Locked In

HY RIPINSKY

He’d seen the bewilderment in Shar’s eyes when he reentered her room; probably she’d overheard his conversation and was trying to figure out who Len Weathers was. Alarm had soon replaced bewilderment. She’d tried with her eyes to get him to talk about his involvement with the man, but he’d avoided her unvoiced questions, pretending to doze. He had stayed in the chair beside her bed until she slept with decreasing restlessness. When he slipped out at first light she seemed less fitful.

The institute was close to Land’s End, a favorite spot of theirs because it resembled the wild, rocky coast at Touchstone. The westernmost promontory was called Point Lobos, after the sea lions-once called sea wolves-who now made their resting place at Seal Rock, offshore from the historic Cliff House restaurant. The shadowy cypress, pungent-smelling eucalyptus, and miles of coastal views made for a stunningly beautiful and peaceful setting-especially this early in the morning.

Hy drove there and took the trail down the bluff to the large viewing platform above the point. The sun was cresting the city’s hills, suffusing the sky with an orange-pink color. The open sea spread before him, the Farallon Islands faintly visible through the mist in the distance. A foghorn bellowed its melancholy message. Hy sat on a bench by the railing and did some soul-searching.

His past had been violent, that was true. The post-Vietnam era in Southeast Asia bred despicable activity, especially when you were in a kill-or-be-killed situation. He flashed on the memory of the bodies of the Laotian family attempting to escape to the US, frozen in the skin of the plane because they hadn’t listened to his instructions about not removing their heavy outerwear while concealed there. That hadn’t been his fault, but the massacre in the jungle, where he’d been forced against his will to turn his gun on his own passengers… Maybe if he’d been smarter, more receptive to the signals he was getting that day-

Old recriminations. No use dwelling on them.

In the years since then he’d married a good woman, Julie Spaulding, who was devoted to environmental causes. He’d become devoted, too, still sat on the board of the foundation she’d funded in her will. But when Julie died of multiple sclerosis, as they’d both known would eventually happen, he’d turned to radical environmentalism, taking out his anger at her loss in violent protests and demonstrations. Spent more time in jail than your average boy from the high desert country.

That had changed when he met Shar. Well, not totally: he’d been arrested the next March in Siskiyou County for disorderly conduct during an anti-logging demonstration. Fortunately, the charges were dropped.

But still he’d changed… Her love had changed him. He’d been sure of it. He was sure of it still.

So what had he been thinking, contacting a killer like Weathers?

Not thinking: indulging in blind rage. Find the shooter, send Weathers to deliver him, then take his time killing him. Make it slow and painful. Make sure the bastard knew exactly what he had coming to him-and why.

And what would that make him?

Hy stared into the mist receding over the sea, trying to avoid the question. But he couldn’t do it. The answers were too clear-cut.

Killing the shooter would make him no better than Weathers. It would mean that he was unchanged after all, the same man he’d always been, the side of him he’d always hated.

No. He wasn’t like Weathers, couldn’t let himself act as Weathers did.

If he did, it would be a betrayal of his love for McCone.

There had to be some other way to channel all this rage.

RAE KELLEHER

Alternative Resources had its offices in a six-story smoky-glass building off the 280 freeway in Cupertino. Another not-particularly-attractive monument to the new microchip technology that had sprung from the young and brilliant minds that now populated what had once been an area of orange groves. A quiet revolution had been born here and through booms and busts the world had forever been changed. In 1939, Stanford classmates Bill Hewlett and Dave Packard couldn’t have imagined what their tinkering in a Palo Alto garage would lead to.

There was one slot left in the visitors’ parking area. Rae squeezed her little BMW into it between two oversize gas-guzzling vehicles. Security was surprisingly lax in the building: the guard at the desk motioned her through without really looking at her credentials. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor and was directed by a receptionist to Cheryl Fitzgerald’s office.

Fitzgerald was a plain-faced woman, her skin a doughy white. She wore her graying hair long and parted down the middle; heavy black-framed glasses magnified keen brown eyes. She took time to read Rae’s card, then set it on her desk and leaned forward.

“You should have made an appointment, Ms. Kelleher.”

“I would have, but I was pressed for time. I’m-”

“I know who you are, who you’re married to, the titles of the books you’ve written, and who you’re working for. How is Ms. McCone?”

“Fully cognizant, although she can’t move or speak. They call it locked-in syndrome.”

“I’ve read about that. But I hope in her case, the mind triumphs over the body. Are you trying to find out who attacked her?”

“In a way. I’m interested in the Pro Terra Party.”

Fitzgerald’s face remained impassive, but she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Buying time, Rae thought.

“What on earth would the party have to do with Ms. McCone’s shooting?”

“Most likely nothing. It’s only one line in the overall investigation.”

Such an explanation wouldn’t have satisfied Rae, but Fitzgerald accepted it. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Why did Don Beckman leave the party?”

“He and I were… involved. Pro Terra was our child. But then he decided he wanted a child of our own; I couldn’t bring one into the world-not this world.”

“So he left the party, and you…?”

“Carried on. Until the leadership was co-opted by elements that were at odds with our original philosophy. At that point, I had to resign.”

“Who were these elements?”

She hesitated. “I haven’t talked about this since I left the party. I was determined to put it behind me and simply lead a useful life. And if I tell you what I know and it becomes public, I’ll be up against some very powerful forces. Dangerous people.”

“What you tell me will remain confidential.” Unless the police made her give it up-but Fitzgerald didn’t have to know that.

Fitzgerald glanced at her watch. “It’s too long a story, and I have an appointment in five minutes. Why don’t you meet me at eleven? There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor of the building-the Real Bean. We’ll talk then.”

Rae waited at a table in the Real Bean, a cooling cup of cappuccino in front of her. Every now and then she’d take a sip, which only reminded her how much she hated designer coffees. Why had she ordered it? Maybe it went with the territory.

