Locked In

HY RIPINSKY

He filled his coffee mug, then went to the sitting room to watch the morning news. The story of the Yatz and Angelo murder-suicide had made the national reports, bringing with it a rehash of the Teller-Janssen case. The media, of course, were eager to link the two, in spite of denials by officials in both jurisdictions. There was also mention of Angelo’s “double life” as an operative of the McCone agency, whose owner, Sharon McCone, had recently been shot by an intruder at the firm’s offices. Details of her present condition were “unavailable.”

Hy watched for a few moments, then pressed the off button on the remote. Craig had called him around two in the morning to tell him what had gone down at the Yatz house, so none of this was new to him, but he’d been interested in what kind of treatment the press was giving the story. At least no one had ferreted out that Shar had been at the Brandt Institute or brought back to SF General. The story of her shooting had dropped off the radar after a few days, when inquiries to the agency and other people who knew her failed to bring results. Now, he supposed, he and the others would have to field annoying phone calls and encounters again.

The door to the guest room opened and seconds later John appeared, wrapped in one of Hy’s old bathrobes-a blackwatch plaid that he’d never particularly liked. John’s blond hair stood up in spikes and he yawned and blinked groggily at Hy.

“Shar?” he asked. “Any change?”

“I spoke with the nurse a while ago. She’s resting comfortably.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“She’s no longer in crisis, she’s aware of her surroundings-”

“In short, just like she was before she crashed.” John sank heavily into the armchair.

“Not exactly. The bullet and bone fragments have been removed, the clot is gone-”

“And she’s irreparably damaged.”

John’s pessimism was getting to Hy. He picked up his coffee mug and took it into the kitchen. Ralph, their orange tabby, looked up at him from his food bowl, then went on eating.

Hy had spent most of the previous evening sitting beside his wife and watching her face as she lay in the silent motionless state he’d gotten used to. She was no longer in intensive care, but on another floor, in a step-down unit where the nurses came around frequently to monitor her; they slipped in and out, smiling reassuringly at him, checking Shar’s vitals, making notes on her chart. Once in a while he thought he saw her eyelids flutter and imagined a facial tic. But mostly she lay still and waxen.

Gathering strength to get well. Strength for the long fight ahead.

He checked his watch, saw it was time he went to the pier for the staff meeting Adah had called for this morning. That would occupy the time until he was due to see Shar’s attending physician at one o’clock.

RAE KELLEHER

She came into the conference room ten minutes late, slipped into a chair next to Mick. He was taking notes-long, erratic scratches with arrows connecting them-and Craig was speaking.

“… So here’s the theory we’re going to present to the DA’s office: Amanda Teller heard rumors that someone was making sex videos of city officials. She came to the agency and asked Shar for deep background on the Pro Terra Party, in particular Lee Summers and Paul Janssen. She wrote a memo to the mayor, probably detailing what she’d found out, but Jim Yatz intercepted it.”

Sex videos?

“Was there actually a memo?” Derek Ford asked. “Or was that more of Yatz’s attempt to muddy the facts?”

“Don’t know,” Craig said. “What I do know is that Teller’s long-term aide, Harvey Davis, had become disenchanted with her. Davis started leaking vague information to me after Yatz hired us to look into purportedly missing documents at city hall. Frankly, I thought Davis was behaving theatrically, had a Deep Throat fixation. He gave me a key to his condo in case something happened to him, and after he was shot I went there and found the videos. He also told me about Teller and Janssen’s plans to meet at Big Sur; the surveillance tapes that I made of their conversation at the Spindrift Lodge suggest that Janssen was on very shaky emotional territory, and that Teller took advantage of it to make him sign some kind of document pertaining to the videos.”

Rae thought, We’ve been working on the same case!

She started to speak, but Mick said, “We assume the videos were made for the purposes of Janssen and the Pro Terra Party, but we don’t know who made them or who-”

“I do.”

All eyes fixed on Rae as she told them about Lee Summers, his daughter, Callie O’Leary, Hot Shots, and Laura Logan-who was giving a deposition to her lawyer as they spoke. Then everybody began talking at once.

Over the din, Adah said, “Okay, hold it! I want Rae, Craig, and Mick to share their notes and start putting a timeline together. Patrick, you create one of your flowcharts. Everybody else pitch in. This is big-way too big to delay on. And Hy, can you alert Glenn Solomon to what’s going on? We need a heavy-hitting attorney to bring this to the DA.”

“What about who shot Shar?” Rae said somewhat plaintively. “We’re losing sight of that.”

