after he was garroted. It isn't from GQ."

  Meyer pulled the blanket up toward her chin. "I don't have to talk to you."

  "Nope. I'm not a cop. I'm not even your mom. I'm just a shrink. And I'm the one you begged to help Stop it."

  Meyer tried to hold her gaze, and couldn't.

  "Geli, Skunk killed another woman today. With a Molotov cocktail. It was horrifying."

  Meyer stared at her knees. She didn't react to hearing Skunk's name, but her eyes were skittish.

  "I know Skunk works for Pray. So guess what, honey? One plus one equals your buddy wants you dead."

  The girl's face was growing pale. Jo had seen this look before, on people who were deep in denial—on alcoholics who insisted they could stop drinking any time they wanted.

  "Or do I have it wrong?" Jo said.

  She'd seen the look on people who loved danger—on the faces of climbers who thought they could handle a big wall solo. And she'd seen it on the faces of women who lived with batterers. It frequently came with But you don't understand or It's not that way, he really loves me.

  "You're way off base," Meyer said.

  Jo turned the PDA so Meyer could see. "The police have Pray's photo. You have his photo. You have his buddy Skunk trying to turn the ICU into Dante's Inferno. What part of this don't you get?"

  Meyer clutched her knees. Her dirty hair was falling over her face. She looked sullen and cornered.

  Two hospital security guards appeared in the corridor. Behind the din of the fire alarm, Jo heard them talking urgently to the nurses.

  "Pray sent Skunk here to burn down the ICU. How does that not add up to wanting you killed?" Jo said.

  "Stop talking about him like that. You have no idea."

  "Then give me an idea."

  Meyer stole a glance at the PDA photo. She seemed to drink it in. Hot patches of color appeared on her cheeks.

  "He would never hurt me. He couldn't. He can't harm anybody."

  "Sure." And here's a lump of polonium for your tea. It tastes just like sugar. "What's his name?"

  "You're the genius, you figure it out."

  "If you want to make me wait until Lieutenant Tang tells me, fine. I'll call him Pray, or the Object Lesson."

  "Don't." The sudden anger in Meyer's voice carried above the alarm.

  "How have you been contacting him? Is he phoning you here? You know we'll find that out as well, right?"

  Meyer finally looked at Jo. Her expression said I've outsmarted you. "Not if he doesn't have a phone number."

  Jo tried not to look surprised. "Really? How about an address?"

  A strange look entered Meyer's eyes. It was both sly and sad. "He's physically incapable of harming anybody."

  Jo stared at the young woman. Why was Pray incapable of harm?

  "You don't understand anything," Meyer said. "He was abandoned twice. First when he was attacked. They robbed him and left him to die. They took everything and left him maimed."

  No phone, no address. Why was Pray inaccessible?

  Meyer's pale face was livid. "Then he was abandoned by the system. Nobody's willing to help him get justice. Nobody cares that he was robbed and mangled, because he wasn't some rich asshole from the city. He's just dirt to them."

  And with a little click, Jo remembered Leo Fonsecca telling her Angelika Meyer was a street fighter, not a wilting flower. She had worked in the criminal justice system during college. She was tough.

  Jo felt herself turning cool. "He's in prison."

  Meyer's eyes looked feverish.

  "Pray's in prison, isn't he? He's a convict," Jo said.

  Meyer's lips drew back. She looked wounded and savage. "Now you understand. How could he hurt anybody when he's locked in San Quentin?"

  33

  The stench of gasoline was wafting down the hall. The alarm was still ringing. Jo stared at Geli Meyer. Her palms felt hot.

  Meyer's eyes heated. "Pray couldn't attack anybody. He's been in Quentin the entire time. He has no contact with the outside world except for his lawyers and ..." She stopped.

  "And Skunk. And you," Jo said.

  A convict. It began to make sense.

  "He can't even find out who it was that injur
ed him. Who'd help him do that? The cops? The district attorney? He's nothing but a con. Nobody cares about injustices inflicted on a con."

  "Why's he in prison?" Jo said.

  "Ask your precious Dirty Secrets Club. Those A-list dickheads screwed him over. Playing their games, like he was just a video game character to them." Meyer straightened under the blanket. "But he's working it through. He's doing righteous time. All he cares about is finding the people who tore up his life."

  Jo heard what Meyer was saying, but her mind was racing. It made sense to her now. This was why Pray was using Skunk as his sock puppet. He couldn't reach people personally. He had to send a messenger. A stinking rodent to pour out the message.

