Locked In - [McCone 29]
Page 22
In his office—spartan, functional, the only luxury item being a leather sofa that was comfortable on long nights when a situation was brewing—he paused by the phone, considering a call to Len Weathers for assistance. No, he’d already decided Weathers was out of his life for good. Instead he called home and spoke to Brother John.
John was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the house when Hy pulled up in his Mustang. “Okay, let’s get this thing done,” he said as he got in.
It was nearly five o’clock; the evening fog had blown in early and brought with it a winter-like dusk. Hy switched on his lights.
“So where is this bastard?” John asked.
“I called the store where he works; he’s probably home by now. Loft in SoMa. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“And then?”
“I’ve got my plans for him.”
John visibly shrank from the hardness in his voice. Hy realized his brother-in-law had never seen him in this mode; few people in his present life had, except for Shar.
He said, “Don’t worry—there won’t be any killing.”
“Good.”
This from the guy who’d been itching for blood from day one. Well, he was glad to know John wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t any more either.
* * * *
The building where Ben Gold had his loft was a former factory on Clarence Street—a short block near the Giants’ ballpark. New windows in a century-old facade; faded lettering on the brick— Shea’s Iron Works. Outer foyer with surveillance cameras and intercoms. No answer at Gold’s.
Hy began pushing buzzers. Most residents didn’t answer. One who—from the numbering system—appeared to be on Gold’s floor, did. Hy said that he was Gold’s attorney and needed to see him on urgent business. The disembodied voice—male, female?— said Ben was on vacation, had gone to the Sonoma Valley to stay with friends for a few days.
Hy turned away, said to John, “Julia mentioned she’d called Gold for another follow-up interview today. It must’ve spooked him. I’ll bet he’s gone to the Peepleses’ winery for the money. He told Julia he was moving to LA soon to pursue his film career; he’s moved the departure date up.”
They went back to the car without speaking, and Hy drove to the nearby Bay Bridge on-ramp.
* * * *
Bright lights outside a large house at the top of a rise; dark driveway that meandered among vineyards. Hy pulled the Mustang onto the shoulder close to a low stone fence and cut the lights and engine.
Beside him, John was taking deep measured breaths—calming himself.
“Easy approach on foot,” Hy told his brother-in-law.
“Lots of light up there, though. I can see the individual branches of those oak trees.”
“Lights’re trained up on the trees and house. I don’t see any in the windows.”
Hy reached around John and took from the glove box the .45, the set of handcuffs, and the tape recorder he’d brought from the office.
John said, “You bring some of those for me, too?”
“No. One pair of cuffs and one recorder is enough, and I don’t hand over firearms to people who aren’t licensed to use them.”
“Funny, for somebody who used to be such a loose cannon.” Hy could hear a measure of relief in John’s voice; he’d probably never held a gun, much less fired one.
“Used to be?”
“Well, yeah. I guess we wouldn’t be here if the old fires were completely banked.”
“Damn right.”
Hy got out of the car, and John followed. John was wearing a light-colored shirt; Hy tossed him the black microfiber jacket he wore over his dark T-shirt. John’s blond hair was bright, even on a moonless night. “Pull up that hood,” Hy told him.
They started up the driveway, keeping to the side next to the stone wall. The vineyards were quiet except for the occasional light breeze that rustled the leaves of the grape plants. The air was warm, its smell earthy. The house loomed before them, silhouetted against the dark sky. At first Hy thought he’d been right about there being no lights in its windows, but then he glimpsed slanting yellow shafts coming from the rear to the left.
When they reached the top of the drive, he motioned for John to follow him under the oak trees. Led him around the spots that shone upward on their gnarled branches. Stopped and held up his hand. Pointed at himself and then at the back of the house.
Stay here. I’ll check it out.
John nodded.
In a crouch Hy moved through the oaks to the house. Sidled along the wall. Outside the first shaft of light, he stopped. The window was open, and he heard voices.
“... Great dinner, Mrs. Peeples. I really appreciate you letting me stay the night. I so enjoyed the times I spent here with Larry.” A youngish male.
Murmured reply in an older woman’s voice.
“And I’m so sorry Mr. Peeples is away at that conference.”
“He’ll be sorry he missed you.”
“If it’s okay, I’d like to take a walk before turning in. It’s so warm here—unlike in the city—and everything’s so fragrant.”
