“Let’s see where we’re at.” Patrick got up from his desk, consulted the chart. “Julia’s cases—interesting. The vics knew each other, parents of one are involved. Rae’s—dead hooker. Kind of open-and-shut, but the Victims’ Advocates won’t let go of it. Craig’s thing with city hall—I don’t think he’ll let you in on it.”
“Well, let’s see about that.”
“I’ll talk to Adah. She’s the boss woman for now. You got anything going for tonight?”
“I did—woman I met at the health club. She bailed.”
“You’re going to a health club?”
“Yeah. Partly as therapy, partly because I’m trying to avoid the clubs.” Mick had been in a serious, drunken motorcycle accident last November—the culmination of a binge that started when his live-in love, Charlotte Keim, left him. Broken bones and a ruptured spleen, plus two surgeries, had taught him one of life’s big lessons. Charlotte had taught him another: in spite of rushing to the hospital to comfort him, she wasn’t coming back.
“What about you?” he asked Patrick.
“Pizza night with the boys.” Patrick was a single father, with sole custody of his sons.
“Exciting lives we lead, huh? You seeing anybody?”
“Are you kidding? The only people I’m seeing are the other parents at PTA and the kids’ teachers. I hang around the laundry place down the street hoping somebody new’ll come in and change my future.”
“Could be worse for both of us. At least you can go out for pizza and I can work out.”
Patrick’s face sobered. “Yeah, God, Shar ... You know, she hired me because she’d done a job locating me for my greedy junkie ex and felt bad about it. And she helped me get custody of my boys. She even co-signed on a new car when my old one died. I owe her.”
“So do I. We’ve got to nail whoever shot her.”
“Well, we’ll be working on it all weekend. I’ll let you know what Adah says about your reassignment.”
“Thanks.” Mick got up and left Patrick’s office. The loneliness of an empty Friday night came over him, and he decided to head for the Brandt Institute: maybe Hy needed company.
* * * *
CRAIG MORLAND
H
e watched from among a crowd of onlookers at the end of the alley as the police and paramedics arrived.
If Davis had documented the information he’d passed along to Craig, the shit was about to rain down.
Craig slipped away from the rubberneckers into the darkness on Golden Gate, where he’d moved his SUV before the area became crowded. He had an hour, maybe less, to get to Davis’s fortieth-floor condo in One Rincon Hill, which at sixty stories in the main tower was the tallest residential building on the San Francisco skyline.
The South of Market district—once known as South-of-the-Slot—had long been an undesirable industrial area on the wrong side of the Market Street cable-car tracks. Now it was upscale, with luxury mid- and high-rises luring affluent young professionals as well as empty nesters from the suburbs where they’d raised their families. Craig had heard various names applied to SoMa: Mid-Market, Transbay, Rincon Hill, and Mission Bay. Each had its own character and price tag, but all were known for proximity to fine dining and cultural attractions, as well as killer views of the city and bay.
He found a parking space on Harrison, a block from One Rincon Hill, and hurried toward the high-rise building while pulling on a baseball cap that shaded his features. It could be tricky getting around the doorman, but as a former FBI agent he was used to playing tricks. One of the number of cards he kept in his wallet identified him as Walter Russom of Ace Couriers. He flashed it at the man, explaining that he had to pick up a rush delivery from Harvey Davis. The doorman was the trusting type: he let Craig in and motioned toward the elevators.
Craig had met with Davis at his condo only once, on the day Harvey first asked him to look into the malfeasance at city hall. Davis hadn’t wanted to meet at the pier; someone might recognize him and word could get around. At the time, Craig had thought him paranoid. He didn’t any more.
The hallway of the fortieth floor was deeply carpeted, the walls well insulated. Someone was playing the piano at the opposite end from Davis’s condo, but the sound was faint, soothing.
Craig took out the key Davis had given him, unlocked the door. Punched the code into the keypad, then shut the door and rearmed the system. He waited, allowing his eyes to acclimate to the darkness.
Short hallway ahead, with louvered doors opening into what must be closets. He moved along, alert, listening for someone else’s presence. The hallway ended in a spacious living room. The lights from the surrounding buildings and the Bay Bridge were spectacular. Craig turned away from them, went down another hallway to the den where he’d met with Davis.
The den was a middle room that backed up on the outside corridor; no windows, so he felt safe turning on a light. He began with the desk, sifting through the files and papers in its drawers.
Nothing.
Videos...
No file cabinets. Closet—empty.
Back to the living room. Big entertainment center, but aside from a few movies with political themes, the only discs were from Netflix.