  "He's completely alone, in an awful situation. Can you imagine what prison is like?" Meyer said.

  It was like a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Depravity, despair, far more danger than outside the walls.

  "I worked at San Quentin. I know what it's like," Jo said.

  The elevator dinged and a fire crew arrived. Their blue uniforms and yellow turnout coats looked like a walking wall of reassurance.

  "What's his name?" Jo said.

  Meyer resisted for a few more seconds. Quietly, she said, "Perry Ames."

  "Did you meet him when you volunteered at San Quentin?"

  Meyer shook her head, smirking, as if to say You still don't get it.

  A fierce anger spiraled through Jo. Stupid, stupid girl. Meyer kept Pray's photo in her wallet. Jo bet she looked at it every night before she went to bed. Thumbed it lovingly and lay down to dream of him.

  "How would you describe your relationship with him?" Jo said.

  "I'm his advocate."

  Jo exhaled. Did Meyer have any idea how damning that description could prove against her in court?

  Things began falling into place in Jo's mind. Not only the reason Pray sent Skunk—and maybe Meyer—to be his troops in the field, but the reason he had been manipulating the Dirty Secrets Club into committing suicide. It was a hands-off method because he couldn't physically lay hands on them.

  She suspected it was more than that. She suspected that Pray didn't want his goons to kill people—that he got satisfaction from threatening people with such utter ruin that they chose instead to violently destroy themselves.

  Meyer looked feverish. She was sunk in the blanket, as though she'd heated herself up to defend Perry Ames and would burn herself out to protect him. She was undoubtedly trying to protect herself now, but all her emotional capital was invested in the man they called Pray.

  The fire alarm shut off. Silence filled the ICU. Jo heard footsteps and hard breathing. Amy Tang appeared, looking whipped. She shook her head. They hadn't caught Skunk.

  Jo stood up, crossed the room, and handed her Meyer's snapshot of Pray. "Catch your breath. You've got some phone calls to make."

  Tang held on to it. "Holy—"

  Jo pulled her around the corner, out of Meyer's earshot, and gave her a thirty-second rundown.

  "A convict. This is fucked," Tang said.

  "This is good. He's directing Skunk. We can contact San Quentin and sever his lines of communication. We can shut him down."

  Tang nodded, eyes darting, thinking. "But Skunk's still out there."

  "Maybe we can use Pray to trace him. Amy, find out how Pray's contacting him, and send a message telling Skunk to be somewhere at five p.m. You can trap him."

  Tang's eyes brightened. Briefly, Jo saw her smile.

  They headed back around the corner to the waiting area and saw the motherly nurse wheeling Meyer back through the door to her room. Jo followed. From the wheelchair, Meyer glared sullenly at Jo.

  "You still don't understand. Perry depends on me. I have to help him."

  "Get some rest. You'll need your strength when the police question you," Jo said.

  "That's not going to happen."

  "Geli, it's over. Perry's going to be shut down. And you're not getting away. The photo connects you to him. It connects him to all the deaths of the Dirty Secrets Club. It's all over. You're cooked."

  "They can't make me testify."

  "Groupies don't get immunity, hon."

  Meyer's face crinkled with disgust. It was an unconscious, visceral reaction, and Jo realized she'd got it completely wrong. Meyer wasn't Pray's groupie. She wasn't his lover.

  Jo pushed her hair off her face. Something still wasn't making sense. Why did Skunk firebomb the room next to Meyer's? She looked around the room. Monitors, bedpan, messy bed. There was a second, empty wheelchair near the door. Where had that come from?

  A sharp realization cut through her. Skunk hadn't come here to kill Geli. He had come to snatch her. Not to rescue her—to keep the police from finding out what she knew.

  Fear spilled over her. She turned. "Geli, who is he?"

  Geli was playing with something under the blanket. The nurse was setting up her oxygen cannulas again, adjusting the flow, getting ready to settle her back in bed.

  "Oh, shit," Jo said.

  Geli looked at her. "I'll never testify against him. He's my father."

  Geli took hold of the oxygen line. Her other hand came out from under the blanket. She was holding a lighter.

  With a rattle of keys, the bailiff opened the door to the holding cell. The bailiff, a bulky black man in Sheriff's Department green, gestured to Pray.

  "You're up. Let's go."

