Vanishing Point

Friday

Five minutes after midnight, and Morro Bay was wrapped in mist, its streets deserted.

Earlier, while I returned to my car on Paloma Road, Keim had gone to Ted’s office and found the license plate number of Estee Pearson’s silver Porsche Boxster that Terry Wyatt had earlier phoned in. Armed with that and the photograph of Jennifer that Mark had provided, I started out for the coast.

On the way, I considered relaying the information on the Porsche to the SLO County Sheriff’s Department, but decided against it. All the circumstances now pointed to Jennifer’s disappearance being voluntary, and I wanted to spare her any unpleasant publicity, as well as give myself the opportunity to talk with her.

I thought I knew what she’d tell me; I’d begun to intuit what Jennifer was doing, and why. Given enough time, I could find her.

Now I drove along the waterfront to the park where Laurel Greenwood had last been seen, checked the few vehicles parked there. No Boxster, but I hadn’t really expected to see it. Then I began a tour of lodging places: Embarcadero Inn, Bayview Lodge, Ascot Suites, the Breakers, Tradeswinds Motel, San Marcos Inn, and on and on. At each I first toured the parking lot looking for the Boxster, then went inside and showed the clerk Jennifer’s photograph and asked him or her if they’d seen my missing friend. Friend, because an ordinary person in distress garners more sympathy than a private detective, who often means trouble for the individual she’s seeking.

Most of the desk clerks said Jennifer hadn’t checked in, and a few at the higher-end establishments claimed they couldn’t give out information about guests, but I was reasonably sure Jennifer wasn’t staying with them either. There were a lot of motels in the town, and by the time I’d finished with them, it was after four a.m. and I was ready for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat.

The matronly, gray-haired waitress at the all-night restaurant I found on the outskirts of town said she thought Jennifer might have been in yesterday or the day before, but she couldn’t be sure. She recommended their BLT as the best on the coast, and quickly brought coffee. The place was deserted, so when my food was ready, she asked if she could join me; I agreed. She said, “I hope your friend’s not in trouble,” as she sat down opposite me.

“In trouble emotionally, anyway.” I bit into the BLT. “She disappeared last Sunday, and only tonight I found out she was in this area. Everybody at home is worried sick about her.”

“Well, of course they are, honey. And you look like you’re about worn out.” She reached for the photograph I’d left lying on the table. “Such a lovely young woman. Reminds me a little of my granddaughter; she’s in Los Angeles now, working in advertising. I’d go crazy if I didn’t hear from her every week or two. Why would your friend want to go and worry her people like that?”

“She has her reasons, I guess. Let me ask you this: if she’s not registered at any of the motels here in town, where might she be staying?”

“Lots of places. Plenty of bed-and-breakfasts. Everybody with an extra room seems to’ve gotten into that tax-break racket lately. Or she could’ve gone down to San Luis or up to Cayucos or Cambria.”

“No, I think she’s here in Morro Bay. She has… a sentimental attachment to the town.”

The woman frowned, drumming her fingertips on the table. “You say she doesn’t want anybody to recognize her?”

“I think she’s probably afraid her husband has reported her missing.”

“Well, then, I have a few ideas. But I don’t dare make any calls till at least six. Why don’t you finish your sandwich, have a little rest, and come back after seven? Maybe I’ll know something then.”

I thanked her and gave her the make, color, and license plate number of the car Jennifer was driving. There was no sense in checking into a motel for only a couple of hours, so after I’d eaten and paid, I went out to the parking lot and curled up on the backseat of my rental car. It was cramped and cold, but I’d left a sweater there after my meeting with Emil Tiegs. I covered myself as best I could and fell into a fitful sleep. My dreams were so unpleasant that when they were broken by the ringing of my cellular, I was grateful for the intrusion.

“McCone, what’s your ETA?”

“My… huh?”

“It’s your husband. Remember me? You never called to say when you’re picking me up this afternoon.”

“Ripinsky. Oh God… It’s so early.”

“It’s after eight.”

“You’re kidding!” I sat up, looked at my watch. “I can’t imagine how I slept so long, considering how uncomfortable it is here.”

“Where’s that?”

“The backseat of my rental car, in Morro Bay.”

“You’re alone, I hope.”

“Very funny.”

“Very gruffly.” It was our private word for grumpy, grouchy, and then some.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I ran my hand over my face, pushed my hair away from where it was stuck to my cheek. Good God, had I drooled in my sleep?

Hy said, “I take it the weekend’s in jeopardy.”

“Yeah, there’s been a break in the case.” I began pulling my twisted clothing into place. It was way past time to return to the restaurant and the nice waitress whose name I hadn’t even asked. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked mine. A heartening example of the kind of trust that sometimes develops between total strangers.

“Well, that’s good news,” Hy said. “There’s more stuff I can do here, so I’ll wait till I hear from you.”

“I hate to wreck our plans.”

“Don’t worry. Your case is important, and we’ve got lots of weekends ahead of us. Call if you need me.”

McCone, how did you get so lucky?

We broke the connection simultaneously. I got out of the car and went back into the restaurant.

The place was starting to fill up. The matronly waitress, who looked as if she was ready to go home, motioned to me from behind the counter and took me into a hallway that led to the restrooms.

