I, on the other hand, didn’t want to look in the mirror. That stupid white skunk streak in my horrible cropped hair. Wrinkles that I hadn’t possessed before I was shot.
I was seeing a handsome man, but what the hell was he seeing when he looked at me?
Just me, it seemed from the expression on his face when he reached for my hand across the table. Outward appearances weren’t of great importance to Hy; he looked at the person inside.
He said, “You went rushing around so you wouldn’t think about Allie. I know you’re concerned about Piper, but…”
I shrugged. The cat’s death was another in the long chain of losses I’d experienced since last July, and I didn’t want to talk—or think—about any of them.
“So,” Hy said after a moment, “the number on the dry cleaner tag was Piper’s. Good work.”
“Well, if anybody knows about dry cleaners, it’s me.”
He smiled. I’d often commented that I was putting the children of Mr. Omani, whose establishment was three blocks from us on Church Street, through college. Probably those of his employees too. I like silk and wool and pure cotton. They require special care and ironing, but my washer and dryer are old, and years ago, in a fit of rebellion against household chores, I gave my ironing board and iron to Goodwill.
“It’s interesting,” I said, “that a woman whose description matches Melinda Knowles’s picked up a sweater and slacks belonging to Piper when the shop opened this morning. One more last-minute detail taken care of.”
“Funny that a cleanup crew would miss the hanger that you found in the closet.”
The waiter delivered our entrees—eggplant parmigiana. When he’d gone, I said, “It was wedged pretty far into the corner behind the shelf.”
“Still, it’s sloppy work.”
“Cleanup crew. People who remove evidence at the scene of a crime. The government has them, all the big security outfits have them—including RI.”
“Yeah. I’d like to tell you ours was used for good purposes in the past, but it wasn’t always. Not till I took control.”
RI, Ripinsky International, used to be known as RKI—Renshaw & Kessell International. Hy was originally a silent partner who undertook especially risky jobs, such as hostage negotiation. Then Dan Kessell had been killed and Gage Renshaw had made himself disappear, and through the partners’ agreement Hy had become sole proprietor. He’d immediately set about ridding the company of the unsavory personnel and practices that had been prevalent during the Renshaw and Kessell years.
I could imagine what the cleanup crews might have had to deal with back then. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
“Tell me exactly how these cleanups work.”
“A situation comes up—somebody needs to disappear or, in the old days, is made to disappear—and there has to be a cover-up. We send the crew out. An unmarked delivery truck that bystanders might assume is a rental arrives, with five skilled people and all the equipment they need to erase the existence of the client or the victim on board. They go in and out within twelve hours. Nobody knows they’ve ever been there.”
“They dispose of bodies?”
His mouth set in grim lines. “Not ours anymore. But yes, sometimes.”
“What about in the case of a multiple-unit building like Piper’s—how do they get around the other tenants?”
“They can be paid off. Or forcibly replaced. It happens. But here’s a suggestion for you: check to see if all three apartments in Piper’s building were rented, and if so, when. If this was a disappearance long in the planning, whoever engineered it may have moved in their people over a period of time.”
“Good idea!” I couldn’t wait to sit down at my laptop and get started.
“Slow down and eat your food, McCone. It’s getting cold.”
There were several messages from various family members on our machine when we got home. One, from Ma, sounded particularly distraught, so I called her back first. Her husband, Melvin Hunt, had been diagnosed with bladder cancer last summer and, after treatment, it had looked as if he was in remission; now symptoms had recurred and he’d been admitted to the hospital for tests. I offered to come to San Diego, but Ma said no, Charlene was closer and John was right over in the next town. After I confirmed that with them and left a message for Patsy—whose restaurant business kept her on the go—I logged on to the computer. It was better than sitting listening for the pad of Allie’s paws on the hardwood floor.
Piper’s building was owned by a corporation that had large holdings in the Sunset. Managed by City Realty on Kirkham Street in the heart of the district. I went to their Web site and found two rental offerings at that address: the second- and third-floor apartments. There was no mention of the ground-floor unit Piper had occupied. It was as if, along with her, it had never existed.
I considered the apartment: long and narrow, its extra rooms taking up part of the garage. An illegal unit designed to generate under-the-table income? That was possible, but I didn’t think Piper would’ve gone for it; she’d run a business from there, and needed to report rental expenses to the IRS.
So how had someone tampered with the property records?
Easy, in the age of skilled hackers.
Could Mick or Derek, with their forensic computer technology, figure out what had happened? No, to do that you needed access to the machine itself. Of course, with this new search engine they’d created, anything might be possible.
And Mick was only a phone call away.
MICK SAVAGE
Tonight? You want me to do this tonight?”
“Please.” His aunt’s voice could melt chocolate.
But, damn, he was in the middle of something. He’d met this woman—not in one of the clubs, but at Macy’s, of all places, where he’d been buying new socks. Alison Lawton. She was also buying men’s socks because they fit better on her size-ten feet. The feet were not a detraction.
