Locked In

SHARON McCONE

They had removed the tube from my mouth for good yesterday, and now were disconnecting the patches that connected me to the monitors from my arms, legs, and chest.

God, those are my lifelines! They’re going to kill me!

The voiceless scream rose. Subsided when someone said, “Okay, let’s get her onto the gurney.”

Being lifted. Moved sideways. Down onto a harder surface. Tugging of blankets. Clicking of strap connectors.

Where are they taking me? More tests?

I struggled to make my vocal cords work. Couldn’t.

I tried to raise my arm. Couldn’t.

Clumsy maneuvering through a door. Then swift forward motion, wheels bumping over uneven spots on the floor. Acoustical ceiling and fluorescents passing overhead. Automatic door noise, and then…

Fresh air. Cool and faintly salt-tinged.

I’m outside!

Another voice: “We’ll take her from here.” A face appeared above me-male, smooth, young. “Ms. McCone,” he said, “if you can hear me, I’m Andy with the Sequoia Ambulance Service. We’re taking you to the Brandt Neurological Institute.”

Oh, right. Where Hy told the doctor he was having me transferred. The terror subsided, and I blinked my eyelids, but Andy had looked away. “It’s only a twenty-minute trip,” he added, “and we’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”

Why does he sound as if he doesn’t believe I can understand a word he says?

Will somebody please look at me and see I’m still here?

Weariness washed over me and I slept.

Cool light. Blue walls. Scent of fresh-cut flowers. A window. And beyond it a thick stand of eucalyptus.

I love eucalyptus. I wish the window were open so I could smell them. But this floral scent… what…?

I tried to look around, but from the way the bed was positioned I couldn’t see much more of the room. Looked up. Suspended from the overhead track was a stainless steel contraption that looked like an elaborate, multi-barbed fishhook. An IV bag was suspended from it, as well as a container of a brownish liquid.

Alone? Yes, I can tell by the quality of the silence.

Tired. So tired. Was it yesterday that Hy said it had been ten days? Ten whole days since I’d been in a coma, then weak and helpless?

No, admit it-paralyzed.

But not in a coma. I can think, see, hear, breathe, and feel. I just can’t move or speak.

Just? That’s everything!

Got to find some way to let them know.

Got to!

Someone coming into the room. Hand on my forehead. Hy.

“We’re at the Brandt Institute, McCone,” he said. “I just met your new neurosurgeon. They’re going to do everything they can to help you.”

Don’t stand over to the side. Look at my face!

“It’s a nice place, out on Jackson Street, near the Presidio. Nice people, too.”

Look at me, dammit!

“First thing tomorrow they’re going to run some more brain scans and try to get an accurate diagnosis. Then…” He fell silent for a few seconds.

“Hell, McCone, if you could hear me, you’d know I’m clutching at straws here. There’s so much they don’t know about the brain, and I know even less. God, I can’t…”

He was crying. I’d seldom known him to cry.

He moved around, bent over, and buried his face on my shoulder. His body shook and his tears wet my hospital gown. I wanted to hold him, and I couldn’t move. Comfort him, and I had no words.

After a moment, he raised his head and looked straight into my eyes.

I blinked at him, moved my eyes up and down.

He drew back, astonishment and hope brightening his drawn features. Gently he reached out to touch my face.

“You’re here with me!” he said.

I blinked again.

“You can hear me. See me.”

Blink.

“Can you move?”

I decided two blinks would mean no.

“Can you talk to me?”

Blink, blink.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re on your way back. I’m getting your doctor.”

Thank God. I knew I could count on you, Ripinsky.

But what the hell took you so long?

RAE KELLEHER

She propped her right elbow on the desk and lowered her forehead to the palm of her hand. Her eyes ached and pain needled above her brow. Through the open doorway of her study she could hear her stepdaughters, Molly and Lisa, squabbling downstairs over which DVD to watch. She wouldn’t interfere. Let them duke it out-that was her parenting philosophy. Prepare them ahead of time for the often rocky shoals of life.

She took several deep breaths. The throbbing stopped. She raised her head and fumbled in the desk drawer for eyedrops. They soothed the ache.

She raised her head and stared out the window to the northeast at the fog-shrouded towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below the house waves pounded the shoreline. Many millions’ worth of view. She remembered when she and Ricky and the real-estate agent had first toured the multilevel mansion in the exclusive Sea Cliff area: it was so beautiful that she ached to live there. She’d been poor and in debt most of her life, and she couldn’t believe anything remotely like that was possible. But in the bedroom with the indoor hot tub overlooking the sea, Ricky had put his arms around her and said, “What do you think, Red? Will you live here with me?” The answer was a given.

Back to the present, she told herself.

But the present was so depressing. Shar…

She thought back to her initial interview with the woman she’d hoped would be her boss, when Shar was staff investigator at All Souls Legal Cooperative, a poverty law firm. Rae had been in her twenties, trapped in a bad marriage to a professional student, and adrift as far as a career was concerned. Shar’s faith in her ability to make a good investigator had given her the strength to break with her husband and move on. And as they worked together, a friendship strong enough to last a lifetime had formed between them.

At least, she’d thought it would last a lifetime, till some scum-bag had pumped a bullet into Shar’s brain.

And now she was trying without much success to connect this old homicide to Shar’s shooting. Cold cases fascinated most people, but as far as Rae was concerned they were a pain in the ass. For that matter, so was the director at the San Francisco Victims’ Advocates. Maggie Lambert, an old-school feminist and former rape victim with great empathy for her mostly deceased clients. But Maggie wasn’t interested in providing accurate files or details. She wanted instant resolutions to cases that had been gathering dust forever.

Plus it was hard for Rae to focus when she was so worried about Shar.

Shar-now almost but not quite a relative by marriage. Ricky was only Shar’s former brother-in-law, but his and her sister Charlene’s six kids-four of whom Rae was participating in raising-had caused her enough trouble to qualify her for family membership. They weren’t collectively called the Little Savages for nothing.

Back to the files.

Angie Atkins, in her late teens, a hooker who’d been found slashed to death three years ago in an alley off Sixth Street downtown-San Francisco’s skid row. No family, no history. She’d never been fingerprinted-didn’t hold a driver’s license-but Rae had a lead on another hooker who had been Angie’s best friend. So far her informant had only given her a first name-Callie-which she could’ve made up in order to get the money for her next fix.

Victims’ Advocates was a nonprofit group funded by various foundations and state and federal grants. Their focus was on cold cases involving violence to women. Although they employed two investigators, they were currently on overload, and McCone Investigations had agreed to take the case pro bono.

Why, Rae thought now, had she been the one Adah Joslyn approached with the assignment? And why had she agreed? She didn’t draw a salary from the agency, didn’t need to work if she didn’t want to. But although she and Ricky had so much money that neither of them would have to lift a finger for the rest of their lives, idleness wasn’t a component of their natures. So he managed his recording company, scouted for new talent, issued an occasional CD, and performed charity concerts. She wrote and investigated, because both pursuits were in her blood.

Now Rae tried to think of scenarios that would link the cold case with the burglar who had rifled their offices and then shot Shar. It was a stretch. She’d asked Patrick Neilan, the operative who coordinated their investigations, to look into those that Shar had been working three years ago. He’d turned up nothing to link with this one.

Finally Rae gave up and decided to have a glass of wine while she waited for Ricky to return from his recording company’s headquarters in LA.

