Authors: Steven Gore
T
ell me something I don't know,” Marc Anston said, gazing over the Ocean Beach seawall toward the fog-filtered Farallon Islands.
Only the footfalls of an occasional daybreak jogger and the squawk of seagulls intruded on the rustle of the low-tide surf.
“That's the part that'll cost you.” Daniel Norbett glanced down at his worn Ferragamo loafers, now dusted with sand. The Cayman Island accountant gave a little shiver, unused to the chill of Northern California mornings.
“How can I be sure you'll deliver?” Anston asked.
Norbett cinched his trench coat tighter, then laughed. “That's a stupid question. I protected your ass in my Miami case.”
“I wasn't part of your case.”
“But you were part of what Quinton was doing and I sent the U.S. Attorney off in another direction.”
“Quinton doesn't seem to see it that way.”
“Only because his ego blocks his view.”
“I know, and it's the cost of doing business with ex-pat British lawyers. They're stamped out of the same mold. I hated dealing with those guys even back in the Contra days.”
They fell silent as a runner stopped on the sidewalk behind them and bent to retie her shoe.
Norbett watched her straighten up. “And there's something else. I think Quinton and Brandon may have outsmarted themselves when they talked to Gage.”
“By saying . . . ?”
Norbett waved a forefinger side to side in front of Anston. “You don't get that either without a little money up front.”
Anston folded his arms across his chest, weighing the offer and breathing in the salt air. He hated dealing with snitches. Norbett might not have informed on him and Quinton in order to beat his last case, but he snitched on someone.
“How much?” Anston asked.
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“I thought Gage only gave you ten.”
Norbett jerked his thumb toward the multimillion-dollar condos spread along the Great Highway behind him.
“We're in another period of irrational exuberance.”
Anston reached for his cell phone and punched in a number.
“Quinton, this is Anston. Transfer twenty-five grand to Norbett . . . That's what I said, to Norbett . . . No, not from Pegasus, you idiot, from one of your accounts, then reimburse yourself from Pegasus.”
Anston handed the phone to Norbett. “Give him your account details.”
Norbett read off the numbers from a slip of paper he'd withdrawn from his wallet, then disconnected.
“Sometimes that asshole doesn't think,” Anston said. “Let's walk.”
I
didn't tell Gage anything he couldn't figure out for himself,” Norbett said, as they returned a half hour later to the same spot along the wall. “I kept pushing the insurance angle toward a dead end. And played dumb about Brandon Meyer. But it's only a matter of time until he catches on.”
“What about the Jamaican woman? How do we know she won't blabber what she told you to somebody else?”
Norbett raised his palms toward Anston. “Don't touch her. I need her to keep an eye on Quinton. He doesn't seem to realize how big this thing is and how hot it might get if it explodes. He may melt.”
“There won't be time for that to happen. I have a plan to contain things. I'll just need to move it along a little faster.”
A
nston watched Norbett climb into a taxi to the airport in the Cliff House Restaurant parking lot overlooking Seal Rock. Seagulls fought over food wrappers blowing across the pavement, flailing and squawking and tumbling in the air. It gave him a feeling of revulsion, just like Norbett, the snitch who pretended he wasn't, who pretended he'd protected Anston in his Miami debriefing, when he was only protecting himself.
Anston reached for his cell phone as the cab pulled away.
“You have somebody in the Caymans?”
“No,” Boots said, “not the Caymans. But I got a guy in Havana. An hour flight.”
“Our friend just leaned on me for money and I don't want to have to keep paying him off for the rest of his natural life.”
“I take it the emphasis is on natural.”
“Exactly. I'll tell you when.”
S
ocorro piled her baggage at the front door, then walked into the den to retrieve a col-lection of DVDs to keep her company at Gage's family ranch. She smiled to herself when she realized the stack was absurdly tall. She calculated how many she could stuff into the pockets of her carry-on and left the rest piled on top of the audio stand. Her cell phone rang as she zipped up the last compartment. It was Faith pulling up in front.
Socorro slid her bags onto the porch.
“This is some pretty raggedy luggage,” Faith said as she climbed the stairs.
“I know, but it's hard to get rid of. It's been too many places.” Socorro pointed at the torn security tapes from a dozen countries crisscrossing the locks of the hard-sided Samsonite. “There's one from China right on top of the one from Taiwan.” She smiled at Faith. “I think some Chinese customs agent was trying to make a political statement.”
“It's not much of one unless your bag passes through Taiwan again and the Chinese get a look at it.”
“Not likely. We only went there because Charlie had some people to talk to. It was one of Anston's super secret missions. They paid for me to go along to make it appear we were just a couple on vacation. I think I was the cloak while he was the dagger. I still don't have a clue what we were doing over there.” She paused and shook her head. “They say marriage is about communication, but Charlie always practiced radio silence.”
Faith grabbed the suitcase, gave it a tug, and then added a second hand to lift it from the landing.
“Jeez,” Faith said. “How long are you going for?”
“Why don't you take the carry-on? I'll get that.”
Faith shook her head as she lurched down the steps. After reaching the bottom, she extended the handle and let the wheels carry the load down the walkway to her SUV. Socorro followed with the rest and helped Faith hoist the suitcase into the back. Faith glanced at the bulging carry-on as Socorro set it inside.
“That thing is about to burst,” Faith said. “I'm not sure you'll be able to fit it into the overhead compartment.”
Socorro locked her hands on her hips as she examined the lump of luggage.
“I'll cross that bridge later.”
W
hen are the kids arriving in Nogales?” Faith asked as they drove south past the Opera House toward the freeway.
“They have a wedding to attend on Sunday. They'll fly out afterward and stay through the week.”
“How are they adjusting?”
