Locked In

HY RIPINSKY

After midnight. Still no word.

Once he’d made his calls people started to arrive. Ted and Neal. Ricky, in lieu of Rae, who was working a lead. Craig had stopped in briefly, but he would be off on an early morning flight tomorrow, pursuing another lead. Julia. Robin Blackhawk, Shar’s half sister. Brother John. Mick. And Elwood Farmer, sitting silent and calm by himself. Hy hadn’t called Elwood because he assumed the traditional old man didn’t have a cell phone, but Ricky had supplied a number. An iPhone, no less. Traditional or not, Elwood had entered the twenty-first century in style.

Two hours gone now, and nothing from the doctor. Two hours in surgery: God, what a toll that must be taking on his wife’s weakened body!

He wondered what he’d been thinking, sitting here alone and refusing company. Refusing comfort. Since he’d changed his mind he was surrounded by the most caring people he’d ever known. Family, what a family should be. What they so often weren’t.

The nurse on the desk was eyeing them nervously. So many people crowding the waiting room. Hy went up to her and asked, “Do you want some of them to leave? They can sit with me in shifts.”

“No, Mr. Ripinsky. They can stay as long as they behave themselves.”

“Well, that’s kind of a risky proposition. Anybody misbehaves, you tell me and I’ll throw them out myself.”

He crossed the room to Elwood, sat down beside him. Shar’s birth father nodded to him, but remained silent.

Hy felt uncomfortable; he barely knew the man, and even McCone had been struggling to connect with him.

“She will be all right,” Elwood said.

Hy glanced at him, startled.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“Saika mukua kettae. Her spirit is strong.” Farmer shrugged. “Some things, you just know.”

“Because you’re her father?”

“Well, there’s something about blood.” He shot a keen look at Hy. “You know how strong she is. Why are you doubting her?”

He thought on the question. “Maybe because I’m not sure how well I’d do in the same situation.”

Elwood made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Then doubt yourself, not your wife.”

Doubt himself. He’d been doing that ever since Southeast Asia. Why transfer the feeling to Shar? Elwood was right-just stop the doubting altogether.

“Saika mukua kettae.”

After a moment Elwood added, “You can’t take control of her physically; the doctors are doing that. But mentally, emotionally…” He shrugged again.

“Thanks. I’ll try.”

They sat there together in silence, waiting for news, and Hy felt the strength that radiated from Shar’s father.

Three hours gone.

RAE KELLEHER

Callie O’Leary asked, “You live here?”

“I do.” They had just pulled through the automatic gate to the house in Sea Cliff; to the north the Golden Gate Bridge shone orange through the gathering mist. The big, multistoried residence loomed before them, soft lights in only a few of its windows.

“Awesome,” Callie said, “but where’re all the security guys?”

“They’re here. You just don’t see them-and neither do intruders.”

“Rad. This PI business, it must pay real good.”

Rae smiled and stopped the car. “It helps to have married well.”

They got out and went to the front door, where Rae punched numbers on a keypad, then let them in and rearmed the system. The house was quiet: the younger kids had gone back to Charlene and Vic’s home in Bel Air, Chris was at her apartment in Berkeley, and Mick was probably at the hospital. Ricky, too-he’d promised he’d fill in for her.

When they entered the living room, Callie again said, “Awesome!”

“Are you hungry?” Rae asked. “Do you want a drink?”

“… I’m not hungry and I haven’t had a drink since I went to Hope House. Probably I shouldn’t now.”

“Soda? Coffee? Anything else?”

“No thanks. All I want to do is sit down on that couch and look at that beautiful fireplace. I’ve never seen one like that, just standing in the middle of the room with rock all around it.”

Rae motioned for Callie to sit. “Where’re you from?” she asked.

“You mean where I was born? Honolulu. My dad was in the navy. We moved a lot. I headed out when they were gonna leave San Diego for someplace on the East Coast.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I had three brothers. They liked them better than me. And I liked San Diego.” She looked sharply at Rae. “And no, nobody abused me. They… just didn’t care if I was there or not.”

“So you were living in San Diego…?”

“And a guy made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Move to LA, live in his penthouse, make a lot of money. Old stupid story, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s cool.”

The front door opened. “Hey, Red, where are you?” Ricky, back from the hospital.

“Living room.”

She could hear him pulling off his coat and hanging it on the rack in the entryway. He called, “Shar’s still in surgery. They were getting edgy about a cast of thousands in the waiting room, so I took a break.”

He appeared in the archway, and his gaze rested on Callie. “Hi. Who’s this?”

“A new friend, Callie O’Leary.”

Something flickered in his eyes; he knew exactly what she was. He’d had plenty of contact with women like her in the music business.

“Well, Callie,” he said, “welcome to our home.”

Callie’s eyes widened and she turned to Rae. “Oh my God, you did marry well. Ricky Savage! I can’t believe it! I’ve listened and listened to his music hundreds of times, and I saw that movie he did last year.”

“Crappy movie,” Ricky told her. “But I thought I looked okay in a beard.”

Rae said, “Callie needs a safe place to stay. And she wants to tell me something.”

He replied, “A safe place is what we have to offer.”

HY RIPINSKY

Four and three-quarters hours gone.

He grasped Ted’s hand, thought about praying.

Funny thought, for an atheist.

Religion just didn’t work for him. What worked was the life force: McCone, loving her, soaring through the sky together…

He concentrated on that.

A man in blood-spattered green scrubs entered the waiting room. At first glance Hy didn’t recognize him, then he realized he was Dr. Ben Travers, the surgeon with whom he’d briefly spoken before Shar went into surgery.

The blood-his wife’s.

He stared at the doctor, trying to read his face. It looked like a mask.