Another murmured reply.
Hy slipped back along the side of the house, clicked his fingers at John, motioning him to follow.
They were halfway to the rear windows when the lights went out. Another flashed at the back of the house. A door opened and closed. Footsteps swished—moving over grass—then crunched on gravel.
Hy kept going, John close behind.
They reached the back of the house, and Hy touched John’s shoulder, signaling for him to stop. Ahead of them a figure was disappearing into yet another oak grove. Hy measured the open space they’d have to cross, waited till the figure disappeared, then gestured for John to follow him in a crouch.
At the other side of the grove he saw a stable—big place, not like the one that he and Shar housed their horses in at their ranch. The tack room would be there.
He signaled to John and they moved forward. Through the open front doors, where the familiar smells of hay and manure greeted him. Past the stalls, where the horses—five or six, he couldn’t tell in the dim light—pawed and snorted at the intrusion. There was a faint glow in the doorway to the tack room. He motioned for John to stop, then eased close to the doorjamb.
A man knelt inside, flashlight trained on the floor, feeling around at the boards.
Hy restrained himself. Waited to see if the bastard pried up the right one.
The man lifted the board, shone the light down. Gasped and dropped the wood.
Hy raised the .45 in both hands. “Stand up, Gold, and stay still.”
Ben Gold panicked instead. Dropped the flashlight into the space where the duffel bag had been and rushed forward. Hy almost shot him. His momentary hesitation gave Gold time to dodge past him.
But the kid didn’t get far. Behind him Hy heard a grunt and a thud. Then another thud, louder than the first.
John exclaimed, “Ha!”
Hy retrieved the still-glowing flashlight and shone it around. John was standing with one foot on the small of Gold’s back. Gold wriggled feebly against the weight, then lay still.
Hy said, “Don’t crush him, for God’s sake.”
“Why not?”
“As I said, I’ve got plans for him.”
* * * *
With the flash off, the tack room was a black hole. Gold lay handcuffed on the floor at Hy’s feet. Hy let the silence build for nearly five minutes; it must’ve been an eternity for Gold. Then he turned on the light and shone it straight into the shackled man’s eyes.
“For Christ’s sake!” High-pitched, tremulous whine.
“If you believe in a god, better start praying.”
The face twitched, pale in the blinding light.
“I’m going to ask you questions. You will respond truthfully. I already know the answers.” He had learned these interrogation tactics in his early years with RKI, in order to extract information from people involved in h
ostage-holding situations.
He turned the flash out and waited.
John stirred restlessly behind him. Hy waited some more, until Gold began to moan, then switched on both the recorder and the flashlight. Gold flinched away from the glare, squeezed his eyes shut.
“Your name is Ben Gold?”
“...Yes.”
“You are the former lover of Larry Peeples?”
“What does this have to do—”
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Did Larry Peeples tell you about Haven Dietz’s plan to embezzle a hundred thousand dollars from her employer?”
No response.
“Did he?” Hy brought the light closer to Gold’s face.
“... Yes. He thought she’d never get away with it.”
“How did you know she succeeded?”
“The night before she’d told Larry it was all set. Said she would bring her briefcase to his place, show him what real money looked like.”
“The next night, did you attack her in the park and take the money from her briefcase?”
“No.”
Hy brought the light to within an inch of Gold’s closed eyelids. Gold rolled his head from side to side, moaning.
“Did you?”
“Okay, okay, yes.”
“You hurt her badly. Was that necessary to subdue her?”
“She fought pretty hard.”
“Did she?”
“Yes!”
“Tell me the truth, Gold.”
“All right, I hated the bitch. She didn’t like me, and I was afraid she’d convince Larry to dump me. I know people like her—they can’t leave anybody alone. Her way or no way.”
Hy shifted the light to one side. “So you brought the money here and concealed it under the floorboards.”
“... Yes. I was afraid it might be marked, or something.”
“And when you decided it was safe to spend it, and that you and Larry could go away together ... ?”
Silence.
“Gold?”
“All right. We fought. He was so smug, saying a hundred thousand wasn’t much at all, saying that he was coming back here to run the vineyard.”
“And you killed him?”
“No. He ran off—”
“The truth, Gold.”
“... I hit him. I hit him too hard and ... he died.”
“Where’s his body?”
