Sorry, folks. The instant I connected with Adah, I knew why I’d never been serious about any of those well-bred beauties.
He didn’t actively dislike D’Angelo, but he couldn’t understand why Shar had hired her. She was a poor fit for the agency. Or maybe that was why Shar had brought her aboard; the other operatives were an odd mixture, and none of them totally mainstream. Even he, once the standard-issue fed, had been transformed in subtle ways by his relationship with Adah and his move to San Francisco. Maybe Shar’s motivation in hiring Diane had been as simple as wanting someone who would blend in at society parties.
Still, Craig didn’t completely trust Diane, and he and Mick had decided not to share with her the information about the videos that Craig had found in Harvey Davis’s condo.
“... I didn’t think the mayor was all that concerned about the investigation,” Diane was saying. “He never spoke to me. Just nodded cordially and went about his business.”
“Your only contact”—Mick consulted his notes—”was this aide, Jim Yatz.”
“Right. If you’re looking for answers—especially to the Teller and Janssen connection—he’s the one you should go to.”
Mick glanced at Craig and he nodded.
Craig said, “You’re hooked into the local scene. What do you know about Yatz?”
Jim Yatz, D’Angelo said, had grown up in the city’s Inner Richmond district. His father had been on the board of supervisors for two terms in the early 1970s and held various administrative positions with the city until his death in 2005; he left his son a legacy of public service.
“Jim’s father’s connections are what got him a scholarship to Georgetown University in DC. He studied public policy, did an internship on Capitol Hill, and then came home.” D’Angelo smiled wryly. “This city has a way of luring back those of us who were born here.”
Yatz had taken an entry-level job in the city planning commission—a move that surprised those who knew his credentials and political connections. Soon he rose to assistant director, then was tapped by the port commission to look into the demolition or renovation of aging piers. A year ago, the new mayor—a boyhood friend—had hired him as his chief administrative aide.
Jim Yatz was said to be brilliant, politically savvy, and fiercely loyal to the mayor and his administration.
“He’s also said to be devious and ruthless if the occasion warrants it,” D’Angelo finished.
Craig tapped his pencil on the table, glanced at Mick, who was making a note. “Any personal stuff on Yatz?” he asked.
“Unmarried, dates a lot of beautiful women. Owns a house in the Marina. Entertains lavishly. No,” Diane said to Craig’s inquiring look, “he’s never entertained me. Jim and I... well, that goes back a long way.”
“To what?”
She shifted her position in her chair, curled a lock of her hair around her index finger—a nervous habit that Craig had previously noted. “He and I... we dated when he was in DC and I was in New York. Long-distance relationship, and it didn’t work out.”
“But he didn’t react negatively when we brought you in on the case. In fact, he gave you a strong reference when you applied to work here.”
“Jim and I have made our peace. I was the wrong woman for him, but he knew I was the right woman for the job.” She frowned. “But it turns out I wasn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if I’d done the job properly, Sharon wouldn’t have gotten shot.”
“Then let’s do the job properly now. You’re something of an SF insider. Tell Mick and me what you know about our complicated city government.”
* * * *
RAE KELLEHER
T
he Summerses’ house was up a long, badly paved driveway in the Lafayette hills. Rae maneuvered the low-slung Z4 around the worst of the potholes, but still the undercarriage scraped a couple of times.
Shit! He’s a lawyer, they must have money. So why can’t they re-pave their own drive?
She parked her car next to a Subaru station wagon in front of the garage and looked up at the house: murky green clapboard made murkier by the shade of the oaks that towered over it; two stories, probably with a third built down the hillside behind. A pretty setting, but a trifle gloomy for her taste.
As she got out of the car a white minivan pulled up behind her, and a slender woman with wavy light brown hair got out and approached her. “Ms. Kelleher? I’m Jane Koziol.” They shook hands, and Koziol motioned Rae toward the front door. “Senta’s in a pretty bad way, which is why I suggested I meet you here. She wants to hear firsthand about how you found out Alicia was a murder victim. But I’m going to ask you: please spare her the gorier details.”
“I didn’t bring my file or any crime scene pictures, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not into gore myself.”
“Good.” Koziol rang the doorbell. Its summons was answered immediately by a tall woman with unkempt dark hair that fell to her shoulders; she was wearing a pair of rumpled blue sweats, and the skin around her eyes was red and puffy, her face drawn with sorrow.
Senta Summers greeted them and took them into a living room overlooking an oak grove on the slope below. She asked them to be seated, offered refreshments, which they both declined, then sat tentatively on the edge of the sofa, as if poised for flight.