All around her casually dressed workers were sipping exotic brews and nibbling on muffins, carrot cake, or sandwiches with an inordinate amount of alfalfa sprouts protruding from them. Many worked on laptops, others read newspapers. Although it was a small shop, none of the patrons acknowledged the others and it seemed to Rae they even avoided eye contact with the counterpersons. Another sign of twenty-first-century isolationism.

Rae watched the clock behind the counter. Eleven-thirteen. Eleven-twenty-two. Eleven-forty. Fitzgerald had been held up at the office… she hoped.

Eleven-fifty.

Noon.

Twelve-oh-seven.

No, Rae had been stood up. She left the café, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and asked the receptionist if Ms. Fitzgerald was still in.

“I’m sorry, she isn’t.”

“When did she leave?”

“At about a quarter to eleven. She said she’d be gone the rest of the day, on urgent personal business. Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow?”

“No, thank you.”

Rae turned away, went to push the elevator button.

Urgent personal business? Was Fitzgerald covering her ass with the “powerful forces” and “dangerous people”?

SHARON McCONE

Last night I dreamed I was flying. It felt so real-the freedom, the soaring, the thrilling turbulence. But then I woke to dull light and immobility, and Hy was gone from the armchair. And I remembered his side of the conversation with Len Weathers that I’d overheard. Became afraid for him all over again.

In my presence, Hy’s demeanor had been calm, supportive, and loving. But I felt the tension and rage that was roiling inside him. He would do what he felt he had to do about the person who had put me into this state, even if it forced him to sacrifice himself.

No way to stop this thing he’d set in motion. Unless…

Unless I could identify the perp myself-in cooperation with my operatives, of course. Could I guide them in this investigation? Sure. I’d already taken control, my eyes telling them what to do. I’d lead them to the shooter; then they could go to the police and have the person taken into custody where Len Weathers couldn’t get at him.

I didn’t care what happened to the shooter; if I weren’t bound to this bed and could nail him myself, I wouldn’t treat him gently. But I didn’t want Hy involved in a murder-for-hire case.

Murder for hire.

No, that wasn’t Hy’s style. He’d told Weathers he needed him if there was a problem. Backup, that was all. Hy would do the job himself. And that would add to the burden of guilt he carried from his time in Southeast Asia-a burden that only in recent years had begun to ease.

Can’t let that happen.

I began focusing in a way I never had before: split my energy between trying to will my fingers and toes to move and examining the facts of the case. One finger, one fact. One toe, another fact. Over and over. And the energy, instead of weakening from the split, grew stronger. My mind seemed to expand, to grow-

Although I only imagined the twinge of feeling in my right hand, it gave me hope.

A woman came into my room: short, blonde, with an upturned nose-what in my cheerleading days we used to call perky. She sat in the armchair and introduced herself. Sarah Lawson, speech therapist.

“I understand you’re able to communicate yes and no with eyeblinks,” she said.

I blinked once.

“That’s wonderful, because this afternoon I’m going to start working with you, so you can spell out words with your eyes. One blink, A; two blinks, B; and so on.”

And twenty-six blinks, Z. An exhausting process.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sarah said, “and I won’t deny it. The process is tough, and it’ll take a long time until you can put a coherent sentence together. But you can do it; many patients have. A French editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, dictated an entire book that way.”

I’d heard of Bauby. He died within two years of the stroke that disabled him.

I closed my eyes and let the tears flow.

JULIA RAFAEL

By noon, when the SFPD still had no leads on the Haven Dietz murder, Julia decided to drive to the Brandt Institute and share both the Dietz and the Peeples files with Shar.

Shar looked tired, and Julia understood why: on the way in she’d seen Hy escorting Kay Hunt, Shar’s adoptive mother, out to his car. Julia had met Mrs. Hunt only once when she’d paid a visit to the pier on one of her trips to the city; she’d seemed fine then, but Julia had heard about the scene here yesterday. Today must have brought more of the same.

Madres! Mierda!

She read each file through verbatim to Shar, held up the photographs appended to them for her to see: formal headshot of Dietz before the attack; group shot with the staff at the financial management firm where she’d been employed; informal and badly lighted snap of her in front of her apartment. Formal shot of Peeples; Larry with his parents at the vineyard; Larry and Ben Gold with Seal Rock in the background. Shar’s eyes lingered on all of them.

Julia asked, “Is there something I should be looking into more deeply?”

Blink.

“Peeples?”

Blink.

“The money?”

Blink.

“It had to come from someplace, right? Maybe Thelia or Diane can help me there?”

Blink.

“What about Dietz?”

Blink.

“The police’re investigating her murder. You think I should conduct my own investigation?”

Blink, blink.

“What, then? Dig deeper into her background? Maybe go back a long time before she was attacked?”

Blink.

Julia paused, then realized what Shar was trying to tell her. “In her job Dietz had access to a lot of money.”

Blink.

“I hear you.”

Even if you can’t speak, I hear you loud and clear.

CRAIG MORLAND

He and Mick sat across the round table in the conference room, going over the city hall investigation file with Diane D’Angelo. D’Angelo, the latest addition to the agency staff, was tall, willowy, and blonde, with what Craig thought of as patrician features-the kind of woman he’d dated in prep school and college and later in Washington, DC. The kind of woman his parents had expected him to marry.

Sorry, folks. The instant I connected with Adah, I knew why I’d never been serious about any of those well-bred beauties.

He didn’t actively dislike D’Angelo, but he couldn’t understand why Shar had hired her. She was a poor fit for the agency. Or maybe that was why Shar had brought her aboard; the other operatives were an odd mixture, and none of them totally mainstream. Even he, once the standard-issue fed, had been transformed in subtle ways by his relationship with Adah and his move to San Francisco. Maybe Shar’s motivation in hiring Diane had been as simple as wanting someone who would blend in at society parties.