“You must’ve caught a nap,” she said, “but you still don’t look so good, honey. Better clean up some, then go on out to the Creekside Springs Resort and talk to Bud Ferris.” She thrust a piece of paper into my hand. “I drew you a map, and in case you get lost, that’s Bud’s phone number. If you hustle, your friend might still be there.”

I peered at the penciled map. “I can’t thank you enough. And I don’t even know your name.”

“Hey, honey, I don’t know yours either. But as the Bard said, ‘What’s in a name?’” She winked at me and started back down the hallway, then called over her shoulder, “BA in English lit, UC Santa Cruz, seventy-one. How’s that for a smart career choice?”

As soon as I saw it, I recognized Creekside Springs Resort from one of the postcards in Laurel Greenwood’s collection: a white clapboard main building and several small cottages nestled in a sycamore grove at the northern edge of Los Padres National Forest. Its weathered sign advertised luxury lodging, mineral baths, and fine dining, but it was obvious to me as I rumbled over the bridge that spanned the creek in front of it that the resort had seen better days. The grounds, while not completely overgrown, had an unkempt appearance, roses running rampant up trellises and onto the roof of the main building, and the cottages looked as if they could use several coats of paint.

I parked in a graveled area out front and went inside. The large common area was filled with old-fashioned rattan furniture cushioned in faded floral prints, and a stone fireplace was soot-blackened and choked with ashes. Glass-paned doors to the dining room were closed and curtained on the inside. There was no reception desk, but a sign next to a door at the rear read “Office.” I knocked and waited.

After a moment the door opened and a man with unruly brown hair peered out at me. “You’re the lady who’s looking for her friend?”

“Yes. My name’s Sharon McCone. You’re Mr. Ferris?”

“That’s right.” He opened the door wider and motioned me into a room that was filled to overflowing with books, newspapers, and magazines. Two TVs, three VCRs, two DVD players, and numerous tapes and discs sat on shelving that took up an entire wall, and a computer with two oversize screens, two scanners, and two printers covered a nearby desk. Ferris saw me looking at them and said, “Backups. You never know when one of the damn things’ll die on you. Now, about this friend of yours-I understand you have a photograph of her.”

I produced it and he looked it over carefully before he handed it back to me. “Your friend’s run out on her family?”

“Yes. Everyone’s frantic with worry. We need to know if she’s all right.”

“Well, that would depend on your definition of ‘all right.’ Have a seat, why don’t you?”

I glanced at the chair he motioned to, removed a stack of Newsweeks, and sat.

“The term ‘all right’ covers a lot of ground,” Ferris went on. “Mrs. Greenwood shows no evidence of alcohol or drug abuse, but something about the lady feels wrong.”

“Excuse me-Mrs. Greenwood? Jennifer Greenwood?”

“No. Laurel. Isn’t that correct?”

“Her name is Jennifer Aldin. Laurel Greenwood was her mother.”

Ferris frowned. “Some sort of neurotic identification, perhaps.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She told me her mother and father stayed here on their honeymoon, and that her mother had painted a picture of the place. I wouldn’t know about that; I only bought the resort nine years ago. At the time I’d just sold my commercial real estate holdings in San Jose, and my wife and I were looking for a business that would pay the bills and allow us to live comfortably on our savings. We came down here and operated profitably for a time, but then business dropped off. Four years ago, my wife died suddenly, and since then I haven’t put much effort into the place. I don’t get a lot of guests, just older people who have been coming year after year, but I like it that way.” Momentarily his gaze turned inward.

I said, “Is my friend here now?”

“No. She’s out on her appointed rounds.”

“And they are…?”

He spread his hands. “I have no way of knowing. She leaves in the morning around eight. Returns around four, always with a bag of groceries-I’ve installed microwaves and little refrigerators in the cottages since I no longer operate the restaurant-and she always has her sketchbook in hand. One time I asked her what she was drawing, and she gave me a strange smile and said, ‘The past.’ Then she looked embarrassed and said she was something of a historian.”

“And she’s staying in one of the cottages?”

“Yes. I’ve closed up the rooms in this building. She’s in cottage three.” His gaze shifted to his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me now; there’s a film I want to watch.”

I stood. “You won’t tell her I’ve been here? I think it’s best if she’s not expecting me when I come back this afternoon.”

“Of course I won’t.” He began searching for the remote control to whatever TV he planned to use. “When you come back you can wait for her in the cottage-they’re never locked.”

I hurried along flagstone steps that scaled a small rise toward cottage three. It was fronted by a small deck with an old redwood hot tub and a couple of plastic chairs. Inside, I found the same kind of furnishings as in the main building-outdated rattan, shabby but comfortable-looking. The double bed was unmade, but the rest of the unit was tidy. On the glass-topped dining table that sat next to the tiny galley kitchen photographs and charcoal drawings lay scattered.

The photographs: informal shots of Laurel, Roy, Jennifer, and Terry; a formal portrait of the entire family. Candids of Laurel with Sally Timmerman, Josie Smith, and other people whom I didn’t recognize. A studio portrait of Mark Aldin.

