Civil Twilight

by Susan Dunlap

  He didn’t budge till the plane touched down.

  “The sting, John, what now?” I said before he could leap up. “Those girls, where are they?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Munson flew back to Vegas. He couldn’t have taken them back.”

  “We’d know.”

  “So they’re still in the city, then.”

  “Most likely.”

  “What’re you—”

  He heaved himself up and yanked down his carry-on. “Gotta go.”

  “Hey!”

  He shoved by three passengers. The door opened and he was gone.

  He was headed to Portland and from there to Oakland, Sacramento, Santa Rosa, or San Jose, someplace he could deplane without Broder’s men waiting.

  I couldn’t let him go like this. I raced into the terminal, to the counter. “Where’s the Portland gate? The one the guy with the short black hair wanted?”

  “I don’t—”

  “He’s even pushier than I am.”

  “To the left, halfway.”

  I ran down the aisle, skirting rolling luggage. “John!” I caught up with him.

  “Darcy, I’ve got a flight in fifteen—”

  “Those girls, we know some of them are illegal. Once they disappear, no one’s going to be looking for them. Karen died to protect them; she died because of this sting. We can’t just let it go bust. There’s got to be some way to save it.”

  He stopped. A woman barely missed him with a stroller.

  “And you? How much did you put into the set-up? You can’t let it go—”

  “I’m not.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “You’re not involved—”

  “Please! If I was deeper in this I’d be entombed. The plan?”

  “Munson was supposed to bring the girls to the Guerrero house Tuesday, but something stopped him. Maybe Widley’s carrying on. Something. So no girls. But I have a message from Abrams. Munson’s flying back to SFO today. He’s got both girls with him. They’re on their way to the airport, to SFO.”

  “When’s the transfer?”

  “We’ll have to follow; but before it was set for nine.”

  “Where?”

  “They won’t use the Victorian this time. They’ll go for somewhere public and crowded, like Coit Tower. Munson’ll be standing with the girls; then a woman will join them. They’ll stand there like a couple and two daughters, then he’ll walk off.”

  “Coit Tower?”

  “Just an example. Single exit, too easy to block.”

  “Fisherman’s Wharf?”

  “Single exit. I’m not saying—dammit, I don’t know where. Like I said, Darcy, we just have to follow.”

  “How’re you going to—”

  “I’m not, not if you make me miss my flight! Abrams’ll meet me, bring the reports and we’ll be in SFO by sunset.”

  “But how—”

  “Gotta go! Trust me, it’ll work.”

  He was barely down the gangway when I realized where it would be. “John! The set, John!” But, of course, it was too late. I had my phone out before I remembered his hadn’t answered days ago. I didn’t know what number he was using now.

  He was gone and there was no way I could reach him.

  The set was perfect for Munson—dark, crowded, lights and camera focused on the take. He’d even perked up when I mentioned the movie.

  I also couldn’t handle this alone. I had to have help from the SFPD.

  I ran to the end of the terminal for the hell of it. It felt good, just nowhere near good enough.

  I reconsidered. Did I absolutely need help?

  I drank a latte—also nowhere near good enough.

  Absolutely. But I was no closer to trusting Korematsu than before I called him from Las Vegas.

  Still, a pig in a poke is better than no meat at all.

  I dialed Korematsu.

  31

  I’D MADE IT back on the plane to SFO with three minutes to spare, then sat staring blankly out the window, searching for flaws in the plan. There were plenty. But too late now.

  Two and a half hours later, descending into SFO was like flying into a glove. A dark gray glove.

  Almost twilight! The plane was late! I’d never make it to the set on time. I pulled my pack from the overhead.

  “Please stay in your seats till the plane has come to a stop at the gate.”

  Maybe the filming was behind schedule. Thin hope. My stunt had already been moved forward an hour.

  The plane jolted to a stop. I sprang into the aisle. “Excuse me! Sorry! Sorry!” When the door slid open I burst out and ran up the passageway.

  “That’s her!”

  “Come here, Darcy.”