Ted let go of Hy’s hand, motioned that he should stand up.

He did, and moved toward the surgeon, hoping for the best, steeling himself for the worst.

CRAIG MORLAND

He always got lost in Scottsdale.

It was strange, because he had a good sense of direction and the city was laid out on a grid. But there were a few twists and turns that he couldn’t comprehend, and although Daniel Black-stone’s house was on Mariposa Street close to the main shopping area, Craig kept taking side streets and passing the same roundabout with the rearing life-size bronze horses in its center. The third time past, he called Daniel.

“Not again,” his friend said. “Don’t you have GPS?”

“On this piece of shit rental? Give me a break-and directions.”

“Where are you?”

“By the horses.”

“Coming from which way?”

“How the hell should I know?”

A sigh. “Take the street-I forget its name-where there’s a gallery on one side and a jeweler’s on the other.”

“All you have in this town is jewelry stores and galleries.”

“It’s right there, past the horses.”

“North or south?”

Another sigh. “West.”

“Which way is west?”

“Just look for the sun and go the other way. Then turn left on my street.”

“Yes, boss.”

Craig and Daniel Blackstone had been friends during their FBI years in DC. Had pub-crawled and trolled for women together, gone to ball games, spent time gambling in Atlantic City. Then Daniel had split from the Bureau-something to do with one of his cases that involved a political cover-up that he would never talk about-and a couple of years later Craig had gone to San Francisco to be with Adah. They’d stayed in touch, though, and more than once he’d tapped into Daniel’s expertise.

He made the left turn and finally spotted the house-nondescript beige stucco, surrounded by pink and white oleanders and palm trees. Craig parked at the curb, got out of the small rental car, and stretched his cramped muscles. The house’s door opened and Daniel’s voice called, “You find the place all right?”

“Asshole,” Craig muttered.

“Say that louder.”

“Asshole!”

Daniel Blackstone was tall and lean, with chiseled features and long dark hair secured in a ponytail. He wore turquoise rings and the buckle of the belt that cinched his jeans was one that he’d told Craig he’d bought from a down-and-out rodeo champion. A Western shirt and string tie completed his outfit.

Daniel was from Maryland, but he’d gone native in Arizona.

“You want a beer?” he asked, heading back toward the kitchen.

“A beer? Man, it’s the middle of the morning.”

“I don’t keep local hours. As they say, the sun’s over the yardarm-someplace.”

Well, why not?

“I got chips and guacamole, too.”

Even better.

A few minutes later Craig was seated in a deep armchair in Daniel’s office-beer, chips, and guac to hand and computers and audio equipment all around. Daniel was working at one of the monitors, ashes from his cigarette falling onto the keyboard.

After a moment he said, “It’s the same young blonde woman in every scene. Voiceprint is identical.”

“Can you tell anything about her?”

“Well educated. Has that overprivileged lilt-you know, the one that makes factual sentences into a question. Like that one you were so hung up on in DC-what was her name?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Oh, yeah-Lauren. Lovely Lauren. You took her away from me.”

“You never had her to begin with.”

“Valid point.” Daniel paused. “All right, I’m doing a high-res zoom on the guy with the tattoo. You think it’s SF’s mayor?”

“Could be.”

“Not. This tattoo is a press-on. Come over, look at it.”

Craig got up and looked over Daniel’s right shoulder. Daniel zoomed in ever closer. “See this edge? It’s tipped up a little. And the skin tone’s different, filtered through the latex.”

“So it was a setup.”

“Right. Now watch this.” He clicked on another scene-the woman and the Amanda Teller lookalike. “It’s a good fake, judging from the photos of Teller you’ve given me, but there’s one little problem: check out her skin.”

Craig squinted at the magnified image. “What about it?”

“Teller was in her forties. This woman is in her early twenties.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Can you get clearer images of the men in the scenes with the blonde woman?”

Daniel looked over his shoulder and smiled at him. “I don’t like to talk about bears shitting in the woods, but…”

HY RIPINSKY

So damn many hours gone that he didn’t try to count them any more.

McCone had survived the surgery. They’d removed the clot and the bullet and bone fragments and God knew whatever else crap from her skull.

But now the waiting began.

The next several hours were critical, Travers had said.

Hy sat next to Elwood, who hadn’t stirred except for the occasional cigarette break outside. Hadn’t spoken much either. The others had come and gone, as if in orchestrated shifts. They chattered and tried to cheer him, but he preferred El-wood’s silence.

It was after noon when Travers came out and told him for the third time that the next few hours were critical.

His fists clenched. He felt like leaping on the doctor, demanding reassurance.

Elwood’s weathered, long-fingered artist’s hand touched his. “She will survive, but first tsa’niigh saika bennenda’ga. Loosely translated, that means let her go.”

“Let her go? That’s insane!”

“Set her free. She’ll come back to you.”

“What’s that, some fuckin’ Indian mysticism?”

Elwood released Hy’s hand. Smiled.

“No, it’s simple wisdom. Before this is over, you’ll own a large share of it yourself.”

JULIA RAFAEL

She’d been up all night. Her eyes felt gritty and her head throbbed. Several hours at the hospital, then home, where Tonio was sick with some kind of stomach flu and she’d taken over so Sophia could get some sleep. Then to the hospital, and back to the pier after she’d found out Shar had survived the surgery.

Dios gracias!

Thelia’s reports-nothing from Diane-only contained information she already had. So she got on the computer and read through old newspaper accounts of Haven Dietz’s attack and the embezzlement at her brokerage firm. Looking for that shred of information that might provide a lead.

Nothing.

She pushed away from the monitor, picked up the phone, and called Hy at the hospital. No change in Shar’s condition; still waiting.

