While Other People Sleep

by Marcia Muller

  Back on the ground, I chained and locked the Citabria and started through the executive terminal to the parking area, intent on my car, home, and bed. But at the last minute I veered over to the lobby desk and asked the woman on duty if Jeff Riley was working tonight. Yes, she said, as a matter of fact he'd just gone into the vending room. I followed and found the short, bearded lineman cursing at a cup of what I call cardboard coffee that had spilled over his fingers while he was trying to wrest it from the machine.

  “Hey, Sharon,” he said, “somebody told me Ripinsky coaxed you into flying him to SFO.”

  “Yeah, he did. I could've had him there in twenty minutes by car—not to mention more cheaply, given the huge landing fee. But he wanted me to learn a lesson in self-reliance.”

  “How'd it go?”

  “Pretty well. I was nervous departing, of course, but now I know I can do it.”

  “And a good thing, because someday you may have to do it—there or at another Class B airport. You're all grown up now, at least as far as flying's concerned.” Jeff leaned against the wall, sipping coffee and making a sour face. “I've always figured there're two kinds of pilots: those who deliberately choose to limit their experience, and those who go the whole nine yards. Nothing wrong with either; the ones who limit themselves're smart, recognize the extent of their abilities. But for a long time I've had you pegged as the other.”

  “Have you? I'm flattered. By the way, that reporter—have you seen her around here again?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you do me a favor? Keep a closer than usual eye on Two-eight-niner for a while.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks. Hy and I will stand you to a couple of rounds of beer someday soon.”

  “Hell, it's a pleasure to help out. I wouldn't want any harm to come to that nice little plane. Or to you or Hy.”

  Until he said it, the possibility of vandalism or sabotage hadn't occurred to me. But I carried the notion home with me, like a suspiciously ticking package.

  Somebody had broken into my house while I was gone.

  I felt it the moment I opened the door and realized that in our haste to leave, neither Hy nor I had thought to activate the security system. I glanced at the lock; there were fresh scratches on it—picked.

  I drew my gun—a new .357 Magnum—from my bag and shut the door quietly, then stood still, listening to the silence and taking in the signs. The temperature was warmer than earlier; somebody had turned up the thermostat. A light burned in the sitting room, but I distinctly remembered turning it off on my way out. And there was a scent on the air, a perfume that I didn't use. Familiar, though. What? I breathed it in and free associated.

  Dark Secrets.

  Yes, that was it. One of those new, heavily advertised scents that had emanated from a scratch-and-smell card enclosed with my last Macy's bill.

  Appropriate—fiendishly appropriate.

  Gun held in both hands, I moved forward and peered through the archway to the parlor. A novel I'd been reading while curled up on the love seat last week had been knocked to the floor. The doors to the guest room armoire stood open, but nothing else appeared to have been touched. I continued slowly along the hall.

  In the sitting room, embers glowed in the fireplace; the last time Hy and I had made a fire was Saturday night. A bottle of Deer Hill Chardonnay—my favorite, and one that cost a for tune by my standards—sat uncorked beside a glass on the table next to the easy chair; the bottle was only half full.

  I moved to the room I use as my home office. Several of the desk drawers had been pulled open, and the chair was shoved over by the closet, as if someone had stood on it to check the shelf. Thank God I kept my important papers in the safe at the pier!

  One of the under-cabinet fluorescents burned in the kitchen; by its light I saw a corkscrew and cork positioned in the exact center of the chopping-block island.

  In the bathroom I found that my birth control pills had apparently been flushed down the toilet. The empty pack lay on the floor next to it.

  I slipped along the hall, still with both hands on the gun. The bedroom door was half closed; it was hung wrong and had a tendency to do that on its own, but … I nudged it with my foot and stepped inside, sweeping the room with the .357.

  Empty. But my bedding had been ripped off and tossed on the floor.

  One of the folding closet doors was ajar. I took my left hand off the gun, grasped the knob, and pulled.

  Nothing inside but my clothes.

  The intruder was gone. Not long gone, though; the scent of her Dark Secrets still lingered, as if she'd sprayed it in the air. Well, maybe she had. It was as good as writing a message on the mirror.

  I looked down at the rumpled bedclothes, anger flaring. I'd been looking forward to crawling into bed immediately, but now I'd have to remake it—

  A noise on the back deck—bumping and scraping.

  I raised the gun, stepped into the dark hallway The outside spot was on, and through the glass I saw my orange tabby, Ralph. He had his nose pressed to the glass, and his yellow yes pleaded to be let in.

  “Jesus,” I whispered. What if I'd shot him? Even though I $$$ a carry permit, I shouldn't be toting this gun around; it should be locked in the U.S. Navy ammo box bolted to the floor of the linen closet, where it usually resided with my old .38. But since Friday night I'd felt better with a weapon close to hand.

  I opened the door, and Ralphie slipped inside, heading for his food bowl.

  And then I thought, Allie—Where's Allie?

  I leaned out the door and called my calico. Nothing. But Alice always came promptly when called after dark; neither she nor her brother was a night-prowling creature.

  I hurried through the house, shouting her name. No response.

