Coming Back

by Marcia Muller

  Evidence. Against yet another corrupt defense contractor? TRIAD? Something damning that went straight to the top echelons of US intelligence agencies?

  This was a dangerous thing to have in my possession.

  I removed the chip from the pendant and took it to the upstairs bathroom. Locked it in the old US Navy ammo box that was bolted to the floor in the linen closet, where it joined my old .38 and my grandmother’s garnet earrings. Then I returned to the sitting room.

  Piper hadn’t told Verke to whom she’d given Middleton’s possessions. She said she hadn’t wanted to involve the people at the hospice thrift store, but she nodded off before she could finish the sentence. I could hear her voice adding, Or you.

  Verke by now had figured out she was protecting the recipient of the pendant; odds were, he would guess the gift had been to a friend. But was there a way for him to find out who that friend was?

  Yes. Adah had given Verke her card when she talked with him in the second-floor unit on Tenth Avenue. From the card it was a short step to me. Former CIA ops could find out pretty much everything about people they were interested in. Besides, Piper had no real friends other than me. Melinda Knowles had known that and probably passed on my own card to Verke. By now J. T. Verke would know a thousand other details that would make me his next target. Right now he and his cohorts could be watching this house or the pier. Watching the homes of my operatives. Yes, we were all maxed up on security, but that wouldn’t stop them for long. I needed to make the first strike.

  I went downstairs to wake Hy.

  He lay on his back breathing shallowly and didn’t respond to my touch. I shook him but he didn’t even moan. Must have taken one of those sedatives. No hope for backup from him.

  Upstairs again, I called Chelle and asked her if I could stop by for a few minutes.

  “That’s okay,” she said, “I’m up. Working out the cost estimate for this rehab.”

  Next I called the third-floor apartment at the RI safe house. A reluctant Trish woke Gwen. She came on the phone, her voice heavy with sleep.

  “I won’t keep you up long,” I told her, “but I need to ask you some questions. When was the last time you saw your father?”

  “Um… He stopped by the house a few times after the divorce. But he hasn’t been there for maybe a year and a half.”

  “Where was he living then?”

  “Washington, DC, I think.”

  “You have any idea where he stayed when he was here? A hotel? Motel?”

  “No. I think it was a place that belonged to a friend of his.”

  “You know the friend’s name, or where the place is?”

  “I don’t know the guy’s name. But once… Dad picked me up and brought me to the city for lunch at Cliff House and a walk on Ocean Beach. On the way he stopped at a building on La Playa, a couple of blocks from the zoo, and left me in the car while he went in to get a heavier jacket.”

  La Playa: the residential street that paralleled the Great Highway and the sea.

  “You remember what block it was?”

  “No, but I remember the building. It was one of those weird places that they’re always building near the water—all angles and porthole windows. Painted a pukey yellow.”

  “Did it look like a multiple-unit building?”

  “No. It was really small and narrow. But ugleee.”

  Leave it to TRIAD to house their agents in a distinctive structure. Invincible, they thought they were. Well, arrogance is what finally takes them down every time.

  The rain had stopped when I slipped out the glass door from the bedroom to the backyard, across the slick grass, and through the fence that connected my property with the Curleys’. Chelle’s face peered out the kitchen window, startled.

  “Somebody might be watching my house,” I said. “I’m going to call a taxi to come to this address.”

  “I can drive you; they won’t recognize the rental car.”

  “I’m not so sure of that. You picked me up at the pier.”

  “Shar, there were a dozen vehicles going in and out. And the car is not exactly distinctive.”

  “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “You’re worrying about me again.”

  “With good reason. This is not some ordinary loser skipping out on his child support payments that I’m after.”

  “You think I don’t know that after what’s been going on the past few days? This is the guy who took Adah and Piper, right? Gwen’s father?”

  “Yes. He’s dangerous. Ex-CIA gone rogue.”

  “And if he’s watching your house, where’re you going?”