Then the phone rang. An informant with an address for Angie Atkins’s friend Callie-last name O’Leary.

MICK SAVAGE

He was really pissed off, and Celestina Gates wasn’t improving his mood any.

She strode around the living room of her Nob Hill condominium issuing statements that boiled down to it’s-all-about-me and why-haven’t-you-found-out-who’s-ruined-my-life. Tall, willowy, with long dark hair, she normally would have attracted Mick. Had attracted him when he’d first met her. Now, instead of taking her to bed, he wanted to dangle her off her twelfth-story balcony.

Being pissed off had to do with Shar’s condition: Gates’s problem seemed so trivial compared with what had happened to his aunt. His aunt, who had put up with his immaturity, mentored him, given him a sure direction in life.

If this Gates bitch had anything to do with Shar’s shooting… He waited with gritted teeth till his client’s tantrum had passed, sitting on her red leather sofa and looking at the gray sky above the grim brownstone facade of the old Flood Mansion across California Street-a creation of famed architect Willis Polk that now housed the exclusive Pacific-Union Club. When Gates finally sat in a matching chair opposite him and fumbled with a cigarette and lighter, he said, “Ms. Gates, something’s wrong here.”

“Of course something’s wrong! My life and career are destroyed!”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Her nostrils flared. “What, you think I’m not telling you everything?”

She’d said it, he hadn’t. “Yes, I do.”

“How dare you-?”

He held up his hand. “Last night I was rereading the case histories you describe in Protect Your Identity. In each one, it took a long time for the individual to regain access to bank accounts and establish new credit card accounts and ratings.”

Wary now. “Yes.”

“I understand that as an expert on identity theft, this would be easier for you to accomplish than for a run-of-the-mill victim-even one using your book.”

“I suppose so.”

“Yet you chose to hire our agency.”

“Well, sometimes an objective investigator can do a better job than the individual involved.”

“Uh-huh. You claim you’ve been financially ruined.”

“I have been.”

“This condo-your mortgage is ninety-five hundred and thirteen dollars a month.”

“How do you-?”

“And that Jaguar in the garage downstairs is leased for three thousand.”

“… Right.”

“Your credit cards are all clean, and over there in the foyer are five big shopping bags full of stuff from places like Gucci and Neiman Marcus.”

“So what’s your point?”

“You don’t seem to be hurting-at least not as badly as you’ve made it out to be.”

“I’ve tapped into my savings-”

“Your column’s been canceled, nobody wants you on TV, clients are running like hell from your consulting firm. And you told me a book contract’s on hold. You’re spending a lot for someone who’s living on her savings and has no prospects for future income.”

She stubbed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. “I have an image to keep up.”

“According to you, that image is ruined.”

“All right, so I’m a compulsive shopper.”

“I doubt that. You’re too savvy a businesswoman to yield to impulse.”

“We all have our faults.”

“And one of yours is lying.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Never lie to an investigator when you’re trying to pull off a scam, Ms. Gates. It’s too easy for us to check into your background, credit rating, and finances. I did, when I started feeling uncomfortable about you. Everything’s golden, except for a scam you pulled off before you left your hometown in Texas. And that’s been pretty well covered up; I had to dig hard for the information. It was a similar scam to the one you’re trying to pull off now, but on a more minor scale.”

“What the hell-?”

“Failure and triumphant recoveries generate publicity and profits. Your career has been slacking off for at least two years since other, more reliable consultants have come on the scene. My guess is that you hired our agency so you could outshine us by solving your own manufactured identity theft and putting yourself back on top.”

She was silent now, glowering. Caught out.

“Who was going to be the lucky individual to take the blame for the theft?”

More silence.

“Well?”

“You’re so smart. Who do you think?”

It came to him in a flash. Himself! Why hadn’t he realized that before? Dumb, just plain dumb. He was the perfect scapegoat: he had all her significant information, and she’d probably set up a way to prove he’d had it before she ever went to McCone Investigations. Set up a way to prove the nonexistent identity theft, too.

He didn’t have to ask her why she’d picked him. Publicity value. After all, he was Ricky Savage’s son.

Nearly choking on his anger, he stood and loomed over her. She squirmed a little but maintained eye contact.

He said, “On the night of July seventh, did you or someone you hired go to Pier 24½ looking for information I’d gathered?”

“Me? Why-Oh, God, that was the night your boss was shot!”

“Right.”

“I didn’t go there. I never hired anyone. You can’t involve me in that-oh, no.”

Her defensive reaction seemed genuine, made him think she was telling the truth. “I’ll accept that for now. But if I find out otherwise, I’ll go to the police and the press and expose you for what you are.”

“Does this mean you’re dumping me as a client?”

“What do you think, Ms. Gates?”

In the elevator on the way down, he thought, I really should’ve dangled the bitch off her balcony.

CRAIG MORLAND

He waited in the booth of the dimly lighted bar on Peach Alley, not far from the Civic Center.

He felt as if he were meeting Deep Throat, but at least this wasn’t a parking garage, so he could get a drink.

The Deep Throat analogy was valid, though: in 1973 and -74 Mark Felt, then assistant director of the FBI, had leaked details of the Watergate break-in to a Washington Post reporter and brought down the Nixon presidency. Although San Francisco wasn’t Washington, DC, if what Craig’s informant had been telling him was true, it could very well blow the lid off city government.

The bar was quiet, even now at the tail end of happy hour; politicos didn’t hang out there because there was nobody important to see them and no deals to be made. During Craig’s tenure with the Bureau in DC he’d spent a lot of time in lively look-atme establishments-sometimes on duty, sometimes to impress a date-and he hadn’t realized how much he hated them till he’d thrown it all away and moved to San Francisco to be with Adah.

Adah: poster woman for the SFPD, assigned as liaison to the same special FBI task force as he was. Goal: to apprehend a man who’d been bombing foreign consulates. Unused to playing hard-ball like the Bureau’s men, Adah had gone into an emotional meltdown, and Craig had helped her through it. Later, after she’d fully healed, he himself became broken and disillusioned by the work that had steadily eroded all his idealistic dreams, and during coast-to-coast phone conversations whose cost had rivaled the national debt, she’d supported him in his decision to leave the Bureau. Now Adah had given up her similarly disillusioning career with the SFPD, and only Shar’s need for an executive assistant had saved them from a move to Denver, where she’d been offered an administrative position at the DPD. Good thing, too: he hated snow.

Thoughts of Adah and the agency immediately turned into thoughts of McCone. It was fucking unbelievable that she was in a coma. That a random-or maybe not-so-random-encounter after hours at the pier could have reduced such a vital woman to a vegetative state… Neither he nor Adah had been sleeping much since it happened, and some nights she’d slipped out of bed and he’d heard sounds of crying coming from the bathroom. He didn’t cry, but a couple of nights he’d taken out his anger on the refrigerator, pounding its door till his fist was bruised-which, for him, amounted to the same as tears.

Craig looked up as his informant came through the door, swept the room with wary eyes. Spotted Craig and moved toward him, looking stupid in a hat and trench coat. Did he really think no one would notice him?

Harvey Davis was the former campaign manager for Amanda Teller, president of the city’s board of supervisors, and one of her most trusted aides. Independently wealthy, handsome, sophisticated-in spite of tonight’s silly disguise-he had recently been voted one of the city’s most eligible bachelors by a national magazine. He’d contacted Craig three weeks ago, claiming something was very wrong at city hall.