The drawings: the Greenwoods’ former home in Paso Robles, as seen from four different perspectives; four scenes that I vaguely recognized as lying along Highway 46 between Paso Robles and the coast; four sea views that resembled the ones from the overlook where Laurel had made her final oil painting; the Cayucos pier, the beach adjoining it, a liquor store with a mailbox in front of it, and a biker astride a motorcycle, his face obscured by his helmet; four different views of the waterfront park in Morro Bay.

And one drawing that didn’t fit with the others, done over and over again in dark, angry slashes of charcoal: the building on Fell Street in San Francisco. Not so much a representational portrait of an ordinary building as an expression of rage.

I hurried from the cottage, down the steps, and along the path to the parking area.

If my intuition was correct-and it was, it had to be-I knew where I would find Jennifer.

She was at the overlook north of Cayucos: a slender figure dressed all in black, sitting on an aluminum folding chair, one foot propped on the low retaining wall, the sketch pad supported by her knee. Her neighbor’s silver Porsche was parked a short distance away. She didn’t look around as I drove in, but she wasn’t immersed in her drawing. Instead she stared out to sea.

I parked and got out of the car. The weather was the same as it had been when I’d first come here-fog burning off above the hills. The same as it had been when Jacob Ziff had stopped here to speak with Jennifer’s mother all those years ago.

I crossed toward her, gravel crunching under my feet. Still she didn’t seem to notice me. Finally, when I was beside her, she looked up. For a moment her gaze didn’t focus on me. How had Ziff described the look on Laurel’s face when he’d approached her?

As if she were waking up from a dream, or maybe as if I were pulling her back from some other world she’d been inhabiting.

After a moment Jennifer recognized me. “Sharon. How did you know I was here?” Her tone was curiously unsurprised.

“I guessed where you would be.” I glanced down at the sketch pad. Blank, although she held a stick of charcoal in her hand. “The work’s not going so well today?”

“Work? Oh, this.” She flipped the pad shut, dropped the charcoal on the ground. “It’s not work, it’s just…”

“Just?”

“Craziness.” She stood, handed me the pad, began folding the chair. “I suppose Mark asked you to drag me back home.”

“I can’t make you go home if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Shall we talk about it? Maybe I can help you decide.”

“Yes. Maybe.”

“Why don’t we go back to Creekside Springs? We can take my car, come back for yours later.”

She hesitated. “It’s not my car. I don’t feel right about leaving it here.”

“Okay, then we’ll take it. But I think I should drive. You look… tired.”

To my surprise, Jennifer smiled. “I’m not so crazy that I can’t drive, but if it will make you feel better, go ahead.”

When we got back to her cottage, Jennifer went into the bathroom to freshen up, and I again studied the photographs on the table. Laurel: a nice small-town girl with her college friends. The Greenwoods: a nice small-town family. And then it had all gone wrong…

“Aunt Anna salvaged those,” Jennifer said from behind me.

“When?”

“Right after my father burned my mother’s paintings. Anna went over to the house while he was at the clinic and saved the photographs and other mementos. She wouldn’t give them to Terry and me, though. She said she was afraid if Dad found out we had them, he’d destroy them, too.”

“Then how did you get these?”

She sat down in one of the chairs at the table and fingered a photo of Laurel and Terry. “I knew where Anna kept them in her attic. When I was about to go away to college, I sneaked up there and took the ones I wanted. I never planned to live at home again, so they’d be safe with me. And Anna wouldn’t miss them; as far as I know she never so much as looked at them after Mom disappeared.”

I sat down opposite her, picked up the studio portrait of Mark. “And why’s he here?”

“He’s part of the puzzle.”

“The puzzle?”

“Why this is happening to me, and how can I survive it.”

“You mean what you call the craziness.”

“The current craziness, yes.” She hesitated, then drew a deep breath. “Sharon, am I your client, or is Mark?”

“You’re the one who signed the contract, and Mark wrote the retainer check on your joint account. When he asked me to find you after you disappeared last Sunday, there was no new contract or addendum to the existing one. So, yes, you’re the client.”

“Then you’re on my side?”

“I’m always on my clients’ sides-so long as they’re truthful with me.”

“Okay, then, I’ll tell you what happened. Sunday morning I overheard a conversation between Mark and his attorney. They have a regular date to play tennis on our court, and they’d come into the house afterwards, were talking in his office and didn’t realize I was coming down the hall to ask if they wanted coffee or juice. Mark was quizzing him about how he could get me committed for psychiatric observation. I thought, since he’d agreed to fund your investigation, that he was fully supportive of me. He said more than once that he understood the pressures I was under, and would let me work through them in my own way. I was very upset by what I heard, so later I made up an excuse about meeting Rae in the city and got out of there.”

“And went to the flat you rent on Fell Street.” When her eyes widened, I added, “Yes, I know about that. And about your conversation that afternoon with the downstairs tenant.”

For a moment she sat very still, then she sagged and sighed-with relief, I thought. “Thank God I don’t have to explain all that to you. I’ve been over and over what Melissa Baker told me about the day Josie died, and everything I imagine is so ugly.”

“And that was what made you come down here?”

“Yes. First I called Terry, but she didn’t want to listen to me, told me I needed to get help. What I needed was space and distance-so badly I could barely breathe. So I took my neighbor’s car and some money that I knew she had stashed in the house. I didn’t have any conscious purpose in coming here, except that I thought maybe being where Mom disappeared would help me understand things.”