How could he stand it, when she could barely stand it herself? If only she’d gone back to the pier with Shar that night after they’d had dinner. If only she’d told her retrieving the cell phone could wait, invited her over for a glass of wine. If only Shar wasn’t so forgetful about gassing up her car.

All the if-onlys, and focusing on them didn’t change a thing.

She closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair, and thought about Haven Dietz. Leaving the brokerage firm with a hundred thousand dollars in her briefcase. Walking across the park from her bus. The briefcase had been found empty in a trash can several yards from where she was attacked-a scarred black leather case that had seen better days. Not a case that would attract a thief.

Someone had known the contents of that case.

And he or she had come prepared to carry the cash away, probably in the duffel bag that had been stashed under the floorboards of the Peepleses’ tack room.

The attack had been savage. Dietz’s assailant had taken out extreme rage and hatred on her.

Larry Peeples?

Julia couldn’t stand sitting around, waiting on word about Shar, waiting for a sudden inspiration to strike her. She looked at her watch: eleven o’clock, a good time for a drive to the wine country.

RAE KELLEHER

She’d stayed up late questioning Callie, slept a few hours. When she got up she made arrangements for the woman to give a deposition to Ricky’s and her attorney, then fly to New York City and stay at an apartment that Zenith Records, Ricky’s company, maintained there. An associate of Ricky’s would keep tabs on Callie until legal action about the things she had told Rae could be set in motion.

Rae checked with the hospital-Shar was hanging in there but far from out of the woods. She cooked Callie breakfast, then took her to the attorney’s office and then the airport. When she got back home, she listened to the tapes she’d made of their conversation. The only detail Callie had been reticent about was who had threatened her, but Rae could guess.

“… Lee Summers pimped his own daughter. At first it was like, she was pretty so he’d take her around, show her off to political people. But then he was setting her up with guys he wanted to give him a donation or owe him favors… I don’t know who, but they were important.

“She told me she freaked the first time, didn’t know her dad had turned her over to this older guy for sex. But after a while she kind of got into it, because it was a way of sticking it to Daddy in return. I could’ve told her Daddy couldn’t care less, but she didn’t want to hear it. He’s one cold son of a bitch, that Summers…

“I met her when Summers hired me to do a twosome with her. She was pretty drugged up, didn’t even know they were videotaping it. Afterwards I took her home with me, sobered her up, calmed her down. She didn’t want to go back to her parents’ place, so I let her stay. She changed her name, bought fake ID, turned some tricks, and six weeks later she was dead…

“Yeah, I knew who she really was, but I wasn’t gonna go to the cops with it. That Lee Summers is a bad dude; I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed her himself… Why? Because she was outside of his control. What if she decided to go to the press? What if she told somebody and they talked?

“… I don’t know who else was involved in the taping. Summers hired me, and a director and a couple of porn techies that I’ve seen around town handled the shoot… No, I can’t give you their names, but they work for a production company, Hot Shots. They’ve got an office and soundstage on Howard Street.

“… I’m talking to you because I read about what happened to your boss and I think Lee Summers had a hand in it. I hate men like him. I think you might be able to do something about this; then I won’t have to be looking over my shoulder my whole life.”

Rae clicked off the recorder.

All right, she thought, on to Hot Shots.

MICK SAVAGE

He’d been at the hospital for hours, but there was no change in Shar’s condition and he needed to do something at the pier. It was nearly noon, when Diane D’Angelo always left promptly for lunch-a good time for him to get into her files on the city hall case.

Craig distrusted the socialite who was playing at being an investigator, and Mick did, too. Not only because she’d produced no results on the case, but because her self-blaming remark about how Shar had gotten shot because she’d failed to solve the case smacked of insincerity, and-he’d realized this afternoon-the woman had never once visited his aunt since she’d been hospitalized. Everybody else from the agency had been at both SFG and the Brandt Institute.

Mick parked his Harley in his allotted space on the pier’s floor. Of the vehicles belonging to agency personnel, only Ted’s new red Smart car was there. He went upstairs, looked into Ted’s office: the office manager-or Grand Poobah, as he jokingly referred to himself-was at his desk, scowling at the computer monitor. Mick slipped by unobserved.

The agency’s system was difficult for outsiders to access, but simple for employees. They were a team, they trusted each other, no need to take extra precautions. Mick pulled his chair up to his workstation and began typing in passwords.

Diane D’Angelo’s files were blocked.

Uh-huh, but not for long. Not with the new software he and Derek had developed for just such contingencies.

He accessed the blocked files within three minutes. Found the ones D’Angelo had passed along to Craig and him, and also the file on the inquiry that Shar had handled last year for Amanda Teller. The one Derek had retrieved for Hy on Monday.

No reason for D’Angelo to have that file.

Next job: find out about the woman.

Mick’s fingers tapped over the keyboard as he moved from one search engine to another. What he discovered didn’t surprise him.

She wasn’t who she claimed to be. Diane D’Angelo, formerly of San Francisco and then of New York City, had died in a boating accident off the coast of Maine five years ago.

So who was this imposter? And why hadn’t Shar run a routine background check when she hired her? Or asked Derek or him to do it?

He began searching again.

JULIA RAFAEL

She arrived at the Peepleses’ winery at a quarter to one. It was hot in the Valley of the Moon, the surrounding vineyards still on this windless day. A couple of men in work clothes and sun-shade hats were out, doing whatever people did to tend vines, but they moved in slow motion. Julia parked in the driveway and went down a path at the side of the house to the stables, where Judy Peeples had told her she’d be. The tall, frail woman was grooming a big black horse that, to Julia, looked mean and dangerous.