“What’ll you have?” Craig asked as the man sat down.

“Scotch, neat. Single malt.”

“Done.” He went to the bar and ordered. When he returned to the booth and set the drink down, he asked, “What’ve you got for me? You haven’t given me much so far.”

“She’s meeting with Janssen on Saturday.”

She: Amanda Teller. He: Paul Janssen, a state representative for this district.

“Where?”

“Down the coast. A rundown lodge near Big Sur.”

“Why Big Sur?”

“Good halfway point: Amanda’s giving a talk at UC-Santa Barbara Friday evening. Besides, the lodge is isolated and no one’s likely to recognize them there.”

“So what’s this-about sex, power, money?”

“Not sex, I don’t think; they reserved separate rooms-under false names, of course. Power and money? For sure. What else? Who knows?”

“You’re not giving me a lot to go on.”

“It’s all I have. How’s your boss doing?”

“Still in a coma.”

“Too bad. McCone’s a good woman.”

“Yeah, she is.”

Craig’s informant tossed back what was left of his drink, stood up, and slid a piece of paper across the table. “Here’s the information on Teller and Janssen’s meeting.”

“Thanks.”

“I also want to give you a key and the security code to my condo.”

“Why?”

“Evidence there. Videos. If something happens to me…”

“What, you mean-?”

“Just take the key.” He placed it on the table. “The security code’s 1773. I’ll be in touch.”

Craig pocketed the key, watched him go, and after half a minute, followed him.

The street was deserted, dusky, fog-damp. Davis’s footsteps echoed off the pavement down the block. Craig went the other way toward his SUV, fumbling for his keys. They caught inside his jacket pocket and he had to pause to extricate them.

Behind him Davis’s footsteps stopped. Craig glanced back, saw him unlocking the door of a white Mercedes sedan. Davis looked at him, gave him a thumbs-up sign, and got into the car.

Finally the keys came free. Craig again started walking toward his SUV. Davis still hadn’t started the Mercedes; he was a methodical man and was probably making minor adjustments to the seat and mirrors-as if they would’ve moved in the brief time he’d been in the bar.

Craig was halfway around to his driver’s-side door when a vehicle started up, its engine burbling as if something was wrong with the exhaust manifold; it pulled out from the curb across from him, nearly grazing his front quarter panel. Black pickup with a white camper shell. The driver had forgotten to put on his lights-

Craig whirled, shouting after the truck, but it kept going toward the end of the block where Harvey Davis’s headlights were flashing on.

A gunshot echoed loudly in the narrow street.

Instinctively Craig dropped to the pavement, his hands protecting his head.

Two more shots, staccato bursts. Semiautomatic weapon, he thought. The pickup’s tires squealed as it sped around the corner onto Golden Gate. Harvey Davis’s car stayed in place, its engine purring in the sudden quiet.

Knowing what he would find, Craig pushed to his feet and ran toward it.

JULIA RAFAEL

She looked across her desk at Haven Dietz and said, “I’m sorry I asked you to come in so late in the day, but there’re some things about your case I need to check out.”

A jagged scar extended from below Dietz’s right eye to her chin, another across her brow. Although you couldn’t tell it unless she moved, her right arm was useless because tendons and muscles had been severed during the knife attack last year. Before that, according to Julia’s file, Dietz had been pretty and confident, a junior executive with a top financial management firm. Now her blonde hair hung lank and unwashed; she wore no makeup; she seemed shrunken inside her baggy sweater and jeans, as if protecting herself against further attack. She had other scars that you couldn’t see, but they were psychological and emotional.

Pobrecita.

Julia always thought in her primary language when she was upset. And every time she conferred with Haven Dietz, she had trouble concealing her emotional turmoil.

Thing was, it could’ve been her. Was more likely to have been her, given her past. She’d been hooking and dealing on the tough streets of the Mission district when she was a teenager; Haven had been assaulted while taking a shortcut home through a park in the supposedly safe, middle-class outer Richmond district.

Por Dios…

But something wasn’t right with Dietz, and Julia couldn’t pin it down. She’d come to the agency for help, but her behavior ranged from noncooperative to hostile. Also, she professed to dislike Larry Peeples’s parents, yet she’d strongly urged them to contract with the agency and request Julia as their investigator. Of course the cases were connected, and Dietz knew it.

Always before, Julia had met with Dietz at her apartment, but today she’d asked her to come here. Power play.

“I’m finding strong links between your case and the Larry Peeples disappearance,” Julia added. “Can we talk about your relationship with him again?”

The woman sighed and fired up a cigarette without asking-in spite of the NO SMOKING signs posted on the wall along the cat-walk. “We’ve been over and over this. Larry was a neighbor and he was gay. We were casual friends, nothing more.”

Julia didn’t like Dietz, but more than once she’d told herself she couldn’t let it interfere with her investigation.

“You and Larry were close friends, according to his lover, Ben Gold.”

She shrugged. “We lived on the same floor. Sometimes I’d go to dinner at his apartment, or he’d come to mine. We didn’t exactly run in the same social circles.”

“When you saw him, what did you talk about?”

“Haven’t we done this before?”

Julia bit the tip of her tongue to control her temper. “It helps to keep going over things.”

Another sigh. “We talked about my job at the firm and his at the Home Showcase. About movies we’d seen and books we’d read. Nothing heavy. It was a way to pass the time and not have to cook for one. I don’t exactly call that a relationship.”

“But Larry took care of you when you came home from the hospital.”

“Nobody else was going to.” Bitterness filtered into her tone. “My parents were too busy sailing their damn yacht across the Pacific. My so-called friends turned out to be people who couldn’t deal with disfigurement.”

Dietz looked down at the cigarette, which was close to burning her fingers. She registered that there was no ashtray on the desk and glanced around.

“We don’t encourage our clients to smoke,” Julia said and motioned to her wastebasket. “Make sure it’s out. The service’s already emptied it, but I don’t want the plastic bag to melt.”

Dietz ground the butt out on the basket’s side and dropped it in. The smell of scorched plastic immediately drifted up to further poison the air.

Julia said, “You’ve told me you and Larry didn’t see too much of each other after you recovered from the attack.”

“No, we didn’t. He was working extra hours at Home Showcase and was with Ben Gold a lot. Besides…”

That was one thing she’d been holding back.

“Besides?”

“Well, we had kind of a falling-out. He told me I was a terrible patient and didn’t appreciate all he’d done for me. I offered to pay him for his time, and then he called me a spoiled rich brat. Which is definitely not fair, because if anybody was spoiled it was Larry. His family has tons of money: they own an award-winning winery in the Sonoma Valley.”

Julia knew all about the winery: Larry’s grieving parents had told her that shortly before he’d disappeared he’d agreed to return home and train to take over the business. They’d also invited her up there for a tour and lunch, but so far she hadn’t gone. She didn’t know how to act or dress in social situations with rich people. Across her desk she did better.

She said, “You and Larry never made up, right?”

“Right.”

“But you suggested that his parents consult our agency about his disappearance.”

“That was to get them off my back. They kept coming down here and hammering me with questions. They’re sure I know something-which I don’t.”