“And since then, you’ve been reliving the past through these drawings.” I tapped my finger on the one of her childhood home.

“I’ve followed the same routine every day: up early, drive into Paso Robles. Draw the house. Drive west on Forty-six. Draw a roadside scene there. I’m at the vista point at the exact time my mother was sighted there, and I draw that. Go to Cayucos. Another drawing. Go to Morro Bay, wander around the park and the waterfront area, wondering where she went from there. Yet another drawing. I don’t like what I’m doing, but I can’t seem to help myself. And then, this morning at the vista point, I ran out of steam.”

“Maybe because you’ve worked something out?”

“I doubt it. The only conclusion I’ve come to is that I must be worse off than either Mark or I imagine.”

I hesitated, carefully framing what I would say next. “You could probably use a few sessions with a good therapist. But you’ve been on the right track.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Whether you realize it or not, you’ve been doing detective work. On a deeper psychological level than I-but you’ve got a very deep psychic investment in the investigation. And I think you’ve come to many of the same conclusions as I have.”

Long silence. Then: “My mother killed Aunt Josie, didn’t she?”

“I suspect she may have.”

“Because Josie was having an affair with my father?”

“Most likely.”

She nodded. “There were signs that something was wrong between Mom and Dad. Little ones. Kids pick up on signs, but then they forget them until something happens to bring them to the surface again-like my conversation with Melissa Baker at Fell Street last Sunday.”

“Do you think your mother confronted your father about the affair?”

“I doubt it. It wasn’t her style. But I do remember that my dad was gone a lot for a few years before Josie died. And then afterward, my mother seemed cold and distant around him. But, no, even though Mom was with Josie when she died, I doubt my father would have ever suspected her of… murder.”

Or he suspected, but chose not to open up that particular can of worms.

Jennifer said, “Earlier you said that you think I’ve come to the same conclusions you have. What else?”

“Well, consider what you’ve been doing-following your mother’s trail over and over, and never coming to its end.”

For a moment her gaze held mine, then it dropped, and she leaned forward until her forehead touched a photograph of Laurel that lay on the table in front of her.

“Because it has no end,” she said. “Because my mother-damn her to hell!-ran out on us and is still alive somewhere.” She raised her head, looking me straight in the eyes. An odd mixture of fury and sadness twisted her features.

“I hope you find her,” she said, “but I also hope you don’t. Because if I ever come face-to-face with her again, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Jennifer didn’t want to go home or to Fell Street, so I suggested she stay with her sister in Davis. She liked the idea and felt she was okay to drive there. After calling Terry to tell her she was coming, she called her neighbor in Atherton to apologize for taking her Porsche and cash. When she got off the phone she was smiling.

“Your neighbor’s not angry?” I asked.

“No. Estee understands I’ve been going through a very rough patch. I’m going to miss her when I move away.”

“You’re leaving Mark, then?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent certain I am. For about six months now I’ve suspected he’s been having an affair, and what I overheard him telling his lawyer last Sunday pretty much confirmed it. He said that I had become an inconvenient burden and an obstacle to his future happiness. I think now that when he agreed to pay for your investigation, he was looking at it as a way to distract me from the trouble in our marriage until he could hide most of our assets.”

She grimaced bitterly. “It’s hard to face the fact that your marriage was only a balance sheet to your husband. I see now that Mark married me because I was an asset-attractive, reasonably well-spoken, with an interesting career. And he wanted me gone because I was a liability. Hard to face, but I’ll have to.”

When she heard what Terry had to tell her about Mark’s recent behavior, she would be a hundred percent certain about a divorce. I decided not to reveal what Rae had uncovered about Mark’s past and how it had precipitated the break between Ricky and him; Jennifer would find out soon enough.

I helped her pack her things and load them into the Porsche. She was smiling when she dropped me off at the overlook north of Cayucos.

Jennifer had asked me to call Mark and tell him she was okay, so I tried his office, cellular, and home numbers as soon as I reached the Oaks Lodge. A machine picked up each time. I had a fourth number, for an office in San Francisco where he met with some of his clients and where a majority of his support staff worked, but the receptionist said he had called in this morning to say he was taking a long weekend.

I dialed Julia’s cellular. “Aldin’s on his sailboat at the yacht club,” she told me. “Just sitting on deck, drinking beer.”

“Alone?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Okay, I’ve found his wife, so I’m pulling you off the surveillance. Will you please go down there and tell him the news, ask him to call me? And then take the rest of the day off.”

“Gladly. Tonio’s coming home from summer camp today, and it’ll be a nice surprise if I’m there to greet him.” Tonio was Julia’s young son. A single mother, she shared an apartment with her older sister, and together they looked after him. Still, an aunt waiting to hear about summer-camp adventures was no substitute for a mother.

“Must be nice,” Julia added, “sitting around on your boat in the sun while everybody else is working.”

“I don’t think Aldin’s enjoying himself. Be careful when you talk with him; turns out he’s got a temper.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, but be careful anyway.” I broke the connection, picturing Mark soaking up alcohol while he pondered what could be the first of a series of professional reverses. Word got around around fast in the kind of circles he and Ricky traveled in, and I was certain my former brother-in-law would have no qualms about spreading it.