When she called out, Mrs. Peeples turned and greeted her. She set down the brush she’d been using on the horse and put him in his stall, then came over and shook Julia’s hand.

“I’m sorry my husband can’t be here,” she said. “He’s at a wine-makers’ luncheon in town. A regular monthly event. I didn’t want him to miss it; he’s had so little diversion since he discovered that money.”

“And you? How’re you holding up?”

“Oh…” She made a dismissive gesture. “I have my diversions. I ride and I consult with our accounting personnel and I look after Thomas.”

And who looks after you?

Julia bit back the question, asked, “Could I take another look at the money and the bag that it was in?”

“Oh, dear. You came all the way up here for that?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“Well, the money is still in the safe, but the bag-Thomas disposed of it.”

“Why? It was evidence!”

“Evidence of our son’s wrongdoing, Thomas said. He didn’t want it in the house.”

“Mierda!”

Mrs. Peeples looked conflicted. After several seconds she said, “It’s true that the bag isn’t in the house any more. But I removed it from the trash and put it back where he found it, under the floor of the tack room. It’s evidence, but I don’t care what my son did. I just want to know what happened to him.”

They went into the tack room and Julia pried up the floorboard. The bag was newish black leather with a plaid lining. No initials, nothing distinctive.

“Mrs. Peeples, had you ever seen this bag before your husband found it?”

“No, never.”

“Has he?”

“I don’t think so.” But doubt flickered in her eyes, indicating the opposite.

“Can I take it with me? A laboratory my agency uses might be able to tell me more about it.”

“Please, take it. I want it out of here. It’s been on my conscience, going against my husband’s wishes.”

Julia drove back to the city, the duffel bag a silent passenger beside her.

RAE KELLEHER

Hot Shots was located in a former auto-body shop on Howard Street near the Highway 101 on-ramp. Its facade still bore the weathered name-Don’s Fix It-but the overhead doors had been boarded up. A small entry opened off the space between the building and the one adjacent to the south. It was blocked by a grille, an intercom beside it.

On the way Rae had debated what approach would most likely get the people there to volunteer information. She put the one she’d decided on into operation as soon as a male voice responded to her ring.

“Hi, I’m Rae Kelleher. My husband, Ricky Savage, and his partners own Zenith Records.”

“Yes?” the voice said.

“We’ve seen some of your films, and we’re interested in speaking with one of the directors.”

“Wait a minute-Zenith Records. What’s that got to do with our films?”

“We’re diversifying. Are you interested?”

Long pause. “Call back tomorrow.”

“Onetime offer. Are you interested?”

“… Come on in.”

“Nick Carson,” the slender, trendily dressed man said, holding out his hand. He looked like an Internet entrepreneur, not a porn-flick maker.

She shook the hand. “Rae Kelleher.”

“We can talk in my office.” He motioned to a short hallway.

Rae looked around. A pair of closed doors, red lights burning above them.

“Shooting today?”

“Yes.” Tersely.

Carson led her down the hallway to an office that might have housed a busy accountant-spreadsheets on the desk, an adding machine, a computer. The computer was on, but Carson blocked her view of it and closed the file displayed there. He motioned toward a straight-backed chair, sat in an upholstered one behind the desk. Eyed her keenly. His eyes were blue, his features regular, his dark hair slicked back into a short ponytail.

“So Zenith Records wants to go into the porn business,” he said.

“Not exactly. We’re interested in the film industry-as I said, one of your directors.”

“His name?”

“I don’t know. He did some work for the Pro Terra Party.”

Understanding came into Carson’s eyes. “And you and Mr. Savage just happened to see his work where?”

“Pirated copies of DVDs that a friend loaned us. We’re… into that sort of thing.”

“Like to watch, do you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And what makes this director so special?”

Rae shrugged. “I don’t know. My husband asked me to find out who he was.”

“I see. Why didn’t he do it himself?” There was a silver letter opener on the desk; Carson toyed with it.

“I’m better than my husband at locating people.”

“You know what? I don’t believe your story.”

“Why not?”

“Zenith Records is not going into film. You’re interested in this director because you want to make your own film. You like to watch, so why not watch yourselves? Right?”

“Okay, you’ve caught me out. So can you put me in touch with him?”

“Yes, I can. But she’s a woman-Laura Logan. I’ll call her, ask her to get in touch with you.” His smile showed small, pointed teeth. “That way she’ll be sure to give me the twenty percent I get for throwing jobs her way.”

CRAIG MORLAND

By two-fifty he was airborne again. Going back to SF with a briefcase full of photos and enough information to shake city and state government to its foundations.

After takeoff, he tilted his seat back and thought about the prints Daniel had made for him from the videos.

The woman with the long blonde hair: no clue as to her identity.

The same for the dark-haired woman in bed with her.

But the men: top city hall figures and state officials, including Jim Yatz, the mayor’s closest associate.

Craig looked out the window at Phoenix’s receding smog-shrouded skyline, making connections.

Okay, somebody was trying to gain control over the city hall crowd, as well as minor state officials. They couldn’t entice the mayor or Amanda Teller, so they did their best to fake it.

Teller had had a hold over State Representative Paul Janssen. Forced him to sign a document.

Their deaths had been arranged to look like a murder-suicide pact, and someone had taken the document.

So how did all of this pertain to the attack on Shar?

Still unclear.

He thought of the call he’d received from Mick before he boarded his flight: “We’ve got an imposter in the office. Diane D’Angelo is really Susan Angelo, a small-time investigator from DC-and a close friend of Jim Yatz.”

So Yatz had probably hired her to find out what was in the agency files about the city hall investigation. But she had free run of the office and its computer system. Why would she have gone there at night to retrieve information and end up shooting Shar?