“Not for a moment we aren’t. It’s all going to come out now.”

JULIA RAFAEL

Breakfast in the hospital: runny eggs, some kind of sausage she couldn’t identify, dry toast, weak coffee. She left most of it. Then the doc said she was okay, the X-rays had been negative, no concussion, and she could go. She got dressed and asked the nurse for Shar’s room number. But when she finally found the nurses’ station on that floor, they wouldn’t let Julia see her. Limited visitors, they said.

Disappointed, she went out into the watery sunlight-fog burning off-and stood wondering what to do next. Get some rest today, the doc had told her. Sure, she’d said. But she had things to do. She took out her phone and dialed Craig. He didn’t pick up. She called the agency. Ted was terse with her, told her they had a situation brewing and to get her ass over there.

Julia broke the connection. Her nose still throbbed from when she’d run into the grape stake, she’d been bashed on the head last night, and now she was being ordered around. Well, Ted probably didn’t know about the head bashing and her hospitalization; he’d left before that almeja had attacked her. So she’d get her ass over to the pier, but first she’d stop at Richman Labs; they’d promised her a report on the duffel bag by nine.

On the bus from the labs to the pier-where her car still sat-she read the report they’d given her. The bag had been manufactured in Taiwan; it was a brand that had been sold at quality luggage stores until it was discontinued three years ago. Smudged fingerprints on the leather outside. No markings to identify the owner. Two small patches of blood on the cloth lining-AB negative.

Rare. What was Haven Dietz’s blood type? Her attacker must’ve gotten some on himself, and then in the bag. Was there blood on the money? She’d have to call the Peepleses and ask.

So what was this “situation” at the pier? Shar? Dios mio! Had Shar died?

No. Ted had sounded excited, energized. If Shar had died, he would’ve been crying. Besides, Julia had just been to the nurses’ station on Shar’s floor; they’d said she was resting, not dead.

The bus pulled into its last stop on Harrison. Julia got out and walked the few blocks to the pier.

MICK SAVAGE

The case was coming together so fast it was almost scary. He sat at the keyboard at Shar’s desk-because hers was the biggest office-inputting the facts Craig read to him. On the floor, Patrick crawled over one of the big whiteboard flowcharts he used to keep track of cases in progress, adding details, wiping out others, creating a timeline. In their separate offices, the rest of the staff were fact-checking, establishing a rock-solid foundation. Hy had gone to consult with Shar’s friend Glenn Solomon. Glenn would love this case: he loathed corrupt politicians.

Of course, who didn’t?

Mick felt higher than he had since Shar was shot. Miles higher than he’d felt since he and Craig had walked into that grim scene at Big Sur. Then and later, riding his bike to Monterey, he’d felt hollow and afraid; at Jim Yatz’s house last night he’d been more in control, able to handle the situation right. And now-this made the other things worth it. This was the conclusion of the hunt.

And maybe the answer to who had attacked Shar.

Thelia came into the room, handed a sheaf of papers to Craig, and went away. Craig read them, handed them to Mick, and pointed out a couple of lines: on the day before he was killed, Paul Janssen had ordered his broker at Edward Jones to sell off a number of stocks from his considerable portfolio; they had yielded more than five hundred thousand dollars, and the funds had gone into his cash account, upon which Janssen could have written a check on Monday.

Paying Teller off, in addition to signing whatever document she’d brought him.

Mick glanced at Craig. Craig nodded and went to give the information to Patrick. Mick entered it into the computer.

Derek relayed more deep background on Teller. She’d been linked romantically with Janssen for a short time before his successful run for the state house of representatives. It was not common knowledge, but the source-a blogger with excellent contacts in state government-was reliable.

More information into the timeline.

Patrick said, “This is shaping up really well. Can somebody get me another whiteboard?”

Mick hit the intercom for Ted, and shortly afterward Ted’s assistant Kendra hurried in with one.

Julia was out, interviewing a domestic employee of Amanda Teller whose name had surfaced earlier. Rae was in Lafayette, talking again with Senta Summers. She’d attempted to contact Cheryl Fitzgerald, the remaining cofounder of the Pro Terra Party who had threatened Summers the night before, but her office said she had left unexpectedly for Italy. Fled with a fistful of blackmail money, Rae claimed. She’d ask Hy to put one of the people in RI’s Rome office onto locating Fitzgerald. Adah had hired an operative from another agency to keep tabs on Lee Summers; he was at party headquarters, where he often stayed for days on end.

Hy returned. Glenn Solomon was in full battle mode, he said. Ready to roll. How soon could they have the timeline and files ready?

