I covered her and looked around the garage for a weapon. None visible. I stepped over a cardboard carton and scrutinized the shelves that lined the far wall. Paint cans with hardened drips, a lamp with its socket and bulb hanging, various mostly rusty tools, garden supplies. I didn’t want to compromise the scene any more than I already had, so I took out my phone and called 911.
Shortly before the first squad car arrived, I called Chelle and alerted her to what had happened. “Do you think you could come down here and comfort a thirteen-year-old?”
“Sure. Be right there.”
Chelle was going to be a big asset until my driver’s license was reinstated. Maybe until she got her real-estate empire going.
My cell rang. Hy.
“Where the hell are you? Why haven’t you checked in? It’s bad enough with Adah missing—”
“I’m following up on a lead. Any news about Adah or Piper?”
“I’d’ve called if there was. But you, it’s late, and I’ve heard nothing. Didn’t you think I’d be worried about you?”
“Of course, if I’d had time to think. But, Ripinsky, I’m onto something—”
“Something more important than me being reassured of your safety?”
He was right, but this scenario was getting old, I was tired, and I had a lot to contend with.
“I’m not a little kid who needs to check in with her daddy, Ripinsky.” The words came spilling out, ungoverned.
Silence. I knew he was gritting his teeth, taking time to formulate a reply. Hy never impulsively lashed out like I did.
“Okay,” he said at length. “Where’s the MG? You’re not driving it, are you?”
“No, I’m not driving. The MG is with Ted. I borrowed his Smart car. And Chelle is driving it.”
“Chelle?”
A plainclothesman was looking impatiently at me.
“Yes, I hired her as my driver. I’ll explain later. Right now I’m in the middle of something.”
“What? Where?—”
“I’ll call you.”
The detective approached me. In that instant I decided I would tell him I’d come to interview Verke because he was a witness to a minor property-damage case. No more than that.
HY RIPINSKY
He paced around the kitchen, trying to calm himself. Then he smashed his fist into the stovetop, winced, and cradled it against the pain. When his hand had stopped throbbing, he called next door to Michelle Curley’s house. Yes, her mother told him, Chelle had phoned and said Shar had hired her as a driver. They were in the South Bay, Cupertino.
Great. An eighteen-year-old had the sense to let her family know her whereabouts, but not his wife.
Shar had said she’d borrowed Ted’s car and the MG was with him. Well, he could understand why: the restored classic was too noticeable and over the past year had had spates of unreliability. Maybe she’d told Ted exactly where she was going and why.
He tried Ted’s number, but the line was busy. Still busy five minutes later.
The hell with it. He grabbed his jacket and headed out. Inaction wasn’t his strong suit—never had been.
Plum Alley was one of San Francisco’s hidden treasures. A short block perched high on Tel Hill, with splendid Art Deco buildings on one side, and a sheer drop-off on the other. Sweeping bay views and very little parking.
He was driving a new Range Rover, purchased just the month before when his Mustang had crapped out. It was a great all-purpose vehicle, but no way was it going to fit into any of the slim spots on the alley. He had to park three blocks away from Ted’s building, and even then it was a squeeze.
Still, it felt good to get out and walk in the cold, suddenly foggy air. It would clear his head. Cool his anger too.
Why? he thought. Why, why, why?
The word took on a cadence with the pounding of his feet on the sidewalk.
Why wouldn’t Shar let him in? Let him help her?
What had happened to their closeness? And her closeness to the others who cared about her?
Trying to prove something. To herself, to him, to the rest of them. To the world.
Trying to prove she was the woman she used to be.
Wouldn’t he, under the circumstances, do the same? Suppose he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, as Shar had. Been shot and spent months in a locked-in state, where he could hear, feel, and think, but never respond. Made his way back in spite of the serious medical and emotional handicaps. And then found that even those closest to him had lost faith in his abilities.
He wouldn’t do well at all. He’d rail at the injustice of it; wallow in self-pity; then buck up and go crashing forward as if nothing had changed. But it would have—forever, in certain ways—and eventually he’d have to accept that.
Crashing forward was the stage Shar was at, he thought. But it was verging on acceptance: Hiring Chelle to drive her. Investigating within her abilities. Asking Adah’s help when she came up against something she couldn’t handle.
So why couldn’t she rely on him?
He thought of her words on the phone: I’m not a little kid who needs to check in with her daddy, Ripinsky.
They echoed in his mind, unpleasantly clear. He had been acting more of a father to her than a husband, best friend, and lover. The others had taken on the roles of doting aunts and uncles. And she—the indulged child—had finally rebelled.
He entered the courtyard of Ted’s building, rang for the creaky gilded elevator in its glass block enclosure, and waited. Maybe Ted could help him make sense of the situation.
“I think I know what she’s up to,” Ted said. “I did a little detecting tonight.”
They were seated in big thirties-style armchairs in his living room, each holding what Ted called a “therapeutic beer.”
God, Hy thought, he must’ve looked like a maniac when Ted opened the door. His first reaction after he admitted him was to go to the kitchen and return with the bottles.