It was now after three in the afternoon, and I should also let Rae know her friend was okay and on her way to Terry’s. There had been no message from Patrick when I’d returned; I was beginning to worry about him. He was relatively inexperienced and shouldn’t be wandering around God knew where doing God knew what.

And then there was Hy, who was waiting in El Centro to hear from me. This was ridiculous! We’d been married less than two weeks, and had barely spent any time together-

A knock at the door. Who would show up here? Hy? He had friends at virtually every small airport in the state-perhaps in the country-and often caught rides with them. Just like him to get somebody to drop him off at Paso Robles and surprise me. Eagerly I crossed the room.

But it wasn’t Hy standing there. It was Rob Traverso of the PRPD and another heavyset, balding man whom I didn’t know. “Ms. McCone,” Traverso said, “this is Detective Jim Whitmore of the SLO County Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“The dead man’s name is Emil Tiegs,” Jim Whitmore said. “He was found under the Cayucos pier by a fisherman at five-thirty this morning. Your business card was in his wallet.”

“How did he die?” I asked.

Whitmore ignored the question. “What kind of dealings did you have with Mr. Tiegs?”

We were seated at the table in my room, Whitmore across from me, Traverso to my right. I glanced at the police detective; his face was impassive, and he didn’t meet my eyes.

I said, “Mr. Tiegs offered to sell me information on the Laurel Greenwood case. When I met with him, I gave him my card.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday around noon.”

“And what did he tell you?”

I considered. Tiegs’s information had implicated Kev Daniel in a minor crime upon which the statute of limitations had run out. Revealing it and sending the county sheriff after him would destroy any leverage I might have to force him to reveal where Laurel had gone after she received the new identification from him, or her present whereabouts. However, I’d seen Daniel returning to his home late last night, disheveled and terrified-

“Ms. McCone?” Whitmore prompted.

I opted for shading the truth. “As you probably know, Emil Tiegs had a criminal record. He struck me as unreliable. Also, he was asking for a good deal of money. I wanted to ask my client whether she was willing to pay.”

“And was she?”

“I wasn’t able to reach her. May I ask how Tiegs died?”

Whitmore glanced at Traverso, then shrugged. “Autopsy hasn’t been performed yet, but Tiegs’s neck was broken. He could have fallen from the pier, or been pushed.”

“What about his seeing-eye dog?”

“It hasn’t been found.”

I pictured the dog, the way it had protectively moved with Tiegs. An animal like that would fight to the death for the man it guided.

I asked, “Did you talk with Tiegs’s wife?”

Whitmore turned keen eyes on me. “How do you know he had a wife?”

“I had one of my staff background him as soon as he contacted me.”

“Yes, we talked with her. She was evasive. Seemed more frightened for her own sake than concerned that her husband was dead.”

Frightened. Yes, that figured. Emil Tiegs had told me about the day he and his wife went to Daniel’s winery and attempted to extort money from him: He said if I told anybody, he’d have me taken out of the gene pool. He meant it, too-I heard it in his voice. And Nina-she was with me, drove me to that winery of his-she saw it in his eyes.

I thought I knew how Tiegs had died-and why.

I just wasn’t sure what to do with the information.

Early evening on Hillside Drive in Cayucos. Number 30 was dark and again looked deserted. I knocked on the front door anyway, and after a moment it was opened by the woman I’d seen through the window on Wednesday evening. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hair dirty and unkempt.

“You’re selling something, I don’t want it,” she said.

“I’m Sharon McCone. Your husband sold me something the other day. Five hundred dollars’ worth. There should be another five hundred in your bank account by now.”

She snorted. “And that’s gonna go a long way to pay for burying him.”

“Maybe I can arrange for more, if you’ll let me in so we can talk.”

She hesitated, then motioned me inside. The room that I’d glimpsed from the street last night was dark, the TV turned off. Nina Tiegs moved to the couch and sat heavily.

“How are you holding up?” I asked as I took a seat in a rocking chair.

“How d’you think?”

“Probably not very well. I know I wouldn’t be.”

“You married?”

“Yes.”

“Long time?”

“Long enough.”

No, not long enough-no amount of time will ever be long enough.

“Then you know.” Nina Tiegs sighed. “My mother used to tell me, ‘Husbands, you sure miss them when they’re dead.’ I thought it was a peculiar thing to say, but now I understand. Of course, my dad died in bed at eighty. Emil was only-” She bent her head, began to cry.

For a few moments, the only sounds in the room were her muffled sobs; then she raised her head, pulled a Kleenex from a box on the table, blew her nose, and wiped her face.

“I keep goin’ off like that,” she said. “Stupid. Emil hated it when I cried.”

“You’ve got good reason.”

“Yeah, I do. You know the stupidest thing? That dog-Blake-that’s what makes me cry the hardest. Best damn dog I ever knew, loved Emil. I just know he’s dead, too.”

“Animals can become a big part of your life. Particularly one like Blake.”

“Yeah.” She blew her nose again.

“Nina, what d’you think happened to Emil?”

“I don’t know. He went out, he didn’t come back. What I told the cops.”

“But that wasn’t true, was it?”

Silence.

“Did he decide to hit Kev Daniel up for more money than I could offer?”

