City of Whispers

by Marcia Muller

  “Where?”

  “Tel Hill near Pioneer Park.”

  “Tel Hill! More like Parking Hell.”

  “The building has an underground garage that holds a dozen cars. And an elevator.”

  “What else?”

  “Ted says it’s narrow, four stories, and painted blue, slate blue. His favorite color. It’s been vacant for over a year. We could negotiate a really favorable long-term lease.”

  “Why’s it been vacant?”

  “Um… that’s kind of unpleasant—”

  The sudden sound of my phone ringing made me jump.

  “Deep breath,” Hy warned.

  The voice on the line was the one I’d heard before: male, with a tinny, distorted quality. He spoke fast, giving me no time to interrupt him or to form an impression of what kind of man I was dealing with. There was a pronounced click when he ended the call.

  I said to Hy, “Here’s what’s happening: he wants me to make the drop at Elk Glen Lake in the park.”

  “Where Gaby DeLucci’s body was found.”

  “To the exact spot.”

  Hy’s eyes darkened. “Does he think that’s funny? Or ironic?”

  “Who knows?”

  “When does he want you there?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “The same time Gaby’s body was found. I don’t like this, McCone. Whoever he is, he’s toying with you.”

  “I know. But he’s also doing himself a disservice: he’s given us time to go over maps of the area, plan surveillance and escape routes—both his and ours. We’d better get started.”

  Darcy Blackhawk

  Maybe I’m dead.

  It was dark and he was cold. Couldn’t feel his fingers or feet any more. Couldn’t hear anything except for a whining in the distance.

  No, not dead. He was breathing. When he blinked, his eyelids rasped against his eyeballs. And he could feel his heart beating.

  That awful, stinking room. The girl hurting him. Needle marks, pain, and then nothing else until… a car.

  He was in a car. The tires were thrumming over smooth pavement. What car? No memory.

  Okay, maybe if he tried real hard he could remember that day when he’d met the girl.

  Lady Laura had something to do with it. Oh, yeah, she’d been with the girl on that street. Laura’d told him they needed money. The girl asked where the tapes were. What tapes? he said. The ones Laura gave you, she replied. We can make plenty of money with those.

  He’d glanced at Laura, and she gave him one of her looks: he’d always been able to figure out what those looks meant; she wanted him to act crazy. So he mumbled and shifted from foot to foot and scratched his head.

  Laura said, “He could do with a fix. So could I.”

  The brown girl led them around the corner, into an alley between an auto body repair and an empty storefront. He and Laura had a couple of snorts, and the girl gave Laura the rest of what was in the baggie.

  “Now,” she said, “the tapes.”

  Laura was slinking off down the alley. She’d told him she’d meet him later at the palace. He needed help.

  McConeInvestigations.com.

  It just popped into his head, the way stuff did now and then.

  Down the street he’d seen an Internet café. And he remembered Mom’s password. He’d used it before, to get online and buy stuff with her credit card.

  “I’ll show you,” he said.

  The Wiring Hall. Through its front window he saw its free terminals.

  “Let me go in first. They know me.”

  He went inside and straight to the closest terminal. Fired off a message to Shar. Pressed the Send button just before the girl grabbed his arm and dragged him outside.

  “What the hell have you done?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Like hell! Where are those tapes?”

  He remembered something Laura had told him, on one of those soft nights by the Salmon River.

  “Gaby is dead and buried under a coral tree.” Then he added, “I need to go to the palace to meet Laura.”

  So she’d taken him to this big round place with pillars near a lake, but Laura wasn’t there.

  Except she was.

  Jesus God her dead face. How could he have done that to her?

  Next the girl took him to a big stone museum. Made him ask where the cemetery was.

  They’d driven to an old, weedy cemetery somewhere south of the city. Sad little gravestone tucked off by itself. The name on the marker was of the woman Laura had told him about.

  “Are the tapes here?” the girl asked.

  He’d shaken his head, but all the same he’d whispered a prayer over the gravestone, twisting the straw so he’d stay calm.

  “Look, you know where those tapes are! You’re going to tell me.”

  He looked down at his hands. Straw. Where had that come from?

  The girl said, “Gaby would want me to have them. Tell me where they are.”

  He dropped the straw. “I’m sick,” he said. “I’m hungry. I can’t think.”

  “You better think, damn you!”

  That was the beginning of his nightmare.

  Stop! You’re hurting me!

  Somebody was dragging him. Thumping him over the ground, jarring his spine. His head hurt more than it ever had in his life.

  He moaned.

  A man’s voice said, “Shut up.”

  He knew that voice. The man had been in the tall house.

  “Who are—?”

  “Shut up!”

  But you’re hurting me!

  I want to go home.

  Wherever that was, he wanted to be there. With Mom. With Dad—no, he was dead. With Robbie—no, Robbie hated him. With Shar, only she probably hated him too.

  He didn’t want to go home to the river any more. Forget the soft nights, the stars, the rippling waters, the great dope. That had all turned to shit when the law came. He didn’t want to go home to Laura and all those crappy rat-infested places where they’d hidden afterward from the rain and the cold. Couldn’t do that anyway—Laura was dead. And he never wanted to see the little brown girl who he’d thought he loved till she’d started her angry questions and her hitting and kicking and stabbing him full of drugs.

