Locked In - [McCone 29]

by Marcia Muller

  We’ve established a good oxygen supply... Blood flow and pressure returning to normal... A setback, blood pressure crashing... BP edging toward normal... She’s responding to the medications... Another setback, incompatibility with the medication ... Have to be very careful with meds in cases of traumatic brain injury... No, we can’t operate at this point; chances of her survival would be very slim....

  Why don’t you get some rest. Mr. Ripinsky? Really, you’ll be no good to your wife if you don’t rest.

  Of course, he hadn’t rested. Had sat by her bedside, alert for any change, any sign. And later, when they’d said she was stabilized, he’d stayed with her in the ICU except for brief trips home to shower and change and field phone calls from her family and friends.

  Her adoptive mother near San Diego had collapsed upon hearing the news and been placed under sedation, according to Sharon’s stepfather. Sister Charlene and her husband, Vic, were in the city, in spite of Sharon’s not being allowed visitors. Calls came daily from her birth mother in Boise, Idaho; from her birth father on the Flathead Reservation in Montana; from her half sister Robin in Berkeley; from her sister Patsy in Sonoma. Brother John arrived from San Diego and installed himself in Sharon and Hy’s guest room.

  The people at the agency knew better than to bother Hy. They had established a rapport with two of the floor nurses who kept them posted.

  Hy leaned forward and grasped the steering wheel, weariness and helplessness diluting his earlier rage. When he’d first heard the news of McCone’s shooting, the rage had been dominant: he’d flown the jet recklessly, driven erratically, burst into the hospital like the proverbial storm. Now he was wearing down, the only bright spot on the horizon being the slim hope that the Brandt Neurological Institute promised.

  Life without her—

  No, for God’s sake, don’t go there!

  He straightened, grasped the wheel.

  So what to do to pass the long evening? Go home, where everything was a reminder of Shar, and their cats stared at her favorite chair with bewildered eyes? Where her brother John would rekindle his rage with endless discussions about “getting the bastard that did this”? Go to the RI office, catch up on paperwork in the hope it would numb his mind enough to let him sleep on the sofa there? Impose his presence upon friends who had already done more than he could ever repay?

  None of the above.

  He started the car and drove toward Pier 24½.

  * * * *

  Cars were parked on the pier’s floor—so many that he had trouble slotting the Mustang. Odd, this late in the afternoon. Some of the offices on the first story were closed, but lights blazed upstairs at McCone Investigations, and he sensed tension and activity. As he climbed the stairway to the catwalk, he heard voices coming from the conference room.

  When he appeared in the doorway, silence fell. Adah Joslyn, Sharon’s executive administrator, broke it by saying to Hy, “Is there—”

  “No news. She’s being transferred to an acute care facility tomorrow.”

  A collective sigh of disappointment mixed with relief. No news was bad news; no news was good news.

  “Am I interrupting something?” he asked.

  “No, no, of course not. Come in.”

  He did, taking a chair against the wall, since there were no places left at the round oak table.

  Adah was standing: an elegant, slim woman in a well tailored navy blue suit, with a honey-tan complexion and beautifully corn-rowed black hair. The perfect image for an increasingly successful agency, just as she’d been the perfect image for the SFPD’s campaign to promote women and minorities—not only because she was female, but because she was also half black and half Jewish. The perfect image until working the homicide detail had taken its toll and Shar had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. In spite of Adah’s tightly controlled exterior, Hy knew her to be funny, generous, and a thoroughly staunch friend.

  The silence stretched out. He said, “Go on with whatever you were discussing, please.”

  Looks were exchanged around the table. Adah said, “Actually, we should have invited you to this meeting, Hy. It’s kind of... a tribal war council.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “We’re Sharon’s tribe ... family ... whatever—”

  “And we’re pissed off, going to find out who shot her,” said Sharon’s nephew Mick Savage.

  Hy turned his gaze to Mick. The petulant, spoiled son of a country-music superstar had matured into a stand-up man in the years he’d known him. Hard to grow up in the shadow of his father, but Mick had managed—in spite of being a tall, blond version of handsome Ricky Savage, but without his father’s musical talent, ambition, or ruthless drive. Mick had found both his present and his future in computers and, owing to the revolutionary software programs he was currently creating with fellow operative Derek Ford, would someday rival Ricky in fortune, if not in fame.

  Hy said, “So how do you intend to nail this person?”

  The operative who replied surprised him: Julia Rafael. She and his wife had had dinner at a Mission district tacqueria before Shar had returned to the pier to pick up her forgotten cell phone. Julia was something of an enigma to Hy. She’d worked the streets of the Mission district from age twelve, selling herself and drugs. Arrests, abortions, and the birth of a son whose father she couldn’t begin to name had followed. The boy had given Julia a purpose; after her final release from the California Youth Authority, she’d turned her life around.