Julia consulted her file. “The day Larry disappeared-”

“We’ve been over this at least half a dozen times… Oh, hell, all right. I ran into him at the mailboxes about eleven that morning. We ignored each other. Later I felt guilty about that. After all, he did take care of me, and I’m not a very good patient. Besides, the building manager had told me Larry was giving up the apartment and moving back to Sonoma. So after I went out for groceries I went over there to say good-bye. He didn’t come to the door, although I sensed he was there, so I said the hell with it. Two days later Ben Gold came to my door asking if I’d seen Larry. And then the police got into it, and then the damned parents.”

“This Ben Gold-what’s your take on him?”

Dietz shrugged.

“Come on, you must’ve formed some opinion.” From her background check, Julia had learned the details of Gold’s life: born in the Bronx to a poor family; abusive home life; tried to make it on the New York stage and, when he didn’t, headed to less competitive San Francisco, where he’d had modest success with low-budget commercials. But she really couldn’t get a handle on Gold, other than that he was very distressed by his lover’s disappearance.

“He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him,” Dietz said. “He’s ambitious about the acting and modeling. Sucked up to Larry’s parents, too. Have you talked with him?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s your take on him?” Dietz asked.

“For a while he wasn’t getting on with his life. Spent a lot of time at the Peepleses’ vineyard. The mother seems to view him as a substitute for her son. That’s about to end, though; he’s moving to LA soon-something about an acting job.”

Dietz’s brow knitted and her gaze grew far away. After a moment she said, “Those parents…”

“What about them?”

Another shrug.

“Why d’you suppose they think you know more than you’re telling?”

“You’ll have to ask them.”

Julia had more questions, but her phone rang. She checked to see who was calling and said, “I need to take this.”

HY RIPINSKY

He slumped in a chair across the desk from Dr. Ralph Saxnay, Shar’s attending physician at the Brandt Neurological Institute. The starkly white and functional office was very quiet, except for the ticking of a grandfather clock on the facing wall. City sounds were muted in this eucalyptus-surrounded enclave.

“Mr. Ripinsky?”

“I’m sorry. It’s difficult to process all this.”

“I understand.”

Hy studied Saxnay. The doctor was tall and thin and totally bald, with a pale skeletal face and small blue eyes. Intelligent eyes, and full of compassion.

The situation with McCone was evidently much worse than when the medical professionals had thought she was in a coma.

“I don’t understand why nobody noticed she was… in there,” Hy said. “Shouldn’t they have seen the eyeblinks and motion when they put saline solution or whatever it is they use to keep the eyes hydrated?”

“Initially she was in a coma; if the patient’s eyes are closed and hydrating normally, there’s no need to augment it. Anyway, now that we know she’s awake, as indicated by the good brain wave activity shown in the CT scans taken at SF General and here earlier today, our preliminary diagnosis is locked-in syndrome. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“Have you seen the film or read the book The Diving Bell and the Butterfly?”

“Neither.”

“Well, then. The syndrome is caused by traumatic brain injury: head wounds as in your wife’s case or by stroke. Before you leave today, we’ll provide you with literature that may help you understand it more thoroughly. And, of course, there’s plenty of material on the Internet, although much of it may be inaccurate. With locked-in syndrome, unlike coma, the patient has normal sleep-and-waking cycles, is conscious, can think and reason, and has sensation throughout her body. Your wife can blink and move her eyes and, now, breathe without a ventilator-all of which are very positive signs. But, as you know, she cannot speak or move or take nourishment without a feeding tube.”

It was a moment before Hy could process the information. “What’s the course of treatment for this syndrome?”

“We will take measures to prevent infection or pneumonia and give her physical therapy to prevent her limbs from contraction. She’ll be turned often to prevent bedsores. Good nutrition will be provided, of course. A speech therapist will help her to establish a communication code utilizing eyeblinks or eye movement.”

Alarm seeped into him. Something the doc wasn’t saying.

“And the recovery time…?”

Saxnay met his gaze evenly. “The mortality rate is high. Patients typically die within months, although some live for a few years.”

Months. A few years.

No! Not McCone!

“… You’re saying she’ll never come out of this.”

“No, I’m not, Mr. Ripinsky. The syndrome is relatively rare; there’s a lot we don’t know about it. Medical science is developing new methods such as implanting electrodes in the brain which bypass the normal communication channels from the brain to the muscles. Most of these are still in the experimental stage, but as soon as they’re proven, we’ll try them. Ms. McCone is a strong, otherwise healthy woman in full possession of her intellectual faculties. Each case is different-”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let me tune you out now. Because what you really mean is that my wife is going to die in silence.

She’s going to die, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to prevent it.

Now Saxnay left him alone for a while, ostensibly to collect more test results on Shar but really, he knew, to allow him to regroup. The grandfather clock ticked-seconds of his wife’s life slipping away. He got up and paced around the office.

All those times he and McCone had cheated death. The explosion in Stone Valley. The ambush down on the Mexican border. The near-crash in the Tehachapi Mountains.

And by herself: all the stuff from the past she’d told him about. Last year, when she left RKI’s Green Street building seconds before it blew up. Last November, when a lousy rental plane had crapped out on her and she’d had to crash-land in the high desert.

And now a fragmented bullet was lodged near her brain stem, doing more harm than all the criminals and aeronautical malfunctions could. A deadly little piece of metal, that none of her smarts and guts could combat.

RAE KELLEHER

The rundown Tenderloin district on the edges of the city’s posh downtown had improved since she’d first moved to San Francisco, but there were still more bad areas than good. Barred storefronts, boarded-up windows, winos passed out in doorways. Every stripe of predator on the prowl. But she wasn’t afraid. She’d walked these streets after dark many times before and come out unscathed. And she’d had the good sense to get firearms-qualified with a carry permit while she was Shar’s assistant at All Souls. Tonight she was armed and alert for danger.

A hooker in a short skintight red dress gave her the evil eye. No, sister. Do I look like somebody who’s trying to take over your turf?

A man in a black leather jacket and pants, accessorized with flashy gold jewelry, surveyed her speculatively, then looked away.

Well, I’m not a target for pimps, at least. Good to dress down for this foray.

She slowed at the corner of Ellis and Larkin, checking the numbers of the buildings on Ellis. Proceeded to the middle of the next block. The place where she was headed was one of those old brick six-story jobs that had once been respectable apartment houses and were now transient hotels-a polite term for flophouses.

She pushed the door open and went into a grubby faux-marble entry whose mailboxes had been vandalized, their doors ripped off or hanging on bent hinges. The entry opened into a dimly lighted lobby with a desk to one side, where a white-haired man sat in a chair, his head bent forward, chin resting on his chest. Snores gusted from his mouth.

She tiptoed past him to the elevator. Out of order. She looked for the door to the stairs, took them to the second floor. Room 209 was to the right, in the back.

She knocked on the door, called out softly, “Callie?”

No answer.

“Callie?” Louder.

Nothing.

This was definitely the address her informant had given her on the phone for Callie O’Leary, friend of the murdered hooker, Angie Atkins. So where was she? Out on the streets? With a john someplace else? Having dinner?

Of course, it could also be a bogus report, so the informant would seem to be doing the job Rae had paid her for. Or a trap of some kind. Well, let anybody try something: she had less than a hundred dollars in her purse, as well as her nine-millimeter Glock.

She slipped the Glock out, then turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked, and it swung open into a pitch-black room. No sound, no motion, no odor except disinfectant. She edged inside, found a light switch, flipped it on.

Empty.