  Perry Ames stood, smoothed his cheap blue tie, and put the voice synthesizer to his throat. "Please don't shackle my hands to my feet. If you do, I won't be able to raise the voice-synth to my neck. I won't be able to talk."

  He saw the usual reaction to the robotic buzz of the electro-larynx. The bailiff fought a shiver of aversion.

  "Hands front," the man said.

  Pray put the synthesizer in his pocket. The SIM card was safely back inside the little device. He held out his hands.

  The bailiff cuffed him. "It's okay. Word from the prosecutor, we'll uncuff you before you enter the courtroom." He led him out. "Testifying against a bunch of lowlife fraudsters, you have to look reputable."

  Lowlife fraudsters, yes, but they'd ripped people off by using stolen credit cards and shipped goods across state lines. That made it a federal beef. Perry nodded dutifully and let the bailiff lead him down the hall. Testifying, oh my, yes. In exchange for a reduction in his sentence and early parole. He kept his face blank and walked toward the courtroom, here at the U.S. Federal Courthouse, at the San Francisco Civic Center.

  Jo sat in the St. Francis Hospital cafeteria, nursing a cup of coffee the size of a fifty-five-gallon drum. The cafeteria decor was Halloween in excelsis, strewn with pumpkins and fake cobwebs. Behind the counter, Dracula and Marge Simpson were serving meatloaf.

  Amy Tang walked in, looking like a gnome who'd spent a hard day in a salt mine. She walked over, plopped down at the table, and nodded at the coffee.

  "Any good?"

  "You like forty weight?"

  Tang smirked, excused herself, and came back with an even bigger cup. "They've transferred Angelika Meyer to the psych ward. She's under suicide watch and under guard." She took a long swallow of the coffee, eyeing Jo. "You're fast on your feet."

  Jo shrugged.

  "Any slower, Meyer would have toasted herself, the nurse, and you. That oxygen line would have burned like a bastard."

  "Fight or flight," Jo said. "When you have to jump, do it."

  "Yeah, but you hit her in the skull with a bedpan."

  "It was close at hand." She took another swallow of her coffee. "Learn anything more?"

  Tang took out her tiny notebook. "Perry Ames, serving eight years for fraud and extortion. He ran an illegal gambling racket. High stakes. Gave the high rollers a line of credit and when they couldn't pay up, took repayment by having them run his expenses through their businesses. We're talking cars, airline tickets, everything. The victims defaulted on their debts, of course, and went out of business." She closed the notebook. "His sentence has six year
s to run."

  "What about the earlier crime?"

  "The attack on him? There's no legal record on that. Just rumor. Or as Geli Meyer would have it, legend."

  "How has he been contacting her? Convicts have to make collect phone calls."

  "And we've contacted the prison. They'll be sure to search Ames's cell for a contraband phone. It's possible he's been borrowing one from somebody on staff. A cook, a janitor. Or from his lawyer. Did Meyer tell you her theory that Pray can't be hurting people because he's locked up?"

  "Cognitive dissonance. It may get to her in the end. Maybe she'll tell us more."

  "She's still pretty weak." Tang looked up. "What do you think happened the night Callie Harding died?"

  "Not sure. Trying to get my thoughts to make some kind of sense."

  Jo reached into her satchel for the anonymous note welcoming her to the Dirty Secrets Club. She handed it to Tang. The policewoman stared at it, and stared some more, surprise turning to concern. She glanced up sharply.

  "This wasn't sent to your house, was it?"

  "UCSF. My home phone and address are unlisted."

  Tang nodded. "That's good. You think Pray sent it?"

  "Or the Dirty Secrets Club, playing one of their games with me."

  Tang held on to the Baggie and framed her words with care. "I take it they don't have incriminating evidence of this allegation."

  "My husband died"—blank, swarming heat surrounded her— "in the crash of an air ambulance. The note is meant to break me down."

  "Assholes."

  "Let's hope that's all it is."

  "I'll check the note for fingerprints and the envelope for DNA." She glanced at Jo, and her face seemed drawn. Her eyes filled with compassion. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  She set the Baggie down. It slid across the table. As it came toward Jo, the light seemed to twist, the tabletop shiver. She put her hands flat against the wood. The building creaked. Tang looked at the ceiling.

  "What was that?" she said.

  Jo looked around. Everybody else in the cafeteria was looking around. She and Tang glanced at the lunch line. The heat lamps were swaying.

  "Aftershock," Tang said.

  "Or precursor."

  It was done. Conversation started again. People went back to their food.