So where were these videos Davis wanted Craig to take in case something happened to him?
Where would he put them?
Bathroom, bedroom, closets. Nothing.
Kitchen, seldom used judging from the contents of the fridge and cabinets.
Seldom used, except the man had owned a large selection of spices, which were lined up in wood-bracketed rows in a deep drawer. So many spices that Craig, a fairly good cook, hadn’t heard of most of them. Hibiscus powder, zhug, ajwan seed—and not a one of them with the protective seal broken.
Why was it that a deep drawer seemed so shallow?
He began removing the jars. The bottom that they rested on was a different kind of wood from the drawer itself. He pried it up.
Two DVDs.
He pocketed them.
A buzzer sounded. Intercom from the doorman.
The police were there. He had to get out now.
He rushed to the door and down the hallway. Went through the exit to the stairs and waited. Elevator arriving. Footsteps and the doorman’s voice proclaiming, “Told me he was from some courier company. Urgent pickup, but he never came down. What the hell’s going on?”
Craig took advantage of the confusion and the absence of a gatekeeper to escape the building with his evidence.
* * * *
JULIA RAFAEL
T
he phone call she’d interrupted her conversation with Haven Dietz to take was from Ted, sounding upbeat.
“Jules, McCone’s conscious, but there’re some complications. Hy asked me to schedule a staff meeting for first thing in the morning.”
“Complications?”
Dietz glanced up at the sound of alarm in Julia’s voice.
“Look, I can’t explain now. I’ve got a lot of other calls to make. Try to get to the meeting no later than eight.”
“Will do.” From the way Ted sounded, the complications couldn’t be too serious. Of all of them at the agency, he’d known Shar the longest and been most optimistic about her recovery.
Dietz looked at her questioningly as she hung up the phone. “A problem?”
“Yeah. Nothing that concerns your case.”
The woman scowled, reached for her cigarettes, then thought better of it.
“So what else do you need to ask me?”
Julia leaned back in her chair, wishing she could go home to her ten-year-old son, Tonio, and her older sister, Sophia. Over the past year her income had risen enough that Sophia could retire from her job clerking at Safeway, but still it wasn’t fair to stick her with so much of the housework and childcare.
Her cellular rang again. Would the calls ever stop so she could get on with this?
Judy Peeples. “Ms. Rafael, I’m so glad I got hold of you. We— Tom and
I—were wondering if you could come up to Sonoma this evening.”
A long drive—at least an hour and a half. Julia closed her eyes and let a sigh slip out.
“I know it’s an inconvenience,” Mrs. Peeples’s high-pitched voice went on, “but we’ll have a late supper waiting for you, and a nice guest room. You see ... we found something.”
“What did you find, Mrs. Peeples? Something of Larry’s?”
“Well, yes. No. It’s hard to explain.”
“Please try.”
“... Tom was in the tack room—”
“Tack room?”
“A room off the stables where we keep equipment.”
“I see. Go on.”
“What he found ... it had to have been Larry that put it there, because it’s certainly nothing that any of the workers would’ve hidden and we’ve never seen it before.”
“What is it, Mrs. Peeples?”
“Cash. A lot of cash.”
“How much cash?”
“I don’t think I should say any more about it on the phone. Please, Ms. Rafael, will you come?”
Mierda. The woman sounded desperate. “All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
After she closed the phone, she looked at Haven Dietz. The woman was staring at her. “Larry’s mother?” she asked.
“Right.”
“They found something? Cash?”
“I’m afraid what she told me is confidential.”
“But our cases, you say they’re linked—”
“That doesn’t mean you have the right to information from my investigation for the Peeples—any more than they have a right to information about yours. We’re going to have to continue our conversation later. Tomorrow night at your place?”
“Fine with me.” The woman got up from the chair and moved toward the door in a slightly off-balance walk.
Julia sighed, glad to see her go. Then she picked up the phone and dialed home. No reading the next installment of Robinson Crusoe to Tonio, no having a glass of wine and talking over their days’ events with Sophia. And in her jeans and hoodie she wasn’t dressed for a late supper in the wine country, although she did have the necessities of an overnight stay in a travel bag in the trunk of her Toyota; Shar had taught her to be prepared for trips out of town.
When Sophia answered, she told her where she was going and asked her to kiss Tonio goodnight for her.
The job came first. Always. Another thing Shar had taught her.
* * * *
SHARON McCONE
T
onight I’m feeling cold and so alone.
Cold, in spite of these thermal blankets tucked solidly around me.
Alone, not just because Hy’s gone now, but because after our eyes met and he realized I was still here with him, he met with my doctor and then he was distracted and sad the whole time he was in the room.
