The front door opened. “Hey, Red, where are you?” Ricky, back from the hospital.
“Living room.”
She could hear him pulling off his coat and hanging it on the rack in the entryway. He called, “Shar’s still in surgery. They were getting edgy about a cast of thousands in the waiting room, so I took a break.”
He appeared in the archway, and his gaze rested on Callie. “Hi. Who’s this?”
“A new friend, Callie O’Leary.”
Something flickered in his eyes; he knew exactly what she was. He’d had plenty of contact with women like her in the music business.
“Well, Callie,” he said, “welcome to our home.”
Callie’s eyes widened and she turned to Rae. “Oh my God, you did marry well. Ricky Savage! I can’t believe it! I’ve listened and listened to his music hundreds of times, and I saw that movie he did last year.”
“Crappy movie,” Ricky told her. “But I thought I looked okay in a beard.”
Rae said, “Callie needs a safe place to stay. And she wants to tell me something.”
He replied, “A safe place is what we have to offer.”
* * * *
HY RIPINSKY
F
our and three-quarters hours gone.
He grasped Ted’s hand, thought about praying.
Funny thought, for an atheist.
Religion just didn’t work for him. What worked was the life force: McCone, loving her, soaring through the sky together...
He concentrated on that.
A man in blood-spattered green scrubs entered the waiting room. At first glance Hy didn’t recognize him, then he realized he was Dr. Ben Travers, the surgeon with whom he’d briefly spoken before Shar went into surgery.
The blood—his wife’s.
He stared at the doctor, trying to read his face. It looked like a mask.
Ted let go of Hy’s hand, motioned that he should stand up.
He did, and moved toward the surgeon, hoping for the best, steeling himself for the worst.
* * * *
CRAIG MORLAND
H
e always got lost in Scottsdale.
It was strange, because he had a good sense of direction and the city was laid out on a grid. But there were a few twists and turns that he couldn’t comprehend, and although Daniel Blackstone’s house was on Mariposa Street close to the main shopping area, Craig kept taking side streets and passing the same roundabout with the rearing life-size bronze horses in its center. The third time past, he called Daniel.
“Not again,” his friend said. “Don’t you have GPS?”
“On this piece of shit rental? Give me a break—and directions.”
“Where are you?”
“By the horses.”
“Coming from which way?”
“How the hell should I know?”
A sigh. “Take the street—I forget its name—where there’s a gallery on one side and a jeweler’s on the other.”
“All you have in this town is jewelry stores and galleries.”
“It’s right there, past the horses.”
“North or south?”
Another sigh. “West.”
“Which way is west?”
“Just look for the sun and go the other way. Then turn left on my street.”
“Yes, boss.”
Craig and Daniel Blackstone had been friends during their FBI years in DC. Had pub-crawled and trolled for women together, gone to ball games, spent time gambling in Atlantic City. Then Daniel had split from the Bureau—something to do with one of his cases that involved a political cover-up that he would never talk about—and a couple of years later Craig had gone to San Francisco to be with Adah. They’d stayed in touch, though, and more than once he’d tapped into Daniel’s expertise.
He made the left turn and finally spotted the house—nondescript beige stucco, surrounded by pink and white oleanders and palm trees. Craig parked at the curb, got out of the small rental car, and stretched his cramped muscles. The house’s door opened and Daniel’s voice called, “You find the place all right?”
“Asshole,” Craig muttered.
“Say that louder.”
“Asshole!”
* * * *
Daniel Blackstone was tall and lean, with chiseled features and long dark hair secured in a ponytail. He wore turquoise rings and the buckle of the belt that cinched his jeans was one that he’d told Craig he’d bought from a down-and-out rodeo champion. A Western shirt and string tie completed his outfit.
Daniel was from Maryland, but he’d gone native in Arizona.
“You want a beer?” he asked, heading back toward the kitchen.
“A beer? Man, it’s the middle of the morning.”
“I don’t keep local hours. As they say, the sun’s over the yardarm—someplace.”
Well, why not?
“I got chips and guacamole, too.”
Even better.
A few minutes later Craig was seated in a deep armchair in Daniel’s office—beer, chips, and guac to hand and computers and audio equipment all around. Daniel was working at one of the monitors, ashes from his cigarette falling onto the keyboard.
After a moment he said, “It’s the same young blonde woman in every scene. Voiceprint is identical.”
“Can you tell anything about her?”
