by D. F. Bailey
“Good timing,” she said.
“Wow.” He looked genuinely impressed. “What’s the occasion?”
“Last night.” She smiled, a coy look. “Still feeling it.”
He stepped behind her and wrapped his hands over her belly and up across her breasts. “Me too.”
“It’s good, huh?”
“Yeah.” He hugged her again and held her lightly until their breathing aligned in a quiet syncopation.
“Okay, breakfast is getting cold.” She pulled his hands away, turned in his arms and kissed his cheek. “Let’s eat.”
※
A little after eleven, Finch’s cell phone rang. He checked the screen. Private Caller. “Wonder who this is,” he said.
He rose from the table and walked into the living room. He accepted the call and set his eyes on the window overlooking Alta Street. A neighbor’s car crept along the narrow lane.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Finch?”
“Yes.” It took a moment to recognize the voice. Gabe Finkleman. “How’re you doing, Gabe?”
“Fine. So, I’ve got a name and address for you.” His voice had an apprehensive, worried tone. “Do you have something to write with?”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine. Just in a rush.”
“Okay. Give me a sec.” Finch guessed that Gabe was calling about the telephone number written on the Shotwell’s matchbook cover. He spotted his courier bag on the sofa next to the gas fireplace. He sat on a cushion and took out a pen and his reporter’s pad and set them on the coffee table. “All right, go ahead.”
“Liane Linner.”
“Spell it.”
“L-i-a-n-e L-i-n-n-e-r.”
“Address?”
“Apartment 202, 4320 San Pablo Avenue. In Emeryville.”
“Excellent. Gabe, I owe you one.”
“Forget it. But if anyone asks, don’t tell them where you got it, okay?”
“Sure thing.” Again Finch heard the anxiety undercutting Gabe’s voice. “Why? Is there something I should know about?”
“I had to use a hack to get into AT&T. Nothing too serious, but … you know.”
“Yeah, I do. Thanks, Gabe.”
He heard nothing but dead air as his phone blinked into silence. He now understood that Gabe had called him on a burner phone. An extra precaution. And knowing Gabe’s cautious nature, he imagined the phone had already been tossed from the Golden Gate Bridge and was sinking into the saltwater channel below.
※
From the building’s exterior, the EmeryVilla Senior Apartments appeared to be one of the better maintained apartment blocks on San Pablo Avenue. But the hallway leading to Apartment 202 smelled of fried chicken and aging sauerkraut and the carpet was worn and stained from beginning to end. From the far end of the corridor, they heard the voice of Frank Sinatra crooning one of his early hits, All or Nothing.
Finch tapped lightly on the door and waited while he heard footsteps inside the unit approach, and then back away from the entrance. He tapped again, more lightly this time, hoping not to frighten Liane Linner. No reply.
Eve stepped next to the door frame and spoke in a low voice. “Ms. Linner? Hello?” She dipped her shoulders and smiled at the lens of the door spy hole.
“Who is it?” The woman’s voice sounded through the door in a dull whisper.
“I’m Eve Noon. I’m here with Will Finch.”
A pause. Then the sound of a security chain latching into place. The door opened a crack.
“Who’d you say?”
“Eve Noon.”
“No, the other.”
“Will Finch.” He took a step forward.
“You got any ID?”
Beneath the heavy chain, he could see the bridge of her nose and one eye peering up at him.
“Yes, I do.” He pulled his press pass from his wallet and held it up for her to examine.
She took a few seconds to consider it, then closed the door. Silence. Finch glanced at Eve, wondering if they’d been shut out. Then they heard the sounds of the chain falling away and the door handle clicking.
“Don’t just stand there. Get in. Fast, now.”
On command, they scooted past her and stood in the living room. Liane Linner closed the door and turned to face them.
“You better sit down,” she said and pointed to the sofa facing the balcony window. At the far end of the sofa, next to where Eve sat, a large, three-tier bird cage hung from the ceiling. Two birds whistled and clicked as they leapt from perch to perch inside the cage.