Whatever, Diane and Yatz were dirty, and they were going down. A large number of state and city officials as well. And the mayor, whom Craig liked, would have a hell of a time extricating himself from this one.

No worries. He’d done it before. The mayor was one slick, smart bastard.

HY RIPINSKY

It was after four in the afternoon when Ben Travers came out and told him the news-the good news. McCone was awake and responsive-not locked in any more. He could see her briefly.

“Don’t expect too much,” Travers told him as they took the elevator to intensive care. “We don’t yet know what damage the pressure on her brain stem did. Even if it’s not severe, she’s still got a long way to go-therapy, relearning skills she’s lost.”

“But she’ll be all right?”

“Ultimately that’s what we’re hoping for. The important thing is that she’s alive and cognizant.”

Hy leaned heavily against the elevator wall. “I don’t care how long it takes for her to recover. Just so she does.”

Travers looked as if he wanted to say more, but the elevator door opened. He led Hy through a large circular area of rooms arranged around a central nurses’ station. Each room had a window and its door was open-so the nurses could monitor the patients from the desk, Hy supposed.

Shar’s head was swathed in bandages and she was hooked up to monitors that kept blinking on and off, providing running strips of information. Her eyes were open, and they lighted up when she saw him.

Hy kissed her cheek. “Welcome back. You’ll be all the way back in time.”

Doubtful look.

“Don’t try to talk now. You need your rest.”

Hy studied her face. The skin below her eyes looked bruised and her complexion was sallow. There were lines around her mouth that he hadn’t noticed before. But she was alive, and that was everything to him-everything.

She regarded him with a long, intense stare.

“They removed a blood clot and some bone and bullet fragments. No more pressure on your brain stem now.”

Still she stared at him.

“Dr. Travers, your surgeon, will explain more fully later on.”

Still staring.

“You want to know about the investigation. Is that it?”

Blink.

“You’re insatiable.”

He explained that everybody was working 24/7, gathering data. Once they had all they could get, they’d pool their information and present it to her. Another eyeblink. Then her lids closed and stayed that way.

Hy kissed her again and slipped out of the room. In the corridor he faltered and steadied himself on a railing. The constant emotional highs and lows had left him exhausted-but he wasn’t ready to give in to it yet. He’d go back to the waiting room and talk with Elwood. Then he’d begin to make phone calls.

“Now you realize her strength, Son.”

Nobody had called him “Son” since his daddy tangled with those high-tension wires in his beat-up old crop duster. He guessed he’d qualified as family with Elwood.

“Oh, Hy! My baby’s all right! Did you hear that, Saskia-our baby’s all right!”

Kay started wailing. Why the hell hadn’t Saskia or Melvin answered the phone?

“You know what I’m gonna do tonight? Clean this house. We can’t have Shar coming home to a dirty place.”

Well, maybe John would finally get rid of the empty beer bottles.

“You’ve reached Charlene and Vic…”

“Patsy and Evans are heading for the Bay Area. If this is about restaurant business, please call 801-2345 and speak with Nora.”

“Rae Kelleher. Please leave a message.”

“This is Julia Rafael. I’m sorry I can’t answer the phone…”

“This is Ann-Marie. I’m not available…”

“Hank Zahn here. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.” Dammit, people had cell phones so they could keep connected. Then they turned them off at a critical moment.

“McCone Investigations, Ted Smalley speaking.”

Finally-a real voice again.

“It’s Hy. Shar’s awake, not locked in any more. They think she’ll eventually be okay.”

“I knew it! I just knew it!”

“I’ve been trying to tell everybody, but most’ve them are unavailable. Is anybody else there?”

“Craig and Mick are, and if you can leave Shar, I think you ought to get over here. Something ugly’s about to go down.”

SHARON McCONE

I ’m still alive! And I’m not going to be a vegetable after all. Just days ago, the future looked so bleak, but now…

Tears again. One thing that hadn’t changed was the roller-coaster ride of emotions.

I could see nurses moving around hurriedly, checking on other patients, carrying medicines. No downtime on the floor of an ICU. Nurses-I’d never before had so much respect for individuals in any single profession. Well, except for doctors or cops or firemen or, come to think of it, anybody who put it all on the line for others.

Hy had been here. I could see the relief and happiness in his eyes. Now maybe he wouldn’t do anything crazy.

Yeah, right…

I looked around. The lights were low, but my monitors flashed in a hypnotic rhythm. Blip, blip, blip… My throat felt raw from the breathing tube.

I’d sustained a lot of damage, the doctor told me. I was going to have to work hard at therapy. Well, I could do that. Given what I’d already been through, I could do anything.

I knew I shouldn’t be worrying about a triviality at a time like this, but they had had to shave my head-twice. Would my hair grow back right?

Did it matter?

A nurse popped in, checked the monitors. Went away, leaving me alone.

Fuck the hair. I’m still here. Probably bald as the proverbial egg, but I’m still here!

HY RIPINSKY

The scene he walked into in Shar’s office at the pier was tense in the extreme. Mick sat in Shar’s desk chair, and Craig leaned against a file cabinet-positions of power. Diane D’Angelo was in one of the clients’ chairs; from the way she clutched its arms, and from her tightly crossed ankles, she looked as if an invisible rope bound her there.

Craig said, “Join us, Hy. We’ve been having a very interesting conversation with Diane. I mean Susan. Susan Angelo, an investigator formerly of New York City, and a good friend of Jim Yatz.”

“Susan was just telling us that Yatz hired her to infiltrate our offices,” Mick added. “Seems he was concerned about an investigation Shar conducted for Amanda Teller last year. And there were problems at city hall that he wanted to put a good spin on by coming up clean in an additional investigation by us.”