Even in the darkness, I could see fear flare in her eyes at the mention of Daniel’s name.

I added, “You didn’t tell the police because you’re afraid of Daniel. And you’re afraid they’ll arrest you as an accessory to extortion.”

“Could they do that?”

“Yes, but I doubt they would, if you were honest with them.”

A long silence. “I want to see them nail that bastard Daniel, but I’m afraid if they can’t make it stick, he’ll come after me.”

“They’ll make it stick.”

“I don’t believe it. These rich guys, they always get off.”

“Not always.”

“Mostly they do.” She sighed. “You know, Emil could be such an idiot sometimes. Brilliant forger and top dog in prison, according to him. But then, what was he doing screwing around with meth and getting himself half blown up, for Christ’s sake? And then this Daniel thing-” She broke off, putting her fingertips to her lips.

I said, “So he did try to extort money from Daniel.”

“You tell the cops any of this, I’ll say you’re lying.”

“Look, Nina, the sheriff’s department investigator already knows you’re hiding something. He told me as much a couple of hours ago. It’s only a matter of time before they come down hard on you. Why don’t you talk with me, and I’ll see what I can do to help you.”

She bit her lip, considering. “You mean it-that you’ll try to help me?”

“Yes.”

“And what about more money? You said you might be able to arrange it.”

“That, too.”

“Okay. This is what happened: After Emil got that five hundred off of you, he was high. Said he knew what he had was worth a lot more. He called Daniel that afternoon, told him he had a five-thousand-dollar offer from you, but was willing to keep quiet for real money-fifteen. They set a meet for the pier last night, at ten-thirty. Daniel said he’d have the cash with him.

“I wanted to go along, but Emil wouldn’t let me. I told him the situation would go bad. ‘What kind of person keeps fifteen thou in cash just laying around?’ I asked. But he wouldn’t listen, he never listened to me. He went anyhow, and now he’s gone and Blake’s gone and I’m all alone.” She bent her head and began to cry again.

I rummaged in my bag for my wallet and took out my remaining hundred dollars. Laid it on the coffee table. Nina Tiegs didn’t notice; she’d pressed her face into her hands, and tears were leaking around her fingers.

Before I left I touched her shoulder and said, “Thank you for talking with me, Nina. I’ll be in touch. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

I’m sorry for your loss.

Conventional, empty words. They don’t help anybody.

The way to help someone like Nina Tiegs is by nailing the man who killed her husband.

“Why did you withhold the fact that when you met with Tiegs you paid him for this information?” Jim Whitmore asked, pointing at my voice-activated recorder on which I’d just played him the tape of my meeting with Tiegs.

I turned it off. “Client confidentiality.”

“Come on, McCone. You can do better than that. You also withheld the part about seeing Kevin Daniel returning home last night.”

“Okay, I wanted to talk with Tiegs’s wife first. And frankly, I was concerned about losing my leverage over Daniel. But given what Nina Tiegs told me, there’s no way I can justify withholding anything any longer.”

Whitmore leaned back in his desk chair and regarded me with narrowed eyes. We were in his small office at the SLO County Sheriff’s Department in San Luis Obispo, down the hall from where I’d spoken last week with his colleague, Deputy Selma Barker.

“The wife will give us a statement?” he asked.

“If you lean on her. I’ll ask my client if she’s willing to pay more for the information about her mother, and that may loosen Nina up somewhat.”

The detective continued to stare at me. “You remind me of my sister,” he said. “She’s a lawyer in Seattle. Specializes in divorce for women. Her clients call her ‘Old Hard-as-Nails,’ but they know that the reason she goes toe-to-toe for them is that she cares.”

“Ah, you’ve found my weak spot. Kittens, puppies, children, grieving widows.”

“Isn’t a weak spot-it’s a strength. So how’re we gonna do this?”

“We? I assume you’ll pick up Daniel. You’ll have the information on this tape, Nina Tiegs’s statement about the extortion attempt, and my statement about seeing him return home last night in a disheveled and distraught state. Yes, the tape isn’t admissable in court, but even though Daniel’s egotistical, he’s not very tough. You people can break him easily enough.”

“Maybe. But the kind of money and local prominence he has builds a thick wall around a person.” The phone buzzed. Whitmore picked up. “Yeah?… Uh-huh… I see… Well, canvass the neighbors and run a surveillance on the place… Yeah, thanks.” He replaced the receiver and looked up at me, scowling. “You screwed up, McCone. The Tiegs woman has taken off.”

I thought of the hundred dollars I’d left on her coffee table. Not a lot to most people these days, but traveling money to someone like Nina. “Damn!”

“Kind of puts a whole new slant on how we proceed, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

He thought for a moment, then smiled-fiendishly, I thought. “Okay, McCone, how d’you feel about wearing a wire?”

Ten-thirty that night, and the huge windows of Kev Daniel’s house in the vineyards blazed with light. People in casual attire were scattered over the floodlit deck, sipping wine and conversing animatedly. From where I had parked my car I could hear their laughter, see their sometimes expansive gestures. A woman shrieked, and the shrill noise was followed by applause and more laughter.