“Parakeets?” Eve asked.
“The green-and-yellow one is Oprah. Obama’s the blue,” she said with a smile. “My two Cheerios. Named after you-know-who.”
“Nice.” Finch smiled at that, then wondered why one bird took a first name, the other a surname. Because of the double-O’s he guessed, but decided not to ask. He realized he’d better move on to the business at hand. “Ms. Linner, I wonder if you could help us with something. Odd as it may seem, we’re here because of a phone number.”
She studied him a moment, as if she had to decide something important about him. Then she smiled as if she’d found the answer and said, “I don’t know what phone number it is, but I do know why you’re here.”
“You do?”
“Because of Jeremiah.” A look of surprise crossed his face, but when he didn’t respond, she added, “my nephew, Jeremiah Rickets. He said I might hear from you.”
Finch felt an immediate burst of energy radiate through is chest. He could scarcely believe what she’d said. “You’re J.R.’s aunt?”
“J.R?” She let out a short laugh. “That’s what they called him, I guess. He said he knew you in the army. In Iraq, right?”
“That’s right.” Finch nodded, still unable to fathom the circumstances and luck that had led him and Eve to this unusual meeting. He tried to take her all in. Liane looked to be in her early seventies, and stood half the height of J.R. Her skin bore a dense ebony hue, just like his old friend. She had the same flat nose. The same wary eyes. She wore a yellow bandana that bound a bubble of wiry, iron-gray hair above her ears. She sported a ring on every finger and both thumbs, and when she spoke, he caught the glint of a silver dental fixture on her teeth.
“Would you like coffee?” She wove her hands together and then seemed to reconsider. “All I got is Sanka.”
“Sanka?” Eve smiled brightly. “Perfect. We both take it black.”
“Black on a bruise,” Finch added, to see if this would spark a reaction from Liane.
She glanced at him with a puzzled look, then ignored the comment as if she’d missed what he’d said. She stepped over to the stove and turned on a kettle.
Eve leaned toward him. “What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.” Then in a whisper he said, “Tell you later.”
While Liane prepared the coffee, Finch studied her apartment. Despite its humble prospects, everything revealed a hand of organization and cleanliness. Nothing out of place. Even the litter scattered beneath the fluttering birds had been captured in a shallow plastic tub. He couldn’t see a spec of dust on the tables, the furniture, the blinds, or the framed photographs that hung on the wall in her dining nook. In the center of the wall, a picture of J.R. beamed across the living room. J.R. in full dress uniform, perhaps just days before his first tour to the Middle East.
Liane returned with three mugs of Sanka, set two of them before Eve and Finch, then sat on a padded rocker opposite her guests.
“I see you’ve got a picture of Jeremiah.” He pointed to the image on the wall.
She looked at the photo and then turned back to Finch. “We’re all very proud of him. And back then, he was proud, too,” she said. “But I have to say, that war took the best part out of him.”
Finch sipped his coffee and set his elbows on his knees and cupped his hands together. “I know. The last time I saw him, I could tell.” He drew a breath. “Not to diminish what
J.R. went through, Ms. Linner, but a lot of us are still adjusting to it. Myself included.”
“He said as much.” She rolled her lips in a tight arc as if to acknowledge the pain that came with any war. “The last time I saw him, he said something just like that.”
“When was that, Liane?” Eve asked.
Liane’s eyes focused on a wall calendar next to the refrigerator. Finch doubted that she could make out any specific dates from where she sat. “Last month. Maybe the last week of October. I remember the two of us talking about the pipe bombs sent to Hillary Clinton and ex-President Obama. Nearly two years past that election, and they’re still trying to kill them.
Finch considered this and decided to move on. He had a lot of questions for her, and he wanted to set the answers into a logical order.
“Liane, you said earlier that Jeremiah thought you’d hear from me.” He shook his head, a look that revealed his on-going bewilderment. “I’ve got to say, I’m amazed. Can you tell me about that.”
