Vanishing Point

Saturday

My room-service breakfast tray arrived at eight, a copy of the San Luis Obispo Tribune neatly folded next to the croissants and coffee. I took it to the little table on the balcony and began to eat, scanning the paper. A headline below the fold on the front page made me set my coffee cup back in its saucer.

NEW INQUIRY INTO LAUREL GREENWOOD DISAPPEARANCE

Information on Missing Paso Robles Woman Sought by Private Investigator

I picked up the paper and skimmed the article. It identified me by name, and as a “San Francisco investigator who in recent years has been involved in a number of high-profile cases,” and quoted a “source who wishes to remain anonymous” as saying that I had been hired by one of the Greenwood daughters to search for new leads in the twenty-two-year-old disappearance. “McCone,” it said, “is in the area to interview friends and relatives of the missing woman, as well as reinterview witnesses who gave statements to the authorities in the original investigation.” It added that my offices would not confirm or deny the source’s information. The remainder of the story was a history of the case, complete with photographs on an inside page of Laurel, Roy, and their daughters.

Ted, or Kendra Williams, had been right in protecting client confidentiality, but why hadn’t I been told that a reporter was asking about the case? Probably Kendra had taken the call and, in her inexperience, hadn’t thought it significant. Too bad, and also too bad that the newspaperman-Mike Rosenfeld, the byline read-hadn’t thought to check area motels, locate me, and ask for a personal interview. I might have been able to deflect, or at least delay, this publicity.

For a moment I considered phoning the office to ask who had taken the call from Rosenfeld, but it was Saturday, and chances were I’d just get the machine. Even my workaholic employees ignored taped messages after regular business hours.

I set the paper aside. Sipped coffee and buttered a croissant as I contemplated the turn of events. It hadn’t occurred to me that any of the people I’d spoken with might go to the press, but the source had to be one of them. Why had he or she done so? And why the condition of anonymity? More important, what effect would the story have on my investigation?

Possibly it could help me, prompt someone whose existence I wasn’t aware of to come forward with fresh information. But more likely it could frighten off someone with something to hide. Or-if Laurel was alive and the story was picked up by the wire services-it could drive her deeper underground.

Which of those had been the person’s intention?

I could call the reporter and ask where he’d gotten his information, but he’d most certainly insist on his right to protect his source’s identity. I could ask each of the persons I’d interviewed if they’d talked with the press, but that seemed even more unlikely to elicit a straight answer. A better use of my time would be to proceed with my day’s plans unaltered.

I didn’t like the idea that the people I’d be talking with-assuming they read the Tribune, which called itself the “newspaper of the central coast”-would anticipate and possibly prepare themselves for my questions. A good interview always contains some element of spontaneity, and it would be a shame to lose that. Besides, press coverage always made me feel exposed and vulnerable; for some reason this story made me particularly edgy.

In spite of my edginess, the day proceeded without significant incident. From the Paso Robles police files I learned that three days after Laurel’s disappearance Roy Greenwood had asked Chief Collingsworth to instruct the department’s press liaison officer to give out as little information as possible on their investigation. He wanted his daughters’ lives to return to normalcy as soon as possible, he said, and that would only happen if the story dropped off the front pages. The files provided by Deputy Selma Barker at the county sheriff’s department headquarters in San Luis Obispo confirmed that Collingsworth had passed on Roy’s request to them.

Despite Greenwood’s explanation for asking that the investigation be downplayed, it seemed odd to me; in most missing persons cases, family and friends go to great lengths to keep the story in the public eye. They distribute flyers and photographs, make impassioned appeals on TV, offer rewards. But so far as I knew, none of those things had been undertaken by Roy Greenwood.

Otherwise the files contained no surprises. The statements by Jacob Ziff and Ira Lighthill were substantially the same as what they’d told me. Lighthill’s friend Bryan Taft had confirmed the circumstances under which they’d seen Laurel at the park. The waitress and bartender at the Sea Shack could provide no more detailed descriptions of the biker than Ziff had, and a busboy who had seen Laurel and him leave was unsure as to whether the biker actually entered the liquor store down the street. The liquor store clerk had no recollection of him.

