“Should I call the department?” I asked. “And if so, which detail?”
“Don’t do that. You could be accused of trespassing. Besides, while this new chief has started to clean things up over there, they’re still in what I call a state of disarray.” The SFPD had been plagued for years by scandal, mismanagement, and dissension.
What Adah didn’t have to remind me of was that when she had quit the department she’d been very outspoken to the press about conditions there. And her fellow officers had retaliated by shunning her. Any request from someone associated with her was not going to receive prompt and courteous attention.
“Adah, something’s got to be done about this situation.”
“I know. Stay put. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Her voice sounded light and somewhat excited. Adah, like me, was addicted to tackling tough cases.
I put my phone away and went back into Piper’s empty apartment for another look around.
ADAH JOSLYN
Damn! The entrance door to the Tenth Avenue apartment building that Shar had called her from was locked.
She buzzed the downstairs unit, got no reply. Where the hell was Shar?
As she was about to press the button for the second floor, a woman in running clothes opened the door and brushed past her. Going someplace in a hurry, and she didn’t look back when Adah slipped inside.
Well, now I’m trespassing too.
The apartment door was closed, but unlocked. Adah opened it and moved along the hallway. The bare walls looked and smelled freshly painted. Nothing in any of the rooms that indicated recent occupancy. On the bedroom floor she found a single wire hanger—the kind dry cleaners used. She picked it up, examined it. There was a torn piece of label and a sticky substance on its neck. She suspected who had done the tearing.
Oh, Jesus, Shar! Why didn’t you wait for me?
Adah sat down on the raised hearth of the living room fireplace, still fingering the hanger, thinking what to do next. Run out to every dry cleaner in the vicinity, hoping to catch up with Shar? Call Dom Rayborn, her replacement on the SFPD homicide detail, and the only person on the force she trusted?
What exactly would she say to him?
Dom, I’m in this empty apartment where there’s no evidence of anybody living recently, but my boss claims a friend of hers was here on Friday.
Dom, I know this sounds crazy…
Dom, my boss may be in the clutches of a maniacal dry cleaner….
Yeah, right.
Well, then, back to the old well-practiced routine—canvass the neighbors.
“Be right there,” a man’s voice called out from the second-floor unit. Less than a minute later he opened the door—tall, wide, with a shiny bald dome fringed by buzz-cut gray hair. He stared at Adah.
She thought she knew why she’d surprised him: he’d probably expected someone else, and now he was confronted by an equally tall, slender black woman with intricately woven cornrows.
She showed him her credentials—no longer an SFPD shield, but the private investigator’s license and McCone Agency card made her feel better than she had in years.
He looked steadily at her. Not one to be cowed by a semi-official ID.
“So whadda you want?”
“Your downstairs neighbor, Piper Quinn—”
“Who?”
“The young disabled woman—”
“There’s nobody disabled in this building.”
“Ah, Mr….”
He didn’t supply his name.
“How long have you lived here?”
“A while.”
“What’s ‘a while’?”
“None of your business.”
Secretive sort, maybe paranoid. His eyes were jumpy; he kept moving to block her from looking inside the apartment.
“In all this ‘while,’ you’ve never met Piper Quinn?”
“No.”
“Or noticed a wheelchair ramp on the front steps?”
“Absolutely not.”
And now that Adah thought about it, there had been no marks on the steps to indicate there ever was a ramp.
Was Shar losing it? Creating an imaginary friend and problem?
No. Adah had known her far too long; she shouldn’t’ve entertained the thought for a second. And as an investigator she sensed the falseness of the situation: the immaculate ready-to-rent appearance of the first-floor apartment; this man’s too quick and firm denials; the focused look of the woman in running clothes who had rushed past her at the front door.
“Well, thank you,” she said to the man, turning away. He nodded, shut the door.
She started up the stairway to the third floor, trying to recall the woman’s features. But they were a blur.
There was no answer upstairs, but she hadn’t expected one.
Professional job, she thought as she started down. Removal of the resident—willingly or unwillingly—and quick cleanup. Other residents either paid off to say Piper had never lived there or, more likely, involved in the abduction.
Witness protection folks? No, they stripped people of their belongings and identity, but they didn’t try to make it look as if they’d never existed. Other government agency? Homeland? NSA? CIA? What sort of threat had Shar’s friend held for national security? Private security firm? Possibly. Hy’s RI had the capacity to mount such an operation.
She’d have to talk this over both with Craig and Hy. They were much more familiar with government agencies than she.
What about Shar? Well, she must be pursuing a lead connected with that hanger. Ted had been right: Adah had to get over this protective crap, and now was the time to start.
In the entryway, the front door slammed. Footsteps crossing the lobby floor, and coming up the stairway.
Shar?
Adah had reached the second floor landing when she encountered the woman in running clothes, a plastic dry cleaner’s bag draped over her left arm. She had short gray hair, a hooked nose, and round, owlish glasses. Her legs and arms were well muscled, sinewy.
Adah said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” and extended her card.
The woman ignored it. Without warning she dropped the dry cleaning bag and lunged at Adah, strong hands grasping her arms, pushing and then pinning her against the wall.