  For a sweet moment, I thought it was a limo driver. But it was the opposite, and the worst of all possibilities—Chief of Detectives Broder. I flashed on him walking into the North Beach apartment and me leaping over the porch railing; flashed on his girlfriend, the trafficking ring, the sting that was thwarted by Karen’s death; him looking at prison time if I—

  “Where’s John?”

  “Don’t know.” I could barely breathe. How many cops did he have with him? Half the station? I had to project confidence, not look like a cornered deer.

  “He’s on this flight.”

  I shrugged toward the gangway. “Feel free.”

  “Are you saying he’s not here?”

  “Right. Check with the airline.”

  “We will. Stay here.”

  “Can’t. I have to be on the set in twenty minutes.”

  “The movie’ll wait.”

  Five uniformed officers were behind him. A road block. Travelers were skirting them, creating a crush at the sides. My heart was going double-time. It was all I could do not to run. I planted myself in front of Broder and said, “Detective, the city film commission got me this job. If I don’t show, the city looks bad. And the next film goes on location in Montreal.”

  “I don’t care if the next ten films are shot on Mars. Wait . . . here.” Broder shot a glance at the uniformed officer to his right and strode to the counter.

  I eyed the uniform in vain hope he might be one of John’s cronies, few as those were in the department. But he was a stranger. I smiled. He didn’t. Definitely not on John’s side. Still . . . “Where’s Korematsu?”

  The cop took a wider stance, folded his arms across his burly torso, and eyed Broder as if he was the suspect. As Broder walked back, the officer unfolded his arms.

  “Double-check the plane. Lott could be using an alias.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s not,” I said.

  “I’m not asking you.”

  “The airline’ll tell you. He got on under his own name in Anchorage, got off in Seattle. It’s in their records.”

  “Stay here.”

  Broder strode to the counter again. His flunky hesitated, then strode onto the gangway. I didn’t look at the other cops, just turned and walked through the line of watching civilians. Then I ran full-out, threading through passengers as if I was dodging bullets, just hoping none of the cops had reacted before I got a lead, hoping they’d give chase, not call ahead. Just hoping.

  Small chance Broder wouldn’t nab me at the curb—or before—but it was my only chance! The gate was—of course!—at the end of the concourse. Clutching my pack in one arm, I skirted a family pulling luggage, raced between passengers emerging from the gate and friends hurrying toward them, around a motorized cart, onto the moving sidewalk and past anyone dawdling on it.

  The moving sidewalk ended a hundred feet ahead. In front was a large security guard. I waited till I was ten feet away, leapt the railing and spurted around and onto the next belt, skirted three women and leapt the railing. In minutes there’d be a dozen guards here. Speed was everything. I raced through the lobby, almost smacked into the glass doors before they opened, and skidded to a stop at the curb.

  Now what?

  A cab
pulled up.

  I jumped it.

  “To the set?”

  It was Webb Moratt.

  “A gift from John?”

  “Big gift. You know how hard it is to stay ready to pick anyone up, circling around, how damned near impossible, with the traffic guys fussing? You can’t tip everyone. Hell, there’re some won’t even take it, like they don’t know what the job’s for, you know? I had to . . .”

  Moratt shifted lanes and kept on complaining.

  The biggest gag of my career was coming up and I was going to be late. I’d gone over it again and again, tweaked the choreography days ago, but planning can’t take the place of a run-through. I needed to focus.

  Moratt ranted on.

  Suddenly, I just needed to talk to Leo. I pulled out my phone and hit 1 on the speed dial. “Leo—Roshi—I need to ask you a question.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a cab from the airport. On my way to the set to get thrown out of a burning car.”

  “Ah.” I could picture the smile that wiggled at the middle of his wide lips but didn’t make it to the sides.

  “You always say, ‘Don’t complain.’”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  I sighed.

  “Don’t complain. Sighs count.”

  “But, Leo, it’s so frustrating.”

  “Don’t complain.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t—”

  “Okay! Okay. But if I can’t complain, there’s no way I can talk about it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Leo!”

  I could hear his exhalation. He was considering, thinking about giving me a hint.