  There was nobody, no place, but he still wanted to go home.

  A noise overhead. Coming closer, lower. Jesus, what was that?

  Something big and loud roared over wherever he was.

  Airplane. Right overhead. Got to get out of here!

  He doubled over, began biting at the duct tape that bound his ankles. His right eyetooth came out. Blood poured into his mouth, over his stubbled chin. He ignored the pain, kept biting.

  Soon his mouth and chin were slick with blood. He flopped onto his back, heart pounding. All that work for nothing, and now the drugs were doing their work. One of those shrinks, wherever he’d been, had told him about how drugs stayed inside your system, could get whipped up into a frenzy for no reason at all.

  Well, they were frenzied now, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it but wait them out, unless…

  Maybe I’m dead.

  Sharon McCone

  Familiar places are transformed by darkness. I’d been to Elk Glen Lake in Golden Gate Park numerous times for picnics or just to sit and watch the ducks glide on its placid, grayish-green water. Although it’s not all that far from the Twenty-fifth Avenue entrance to the park and Martin Luther King Boulevard, the surrounding high grasses and trees—cherry, plum, and willow, as well as pine—provide a peaceful haven and the lake has relatively few visitors. It’s listed on a website as one of the best places to make love outdoors in the city. In fact, Hy and I had once done just that under the pines on its shore.

  Tonight, however, I felt as if I were entering an alien landscape—remote, empty, full of restless shadows. The full moon silvered the lawn on the slope leading down to the water, made it look icy and slippery. The nighttime temperat
ure was in the forties, too cold for the light jacket I’d worn for the sunny day. I stood at the top of the slope, contemplating what we’d decided to be the best way down there.

  Hy was nearby, under cover of the trees. He’d parked on Lincoln Way, presuming the kidnapper would also do so because it was a short distance to the lake through deserted territory. On the other hand, I’d left my car on Martin Luther King, hoping the bright moonlight would allow the kidnapper to see me clearly—to see that I had the old briefcase in my bandaged left hand. Would be so riveted by it that even if he noticed my right hand tucked in my jacket’s slash pocket, he would think it was for warmth and not because it was resting on my .357 Magnum.

  I moved down the slope slowly, as Hy and I had planned, giving both him and the kidnapper plenty of time to spot me. Paused to orient myself and to listen before I followed the route we’d mapped out through the trees. Night whispers: the cry of a bird and the rustlings of small nocturnal animals. Traffic thrumming nearby, but muted.

  To my right a twig snapped. I turned my head, peered into the darkness. The kidnapper wouldn’t be so stupid as to try to grab me before I made the drop, would he? Well, he might. Better get going.

  I was to follow the dirt path around the lake to a large flat rock on the reedy shoreline where Gaby had been found. Place the briefcase into a cavity under the rock, then retrace my route to my car. Afterward there was no telling what might happen. As a precaution I planned to make a more circuitous, confusing retreat.

  I took out my pencil flash and started around the lake. It was rough going: pine branches slapped me on the head no matter how low I ducked. Roots protruding from the soft soil threatened to trip me; blackberry vines grabbed at my ankles. High in the trees an owl hooted, and was answered by another.

  My foot slipped on a slick patch and I went down on one knee, smearing mud on my jeans. Pushed up—more mud on my hand. I wiped it off and kept going, taking smaller, more cautious steps.

  Another twig snapped. I wanted to drop the briefcase and run, had to remind myself to follow my instructions. Hy had drummed that into me as we planned: “No deviations. I’ll be there if you need me.”

  I could see the rock now—granite, smooth, with small flaring sparkles. The moonlight shone directly on it, but unlike on the lawn it revealed only a stark ugliness.

  Did places take on an aura from events that happened there?

  I’d always believed so.

  I could imagine a similar moonlit night. A dark shape carrying a slight, limp form through the trees. He would’ve left his vehicle on MLK Boulevard—too much traffic on Twenty-fifth Avenue—and returned to it by the same hidden route as soon as he’d dumped his burden, never suspecting it would be discovered within hours.

  The autopsy report said that Gaby had died between seven and eight that evening, results based on stomach contents, a meal she’d had around two that afternoon. Ravioli and a green salad, at a café on Union Street. She’d been with another woman, and they’d laughed a lot, their waiter said, before they’d left at a little after three. The police traced the woman, who turned out to be an acquaintance from boarding school, and had quickly been cleared of any involvement in the murder. That time frame gave Gaby’s killer plenty of time to dispose of her body and to establish an effective alibi.

  I moved closer to the rock, clutching the briefcase. No sounds except those of fish occasionally slapping the water. My senses were high-tuned, humming. I scanned the surrounding terrain, saw no sign of anyone. When I reached the rock I took a final look around and then shoved the briefcase under it. Made my zigzag retreat through the underbrush to my car.

  Nothing happened on the way. I started the engine and drove away.

  Soon, thinking he was alone, the kidnapper would go for the briefcase. Then Hy would take over.