Soon, Mick told him. Very soon.

But as he went back to his keyboard, he found himself thinking that even though everything fit something was wrong. There was a missing piece. Who had gone to the pier that night and put the bullet in Shar’s head?

SHARON McCONE

L ooking at the ceiling again. God, I hate ceilings! I want to sit up. Get up. Walk out of here into the sunshine. Breathe fresh air. They’ve taken me off the ventilator again; I could do it, if I could just make my damn limbs work right.

My fingers tried to make a fist-

They moved!

Just a fraction of an inch, but they moved!

A wild elation coursed through me. I tried to call out for the nurse.

“Ack.”

My throat was raw, the sound weak and pathetic.

But I’d made a sound!

“Ack… ack… ack…”

I sounded like an asthmatic duck, but so what?

I moved my right index finger-tremulous, tiny motion, but all my own!

“Ack… ack… ack…”

I’d get their attention yet.

The doctor, what was it he’d said? The remaining crap was out of my head-well, he’d spoken more eloquently and technically than that, but what it boiled down to was that the crap was gone, there was no more swelling, and I should start regaining bodily functions.

“Ack!”

A nurse appeared around the curtains. She moved forward swiftly, took my pulse, looked into my eyes.

“Ack!”

She nodded. “I’ll page Dr. Travers, Ms. McCone. I think he’ll be as happy as you seem to be right now.”

CRAIG MORLAND

He, Hy, and Glenn Solomon left the DA’s office in the Hall of Justice at Sixth and Bryant Streets and rode the elevator down.

“It’s not an airtight case yet,” Glenn said, “but it’s good.”

Craig said, “It still doesn’t link the Pro Terra people with what happened to McCone.”

Hy turned to him. “ ‘What happened’? Don’t sugarcoat it: my wife was shot!”

Tempers were flaring. Craig knew it all too well; at the Bureau, when a case was coming together, agents-male and female-were often on the verge of physically thrashing it out.

“Sorry,” he said. “I spoke carelessly.”

A pause. Then Hy said, “That’s okay. Since Shar crashed I’ve been flying on empty. I’m heading to the hospital now. When I see her I’ll feel better.”

He turned, cut across the street to the lot where he’d parked. Craig watched him go, then sighed and turned back to Solomon.

The big, silver-haired attorney was attired as usual in an expensive tailor-made suit. He and his wife, society interior decorator Bette Silver, were good friends of Shar’s and had been visibly shaken when Craig had run into them at the Brandt Institute last week. Glenn was known as a fierce litigator who could demolish an adversary’s case with a single caustic remark, but once he left the legal arena, he became his true self: an entertaining companion, a kind and compassionate friend, and a strong advocate for those in need. Or as Bette had once put it, “A pussycat who roars for a living.”

Solomon tapped him on the shoulder. “When was the last time you ate?”

Craig shrugged. “Yesterday. I forget.”

“Come with me.”

They got into Glenn’s Jaguar and drove over to Franklin Street near City Hall, where Glenn handed the car over to a valet parker at a small café called Bistro Americaine. Glenn was known there-he was probably known in most good restaurants in the city-and they were quickly seated in a booth. When Craig looked at the menu his stomach lurched, so Glenn ordered for him: steak, fries, a side of creamed spinach. Bottle of a chewy zinfandel for the two of them.

“Heart-stopper meal,” Glenn said, “but the wine’ll cut the grease.”

Craig smiled weakly.

“Actually I wanted to talk privately with you,” Glenn added.

“About what?”

“The issue of what happened to Sharon. In the brief time I had to review it, the information you presented to me-and I presented to the DA-didn’t indicate any link to her shooting.”

The feeling of dread that he’d been entertaining all day intensified. “That was my take on it.”

“I don’t mean to say these people aren’t killers; Lee Summers is my candidate for the murders of his daughter, Harvey Davis, and Teller and Janssen. But they didn’t do Yatz and Angelo-I’ve spoken to the SFPD and ME’s office, and they believe that was just what it appeared to be, a murder-suicide. And my gut tells me none of them did Shar.”

Craig rubbed his eyes. The waiter came with the wine, and he waited till the whole ritual of smelling the cork and tasting a sip was done before he asked, “Is that just a gut-level reaction, or is there some basis for it in fact?”

“There’s a basis. There was no need for them or anyone connected with them to enter the pier and search files. They had access to everything they needed to know.”

Craig sat up straighter. “How?”