  I didn’t dare speak. “Talking about it isn’t it.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “When was it?”

  “Oh. You mean it is in the past. Not now. Focusing on it means . . .”

  The phone was dead. He’d hung up. I turned my own off so I could think.

  “Dammit! If you’re gonna crawl, get a crib!” Moratt swung around a yellow van, cutting back into the lane with inches to spare.

  “That was the 280 exit!”

  “Asshole made me miss it!”

  I laughed.

  “What? What?”

  “Just thinking of Leo.” If you hadn’t been so busy complaining . . . Whoops. “Get off at Vermont Street. With luck, you’ll still miss the worst of the back-up.”

  “Like there won’t be trucks and double-parked . . .”

  If don’t complain meant stop entertaining yourself with complaint, get out of your thoughts and do something, then Karen was a master. But it doesn’t mean act on the spur of the moment. It’s not: don’t prepare. It’s choreograph your gag ahead, run the tape in your mind, make it part of you, and when the start comes, don’t think back to that—do the gag. It’s not steal a police car because your mind is in the past with Matt or his possible future. It’s now, now, now, don’t dwell on the past, don’t complain, be alert, and ready to do. It’s see a girl talking on her phone in the street and shove her out of danger. It’s see the chance, maybe because you’ve choreographed for weeks, and push Henkley, the abuser, off the cliff. It’s not meet Madelyn, look for a knife, though. That still stopped me. But was it, see Munson, the abuser, open the car door and beckon him in?

  Was it: hire Gary? Why had she contacted him? She wasn’t in danger of being discovered. She had to be turning herself in, here, for her California crime. Why now? Because it was the only way she could stop the trafficking? And protect Matt while she worked with John? She alerts John to the trafficking. But if the sting uncovers her, a murderer, the traffickers would get lost in the flurry. Who’d believe her? On the other hand, if she turns herself in first, then she’s got cred. She’ll stand trial after trial, but the first won’t start for months.

  But why the divorce? How much would that really keep Matt out of the spotlight? Why have everything hang on getting the divorce?

  “You married, Webb?”

  “Divorced. Cost me a freakin’ fortune, too.”

  Nothing near what trial after trial would have cost Karen’s husband. It would have left him bankrupt. “Thanks.”

  “Huh? Hey, don’t slow! Get through the damn light. You can—shit!”

  Something still didn’t feel right.

  “Webb, you got John’s cell number?”

  “Not working.”

  “Not his old one, the one he’s got with him now.”

  He hesitated.

  “Tell him the sting’s at the movie set. I set it up with Korematsu.”

  Moratt pulled around the corner. Ahead Market Street was blocked just as it had been Tuesday. Fog blurred the streets, veiled the set. On the sidewalk was Munson. I pressed against the window trying to spot the girls. “Stop over there!”

  “Here? How’m I going to get out of here? Back up here, in this mess? You could’ve—”

  “Here! Dammit!”

  I slammed the door behind me. Munson was gone.

  32

  WHERE WAS MUNSON? I didn’t dare look around for him, or for the girls. Broder wasn’t here, not yet. He’d have raced out of the airport as soon as he heard I was gone. But I had the advantage: he wouldn’t have been running, or have a cab waiting. I gave him ten more minutes. There were police all around, but none of them seemed to be looking for me. Yet. When he did get here, he’d have half the force ready to pounce. It would make the perfect diversion to allow Munson to pass on the girls.

  I headed through the checkpoint onto the set. The lights were brighter here. Beyond it everything was dark. I glanced at the camera guys. Two of them should be police techs, one watching for Munson, the other for his contact. They’d be ready to record the whole transaction. Assuming Korematsu had arranged this part of the sting, assuming I could really trust him. I squinted as if that would clear the fog. Korematsu was nowhere in sight.

  But Jed Elliot was right at my shoulder. “Where were you? You’re late. Never mind. We’re holding the entire gag for you. Never mind. Wardrobe’s over there.”

  “Sorry.” I ran to the trailer.