Still, Craig didn’t completely trust Diane, and he and Mick had decided not to share with her the information about the videos that Craig had found in Harvey Davis’s condo.

“… I didn’t think the mayor was all that concerned about the investigation,” Diane was saying. “He never spoke to me. Just nodded cordially and went about his business.”

“Your only contact”-Mick consulted his notes-“was this aide, Jim Yatz.”

“Right. If you’re looking for answers-especially to the Teller and Janssen connection-he’s the one you should go to.”

Mick glanced at Craig and he nodded.

Craig said, “You’re hooked into the local scene. What do you know about Yatz?”

Jim Yatz, D’Angelo said, had grown up in the city’s Inner Richmond district. His father had been on the board of supervisors for two terms in the early 1970s and held various administrative positions with the city until his death in 2005; he left his son a legacy of public service.

“Jim’s father’s connections are what got him a scholarship to Georgetown University in DC. He studied public policy, did an internship on Capitol Hill, and then came home.” D’Angelo smiled wryly. “This city has a way of luring back those of us who were born here.”

Yatz had taken an entry-level job in the city planning commission-a move that surprised those who knew his credentials and political connections. Soon he rose to assistant director, then was tapped by the port commission to look into the demolition or renovation of aging piers. A year ago, the new mayor-a boyhood friend-had hired him as his chief administrative aide.

Jim Yatz was said to be brilliant, politically savvy, and fiercely loyal to the mayor and his administration.

“He’s also said to be devious and ruthless if the occasion warrants it,” D’Angelo finished.

Craig tapped his pencil on the table, glanced at Mick, who was making a note. “Any personal stuff on Yatz?” he asked.

“Unmarried, dates a lot of beautiful women. Owns a house in the Marina. Entertains lavishly. No,” Diane said to Craig’s inquiring look, “he’s never entertained me. Jim and I… well, that goes back a long way.”

“To what?”

She shifted her position in her chair, curled a lock of her hair around her index finger-a nervous habit that Craig had previously noted. “He and I… we dated when he was in DC and I was in New York. Long-distance relationship, and it didn’t work out.”

“But he didn’t react negatively when we brought you in on the case. In fact, he gave you a strong reference when you applied to work here.”

“Jim and I have made our peace. I was the wrong woman for him, but he knew I was the right woman for the job.” She frowned. “But it turns out I wasn’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if I’d done the job properly, Sharon wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

“Then let’s do the job properly now. You’re something of an SF insider. Tell Mick and me what you know about our complicated city government.”

RAE KELLEHER

The Summerses’ house was up a long, badly paved driveway in the Lafayette hills. Rae maneuvered the low-slung Z4 around the worst of the potholes, but still the undercarriage scraped a couple of times.

Shit! He’s a lawyer, they must have money. So why can’t they repave their own drive?

She parked her car next to a Subaru station wagon in front of the garage and looked up at the house: murky green clapboard made murkier by the shade of the oaks that towered over it; two stories, probably with a third built down the hillside behind. A pretty setting, but a trifle gloomy for her taste.

As she got out of the car a white minivan pulled up behind her, and a slender woman with wavy light brown hair got out and approached her. “Ms. Kelleher? I’m Jane Koziol.” They shook hands, and Koziol motioned Rae toward the front door. “Senta’s in a pretty bad way, which is why I suggested I meet you here. She wants to hear firsthand about how you found out Alicia was a murder victim. But I’m going to ask you: please spare her the gorier details.”

“I didn’t bring my file or any crime scene pictures, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not into gore myself.”

“Good.” Koziol rang the doorbell. Its summons was answered immediately by a tall woman with unkempt dark hair that fell to her shoulders; she was wearing a pair of rumpled blue sweats, and the skin around her eyes was red and puffy, her face drawn with sorrow.

Senta Summers greeted them and took them into a living room overlooking an oak grove on the slope below. She asked them to be seated, offered refreshments, which they both declined, then sat tentatively on the edge of the sofa, as if poised for flight.

“You want to know how I found out what happened to your daughter,” Rae said.

“Yes. And I want to thank you. The not knowing is what’s been so unbearable.”

Rae could understand that; the Little Savages weren’t even her own children, but if one of them disappeared, she’d’ve spent many a sleepless night.

Rae provided her with a brief summary of her investigation. “The credit really should go to the Bay Area Victims’ Advocates,” she added. “They never give up, even when the police do. If you don’t mind, would you tell me about Alicia, so I can close out my file properly?”

“I don’t know where to begin.” Senta made a helpless gesture with both hands.

“What kind of child was she?”

After a long pause, Senta said, “She was a feisty baby who grew into a very willful young adult. At first that seemed a good quality, since she put it to use achieving things: good grades, science fair prizes, an excellent summer job as a counselor at a kayaking camp. She loved to take photographs. That’s one of hers over the mantel.”

Rae looked where she pointed. A wide-angle view of the sun glinting through the branches of an oak tree. Not professional-quality, but it showed promise.

“She was beautiful and loving,” Senta added. “But then it all changed in her senior year.”

Alicia, her mother said, had become withdrawn and her grades fell off. She lost her interests, didn’t see her friends, and finally began staying away from home for days. “I tried to control her, but she did whatever she wanted. Her father was no help; he told me to back off and give her some space. Then, on July ninth of the year she graduated, she left home for good.” Senta Summers paused, shook her head as if to clear it. “All this time I’ve been hoping she’d come back someday, and now I know she never will.”

Jane Koziol took a packet of Kleenex from her purse and passed Senta a tissue.

Rae asked, “Did you file a missing person report?”

“After the requisite seventy-two hours.”