Just a small room-couldn’t have been more than six by nine-in a state of disorder. She moved toward a pair of doors and, with the Glock in her hand, pulled one open. A bathroom, towels on the floor, mildew in the shower; the other gave into a closet full of empty hangers.

Shit. If Callie O’Leary had lived here, she wasn’t just away for the evening, she’d cleared out.

Rae took out a pair of surgical gloves and snapped them on. Went back to the door to the hallway and closed it. Set the lock and secured the chain. Then she began to prowl.

Bedclothes rumpled and twisted, covered with stains she didn’t care to inspect. Pair of laddered pantyhose thrown over the room’s one chair. Ashtray full of lipsticked butts beside the bed; Callie’s choice of smokes was Virginia Slims. Bureau: nothing but a worn-out pair of red crotchless panties. Bedside table drawers: only a few packages of condoms and a phone book.

She took the book out and turned to the first page. People often noted things down there, and Callie had been no exception. In rounded handwriting were the words BILL DELANEY-CELL, 415-555-6789.

Rae ripped the page from the book, took another look around the room, and left. When she passed through the lobby, the elderly clerk was still snoring.

MICK SAVAGE

We can eliminate Celestina Gates,” he said. “In fact, I’d’ve liked to do it with my own bare hands.”

Patrick Neilan, freckled face lined with weariness, red hair tousled from many finger-combings, asked, “Why?”

“The woman is a total asshole. A fraud, too.” He filled Patrick in on his meeting with the identity-theft expert. “Just a publicity stunt.”

Patrick consulted the large flowchart on the wall of the office he shared with Adah, wiped out the Gates line of investigation. “So we can assign you to help somebody else?”

“Sure. Derek’s got the computer forensics stuff in hand.” Derek Ford: a tall, slender Eurasian man of about Mick’s age. Always expensively attired and well groomed-one of those males the press had termed “metrosexual.” Mick and Derek were close friends and had developed some awesome software programs together. They’d be millionaires when they licensed them, but neither had any intention of quitting investigating or tinkering with new concepts.

“Let’s see where we’re at.” Patrick got up from his desk, consulted the chart. “Julia’s cases-interesting. The vics knew each other, parents of one are involved. Rae’s-dead hooker. Kind of open-and-shut, but the Victims’ Advocates won’t let go of it. Craig’s thing with city hall-I don’t think he’ll let you in on it.”

“Well, let’s see about that.”

“I’ll talk to Adah. She’s the boss woman for now. You got anything going for tonight?”

“I did-woman I met at the health club. She bailed.”

“You’re going to a health club?”

“Yeah. Partly as therapy, partly because I’m trying to avoid the clubs.” Mick had been in a serious, drunken motorcycle accident last November-the culmination of a binge that started when his live-in love, Charlotte Keim, left him. Broken bones and a ruptured spleen, plus two surgeries, had taught him one of life’s big lessons. Charlotte had taught him another: in spite of rushing to the hospital to comfort him, she wasn’t coming back.

“What about you?” he asked Patrick.

“Pizza night with the boys.” Patrick was a single father, with sole custody of his sons.

“Exciting lives we lead, huh? You seeing anybody?”

“Are you kidding? The only people I’m seeing are the other parents at PTA and the kids’ teachers. I hang around the laundry place down the street hoping somebody new’ll come in and change my future.”

“Could be worse for both of us. At least you can go out for pizza and I can work out.”

Patrick’s face sobered. “Yeah, God, Shar… You know, she hired me because she’d done a job locating me for my greedy junkie ex and felt bad about it. And she helped me get custody of my boys. She even cosigned on a new car when my old one died. I owe her.”

“So do I. We’ve got to nail whoever shot her.”

“Well, we’ll be working on it all weekend. I’ll let you know what Adah says about your reassignment.”

“Thanks.” Mick got up and left Patrick’s office. The loneliness of an empty Friday night came over him, and he decided to head for the Brandt Institute: maybe Hy needed company.

CRAIG MORLAND

He watched from among a crowd of onlookers at the end of the alley as the police and paramedics arrived.

If Davis had documented the information he’d passed along to Craig, the shit was about to rain down.

Craig slipped away from the rubberneckers into the darkness on Golden Gate, where he’d moved his SUV before the area became crowded. He had an hour, maybe less, to get to Davis’s fortieth-floor condo in One Rincon Hill, which at sixty stories in the main tower was the tallest residential building on the San Francisco skyline.

The South of Market district-once known as South-of-the-Slot-had long been an undesirable industrial area on the wrong side of the Market Street cable-car tracks. Now it was upscale, with luxury mid- and high-rises luring affluent young professionals as well as empty nesters from the suburbs where they’d raised their families. Craig had heard various names applied to SoMa: Mid-Market, Transbay, Rincon Hill, and Mission Bay. Each had its own character and price tag, but all were known for proximity to fine dining and cultural attractions, as well as killer views of the city and bay.

He found a parking space on Harrison, a block from One Rincon Hill, and hurried toward the high-rise building while pulling on a baseball cap that shaded his features. It could be tricky getting around the doorman, but as a former FBI agent he was used to playing tricks. One of the number of cards he kept in his wallet identified him as Walter Russom of Ace Couriers. He flashed it at the man, explaining that he had to pick up a rush delivery from Harvey Davis. The doorman was the trusting type: he let Craig in and motioned toward the elevators.

Craig had met with Davis at his condo only once, on the day Harvey first asked him to look into the malfeasance at city hall. Davis hadn’t wanted to meet at the pier; someone might recognize him and word could get around. At the time, Craig had thought him paranoid. He didn’t any more.

The hallway of the fortieth floor was deeply carpeted, the walls well insulated. Someone was playing the piano at the opposite end from Davis’s condo, but the sound was faint, soothing.

Craig took out the key Davis had given him, unlocked the door. Punched the code into the keypad, then shut the door and rearmed the system. He waited, allowing his eyes to acclimate to the darkness.

Short hallway ahead, with louvered doors opening into what must be closets. He moved along, alert, listening for someone else’s presence. The hallway ended in a spacious living room. The lights from the surrounding buildings and the Bay Bridge were spectacular. Craig turned away from them, went down another hallway to the den where he’d met with Davis.

The den was a middle room that backed up on the outside corridor; no windows, so he felt safe turning on a light. He began with the desk, sifting through the files and papers in its drawers.

Nothing.

Videos…

No file cabinets. Closet-empty.

Back to the living room. Big entertainment center, but aside from a few movies with political themes, the only discs were from Netflix.

So where were these videos Davis wanted Craig to take in case something happened to him?

Where would he put them?

Bathroom, bedroom, closets. Nothing.

Kitchen, seldom used judging from the contents of the fridge and cabinets.

Seldom used, except the man had owned a large selection of spices, which were lined up in wood-bracketed rows in a deep drawer. So many spices that Craig, a fairly good cook, hadn’t heard of most of them. Hibiscus powder, zhug, ajwan seed-and not a one of them with the protective seal broken.

Why was it that a deep drawer seemed so shallow?

He began removing the jars. The bottom that they rested on was a different kind of wood from the drawer itself. He pried it up.

Two DVDs.

He pocketed them.

A buzzer sounded. Intercom from the doorman.

The police were there. He had to get out now.

He rushed to the door and down the hallway. Went through the exit to the stairs and waited. Elevator arriving. Footsteps and the doorman’s voice proclaiming, “Told me he was from some courier company. Urgent pickup, but he never came down. What the hell’s going on?”