  Today the cable car I’d driven into before was farther down, nearer Market. In the final cut, sixty seconds would have passed before tonight’s scene. The sports car would have bounced back, the cable car caught on fire and now it would be rolling out of control toward Market Street, threatening to jump its tracks and crash into a bright orange trolley. Cable car aficionados would scream about accuracy, but fiction is fiction. As I jumped into the trailer, I glanced back, trying to gauge the distance between the cable car and the trolley, but the fog was too thick and all that stood out were the fire engine lights and the ambulances.

  The wardrobe mistress grabbed a tube. “We’re not doing the Nomex suit, hon. Just the skull cap under the wig.”

  “So I’ll burn but my hair’ll survive? You’re using the new stuff?”

  “Yeah, the Canadian gel. You can have the fire burning off your skin with this one. Start smearing, Casey.”

  Her assistant, a stocky woman motioned to me to lift a foot. “We don’t want to miss anything.”

  “One patch of bare skin and you’re fried.”

  I hated to distract them. “This stuff’s not freezing like the gels I’ve used before.” In burns that took split seconds, no longer.

  “Nah. Doesn’t need to be refrigerated. You’ll be real glad.”

  “It works how long? Twenty seconds?”

  “Give or take.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She handed me the denim shorts and red hibiscus-flowered halter I’d worn Tuesday. “Careful. Don’t rub the gel off.”

  As if!

  “Remember to keep your eyes closed in the fire. You don’t have gel in your eyes.”

  Eyes closed in a gag I’d only run through in my mind? “Thanks.”

  The icy wind hit me as I hurried out of the trailer. Jed and the crew were swaddled in
heavy jackets. The fog was gusting now, creating momentary clears. “Bitch to film,” one of the cameramen grumbled.

  “Bitch for a fire gag!”

  Outside the cordon, civilians looked like the winter follies. In one of the clears I spotted a couple watch caps and one tasseled hat. But I wasn’t cold. My worry was sweating, sweating the gel off.

  “The set-up’s changed.” Jed pointed to the convertible. “We’ll do the insert in studio. It’ll look like this jobby”—he smacked the orange fender—“got tossed over here when you hit the cable car. Like I said, we’ll take care of that in-house. The accelerant’s on the strip beside the car, but the car’s going to go, so this is a one take.”

  I eyed him for some sign he was in on the sting, but he was all business. Korematsu must have told him . . .

  Forget Korematsu. Think about the gag! You’re going to be on fire!

  It’s good to have a second or third chance, but this was one time I was all for a single take. I glanced nervously at the gel. I’d read the script, choreographed the gag. The seat cushion had been replaced by the spring board I’d be crouched on, the one that would send me into the flip. I’d do a 360 in the air and land on a pad five feet from the engine. On film it would look like the car exploded, the force throwing me out. “Windshield’s been switched with breakaway glass?”

  “Of course.”

  “Give me ten minutes to do a check.”

  “We’re running late. I’ve already gone over the car, the accelerant, the landing pad.”

  “If you were me, would you take someone’s word? Even yours? Ten minutes. Five to check, five to get my mind in place. Ten minutes, real people time.”

  “We’re—”

  “Hey, it’s one take.”

  “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

  The grips were rolling lights to the far side of the car. Behind the director’s chair I could make out some of the first unit, one of the actors who’d been at the dinner with the second unit the other night. I had the impression the crowd beyond the cordon was two or three thick, but I couldn’t be sure. Was Broder there? The fog would be good cover for him. But here, for me, it was like having my eyes taped shut.

  One of my ten minutes was already gone. Concentrate on the gag. Focus! I bent over the landing pad, eyed the tie-downs, the weighting, felt the heft of the air pressure. The pad was softer than a high-fall pad. I’d be doing a flip like a gymnast over the pummel horse, but I wouldn’t be landing on my feet, I’d be coming down head first, tucking and landing on my back so I could use the time in the air to appear out of control. I’d land full out, but I’d be on fire. The pad had to hold long enough for me to get off before it caught fire, too. “Seems good,” I assured myself. It wasn’t like doing the set-up myself, though. No one is as careful as the person with the chance of dying.