  “God damn that bitch! If she's done something to my cat, I'll kill her!”

  Then I heard a scuffling above my head, followed by an unearthly wailing that came from the home office. I ran in there—and realized the significance of the desk chair being moved: there was an opening to the house's crawl space in the closet.

  The woman had stuffed my cat into the crawl space!

  I climbed up on the chair, shoved the cover aside, and saw widely dilated, frightened eyes peering down at me. Quickly I reached for Allie, but she wasn't having any of that; she leaped down, leaving a long gash in my forearm.

  “God damn her!” I yelled again—not referring to the cat.

  I climbed down from the chair and went to the bathroom to wash and treat the deep scratch. Then I returned to the kitchen, patted Allie—who was frantically crunching Friskies—and poured myself a glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge. I loved the Deer Hill, but I couldn't bring myself to drink from a bottle that she had opened.

  What now? I thought. Call 911? Normally I would have, but this business was too bizarre, too convoluted, too potentially damaging to entrust to just any officer. Call a friend–Greg Marcus on Narcotics or Adah Joslyn on Homicide? No, you didn't bother a friend at this hour. Besides, the assault on my home and privacy had the feel of having been well planned and executed; she'd have been careful to leave no fingerprints, no clues to her identity.

  Only a silent challenge.

  I was here. I can enter your home. I can take your identity. And you don't know who I am or why I'm doing these things.

  Yes, you were here. Yes, you entered my home. But you can't take my identity. I can figure out who you are. I can figure out why you're doing these things.

  I can stop you.

  Monday

  Your initial assumption was correct,” Greg Marcus said. “She probably didn't leave you anything to go on.”

  The Narcotics captain was a big gray-blond man, heavier now than when I'd first known him, and he seemed to fill up my small sitting room. Years before, we'd been lovers—a relationship destined to fail, given its volatility. But time had mellowed us both and nowadays sparks rarely flew between us; we'd settled into a comfortable f
riendship, having dinner together every couple of months. This morning when I decided I wanted someone I trusted from the SFPD to check out the scene at my house, it was only natural that I call Greg. And just as naturally he'd agreed to stop by on his way to the Hall of Justice.

  “I could send a technician,” he added, “have the place dusted for latents. But then we'd have to take prints from everybody who normally visits here.”

  “And even if you isolated an unfamiliar one, it might not be the woman's. Or her prints might not be on file anywhere.” And I'd known that before I even called him.

  Greg saw my discouragement and put his hand on my shoulder. “You want me to have somebody canvass the neighbors, ask if anybody saw anything unusual?”

  “I already did that. Nothing.”

  “Well, then, I'll file a report, in case she pulls something else.” He squeezed my shoulder, took his hand away.

  “Thanks.”

  Greg studied my face for a few seconds. “You look tired. Losing sleep over this?”

  “Some.”

  “Hy's not in town?”

  “No, he's in South America for a couple of weeks.”

  “Maybe you shouldn't be staying alone here. Why not get out, move in with a friend for a while?”

  “Absolutely not. I won't allow this woman to disrupt my life any more than she already has. Anyway, her getting in was partly my fault; I'll have to be more careful to arm the system from now on.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “I didn't mean to imply that I doubt your ability to take care of yourself, but with crazies … Well, you never know. She seems to be a controlled crazy, though, so she may avoid a direct confrontation. You carrying?”

  “I have been, but I'm spooked enough that I'm not sure I should be.”

  “Which gun?”

  “A new one—.357 Magnum, Smith and Wesson. Hy finally convinced me that my old .38 doesn't have the stopping power I'd need in a critical situation.”

  “He's right. The .357 is a good weapon. You can wound an opponent enough to stop him from a distance of more than twenty feet. I'm glad you got it.”

  “Well, I hope I don't have to use it, especially in my present frame of mind.”

  “Trust yourself. You're an excellent shot, and you've got good judgment.”

  Coming from him, that meant a lot. “Thanks for everything, Greg. I haven't been able to bring myself to tell anybody but Hy about the woman. It helps, talking with you.”

  He smiled gently, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Long ago I told you that I'd always be there for you, and I meant it.”

  Anachronism Bookshop smelled of old bindings and age-mellowed paper. It was a long space—something of a maze— filled with stacks and nooks where browsers could sink into comfortable old armchairs to read. A narrow mezzanine containing more shelves girdled it on four sides, a wide foot-worn staircase ascending to it at the rear. When I arrived soon after ten, I found Neal perched on his stool behind the high, mahogany-paneled counter to the right of the door, perusing a price guide and smiling contentedly.

  Seeing me broke the spell, however; he scowled and reached under the counter, bringing out a small spiral-bound notebook and thrusting it at me.

  “The weekend didn't go well?” I asked.

  “It's all in there, in detail.”

  “Why don't you recap it for me? You look and sound as though you need to talk.”

  “You may be right.” He got off the stool and said to a young woman who was shelving books in one of the nearby stacks, “Steffi, will you mind the store for a while?”

  “Sure.” She nodded and kept on shelving.

  Neal led me to a nook under the stairs, where a cart with a coffeemaker and some cups stood. We helped ourselves and sank onto a worn red velvet settee.