“You want to know how I found out what happened to your daughter,” Rae said.
“Yes. And I want to thank you. The not knowing is what’s been so unbearable.”
Rae could understand that; the Little Savages weren’t even her own children, but if one of them disappeared, she’d’ve spent many a sleepless night.
Rae provided her with a brief summary of her investigation. “The credit really should go to the Bay Area Victims’ Advocates,” she added. “They never give up, even when the police do. If you don’t mind, would you tell me about Alicia, so I can close out my file properly?”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Senta made a helpless gesture with both hands.
“What kind of child was she?”
After a long pause, Senta said, “She was a feisty baby who grew into a very willful young adult. At first that seemed a good quality, since she put it to use achieving things: good grades, science fair prizes, an excellent summer job as a counselor at a kayaking camp. She loved to take photographs. That’s one of hers over the mantel.”
Rae looked where she pointed. A wide-angle view of the sun glinting through the branches of an oak tree. Not professional-quality, but it showed promise.
“She was beautiful and loving,” Senta added. “But then it all changed in her senior year.”
Alicia, her mother said, had become withdrawn and her grades fell off. She lost her interests, didn’t see her friends, and finally began staying away from home for days. “I tried to control her, but she did whatever she wanted. Her father was no help; he told me to back off and give her some space. Then, on July ninth of the year she graduated, she left home for good.” Senta Summers paused, shook her head as if to clear it. “All this time I’ve been hoping she’d come back someday, and now I know she never will.”
Jane Koziol took a packet of Kleenex from her purse and passed Senta a tissue.
Rae asked, “Did you file a missing person report?”
“After the requisite seventy-two hours.”
“Your husband is politically connected—couldn’t he have requested the police look into Alicia’s disappearance sooner?”
“My husband prides himself on operating strictly within the law and asks no favors.” The words were full of venom.
“What about a private investigator? Did you consider employing one?”
“I wanted to, but Lee said no.”
“Why?”
“He was working on an important political campaign, and he was afraid word would get out that we couldn’t control our own daughter.” Senta’s voice was even more bitter.
Time to hit her with the big questions. �
��Is that why you filed for divorce?”
If she was surprised by Rae’s knowledge, she didn’t show it. “Among other things. But Lee persuaded me to withdraw the petition in exchange for certain concessions.”
“Which were ... ?”
“I don’t see as that’s relevant to my daughter’s murder, Ms. Kelleher.”
Rae glanced at Koziol, then said to Senta, “The things you mention about Alicia—drop in grades, loss of friends and interests— are often signs of depression. And depression in teenagers can often be caused by sexual abuse. Did you ever suspect—?”
“No!” The answer was prompt and loud. “There was nothing like that between Lee and Alicia.”
Denial? Or... ?
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. Lee hasn’t been able to ... perform for over ten years. Prostate problems.”
“Abuse isn’t necessarily defined by penetration.”
Senta shook her head emphatically. “There was nothing like that. The truth is, Lee was indifferent to our daughter. Oh, he tolerated her, but only because she was pretty and smart and he could show her off to his political associates. He simply didn’t acknowledge her, unless the occasion suited his needs.
“I ask you, do you see him here today? He wasn’t here yesterday when I got the news. I waited up till nearly one o’clock to tell him. Then he pretended grief—he’s a very good pretender— and gave me a sedative and held me in bed. But at four-thirty in the morning I heard him talking on the phone. And he left at seven, telling me I should arrange for her exhumation from wherever the city buried her so she can be interred in the family plot. Oh, yes, and to call people and plan for a memorial service. God knows what he wants me to tell them she died of.”
Rage glinted in Senta’s eyes. “I will do all of that, out of respect and love for my daughter. And then I will leave Lee—this time for good.”
“His indifference to your daughter—do you have any idea what it stemmed from?”
Senta didn’t reply for a moment, looking down at her hands. “Oh, well, what does it matter now? Lee and I were separated at the time Alicia was conceived. We were seeing others, but we also ... got together a few times. All the same, he thought she wasn’t his daughter.”
“Was she?”
“I’m not certain. I offered to have a paternity test run, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Even though the records would be confidential, he was afraid information would leak out. With Lee, everything is about his reputation.”
“So he raised her as his own.”
“He gave her everything a child could need or want—except love.”
“I’d like to talk with your husband.”
“Good luck. Maybe you can catch up with him at Pro Terra Party headquarters. But that’s no guarantee he’ll give you the time of day—not where his family is concerned.”