Something wrong. I know. I can feel it. My emotional senses are sharpened, while my physical sense of touch is practically nil. When someone touches me, I’m aware of it, but when no one’s there it’s like being suspended in still air.
To think that I might never respond intensely to Hy’s touch again—that is the most painful.
I had wanted to ask him so many things before: How was he doing, now that he knew I wasn’t a total vegetable? Had he reassured family and friends? How were our cats, Ralph and Alice? The agency—how was it running?
And most important, who the hell had shot me?
No, that wasn’t most important. I wanted to know exactly what was wrong with me. What it would take for me to survive this ... whatever the condition was.
I felt trickling wetness on my cheeks. Normally I would have licked the tears away and told myself I was being self-indulgent. Now I couldn’t move my tongue, and self-indulgence seemed like a luxury I was entitled to. I ached to turn over and bury my face into the pillow and sob.
Nurses on rounds. Subdued voices. Pretty brown-haired Latina woman smiling down at me, adjusting tubes, checking my vital signs, smoothing the covers.
Talk to me, dammit!
“Your husband is a very nice man, Ms. McCone,” she said. “He was exhausted when he last looked in on you. You were asleep, so he left around nine, but told me to say he’d be back early tomorrow morning.”
The nurse wiped my face with a tissue. “Don’t cry. We’re taking good care of you, and I understand that soon you will have a few visitors.”
And I won’t be able to smile at or talk with or hug any of them.
The tears kept coming.
“Don’t cry,” the nurse repeated. “Try to get some rest.”
* * * *
My emotions were running rampant. For a long time after the nurse left tears dribbled down my face. Self-pity morphed into fear and questions: Would I survive this? Would my life ever be the same?
What-ifs: What if I remained like this for the rest of my life? What if I was permanently confined to a wheelchair? Disabled in some other way? Couldn’t fly our beautiful taildragger Cessna— Two-Seven-Tango? Couldn’t ever hike on the cliffs at Touchstone? Or ride my horse, King Lear, at Hy’s and my ranch?
The questions brought me to the edge of panic. The silent scream threatened to rise again, but I fought it off. Then, in its place, I felt a simmering of rage. How could this have happened to me? Who had shot me?
The lid came off the kettle of my emotions; rage reached full boil.
If I ever get out of this place, I’ll hunt him down and kill him!
And I would get out of here. I’d reclaim my life. Nothing could stop me.
Yeah, right. Only paralysis and an inability to reach the world and the people I loved....
More water leaked out of my eyes,
Damn roller coaster: self-pity, fear, panic, rage, determination, self-pity again. And I couldn’t do a thing to control those feelings.
I couldn’t control anything at all any more...
* * * *
Walking through the thick fog along the Embarcadero ... The pier, empty and spooky .... On the catwalk, opening the door to my office... A sudden rushing motion, my head smacking into the wall.
And then the harsh fall onto the catwalk. Metal biting into my skin. The pop, the searing pain. Metal...
My eyes popped open, staring at the ceiling, which was dimly illuminated by a night-light.
Flashback to the night I’d been shot.
* * * *
CRAIG MORLAND
T
he videos he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo indicated a major sex scandal within city government—only he couldn’t understand who was involved.
For once he was glad Adah wasn’t home—-some dinner with an old college friend that would probably go on long past midnight. He didn’t want her to see any of this, not until he’d had time to evaluate it properly. The apartment did seem empty, though— a result of their elderly and obese cat, Charley, having died the previous winter. They planned to adopt another, but first Adah had been getting settled in with running the agency. Then they’d taken a series of weekend driving trips: to Carmel, Yountville, the Alexander Valley wine country. And his caseload had been heavy. Still, it was time...
But not this weekend.
The doorbell rang. Craig moved on stockinged feet to the peephole and looked out. Mick. He’d called earlier and left a message on the machine that he’d concluded the Celestina Gates investigation and was now free to help on city hall. Craig went back into the living room, and after a few moments Mick’s footsteps tapped away down the tiled steps.
It wasn’t that Craig was jealously guarding his case or that he didn’t find Mick a good investigator. But what he had planned was a delicate operation, and an additional person might attract attention. Since he’d worked for McCone, he’d become accustomed to going it on his own. Besides, what he planned to do was illegal and could compromise the agency.
God, he suddenly thought, maybe Mick had come here with bad news about Shar! He grabbed
the phone and dialed the Brandt Institute. Ms. McCone was resting comfortably No change.
Locked In - [McCone 29] Page 5