“Your husband is politically connected-couldn’t he have requested the police look into Alicia’s disappearance sooner?”

“My husband prides himself on operating strictly within the law and asks no favors.” The words were full of venom.

“What about a private investigator? Did you consider employing one?”

“I wanted to, but Lee said no.”

“Why?”

“He was working on an important political campaign, and he was afraid word would get out that we couldn’t control our own daughter.” Senta’s voice was even more bitter.

Time to hit her with the big questions. “Is that why you filed for divorce?”

If she was surprised by Rae’s knowledge, she didn’t show it. “Among other things. But Lee persuaded me to withdraw the petition in exchange for certain concessions.”

“Which were…?”

“I don’t see as that’s relevant to my daughter’s murder, Ms. Kelleher.”

Rae glanced at Koziol, then said to Senta, “The things you mention about Alicia-drop in grades, loss of friends and interests-are often signs of depression. And depression in teenagers can often be caused by sexual abuse. Did you ever suspect-?”

“No!” The answer was prompt and loud. “There was nothing like that between Lee and Alicia.”

Denial? Or…?

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. Lee hasn’t been able to… perform for over ten years. Prostate problems.”

“Abuse isn’t necessarily defined by penetration.”

Senta shook her head emphatically. “There was nothing like that. The truth is, Lee was indifferent to our daughter. Oh, he tolerated her, but only because she was pretty and smart and he could show her off to his political associates. He simply didn’t acknowledge her, unless the occasion suited his needs.

“I ask you, do you see him here today? He wasn’t here yesterday when I got the news. I waited up till nearly one o’clock to tell him. Then he pretended grief-he’s a very good pretender-and gave me a sedative and held me in bed. But at four-thirty in the morning I heard him talking on the phone. And he left at seven, telling me I should arrange for her exhumation from wherever the city buried her so she can be interred in the family plot. Oh, yes, and to call people and plan for a memorial service. God knows what he wants me to tell them she died of.”

Rage glinted in Senta’s eyes. “I will do all of that, out of respect and love for my daughter. And then I will leave Lee-this time for good.”

“His indifference to your daughter-do you have any idea what it stemmed from?”

Senta didn’t reply for a moment, looking down at her hands. “Oh, well, what does it matter now? Lee and I were separated at the time Alicia was conceived. We were seeing others, but we also… got together a few times. All the same, he thought she wasn’t his daughter.”

“Was she?”

“I’m not certain. I offered to have a paternity test run, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Even though the records would be confidential, he was afraid information would leak out. With Lee, everything is about his reputation.”

“So he raised her as his own.”

“He gave her everything a child could need or want-except love.”

“I’d like to talk with your husband.”

“Good luck. Maybe you can catch up with him at Pro Terra Party headquarters. But that’s no guarantee he’ll give you the time of day-not where his family is concerned.”

MICK SAVAGE

He was feeling at loose ends and kind of brain-fogged after his meeting with Craig and Diane, so he took a walk south on the Embarcadero to clear his head. Sat down on one of the granite blocks with the bronze octopus sculptures embedded in it, patting the head of one and staring out over the bay. The day was clear. Runners pounded by on the pavement. Pleasure boats sailed past on the water, probably heading for McCovey Cove by the ballpark; there was a Giants game going on today.

Diane’s lecture on city government had bored him. All those special interests fighting each other, all the rivalries and the feuds and the scandals. Didn’t anybody think of the common good any more? No-it was me, me, me.

He’d been like that once, a consequence of growing up poor and then having the money gush in when his dad finally made it big in the music business. They’d gone from a tiny rental house to a bigger one that they owned, and then an even bigger one, and finally to a huge estate in the hills above La Jolla. An ancient VW bus was dumped in favor of a Porsche for his dad and a Mercedes for his mom. Other costly cars followed. They shopped constantly; they took trips to exclusive resorts; they built a desert compound south of Tucson, complete with recording studio.

I need, I want, I must have…

No longer his philosophy. The irony being that he and Derek were about to get rich off this new software they’d developed.

Rich didn’t mean happy, though. Not even contented. He’d seen that in the decline and explosive end of his parents’ marriage. Thank God they’d both found other people to love and made peace between themselves.

Okay, enough of that, he told himself. Concentrate on the case.

Sex tapes involving city and state officials. Three murders. Missing document signed only hours before the killings. Exchange of money between Janssen and Teller implied. Other documents missing from city hall. No telling how many highly placed officials were involved in this mess…

The voice on Craig’s audiotape of what Janssen had said to Teller at the lodge: “You think you’ve pulled off a big coup, but these people are dangerous. Consider what they did to Harvey.”

What people?

Mick stared out at a sailboat on the bay. Rubbed the bronze octopus head for luck, and stood up.

Time to talk with Shar.

SHARON McCONE

Hy seemed cheerful when he came into my room and plunked an orchid plant on the roll-away table. Yellow flowers. Pretty. Was he planning to replace the weekly roses with orchids, run the gamut from yellow to deep, dark red again?

Or is the transition to yellow a sign that his love’s weakening, now that he’s saddled with a silent, motionless mummy of a wife?

Don’t go there, McCone. You’re only entertaining such ideas because you’re feeling lousy today.

He kissed me, chased the bad notion away for a while. Flopped in the chair, looking pleased with himself.

“I went over that file about the work you did last year for Amanda Teller again. Deep background on a Cheryl Fitzgerald and a Don Beckman. Founders of the Pro Terra Party, which put Paul Janssen in the state house of representatives.”

I wanted to blink, but weariness overcame me. Something wrong, a new low point. Today everything felt negative. Was negative. My breathing wasn’t right and my head hurt. Why didn’t Hy notice?

He added, “I sense connections, but I can’t quite put them together.”

I drew a labored breath, shut my eyes.

“What I want to do is call a staff meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Here. I’ve already cleared it with Saxnay. Is it okay with you?”