Craig took advantage of the confusion and the absence of a gatekeeper to escape the building with his evidence.

JULIA RAFAEL

The phone call she’d interrupted her conversation with Haven Dietz to take was from Ted, sounding upbeat.

“Jules, McCone’s conscious, but there’re some complications. Hy asked me to schedule a staff meeting for first thing in the morning.”

“Complications?”

Dietz glanced up at the sound of alarm in Julia’s voice.

“Look, I can’t explain now. I’ve got a lot of other calls to make. Try to get to the meeting no later than eight.”

“Will do.” From the way Ted sounded, the complications couldn’t be too serious. Of all of them at the agency, he’d known Shar the longest and been most optimistic about her recovery.

Dietz looked at her questioningly as she hung up the phone. “A problem?”

“Yeah. Nothing that concerns your case.”

The woman scowled, reached for her cigarettes, then thought better of it.

“So what else do you need to ask me?”

Julia leaned back in her chair, wishing she could go home to her ten-year-old son, Tonio, and her older sister, Sophia. Over the past year her income had risen enough that Sophia could retire from her job clerking at Safeway, but still it wasn’t fair to stick her with so much of the housework and childcare.

Her cellular rang again. Would the calls ever stop so she could get on with this?

Judy Peeples. “Ms. Rafael, I’m so glad I got hold of you. We-Tom and I-were wondering if you could come up to Sonoma this evening.”

A long drive-at least an hour and a half. Julia closed her eyes and let a sigh slip out.

“I know it’s an inconvenience,” Mrs. Peeples’s high-pitched voice went on, “but we’ll have a late supper waiting for you, and a nice guest room. You see… we found something.”

“What did you find, Mrs. Peeples? Something of Larry’s?”

“Well, yes. No. It’s hard to explain.”

“Please try.”

“… Tom was in the tack room-”

“Tack room?”

“A room off the stables where we keep equipment.”

“I see. Go on.”

“What he found… it had to have been Larry that put it there, because it’s certainly nothing that any of the workers would’ve hidden and we’ve never seen it before.”

“What is it, Mrs. Peeples?”

“Cash. A lot of cash.”

“How much cash?”

“I don’t think I should say any more about it on the phone. Please, Ms. Rafael, will you come?”

Mierda. The woman sounded desperate. “All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After she closed the phone, she looked at Haven Dietz. The woman was staring at her. “Larry’s mother?” she asked.

“Right.”

“They found something? Cash?”

“I’m afraid what she told me is confidential.”

“But our cases, you say they’re linked-”

“That doesn’t mean you have the right to information from my investigation for the Peeples-any more than they have a right to information about yours. We’re going to have to continue our conversation later. Tomorrow night at your place?”

“Fine with me.” The woman got up from the chair and moved toward the door in a slightly off-balance walk.

Julia sighed, glad to see her go. Then she picked up the phone and dialed home. No reading the next installment of Robinson Crusoe to Tonio, no having a glass of wine and talking over their days’ events with Sophia. And in her jeans and hoodie she wasn’t dressed for a late supper in the wine country, although she did have the necessities of an overnight stay in a travel bag in the trunk of her Toyota; Shar had taught her to be prepared for trips out of town.

When Sophia answered, she told her where she was going and asked her to kiss Tonio goodnight for her.

The job came first. Always. Another thing Shar had taught her.

SHARON McCONE

Tonight I’m feeling cold and so alone.

Cold, in spite of these thermal blankets tucked solidly around me.

Alone, not just because Hy’s gone now, but because after our eyes met and he realized I was still here with him, he met with my doctor and then he was distracted and sad the whole time he was in the room.

Something wrong. I know. I can feel it. My emotional senses are sharpened, while my physical sense of touch is practically nil. When someone touches me, I’m aware of it, but when no one’s there it’s like being suspended in still air.

To think that I might never respond intensely to Hy’s touch again-that is the most painful.

I had wanted to ask him so many things before: How was he doing, now that he knew I wasn’t a total vegetable? Had he reassured family and friends? How were our cats, Ralph and Alice? The agency-how was it running?

And most important, who the hell had shot me?

No, that wasn’t most important. I wanted to know exactly what was wrong with me. What it would take for me to survive this… whatever the condition was.

I felt trickling wetness on my cheeks. Normally I would have licked the tears away and told myself I was being self-indulgent. Now I couldn’t move my tongue, and self-indulgence seemed like a luxury I was entitled to. I ached to turn over and bury my face into the pillow and sob.

Nurses on rounds. Subdued voices. Pretty brown-haired Latina woman smiling down at me, adjusting tubes, checking my vital signs, smoothing the covers.

Talk to me, dammit!

“Your husband is a very nice man, Ms. McCone,” she said. “He was exhausted when he last looked in on you. You were asleep, so he left around nine, but told me to say he’d be back early tomorrow morning.”

The nurse wiped my face with a tissue. “Don’t cry. We’re taking good care of you, and I understand that soon you will have a few visitors.”

And I won’t be able to smile at or talk with or hug any of them.

The tears kept coming.

“Don’t cry,” the nurse repeated. “Try to get some rest.”

My emotions were running rampant. For a long time after the nurse left tears dribbled down my face. Self-pity morphed into fear and questions: Would I survive this? Would my life ever be the same?

What-ifs: What if I remained like this for the rest of my life? What if I was permanently confined to a wheelchair? Disabled in some other way? Couldn’t fly our beautiful taildragger Cessna-Two-Seven-Tango? Couldn’t ever hike on the cliffs at Touchstone? Or ride my horse, King Lear, at Hy’s and my ranch?

The questions brought me to the edge of panic. The silent scream threatened to rise again, but I fought it off. Then, in its place, I felt a simmering of rage. How could this have happened to me? Who had shot me?

The lid came off the kettle of my emotions; rage reached full boil.

If I ever get out of this place, I’ll hunt him down and kill him!

And I would get out of here. I’d reclaim my life. Nothing could stop me.

Yeah, right. Only paralysis and an inability to reach the world and the people I loved…

More water leaked out of my eyes.

Damn roller coaster: self-pity, fear, panic, rage, determination, self-pity again. And I couldn’t do a thing to control those feelings.

I couldn’t control anything at all any more…

Walking through the thick fog along the Embarcadero…The pier, empty and spooky… On the catwalk, opening the door to my office… A sudden rushing motion, my head smacking into the wall.

And then the harsh fall onto the catwalk. Metal biting into my skin. The pop, the searing pain. Metal…

My eyes popped open, staring at the ceiling, which was dimly illuminated by a night-light.

Flashback to the night I’d been shot.

CRAIG MORLAND

The videos he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo indicated a major sex scandal within city government-only he couldn’t understand who was involved.

For once he was glad Adah wasn’t home-some dinner with an old college friend that would probably go on long past midnight. He didn’t want her to see any of this, not until he’d had time to evaluate it properly. The apartment did seem empty, though-a result of their elderly and obese cat, Charley, having died the previous winter. They planned to adopt another, but first Adah had been getting settled in with running the agency. Then they’d taken a series of weekend driving trips: to Carmel, Yountville, the Alexander Valley wine country. And his caseload had been heavy. Still, it was time…

But not this weekend.