“So what did you detect?” he asked.
He knew that in recent years Ted had flirted with becoming an investigator. But he also knew Ted would never consider abandoning his post as Grand Poobah of the agency to become an operative. McCone Investigations was his kingdom, which he ruled benevolently.
Ted said, “I made a list of possibilities and then I accessed the files on the case, as well as Shar’s e-mail. There’s a file from Derek on it. Preliminary backgrounding on a J. T. Verke and, later, all the Verkes in the area.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know where she got the name, but it must have something to do with Adah’s disappearance. Piper’s too.”
“Does this J. T. Verke live in Cupertino?”
“That’s what the property search said.”
Hy shook his head. Shar was back on the job big-time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he wouldn’t try to stop her. Not anymore.
“You want to see the report?” Ted asked.
Hy hesitated. He’d never understood the agency’s policy of open access to other people’s files. They all cooperated on certain cases, but there was bound to be sensitive information that shouldn’t be shared. Of course, his skepticism said a lot about his own organization: high-level international security firms depended on the trust of their clients; absolute discretion was a necessity. No one at RI but Hy—not the managers of the branch offices around the world, not even his most loyal assistants—could tap into everything that was contained in their database. The words “on a need-to-know basis” were gospel.
“No. McCone’s on top of this one. Anything from Craig?”
“Nothing since this morning—not surprising. He’s a solitary investigator, likely to hold back information, particularly now, when it concerns Adah’s safety.”
Safety? What was safety? Hy didn’t know anymore. And maybe he never had.
All those years making runs that would’ve burned out the typical charter pilot. The massacre at the jungle airstrip. The short time he was ma
rried to Julie, never feeling secure because he knew she was going to die of multiple sclerosis. His out-of-control behavior at the environmental protests after she passed, the jail time. And then there was McCone….
They’d endured dangerous and scary times, but they’d also had periods of peace. Long, lazy days at Touchstone. Soaring through perfect skies. Riding across the meadow at the ranch. Loving each other.
And then a bullet to her brain had changed it all….
Ted interrupted his painful train of thought. “Mick’s under the radar too, but I think he had a date.”
“A date?”
“Don’t look so censorious. You were young and horny once too.”
Hy smiled at the memories Ted’s statement called up. “Yeah, and now I’m middle-aged and horny.”
Ted gave him an enigmatic smile. “Back to the investigation. I want you to look at the list I made earlier….”
MICK SAVAGE
Alison’s condo was not one of the priciest in the Millennium Tower—those were on the higher floors, culminating in penthouses that cost upward of twelve million—but it was spacious and well laid out, and the views were spectacular. The dinner had been catered by the five-star Michael Mina restaurant—RN74—on the ground floor.
“I got lucky,” Alison told him as they sat sipping wine and watching the city lights through a swirling fog. “The units here went on sale at the depth of the recession, and they were offering a fifteen percent discount. My grandma had died and left me enough for a down payment—so here I am.”
He’d been comparing this to his own condo: hers was urban chic, his old and shabby. Alison’s place had natural beechwood floors, towering high ceilings, huge glass walls, limestone windowsills, granite counters, and Wolf appliances in the kitchen. But now he took a closer look around and noticed the sparse furnishings and lack of pictures on the walls. And when he’d arrived the absence of cooking smells made everything seem sterile.
Alison interpreted his glance. “Yeah, I can’t afford to buy good furniture, so I’m doing it one piece at a time. I don’t know, Mick, when I first saw the condo I fell in love with it. But now I’m wondering if I didn’t fall in love with a lifestyle. And I’m not sure it suits me.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a country girl from Indiana, as I’ve told you. Came here and bought into the big-city dream. So now I’ve got more space than I can fill, a twenty-four-seven concierge ready to book reservations or buy theater tickets I don’t want, a health club I don’t have the time to use, and the people… I don’t have anything in common with them. It’s not the right fit for me, but I don’t know what is.”
Her brow was creased, her mouth turned down. She looked so genuine and earnest that it warmed him. He moved closer—
And his phone rang.
He’d already told Alison that he would have to take any calls that came in tonight, since there was a crisis at the agency. He grimaced and answered it. Hy.
“I know you’re on a date, but we can really use your help.”
“I told Ted I’d be available.”
“Derek did a preliminary backgrounding for Shar on a J. T. Verke, last-known address Valle Vista Street in Cupertino. I can’t reach him—Derek, I mean—so…”
“Okay, all you have is the initials?”
“Correct.”
“It’s not a common last name, but still… Let me run it. Any profession you want me to index it to?”
“Security, all types.”
“I’ll get back to you soon.” He turned to Alison. “Something I’ve got to do.” He’d told her no details of the case, but stressed that it was urgent.
“I understand.”
Did she? Most women wouldn’t, not on the first real date.
“Really, I do.” She squeezed his arm. “Call me when you get the chance.”
“The dinner was wonderful. Next time it’s at my place. Nothing fancy, but I’m a pretty good cook….” Jesus, he was babbling!
