“I think this tour has given me enough leads; let’s call it a night. And thank you.”
10:45 p.m.
The information about the Church of the Native Apostles was too seductive to resist. I set off south in the Jeep. The moon was full and cast eerie light upon the barren landscape when it came out from behind wind-driven clouds. I felt as if I were driving across an alien planet, one devoid of all life.
I wasn’t familiar with the village of Allium—Latin for onion—but the pungent fragrance of the bulbs in the surrounding fields told me I’d arrived at the right place. There were few lights on in the town and no pedestrians on the street; a cold wind swept litter along the ancient rails. The buildings were mainly old frame, paint flaking off; most of the display windows of the stores on the main street had been smashed and boarded up. Something—probably a door—slapped back and forth. The noise startled me, and I whirled and looked around, then laughed at my jumpiness.
The church was located in a pea-green, falling-down structure near the old train yards. I parked the Jeep in the shelter of a huge juniper tree and walked back to a break in the church’s rusted black iron fence. A path of broken stones led up to a weathered wooden door, which was unlocked and opened on rusty hinges. Inside, the place smelled of mildew and other unpleasant things.
I hesitated inside the door, turned my flash on low. The room in front of me was more of a warehouse than a church. A pair of forklifts and three dollies stood beside a roll-up door that looked as if it might lead to a loading dock; crushed cardboard cartons and disposal bins full of wrappings lined the opposite wall.
At the far end of the space, a truck of the type that delivery services use was parked. I waited, listening for any sounds, then moved forward. The truck was brown, but the logos had been painted over—a retired UPS carrier. I climbed up into the cab and searched the side pockets and bins.
No registration papers. Nothing except, stuffed into the space behind the seats, a map of Meruk County. I turned my light onto it; there were felt-tip markings describing the route I’d just taken from Bluefork. Allium was located at the far northeastern side of the state, only miles from the Nevada border.
So the Native Apostles was a bogus church recruiting and exploiting cheap labor. The surrounding agricultural acres made it a good place to pick up undocumented workers; most would be afraid of being turned in to the immigration authorities and easy to convince to do what the boss man said.
Suddenly I heard a noise nearby. I ducked down in the cab, waited. The door to the loading dock began rolling up, clanging violently. Heavy footsteps sounded against the concrete floor. Then two voices clashed, one angry and raised above the other.
“You stupid bastard, you left the place unlocked!”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Anybody could’ve walked in here and made off with anything.”
“But there’s hardly nothing here. The next shipment isn’t due—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You and your excuses.”
“Look, Carey—”
Carey Foote, leader of the congregation. He didn’t sound so holy to me.
“You want this job?” he went on. “You wanna keep on feeding your family?”
“Of course—”
“Then let’s get going. I guess nothing’s coming through tonight.”
“So you dragged me outta bed for that?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Footsteps crossed the floor, and then the loading dock door rolled down. Outside I heard an engine start—a heavy-duty one, probably an ATV or one of those awful Hummers. Then there was silence.
I waited. A gust of wind swept against the closed door, making the metallic panels groan. There were no more sounds of traffic from outside. I waited some more, then crawled out of the van, shone my flash around, and moved about the warehouse, shining the light into corners and checking the labels on the broken-up cartons.
“Firestarter.”
The Harcourt company.
I tore one of the labels off, then scanned the labels for what the boxes had contained: cameras, video equipment, computer parts. Things that could easily be hijacked and resold at a large profit.
I’d have to learn more about Firestarter.
MONDAY, JANUARY 14
8:30 a.m.
First thing that morning, I called the county D.A.’s office and left an anonymous tip about the stolen goods in the church in Allium. Then I phoned Hy, who was already at the agency. He said, “I’m with one of the contractors who’ll put our offices back in shape. They’re going to be terrific. In fact, I’ve thought of a major alteration that needs to be added to the plans.”
Hy has many talents: he’s a great pilot, a sharp hostage negotiator, an environmental activist. He speaks seven languages—some of them badly—and is at ease in any social situation. Now, apparently, he’d decided to become a general contractor.
I filled him in on the events of the previous evening. He asked if I’d spoken to Ike Blessing and I said no, I hadn’t heard from him yet. He said he’d try to get in touch with Ike again and prod him.
“Do you know anything about this firm called Firestarter?” I asked.
“Not that I recall. Have you asked Mick to look into it?”
“He’s not having any luck.” A lot of noise started up in the background. “Sounds like the renovations are going well,” I said.
“Great. These offices were seriously out of date. I’ve come up with a new concept. I’m really stoked about it. The décor is going to be jazzed up; I’ve got Betsy Kline coming in for a consultation.”
Betsy Kline: she’d decorated many mansions for San Francisco’s “elite.”
“Can we afford her?”
“I cut a deal. She wants me to find her deadbeat ex-husband. Anyway, this place is going to shine.”