With an effort, I opened my eyes, then blinked.

“Great. I’ll get Ted started on setting it up.”

Why don’t you notice something’s wrong with me, Ripinsky?

And what else are you getting started on? What about this deal with Len Weathers?

God, there had to be some way to communicate with the man! Tell him how bad I felt. Tell him to change course where Weathers was concerned.

But I was so tired.

I closed my eyes.

“We’re going to beat this, McCone. I know we are.”

Maybe not.

JULIA RAFAEL

Shar had told her to dig, so she did. Also asked Thelia and Diane to help her.

More background on Haven Dietz. Nothing there she didn’t already know. Phone calls to Dietz’s former friends and colleagues. Most of them weren’t available. She left messages, doubting her calls would be returned.

Julia found she was retracing old ground, repeating things she’d done in the early stages of her investigation. The report Thelia gave her on Dietz’s finances was identical to one already on file: Dietz was living on disability payments; she had few assets. Nothing was forthcoming from Diane.

Dios, maybe she wasn’t cut out for this kind of work after all. She couldn’t get an original angle on the case. She felt like the driver of a car stuck in sand who kept accelerating and digging it in deeper. That wasn’t the kind of digging Shar wanted her to do.

She went to the conference room where the coffeepot was. About half a cup left-dark and yucky-looking. She poured it into a mug anyway. While she was there, trying not to choke on the strong brew, Ted stuck his head through the door.

“I can make more of that, if you like.”

“No, thanks. Ted, you’ve known Shar a long time. Has she ever been stuck on a case? So stuck that she never solved it?”

“Not exactly, but…” He came all the way into the room, the fluorescents highlighting the gray streaks in his black hair and goatee, and leaned on the edge of the table.

“Her first case for All Souls-a missing person investigation-was a bust. She just couldn’t find the guy. Then years later, on the day we moved to the pier, she was going through some boxes of her old papers, and found this last open file. So she read it, noticed something she hadn’t before, found the guy, and closed the case.”

“She never gives up, does she?”

“No. You shouldn’t either.”

“How’d you know I was thinking of giving up?”

Ted leaned toward her and patted her cheek. “Because, my dear, I am the Grand Poobah.”

Julia went back to her office and started plowing through the Dietz file again. She was halfway through when her phone rang.

“Ms. Rafael, this is Gloria Wickens. You called me earlier about Haven Dietz.”

Gloria Wickens-she’d held a higher position than Dietz’s at the financial management firm. “Yes. I’m reinterviewing people I spoke with earlier-”

“Well, I’m glad you called. I didn’t want to bring this up when I talked with you the last time because I didn’t think it was fair to Haven. But I saw in the paper that she was killed, and that makes a difference.”

Julia sat up straighter, reached for a pencil and legal pad. “Go on, please.”

“The audit of our firm’s accounts the year Haven was attacked turned up a shortfall of a hundred thousand dollars. This was ten months after she left the firm.”

It was the critical piece of information that might put everything together. “Did they suspect her?”

“I never heard anything to that effect. Another woman, Delia Piper, was under investigation, but eventually exonerated.”

“Is Ms. Piper still with the firm?”

“No. She quit, and I heard she moved to Hawaii.”

“And nobody ever questioned Ms. Dietz?”

“Why would they? She’d been gone a long time and besides, she was a trust-fund baby. A hundred thousand dollars must’ve been insignificant to her.”

Julia questioned the woman more, but received little additional information. After she ended the call, she thought about her conversations with Dietz: how her parents couldn’t help her after the attack because they were sailing across the Pacific in their “damn yacht.”

Okay, she’d do an in-depth check on the elder Dietzes.

It showed the yacht had gone down in a storm near Fiji with both of them aboard a year before their daughter was attacked; their estate had barely paid final bills and back taxes.

The things people say that you take at face value.

The things you overlook.

Haven Dietz: rich girl who all of a sudden wasn’t going to inherit a cent. Had a good job, but wanted more.

So what else, Julia wondered, had she overlooked?

MICK SAVAGE

Mick ran into Hy in the lobby of the Brandt Institute; Hy was in a hurry because he needed to take Mick’s grandma to the airport, but he paused long enough to tell Mick about the staff meeting to be held in Shar’s room the next morning.

“How is Grandma?”

“She carried on again this morning, and Saskia offered to accompany her back to San Diego,” Hy said. “It’s for the best. These histrionics…” He shrugged.

“What about Elwood?”

“He comes and goes. I don’t even know where he’s staying.”

“Well, he’s here for Shar.”

“Everybody’s here for her.” Hy paused. “She’s not good today.”

A prickle of alarm at the base of Mick’s spine. “How so?”

“Not responding much. Sleeping, and there’s a lot of rapid eye movement. This has happened a couple of times before, and she’s always rallied. I’ve alerted her nurse. See what you think.”

Hy left and Mick went to see his aunt.

She lay on her side facing the window. When he came around the bed, he saw that her eyes were dull and unfocused, her face pale and her breathing ragged.

“Shar?”

No eyeblink.

“Shar!”

No response. He ran out to the nurses’ station. Melissa, the night nurse, took one look at his face and together they rushed back to the room.

“She’s not responding, but her eyes are open,” he said.

Melissa moved swiftly to the side of the bed, looked at Shar, and grabbed the wall phone. She spoke urgently to the operator. “Get the Code Team and Dr. Saxnay to Room Three. Stat!”

“What’s happening to her?” Mick asked.

“Please step outside.”

“But-”

“Please-go!”

Mick left the room but stayed in the corridor close to the door.

Dr. Saxnay, the attending physician who had taken a personal interest in Shar’s case and seemed to live at the institute, rushed past him, barely beating the Code Team through the door. Mick followed, stopped just inside. He could hardly breathe.

