Ice and Stone

by Marcia Muller

  10:05 p.m.

  Exhausted, I went home to my house on Avila Street in the Marina district.

  The house is on a corner lot, Spanish Revival style, and Hy and I had been lucky to buy it just before the real estate prices in San Francisco went berserk. The tech boom in Silicon Valley had lured many young instant multimillionaires into the city, and they bought and bought and bought without any understanding of what property was actually worth. As a result we have a ton of overvalued homes that will go for pennies on the dollar if and when the tech bubble bursts.

  I left my car in the driveway and let myself in by the front door. The house was still warm from the afternoon sun, and totally silent. Then I heard the sound that Hy and I call “thundering cat hooves,” and two black furballs tumbled down the stairway. Alex and Jessie launched themselves at me, purring and mowling and rubbing against my legs. Jessie gave me love bites through my jeans.

  “Okay, take it easy, you guys.” I followed them into the kitchen and refilled their bowls with kibble and water, poured myself a glass of Deer Hill Chardonnay, sat at the table, and watched as they scarfed up their meal.

  There was no evidence that Habiba had been here. Maybe she’d changed her mind about accepting my invitation. If she did move in, I hoped she wouldn’t be planning on a long stay. For a while we’d had a young friend, Chelle Curley, and her cat living with us. But Chelle, a rehabber of old houses, had found one that she wanted for her own and was now living across town in Ashbury Heights. Chelle hadn’t been with us long, but even so the house had seemed crowded.

  After a while I relaxed enough to check my personal voice mail messages, all of which had been left before the shooting at M&R.

  My birth father, Elwood, calling from the Flathead Reservation in Montana. “Daughter, I am doing as you advised me—calling more often. When you assemble your thoughts, please call back.”

  My birth mother, Saskia Blackhawk, an attorney in Boise. “Sharon, Elwood’s worried about you, and he’s driving me crazy. Do something about him!”

  I smiled, glad they were close enough that he could pester her with his worries. Elwood and Saskia had a one-night stand during a visit she made to the rez that resulted in my conception, but she—a student with very little money—decided to put me up for adoption. My adoptive parents, distant relatives of hers, raised me as one of theirs—in hindsight a bad decision because I was a dark-skinned and -haired child amid four blond Scotch-Irish siblings. As proof of my superior detecting abilities, I fell for their story that I was a genetic throwback until my thirties, when the truth finally came out.

  Now we were all family. I’d learned that I had a half sister, Robin Blackhawk, an attorney here in the city, and a half brother, Darcy. Robin had become a good friend, but Darcy was the problem child, having worn out his welcome at most of the facilities for schizophrenics west of the Mississippi. Saskia, Robin, and I periodically obsessed about what we’d do with him next, then decided that we’d march on east.

  There were also messages from my sister Patsy, who was about to open her third restaurant—in Sonoma County, which meant she was getting closer to me year by year. My friend Carolina Owens, just to chat. My niece Jamie, a performer like her father, Ricky Savage, asking me to attend a concert she’d been part of in San Jose last night. Another friend, Linnea Carraway, a TV newscaster in Seattle, excited about a promotion.

  I considered keeping the recording to replay when I was feeling alone and unloved.

  Mick called several minutes later. “About that sample your pilot friend brought me. I just heard from the guy who works nights at a lab I took it to. The stuff is called Arbritazone, a rare earth element—a powerful antipsychotic drug and sedative, administered in only the most extreme cases. Doctors who prescribe it are mainly psychiatrists, but there’s also a large black market for it, as there is for most psychoactive drugs.”

  Why would Jake have had such a drug? I’d seen nothing in his background that would indicate he was consulting a psychiatrist. Had he gotten it on the black market? Why?

  “Can you track down the sample’s source?”

  “I’ll try. But I bet nobody is going to own up to it. Not putting the patient’s or doctor’s name on a prescription is a no-no in this state.”

  10:25 p.m.

  The doorbell rang. Now who could that be at this hour? My address is not publicly available, but in this technological age there’s no such thing as privacy. Anybody can find out pretty much anything about anybody on the Internet.

  The ringing continued. I went to the door, thinking it might be Habiba, but then a familiar male voice called out to me: my symbolic cousin, Will Camphouse. He held a miniature white rose plant in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

  “I heard what went on at the agency,” he said, “and thought you might be in need of some cheer.”

  “Thank you.” I hugged him, ushered him in. “It’s all over the news, right?”

  “Yeah. You have any idea what that bastard’s motive was?”

  “No, I can’t figure it. The cops assume it was linked to one of Hy’s cases. He may know when he gets back from Mexico.”

  “Crazy business. Where were you when it happened?”

  “Meruk County. I came back because of the attack. And I’m not getting anywhere on the case I’m working up there.”

  “So you’re staying down here permanently?”

  “No. I’ll be going back up there pretty soon.”

  “Well, you look like you could use a snort right now.” He brandished the wine bottle.

  “You’ve always been so elegant with words. And thank you for the roses.”

  “I know yellow roses are Hy’s purview,” he said, “so I thought white might be better.” He was referring to my husband’s longtime practice of sending me a single yellow rose—my favorite—every Tuesday morning, a Tuesday being the day we’d met.