  “The place where he’s hiding out.”

  “If you know where that is, why don’t you just call the feds and tell them, let them arrest him?”

  “I need evidence he’s there in order for them to get a warrant.”

  Chelle shook her head. “So you’re going there in a taxi, without backup.”

  Now that she’d put it into words, the idea did seem foolish and dangerous. But I didn’t have anyone I could call on for backup: Hy was stone-cold asleep. Julia was thousands of miles away in Hawaii. Mick wouldn’t be any help, and his dad would kill me if I put him in jeopardy. Craig was in Walnut Creek with Adah. None of the other operatives were trained for such a situation. Who did I know that was both bold and good with firearms?

  “I’ve got just the person,” I said.

  Chelle dropped me at Rae and Ricky’s and then went home. Ricky was in LA, and that was a relief; he’d’ve wanted to go along to protect us, but would’ve been as ineffectual as his son in this kind of situation.

  I outlined the case to Rae. She was shocked and angry that I hadn’t called her in sooner to help. “You know, I’m part of the team when it needs me. And Adah’s my friend.”

  “Well, I need you now.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  On the short drive in her little BMW from her house in Sea Cliff to the beach neighborhood, we talked strategy.

  “First we need to identify the house,” I said. “Then we have to figure out if Verke’s there. He may be doing surveillance at the pier or my house, but maybe not. He’s got associates to take care of that.”

  “And if we do find out he’s there, we call the fed in charge of the case.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Shar? I don’t like this.”

  “Don’t like what?”

  “You wanting to go up against this guy yourself.”

  “I just want to get him out in the open. See him.”

  “How’re you going to do that?”

  “Give him something he wants.” I touched the pendant, which I’d put on again before leaving my house.

  “Sure, you’re going to ring his doorbell and hand it to him. And then what—overpower him? I don’t think so. Shoot him? No way that’s justifiable.”

  “You want to back out? I can manage without you.”

  “Don’t go getting all defensive on me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. I’ll help, but I want you to promise me one thing.”

  Oh, hell! Rae and her promises. “What?”

  “That as soon as we spot the house and determine Verke’s home, you call the feds.”

  “After I get him out of there.”

  “No. I won’t stop the car till you promise me.”

  Stubborn as a pit bull.

  We turned onto La Playa. I scanned the first block: parked cars, mostly beaded with moisture from the recent rain, their windshields smeary with salt cake; muted lights in some of the windows; no moving vehicles or pedestrians. The houses here were only on the east side; the west side between it and the highway choked with dune grass and sea grape. The dwellings in the next two blocks were mixed: luxurious-looking stuccos with balconies overlooking the sea; apartments, one unit stacked atop another; small cottages, some little more than shacks; a fair number of what Gwen had called “those weird places that they’re
always building near the water.”

  “You’d think pukey yellow would stand out,” I muttered.

  “It does.” Rae slowed and pointed to the house. We drifted by. There were lights in the front windows and a dark van in the driveway.

  “Now,” she added, “call the FBI.”

  She was going to hold me to it. And I knew I’d be a fool not to. As she drove around the block, I dialed the cellular number on one of the cards Special Agent James Baron had given Craig to pass on to us. Got voice mail.

  “Jesus,” I said. “Aren’t the feds supposed to be available twenty-four-seven? Everybody at McCone Investigations is.” And then I realized I’d spoken into the phone, and the agent had just come onto the line.

  “Sorry,” I said. “This is—”

  “Sharon McCone. I have caller ID.”

  “Agent Baron…” I explained the situation.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Driving around the block where the suspect in the Piper Quinn abduction’s house is situated.”

  “The address, please.”

  I gave it.

  “What kind of vehicle, color, and license plate number?”

  “His or mine?”

  “Yours, please.”

  “Black BMW Z4, convertible, license…?”

  I looked at Rae. She supplied it.