The doorbell rang. Craig moved on stockinged feet to the peephole and looked out. Mick. He’d called earlier and left a message on the machine that he’d concluded the Celestina Gates investigation and was now free to help on city hall. Craig went back into the living room, and after a few moments Mick’s footsteps tapped away down the tiled steps.

It wasn’t that Craig was jealously guarding his case or that he didn’t find Mick a good investigator. But what he had planned was a delicate operation, and an additional person might attract attention. Since he’d worked for McCone, he’d become accustomed to going it on his own. Besides, what he planned to do was illegal and could compromise the agency.

God, he suddenly thought, maybe Mick had come here with bad news about Shar! He grabbed the phone and dialed the Brandt Institute. Ms. McCone was resting comfortably. No change.

He leaned back and thought about his boss. Initially there had been a veiled antipathy between them-typical fed-versus-cop-versus-private-investigator crap. And he hadn’t liked it that she’d sensed his strong attraction to Adah early on and been highly protective of her friend. But then he’d moved to town and she’d immediately hired him, finally worked out the arrangement that kept him and Adah in San Francisco. Now, he knew, Shar was hoping the two of them would make it permanent, as she and Ripinsky had done.

Well, maybe they would, when Shar was well enough to attend. He was more than ready. Besides, it would be a hoot to introduce Adah’s flaming liberal parents, Barbara and Rupert Joslyn, to his conservative WASP mother and father. Extremists, all four-and he suspected they’d get along famously, bonding in their shared disapproval of their children’s lifestyles and career choices.

Enough. He needed to pack a bag and catch some sleep. By the time Adah returned from her women’s night out he’d be on his way to Big Sur, where Supervisor Amanda Teller and State Representative Paul Janssen had scheduled their clandestine meeting.

MICK SAVAGE

He’d come to the Institute to commune with his aunt after Craig had pretended not to be home when he’d rung his doorbell. Did the former fed really think Mick didn’t know he was there-or didn’t he care? Either way, Mick had put his own fix on the situation.

Now he sat in the armchair in the quiet, dimly lighted room beside Shar’s hospital bed, listening to the beep of the monitors. Hy hadn’t been at the Institute when he’d arrived-exhausted, the nurse had said, and he’d finally gone home. She’d been kind enough to allow Mick some time with his aunt; it was an exclusive place and apparently didn’t observe traditional visiting hours.

He’d been confined to a place like that last November, when he’d gotten drunk and stupid and thought he could somehow fly out of his misery on his Harley. But his injuries hadn’t been life-threatening, and he’d been conscious, alert when he hadn’t taken the strong pain meds-able to use his laptop to help Shar with a case she’d been working.

But Shar-her stillness frightened him. Her face, below the bandages on her head, was serene, unlined, as if she were many years younger. Maybe that was what was so unsettling: serenity wasn’t Shar’s thing. Keen concentration, purposefulness, action, yes. Laughter, tears, anger, and the occasional white-hot rage, too. But not this, never.

She’d always been his favorite aunt. He loved Aunt Patsy, but she was so flaky she made him nervous, and those three kids of hers, each by a different boyfriend-forget it. But Shar had been solid as a rock, taking him seriously, treating him like a man when he was only a kid.

Like when he’d pulled that stupid stunt of running away to San Francisco at Christmastime because his parents wouldn’t give him a moped, and she’d found him and taken him home for Christmas dinner. Later, after his high school in Pacific Palisades had nailed him for hacking into their system and selling fellow students’ confidential information, his folks had temporarily paroled him to Shar, and he’d ended up going to work for her permanently. When his mother had found another man and his dad had taken up with Rae, Shar had made him see that sometimes changes were for the best. And after the drunken Harley incident, she’d held his hand until the meds wiped the pain away.

He wondered if she was feeling any pain now.

Or maybe she was dreaming of something pleasant. Probably of flying the plane. Aside from being with Hy, he knew that was what she loved most, and more often than not they flew together.

Hy. The nurse had said he was exhausted. Not a word you usually associated with the man, but the emotional drain must be enormous. How long before it turned to rage and he did something violent? Hy had been a lot of things in his lifetime, and one of Shar’s descriptions of him stuck in Mick’s mind: He’s still dangerous.

If anything would make Hy dangerous, it was this assault on Shar. What if he identified and went after the shooter by himself? The person was bound to be dangerous, too, could get the upper hand. Hy, streetwise and well trained as he was, still was not invincible.

Now Mick felt really scared. He couldn’t bear to lose both of them.

HY RIPINSKY

I say we find the son of a bitch and just plain kill him. None of this justice-for-the-poor-misunderstood-criminal crap.”

“You’re drunk, John,” Hy said, eyeing Sharon’s tall, blond brother, who slumped in the armchair in their living room, beer bottle in hand.

“I’m not drunk, I’m pissed off. Aren’t you?”

Hy sat down on the couch, set his own beer bottle on the end table. The sitting room of their restored earthquake cottage near the friendly, almost suburban-but recently crime-plagued-Glen Park district was small but comfortable. Light from the kiva-style fireplace gave the wooden wainscoting and pegged-pine floor a rosy glow.

He loved this house-even more than Touchstone or the ranch house that he’d inherited from his stepfather. Loved it because of the life they shared here on a regular basis. Allie, the calico cat, jumped onto his lap and pushed her nose at his hand for reassurance. Ralph, the orange tabby, crouched near the hearth, eyes watchful. Disruption like this affected animals as deeply as people, Hy thought, maybe more so because they couldn’t understand what had gone wrong.

“So,” John said belligerently, “are you or aren’t you pissed off?”

“I’m more than pissed off,” he replied. “Do I want to hunt the shooter down and kill him? Damn right. But at this point your sister needs me. Besides, the whole agency’s on the case. They’ll come up with something soon.”

“And then they’ll turn the info over to the cops, who’ll arrest the prick. There’ll be a trial. If Shar dies, maybe he’ll get the death penalty but only after fifteen years of appeals-”

“She’s not going to die.”

They regarded each other silently.

“You’ve got to believe that,” Hy added.

John’s eyes went remote. Hy imagined what he was seeing: McCone as a little girl who resembled no one else in the family, supposedly a throwback to their Indian great-grandmother. McCone as an annoying preteen, always wanting to help him and their brother Joey with repairing their cars instead of playing with dolls the way she should. The high-school cheerleader; the first of them to go to college; the investigator who had reluctantly let her brother join in on a couple of cases. Hy knew much of this from Shar; he knew even more now because John had been waxing nostalgic-bordering on the maudlin-since he’d come up from San Diego and moved into their guest room nine days ago.

Frankly, he was sick of it.

To forestall any further reminiscences, he said, “Okay, say the folks at the agency identify the shooter and don’t go to the police. What happens then?”

“We lure him to someplace where the body’ll never be found and blow him away.”

“Not so easy to do.”

“What d’you mean? The whole California and Nevada desert is a boneyard. There’re still people out there in Death Valley looking for the remains of Manson Family victims-and that happened over forty years ago, man.”

“So how do you lure this guy to the desert?”

John frowned.

“Or do you kill him wherever he is and drive the body there-taking the chance you’ll be involved in a traffic stop? How do you kill him? You don’t know guns. A knife, strangulation? I’ve killed before, and it’s not easy. In fact it’s the hardest thing there is, even in self-defense. Just ask McCone-”

He realized what he’d said, put his hand over his eyes. Sweat began beading on his forehead and all at once he felt disoriented.