Friday night party time in the mid-coast wine country, and here I was, alone and cold sober, with tape pulling at my skin where the sheriff’s deputy had attached the wire and my bag hanging heavily from my shoulder. Jim Whitmore had been adamantly opposed to my going into Daniel’s house armed, but I’d made an unauthorized stop on the way here and retrieved my.357 from the closet safe at the inn. No way would I place absolute trust in the sheriff’s department for getting me out of there speedily and safely should the situation turn dangerous.

As I got out of the car, I wondered what was wrong with me. Why had I volunteered for this duty when I had a new husband hoping we could spend at least part of the weekend together? But as I approached Daniel’s house the thought vanished in a rush of excitement. I lived for moments like this, and so did Hy. So what if we weren’t a conventional couple?

A few people glanced at me as I crossed the deck to the front door, probably wondering who I was; the circle Daniel ran in would be a small, close-knit one, and an outsider was always interesting. The door stood open and I went inside. More people filled a large room straight ahead, where a bar and buffet table were set up. I went to the bar, asked the man behind it for Mr. Daniel.

“Out there, ma’am,” he replied, motioning at the other side of the wraparound deck, which was accessible through open French doors.

“Thanks.” I crossed the room, went back outside. Daniel was by the far railing, his arm around a woman in a barebacked yellow dress with blonde hair cascading to her waist. I stepped up behind him. “Kev, I need to talk with you.”

He started, swinging around, and a few drops of wine from his glass splashed over its rim and onto his fingers. He recovered his poise quickly and said, “Can’t this wait till tomorrow? As you see, I’m entertaining.”

“It’s to your advantage that we talk now.”

“… All right, then. Will you excuse us, darling?”

The woman nodded. “I see Marnie and Bart have arrived. I’ll go catch up on all their news.”

Daniel watched her go, then turned to me, his face stony. “Let’s take this into my study.” He grasped my elbow and guided me inside, through the big room, and down a hallway. Shoved open a door and motioned me into a room that was furnished in massive leather pieces and lined with shelves of books in elegant bindings-the kind that pretentious people buy in quantity to impress others, but not to read.

After he shut the door behind us, he said, “All right, what’s so important that you’ve come out here and crashed my party?”

I selected a chair, sat down, took my time about settling into it. “Laurel Greenwood. I know you arranged for false identification for her. I want to know if she confided her plans to you, or if you know her present whereabouts.”

“The old case you’re working on? How the hell would I know anything about that? It happened twenty-two years ago. I was-”

“A recent parolee, right here in SLO County.”

He set his glass on a side table. Ran his hand over his chin. “Okay, you’ve got me there. It’s a matter of public record.”

“But it’s not a matter of public record that you met with Laurel at the Sea Shack in Cayucos the day she disappeared and gave her the identification she needed to assume another woman’s name.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. About six months ago Emil Tiegs, the man who forged the ID, tried to extort money from you to keep silent about it. He recently sold the information to me.”

Daniel sat down across from me, spread his hands on his thighs, and rubbed them up and down. “When?”

“Noon yesterday.” When he didn’t speak, I added, “I have a tape of my conversation with Tiegs. It won’t stand up in court, but it will make the sheriff’s department take a close look at you.”

“… All right, I helped Laurel. When I got out on parole, I called her, gave her my phone number in Cayucos, thinking she’d help me get some more of my work into this San Luis gallery that had sold a couple of my pictures. A few days later she called me back, asked if I had any contacts who could doctor an ID. I’d run into Tiegs the week before; I knew he was her man.

“I didn’t want to get mixed up in something illegal, but Laurel was a wonderful woman and, from what she said, trapped in a miserable marriage. She’d been very good to me when I was taking her class in prison, and I felt I owed her. And I suppose in my young, impressionable way, I was a little in love with her.”

Sly glance from under his thick eyelashes. Kev Daniel was probably used to charming his way out of sticky situations-particularly situations involving women.

I asked, “Did Laurel tell you where she was going?”

“She said it was better I didn’t know.”

“She must’ve said something. Jacob Ziff saw the two of you with your heads together at the Sea Shack.”

“Ziff.” He shook his head. “When my partners insisted on using him to design our new tasting room, I was afraid he’d recognize me, but I should’ve known better. Way back then, all he saw was a scruffy young biker, not the man I am today.”

“About your conversation with Laurel…?”

“It was so long ago, I don’t remember much of it.”

“But you do remember that I have the tape of my conversation with Tiegs.”

“I’ll deny everything.”

“Still it’ll be a hassle, could damage your reputation.”

Silence.

“Look, Kev, you committed a minor crime, and the statute of limitations on it ran out long ago. I’m only concerned with finding Laurel, and I never reveal my sources.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“From Mike Rosenfeld at the Trib.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows. “He told you I gave him the story about you?”

“No,” I lied. “He’s as protective of his sources as I am of mine. I just guessed it was you. Why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know; it was a dumb move. But at the time I thought the publicity might impede your investigation. I didn’t want that shit dug up. All I did was help a friend.”

“You also thought shooting at me would scare me off.”

He tensed. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“I’ll accept that as the truth-even though we both know it isn’t-and let it drop if you tell me about your conversation with Laurel.”