  “Ms. McCone,” Baron said, “I know you’re accustomed to handling things… your own way. One can’t live in San Francisco and not have heard of you. But this time it’s going to be done the Bureau’s way. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve brought up a map of the site on my computer. Drive past the house again and make a right on Taraval. I know it’s a congested area, so double-park or pull in where you can. Our people will be there in ten minutes.” I closed the phone and looked at Rae. “Well, for once I’ve bent to your will.”

  “A good thing too.”

  We rode silently, tension building in the little car. We were both in full watchful mode, monitoring the street around us. Still no traffic here, but a few cars hummed by on the Great Highway and I could hear the restless shifting of the surf.

  Rae turned on Taraval, where the streetcar line stopped and made its turn to travel back into the city center. There was a space only a few yards around the corner. Rae slid the Z4 to the curb.

  I kept my eyes on the street. Once the FBI agents arrived they’d take over and my part in the case would end.

  Strange: Investigations like this were stressful and sometimes frightening. But when one ended, particularly if it slipped into the hands of higher authorities, it left a void that nothing could fill. Gone were the adrenaline highs, the feeling of being on an important mission, the sense of walking on the edge. You were just you again, coping with paperwork and bossing employees and, at home, doing the laundry and taking out the garbage.

  Of course, how much excitement can you handle before your adrenal glands wear out? Somebody should do a study.

  Something dinged, and I started.

  “My watch,” Rae said. “An alarm, because I promised Ricky I wouldn’t work past midnight, whether he’s home or not. He worries about me when I’m on deadline.”

  Midnight?

  It had been a lot more than ten minutes since I’d talked with Baron. Where were the federal reinforcements?

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13

  SHARON McCONE

  I said to Rae, “You don’t suppose they got lost?”

  She shrugged, the little muscles around her mouth tightening.

  “Or are they linked with TRIAD and Verke too?”

  “You don’t know what to believe anymore. I mean, all those years of lies and cover-ups. Didn’t you say the current administration and Congress aren’t aware of this organization? Who knows how far their reach spreads? Or what they might do?”

  “Then it’s best to get out of the car. The feds know exactly where we are.”

  “And then what?”

  “Take the offensive.”

  “Against the FBI—or whoever you spoke to? Are you insane?”

  “Just get out of the car. You don’t have to come with me, but you need to be someplace safe.”

  “The hell I do. I’m in this with you, all the way.”

  That’s my Rae.

  We left the car and went east on Taraval, then turned on Forty-seventh Avenue, the street that paralleled La Playa.

  This was insane, I told myself. Crazy, cracked, berserk, a folie à deux. The words that flowed through my mind could have filled an entire page of Roget’s Thesaurus.

  Rae stopped, touched my arm. “An alley,” she whispered. “Let’s try it.”

  We inched along past garbage bins, a rusted washing machine, and other detritus. Mud sucked at our feet, and we blundered into ankle-deep puddles. Wind whistled between the buildings, its briny smell reminding me of the surreal journey on San Pablo Bay last night. The alley ended in a high fence. We retreated, walked farther along Forty-seventh, and tried another.

  The usual bad smells and stagnant air. I skirted something that looked like a car battery. An animal skittered past us—rat, I thought. Rae nudged me and pointed forward. Another alley lay between the two rows of houses and connected to this one.

  We turned down it, and I became aware of the soft crunch of our shoes on gravel. Then a dog in a nearby yard began barking and pulling at its chain.

  A window opened and a voice shouted, “Shut up, Attila!”

  The dog complied.

  Jesus Christ, the brute couldn’t be better named.

  I spotted Verke’s place a few yards ahead, pointed it out to Rae. She nodded and moved forward with me.

  The property was surrounded by a high fence like the ones to either side. I looked around. The fence on the property to our left was in disrepair. I went over there, found a gap, and motioned to Rae.

  We squeezed through, into a clump of rosebushes. “Shit!” I whispered as thorns pierced my hands.

  From here we had a better view of Verke’s house. Blinds were closed on all the rear windows except for one, where it and the glass were raised about a foot.