  Hy, ever distrustful of dramatic turnarounds—in spite of having made one himself—had waited for Julia to screw up. And when she was arrested for crimes that put Sharon’s license and the agency in serious jeopardy, he’d wanted to say “I told you so.” But Julia, vindicated, had turned into a fine operative. He still wondered at McCone’s friendship with her: Julia was insecure in the extreme and covered it with a haughty, sometimes hostile demeanor. But McCone was an excellent judge of character, so she must have seen gold in Julia that was yet to be mined.

  Now Julia said, “We started on these investigations the day after Shar was attacked, with the idea that the shooter had to have some connection with one of the cases the agency was working. Otherwise why was he skulking around the pier at night?”

  “He wasn’t looking for money or stuff to sell for drugs,” Adah added. “Nothing was taken.”

  “Unless Shar interrupted him before he could take something,” Hy said.

  “It’s possible, but this has more the feel of an intrusion by somebody who knew the pier, knew Lewis was a drunk and likely to leave his station for long periods of time. Your average thief doesn’t just walk into someplace with a lighted guard’s desk.”

  “Or shoot his way out of the situation if he’s caught,” Julia said. “He’d hide—unless he was afraid Shar would recognize him.”

  “Someone who had been here before, then,” Hy said. “Someone she’d seen. Not necessarily her client, but one of the agency’s, or a witness or suspect in one of the cases.”

  Adah nodded. “That’s our reasoning. Anyway, we did an in-depth analysis of all cases going back two months. There’re a number that raised red flags. We’ve eliminated some, but there are several that still hold our attention. Why don’t you tell us about yours, Julia?”

  “Okay. There’re two of them, both cases where the SFPD dropped the ball. Haven Dietz was the victim of a violent knifing attack a year ago that left her disfigured and with only partial use of her right arm. The other clients are the Peeples, Judy and Thomas. Their son, Larry, was gay. He disappeared suddenly six months ago. No satisfaction from the cops in either matter.”

  Hy asked, “What’re the red flags?”

  “Dietz and Peeples were friends, lived in the same building. He cared for her while she was recuperating. She was the one who recommended us to the parents. I sense there’s something she’s not telling me—about Peeples or her attacker.”

  Adah said, “Let’s move on. Mick?”

  �
�Have you heard of Celestina Gates?”

  Hy shook his head.

  “Identity-theft expert. Had a syndicated column and regularly appeared on national talk shows advising people how to safeguard themselves. Trouble is, two months ago her own identity was stolen. When the media got hold of the situation, they ridiculed her, questioned her credibility. The syndicate canceled her column, a book deal fell through, and the talk-show offers stopped coming in. Red flag is that I sense something wrong with the whole situation.”

  “That’s it?” Hy asked.

  “That’s it. But Shar would feel the same. When something’s off, we have similar instincts.”

  Hy couldn’t debate that. Sharon had a shit detector that seldom failed her.

  “Rae?” Adah said.

  Rae Kelleher, the then-assistant whom Sharon had brought with her from All Souls Legal Cooperative when she established her own agency. Red-haired, freckled, blue-eyed, and petite. A part-time operative and author of three crime novels. Married to Mick’s father, Ricky Savage. Ricky and Rae were Hy’s and Sharon’s closest friends. No way she wouldn’t wade into this mess, ready to do anything she could to help.

  “The Bay Area Victims’ Advocates is the client,” she said, looking directly into Hy’s eyes. “They’re concerned with getting solutions to unsolved crimes against women. This one’s a homicide, back-burnered by the SFPD. I’ll give you a copy of the file.”

  “Thanks.”

  Adah said, “Craig—your turn.”

  Craig Morland was Adah’s significant other. A former special agent with the FBI, he’d become disillusioned with the federal agency and was eventually lured away from DC to San Francisco by Adah. When they’d first met, Craig had been a buttoned-down, shorn, and shaven man with—as Hy had characterized him—a stick up his ass. No one would confuse his former persona with that of the easygoing, tousled-haired, mustached man of today.

  “I’m looking into corruption at city hall. Big-time chicanery, but I can’t yet figure out on whose part. My informant is very close with the information. Till I’ve gone into it further, I’d rather not reveal details.”

  Hy said, “Hey, man, we’re talking about my wife getting shot.”

  “And if it’s connected to this case, we’re talking about maybe more people getting shot. People close to us.” Craig paused. “I need a couple more days. Okay?”

  Hy shrugged, suddenly feeling bone-tired.