“All right, let me think a minute.” He relaxed some, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes. “She said she shared the same profession with the woman whose name she’d appropriated-somebody Smith. The first name, I don’t remember. She hadn’t worked at whatever it was in a long time, but the other woman had, and her license was current. So it would be easy for her to earn a living. She had a fair amount of money, anyway. I asked about her kids-Laurel’s, how she could leave them-and she told me her whole family would be better off without her because she was a terrible person. She wouldn’t tell me why. Before she left, she gave me a postcard and asked me to mail it. That was the last I ever saw of her.”

“Did you read the card?”

“Yeah. It was to her husband, telling him not to look for her. She sounded pretty much on the edge.”

I pictured the postmark on the card; it hadn’t been delivered to the Greenwood home until two days after Laurel’s disappearance. “When did you mail it?”

“Not till the next day. I went down the street to the box by the liquor store, but they’d already made the last pickup, so I decided to hold on to the card in case Laurel changed her mind. I mean, it was such an extreme step, running out on those little kids. I lost my mother when I was very young, and I know how badly a kid can be affected by something like that. I hoped Laurel wouldn’t go through with her plan. But when I called her house the next afternoon, a guy answered and said she wasn’t there and demanded to know my name. He sounded like a cop. As it turned out, he was. I hung up, took the card to the post office, and dropped it in the slot.”

“Anything else you remember about your conversation?”

“Nothing of any importance. Laurel talked a lot about me, how I should keep up with my art, that I had real talent.”

“Have you worked at it?”

“Nah, I’m too busy making money and having fun.” Daniel grinned, once more the rich, self-assured vintner.

“Well, I appreciate the information,” I said. “But we’ve got something else to discuss.”

“Sharon, my guests-”

“Emil Tiegs.”

Daniel’s expression grew wary. “Tiegs? What about him? The little weasel came out here with that fat wife of his last February, trying to make trouble for me. I blew him off. I know you paid him five thousand dollars yesterday, but that’s your problem.”

Bad slip, Kevin.

“Yeah,” I said, “I was pretty stupid to fall for that, especially since he had so little information.”

“Tiegs was the one who was stupid. Thought he could rip off both of us.”

“You mean when he tried to hit you up for fifteen thousand.”

“How do you know about that?”

“His wife told me.”

“Yeah, well, like I would just stroll into my bank at three in the afternoon and ask for that much in cash. Talk about calling attention to a problem.”

“That was yesterday afternoon?”

“Right.”

“I tell you, Kev, if I’d’ve been in your position, I’d’ve done exactly what you did.”

“What I did?”

“Tiegs is dead. Probably murdered. It was on the evening news.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“His wife said he was meeting you at ten-thirty last night at the pier in Cayucos.”

“That fat, silly bitch? You believe her?”

“I do, and as soon as they question her, so will the cops.”

“They haven’t talked with her yet?”

“Haven’t been able to; when she got the news, she collapsed.”

Silence. His eyes moved quickly from side to side as he assessed his situation.

I said, “Kev, I don’t blame you for killing Tiegs, but-”

“I didn’t kill anybody!”

I went on as if he hadn’t interrupted. “But what about his seeing-eye dog-Blake?”

“… The dog? What about it?”

“What happened to him? I can understand Tiegs, but a dog?”

I’d pushed the right button; Daniel’s face reddened. “Shit, I wouldn’t hurt a dog! Or a person-intentionally. What kind of a man d’you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Tell me what happened.”

I watched him struggle with himself. His need to justify his actions won.

“It was an accident. I told Tiegs he wasn’t getting any money, and if he kept bothering me I’d go to the authorities. He attacked me and I defended myself.”

“Tiegs attacked you? A blind man?”

“Damn right, a blind man. A guy with a white cane or a seeing-eye dog, you think he’s weak, but a lot of them’re stronger than people who can see. Have a better sense of what’s going on around them, too. That dog-it went crazy, started jumping and barking. Tiegs and I tussled, he went over the railing, fell, and hit his head on something. The sound it made, I knew he was bad off. Dog kept after me, so I kicked it good a couple of times, and it staggered away.”

So much for not hurting a dog. “And then?”

Beads of sweat appeared on Daniel’s upper lip and forehead. “I’m not saying anything else till I talk to my lawyer. If you repeat any of this to the cops, I’ll deny it. I’ll say you came into the house acting like a crazy woman, scared my girlfriend, and I had to bring you in here to calm you down. She’ll back me up.”

“I’m sure she will. But in case you aren’t aware of it, I have a damned good reputation as an investigator. And plenty of your guests saw me come into the house, looking sane and sober. No matter who your attorney is, you’ll have a tough time proving it-or your accident story.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Take it any way you want to.”

“Look, you bitch, you may have a good reputation up north, but down here you’re nothing. Nothing!”

I stood, slipping my hand into the pocket of my shoulderbag and onto the.357.

“No, Daniel, you’ll be nothing, once the criminal justice system is through with you.”

He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white. The cords in his neck bulged, and he made an inarticulate sound as he tensed. I slid the Magnum out just before he started to get up.

“Don’t even think about it, Kev.”

His eyes, focusing on the gun, turned dull and glassy. Then he sagged back onto the chair.

“Whitmore,” I said into the wire, “you’ve got your confession. Come get your man. And be thankful I didn’t follow your orders about coming in here unarmed.”