Hy looked at the woman he’d known as Diane D’Angelo. She kept her eyes down.

He said, “I’ve read that file. Background checks on the Pro Terra Party, its chairman, Lee Summers, and State Representative Paul Janssen. Nothing incriminating, as far as I could tell.”

“But Yatz didn’t know that until Diane-Susan-delivered it to him. She deleted it from the agency files, but kept a copy in her own blocked files.”

Hy said, “Diane, Susan, whatever-why did you stay on here after you turned over the information on the Teller investigation to Yatz?”

Silence. Then, “Jim told me there was a potential scandal brewing at city hall, and that he might need me here. Besides, the pay and benefits were better than what I was getting in New York.”

“How the hell did you get around the agency’s background checks?”

No reply.

Mick said, “Shar hired her provisionally, because Thelia was totally swamped at the time, and Jim Yatz had highly recommended her. She asked Derek for a check, but the request never got to him. Someone”-he glared at Susan Angelo-“intercepted it, and wrote Shar an excellent report.”

Hy thought about that; his wife pretty much accepted her operatives’ reports at face value because she knew and trusted them. Angelo must’ve accessed some of Derek’s other background checks and copied his style.

He raised an eyebrow at Craig. “This city hall investigation-you put her on it?”

“Right. And she turned up nothing. Couldn’t’ve, because Yatz set up a smoke screen involving disappearing files and memos. But in reality, there was only one memo that went away-from Amanda Teller to the mayor.”

“Saying what?”

“Sit down, Ripinsky, and I’ll tell you what the boys and girls at city hall have been up to.”

MICK SAVAGE

He and Craig and Hy debated what to do about Susan Angelo. She was being cooperative-obviously all her loyalty to her friend Yatz had evaporated upon her being found out-but her cooperation would only last so long. There wasn’t anything they could have her arrested for except presenting false credentials, and even a bad public defender could get her out on bail in hours on such a charge. Then, to save her ass, she’d either take off or, more likely, sell her story to the press. And all hell would break loose.

People involved in the scandal would start lawyering up. The mayor would take a heavy hit. And they still didn’t have all the answers.

Such as: Who shot Shar? Who killed Harvey Davis? Who killed Teller and Janssen?

“Shit, I don’t know,” Hy said. They were in the conference room, while Julia, who had returned from dropping something off at Richman Labs, was pretending to make nice to Angelo in Shar’s office. “We can’t keep her here against her will.”

Mick said, “I don’t trust her. She walks out of here, and she’ll go straight to the media. D’you know how much money a story like this would bring?”

“Yeah.” Craig was silent for a moment. “There may be a way to hold her.” He took out his phone, speed-dialed a number.

“Tyler, it’s Craig Morland. I need a favor. We’ve got an operative here who needs to be in protective custody… Witness against a number of high-level city officials… I know it’s not a federal case, but I can’t ask for help from the SFPD-some of them may be involved… Yes, our agency will pay you… A day or two, no more… Thanks, Tyler. I’ll look for you within the hour.”

He replaced the receiver. “Tyler’s with the local field office, but he moonlights. He’s also a good actor; he’ll make Susan feel like a celebrity witness.”

“Which she is, in a way,” Mick said.

JULIA RAFAEL

Diane D’Angelo-Susan Angelo-smiled at her and said, “I suppose they told you about my charade.”

“Yes, they did.”

“That’s all it was-an acting job to please my boyfriend.”

“That did harm to my boss and this agency.”

“How? What does it matter who’s fucking who at city hall?”

“It matters that Sharon McCone is in a locked-in state and may remain there forever. It matters that Amanda Teller and Paul Janssen are dead.”

D’Angelo-Angelo, whatever-sat on the edge of Shar’s desk, rolling a cut-glass paperweight between her hands.

“Teller and Janssen were corrupt; they deserved what they got. McCone-she was in the way.”

Julia tensed. Craig and Mick had urged her not to confront the woman, but…

Diane-Susan-frowned. “Jim isn’t going to like me getting caught out. Or admitting to the scam.” She looked down at the paperweight in her hands. “I need to tell him what happened, that they forced me to talk.”

Julia didn’t see what was coming until the woman rose from the desk and raised the crystal globe. She tried to shield her head-

She woke up slowly, her vision swimming, then focusing on carpet.

What carpet? Had she passed out? No way. She’d quit the drugs and booze years ago.

Footsteps coming toward her. “Jules? What happened?” Gentle hands on her shoulders. “Jesus, there’s a bloody welt on the side of your head!”

She stiffened. Then: nothing to fear. It was Craig Morland’s voice; he wouldn’t hurt her. But somebody had.

Oh, yeah, that puta, Susan Angelo. Slammed her on the head with the heavy crystal paperweight from Shar’s desk.

Craig asked, “Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about turning over on your back? Or should I call nine-one-one?”

“Help me. Then we’ll see.”

When she was on her back again her vision swam, then focused on Craig, who was kneeling next to her.

He asked, “Did Susan do this to you?”

“Uh-huh. One minute we’re talking, the next she’s coming at me with Shar’s paperweight.”

“I think I should call for the paramedics. You could have a concussion.”

“Don’t. I can-” She tried to pull herself up, sank back weakly. “Maybe you better.” Then she remembered about the city’s emergency services’ dangerously slow response times. “Mierda. I’ll be laying around here till the middle of next week.”

Craig was dialing, giving the address of the pier.

“Craig? Call my sister and let her know what happened. But ask her not to tell Tonio.”

“Will do.”

“And there’s something I dropped off at Richman Labs. They promised it for tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll pick it up, don’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

Dios, her head hurt and she felt like she was going to hurl. If she hurt this way, how bad Shar must’ve felt when she got shot!