“I don’t know. I left it in the alley behind the club we’d been drinking in.”
Bullshit. The body of the son of a prominent vintner, who’d been reported missing, didn’t go unidentified for months. Alicia Summers’s body had, but the circumstances were entirely different.
Hy let it go for now.
“After you killed Larry, why did you leave the money here?”
“... I couldn’t start coming around right away; it might’ve made his folks suspicious.”
“And why did you come for it tonight?”
“That detective, Julia Rafael, called me, wanting to talk again. I think she’s on to something. I decided to grab the money and take off.”
“Did Haven Dietz realize you were her attacker and demand something from you?”
“Something that she heard Julia Rafael say on the phone to Mrs. Peeples put it all together for her. She wanted the money. I was supposed to bring it to her apartment at six Sunday evening.”
“But instead you killed her.”
No response.
Hy moved the light again, and Gold squirmed.
“Did you?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Turn that light off! Please, turn it off!”
Hy didn’t heed Gold’s request. Instead, he asked, “Did you go to the offices of McCone Investigations on the night of Monday, July seventh, to look for the Dietz and Peeples files?”
No response.
He brought the light close in again. “Answer me.”
Nothing.
Hy waited in silence until he heard a whimper.
“Are you ready to answer me now?”
“Yes! Yes, I went to the pier in the afternoon and hid there until everybody left and the guard was drinking. I was afraid of what might be in those files.”
“But you couldn’t access them, could you?”
“No.”
“Did you shoot a woman who came into the office that you were searching?”
“I didn’t know who she was, but I’d been to that pier before, and I was afraid she might recognize me. I panicked. I was trying to save myself.”
“At my wife’s expense.”
Hy held the light on Gold’s face a few seconds more, then switched it out. Said to John, “Turn on the overheads, would you? Let’s get him out of here.”
* * * *
SHARON McCONE
T
hey came through the door of my room—Hy and John, supporting a man between them. I knew from his photographs he was Ben Gold. A pair of concerned orderlies followed.
Hy turned to the orderlies, said, “Sorry, this is private business.” Motioned for them to leave and shut the door.
Gold wore a buttoned-up coat. I could tell that under it he was handcuffed. The look on Gold’s face was one of terror. Hy shoved him forward.
“There,” Hy said, pushing him close to my bed. “See? That’s what you’ve done to my wife!”
Gold closed his eyes. Hy shook him, forced his gaze onto mine. “I want you to see, dammit! This is what you did to her. I can also show you crime scene photos of Haven Dietz. You disfigured her for a hundred thousand dollars, then you killed her so you could keep the money.”
Gold’s mouth worked.
“Where’s Larry’s body?”
Rasping breaths, but no answer.
Hy said to Gold, “I’m asking you one more time. Where?”
“I... don’t... know.”
Hy hit him. Hit him hard enough to send him flying across the room and crashing into the wall. Gold slumped on the floor, gasping.
The orderlies were through the door now. John went to speak with them while Hy took out his phone and speed-dialed. I listened as he talked to Adah.
“She’ll contact the SFPD,” he said after ending the call. “They like her a hell of a lot better than me.”
The orderlies remained by the door, watchful.
I looked down at Gold. On his outflung arm I saw the gleam of the finely woven silver bracelet that had ultimately revealed him.
Metal grazing my fingers...
Flash!
Silver links in the brief, harsh light...
Falling...
Falling...
No. Not falling any more.
* * * *
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 28
* * * *
SHARON McCONE
I
t was my birthday—a perfect summer afternoon in San Francisco, even though the rest of the country was well into autumn. I sat in my wheelchair in a spot of sun on the deck, Alice the cat curled on my lap—she’d really become fond of this chair and the way we could zip around—watching Ralph stalk a bird in the backyard. He was getting old and slow and would never catch it.
No big party, no dinner out, no trip to Touchstone or the ranch. This year I’d opted for a quiet day and an intimate dinner at home with Hy. Most people who’ve been confined to hospitals for over two and a half months would’ve been aching for company, balloons, cake, champagne, presents—the works. But I’d had more company and excitement since I was shot than the average person does in a decade. Being right here, right now, with my husband cooking up something exotic in the kitchen was exactly where I wanted to be. I’d gone through the round of birthday calls and cards, e-mails and floral deliveries, and now here in the sun I felt pleasantly sleepy.