Locked In - [McCone 29]

by Marcia Muller

  He leaned back and thought about his boss. Initially there had been a veiled antipathy between them—typical fed-versus-cop-versus-private-investigator crap. And he hadn’t liked it that she’d sensed his strong attraction to Adah early on and been highly protective of her friend. But then he’d moved to town and she’d immediately hired him, finally worked out the arrangement that kept him and Adah in San Francisco. Now, he knew, Shar was hoping the two of them would make it permanent, as she and Ripinsky had done.

  Well, maybe they would, when Shar was well enough to attend. He was more than ready. Besides, it would be a hoot to introduce Adah’s flaming liberal parents, Barbara and Rupert Joslyn, to his conservative WASP mother and father. Extremists, all four—and he suspected they’d get along famously, bonding in their shared disapproval of their children’s lifestyles and career choices.

  Enough. He needed to pack a bag and catch some sleep. By the time Adah returned from her women’s night out he’d be on his way to Big Sur, where Supervisor Amanda Teller and State Representative Paul Janssen had scheduled their clandestine meeting.

  * * * *

  MICK SAVAGE

  H

  e’d come to the Institute to commune with his aunt after Craig had pretended not to be home when he’d rung his doorbell. Did the former fed really think Mick didn’t know he was there—or didn’t he care? Either way, Mick had put his own fix on the situation.

  Now he sat in the armchair in the quiet, dimly lighted room beside Shar’s hospital bed, listening to the beep of the monitors. Hy hadn’t been at the Institute when he’d arrived—exhausted, the nurse had said, and he’d finally gone home. She’d been kind enough to allow Mick some time with his aunt; it was an exclusive place and apparently didn’t observe traditional visiting hours.

  He’d been confined to a place like that last November, when he’d gotten drunk and stupid and thought he could somehow fly out of his misery on his Harley. But his injuries hadn’t been life-threatening, and he’d been conscious, alert when he hadn’t taken the strong pain meds—able to use his laptop to help Shar with a case she’d been working.

  But Shar—her stillness frightened him. Her face, below the bandages on her head, was serene, unlined, as if she were many years younger. Maybe that was what was so unsettling: serenity wasn’t Shar’s thing. Keen concentration, purposefulness, action, yes. Laughter, tears, anger, and the occasional white-hot rage, too. But not this, never.

  She’d always been his favorite aunt. He loved Aunt Patsy, but she was so flaky she made him nervous, and those three kids of hers, each by a different boyfriend—forget it. But Shar had been solid as a rock, taking him seriously, treating him like a man when he was only a kid.

  Like when he’d pulled that stupid stunt of running away to San Francisco at Christmastime because his parents wouldn’t give him a moped, and she’d found him and taken him home for Christmas dinner. Later, after his high school in Pacific Palisades had nailed him for hacking into their system and selling fellow students’ confidential information, his folks had temporarily paroled him to Shar, and he’d ended up going to work for her permanently. When his mother had found another man and his dad had taken up with Rae, Shar had made him see that sometimes changes were for the best. And after the drunken Harley incident, she’d held his hand until the meds wiped the pain away.

  He wondered if she was feeling any pain now.

  Or maybe she was dreaming of something pleasant. Probably of flying the plane. Aside from being with Hy, he knew that was what she loved most, and more often than not they flew together.

  Hy. The nurse had said he was exhausted. Not a word you usually associated with the man, but the emotional drain must be enormous. How long before it turned to rage and he did something violent? Hy had been a lot of things in his lifetime, and one of Shar’s descriptions of him stuck in Mick’s mind: He’s still dangerous.

  If anything would make Hy dangerous, it was this assault on Shar. What if he identified and went after the shooter by himself? The person was bound to be dangerous, too, could get the upper hand. Hy, streetwise and well trained as he was, still was not invincible.

  Now Mick felt really scared. He couldn’t bear to lose both of them.

  * * * *

  HY RIPINSKY

  I

  say we find the son of a bitch and just plain kill him. None of this justice-for-the-poor-misunderstood-criminal crap.”

  “You’re drunk, John,” Hy said, eyeing Sharon’s tall, blond brother, who slumped in the armchair in their living room, beer bottle in hand.

  “I’m not drunk, I’m pissed off. Aren’t you?”

  Hy sat down on the couch, set his own beer bottle on the end table. The sitting room of their restored earthquake cottage near the friendly, almost suburban—but recently crime-plagued— Glen Park district was small but comfortable. Light from the kiva-style fireplace gave the wooden wainscoting and pegged-pine floor a rosy glow.

  He loved this house—even more than Touchstone or the ranch house that he’d inherited from his stepfather. Loved it because of the life they shared here on a regular basis. Allie, the calico cat, jumped onto his lap and pushed her nose at his hand for reassurance. Ralph, the orange tabby, crouched near the hearth, eyes watchful. Disruption like this affected animals as deeply as people, Hy thought, maybe more so because they couldn’t understand what had gone wrong.