  “They’re perfect. I have an empty space in the garden just waiting for them.”

  Will and I had encountered one another on the Flathead Reservation in Montana when I’d first gone there to meet Elwood. We struck up a friendship and tried to figure out if we were related. Native bloodlines being as tangled as they are, we finally gave up and decided we were cousins, if only symbolically. At the time Will had been visiting the rez and working at an ad agency in Tucson; later he’d moved to San Francisco and opened his own firm. What with my brother John and former brother-in-law, Ricky, having moved here, and Patsy getting closer every year, I felt as if I’d become a pivotal point for the entire family. Which can be…well, good or bad, depending on who’s on good terms and who’s feuding with whom.

  I went to the kitchen, opened his wine, fetched glasses. Will settled onto the sofa in front of the fireplace, and I knelt and stirred the wood until the flames flared.

  He said, “The case you’re working on concerns the murder of those two Native women?”

  “Yes. The reason I’m not getting anywhere is the atmosphere up there—it’s toxic.”

  “In what way?”

  “Hard to put into words. All these rumors floating around about the murders, but few people are willing to talk about them. Law enforcement that’s antagonistic to Natives. Rich ranchers who are after something, but I can’t figure what.”

  Will took a swallow of wine. “Killings of Native women aren’t confined to Meruk County—they’ve been going on for twenty years or more and extend north into Canada. There was a recent statement from Prime Minister Trudeau that the Canadian government is beginning a stepped-up investigation of them. Also, the US attorney general has announced a nationwide plan—the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Persons Initiative—that would involve the FBI in investigating the cases.”

  “Wish somebody would step it up in California.” I set the poker down and leaned against the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. “In Meruk County there seems to be a prevailing attitude among law enforcement officials that crimes involving Natives don’t matter
. Every time I come up against a mind-set like that, I realize we’re not the humanitarians we pride ourselves on being.”

  “Well, since the murders and disappearances have been going on for twenty or more years, they can’t be linked to the same perp or perps. The Canadian crimes were the first—who knows how many. Next, two murders and an indeterminate number of disappearances in Washington state, a murder in Oregon, and ten reported disappearances. The two in Meruk are only the most recent. Any more disappearances up there recently?”

  “One that I know of, five days ago. She could be victim number three.”

  “So if you confine these crimes to the United States, you have an indefinite number of Native women disappearing over, say, a twenty-year period. I wonder if there are any international statistics.” Will drank again, looking grimly thoughtful. Then he took out his phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Friend of mine back east.”

  “It’s way past midnight there—”

  He waved for me to be silent. “Hey, Lily,” he said into the phone. “I know it’s late, but…Well, right, you old night owl.”

  I listened as Will explained the situation.

  “If you can run those figures, I’d appreciate it,” he said. “There’s a case of that wine you like from St. Francis in it for you…Yeah, love you too. I’ll wait to hear.”

  “Love you?” I asked when he disconnected, raising my eyebrows.

  “An old friend with benefits. Lily’s an analyst at Quantico; she doesn’t pass on sensitive information, but I doubt what I’m asking her is anything the papers wouldn’t be able to find out and print if they found it newsworthy.”

  “But they don’t bother to print it. Natives, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  We sat mostly silent for a while, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire.

  Half an hour later his phone rang. He listened, then said, “That’s too bad. Can you access any more on the individual cases? Anything about the legislative crap? …Yeah, I can wait awhile; this stuff’s been going on for generations, but McCone and I would sure like to shine some light on it soon. Also, there’s this Indian Restitution Organization…They aren’t? Well, that’s good. Thanks, love. Talk soon.”

  He closed the phone. “The Restitution Organization’s defunct. Lily feels there’s been a lock put on the information about these cases, but she’ll keep trying and e-mail me what she already knows. You hungry?”

  “I don’t remember when I last ate.”

  “Cheeseburgers? Greasy old curly fries? Other stuff that the health police would arrest us for?”

  I nodded.

  He opened his phone again. “I happen to have an app for twenty-four-hour home delivery of just those things.”

  11:52 p.m.

  “So,” Will said, munching on a cheeseburger, “Native women in all types of communities—cities, suburbia, country, and reservations—are murdered at ten times the national average. As for disappearances, there aren’t any accurate records, but it’s thought to number in the thousands over the past fifty years.” Lily had just e-mailed him the promised reports.

  “Do they say what that’s attributable to?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Poor response from law enforcement agencies, as you’ve seen up in Meruk. Prosecutors have declined to pursue around fifty-two percent of crimes against Natives. Then there’re the legal loopholes, such as the one that allows non-Native offenders immunity from crimes they commit on Indigenous lands.”

  “How can they do that?”

  “Once the perps are off the rez, they aren’t culpable. It’s the law—made by whites.”

  “That sucks.” I dipped a fry in ketchup, looked at it, and put it back on my plate.

  “Yeah, it does. There’s a nationally based organization similar to your Sisters—the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women. You know about them?”

  “Yes. The Sisters told me and I checked their website.” I yawned. “I’m running out of steam, Will. Let’s call it a night.”