“He said his friend was going to try and find you. And the friend would get you to call Jeremiah.”
“This friend. Did you meet him?”
“No.”
“Did Jeremiah mention his name?”
She stared at the ceiling as if a name might be written on the plaster.
“I don’t think so. No,” she added with more certainty.
Finch glanced at Eve. Maybe Liane didn’t have all the answers they were looking for.
“All right.” He paused. “So let’s get back to this telephone call. The friend was trying to get me to call Jeremiah. But the phone number he gave me was registered to you.”
“It was?”
“Yes. Actually it expired a week ago,” Eve said, her voice sounded calm. Encouraging.
“Oh. Well … I’m sorry about that.” She waved a hand apologetically. “I didn’t know anything about that part of it.”
“I know this must all seem like a puzzle to you. It does to us, too.” Eve smiled. “We’re just trying to fit the pieces together.”
“Okay, so let me try this on.” Finch leaned forward. “Jeremiah gave a telephone number to his friend to give to me.”
“That’s right.”
“A number traced back to you — even though you didn’t know about it. Is that right?”
She shook her head with a blank look. “Like I said. I don’t know anything about that.”
Finch realized he was playing a new game of Leading Questions. But he’d just hit a dead end. Time to try another way forward.
“Okay, but Jeremiah did say you’d hear from me.”
“He said that the last time we talked. Right here.” She pointed to the sofa where Eve and Finch sat. “He said not to tell anybody else but you. That you were a reporter he knew from Baghdad. That I should check your ID and talk only to you.”
“And what did he tell you to tell me?”
“That he was going up to Ashland.”
Bingo. Finch felt another wave of energy burst through his chest.
“Ashland. In Oregon?”
She nodded. “He and his brother used to go fishing up there. Said they found a cabin somewheres behind the mountain. I never seen it, but they must’ve went three or four times in the past ten years. They dearly loved it up there. But this time Jeremiah was going on his own with Teesha.”
“Teesha?”
“His girlfriend. For a holiday, he told me. And that’s all I know.”
※
“So it’s clear now — J.R. met with Turino before he drove up to Canada.”
“No question about it.” Finch replied. “He wrote Liane Linner’s phone number on the matchbook cover. Even if she knows nothing about the phone, it was JR who gave the number to Turino.”
As Finch walked back to his RAV4, he felt as if he could be floating along the sidewalk. For the first time since the RCMP had appeared at the cabin door to interview them about Tony’s murder, he sensed a way forward. A way to find J.R. — and discover what was going on.
He drove the car along San Pablo Avenue, then up the 580 to Route 80 and back into the city. The air was bright and clear, the sort of Sunday that would inspire millions of people to walk through the parks and along the beaches, a Sunday that made you fall in love with San Francisco all over again. But all Finch could think about was the journey to Ashland.
“It should take us about six hours,” he said.
Eve drew her phone from her bag and called up Google maps. “Not bad, Will. Six hours and three minutes.”
He checked his watch. Four-twenty. “So we pack up and lock down the house. We could be there by ten thirty tonight.”
“Then what? Find a hotel, crawl into bed at midnight and begin to track down J.R. in the morning?” She considered this, trying to sort out a schedule. “On the other hand, we can stay home tonight, take our time to really prepare, leave early in the morning and start the hunt for J.R. about the same time. Besides, I need to bring more than a toothbrush with me.”
“Okay. Maybe that’s smart.” Finch checked the rearview mirror. “Who knows where this thing can lead. We should take our passports and IDs, too.”
“You mean Alice Shaw and Joel Griffin?”
“Yeah. Let’s bring them along for the ride.” He glanced at her and smiled. Alice Shaw and Joel Griffin were the forged identities they’d used in the past. It had taken some time — and money — to create the documents and credit cards they needed to travel under the radar, but it had worked before, and he knew it would work again. Every month they charged one or two meals to their cards to ensure their pseudonyms remained alive. The payments were made on time and in full; no one raised an eyebrow.