By two that afternoon I was on my way back from San Luis. Derek’s information on the Magruders had been on my laptop before I left the inn that morning: Herm and Amy Magruder were both natives of Morro Bay, and his gossip column for the local shopping paper had been only a hobby; Herm’s real work was operating a self-storage and equipment-rentals company, probably the same one that Ira Lighthill had mentioned as being replaced by a gourmet-foods and wine emporium. Herm and Amy, who had managed the office there, had retired five years ago and moved to the Pacific View condominium complex. They had a son, daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren living in a suburb of Chicago. I tried the number I’d gotten from information yesterday before leaving San Luis, but no one answered.

Although Morro Bay was a significant detour on my way to Templeton, where the Greenwoods’ former babysitter lived, I had a few hours before our appointment, so I headed up the coast. Derek had supplied an address for the Magruders’ condo, but when I arrived there no one was at home. I drove around town, periodically checking at the condo without results, until I found a neighbor who said the Magruders were on vacation until sometime next week. I left my card in their mailbox, asking that Herm call me, and drove to Templeton, a short distance south of Paso Robles.

And then I got lost. In a country town whose population couldn’t have been more than a few thousand, I couldn’t find Edie Everett’s house-at least not from the directions she’d given me over the phone. After stopping at a deli to ask, I finally located it-the directions were curiously dyslexic, and I suspected it was my fault-but by that time she and her husband, Joe, were on their way out to dinner. Fortunately they were gracious about my tardiness and invited me along to a small café called Mr. Mom’s that served excellent burgers and microbrews.

The only new light Edie could shed on Laurel was that she took a lot of mental health days during the year before her disappearance. “She was constantly calling me up to look after the kids,” Edie said. “I doubt her husband was aware of it, because she always came home before he did. And I’m pretty sure that if he had known, he’d’ve raised hell. I didn’t charge much, but I could tell he didn’t like shelling out for child care.”

Not a great deal of information, but the Everetts were pleasant people and good dinner companions. For the rest of the meal we talked about their business-they owned an antiques shop in Paso Robles-and the nature of some of the “high-profile cases” the Tribune had mentioned I’d been involved in. By the time we parted, my frustration over the largely unproductive day had faded.

The white facade of the Oaks Lodge was bathed in multicolored lights and the parking lot was jammed with cars. Obviously a popular place on Saturday night. I found a space near my room between two oversize SUVs, edged my rental between them. It was hot inside-I’d remembered to turn the air-conditioning off before I left that morning-so I decided to take a swim to cool off. I’d just changed into my suit when the phone rang. Probably Hy, confirming our plans for tomorrow. I was to fly down to San Diego, attend the reception at my mother’s with him, and then we’d spend the night at RKI’s condo in La Jolla.

“Ms. McCone?” an unfamiliar male voice said. “This is John at the front desk. We have a Federal Express package for you.”

“Will you have someone bring it up to my room, please?”

“Sorry, I can’t at the moment. We’re shorthanded tonight, and I can’t leave the desk.”

“All right, I’ll be down for it in a few minutes.” I threw on shorts and a tee over my suit, took a shortcut across the courtyard to the lobby. Music from a live band drifted from the bar, and a group of people waited at the restaurant’s hostess stand. A young Asian woman sat behind the desk, reading a magazine.

“I’m Sharon McCone,” I said to her. “John called about a FedEx package that’s arrived for me.”

“John went off duty an hour ago.”

I frowned. “Well, could you check for the package?”

She got up, looked under the counter. “There’s nothing here. I could see if he put it in the office.”

“No, don’t bother.”

There was no package. Someone had used it as a ruse to get me out of my room. Had the door automatically locked behind me? I couldn’t remember. I hurried out to the courtyard and took the path toward my wing. It led me across a bridge over the little stream that fed a koi pond, then into a grove of exotic plantings-

A sudden whining and thud close by. Sounds I knew all too well.

I was on the ground before the echo of the shot died out, heart pounding, facedown in a flowerbed. I inhaled damp soil, sucked a leaf into my mouth, and began coughing; rolled away from a spotlight that shone up on the branches of a nearby tree and crouched in the shadows.