  Keeping my eye on the house next door, which appeared to be vacant, I moved along the fence line. Found another loose board and squeezed through. Rae followed. The open window was about ten feet away. Crouching, we approached it.

  I saw movement inside as we eased up to the window, Rae on one side and me on the other. I bent down to peer over the sill.

  J. T. Verke was a few feet away, on his knees. Two men lay inert on the floor in front of him. He was going through one man’s pockets.

  Who were they? Fellow TRIAD operatives, most likely, come to take him to task for bungling an important mission. As Verke’s killing of Melinda Knowles had proved, TRIAD tolerated no mistakes that could reveal them and their goals.

  Verke must have sensed my presence, because suddenly his head came up and he was looking right at me. Eyes as flat and wintery as an ice-bound lake.

  Before I could react, his arm came up fast, and the gun he was holding made a low popping sound. The upper part of the window shattered and glass shards rained down on me. I returned fire twice—no time to aim, trusting to instinct.

  One of the rounds was a lucky shot. Verke pitched backward and slid toward the hallway.

  I let out a heavy breath, felt Rae’s supporting arm around my shoulders. Verke lay motionless. The force of my bullet had knocked the gun from his hand; I saw it some six feet away from him under the overhang of a lower cabinet.

  I got slowly to my feet, raised the window, and Rae gave me a boost up and over. Watching Verke’s still form, I went to pick up his gun and remove the clip. Then, cautiously, I stepped over to him.

  He was alive and conscious, his gray eyes soulless and unblinking as he looked up at me.

  The wound was high on the right side of his chest and there was no arterial blood. I checked his pulse—thready, but he would probably live. I’d shot to kill—i
t’s what you do in a situation like that—but I was relieved not to have one more lost life on my conscience. One fewer nightmare.

  Rae came up beside me. “FBI’s banging on the front door,” she said. “Silly feds probably underestimated their arrival time or got lost. I’ll let them in.”

  I looked at Verke, and his icy eyes stared back at me.

  You don’t care about anything, I thought. Not even this ideology you and the others in TRIAD are supposed to espouse. It’s all about the intrigue and your ability to inflict pain. I’d like to know what made you that way, but I’ve got better concerns in my life.

  Men’s voices rose from the front of the house. Before they came in, I removed Piper’s pendant from my neck and swung it back and forth in front of Verke’s face, then dropped it on his heaving chest.

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 15

  SHARON McCONE

  Today Congress began an investigation into rogue intelligence agencies. Apparently there’re a lot of them out there, composed of “patriots” cut loose by the current administration or angered by its policies. J. T. Verke will be testifying at the hearings; he spilled his guts to federal prosecutors. The microchip that Ryan Middleton smuggled out of Iraq contained proof of rampant covert assassinations, torture, and incitements to uprisings against foreign governments by quasi- and US-sponsored paramilitary organizations. Unfortunately Middleton’s motives were less than altruistic: he had intended to sell the chip to the highest bidder.

  I don’t plan to watch the televised hearings—too depressing. Besides, I’ve done my part of the job.

  Piper has bounced back with her innate resiliency. She’s rented a small house in my neighborhood, has gotten her business back on its feet, and is gradually acquiring new possessions. She and I work out almost daily at a new rehab center that’s opened on Church Street, close to our homes.

  Adah and Craig are getting married next month. He took her back East to meet his parents, and they loved her. They’re coming to the wedding that Barbara and Rupert and Hy and I are cohosting at Touchstone—and I’m to be the matron of honor!

  Mick and Alison are still going hot and heavy. Ted’s new silk fashion statement has worked out well; I think it may become permanent. Gwen Verke is now the Curleys’ foster child. This summer she’s helping Chelle rehab the house on Chenery Street. Ricky forgave Rae for our dangerous mission—he always forgives her, no matter how outrageous her behavior—and she delivered her novel only a few days late.