  “Sure. You go upstairs, get some sleep. I’ll clean up and let myself out.”

  I went up and checked the guest room to see if Habiba was there.

  She wasn’t, but her stuff was piled around. So at least for a while, we had a boarder. Then I took Will’s advice and went to bed.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 10

  8:40 a.m.

  Another call from Mick, this one dragging me out of sleep. The first thing he said was, “You going back to that godforsaken county today?”

  Half-awake, I could only grunt at him.

  “I mean, I’ve arranged an appointment for you in Berkeley if you can haul your ass out of bed.”

  “Where in Berkeley?”

  “Telegraph Avenue and Bancroft Way. Subject’s meeting you on the northwest corner.”

  “What subject? Who?”

  “Guy called Max Kennedy, Josie Blue’s former boyfriend. I located him as you asked, and he’s willing to talk to you.”

  “Kind of tight for parking around there.”

  “If you pick me up, I can just go around the block a couple of times; it shouldn’t take you more than fifteen minutes.”

  “All right. What time?”

  “The meeting’s at ten o’clock. Better hurry.”

  10:02 a.m.

  Mick drove my car to Berkeley after I picked him up. My nephew is over six feet and handsome like his father, blond like his mother, and we both harbor some amusing memories of our times together. Two of them he claims have emotionally scarred him for all eternity. The first is when I dropped him on his head while babysitting. (He was okay, just screamed for a while.) And the second is when I threatened to kill him if he didn’t pick up his toys. (He picked them up, then threw them out an upstairs window when my back was turned. Since he didn’t believe my threats when he was four, I’ve never used that ploy again.)

  Today he seemed in an unusually bad mood. “Look at this weather,” he grumbled. “January—the hell with it. I wish we could skip the whole month.”

  “But then there’s February.”

  “Yeah. And March.”

  “Well, February at least has Valentine’s Day.”

  “For you it does.”

  I smiled; I’d been waiting for an opportunity to find out how his love life was going.

  “Shar, why are you doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “That thing that you do with your face when you’re trying to drag information out of me. Sometimes I feel like a suspect in a police interrogation.”

  “Have you done anything that would make you a suspect?”

  “Dammit, stop it! You’re so nosy…Okay, Naomi and I broke up. Two weeks ago. So I don’t have anybody to celebrate Valentine’s Day with.”

  “What happened?” I liked Naomi, a teacher who worked with disabled kids in the local school district.

  “The usual—she found somebody else.”

  Over the years Mick has had a string of women friends, including a couple that I’d thought might be long term, but none lasted. His irregular hours, lack of elementary skills such as cooking and cleaning, and excessive devotion to televised sports had all been cited as reasons for the breakups. But I suspected it was something else: Mick didn’t relate on an emotional level.

  He’d been deeply scarred by the overly publicized end of his parents’ marriage as well as his father’s union with Rae, whom he’d previously thought of as his friend and colleague. He’d felt a responsibility for his five siblings, but they’d proved resilient to the turmoil in their young lives. The home he’d bought on Potrero Hill had been vandalized by a criminal who had taken it to be mine.

  Now he owned a condo in one of the new South Beach high-rises, a few floors above his uncle, my older brother, John. But John said he seldom saw him, unless he sought him out. His mother and her new husband were currently living in London and had repeatedly asked him to visit, but he’d put them off.

&
nbsp; Mick had built himself an impenetrable cocoon. I wondered what it would take to lure him out of it.

  “I’m sorry about the breakup,” I said.

  “When it’s over, it’s over.”

  When we reached the appointed corner in Berkeley, I hopped out and was met by a red-haired man in a blue scarf and brown overcoat. Max Kennedy, the history professor who had been Josie Blue’s lover.

  “Ms. McCone.” He clasped my hand with strong fingers.

  “Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

  He motioned to a coffee shop halfway down the block on Telegraph. Beanz & Greenz. We went inside and claimed a small table by a front window. While Max Kennedy went up to the counter to fetch coffees, I stared out at the ebb and flow of people on the avenue. This was once my territory, where I’d walked to and from classes with my friends. It hadn’t changed much, just the names on the businesses and the students, who looked far too young to be in college. But then I supposed I’d looked that young once.

  I’d loved the campus the first time I’d set eyes on it: the Campanile, Memorial Glade, Sather Gate, Memorial Stadium. To me it was the fulfillment of a dream, a place where I could learn and be free of a confining and mostly chaotic home life.

  College hadn’t been a carefree romp, however. True, I’d lived with an ever-changing cast of roommates in a large, brown-shingled house on Durant Avenue, where we’d indulged in the usual parties and illegal substances and romantic entanglements. But I’d had to struggle financially, even with my scholarship—my family couldn’t afford to help with expenses—and had ended up working many evenings as a security guard in various office buildings in San Francisco. Of course, the buildings were all wired with the most sophisticated systems then available, and the guard in the lobby was just window dressing; I’d never been threatened, and in the quiet nights, I got a hell of a lot of studying done. Enough that I’d graduated with honors.

  Max Kennedy came back with the coffee. “Sorry I took so long. It’s a madhouse up by the counter.”