“When I came to pick you up at the pier this afternoon, I took a close look at D’Angelo’s e-mails, then I asked Derek to take an even closer look. She sent copies of everything to Lee Summers.”

“Playing both sides, was she?”

“Three sides, I’d say. She was working for McCone Investigations, living with Jim Yatz, and selling out both to Summers.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Square one, my friend. Square one.”

HY RIPINSKY

He’d received a message on his voice mail, having had to turn the phone off for the conference in the DA’s office. Halfway to the parking lot he played it.

Ben Travers: “I have good news about your wife. Call me as soon as you can.”

He tried calling Travers back, couldn’t reach him. Ran into the lot, reclaimed his Mustang, and sped across town, weaving in and out among slow drivers. At SF General he parked in a physician’s space and rushed inside.

Shar’s floor was quiet; no one was at the nurses’ station for the moment. He went down the hall to his wife’s room, pushed aside the curtains around her bed.

A nurse was sponging off Shar’s face; it looked small and pale beneath the bandages that covered her head. The nurse turned and smiled at him.

“Mr. Ripinsky, we’ve been waiting for you. Haven’t we, Ms. McCone?”

Shar said, “Ack!”

He stared at her.

“Ack!”

It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever uttered.

JULIA RAFAEL

She slumped in her chair, staring at the duffel bag on her desk. She’d spent the afternoon phoning local luggage stores-over fifty in all. Most hadn’t carried this particular brand; the others didn’t keep sales records going back three years. Dead end, unless she wanted to extend her search to other communities, and she didn’t have the energy for that right now.

The phone buzzed, and she picked up. Ted said, “A Lt. Morrison on line two.”

She’d called Dave Morrison, the head of the team working Haven Dietz’s murder, to ask him to find out Dietz’s blood type.

“Type O positive,” he told her.

Earlier he’d asked her why she needed the information. She’d said something vague about a lead, and then he’d had to take another call. Now he repeated the request.

She badly wanted to tell him about the money and the duffel bag. Dump the case in his lap and move on. But if she did, she’d violate the bond of confidentiality with the Peepleses by admitting they-and she and the agency-had covered up evidence. But evidence of what? It wasn’t Dietz’s blood in the duffel, and she really couldn’t prove it was linked to the attack or murder.

“I thought I had a lead, but it turns out I don’t,” she said.

“Why don’t you tell me about this lead?”

Julia began the tale she’d thought up while being put on hold by the luggage store. “An informant spun this wild story about finding bloodstained clothing near Dietz’s apartment building. He said he’d had it tested, and the blood was type AB negative. But he couldn’t tell me what lab he’d had it tested at, and-after I called you-it turned out that he couldn’t produce the clothes. Then he admitted they’d never existed.”

Dios, Shar had told her this job would turn her into a liar. Now she’d gone world-class.

Morrison sighed. “Informants… They can be a pain in the ass. Hope this one didn’t take you for much.”

“Nah, he was in it for the publicity.”

After she hung up the receiver, she slumped back again, brooding over the duffel bag.

There were footsteps on the catwalk, and Rae came into the office. “God, I’m exhausted!” she exclaimed and flopped on her back on the floor.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Lafayette, interviewing Senta Summers again. No surprises there. It’s hotter than hell in the East Bay, and traffic got snarled near the Caldecott Tunnel.”

“I’ve never been there-I mean, past the tunnel.”

“Pretty suburbs, rolling hills. But it’s getting so damn overpopulated. Every place in California is getting overpopulated. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“The bag on your desk.”

“A big pain in the culo.” She briefly summarized her theory about the bag.

Rae listened, massaging her temples with her fingertips.

“Okay,” she said. “Your reasoning sounds solid. Whoever attacked Dietz bled, and some of it came off on the bag’s lining. If you were a cop, you could go to databases of known offenders and try for a DNA match. But you’re not a cop.”

“And I can’t break my agreement of confidentiality with the Peeples. I was the one who told them to keep the money in their safe.”

“Because there was no evidence of a crime. You’re entitled to hold money you find on your property any place you choose. Even the bloodstains don’t prove a crime-their son could’ve cut himself shaving the day he stashed the cash.”

“Right. So what should I do? I’ve never had to deal with anything this complicated before.”

Rae was silent, her knees bent, arms outflung on the carpet.

“Let Shar hear the evidence. She’ll know.”

“How? She’s fighting for her life.”

Rae sat up, blue eyes wide. “Didn’t anybody tell you? She’s completely conscious, making sounds, and moving a little-a miracle. Give her a few days. This case will wait till then.”

Julia put her head in her hands and cried with relief.