“Damn,” Saxnay muttered after one look at Shar. He grabbed a tube from the crash cart while the team stood by.

“Get the chopper!” he said to Melissa. “She’s going to SF General. Now!” Without waiting for a response, he tubed Shar, handed the tube over to one of the team to keep the oxygen moving. “And don’t forget to alert the on-call neurosurgeon over there.”

Saxnay spotted Mick. “You! Call her husband and have him meet us at the hospital.”

Mick was shaking as he stepped outside, but not far enough to be out of earshot. He pulled his cell phone off his belt.

Saxnay muttered, “Bullet must have dislodged, caused more bleeding. That clot’s probably growing by the minute, putting more and more pressure on her brain stem.”

“What do you think her chances are?” Melissa asked.

“Her best hope is surgery.” Saxnay watched the team transfer Shar to a stretcher, cinch her in for transport. “I was afraid it would come to this. Surgery’s going to be tricky, but it’s that or lose her.”

Lose her!

No! That wasn’t possible. They couldn’t be talking about Shar.

Flapping rotors and the whine of the helicopter’s engine. Feet pounding from a rear entrance. Men grabbed the stretcher, pushed past Mick as if he weren’t there.

He watched, numb, as they took his aunt away.

SHARON McCONE

What’s happening to me? God, my heart’s pounding like it wants to break through my breastbone.

Light. The light’s fading, disappearing.

My sight, the only thing I have left… going, gone!

My mind…

Where is everybody? Where am I?

No sense of space, place, time.

Alone, so alone.

Rising. Falling.

Dark.

Falling.

Oh, bright flash… pain… roar…

Metal grazing my fingertips.

I see it!

No, I can’t. My sight’s gone. I’m all alone in the dark.

Falling.

The dark.

Falling, falling…

Help! Don’t let me die!

HY RIPINSKY

He sat in the waiting room at SF General, surrounded by distraught and anxious strangers, but as alone as if he were on a deserted island. He hadn’t called anyone; he couldn’t have stood the sympathy and the too-early condolences.

A door opened, a tall dark-haired man in scrubs strode in.

“Mr. Ripinsky, I’m Ben Travers. I’ll be your wife’s surgeon.”

“What’re her chances?”

“I don’t play the odds with people’s lives.”

“Meaning not good.”

“Meaning we don’t know.”

“What happened? She wasn’t good when I left her today, but she hasn’t been good a lot of days.”

“In all likelihood, the bullet has moved and a blood clot has formed and is causing more severe pressure on her brain stem. We’ll have further information when we get the results of the CT scan. In the meantime, we’re prepping her for surgery.”

Hy felt a wrenching in his chest. He propped his elbows on his knees, put his face into his hands.

Travers’s hand touched his shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as we know something.”

“Never mind me. Just save my wife.”

Mick came through the doors from the parking lot, his eyes wild, hair disheveled.

“Jesus, Hy,” Mick said. “Where is everybody?”

“I didn’t make any calls.”

“I was at the institute when she… I saw something was wrong and got the nurse.”

Hy nodded.

“You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“Go away, Mick.”

“What?”

“I need to be alone.”

“I don’t understand.”

He’d been alone when Julie died, staring off the bluff at the light-dying, too-on Tufa Lake. Left her in the care of her best friend because she didn’t know him any more. He’d always felt guilty about that. Maybe it was his punishment to be alone when Shar died.

Mick said, “No one needs to be by himself at a time like this.”

Hy just looked at him. It wasn’t something you could explain to anyone else.

Mick backed off, probably seeing the anger and desolation in Hy’s eyes. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll go. But I think you’re being selfish. I love Shar, too.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I know something. And please don’t call any of the others.”

“… If that’s what you want.” Mick turned and left.

Want? All he wanted was for Shar to live.

An hour gone.

“She’s still in surgery, Mr. Ripinsky.”

“What did the CT scan show?”

“You’ll have to talk with her doctor.”

An hour and a half gone.

Hank Zahn and Anne-Marie Altman came into the waiting room. Two of Shar’s and his best friends. Both attorneys, both calm and rational people. If Mick had to tell someone what had happened-and Hy had seen the need in his eyes-they were the best possible choice.

They sat on either side of him, clasped his hands. Hank, lanky with gray curly hair; Anne-Marie, statuesque and blonde. Curious couple: they lived in different flats in the same building. She bordered on the obsessive about housekeeping, and he was more than slothful. Their adopted teenage daughter, Habiba Hamid, divided her time between their places-although she seemed to favor Hank’s more offhand attitude toward housekeeping.

Sharon loved all three of them. So did he.

“Mick called you, huh?”

Hank said, “Yes.”

“I told him not to.”

“Why?” Anne-Marie asked.

Suddenly Hy felt foolish. Why had he thought he should be alone? Penance? Ridiculous. This was not about him or his past misdeeds.

He said, “Let’s wait a while, and if there’s no news, then we’ll call the others.”

RAE KELLEHER

She located Lee Summers at the Pro Terra Party’s headquarters in a refurbished warehouse south of Market. A fund-raising party was going on, drinks and canapés being served all around.

The man learns his daughter has been murdered and he attends a party? Incredible!

She’d shown the man at the door her credentials, said she was here on official business. He let her in without question and pointed out Summers. In Rae’s experience these gatekeepers-usually hired from security firms-were not always the brightest individuals or totally committed to their jobs. She ought to know; she’d worked security for a time. There was the colleague who read only comic books, moving his lips the whole time; the woman who painted her finger- and toenails while the entire building was burglarized; the man who took sleeping pills on the job. Of course, there were smart and conscientious people, too-many students working their way through college, as Rae and Shar had done-but they usually left for better jobs or different careers.