  “So,” John said belligerently, “are you or aren’t you pissed off?”

  “I’m more than pissed off,” he replied. “Do I want to hunt the shooter down and kill him? Damn right. But at this point your sister needs me. Besides, the whole agency’s on the case. They’ll come up with something soon.”

  “And then they’ll turn the info over to the cops, who’ll arrest the prick. There’ll be a trial. If Shar dies, maybe he’ll get the death penalty but only after fifteen years of appeals—”

  “She’s not going to die.”

  They regarded each other silently.

  “You’ve got to believe that,” Hy added.

  John’s eyes went remote. Hy imagined what he was seeing: McCone as a little girl who resembled no one else in the family, supposedly a throwback to their Indian great-grandmother. McCone as an annoying preteen, always wanting to help him and their brother Joey with repairing their cars instead of playing with dolls the way she should. The high-school cheerleader; the first of them to go to college; the investigator who had reluctantly let her brother join in on a couple of cases. Hy knew much of this from Shar; he knew even more now because John had been waxing nostalgic—bordering on the maudlin—since he’d come up from San Diego and moved into their guest room nine days ago.

  Frankly, he was sick of it.

  To forestall any further reminiscences, he said, “Okay, say the folks at the agency identify the shooter and don’t go to the police. What happens then?”

  “We lure him to someplace where the body’ll never be found and blow him away.”

  “Not so easy to do.”

  “What d’you mean? The whole California and Nevada desert is a boneyard. There’re still people out there in Death Valley looking for the remains of Manson Family victims—and that happened over forty years ago, man.”

  “So how do you lure this guy to the desert?”

  John frowned.

  “Or do you kill him wherever he is and drive the body there— taking the chance you’ll be involved in a traffic stop? How do you kill him? You don’t know guns. A knife, strangulation? I’ve killed before, and it’s not easy. In fact it’s the hardest thing there is, even in self-defense. Just ask McCone—”

  He realized what he’d said, put his hand over his eyes. Sweat began beading on his forehead and all at once he felt disoriented.

  John stood and his big hand touched Hy’s shoulder. “Hey, bro, I’ll ask her as soon as I visit tomorrow. Even if she can’t talk, she can answer me.”

  * * * *

  JULIA RAFAEL

  T

  he driveway
was going on forever, and she couldn’t see a thing. Didn’t these people believe in lights?

  The town of Sonoma had looked old-fashioned and pretty, with its central square and courthouse and restaurants and shops that had to be way out of most people’s price range. Touristy— lots of people on the streets even at this hour. Couples holding hands; families eating ice cream cones. But the highway up the Valley of the Moon passed through a couple of rundown places full of shacks and old trailer parks, and then she was in the dark, wide-open country. She’d almost missed the secondary road that would take her to Peeples Winery. And now this ...

  She’d lived in the city too long to feel comfortable in the country. Had been born in Watsonville, but barely remembered Santa Cruz County or those artichoke fields her folks had worked—

  What was that? A house lit up like a Christmas tree. Dios, it was huge—long and sprawling pale tan stucco with a second-story galleria and a steep tiled roof. Big old oak trees were illuminated by floodlights. No wonder the Peepleses had skimped on the driveway lighting: their PG&E bill must be thousands a month.

  She pulled into the circular driveway, braked at the flagstone walk to the carved double front doors, then—suddenly ashamed of the car—moved it forward into the shadow of one of the oaks. She’d been so proud the day she bought the blue Toyota—her first car ever. Now it reminded her of how ordinary and marginal her life really was.

  Well, maybe not so much anymore. Things were going well. Next year, if she was careful about spending, she’d be able to send Tonio to a private school.

  She went to the door and rang the bell. Soft, pretty chimes inside.

  About half a minute later, Mrs. Peeples opened it. She was more frail than the last time Julia had seen her, and moving the heavy door seemed a strain. “Ms. Rafael,” she said, her lined face tense, “thank you for coming.”

  “I’m glad to help.”

  “Please, come in.”

  She stepped into a long hallway running the length of the central wing of the house. When Judy Peeples struggled to shut the heavy door, Julia helped her. She noticed the tall, gray-haired woman was short of breath and took her arm to steady her. Mrs. Peeples smiled faintly and accepted her support.

  “We’ll go back to the den, where my husband’s waiting,” she said.

  * * * *

  The den was at the rear of the house, past big, dark rooms opening off the hallway. Small and comfortable. Deep corduroy-covered chairs, faded and wrinkled from years of good use. Small color TV and a wall covered with bookshelves. Books also on the floor and end tables. The Peepleses matched the decor, both casually clad in jeans and T-shirts, Tom’s ripped out at the knees. Tom was white-haired, tall and lean, with the kind of sun-browned face that told you he worked outside.