I thought of my former office at All Souls Legal Cooperative—a cubbyhole under the stairs with barely enough room for my desk and a ratty old armchair. It didn’t seem so long ago that I’d squeezed into that office. Computers were rare back then, but we did have a network of red push-button phones with twenty-five-foot cords that frequently tangled up like snakes in a basket. Some co-op members lived in the house, turning their bedrooms into offices for the workday. Potlucks and poker games in the big old-fashioned kitchen were frequent. I’d lived a few blocks away in a studio apartment on Guerrero Street, as I wasn’t crazy about too much togetherness.
Those were good times. As Hank was fond of saying when in his cups, “Those were the days, boss. Those were the days.”
“Hold on a second,” Hy said. “Your nephew wants to talk to you.”
Mick said, “More stuff on Arbritazone. It can induce a chronic delusional state, and the aftereffects are long range. If a person is exposed to it, even in a glancing encounter, the drug may prey on the central nervous system for years. One doctor I spoke with says the behavior she’s observed in overdoses of Arbritazone resembles that of patients suffering from PTSD.”
“Violent behavior?”
“It can be. Depends on the individual and their background. If they’d been in military combat, for instance, they might have flashbacks to that and react accordingly.”
“Nasty drug.”
“Yeah. Don’t mess with anybody up there who uses it.”
“I won’t.”
“Anything more you want me to do?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Several things. First, info on a man named Carey Foote, head of the Church of the Native Apostles.”
“Where’s that located? Meruk County?”
“Yes. In a little town called Allium. I went there last night. It isn’t really a church, just a warehouse that seems to be a drop for stolen truckers’ shipments. I tipped the county’s investigators to it.”
“And you want me to…?”
“A lot of the broken-down cartons I saw there were labeled ‘Firestarter.’ Apparently they’d contained computer and
video equipment. See if you can link that with the company.”
“It’d be a long shot, given that Firestarter doesn’t have an Internet presence. What else?”
“Dig deeper into the background on Dierdra Two Shoes, emphasis on her scams—”
“What kind of scams?”
“According to my source, all sorts—phone, computer, you name it.”
“Versatile. Anybody else?”
“Samantha Runs Close, Sally Bee, Josie Blue, Kelley Windsong, and Sasha Whitehorse.”
“What exactly are you looking for there?”
“Family history, past and present. Entitlements; you have the information Saskia gave me. Property and financial records.”
“That should keep me busy for a while.”
“We can talk tonight if you come up with anything.”
“Okay. By the way, we’ve received more information on Evan McCarthy, the guy who shot up our offices. He was involved in Hy’s drug-smuggling case in Mexico and, in a twisted way, thought he’d wipe out the evidence by shooting us all.”
“Twisted is right.” Then I said on impulse, “Before I let you go, I want you to know I’m thinking of doing some restructuring within the agency, giving your job more prominence. Nothing just yet, but eventually.”
“…You’re not thinking of retiring?”
“As I said, eventually I’ll restructure. But you, unless you’re content to live a leisurely life on the proceeds of your websites and trust fund, are first in the line of succession.”
“You really mean that?”
“Of course. Who else?”
Hy came back on the line, accompanied by the loud whine of a power tool.
“Are you the one using that power tool, Ripinsky? I thought you were contracting the renovations out.”
“You know me—I loved working construction when I was in my teens, and somehow I couldn’t resist.” He shut off the noise temporarily. “Here’s what I’m doing: the waiting area will be expanded. The old pale-gray carpet has already been ripped up.”
“What about the floors?” The underlying parquet floor had been a casualty of a massive leak in the roof two years before.
“I’ve got a good craftsman to deal with that. I’d better go make that call to Ike Blessing. The sooner the feds get involved up there, the sooner you’ll be back. I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Hal asked me if we ever got to spend time together. I think we should do something to remedy the problem.”
“A week at Touchstone?”
“Something more exotic.”
“A real vacation?”
“Yep.”
“I can’t wait.”
9:20 a.m.
I went for a walk after breakfast. When I passed the town’s tiny park, I stopped and went to sit for a little while on one of the benches, watching the winter clouds scud by. My talk with Mick about restructuring the agency had been good, but I felt as if I’d promised away an important piece of my life. And the word “retired” horrified me.
I’d worked all my life, even selling vegetables from our family plot when I was a little girl. It was a huge garden; my parents had planted it in the hole created when a navy jet from nearby NAS Miramar had cracked the sound barrier above and cracked our swimming pool below. We grew carrots, radishes, lettuce, three kinds of tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, beans, and a few (unsuccessful) stalks of corn. More than even a family the size of ours could eat. So I, a budding entrepreneur, had set up a stand and peddled the excess to busy neighbors heading home after work.
In junior high and high school I’d engaged in a number of enterprises: dog walking, babysitting, pet-sitting. Then people in the neighborhood started to hire me to make sure their homes were secure when they went on vacations. In college, my experience had gotten me a job with a big security firm in San Francisco. After graduation, when I found no jobs available for those with BAs in sociology, I’d transitioned to a small private agency that sponsored me for my license, then to All Souls, and finally gone out on my own. The cases I was working were always foremost on my mind.