RAE KELLEHER

Laura Logan didn’t look any more like a porn filmmaker than the guy at Hot Shots had. She was petite, with dark shoulder-length hair, and beautifully dressed in black trousers and a flame-colored jacket. She lounged carelessly in her chair in the bar of the exclusive Barbary Hotel on Nob Hill-a place Rae had suggested they meet, thinking it might make the woman uncomfortable and put her at a disadvantage. Well, that idea hadn’t worked.

Logan sipped at an expensive zinfandel she’d ordered, then said, “You’re probably going to ask me how a woman could go into my industry. Exploiting other women, issues like that.”

“It interests me, yes. But right now I’m even more interested in specific projects of yours-DVDs you directed for Lee Summers and the Pro Terra Party.”

Logan recrossed her legs, took a long slow sip of wine. “I don’t reveal information about my projects or employers.”

“Under subpoena you’d have to.”

“What does that mean?”

“One of the women in a lesbian film you shot was Lee Summers’s daughter. A few weeks later she was found slashed to death in a SoMa alley. My attorney took a deposition from a witness this morning that indicates Summers may have killed his own daughter. I’ll be talking with the DA, and I’m fairly certain the DA will want to talk with you. Eventually, you’ll be called before the grand jury.”

“… Which woman was Summers’s daughter?”

“The blonde.”

“The one that was so out of it she didn’t really know what was happening. The other was a pro; I’ve used her before. Jesus, Summers hired me to film his daughter?”

“Right. Apparently it wasn’t the first time she was a featured player.”

“I can’t testify about this to anyone. It would kill me in the industry. I have a nice life, a little girl to support-”

“A little girl who someday may be degraded and exploited and end up with her throat cut in some dark alley just like Alicia Summers.”

Logan’s hand shook, sloshing wine on the table. “No! I’ve provided well for her, a college fund-”

“Alicia Summers was a bright, happy young woman with everything in the world to look forward to. She’d been accepted at UCLA. Then her father pimped her for party donations and influence. It only takes one evil person to destroy a life. How would you feel if your little girl encountered a Lee Summers?”

Logan gulped what was left of her wine and stared at the splatter patterns on the table for a long time. “Okay,” she finally said, “I’ll give a deposition to your lawyer tomorrow.”

JULIA RAFAEL

What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

“Where are we?”

“Pier Twenty-four and a Half.”

“What happened to you?”

“This damn fuckin’ puta hit me on the head with a paperweight.”

The paramedic’s face disappeared, and Julia looked up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. The glare hurt her eyes, so she squeezed them shut.

“She seems okay,” the medic said, “but she should be hospitalized overnight. Head trauma can be tricky.”

“Right.” Craig.

Julia said, “I want to go home.”

“Follow the doctor’s orders.”

“He’s not a doctor.”

“He knows a hell of a lot more than you do.”

She sighed, gave in. Wasn’t worth fighting when she was so tired. In the ambulance she asked the attendant, “Where’re you taking me?”

“SF General.”

Well, at least she’d be close to Shar.

MICK SAVAGE

He wedged the Harley into a spot between two sports cars on Filbert Street in the upscale Cow Hollow neighborhood. The address Susan Angelo had listed on her application for employment was a two-story sugar cube of a building mid-block. A light shone in a small entry with two mailboxes and intercoms on its wall. He approached quietly and looked at the names on the boxes.

No Angelo or D’Angelo.

He rang the bell of the first-floor unit, but got no response. A woman’s voice replied on the intercom of the top unit; it wasn’t Susan’s. He asked for Diane D’Angelo, and the woman said she wasn’t there.

“But this is her place?”

“No. She gets mail sometimes, but she doesn’t live here.”

“May I come up and talk with you?”

“Why?”

“I’m a private investigator with the agency where Diane works. She may be in trouble.”

Silence.

“Look, I’ve got identification. I can slip it under your door-”

“No, I’ll come down.”

He waited. The fog was sailing overhead, bypassing this exclusive enclave on its way to obscure the less privileged neighborhoods. It was chilly; San Francisco summer wouldn’t arrive till September. He thought of Shar: how she loved the warm, golden autumn days…

And again she’d get to enjoy them. His relief on hearing she was going to be okay had made him weak; the tension he’d been carrying around since the night of her attack had flowed out of him. He hadn’t thought it possible, after what he’d witnessed that last night at the Brandt Institute, that his aunt would live, let alone be whole again. But by some miracle she would.

The building’s door opened, and a heavyset woman with short gray hair looked out. “Okay, where’s this identification?” she asked.

He took out both his private investigator’s and driver’s licenses and passed them to her. The door closed, then opened a few moments later. “All right,” she said, “we can talk here in the lobby. My neighbors are only a few yards away. You try anything, they’ll be on you pretty quick.”

Mick stepped onto what she called the lobby. It was small with a mirrored wall and no furnishings. The woman took up most of the space.

“Thank you, Ms…?”

“Kelly. Mimi Kelly.”

“I appreciate you talking with me. How do you know Diane?”

“I don’t.”

“But she gets mail here.”

“You ever heard of a drop?”

“So d’you hold the mail or forward it?”

“Forward to a P.O. box.”

“What about phone calls?”

“I screen them, relay them to another machine.”

“Will you give me the phone and P.O. box numbers?”

She shifted her stance, folded her arms across her pendulous breasts. “I don’t give out that information; this is a business for me.”

“You have other clients, then.”

“Honey, I got clients whose names would make your eyes bug out. People want a fancy address for one reason or another. And I’m happy to live at that address.”

“You have backing for your business? Somebody who finances your living expenses?”

“Once, a long time ago, I did. My uncle, he’s dead. Left me all his money; now I own the building.”