  Judy Peeples had seemed on edge when she opened the door and now, in her husband’s presence, even more so. Julia could feel the tension in the small room. Tom grunted a greeting and glared at his wife. Obviously Julia had interrupted a fight.

  He said, “I told you to call her cellular and cancel.”

  “I couldn’t do that, Tom.”

  “This is a reckless course. It could bring ruin to us, the winery, and Larry’s memory.”

  “Of course Larry’s memory comes last on the list.”

  Julia looked around and took a chair opposite where Judy Peeples stood in a defensive stance over her husband.

  “You know,” Mrs. Peeples said to him, “your objections aren’t valid. We will survive. The winery will survive. But what we found in the tack room could be our only hope of learning what happened to our son. The only way of bringing him home to us.”

  How much cash had they found? And why was it in a tack room, of all places?

  Julia said, “Mr. and Mrs. Peeples—”

  They ignored her, turned up the volume of their argument.

  “You’re glad he’s gone,” Judy said. “He was always an embarrassment to you.”

  “How can you say that? I loved our son.”

  “Past tense.”

  “I love him.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve always looked down on him because you think he lacks intellect. And because he’s gay.”

  “I think he lacks drive, not intelligence. As for him being gay, I have no prejudice in that area. Didn’t I invite that Ben friend of his for weekends and holidays? Didn’t I show him every courtesy? Don’t I still, whenever he drops in?”

  “A butler would behave more warmly than you do.”

  “Please listen to me,” Julia said.

  Neither of them looked her way.

  “Goddamn it, Judy, what do you want from me?”

  “What do I want? I want my son back!” Judy Peeples bent forward from the waist, hugging her midriff, and began to cry. “This may be our last opportunity—no matter what he’s done—to find him and bring him home.”

  Tom Peeples’s lined face crumpled and he put his hand over his eyes, but he made no effort to comfort his wife.

  At last Julia could step into the situation. She went over, put her arms around Judy Peeples’s bent body, and helped her into a chair.

  * * * *

  After a moment, Tom Peeples stood, his lined face resigned, and laid a rough hand on his wife’s shoulder. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s just so hard for me to accept it.”

  She looked up at him, eyes streaming.

  “I’ll do anything you ask, if it’ll bring Larry back to us.”

  “... Thank you, Tom.”

  To Julia, Peeples added, “Please excuse our quarreling. We’re not ourselves today. Haven’t been in six months, actually.”

  “No problem. You’ve been dealing with stuff I can’t even imagine. Will you show me the money now?”

  “Yes. Come with me, please.”

  He led her into the hallway, through an informal dining room and a kitchen that Julia would have killed for. All this money, she thought, all this land, but these people were broken. The loss of an only child, the uncertainty of what had happened to him—that made every material thing meaningless.

  If Tonio vanished without a trace, she would spend her life searching—and grieving.

  Peeples led her along a lighted graveled path through an oak grove.

  “My wife thinks this money will lead you to some magical solution to our son’s disappearance.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “No. I’m not doubting your abilities, but I think if Larry disappeared voluntarily he’s hidden himself where no one can find him. Or else ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Foul play.” Peeples’s voice was choked.

  Hombre pobricito. He couldn’t bring himself to use the word dead.

  They came to a big white barn. When Peeples opened its doors, the smell took Julia aback, and she hesitated.

  “You afraid of horses?” Peeples asked. “They’re all confined to their stalls. They’ll get restless when we go in, but settle down pretty quick.”

  “I don’t know anything about horses,” she told him, “but the smell...”

  “Well, yes, they’re stinky buggers. I’m not crazy about them myself, but my wife, she loves them. We’ve got six. She gives free riding lessons to the vineyard workers’ kids.”

  Julia started liking the Peepleses a lot more.

  Peeples turned on a light. At first it blinded Julia, then she started, face-to-face with a blond horse that had a white star on its forehead. It whinnied, but its brown eyes were gentle.

  “This way,” Peeples said.

  The tack room was to the right. It was small, with saddles on stands, its walls covered with riding apparatus, none of which Julia could identify. Until tonight she hadn’t been any closer to a horse than the ones the police rode in the city parks.

  Peeples said, “I was moving some things around in here this afternoon, trying to consolidate them. There was a loose floorboard under one box that I’d never noticed before.” He went to the far side, pried up the board, and lift
ed out a small leather travel bag.

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” he said in a hollow voice. “Small bills. I’ve counted it twice.”

  He held out the bag and Julia looked into it. Rows of bills banded together. More money than she’d ever seen in one place.

  Peeples looked down at her, his tanned face slack and aged beyond his fifty-some years.