“So you feel this disappearance is voluntary?”
“Of course it is. I know Tessa; she’s sly and manipulative and will do anything to make a buck. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in hiding on some offshore island where she’s got money stashed, waiting to make her next move.”
“And what kind of move would that be?”
“I couldn’t tell you that. I’m no financial wizard like her. But I will tell you this: if she doesn’t surface soon, we’ll all be polishing up our résumés.”
“It’s that bad?”
“It’s that bad, and I’ve said too much already.” She got to her feet and added to J.D., “If a word of this leaks out, Smith, you’re dead meat.”
“She’s something, all right,” I said to J.D. when Vardon was out of earshot.
“I’d love to know how she got that way.”
“Roger’s brother Harry said something about a bad background and a fierce desire to better herself, but that doesn’t fully explain it. I’ve got a new hire in my office who could top any horror story Vardon might offer up, but compared to her, Julia’s a sweetheart.”
He looked at his watch. “Well, we can’t sit here all morning psychoanalyzing the WebPotentate. What now?”
“I want to check in with Engstrom, get some information on the employees I’ve isolated as possible troublemakers. I don’t know why, but I feel these incidents, plus Tessa Remington’s sudden disappearance, may have a connection to Roger’s suicide.”
Halfway up the stairs I realized I’d violated J.D.’s dictum against saying anything in the building that might reveal my true purpose for being there. What if the buffet area was bugged and Engstrom had overheard our every word? But to my relief, the publisher was engaged in an argument; I could hear it as we turned into the hallway.
“Goddamn it, Jorge, this is
my
magazine! I founded it, I guided it through the lean years. We’ll do things my way, or not at all.”
I touched J.D.’s arm, pulled him back. Pointed to the far end of the hall, where the petite figure of Lia Chen, Haven Maven, stood listening.
Amaya spoke in reasoned tones. “We are buried in unpaid invoices. The equipment is on the verge of obsolescence. The Web-site links are barely functional. The only tangible asset we have is this building—and it’s next to worthless—”
“We have talent. We have direction. That should count for something.”
Chen looked up, saw us, and stepped back into one of the offices.
“Unfortunately, Max, talent and direction are of very little importance in the financial world. We have no choice—”
“Bullshit! We have a choice, and it’ll be my choice—
Jesus Christ!
”
A blaring noise had interrupted Engstrom’s last pronouncement. Now another sounded.
Honk-honk-honk,
like the alarm in a prison-break movie.
J.D. shouted, “Fire!”
Between the strident bleats I heard a hissing, and then the automatic sprinkler system switched on.
“Shit!” J.D. grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stairway. He pushed through the door and dragged me with him. Down below staffers either stood stock still looking up at the spraying water or grabbed their possessions and thronged toward lighted exit signs at either end of the building. I pulled away from J.D. as he started down the stairs.
No smoke. No flames. Not even the hint of a smoldering electrical short.
Footsteps thundered behind me. Max Engstrom and Jorge Amaya rushed down, grabbed my arms, and pulled me after them.
“Wait!” I shouted. “There’s no fire. Your alarm’s malfunctioned.”
Engstrom stopped, letting go of me and nodding in agreement, but Amaya kept dragging me toward the rear exit. The floor was slick, and we slid the last couple of yards, then burst into an alleyway where it was raining harder than inside.
People milled about, talking excitedly, oblivious of the downpour. Engstrom came out, leaned against the building’s wall, panting. Amaya had let go of me, and when I looked for him he was gone.
The fire department arrived quickly, cordoned off the entire block of Illinois Street, and evacuated everyone from the alley. J.D. and I stood in the crowd beyond the tape, watching as firemen entered the building. The rain continued unabated, but most people were so soaked they no longer cared.
“My favorite sweater,” J.D. said mournfully, peeling the sodden wool away from his chest. “Good thing I bought a second, just in case.”
“You have two of that?”
Fortunately my astonishment didn’t register with him. “When I find something I really like, I always buy two.”
Clearly the man was color blind.
After a while most of the firemen departed and the captain of the squad took Max Engstrom inside. Jorge Amaya, who had been hanging around by the loading dock, followed them.
J.D. said, “Max’ll probably want to hire you for real now.”