“You know, I heard some gossip. Internet rumors that Alice and Joel are pretty hot together.”
He chuckled at that. “Yeah. That’s what everybody says.”
She put her hand on his thigh. She still felt the heat from making love last night. “Funny. And I thought they were so discreet.”
“Me, too. Just keeping it to themselves.”
She laughed with a school-girl giggle and slipped her fingers a few inches higher along his leg. She felt a mix of emotions. Dread, lust, the calm triumph that comes from pushing panic aside. Now that they were moving forward, they both felt the charge of excitement, the rush that comes with gaining ground in a footrace. There’re only two important questions to answer, she thought. Who else is in the race — and where’s the finish line?
※ — SIX — ※
FINCH LOADED THE trunk of the RAV4 with their backpacks and the duffle bag he kept for excursions into the Sierras. After some discussion the previous night, they’d agreed to prepare for any contingency. The backpacks would allow them to park the car and travel on foot if they found themselves in a city or out in the wilderness. That way they could carry three or four days of supplies and clothing at a time. If they needed to, they could return to the car, and grab any extra gear they needed from the duffel bag. Finch knew that the mountains around Ashland could blow up a snowstorm any day in November, so he stowed their fleece vests, gloves, hats and waterproof jackets in the backpacks. He tossed extra pairs of shoes and hiking boots beside the duffle bag along with a lightweight two-person tent.
“You set to go?” Eve locked the front door and walked over to the car and gazed at the packs and duffle bag. A new thought struck her. “You bring a tarp?”
“I have one stored next to the tire jack.”
“All right.” She smiled. “Let’s roll.”
Finch felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He held up a hand to Eve. “Give me a sec. It’s Google Alerts. Tony Turino.”
“What?”
“The coroner report.” He clicked on a link and a PDF document appeared on his screen. He took a moment to scroll through it until he reached the final paragraph. “Here’s the official quote: ‘The coroner concludes that Tony Turino died from a broken neck sustained in a fall onto the rocks in Bennett Point Park.’ ”
He paused and read on. “ ‘It appears he died by misadventure while hiking alone in unfamiliar territory late at night. His death is considered non-suspicious.’ ”
He glanced at Eve while they took a moment to digest the news.
“Look, it was terrible. That whole evening was the worst night of my life. But listen, it’s good for us.” Her voice sounded contrite, yet hopeful. “More important, there’s no mention of Nine.”
“And therefore no suggestion that he disappeared.”
“Really, it’s the best outcome we could hope for.”
She was right, but he felt a mixed reaction. Relief. Guilt. Anxiety. He shook his head and put his phone away. “Okay. You ready?”
She shrugged with a glazed look that revealed her own confused emotions. “I guess. Yeah, we have to press on.”
“Good. Let’s forget this now and focus on J.R. until we find him.”
He climbed into the driver’s seat and checked his watch. Eight thirty. No matter what route they took, he knew they’d drive straight into the Monday morning commute.
“Before we hit the highway we’ve got one stop to make.”
“What’s that?”
“New phones.”
Finch drove to Bush Street and found a parking spot a few doors down the block from a T-Mobile outlet. It took another half-hour before they’d purchased and registered two new cellphones. One for Alice Shaw, the other for Joel Griffin.
Finch then drove over to First Street and up the ramp onto the 80. The traffic moved well across the Bay, but ground to a halt just south of Vallejo where a wrecking crew untangled a three-car collision while the Highway Patrol guided the traffic along the shoulder in single file.
“So tell me something.” Eve craned her neck to the right and pressed her face against the passenger window. Ahead she could see the traffic clearing through the bottleneck. “Another hundred yards and you’re good,” she said and then continued. “So what was that you said yesterday to Liane? Something about a black bruise.”
Finch kept his eyes on the shoulder of the road in an effort to keep the right wheels on the lip of the pavement. Several cars ahead of him had slipped onto the soft gravel and struggled to swing back onto the asphalt.