There were no more shots. All I heard were doors opening and alarmed voices in the courtyard.

“What happened?”

“That was a shot!”

“Where’d it come from?”

“Stay back, folks. Please stay back!”

“What’s going on?”

“Is somebody hurt?”

“Go inside, people, please! Let us check this out.”

Hotel security, getting things under control. The shooter would be far away by now. Shakily I got to my feet and moved onto the path.

How close to me had that bullet passed? Not very. And it wasn’t all that dark out here-not dark enough for the shooter to miss accidentally. Whoever had lured me out of my room hadn’t intended to kill me, just scare me.

Footsteps came from the direction of the main wing, and then I spotted a guard coming toward me. A second guard followed him, sweeping the shrubbery with a flashlight.

I raised my hands so they could see I wasn’t armed. Called out, “Someone fired into the courtyard. It sounded like a handgun, small-caliber, and it came from over there.” I motioned to the right.

The first guard hurried up to me. “Are you all right, miss?”

“Just shaken up, that’s all.”

He turned to the other guard. “Better get the police over here. And you, miss, come with me. They’ll want to talk with you.”

Detective Rob Traverso of the PRPD was the officer who had given me access to the Greenwood files. A stocky man with curly brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, he had an air of calmness and deliberation. When he entered the manager’s office at the inn, he looked me over and said, “Well, Ms. McCone, what can you tell me about this shooting incident?”

I described what had happened, including the direction from which I thought the shot had come.

Traverso sat down on the corner of the desk and nodded thoughtfully. “We’ve got our people questioning the guests in all the wings. Not that anybody’s going to admit to discharging a weapon in a public place. You have any reason to think the shot was meant for you?”

“Well, there’s been some newspaper publicity on my investigation and someone may be trying to warn me off.”

“I saw the article in the Tribune. You think someone you’ve spoken with here has a vested interest in you not finding out what happened to Laurel Greenwood?”

“It’s possible.”

“Who?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Who have you interviewed?”

I named them.

Traverso smiled. “Well, I haven’t met Mr. Ziff or Mr. Lighthill, but the others I’ve known most of my life. I can question them if you’d like, but I very much doubt any of them is responsible. Maybe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s a bit of the frontier mentality in the countryside around here; it could’ve been some cowboy who’d had too much Saturday night in the bar.”

“I suppose so.” I was perfectly willing to let the matter drop. Both Ziff and Lighthill had seemed straightforward enough and, as Traverso said, he knew the others.

The detective handed me his card. “If there are any further incidents-”

“Of course.”

When I went out into the lobby, the first person I spotted was Jacob Ziff. He was standing by the entrance to the bar with a slight, handsome man whose long dark hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Ziff frowned when he saw me come around the front desk from the manager’s office, said something to his companion, and moved toward me.

“Sharon,” he asked, “what’s going on? I was standing at the bar when three squad cars came roaring up.”

“Somebody discharged a handgun in the courtyard. I almost got in the way.”

“My God!” The other man came up beside him, and Ziff repeated what I’d said.

The man said, “So that’s what it was. I was just getting out of my car when the police got here, and they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Ziff said to me, “This is Kev Daniel. Kev, Sharon McCone, the private investigator I was telling you about.”

Daniel shook my hand. His was smooth and immaculately manicured. He wore a heavy turquoise-and-silver ring, and his silk shirt and well-tailored slacks looked expensive. I considered the conversation over and started to move away from the two.

“Why don’t you join us for a drink?” Daniel said.

Although I’d cleaned up some in the restroom while waiting for Detective Traverso, my shorts and tee were stained with dirt from the flowerbed. “I don’t think-”

“We can get a table on the patio,” Ziff said. “It’s quiet there, and no one will care how you’re dressed. You look like you could use a drink.”

I certainly could. I nodded and accompanied them through the crowded, noisy bar to a side door that led to a fenced patio; Daniel found us a table in a shadowy corner, while Ziff went to place our order.

When we were seated Daniel said, “Jacob was telling me about you after we finished going over the plans for my winery’s tasting room this afternoon. Little did we know when we arranged to meet for a drink later on that we’d find you here-and under such circumstances.”