John stood and his big hand touched Hy’s shoulder. “Hey, bro, I’ll ask her as soon as I visit tomorrow. Even if she can’t talk, she can answer me.”

JULIA RAFAEL

The driveway was going on forever, and she couldn’t see a thing. Didn’t these people believe in lights?

The town of Sonoma had looked old-fashioned and pretty, with its central square and courthouse and restaurants and shops that had to be way out of most people’s price range. Touristy-lots of people on the streets even at this hour. Couples holding hands; families eating ice cream cones. But the highway up the Valley of the Moon passed through a couple of rundown places full of shacks and old trailer parks, and then she was in the dark, wide-open country. She’d almost missed the secondary road that would take her to Peeples Winery. And now this…

She’d lived in the city too long to feel comfortable in the country. Had been born in Watsonville, but barely remembered Santa Cruz County or those artichoke fields her folks had worked-

What was that? A house lit up like a Christmas tree. Dios, it was huge-long and sprawling pale tan stucco with a second-story galleria and a steep tiled roof. Big old oak trees were illuminated by floodlights. No wonder the Peepleses had skimped on the driveway lighting: their PG &E bill must be thousands a month.

She pulled into the circular driveway, braked at the flagstone walk to the carved double front doors, then-suddenly ashamed of the car-moved it forward into the shadow of one of the oaks. She’d been so proud the day she bought the blue Toyota-her first car ever. Now it reminded her of how ordinary and marginal her life really was.

Well, maybe not so much any more. Things were going well. Next year, if she was careful about spending, she’d be able to send Tonio to a private school.

She went to the door and rang the bell. Soft, pretty chimes inside.

About half a minute later, Mrs. Peeples opened it. She was more frail than the last time Julia had seen her, and moving the heavy door seemed a strain. “Ms. Rafael,” she said, her lined face tense, “thank you for coming.”

“I’m glad to help.”

“Please, come in.”

She stepped into a long hallway running the length of the central wing of the house. When Judy Peeples struggled to shut the heavy door, Julia helped her. She noticed the tall, gray-haired woman was short of breath and took her arm to steady her. Mrs. Peeples smiled faintly and accepted her support.

“We’ll go back to the den, where my husband’s waiting,” she said.

The den was at the rear of the house, past big, dark rooms opening off the hallway. Small and comfortable. Deep corduroy-covered chairs, faded and wrinkled from years of good use. Small color TV and a wall covered with bookshelves. Books also on the floor and end tables. The Peepleses matched the décor, both casually clad in jeans and T-shirts, Tom’s ripped out at the knees. Tom was white-haired, tall and lean, with the kind of sun-browned face that told you he worked outside.

Judy Peeples had seemed on edge when she opened the door and now, in her husband’s presence, even more so. Julia could feel the tension in the small room. Tom grunted a greeting and glared at his wife. Obviously Julia had interrupted a fight.

He said, “I told you to call her cellular and cancel.”

“I couldn’t do that, Tom.”

“This is a reckless course. It could bring ruin to us, the winery, and Larry’s memory.”

“Of course Larry’s memory comes last on the list.”

Julia looked around and took a chair opposite where Judy Peeples stood in a defensive stance over her husband.

“You know,” Mrs. Peeples said to him, “your objections aren’t valid. We will survive. The winery will survive. But what we found in the tack room could be our only hope of learning what happened to our son. The only way of bringing him home to us.”

How much cash had they found? And why was it in a tack room, of all places?

Julia said, “Mr. and Mrs. Peeples-”

They ignored her, turned up the volume of their argument.

“You’re glad he’s gone,” Judy said. “He was always an embarrassment to you.”

“How can you say that? I loved our son.”

“Past tense.”

“I love him.”

“Nonsense. You’ve always looked down on him because you think he lacks intellect. And because he’s gay.”

“I think he lacks drive, not intelligence. As for him being gay, I have no prejudice in that area. Didn’t I invite that Ben friend of his for weekends and holidays? Didn’t I show him every courtesy? Don’t I still, whenever he drops in?”

“A butler would behave more warmly than you do.”

“Please listen to me,” Julia said.

Neither of them looked her way.

“Goddamn it, Judy, what do you want from me?”

“What do I want? I want my son back!” Judy Peeples bent forward from the waist, hugging her midriff, and began to cry. “This may be our last opportunity-no matter what he’s done-to find him and bring him home.”

Tom Peeples’s lined face crumpled and he put his hand over his eyes, but he made no effort to comfort his wife.

At last Julia could step into the situation. She went over, put her arms around Judy Peeples’s bent body, and helped her into a chair.

After a moment, Tom Peeples stood, his lined face resigned, and laid a rough hand on his wife’s shoulder. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s just so hard for me to accept it.”

She looked up at him, eyes streaming.

“I’ll do anything you ask, if it’ll bring Larry back to us.”

“… Thank you, Tom.”

To Julia, Peeples added, “Please excuse our quarreling. We’re not ourselves today. Haven’t been in six months, actually.”

“No problem. You’ve been dealing with stuff I can’t even imagine. Will you show me the money now?”

“Yes. Come with me, please.”

He led her into the hallway, through an informal dining room and a kitchen that Julia would have killed for. All this money, she thought, all this land, but these people were broken. The loss of an only child, the uncertainty of what had happened to him-that made every material thing meaningless.

If Tonio vanished without a trace, she would spend her life searching-and grieving.

Peeples led her along a lighted graveled path through an oak grove.

“My wife thinks this money will lead you to some magical solution to our son’s disappearance.”

“But you don’t.”

“No. I’m not doubting your abilities, but I think if Larry disappeared voluntarily he’s hidden himself where no one can find him. Or else…”

“Yes?”

“Foul play.” Peeples’s voice was choked.

Hombre pobricito. He couldn’t bring himself to use the word dead.

They came to a big white barn. When Peeples opened its doors, the smell took Julia aback, and she hesitated.

“You afraid of horses?” Peeples asked. “They’re all confined to their stalls. They’ll get restless when we go in, but settle down pretty quick.”

“I don’t know anything about horses,” she told him, “but the smell…”

“Well, yes, they’re stinky buggers. I’m not crazy about them myself, but my wife, she loves them. We’ve got six. She gives free riding lessons to the vineyard workers’ kids.”

Julia started liking the Peepleses a lot more.

Peeples turned on a light. At first it blinded Julia, then she started, face-to-face with a blond horse that had a white star on its forehead. It whinnied, but its brown eyes were gentle.

“This way,” Peeples said.

The tack room was to the right. It was small, with saddles on stands, its walls covered with riding apparatus, none of which Julia could identify. Until tonight she hadn’t been any closer to a horse than the ones the police rode in the city parks.

Peeples said, “I was moving some things around in here this afternoon, trying to consolidate them. There was a loose floorboard under one box that I’d never noticed before.” He went to the far side, pried up the board, and lifted out a small leather travel bag.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” he said in a hollow voice. “Small bills. I’ve counted it twice.”

He held out the bag and Julia looked into it. Rows of bills banded together. More money than she’d ever seen in one place.

Peeples looked down at her, his tanned face slack and aged beyond his fifty-some years.

“I can’t believe our son stole this money and hid it here,” he said. “But how else could he have gotten his hands on this much cash?”

Right, Julia thought, how else?

“Do you have a safe?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s put it there until I figure out what to do about this.”