  It had all gone according to plan because of Hy’s expertise, developed over years of hostage negotiation. I owed him—for this and so much more.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13

  Sharon McCone

  Hy checked in by phone at half past twelve as I drove back toward the pier.

  “The guy went straight to his car on Lincoln Way. Took his time making a U-turn, so I was able to catch up with him. He’s heading west on Lincoln Way. We’re almost to the Great Highway.”

  “Have you gotten a look at who’s driving?”

  “Nope. Traffic’s light, so I’m keeping my distance.”

  “Well, keep me posted.”

  As soon as I clicked off, the speakerphone buzzed again. Mick.

  “You’re supposed to be resting,” I said.

  “I am, under the sheets with my laptop, like I used to do with a book and a flashlight when I was a kid. The nurse—new, cute one—is onto me, but so far she’s been lenient. Anyway, I’ve been checking the FAA sites like you suggested. One of the planes owned by Bellassis Aviation left SFO for Portland at eleven-forty p.m. on September eighth, returned around nine the next morning.”

  “Quick trip.”

  “Very. It was a Citation, like the ones Hy’s company owns.”

  “And the pilot?”

  “One of the owners of the FBO—Lucy Bellassis.”

  Lucy?

  “And you, Lucy, I believe you said you fly too?”

  “Some. My license is current, but I prefer to limit myself to the right seat.”

  “My little copilot.”

  Park had said that sardonically, not as a literal statement. She didn’t confine herself to the copilot’s seat and she hadn’t mentioned what ratings she had or what kind of aircraft she’d been checked out in. She hadn’t mentioned piloting the jet.

  We’d been putting on the same act Wednesday night—slightly ditzy, oh-little-me—and neither of us had recognized it in the other.

  “See if you can find out what she did in the Portland area,” I said—although I already had a strong suspicion.

  Hy checked in again as I changed my course toward Sea Cliff. “Honda’s merged onto Skyline. It could go south to San Jose or double back to the city. You at the pier yet?”

  “No. I’m going to the Bellassises’.”

  “New development?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  The fog had held off far out on the horizon all day and evening but now, after one in the morning, it was filtering in, obscuring the moon and stars. The Sea Cliff neighborhood was so socked in that I had to turn my fog lights on bright, and even then I strained to see the curbs and parked cars. A few dimly lit shapes of windows appeared and disappeared.

  It was a long time before Lucy’s nervous voice called out from behind the door. “Who is it?”

  I glanced up at where I’d previously noticed a surveillance camera; its red light was off. “Sharon McCone.”

  “Oh God, you scared me! Park’s away, and all of the help are off tonight.” There was a rattling noise, and then she opened the door. Her tall, thin frame was wrapped in an elegantly styled silk robe that matched her gray eyes; incongruously, on her feet she wore orange-and-black-striped plush slippers fashioned to look like tigers’ heads, complete with bared plastic fangs.

  They reminded me of Ma’s recent gift that was traveling around the family. Sure as hell those pink slippers looked like bunny rabbits. I hoped whichever of my siblings next received them would throw them out before they got to me.

  Lucy saw me staring at her feet. “Park’s idea of a joke—he calls me his ‘little tiger.’ ”

  “And his ‘little copilot.’ ”

  “Oh, well…” She hesitated. “Come in.”

  I stepped inside. “Did you know your security system’s off?”

  “Damn!” She punched at the keypad.

  “Where’s Park tonight? Out of town again?”

  “Supposedly at the FBO. He claimed he was in a hurry to take a package of documents we had notarized late this afternoon out to the airport to one of their couriers.”

  “What kind of documents?”

  �
��Business stuff. I don’t know.” She shifted slightly, put out a hand to steady herself against the wall.

  “Didn’t you even read the documents’ titles?”

  “God, Sharon, what does it matter? Look, I need another drink. You want to have one with me?”

  “I’m working, Lucy. And I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this situation. What do you remember of the documents?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  Yes, it did. I suspected Park had gotten her to sign off on as many of their joint assets as possible. But why? He had everything he wanted, including a rich wife.

  “You say there was a notary here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “His or her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Male? Female?”

  “Female.”

  “Did she leave you her card?”

  “No. Park might have it. Or maybe Torrey.”

  “Torrey was here too?”

  “The notary was a friend of hers, I think.”

  I closed and chained the door behind me and followed her into the living room.

  “You sure you don’t want a drink?” Lucy asked.

  “You have any ginger ale?”

  “No ginger ale,” Lucy said. “But if you’re into a soft drink, how about Coke with a touch of rum?”

  “Okay, fine.”

  I surveyed the big luxurious room and its comfortable furnishings. All seemed as they had before, except for a broken-spined paperback romance novel on a side table.

  “Lucy,” I said, “what time did Park leave?”

  “Nine? Nine-thirty? I don’t remember exactly.”

  I followed her into the living room to the bar. Lucy turned to me—a rigid, too-bright smile on her face and icy fear in her eyes. Her gaze was doing funny things—jumping from side to side, up and down, in a random order.

  “Here’s your rum and Coke,” she said. Her hand shook as she gave it to me.

  No ice, and very little Coke. Strong odor of rum, a liquor I don’t particularly like.