“Well educated. Has that overprivileged lilt—you know, the one that makes factual sentences into a question. Like that one you were so hung up on in DC—what was her name?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Oh, yeah—Lauren. Lovely Lauren. You took her away from me.”
“You never had her to begin with.”
“Valid point.” Daniel paused. “All right, I’m doing a high-res zoom on the guy with the tattoo. You think it’s SF’s mayor?”
“Could be.”
“Not. This tattoo is a press-on. Come over, look at it.”
Craig got up and looked over Daniel’s right shoulder. Daniel zoomed in ever closer. “See this edge? It’s tipped up a little. And the skin tone’s different, filtered through the latex.”
“So it was a setup.”
“Right. Now watch this.” He clicked on another scene—the woman and the Amanda Teller lookalike. “It’s a good fake, judging from the photos of Teller you’ve given me, but there’s one little problem: check out her skin.”
Craig squinted at the magnified image. “What about it?”
“Teller was in her forties. This woman is in her early twenties.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Can you get clearer images of the men in the scenes with the blonde woman?”
Daniel looked over his shoulder and smiled at him. “I don’t like to talk about bears shitting in the woods, but...”
* * * *
HY RIPINSKY
S
o damn many hours gone that he didn’t try to count them anymore.
McCone had survived the surgery. They’d removed the clot and the bullet and bone fragments and God knew whatever else crap from her skull.
But now the waiting began.
The next several hours were critical, Travers had said.
Hy sat next to Elwood, who hadn’t stirred except for the occasional cigarette break outside. Hadn’t spoken much either. The others had come and gone, as if in orchestrated shifts. They chattered and tried to cheer him, but he preferred Elwood’s silence.
It was after noon when Travers came out and told him for the third time that the next few hours were critical.
His fists clenched. He felt like leaping on the doctor, demanding reassurance.
Elwood’s weathered, long-fingered artist’s hand touched his. “She will survive, but first tsaniigh saika bennenda’ga. Loosely translated, that means let her go.”
“Let her go? That’s insane!”
“Set her free. She’ll come back to you.”
“What’s that, some fuckin’ Indian mysticism?”
Elwood re
leased Hy’s hand. Smiled.
“No, it’s simple wisdom. Before this is over, you’ll own a large share of it yourself.”
* * * *
JULIA RAFAEL
S
he’d been up all night. Her eyes felt gritty and her head throbbed. Several hours at the hospital, then home, where Tonio was sick with some kind of stomach flu and she’d taken over so Sophia could get some sleep. Then to the hospital, and back to the pier after she’d found out Shar had survived the surgery.
Dios gracias!
Thelia’s reports—nothing from Diane—only contained information she already had. So she got on the computer and read through old newspaper accounts of Haven Dietz’s attack and the embezzlement at her brokerage firm. Looking for that shred of information that might provide a lead.
Nothing.
She pushed away from the monitor, picked up the phone, and called Hy at the hospital. No change in Shar’s condition; still waiting.
How could he stand it, when she could barely stand it herself? If only she’d gone back to the pier with Shar that night after they’d had dinner. If only she’d told her retrieving the cell phone could wait, invited her over for a glass of wine. If only Shar wasn’t so forgetful about gassing up her car.
All the if-onlys, and focusing on them didn’t change a thing.
She closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair, and thought about Haven Dietz. Leaving the brokerage firm with a hundred thousand dollars in her briefcase. Walking across the park from her bus. The briefcase had been found empty in a trash can several yards from where she was attacked—a scarred black leather case that had seen better days. Not a case that would attract a thief.
Someone had known the contents of that case.
And he or she had come prepared to carry the cash away, probably in the duffel bag that had been stashed under the floorboards of the Peepleses’ tack room.
The attack had been savage. Dietz’s assailant had taken out extreme rage and hatred on her.
Larry Peeples?
Julia couldn’t stand sitting around, waiting on word about Shar, waiting for a sudden inspiration to strike her. She looked at her watch: eleven o’clock, a good time for a drive to the wine country.
* * * *
RAE KELLEHER
S
he’d stayed up late questioning Callie, slept a few hours. When she got up she made arrangements for the woman to give a deposition to Ricky’s and her attorney, then fly to New York City and stay at an apartment that Zenith Records, Ricky’s company, maintained there. An associate of Ricky’s would keep tabs on Callie until legal action about the things she had told Rae could be set in motion.
Rae checked with the hospital—Shar was hanging in there but far from out of the woods. She cooked Callie breakfast, then took her to the attorney’s office and then the airport. When she got back home, she listened to the tapes she’d made of their conversation. The only detail Callie had been reticent about was who had threatened her, but Rae could guess.