“And that would put me in an extremely awkward position. It’s one thing to gain entrée to their offices by a ruse, but another to accept them as a client.”
“Well, start thinking of an excuse for not taking him on.”
“Time pressures. That’s always a good one.” But would Engstrom believe me, when I’d agreed to dedicate an entire day to a game for the sake of some free publicity? I worried on that for a while, then worried that I might already have compromised Glenn’s case against
InSite
. By the time Engstrom emerged from the building I’d moved on to the fact that I’d really gathered very little information this morning.
The publisher approached us, his gaze troubled and remote. When he spoke, it was to J.D. “You realize the game’s off. Of course, we’ll pay a kill fee for the story.”
“We could start over next—”
“I’m afraid not. There’s a great deal of damage here; we may have to suspend publication.” To me he added, “Thank you for your time, Sharon. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. And I’m afraid I’ll no longer be needing your investigative services.” Before either of us could ask what the source of the malfunction was, Engstrom turned and walked away.
When he was out of earshot I said, “I understand how the damage must be discouraging to him, but he seems totally defeated.”
“Something the firemen showed him, maybe. I’ve got a friend on the Commission whom I can ask about that.”
“Why don’t you? Also, talk with any of your sources who might be able to shed some light on Tessa Remington’s or Jody Houston’s disappearances.”
“You putting me on your payroll?”
“No, but if the two of us work together, we might come up with one hell of a story for you.”
J.D.’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“How many times have you been nominated for the Pulitzer?” I asked.
“Twice.”
“Three’s a charm.”
It was nearing noon, and the day that had begun so promisingly now loomed empty. Because I’d expected to be at
InSite
till midnight, I’d scheduled no appointments, and nothing pressing was going on at the office. I supposed I could take some personal time and sort through my ideas about the case while doing chores. At home I had a ton of dirty laundry and two cats who would surely be cranky and in need of attention because of the rain. There were messages on the answering machine that I’d been avoiding. Unwanted e-mail to be dealt with. Dust mice in the corners. Real mice in the crawl space …
I went by the house for some dry clothing, then headed for the pier.
Not much activity there. Ted’s Neon was parked in its space, and for a moment I contemplated stopping by his office to ask how he and Neal were getting along, but decided I wasn’t up to it. He hadn’t wanted to discuss his partner’s abrupt departure when I’d spoken with him yesterday, and I’d learned from long experience that he’d confide in me when he was ready, and not before.
I went upstairs and along the catwalk, waving to Craig Morland, who was taking a break and doing pushups on his office floor. Craig was into fitness, trained for the annual Bay to Breakers race, and had interested Adah in working out alongside him. Now, if they could only put Charley on a diet … Two weeks ago Craig had told me the cat’s vet had pronounced him “officially obese.”
There was a single message slip on my desk. Paige Tall-man, the friend who had leased Jody Houston’s flat, had called. I dialed her number, and she answered on the first ring.
“I heard from Jody last night,” she said. “She wouldn’t tell me where she was, just that she’d gotten to her new place okay, except the airline lost one of her suitcases and still hadn’t found it.”
“She say anything else?”
“Asked if anybody had been looking for her. I didn’t mention you.”
“Thanks. How’s the security system working out?”
“Great. I want to thank you again for sending your friend over. She gave me some safety tips, and I feel loads better.”
“Good.”
“I told Jody I didn’t appreciate her leaving me in a risky situation, and that I’d had the system put in. Made it sound like I paid for it myself.”
“What was her reaction?”
“Kind of defensive, and then she said she had to hang up.”
“Well, you know where to find me if she calls again.” I said good-bye, then buzzed Ted. “Is Julia in the office?”
“Out to lunch.”
“When she comes back, tell her I want to see her, please.”
The Nagasawa case file lay on my desk, Ted’s transcriptions of yesterday’s interviews attached to the back cover. I began going over them, highlighting words and phrases, looking for new lines of investigation. This evening I’d run by Kodiak Rick’s, the bar where Roger’s crowd hung out, see if there were others who’d known him who might be willing to talk with me. Right now I’d try to track down the
InSite
staffers who might be weak on loyalty, feel them out about Roger’s treatment at the magazine. I was especially interested in talking with Lia Chen, who earlier had been eavesdropping on Engstrom’s confrontation with Amaya.