“You’re a vintner?”

“Yes, but on the marketing end of things. My two partners take care of the winemaking. The winery’s called Daniel Kane-after my last name, and that of my partners, who’re brothers. Jacob’s designed a terrific building, and we’ll be breaking ground later this month.”

Ziff appeared with three glasses of wine and set them down on the table. To Daniel he said, “Daniel Kane Private Reserve Zin.”

“One of our best. Cheers.” He raised his glass.

I sipped. They made a good wine-if the opinion of one who only in recent years had begun buying bottles with corks in them held any weight.

Ziff said, “So what happened out there in the courtyard?”

“Someone fired a handgun. I don’t know what they were shooting at, but they came close to hitting me.”

“Did the police catch the person?”

“He or she is long gone. Easy to conceal a small-caliber handgun and slip away; there’re exits leading to the parking lots between the wings.”

Daniel said, “How do you know it was a handgun? And small-caliber?”

“I’ve been around guns for years, have owned several. I could tell by the sound of the shot.”

“Must be scary to be shot at.”

“As I said, I don’t know that the shooter was aiming at me. But, yes, it’s scary.”

“Enough to make a woman pee in her pants, I’ll bet.”

I was beginning to regret having taken him up on the offer of a drink. “My being a woman has nothing to do with it. And I didn’t pee in my pants.”

Ziff cleared his throat, probably hearing the irritation in my voice and attempting to warn off his client.

If he noticed, Daniel didn’t care. “You’ve been shot at before?”

“Yes.” I’d also been shot once-in the ass, to my great embarrassment-but I wasn’t about to bring that up.

“Shot anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“I don’t care to talk about them.”

Ziff said, “Let’s change the subject, Kev.”

Daniel’s eyes had gone hot and flat with curiosity. “No, I want to hear about this. You kill anybody?”

“She said she doesn’t want to talk-”

“Because that’s what I’d do. Shoot to kill, it’s the only way.”

Unfortunately he was right: in a situation where guns are drawn, you shoot to kill; I’d learned that when I became firearms qualified, and doing so had once saved my life, twice saved the lives of people I cared about.

I stood and said, “Jacob, thank you for the drink. I have to be going now.” As I moved toward the door, I heard Ziff’s chair scrape on the floor and his footsteps follow me.

He caught up with me in the lobby. “Sharon, please excuse my client. He’s a spoiled rich kid, came down here from San Francisco four years ago with a lot of money and romantic notions about himself as a vintner, bought his way into a winery that badly needed a cash infusion.”

“He’s got to be in his forties-no kid. And apparently he romanticizes the concept of shooting someone to death.”

“Yeah.” Ziff looked troubled. “Under that smooth exterior, I sense he’s something of a loose cannon. Not that he hasn’t done wonders for Daniel Kane; he’s got a good head on his shoulders.” Ziff smiled crookedly. “Anyway, I apologize for his behavior.”

“Not your fault.” I moved toward the door to the courtyard.

Ziff wasn’t content to let the matter drop. “I guess I shouldn’t have told him about you and your investigation, but I had no way of knowing we’d meet up with you-or under what circumstances.”

“No harm done. But let me ask you this: did you tell anyone else?”

“No.”

“Do you know a reporter on the San Luis paper named Mike Rosenfeld?”

“I know of him.”

“But you haven’t spoken to him about my investigation?”

“No, of course not. What’s this about, Sharon?”

I sighed, suddenly feeling weary. “Nothing, really. The shooting incident’s made me a little paranoid, that’s all. I’d better go now; tomorrow’s going to be a very long day.”

But the sensor that an attorney friend in San Francisco called his “shit detector” had kicked in. Immediately before closing time I returned to the lounge and spoke with the bartender. Did he know Jacob Ziff and Kev Daniel? Yes, they were both good customers. Had Mr. Ziff been standing at the bar when the police arrived earlier? No, he had been at the bar about two hours earlier, but had left and returned later with Mr. Daniel and me. And when had Mr. Daniel arrived? The man looked puzzled, then said, “I’m not sure. He was at a table in the patio when I came on shift at eight.”

Seemed like I’d had a drink with a pair of liars.