Tall, willowy, long-haired blonde. Spectacular-looking, but nice, genuinely nice. And funny. She didn’t think the less of him when he confided that all of his socks had holes in the toes or heels. He hadn’t protested when she’d stopped him from buying the cheap on-sale ones.
They’d gone for a drink at Scala, off Union Square on Powell Street. She was a stockbroker with Merrill Lynch and was greatly relieved that the economy was turning around. Originally from farm country in Indiana, but now every inch the sophisticated West Coast urbanite. She called her well-tailored black suit and matching low-heeled pumps her “disguise.”
“They can’t get you when you blend in,” she told him, “and black is definitely the way to do it.”
They stayed at the restaurant for dinner, sharing more of the details of their lives. She’d won first prize in Junior Quilting at the state fair. He’d been a star running back at his high school in Pacific Palisades—before he was suspended for hacking into the board of education’s computer system. She’d gone to University of Wisconsin and majored in business and partying. He’d never gone to college and sort of wished he had. She’d been engaged once but broke it off—a nice guy, but boring. He’d lived with a woman whom he had thought was the love of his life, but no longer.
Now they were having coffee at his condo, a place where he’d never expected to entertain a woman again.
He mouthed, “My boss.” To Shar he said, “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?… But I’ve got a friend here…. I know you’re worried, but—Okay, I’ll try.”
He closed the phone, looked at Alison, who was smiling quizzically.
“She’s a tyrant. She’s my aunt and I love her, but she’s a tyrant.”
To his surprise, Alison retained her smile. “She can’t be all that bad.”
“Oh yes she can. She threatened to kill me when I was just a little kid.”
“Why?”
“Because I wouldn’t pick up my toys.”
“Good for her.”
“What?”
“I think I already like your aunt. I b
et she would’ve made you buy new socks long before this.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, you’re telling me to get on with this crazy search of hers?”
“I am. And I’ll let myself out. Tomorrow’s a busy day.”
He felt as if he would wilt on the spot.
“I’ll call you in the afternoon,” she added. “And dinner tomorrow night will be on me.”
Call him? Dinner tomorrow?
You’re back in the game, Savage. Don’t screw up this time.
As the door closed behind Alison, Mick poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down at his workstation.
Apartment building on Tenth Avenue. Names of recent tenants. It was a no-brainer. He should’ve asked Alison to wait.
But an hour later he had to concede he was up against something that outstripped his considerable abilities. Up against something bigger than he’d ever contended with before.
ADAH JOSLYN
Her limbs were cramped and aching, the back of her head throbbed, and her nostrils were clogged with a strange odor. Dust and something else… what?
She breathed deeply. Dry-cleaning fluid. The same kind of stuff she stuck in the special bag with her sweaters and whirled in the dryer because it supposedly worked as well as the professional process, except that it didn’t.
Where the hell was she? She remembered earlier thinking about Shar in hot pursuit of a maniacal dry cleaner. Ridiculous.
Darkness all around her. Small space—she could feel it. Surface on which she was lying probably carpeted. But why wouldn’t her arms and legs work? She bent her fingers, felt her wrists.
Duct tape—that miraculous invention. She’d patched pipes, repaired furniture, even hemmed jeans with it. And now somebody had used it to truss her up.
“Shit!” she said. The word echoed hollowly around her.
“Help!” she yelled.
The effort made her head hurt even more and brought no response.
She listened for sounds. Only a heavy silence. Wherever she was, hollering wasn’t going to attract any attention.
She wriggled around and arranged herself as comfortably as possible—which wasn’t very. So what had happened to her? She forced her sluggish mind to recall.
Okay, she’d been on the second-floor landing of a building—Shar’s friend’s building. And she’d met the large woman she’d earlier seen leaving. They’d fought, and the woman was incredibly strong and had battered her pretty well. Who was she?
Eva. That was the name the man in the apartment above had called down to her.
But who the hell were they? And why had Eva shot her up with the stuff in that goddamn hypodermic needle? And how had she gotten here—wherever here was?
Dry-cleaning fluid. She sniffed again. It wasn’t on her clothes or in the air, it was in her system. Some chemicals, when injected, could cause such an odor.
Oh God, those drugs weren’t easily available on the open market. As she’d suspected, she was dealing with pros here. But what kind of pros? And what did they want with her?
And Shar? Had they grabbed her too?
So damn many questions…
She needed to pee. She repressed the urge, focusing on trying to free herself. But she couldn’t get any of the tape off. Her fingers were half numb and she tore two nails down to the quick.
Give it up, focus on the surroundings.
A roughly six-by-four-foot space with a thickish mat on the floor and a low ceiling. The walls were metal; she bumped her head against one and the hollow noise told her that. Storage locker, maybe. Where? In the garage of Piper Quinn’s building? That would make sense. Keep her inside, out of sight of the neighbors, then dispose of her by car.
Dispose.
The word made her shudder.
It was totally dark in here. Probably dark outside too; she had that middle-of-the-night feeling. By now Craig would suspect something had gone wrong; she never stayed away from home this long without calling. He’d contact Shar, who would tell him about this building. Unless he couldn’t contact her. Unless something had happened to her too.