Mick’s guess was that Susan Angelo had fled the city or had gone to ground at the place where she really lived. He thought about what she’d admitted to them, then took out his phone and checked San Francisco listings. None, but the one he was looking for could be easily accessed via search engine. He got it and moments later he was headed downhill to the Marina district.

Quiet in the entry courtyard of this Spanish-style house on Mallorca Way-a building of a type predominant in this bayside neighborhood. Sweet smell of some night-blooming plant and pungent odor of recently watered earth. In spite of the drifting fog he thought of summer nights at his grandparents’ house in San Diego, where his father had parked the family while he went out on the road with other people’s bands before he made it on his own. His uncle John-who was currently hanging around Shar and Hy’s place and annoying the hell out of Hy-lived with his new wife and two boys in the old homeplace now. Maybe after Shar was better, they’d pay a visit…

He went to the front door of the house, hit the bell. Chimes rang inside, but no one came. There were lights on in the room to the right of the door. He rang again. No response.

Well, maybe his theory had been wrong.

He was about to turn away when he noticed a faint odor that contrasted sharply with that of the plants in the courtyard. He sniffed. Cordite. A gun had been fired here recently, maybe more than once.

He put his hand on the door latch. It moved. He hesitated.

He wasn’t armed, wasn’t even firearms-qualified. In fact, he had never so much as held a gun in his hands. And he sure as hell didn’t want to walk into another scene like the one at the lodge in Big Sur. That experience had convinced him he couldn’t take blood and gore.

Besides, entering struck him as an unnecessary risk. A shooter could be waiting inside and blast him when he walked in. Or he could jeopardize a possible crime scene-and his license-by inadvertently tampering with evidence.

But maybe somebody in there needed help? If so, he couldn’t do anything for them. Only the paramedics could.

Maybe he was rationalizing, but there was no way he wanted to step through that door.

He took out his phone and dialed 911. Then, since Craig and Adah lived only a couple of blocks away, he called them and asked for their supportive presence.

CRAIG MORLAND

Come on, Dom-you know me. Give me a break here.”

Craig watched Adah as she faced down Dominick Rayborn, the investigator who had replaced her on the SFPD’s homicide squad. Around them squad cars’ lights pulsed and an ambulance pulled away. Two body bags had been removed from Jim Yatz’s house. A press van from the local CBS affiliate had just driven up and double-parked next to others from ABC and NBC.

Rayborn saw it, and his sharp-featured face ticked with annoyance. “Dammit, Adah, I can’t stand here jawing with you. Not when some asshole with a microphone is about to light on me.”

“You’ve cleared and secured the scene. You’ll need to interview our operative who called this in. We can all go down to the Hall-”

“No, that’s the last thing I need-” He broke off, said to a uniform, “Get her out of here!” Her being a TV newswoman who had slipped past the police barricade. “The goddamn media vultures’ll be waiting on the steps of the Hall.”

“So come to my place.”

He hesitated. “Irregular, but it might work. You’ll have this operative there-what’s his name?-Mick Savage.”

“Yes. Craig and I are only a couple of blocks away; when Mick called, we walked over. He can walk back with us, to avoid attracting attention. Then you shake the press vans and come by.”

He shook his head. “I’ll go with you. They’ll never expect me to leave on foot.”

Craig loved the apartment. It had been Adah’s for years before he met her. Spacious and airy, with white walls and great splashes of colorful furnishings and artwork, and a large deck that they shared with the neighboring unit. The neighbors were an older couple in their late sixties; they were gardeners and often shared the vegetables from their small patch with Adah and him. A few weeks ago, the four of them had gone in together on a gas grill from Costco.

Now home seemed strange, with the rambunctious new cats-still called That One and The Other-locked in the bedroom and the somber-faced, sharp-featured homicide detective perched on the edge of their red sofa. He’d declined a soft drink or coffee, taped Mick’s story about how he’d come to be at Yatz’s house, then gone silent, his fingers laced together, staring at the floor.

“Our turn, Dom,” Adah prompted.

He looked up, distracted from his thoughts. “Okay,” he said. “The vics are Jim Yatz and a woman with two sets of ID on her-Diane D’Angelo and Susan Angelo. One of your operatives, as Mr. Savage has told me. Our preliminary findings indicate a murder-suicide; Yatz blew her away, then turned his thirty-eight on himself. Neighbors to the right of the house heard an argument going on and turned up their TV to cover the noise. This was about nine o’clock; fifteen minutes later, when the husband got up to get something from the kitchen, everything was quiet.”

Craig said, “Don’t you find it peculiar that two other people involved in city or state government were recently killed in an apparent murder-suicide?”

“You mean Teller and Janssen. The sheriff’s department down in Monterey County has been in close touch with us; they’ve classified it a homicide. In this case it’s different: no injections, and obvious powder burns on Yatz’s hands, apparently from his own gun. There’s also evidence that Angelo had been living there for a fair amount of time.”

Mick said, “So Angelo went home, told Yatz we had evidence on him on DVD, that she’d admitted to everything, and we were taking it to the DA. He shot her, then killed himself.”

“Everything points to that. We’ll know more when we get reports from ballistics and the ME’s office.”

Adah said, “I’d like to see copies of those reports.”

Rayborn nodded. “We can work together on this. I’ll appreciate any input you can offer, and I’ll reciprocate.” His solemn face softened. “I know your record, Adah. You were one of the best, and I’m glad to see you haven’t burned out. This job…” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be applying to McCone Investigations myself in a few years.”

If there still was a McCone Investigations, Craig thought. Shar wasn’t out of the woods by a long shot, and he didn’t think the rest of them had the heart to carry on without her.