The suddenness of the attack surprised Adah enough so that she had no chance to use her police training skills. The woman twisted her into the railing, and for a moment she was afraid she might be flung over. She managed to catch hold of one of the posts, her spinal discs protesting as she struggled against the shoving weight. Unable to break free, she kicked out instead and her shoe connected solidly with her assailant’s right knee.
The woman’s leg buckled and she screamed, “Bitch!”
Above, a door opened and the man’s voice called out, “Eva? You need any help down there?”
Adah managed to get both her hands inside the clutching fingers, but still couldn’t pry them loose. Furiously the woman, Eva, whirled her around again and threw her against the wall. Slammed her head hard into the unyielding plaster.
The blow scrambled Adah’s senses, weakened her struggles. The next thing she knew she was on the floor with Eva on top of her, both knees pinning her outthrust arms. Dimly through tears of pain, she saw the woman reach into the pouch pocket of her hoodie, withdraw her hand swiftly with something long and shiny in her fingers. Adah recognized the object just before it descended toward her upper arm.
Hypodermic needle.
No!
She fought wildly but she didn’t have enough strength and it was already too late. She felt a painful prick in her upper arm—
And that was all she knew.
MICK SAVAGE
His fingers skipped over the keyboard in search of background on Specialist Ryan Middleton. There wasn’t much information.
Born Portland, Oregon. Fifteen years older than Piper and, like her, no siblings, and both parents deceased.
Middleton h
ad graduated high school in Portland, then earned a degree at Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo, majoring in electrical engineering. Had gone into the marine corps shortly after graduation. Married to Piper Quinn in San Francisco six years ago. Deployed to Iraq the next year.
A patriot? Or another victim of the poor job market?
Specialist. What kind?
Well, in Middleton’s case, he had been a tactical intelligence officer, stationed in Mosul, the third largest city in northern Iraq and a stronghold for Al-Qaeda and other Sunni militants.
Middleton—nicknamed Middie—had been off duty and walking with two of his fellow officers in the city center when a suicide bomber’s truck stopped and detonated nearby. He and his companions were killed in the explosion. Middleton’s mangled body came home along with many other flag-draped coffins.
Mick closed his eyes, pictures of those coffins slowly coming off the military planes flashing through his mind. For a long time the previous administration had prohibited the press from photographing them; the ban—pending the deceased families’ consent—had since been lifted, and rightly so.
Mick himself could’ve been in one of those coffins, except for a mild asthmatic condition that qualified him as 4-F.
That and a strong conviction not to serve in a war as wrong as any his country had ever undertaken.
He kept looking for further information on Ryan Middleton; nothing except a high-school yearbook photograph. It showed a nondescript, dark-haired kid with a prominent cowlick. His eyes were hooded, secretive, as if shielding himself from the probing lens. At Cal Poly he’d kept a low profile; he was not pictured in the yearbook with any clubs or other student organizations. His graduation photo was not very different than the one taken in his senior year of high school, except his hair was cut shorter, the cowlick not so prominent.
Mick composed a report and shot it over to Shar’s computer. Then he started digging on the elusive Melinda Knowles.
CRAIG MORLAND
In spite of Thelia’s thinly veiled warning to leave off the business about Shar not testifying in the Andersen appeal, he kept reviewing the file throughout what should’ve been his lunch hour.
Andersen Associates, headquartered in nearby San Jose, had been awarded a contract by the previous presidential administration to rebuild power plants in Kabul, Afghanistan. An investigation by a prominent Internet blogger, Josh Ramsey, had supposedly uncovered work undone and gross overbillings by the company. The suit went to trial and the government won. Andersen appealed, and hired McCone Investigations to provide supporting evidence.
Thelia’s investigation had turned up significant links between Josh Ramsey and a major witness for the prosecution in the case, a CEO of a rival contractor who was vying with Andersen for a second, more lucrative job in the Middle East. Money had changed hands through a lobbyist who had no connection to either party.
Shar had then taken over the case, flying to the East Coast to interview the lobbyist. Nothing had come of that. The CEO of the rival contractor didn’t return phone calls. Josh Ramsey, who lived in Seattle, was the weak link: he broke easily under questioning, gave a deposition, and would be testifying for Andersen in the appeal.
All of it clear-cut.
So why, Craig wondered, did he feel so uneasy about Shar’s testimony?
There’s nothing wrong with her memory or grasp of the facts, Craig.
But what about her emotional state?
When she’d come back to the agency on a limited basis in December, she’d been quick to anger. Of course, she’d always had a short fuse, but this was somehow different. One day he’d knocked and walked into her office, but apparently she hadn’t heard him: she was hunched in the armchair under the fake plant, crying. Not one for crying women, he’d fled without her seeing him.
He should’ve stayed, tried to be a friend. All the things she’d done for him: giving him a job when he’d come west to be with Adah. Taking him down a peg when his stuffy, macho past experience threatened to control him. Bringing Adah on board when the alternative was for them to move to Denver, where the PD had offered Adah a lucrative desk job far from the people they knew and loved.