“... Lee Summers pimped his own daughter. At first it was like, she was pretty so he’d take her around, show her off to political people. But then he was setting her up with guys he wanted to give him a donation or owe him favors...I don’t know who, but they were important.
“She told me she freaked the first time, didn’t know her dad had turned her over to this older guy for sex. But after a while she kind of got into it, because it was a way of sticking it to Daddy in return. I could’ve told her Daddy couldn’t care less, but she didn’t want to hear it. He’s one cold son of a bitch, that Summers...
“I met her when Summers hired me to do a twosome with her. She was pretty drugged up, didn’t even know they were videotaping it. Afterwards I took her home with me, sobered her up, calmed her down. She didn’t want to go back to her parents’ place, so I let her stay. She changed her name, bought fake ID, turned some tricks, and six weeks later she was dead....
“Yeah, I knew who she really was, but I wasn’t gonna go to the cops with it. That Lee Summers is a bad dude; I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed her himself.... Why? Because she was outside of his control. What if she decided to go to the press? What if she told somebody and they talked?
“... I don’t know who else was involved in the taping. Summers hired me, and a director and a couple of porn techies that I’ve seen around town handled the shoot...No, I can’t give you their names, but they work for a production company, Hot Shots. They’ve got an office and soundstage on Howard Street.
“... I’m talking to you because I read about what happened to your boss and I think Lee Summers had a hand in it. I hate men like him. I think you might be able to do something about this; then I won’t have to be looking over my shoulder my whole life.”
Rae clicked off the recorder.
All right, she thought, on to Hot Shots.
* * * *
MICK SAVAGE
H
e’d been at the hospital for hours, but there was no change in Shar’s condition and he needed to do something at the pier. It was nearly noon, when Diane D’Angelo always left promptly for lunch—a good time for him to get into her files on the city hall case.
Craig distrusted the socialite who was playing at being an investigator, and Mick did, too. Not only because she’d produced no results on the case, but because her self-blaming remark about how Shar had gotten shot because she’d failed to solve the case smacked of insincerity, and—he’d realized this afternoon—the woman had never once visited his aunt since she’d been hospitalized. Everybody else from the agency had been at both SFG and the Brandt Institute.
Mick parked his Harley in his allotted space on the pier’s floor. Of the vehicles belonging to agency personnel, only Ted’s new red Smart car was there. He went upstairs, looked into Ted’s office: the office manager—or Grand Poobah, as he jokingly referred to himself—was at his desk, scowling at the computer monitor. Mick slipped by unobserved.
The agency’s system was difficult for outsiders to access, but simple for employees. They were a team, they trusted each other, no need to take extra precautions. Mick pulled his chair up to his workstation and began typing in passwords.
Diane D’Angelo’s files were blocked.
Uh-huh, but not for long. Not with the new software he and Derek had developed for just such contingencies.
He accessed the blocked files within three minutes. Found the ones D’Angelo had passed along to Craig and him, and also the file on the inquiry that Shar had handled last year for Amanda Teller. The one Derek had retrieved for Hy on Monday.
No reason for D’Angelo to have that file.
Next job: find out about the woman.
Mick’s fingers tapped over the keyboard as he moved from one search engine to another. What he discovered didn’t surprise him.
She wasn’t who she claimed to be. Diane D’Angelo, formerly of San Francisco and then of New York City, had died in a boating accident off the coast of Maine five years ago.
So who was this imposter? And why hadn’t Shar run a routine background check when she hired her? Or asked Derek or him to do it?
He began searching again.
* * * *
JULIA RAFAEL
S
he arrived at the Peepleses’ winery at a quarter to one. It was hot in the Valley of the Moon, the surrounding vineyards still on this windless day. A couple of men in work clothes and sunshade hats were out, doing whatever people did to tend vines, but they moved in slow motion. Julia parked in the driveway and went down a path at the side of the house to the stables, where Judy Peeples had told her she’d be. The tall, frail woman was grooming a big black horse that, to Julia, looked mean and dangerous.
When she called out, Mrs. Peeples turned and greeted her. She set down the brush she’d been using on the horse and put him in his stall, then came over and shook Julia’s hand.
“I’m sorry my husband can’t be here,” she said. “He’s at a wine-makers’ lunche
on in town. A regular monthly event. I didn’t want him to miss it; he’s had so little diversion since he discovered that money.”
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