I took out a list of the employees’ addresses and phone numbers that Engstrom had provided me with yesterday and marked the ones I wanted to see, then began calling. None answered their phones. Possibly they were still at the office, trying to salvage their soaked workstations. Finally I gave up and retreated to my armchair for some miscellaneous brooding.
“Sharon?” Julia Rafael’s voice, trying to contain excitement. “I’ve got something on Jody Houston.”
“Grab a chair and tell me about it.”
She wheeled my desk chair over and flopped down, fingers nervously playing with the edges of her case file.
“Okay,” she said, “like you suggested, I started by calling the airlines’ frequent-flyer programs, going down the listings in the Yellow Pages for the major carriers. But when I got to Air France, I figured out that I oughta concentrate on the companies that run relatively short flights out of SFO, Oakland, and San Jose. I mean, Houston didn’t take much luggage, so she probably wasn’t going far, right?”
Not necessarily, but apparently her logic had proved correct. “Go on.”
“Well, it wasn’t much of a shortcut. I kept striking out till I got to United. They had a frequent-flyer number on file for her.”
“And from that you got her flight information. Where’d she go?”
She frowned. “Don’t you want to know how I did it?”
Allowing her to live out her triumph for a few minutes wouldn’t hurt and, besides, critiquing her techniques was part of her on-the-job training. “Of course. How?”
“I said I’d lost my frequent-flyer card and couldn’t remember the number. I didn’t have any statements because I make it a rule to recycle stuff like that as soon as it comes in, so I couldn’t refer to them. But now I needed to know if I had enough miles to travel to Texas for my aunt’s funeral, and— Well, you get it. I acted kinda lame, and the clerk felt sorry for me, so she looked up the miles. Twenty-nine thousand, two hundred and three.”
“And from there … ?”
“I go, ‘That doesn’t sound right. Did last week’s trip to L.A. get posted?’ And she goes, ‘There’s no L.A. trip, but we’re showing Wednesday’s flight from San Francisco to Portland.’ That’s where Houston is—Portland area.”
“Julia, that’s great!” I was already at my desk, leafing through the Yellow Pages to the airlines section.
Julia followed me. “I didn’t get too dramatic or anything?”
“No. I think you have good instincts about how far to take it with whoever you’re talking to. Let’s try you on this.” I thrust the phone book at her. “Call United’s lost luggage department. A source told me Houston’s bag didn’t make it to Portland and, as of last night, it hadn’t been found. What do you ask them?”
“Um … I tell them I’m her and … I say I want to verify the address in the Portland area that the bag’s to be delivered to, since it hasn’t arrived yet. What if it already has?”
“Doesn’t matter. Say there must be a mistake—”
“And I want to verify it anyway. If they ask for a claim number, I’ll do the I-lost-it routine.”
She was good—and, as I’d suspected, she was also a bit of a con woman. I handed her the phone receiver.
She dialed and performed as if she’d been doing this for years. When she hung up she handed me the paper on which she’d scribbled the address.
Thirty-two Beach Street, Eagle Rock, Oregon.
Julia said, “They told me Houston’s bag was located in Omaha and should be there by morning.”
Strange. I’d once had a bag sent to Omaha by mistake. Maybe Nebraska was the purgatory of lost luggage.
Eagle Rock, Oregon. I buzzed Ted, asked him to check his atlas. After half a minute he said, “It’s on the coast, about two hours southwest of Portland.”
I considered the distance, compared the flying time in Two-five-two-seven-Tango with the speed of a commercial airliner. “Book me on any flight for Portland,” I told him.
It was Friday night, so I hadn’t been able to get a flight north till eight. The sky was dark but clear by the time I left the Portland area, the two-lane highway well marked and smooth beneath the wheels of my rental car. About halfway to the coast, where Route 18 and 99W divided, I saw the turnoff for McMinnville and felt a twinge. For a few years Joey had worked in a restaurant there—possibly his longest tenure of employment—and I’d always promised to visit and sample what he claimed was world-class cuisine. But I never had and now, like so many other things I’d promised, it was too late.