He thought of the things she’d done for others: keeping Rae Kelleher on as an assistant when Rae had been an emotional mess, supporting Mick through a difficult adolescence. Making allowances for Julia Rafael’s checkered past. Hiring Patrick Neilan when he didn’t really have the qualifications and sending him to a good lawyer when he wanted to sue for full custody after his junkie wife let a cokehead move in with her and their two boys. Taking a personal interest in training all the employees, and caring about their lives.
He remembered the Christmas dinners at Hy’s and her house near the Glen Park district. The way she’d consoled Adah and him when their fat cat, Charley, had died. Even when she’d been in a locked-in state last year, she’d communicated with all of them with her wide, blinking eyes.
Generosity. Love.
And he couldn’t even comfort her.
He’d always shrunk from emotional scenes, probably as a consequence of his staid upbringing. Raised voices, vindictive words, tears, objects hurled and destroyed—they’d had no place in the Morland family. Even when, much to their disappointment, he’d announced he was joining the FBI, neither his mother nor his father objected. It was a noble, patriotic calling—even if it wasn’t the prestigious Big Eight accounting firm they’d hoped for.
Craig often entertained fantasies of taking Adah home to Alexandria as his bride. They’d marry here in California with her parents and their friends in attendance, then go east and totally shock his bigoted, Waspish parents. But he knew they’d eventually be won over by her beauty and infectious personality. Shit, they’d probably love her more than they’d ever loved him.
Not a bad scenario.
But repeatedly, Adah had said no. It had to be done right if it was to be done at all. Her parents loved and accepted him; she would not marry him till his parents felt the same way toward her.
Okay, he thought, tonight he’d pave the way. When he got home he’d e-mail them a photo of Adah and him.
TED SMALLEY
He frowned, contemplating the leaf from the fake ficus in Shar’s office that he’d put on his desk to remind him to call around to nurseries for a living, breathing replacement. He’d gotten involved with other things and now it was after five and too late.
He took Shar’s choice of a live plant as a sign of hope that she was returning to her vital, strong self. And she would have such a plant in her office by tomorrow afternoon. He’d get started on it first thing in the morning.
The pier was quiet, even though he knew others were still working. McCone Investigations occupied the entire upstairs of the north side, and the other businesses that had offices there were what he thought of as silent: architects, clothing designers, editorial services, an acupuncturist. The ringing of their phones was white noise, as were the voices and slamming of car doors at starting and quitting time. Now even that had passed.
Peace, blessed peace.
He began straightening his desk. He and Neal planned a quiet evening at home tonight. Neal’s lasagna—he’d taken over the cooking when he closed his secondhand bookshop and become an online seller—and a remastered DVD of Casablanca that a friend had given them for Christmas. Domesticity—that suited them best.
Ted’s early years in the city had been wild: multiple partners, gay bars, and bathhouses. Lucky he hadn’t contracted AIDS like so many others who’d indulged in a similar lifestyle. While at All Souls, he’d lived in a small room with red-flocked wallpaper, a fake tinned ceiling, and a loft bed shielded by sheer curtains—a den for seductions that he’d decorated himself. But then friends had started dying of that damn disease and he’d become increasingly withdrawn. Most of his evenings had been spent in the kitchen playing cards or board games with the others or watching old movies in the living room late at night with Rae. When Shar moved the agency out of the big Ber
nal Heights Victorian, he’d been happy to go along. By then he’d met Neal and they were planning a life together. A life that worked, most of the time.
But it wouldn’t work if he didn’t get his ass home.
He finished clearing the desk, stacking files and papers into their appropriate places. And then, suddenly, he realized Shar hadn’t come back to the pier since late morning. Adah had rushed down the stairs shortly after noon. She hadn’t come back either.
His hands tensed on the desk edge. Adah he wasn’t worried about, but Shar…?
He called her cell. Out of service, or probably dead; she was always forgetting to charge it. Dialed her house; only the machine was home. Hy’s cell and office number went to voice mail.
Okay, call Adah.
Out of service too.
At their apartment, Craig answered. “Adah’s not here. I’m a little concerned. We’d planned to go to an early movie and then to dinner.”
“When did you last speak with her?”
“Um… not since we arrived at the agency this morning.”
“Separate vehicles?”
“Sure. I never know when I’ll be called out on something and I don’t want her to be stranded.”
“She didn’t tell you where she was going before she rushed out of here around noon?”
“No. I didn’t see her.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s all right.”
“Hope so. Why’re you calling?”
He didn’t want to cause Craig any more uneasiness. “Just a scheduling conflict. Will you ask her to give me a ring when she gets home?”
“Will do.”
Ted hung up and swiveled to face the wall, where a poster from last year’s ZAP Fesitval—zinfandel tasting—hung.
Shar unavailable. Adah late and also unavailable.
Not unusual, but he had a bad feeling about this.
SHARON McCONE
So that’s the situation.”
I sat across a table from Hy in Volpi’s, our favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant. The lighted candle between us emphasized the strong lines of his face, his thick mustache, and the gray streaks in his dark-blond hair. The streaks, I thought, made him even more handsome than when I’d met him. Handsome in a rough-hewn way. He’d aged well, the lines on his face showing equally the pain and joy he’d experienced in his life.
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