Now Rae watched Summers from across the room: tall, silver-haired, expensively dressed, his posture and gestures hinting at arrogance. He was surrounded by other well-dressed and attractive people who seemed to hang on his every word. Rae accepted a glass of wine from a passing server, a shrimp canapé from another. Fringe benefits.

A woman who had long gray hair and was wearing a poorly fitting black cocktail dress came out of the crowd and went up to Summers, touching his arm; Rae recognized her-Cheryl Fitzgerald. Summers looked down, clearly not pleased to see her there. She went up on tiptoe and spoke into his ear. When she was finished Summers excused himself and ushered her to a door at the rear of the room.

Rae set down her drink and followed.

The door opened into a long corridor with several other doors opening off it. One stood ajar, and voices came from inside. She slipped along the wall until she was within hearing range.

“… Nothing to connect the party with what happened to Sharon McCone.”

“This Rae Kelleher told me it was just one of a number of lines of investigation, but if there wasn’t something compelling, why did she bother to come see me?”

“Fishing.”

“I’m not so sure. I know about Kelleher and McCone and that agency. They’re good. If they find out about Alicia and-”

“Don’t mention my daughter’s name to me!”

“I saw it on the six o’clock news-the body of a hooker killed in a SoMa alley identified as Alicia. Celebrating, Lee?”

“What kind of comment is that?”

“I’ve heard the rumors about what you did to her. What if Rae Kelleher finds out about them?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not. But for a while now I’ve been wanting to move on to someplace where the smog isn’t as thick as it is in Silicon Valley.”

“Don’t even think of blackmailing me, Cheryl. Others have tried; they’ve all regretted it.”

“What others? The mayor? Jim Yatz? Or are you talking about Amanda Teller and Paul Janssen?”

“Clearly you’re out of your mind-”

Rae’s cellular vibrated. She ignored it.

“… Perfectly sane, and my lawyer has a letter in his safe that tells all about Pro Terra. All I have to do is give the word and it goes straight to the authorities. Or if something happens to me-”

“God, you’re melodramatic, Cheryl. What do you want? A trip to an expensive fat farm? You could use it, I admit-”

Sound of a slap.

“Jesus! Okay, what do you want?”

“Let’s begin with a first-class ticket to Rome.”

Rae’s cell vibrated again. Shit! It might be important. And Cheryl Fitzgerald wasn’t going to pack up her life and move to Italy overnight; plenty of time to find out what knowledge she’d used to exert such pressure on Summers. Rae looked around, saw an exit door, and slipped outside. A ways down the alley, she checked the number-an unfamiliar local one-and answered the call.

“Ms. Kelleher, this is Callie O’Leary. My attorney said you want to speak to me about an inheritance.”

Delaney had passed along the message to Alicia Summers’s-aka Angie Atkins’s-friend, probably in exchange for a cut of the fictional money.

“Yes. When can we meet?”

“Tomorrow, at Mr. Delaney’s office?”

“I’d rather we do this one-on-one. Your attorney…”

Long pause. “Yes, I understand. I’m staying at Hope House in the outer Richmond. It’s a shelter for women at risk. I’ll give you the address.”

“I can be there in less than an hour.”

CRAIG MORLAND

Close to eleven. He pushed away from his desk and the voluminous paper files on the city hall investigation. He’d replayed the surveillance tapes he’d made on Teller and Janssen from his room at the Big Sur lodge. They’d run out some time between when he fell asleep and when he was awakened by the shots, but the Monterey County authorities could use what was there.

Now he was having a crisis of conscience. The tapes were illegal. If he turned them over to the sheriff’s department, it could compromise his license and the agency. Even sending them anonymously would be a risk. Besides, as a former fed, he harbored a great distrust of local law-enforcement agencies.

Screw them, he thought. He’d probably solve the case before they even broke significant ground.

To that end, he slipped one of the DVDs he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo into the computer and watched it once again.

A tall, slender woman-naked, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Facing away from the camera. A man, facing her, but in shadow so his features weren’t clear.

“Oh, baby, you are something else. As advertised and then some.”

“Tell me I’m beautiful. I’ve always wanted somebody to tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful. You are beautiful.”

Cut to another, similar shot. Different man, different shape, but also in shadow.

“You’re worth the money I gave, all of it.”

“Because I’m pretty.”

“And incredibly hot.”

“How much money did you give?”

“A lot.”

“I could use some money for myself. They never give me anything. Would you pay that much to me? If I’m good to you?”

“If you’re very, very good…”

Next scene: a couple in bed, indistinguishable except for the long sweep of blonde hair. Graphic noises.

Next: similar recording.

Craig ejected the DVD, slipped the other one in.

Another unclear view: a man with a hairy back, humping.

Another man, a tattoo visible on his shoulder. The same well-publicized tattoo of the insignia of USC, his alma mater, that the mayor bore in the same place. He’d often joked with the press that he intended to have it removed, since his wife had graduated from rival UCLA.

And now the last one: two unidentifiable naked women, one blonde and one dark-haired, twined in an embrace.

The dark-haired one: Amanda Teller, or someone made up to look like her.

Craig slowed the recording speed, played the disc again.

The mayor’s tattoo could have been faked. The woman who resembled Teller could be younger than the dead supervisor.

Where had Harvey Davis gotten these discs? Who had made them? And who were the unidentifiable participants?

Craig checked his watch. After one now, but his friend Daniel Blackstone down in Scottsdale, a video and audio forensics specialist, would probably still be at his computer. Daniel worked best in the cool night, slept best during the hot daylight hours.

Craig punched in his number and got an immediate response.

“You need work?” he asked.

Daniel laughed-a habitually harsh sound exacerbated by the two packs of Marlboros he smoked daily. “I’ve got plenty of work, but I can fit you in. What’s the job?”

Craig outlined what he thought about the videos.

“That shouldn’t be any problem. You want to messenger them to me?”