  “Okay,” Neal said, “the weekend was awful. To start, Ted claimed the beef heart was a prank on the part of an old friend, but he hesitated long enough before he came up with the explanation that I didn't believe him. Plus he went white around the lips when he read the card—more angry than frightened, I'd say.”

  “Did he explain the meaning of the prank or name the friend?”

  “No. Just said it was a private joke and rushed upstairs to get changed before Rick's limo arrived.”

  “Any other private jokes that're off limits to you?”

  “No subject used to be off limits. Now it seems most are. Anyway, you saw us during the evening. He was very edgy and withdrawn. Drank more than he usually does. After we got home, he sat up listening to jazz and drinking some more, while I went straight to bed.”

  “And Saturday?”

  “I suggested he go to the farmers’ market for fresh produce, but he pointed out that we'd overbought last week and had enough in the fridge to feed the entire building. So I suggested we invite some of the neighbors we're friendly with for dinner, but he nixed that. Didn't want to see people, he said. By then it was time for me to come in to work. He dropped by not long after I got here, but after he'd checked out the new arrivals section he took off and didn't turn up at home till well after I did. When I asked him how he'd spent his day, he was vague.”

  “And that evening?”

  “Old movies on TV.”

  “Was he drinking?”

  “No more than I. But I had a feeling his mind wasn't on what we were watching, even though both films were favorites of his. In fact, I could practically hear the wheels grinding inside his head.”

  “You ask him what he was thinking about?”

  “Yes. He said a problem at work. When I pressed him, he mumbled something about billing procedures.”

  There was nothing wrong with either our billing procedures or Airman & Zahn's; Ted had refined them to near perfection. “All right—Sunday.”

  “Sundays we usually go to brunch at Café Freddy's in North Beach. Pick up the paper, his mind was elsewhere. He kept staring at the other people, to the point where it made a couple of them uncomfortable. Afterward we picked up fresh pasta and sauce for dinner and went home. And then we got into a stupid argument about who was going to do the laundry.”

  “D'you usually share laundry duties?”

  “No, normally I do it. I've got more patience for that kind of thing. But on Sunday he insisted on doing it all himself, wouldn't even let me go downstairs to move it from the washer to the dryer. So I rattled around the library the rest of the day, feeling put out and useless.”

  “And that night?”

  “Dinner and a movie on TV, and all of a sudden he had to go out. Why? I asked. Favor to a friend. What friend? He named a name I'd never heard—John Evans—and took off. He didn't come home, and finally I went to sleep.”

  “This John Evans—”

  “Made up on the spur of the moment, I think. I checked Ted's address book—no one by that name. Then I did some detective work of my own, called every listing for a John or J. Evans in the directory, asking for Ted. None of them had heard of him.”

  “Could be an unlisted number. Or outside the city.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Frankly, so do I.” I thought for a moment. “Okay, I'll take your notes back to the office and go over them. What're your plans for tonight?”

  “Ted claims he's working late, and I—” He paused, looking sheepish.

  “Yes?”

  “I'm taking my second karate lesson.”

  “What!” Ted had studied karate for years, was well on his way to his black belt. I knew he'd pressured Neal to take up the discipline when they met, but Neal—a decidedly un athletic type—had declined.

  “Yeah, I finally caved in.” He shook his head. “There's no way to refuse when you're given ten lessons as a birthday present.”

  The things we do to each other under the guise of generosity! Once again I was grateful for Hy, who—among other things—has never once pressured me to climb upon the back of a horse while at his ranch, much as he enjoys riding. He knows I hate horses with a passion that is
surpassed only by my passion for him.

  “Well, that was a nice piece of manipulation,” I said to Neal. “How're you liking the lessons?”

  “I've only had one, so I'm keeping an open mind. I am discovering entire muscle groups I never suspected I possessed.”

  At four-thirty that afternoon I stuck my head through the door of Ted's office and asked, “How're those letters coming?”

  “Why? Are you in a hurry to get out of here?” He didn't take his eyes off the computer screen.

  “No. Just asking.”

  “You'll get them when they're done, all right?”

  Taken aback by his harsh tone, I withdrew. No, this was not the Ted I'd known and loved for more than a decade.

  I kept going along the catwalk to the office that Hank and Anne-Marie shared. It was similar to mine: spacious, with tan walls rising to high, narrow windows that by day admitted a stripe of soft northern light; Berber carpeting, exposed girders, and an arched window overlooking the Embarcadero, as mine did the bay. But there the resemblance stopped. While my furnishings were spare and contemporary, theirs were traditional: an old-fashioned partners desk, oak file cabinets, leather chairs and a sofa in a separate seating area; Hank's old cigar-store Indian stood by the door, coats and scarves draped over his head, and a World War II recruiting poster of Uncle Sam—“I want you for the U.S. Army”—hung opposite.

  When I knocked on the door frame, Hank looked up from a brief he was studying and waved me inside.

  “Where's your other half?” I asked.

  “Conference with Habiba's teacher.”

  “Problems?” Habiba Hamid was nine years old and had been through a lot of tragedy in her young life.