* * * *
MICK SAVAGE
H
e was feeling at loose ends and kind of brain-fogged after his meeting with Craig and Diane, so he took a walk south on the Embarcadero to clear his head. Sat down on one of the granite blocks with the bronze octopus sculptures embedded in it, patting the head of one and staring out over the bay. The day was clear. Runners pounded by on the pavement. Pleasure boats sailed past on the water, probably heading for McCovey Cove by the ballpark; there was a Giants game going on today.
Diane’s lecture on city government had bored him. All those special interests fighting each other, all the rivalries and the feuds and the scandals. Didn’t anybody think of the common good anymore? No—it was me, me, me.
He’d been like that once, a consequence of growing up poor and then having the money gush in when his dad finally made it big in the music business. They’d gone from a tiny rental house to a bigger one that they owned, and then an even bigger one, and finally to a huge estate in the hills above La Jolla. An ancient VW bus was dumped in favor of a Porsche for his dad and a Mercedes for his mom. Other costly cars followed. They shopped constantly; they took trips to exclusive resorts; they built a desert compound south of Tucson, complete with recording studio.
I need, I want, I must have...
No longer his philosophy. The irony being that he and Derek were about to get rich off this new software they’d developed.
Rich didn’t mean happy, though. Not even contented. He’d seen that in the decline and explosive end of his parents’ marriage. Thank God they’d both found other people to love and made peace between themselves.
Okay, enough of that, he told himself. Concentrate on the case.
Sex tapes involving city and state officials. Three murders. Missing document signed only hours before the killings. Exchange of money between Janssen and Teller implied. Other documents missing from city hall. No telling how many highly placed officials were involved in this mess....
The voice on Craig’s audiotape of what Janssen had said to Teller at the lodge: “You think you’ve pulled off a big coup, but these people are dangerous. Consider what they did to Harvey.”
What people?
Mick stared out at a sailboat on the bay. Rubbed the bronze octopus head for luck, and stood up.
Time to talk with Shar.
* * * *
SHARON McCONE
H
y seemed cheerful when he came into my room and plunked an orchid plant on the roll-away table. Yellow flowers. Pretty. Was he planning to replace the weekly roses with orchids, run the gamut from yellow to deep, dark red again?
Or is the transition to yellow a sign that his love’s weakening, now that he’s saddled with a silent, motionless mummy of a wife?
Don’t go there, McCone. You’re only entertaining such ideas because you’re feeling lousy today.
He kissed me, chased the bad notion away for a while. Flopped in the chair, looking pleased with himself.
“I went over that file about the work you did last year for Amanda Teller again. Deep background on a Cheryl Fitzgerald and a Don Beckman. Founders of the Pro Terra Party, which put Paul Janssen in the state house of representatives.”
I wanted to blink, but weariness overcame me. Something wrong, a new low point. Today everything felt negative. Was negative. My breathing wasn’t right and my head hurt. Why didn’t Hy notice?
He added, “I sense connections, but I can’t quite put them together.”
I drew a labored breath, shut my eyes.
“What I want to do is call a staff meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Here. I’ve already cleared it with Saxnay. Is it okay with you?
With an effort, I opened my eyes, then blinked.
“Great. I’ll get Ted started on setting it up.”
Why don t you notice something’s wrong with me, Ripinsky?
And what else are you getting started on? What about this deal with Len Weathers?
God, there had to be some way to communicate with the man! Tell him how bad I felt. Tell him to change course where Weathers was concerned.
But I was so tired.
I closed my eyes.
“We’re going to beat this, McCone. I know we are.”
Maybe not.
* * * *
JULIA RAFAEL
S
har had told her to dig, so she did. Also asked Thelia and Diane to help her.
More background on Haven Dietz. Nothing there she didn’t already know. Phone calls to Dietz’s former friends and colleagues. Most of them weren’t available. She left messages, doubting her calls would be returned.
Julia found she was retracing old ground, repeating things she’d done in the early stages of her investigation. The report Thelia gave her on Dietz’s finances was identical to one already on file: Dietz was living on disability payments; she had few assets. Nothing was forthcoming from Diane.
Dios, maybe she wasn’t cut out for this kind of work after all. She couldn’t get an original angle on the case. She felt like the driver of a car stuck in sand who kept accelerating and digging it in deeper. Th
at wasn’t the kind of digging Shar wanted her to do.
She went to the conference room where the coffeepot was. About half a cup left—dark and yucky-looking. She poured it into a mug anyway. While she was there, trying not to choke on the strong brew, Ted stuck his head through the door.
Locked In - [McCone 29] Page 14