He thought about the call he’d received earlier from Hy. He wouldn’t be doing McCone any good sitting around a hospital waiting room.

“Just a second.”

His fingers skipped over the keyboard. Southwest Airlines had a seven a.m. flight that got into Phoenix’s Sky Harbor at nine-fifteen. Seats were available.

“I’ll see you around ten-thirty tomorrow,” he said.

JULIA RAFAEL

Now she was digging deep on the embezzlement at Haven Dietz’s former financial management firm. Reviewing the reports Thelia had delivered to her, plus information on the woman, Delia Piper, who had been accused of the crime and then exonerated. Piper now lived in Hawaii, on Oahu: four hours earlier there. Julia got her number from information and called.

“Of course it was Haven,” the woman said when Julia had explained about her investigation. “I never doubted it, and neither did a number of my colleagues. The audit couldn’t pinpoint the time of the embezzlement, but she was still with the firm the first two months of its fiscal year.”

“Why did they suspect you?”

“I had more responsibility than Haven, and access to cash. Also-I admit it-I was the company bitch. A lot of people didn’t like my style. Still don’t. And I’d been very outspoken about the conduct of our married branch manager, with whom Haven was having an affair.”

“Oh? And he is…?”

“Was. Todd Daley. He committed suicide a week after Haven was attacked. Shot himself. I guess he was afraid she would talk.”

“I understand Ms. Dietz didn’t have access to cash.”

“No, but Todd Daley did.”

“So you think they were in on the embezzlement together?”

“Well, sure. Todd had a shrewish wife and three snot-nosed kids in a tract house in Pacifica. Haven was pretty and smart. A hundred thousand dollars doesn’t sound like much to start a new life on, but Todd knew how to make money work for the clients. Haven must’ve persuaded him to let the clients’ money work for them.”

The venom in Delia Piper’s voice annoyed Julia. “Ms. Piper, are you aware that Haven Dietz is dead?”

“No. Really?”

“She was killed by an intruder in her apartment Sunday night.”

“Well, that’s too bad, but I don’t feel sorry for her. The woman was one of the most unpleasant people I ever worked with.”

That, coming from the self-described office bitch.

Haven Dietz, her boss Todd Daley, a hundred thousand dollars missing from the management firm but not discovered till the annual audit.

Haven walking through the park on her way home, a small fortune in cash in her briefcase.

Haven brutally attacked, the briefcase gone.

A hundred thousand dollars in the tack room at the Peepleses’ vineyard.

Was Larry Peeples Haven’s attacker? Had she perhaps confided her plans to him?

But then why had he nursed Dietz back to health?

And why had he abandoned the cash?

And where was he now?

RAE KELLEHER

She’d meant to get to the Hope House an hour after Callie O’Leary’s call, but everything had conspired against her. Ticket for making an illegal U turn on the Embarcadero; accident blocking an intersection on Franklin Street; heavy traffic on Geary; and no parking spaces within six blocks of her destination.

Now it was after eleven. Would they even let her in to talk with O’Leary?

The safe house was brick, three stories. Edwardian style. A porch light shone brightly and there was muted light in some of the windows. Rae went up the front steps, noticed the eye of a surveillance camera trained on her as she rang the bell. A female voice came through a speaker above the bell, asking her to identify herself.

She did, holding up her credentials to the camera.

“I’ll be right there,” the voice said.

A woman dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt opened the door. “Callie’s been waiting a long time for you, Ms. Kelleher.”

“I realize that. I’m sorry.”

“Not my problem. I’d’ve been up anyway; it’s my night on the door. Callie’s in the coming-together room.” She gestured toward an archway to her right.

Interesting name for living room. Rae liked it.

She went over there and looked in. A dark-haired woman was curled in an oversize armchair, an afghan pulled up to her shoulders. The room was filled with similar comfortable furnishings, and a gas log flickered on the small tiled hearth-a fireplace that had once burned coal, but was later converted.

When Rae cleared her throat, the woman started and looked up. Rae saw that she was a beauty. Big, heavily lashed gray eyes, sculpted chin and cheekbones. But the bleakness in those eyes and the tight lines around her mouth told of a hard life. As did the yellowing bruise on her chin. She couldn’t’ve been much over twenty.

“Ms. O’Leary, I’m Rae Kelleher. Sorry to be so late.”

“No worries. I don’t sleep much anyway. This story about an inheritance-it’s not true, is it?”

“No, it’s not. How did you know?”

“I don’t have any relatives, at least not any that would leave me money.”

“Then why did you call me, agree to meet with me?”

Callie O’Leary motioned for Rae to be seated across from her. “Because this has got to be about Angie. I saw on the news that they identified her body. I know… quite a few things about Angie, and it’s time I told somebody.”

Rae’s phone buzzed. She looked at the number, saw it was Hy and said, “I need to take this.”

After she’d ended the call, she sat silently for a moment, fingers pressed to her lips, feeling sick inside.

“Bad news?” Callie O’Leary asked.

“… Yes.”

“You need to leave? We can talk another time. I’ll be here until it’s safe for me to get out of town.”

Rae forced her mind away from what Hy had told her about Shar and back to the situation at hand. “No,” she said. “It’s bad news, but there’s nothing I can do to help.”

Besides, she was doing what Shar would want her to.

“So how come you’re here?” she asked Callie.

“Guy threatened me.”

“Don’t you get a lot of threats in your line of work?”

“Not like this. Not from somebody so powerful.”

“Somebody connected with Angie?”

She nodded.

“Tell me about it.”

O’Leary’s earlier resolve had faded. “This guy, he’ll kill me if I do.”

“Not if he can’t find you.”

“He can find me, a guy like that. And the security isn’t all that good here.”

“I know a place where it is.”

Ricky was going to be amazed when she brought a hooker home.