“He’s a recent hire from the Detroit PD. Your note said you were headed to the Last Resort. How the hell was he supposed to know what that is?”
“You’ve got a point there.” I glanced at the door, where Vardon was being led out in handcuffs, then looked across the room, where a paramedic was examining Jody.
“She’s one tough woman,” I said. “She held Vardon off as long as humanly possible. And shouted when she heard me moving around upstairs.”
“If she’d’ve come to us in the first place, J.D. would still be alive. And you and I both know that even if Vardon’s charged with murder, some hotshot lawyer’s gonna get her off on lack of evidence.”
Something was nagging at me. I closed my eye, struggled to bring the memory to the surface.
“McCone? You all right?”
I pictured J.D. smiling at me when we met outside In-Site’s building last Thursday. Heard him say, “You’re still doing that.”
I asked Adah, “How fast can you get a search warrant for Vardon’s house?”
“Case like this, pretty quick.”
“Good. This is a long shot, but I’ll tell you what to look for.”
“Hey, McCone!”
“Uhhh?” I was in bed in the RKI apartment, bruised and battered, and once again hiding from the press. A Vicodin-induced dream involving seahorses swimming among wildflowers still had hold of me.
“You were right,” Adah’s voice said. “Vardon kept the jeans and tee she wore home from Oregon after she stole your travel bag.”
That made me sit up. “And?”
“The penny was in the inside pocket of the jeans, right where you said it’d be.”
Again Vardon had been done in by her arrogance. No one would search her house. No one would connect the clothing with J.D.’s murder.
“For once,” Adah added, “it’s a good thing you’re superstitious.”
“Yeah, it is.” I’d distinctly remembered finding a shiny new penny and tucking it into the inner pocket of those jeans the last time I’d worn them. It was for just such occasions that the phrase “lucky penny” was coined.
Friday
APRIL 27
Eventually you let go of it.
Now you know there are as many reasons as there are suicides. Often more than one cause for that final self-destructive act. And none of those reasons has anything to do with the living—with you.
I let go as I stood on the Marin Headlands, remembering.
Joey. His life, and he didn’t care to share it with any of us. For some reason he’d failed to bond with his own family members, just as we’d failed to bond with him. No need to feel guilt or remorse; it happens. His death was presumably the way he’d wanted it—lonely and private.
J.D. His life, and he’d given so freely of himself to others. But there had also been a closed, secretive side to him, the side that made him an investigative reporter. Death was nothing he would have willingly sought, but on occasion he’d risked it for the sake of a good story. No need for guilt or remorse there, either. He’d died doing the thing he loved most, and in time that knowledge would ease my sadness.
Behind me I heard the voices of those who had gathered on the bluff above the Golden Gate to celebrate J.D.’s life. An Episcopalian minister who had never met him but understood how much a proper service would mean to his religious parents had officiated, coached on personal details by J.D.’s friends. Tables with food and drink had been set up and, while his mother and father remained in attendance, we reminisced somberly. But after the limo hired to return the Smiths to the city departed, the gathering took on a lighter tone. Voices were raised in humorous and frequently irreverent remembrances. Glasses were raised as favorite J.D. anecdotes were related.
When my own mood turned somber again, I walked over to the guardrail to say my private good-bye to him, while looking across the bay at the city he had loved. Peace of the sort that I hadn’t experienced in many months washed over me. The city was turning golden in the late afternoon sunlight. I knew it was only makeup to hide its blemishes and scars, but I also knew that the imperfections masked an inner beauty. Good people, such as those who had gathered here for J.D., were a large part of that, as were—
Strong hands grasped my shoulders. I smiled, recognizing Hy’s touch.
“Hey, you,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t make it on time for the service. Flight delays …”
“It was a good one. I spoke for both of us, told the story of the whale-watching expedition.”
“I’ll never forget how he kept saying, ‘I can’t be seasick, I’m a reporter! We’re only allowed to get sick when we’re drunk!’ ”
“That was J.D.”
“So how’re you, McCone?”
“Ready.”
“For?”
“Two-five-two-seven-Tango.”
“Destination?”
“Touchstone.”
“I figured as much, and called North Field. She’s gassed up.”
I pictured the airport and the city of Oakland shrinking beneath us till they were toylike. The bay receding behind us. The thickly forested ridge turning dusky as we crossed it and turned north along the coast. The scalloped coves of Mendocino County welcoming us …
“Home, Ripinsky.”
Dead Midnight Page 23