If I retired, gave up control of the agency, what would I do? Take up a craft—needlepoint, knitting, crocheting? I’d tried all three and found I was hopelessly inept. Read the complete works of Shakespeare as well as several prolific modern writers? My reading was scattershot; I picked and chose among authors I liked and some days read so much my eyeballs ached, while other days nothing interested me. Sports, such as working out and running? Only more time to set my mind to wandering. Home improvements? We’d made them both in San Francisco and at our coastal house and were content with the results. Travel? Not with the world in the shape it was just now. Volunteer? I periodically did, at a food bank. Teach? Programs in law enforcement and criminal justice had been radically cut back everywhere.
I looked up at the pines that towered over me, their tops seeming to pierce the oncoming darkness. All these years I’d walked San Francisco’s streets and alleys, running my surveillances and asking my questions. Visiting people in their homes—from the most palatial mansions to the worst hovels. Engaging in dangerous encounters, including being shot in the head and left to die.
I’d had some other harrowing experiences too: saving my childhood friend Linnea Carraway from being shot by a crazy man; being locked in a derelict house by a criminal intent on killing me; rescuing my young friend Chelle Curley from captivity in a dangerous part of town the year before. They’d made me feel useful—and fully alive.
No, I thought, I wasn’t going to retire, or even step back. The city—the state, even—was my territory and my home. So was the agency, and so was my work. I was there to stay.
10:31 a.m.
Back at Jane’s house, I called Saskia to see if she’d had any luck with the Federated Tribes Genealogical Society in Washington, D.C. She had, and the information was what I had been hoping for.
“The inheritance rights of the Meruk are passed down the matriarchal line,” she said.
“So either of the murder victims might have inherited—or been about to inherit—an allotment.”
“Correct. Give me their names and I may be able to find out.”
“Samantha Runs Close and Dierdra Two Shoes.” I added what I knew about each of them.
“Good. Now I must tell you that I’ve mentioned your search about the two of them to a couple of the women on the moccasin telegraph—Milly Warren and Kiki Curtis. They’re rivals in information-collecting activity and likely to have different sources. Besides, I didn’t dare to exclude either of them.”
“I like that phrasing—‘the information collecting activity.’”
“Well, they prefer the term to ‘gossip,’ even if that’s what they’re actually doing.”
“I like gossip as well as the next person.” I read off the number of my new cell phone.
“Let me know if they give you anything promising,” Saskia said.
Ten minutes later, as I was pouring myself another cup of coffee, the phone buzzed. “This is Kiki Curtis,” a woman’s voice said. It was what they used to call a whiskey voice in old movies. “I’ve been on the moccasin telegraph all night, and I’ve got some things to report.”
“Ms. Curtis—”
“Kiki, please. I’m honored to be gathering information for you. Saskia has explained what you’re interested in, and I have a few tidbits for you. Someone has been going around in northern California counties that border on Oregon trying to buy up Native land.”
“Any idea who it is?”
“A company called Firestarter. I don’t know any more about them—there’s nothing on the Net or the telegraph. But I’ve also heard rumors of threats and possible coercion.”
“From whom?”
“You know the Net—a lot of the postings are anonymous. But I do trust the telegraph. People on it are looking out for their own. If I hear more, I’ll be in touch.”
4:45 p.m.
The day passed slowly. When the phone
buzzed again I thought it might be Ike Blessing, whom I still hadn’t heard from, but it wasn’t. It was Mick, with a preliminary report and a suggestion.
He still hadn’t gotten any information on Firestarter. It didn’t have a phone number, much less a website; some sort of shadow corporation, evidently. He hadn’t yet found out anything relevant about Carey Foote or the Church of the Native Apostles either. As for Dierdra Two Shoes’s scams, the list proved nothing other than the sheer volume and variety of criminal activity on the Internet. He was still wading through the in-depth backgrounds of the people whose names I’d given him, hadn’t found anything I didn’t know so far.
“I was thinking,” he said then. “Could you use some help up there in Meruk?”
I thought about it. “Somebody who could work anonymously, yes. I’m getting too well known. But not you. You’re too valuable right where you are.”
“What about Hy?”
“I’d just as soon keep him out of this.”
“Why?”
“He’s busy with the renovations, for one thing. And there’s been a lot of environmental activism up here in recent years. It’s likely someone would recognize him; after all, he’s on the boards of at least three prominent organizations.”
“Oh, right.” A pause. “Well, how about Rae? I can give you her number if you don’t have it memorized.”
Of course. Rae Kelleher, my best female friend and a former operative.
Rae had once been my assistant at All Souls Legal Cooperative, and when I left the co-op, she followed me to McCone Investigations. Then she met my former brother-in-law, Ricky Savage, and they’d been together ever since. Now she was the author of several critically acclaimed crime novels, but occasionally she contributed to my investigations. Of course I had her number memorized, and I immediately called it.
“How’re things with you?” I asked her.
“So-so. Ricky’s down in L.A. at Zenith headquarters. I think he’s getting tired of being a record producer and would like to perform more. Me, I’m bored, now that I’ve delivered the new manuscript.”
Ice and Stone Page 14