  The meeting broke up then, people standing and gathering their things as if on cue. Rae’s hand pressed his arm. “Come to our house and spend the night,” she said. “I know it’s hard to go home—especially with John there. John is not soothing when he’s angry.”

  “That’s understating it.”

  She urged him to his feet. “Lasagna and a feather bed—that’s what you need.”

  “The hospital—”

  “Will call you if there’s any change. Right now you come with me.”

  He went. Lasagna and a feather bed sounded good. It would be better if he could share both with Shar, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

  * * * *

  FRIDAY, JULY 18

  * * * *

  SHARON McCONE

  T

  hey had removed the tube from my mouth for good yesterday, and now were disconnecting the patches that connected me to the monitors from my arms, legs, and chest.

  God, those are my lifelines! They’re going to kill me!

  The voiceless scream rose. Subsided when someone said, “Okay, let’s get her onto the gurney.”

  Being lifted. Moved sideways. Down onto a harder surface. Tugging of blankets. Clicking of strap connectors.

  Where are they taking me? More tests?

  I struggled to make my vocal cords work. Couldn’t.

  I tried to raise my arm. Couldn’t.

  Clumsy maneuvering through a door. Then swift forward motion, wheels bumping over uneven spots on the floor. Acoustical ceiling and fluorescents passing overhead. Automatic door noise, and then ...

  Fresh air. Cool and faintly salt-tinged.

  I’m outside!

  Another voice: “We’ll take her from here.” A face appeared above me—male, smooth, young. “Ms. McCone,” he said, “if you can hear me, I’m Andy with the Sequoia Ambulance Service. We’re taking you to the Brandt Neurological Institute.”

  Oh, right. Where Hy told the doctor he was having me transferred.

  The terror subsided, and I blinked my eyelids, but Andy had looked away. “It’s only a twenty-minute trip,” he added, “and we’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”

  Why does he sound as if he doesn’t believe I can understand a word he says?

  Will somebody please look at me and see I’m still here?

  Weariness washed over me and I slept.

  * * * *

  Cool light. Blue walls. Scent of fresh-cut flowers. A window. And beyond it a thick stand of eucalyptus.

  I love eucalyptus. I wish the window were open so I could smell them. But this floral scent... what... ?

  I tried to look around, but from the way the bed was positioned I couldn’t see much more of the room. Looked up. Suspended from the overhead track was a stainless steel contraption that looked like an elaborate, multi-barbed fishhook. An IV bag was suspended from it, as well as a container of a brownish liquid.

  Alone? Yes, I can tell by the quality of the silence.

  Tired. So tired. Was it yesterday that Hy said it had been ten days? Ten whole days since I’d been in a coma, then weak and helpless?

  No, admit it—paralyzed.

  But not in a coma. I can think, see, hear, breathe, and feel. I just can’t move or speak.

  Just? That’s everything!

  Got to find some way to let them know.

  Got to!

  * * * *

  Someone coming into the room. Hand on my forehead. Hy.

  “We’re at the Brandt Institute, McCone,” he said. “I just met your new neurosurgeon. They’re going to do everything they can to help you.”

  Don’t stand over to the side. Look at my face!

  “It’s a nice place, out on Jackson Street, near the Presidio. Nice people, too.”

  Look at me, dammit!

  “First thing tomorrow they’re going to run some more brain scans and try to get an accurate diagnosis. Then ...” He fell silent for a few seconds.

  “Hell, McCone, if you could hear me, you’d know I’m clutching at straws here. There’s so much they don’t know about the brain, and I know even less. God, I can’t...”

  He was crying. I’d seldom known him to cry.

  He moved around, bent over, and buried his face on my shoulder. His body shook and his tears wet my hospital gown. I wanted to hold him, and I couldn’t move. Comfort him, and I had no words.

  After a moment, he raised his head and looked straight into my eyes.

  I blinked at him, moved my eyes up and down.

  He drew back, astonishment and hope brightening his drawn features. Gently he reached out to touch my face.

  “You’re here with me!” he said.

  I blinked again.

  “You can hear me. See me.”

  Blink.

  “Can you move?”

  I decided two blinks would mean no.

  “Can you talk to me?”

  Blink, blink.

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re on your way back. I’m getting your doctor.”

  Thank God. I knew I could count on you, Ripinsky.

  But what the hell took you so long?

  * * * *

  RAE KELLEHER

  S

  he propped her right elbow on the desk and lowered her forehead to the palm of her hand. Her eyes ached and pain needled above her brow. Through the open doorway of her study she could hear her stepdaughters, Molly and Lisa, squabbling downstairs over which DVD to watch. She wouldn’t interfere. Let them duke it out—that was her parenting philoso
phy. Prepare them ahead of time for the often rocky shoals of life.