Please let somebody come looking for me soon!
Her bladder felt as if it were going to burst. She forced her attention again to the events of the morning, tried to piece them into a coherent sequence.
The empty apartment. The man in the second-floor unit. The woman on the stairs who had attacked her. Why, when she couldn’t have had any idea of Adah’s identity? Or had she? The man on the second floor had her card, might have put in a quick call to the woman.
Popping noises—two of them—startled her. They were muted, though. Could’ve been a car backfiring outside.
Or gunshots.
She squirmed around, trying to find the best position to lie in while she continued to try to pick at the duct tape.
A door opened, then made a hissing sound as it closed—one of those pneumatic devices. Footsteps slapped on what sounded like concrete. Something rattled and clicked. Someone removed what must be a padlock from a hasp and pulled open the storage unit door. Fluorescent light momentarily blinded her.
Massive dark figure filling the open space. It leaned in over her, hands grabbed her and rolled her on her side. She felt a stick in her upper arm.
Oh God, not again!
From the point where the needle had gone in, she felt the drugs coursing through her blood. She willed herself to resist, but it did no good.
Just before she lost consciousness, she caught the faint but unmistakable odor of cordite coming from her captor’s clothing.
HY RIPINSKY
Shar had gone to bed, taking her cellular with her in case Mick called back with the information she’d requested. After he was reasonably sure she was asleep, he went down there and silenced its ringer. Then he unplugged the bedroom extension of their landline. She’d be furious at him for that, but she needed her rest.
Subterfuge. So it had come down to that.
He sighed and went back upstairs. Got an IPA from the fridge and sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace. The house seemed empty without Allie, whom he’d buried early that morning next to her brother, Ralph, under the pines at the far lot line. Buried her with Shar standing by.
She hadn’t cried, only silently placed a few dried flowers on the grave and gone back to the house. And she hadn’t mentioned Allie the entire evening or responded to his attempts to talk about the cat. That bothered him more than most things so far. His wife was a passionate woman: she loved fiercely, whether the target object of her emotions was human or animal, and she’d treasured Allie. He was afraid she’d channel this loss into finding out what happened to Piper Quinn.
And that was just too damn risky.
Pro job, he’d thought the moment she’d told him what she’d found at Piper’s apartment building that morning. Removal, maybe by a government agency or some organization with covert ties. He knew all about such actions, dating back to his time in post-Vietnam Southeast Asia. Orders were issued, people disappeared or died, and no one was held accountable.
And it had continued to the present day, sometimes more frequently, sometimes less, but always there—a ripple on the smooth surface of what people thought of as normality. Yes, the players were different from year to year, decade to decade, and the current administration had taken steps to curb abuses, but how could they curb something so elusive that they might not even have knowledge of its existence?
Shar had to give up on Piper. He’d explain. She’d listen.
Outwardly she would. But privately she’d dig and dig and then—
He put the scenarios of what might happen out of his mind. He’d control this situation somehow.
Yeah, right.
He needed distraction, so he made a call he’d been intending to all week, dialed the number of the manager at the ranch they owned in the high desert country near Tufa Lake. Everything was fine, Ramon Perez told him. The sheep had yeaned, and the little ones were prancing in th
eir pasture. The horses were wintering well; Ramon had been doctoring Sharon’s favorite, King, for a split hoof, but wasn’t worried enough to have the vet come out.
“Do it anyway,” Hy said. “Our cat died last night, and another loss is just what she doesn’t need.”
“Of course.” Ramon’s voice softened. “How is Sharon doing?”
They discussed her for a few minutes, Hy downplaying his discontent and fearfulness. Ramon had had troubles of his own—the loss of one niece and sister-in-law, and the near loss of his favorite niece, Amy. Amy was living with Ramon and his wife, Sara, now, had a decent job, and was filling out college applications, but Hy knew what a difficult balance she walked between drugged-out and promiscuous teenager and sober, responsible adult. Knew that Ramon worried about her every day of his life. No need to burden him with his own problems.
Of course, after they ended their conversation, he realized he hadn’t fooled Ramon one bit. Probably wasn’t fooling anybody else either.
The phone rang five minutes later. Craig Morland. Without preamble he asked, “Have you or Shar seen Adah?”
“Shar talked with her this morning.” He related what she’d told him about calling Adah from Piper’s apartment, then rushing off before Adah arrived there when she found the dry cleaner’s tag on the hanger. “She’s been calling her cell all day, but it’s out of service.”
“And Shar isn’t worried about her?” Craig’s voice had gone from anxious to deadly cold.
“Of course she is.”
“Funny way of showing it. She hasn’t called here at all.”
“I’m sure she’s—”
“Stuff it, Ripinsky. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting fed up with everything being all about Shar. She wants something, we hop to deliver. She screws up, we pretend it doesn’t matter. Lots of people get shot; lots of people almost die and have difficult recoveries. But come on, man….”
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