“Mick, go do what you have to.”
A dismissal, or an invitation to resume at a future time? Damn, he wished he could read women like he could a computer.
Even with the new software it was taking a long time to get anything on J. T. Verke.
He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the situation. Behind him the TV muttered. He’d turned it on when he came back to his condo. He did that a lot now that he lived alone, mainly for background noise. Symptom of the lonely man he was becoming—would become, if Alison blew him off. He didn’t think he had the heart to make many more forays into the urban singles scene.
The program was still running. He glanced over his shoulder at the TV.
National news—dull. Thank God. On that front, less was more.
He checked the search, listened to the state news. Same as usual—screwups and more screwups. Local news—
He swiveled around and stared at the TV screen.
A bagged body was being removed from a crappy-looking house in the South Bay. Cupertino.
Female victim, unidentified. Shot point-blank in the heart. Discovered in the attached garage by the homeowner’s daughter. Homeowner’s name being withheld until he could be contacted.
And there she was in the background.
He groaned.
His aunt. She’d goddamn done it again!
ADAH JOSLYN
She scrabbled back into a corner just before the door opened and she saw the same dark bulky shape that had leaned into the storage space silhouetted against a very dim light behind him. The bulb that she’d left on in the bathroom didn’t reach far enough to illuminate his features. He didn’t speak, just set something on the floor and backed out. She smelled food—beef and onions. Potatoes.
Adah remained still, listening. The only sound was the dripping and an occasional creak.
After a moment her hunger got the better of her and she crawled over to whatever the man had left her. A tray, containing a burger, fries, and a bottle of water. She warned herself to go slow; it was heavy food and wouldn’t stay down if she wolfed it. When she’d finished, she felt queasy anyway.
She groped along the clammy wall and into the bathroom, sure she’d throw up. The food stayed down, however uncomfortably. After a while she felt better and once again began to search for something she might use as a weapon when her captor returned.
One of the bolts that held the toilet in place might be effective, but she’d examined them before, found them rusted in place. Now she set about loosening them, but only succeeded in breaking her last remaining long fingernail.
Well, shit.
She listened, heard the dripping sound again. It didn’t come from any of the fixtures. What was this place anyway? It reminded her of a sleeping compartment on a train, although marginally larger. The facilities were old, maybe of 1980s vintage or earlier; the floors in the bathroom were a linoleum popular back then. The paneling in the other room was cheap veneered stuff, and some of it had been pulled away, exposing seamed and riveted metal.
Her clothes reeked and her armpits smelled of sweat. Again she considered using the shower, then discarded the idea. Her reflexes were poor and her mind wasn’t working too well. If her captor surprised her, she wouldn’t be able to focus on defending herself. The aftereffect of the drugs, she supposed.
Earlier she’d thought she was only minutes from being killed, but now she’d been fed. Apparently her captor was going to let her live a while longer.
Why? What good was she to him? Why, for that matter, had she been allowed to live at all?
No-brainer.
He’d seen her ID. He knew who she was. Operative with McCone Investigations, former SFPD homicide investigator. She’d been a big deal while with the department because she was a woman and black—half Jewish too—and they’d trotted her out for a lot of photo ops. Whoever this guy was must assume that if he killed her and her body was found, they’d hunt him down ruthlessly.
Little did he know.
Well, that was a bargaining point if she ever got to talk with the man. Or the woman—Eva—who’d injected her in the first place. But all her instincts told her the guy was alone, had been for some time now.
Of course, there might be another reason he wanted her alive: he thought she had information about Piper’s disappearance or Piper herself. But then why hadn’t he interrogated her? Was he saving her for someone else, perhaps a person who’d hired him?
She resumed her search, this time for something stronger than her fingernails to pry the toilet bolts loose. But she quickly became disoriented and off balance, her vision blurred.
Bastard had probably put something in the bottled water.
She was barely able to crawl to the makeshift bed before she passed out.
MICK SAVAGE
He was making progress on the J. T. Verke search when somebody pounded on the condo’s door. He went over there in bare feet, looked through the peephole. Craig.
When he opened the door Craig rushed through. “I’ve got a sketch of the perp,” he said, “and I’ve scanned it and sent it out to the appropriate people. But I need you to see if you can identify him.”
Mick motioned to his monitor. “I’m in the middle of a search. Can’t interrupt it.”
“Derek, then. Get Derek to help out.”
The man sounded desperate. He hadn’t shaved or changed his clothes or combed his hair since the morning Adah disappeared. Mick said, “You look like you could use some food or a drink.”
Craig waved the suggestion away. “What I need is somebody to help me identify this sketch.”
Mick studied it. The man looked vaguely familiar. “Where’d you get this?”
He listened as Craig explained. “McCone’s onto something too,” he added. “She was canvassing the same area.”
“You bet she’s onto something.” He related what he’d seen on the news. “I haven’t been able to reach her, but I suspect this murder has to do with J. T. Verke, the guy I’m running the search on.”
Coming Back Page 10