“Charlie Junior seems to be doing okay. Sandy is . . . I really don't know how Sandy is. She's been . . . I guess the word is erratic. Sometimes she treats me like I'm really fragile and she seems afraid she'll say or do something that'll upset me. Other times, she becomes as demanding as a drill sergeant.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“It didn't start until a week or two after Charlie died. She called early one morning, maybe five o'clock, asking if I was okay and if the dog was okay and then ordering me to go around the house to make sure the doors were locked. She even tried to order meâ
order
meâto get an alarm system.”
“Did you ask her what prompted the call?”
“She said she had a bad dream.”
F
aith headed toward short-term parking lot after following the sweeping flyway onto the San Francisco Airport grounds.
Socorro looked toward Faith. “You don't need to come in.”
“It'll take you an hour to check your luggage and get up to the security checkpoint. I'll keep you company.”
They found a parking spot and took the elevator down to the departure level of the domestic terminal. Check-in moved fast enough for them to have time for a cup of coffee before Socorro needed to join the security line.
“Are you thinking about writing again?” Faith asked, after they sat down at a table.
“I only have one book left in print. I don't even know what the children's market is like now. I'm not even sure I know how to speak their language anymore.”
Faith smiled to herself as she remembered proofreading the first of Socorro's “Oops” series of children's books about a little girl who wiggled her way out of one jam after another, but learned a moral lesson each time.
“Your carry-on was so heavy I assumed you had a laptop and manuscripts in there.”
“DVDs. I'm going to spend every day before the kids get there watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert and every
Thin Man
movie ever made. All black and white, except for
An Affair to Remember
. For that one I'll be crying my eyes out in living color.” She raised her cup. “To love in its many hues.”
Socorro took a sip, and then asked, “How do you and Graham do it? All these years and you still hold hands. Who does that anymore? At least not at our age.”
Faith didn't want to respond. She never wanted to give women advice about how to live, or present herself or Graham as examples, or recommend their lives to anyone.
How could she? She knew how many times she'd lain awake when he was working in Pakistan or Russia or Egypt or dozens of other countries, afraid for him, and him afraid for her when she was researching in deserts and jungles where medical care was days away and in China or India where sudden changes in political winds often swept the innocent away.
Faith took a sip of her coffee to avoid answering.
And all of this, though it was invisible to outsiders, had been earned by worry and sacrifice. They'd grown into their life together. It hadn't been guaranteed by their marriage vows or received like an inheritance.
What made it bearable was that they had each other and respected each other's need to do some good in the world where it was in their power to do it.
But how could she say all that to Socorro?
In looking at her now, Faith realized Tolstoy was wrong: Happy families aren't all alike. And the way she and Graham found happiness wouldn't be how Socorro would, if she ever did.
Faith glanced at her watch. “Maybe we should . . .”
S
ocorro gave Faith a hug just before arriving at the first security checkpoint. As she watched Faith walk away, Socorro's peripheral vision caught the profile of a familiar face at the rear of the line next to hers. She stared at the dark-haired man for a few moments, but couldn't resolve whether it was someone she knew or maybe an actor she'd seen on television. She shrugged, then turned and presented her driver's license and boarding pass to the security agent, and passed on through.
A
n hour later, Viz filled the doorway of the China Garden Restaurant in San Francisco, where Gage was eating lunch with Faith after she'd left Socorro at the airport. He spotted them in a far booth and approached, hat in hand. Faith scooted around the semicircular bench so Viz could sit down.
“I figured I better tell you myself, boss.”
“What's that?”
“I lost Boots.”
“What happened?”
“He found the GPS I planted on his van and stuck it under a FedEx delivery truck. By the time we figured it out, he'd slipped away.”
“What about the hotel?”
“I talked to Rosa, gave her a few bucks and asked her if she knew why he moved out. She told me she started to throw away a newspaper one morning and he told her he wanted to keep the real estate section. Later she overheard him talking about an investment he was making, and the next day she saw he'd circled some listings. He took it with him, was gone for a few hours, and then came back and checked out. She doesn't think he's coming back. She looked real disappointed. I think she'd gotten used to the extra money.”
N
amaste
.”
The Indian accent carrying the words into Gage's cell phone was both heavy and familiar. Gage swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He looked at the alarm clock, the red letters glowing in the dark.
“You know what time it is?” Gage asked as he emerged from the gray haze of sleep.
Babu laughed. “Of course, five in the evening.”
“I mean here.”
“Twelve and a half hours earlier. As it should be.”
“Which means?”
“It's time to get up.”
“Not in California.
Babu paused. “You mean Americans aren't getting up at the same time as us? I am always assuming they did. You want me to call back?”
Gage glanced over at Faith. He couldn't see her face, just the moonlit outline of her head propped up on one elbow.
“Hold on a minute,” Gage covered the mouthpiece. “I've got a new cultural insight for you. Babu seems to think everyone in the world gets up at the same time as Indians.”
Faith shook her head.
“I'm sure that'll be the next cover story for the
American Journal of Anthropology
,” Faith said, then dropped her head back onto the pillow.
Gage slipped on his robe and uncovered the mouthpiece.
“Hold on. I'll take this downstairs.”
G
age stood at the kitchen counter in the darkness, looking toward the lights of San Francisco, his view framed by pines and oaks on the lower part of the property. It was still more than an hour before the sun rose, and the owl hooting in the branch overhanging the deck seemed to be asking why Gage was already awake.
“The Hyderabad police found Mr. Wilbert's body in a mango grove behind one of the
dhabas
along the highway,” Babu said.
Gage felt his muscles tense.
“Did you see it?” Gage asked.
“No. He was cremated right afterward. We use our limited refrigerated storage for food, not dead people. But the local police took photos beforehand. That's how I knew who he was.”
“What killed him?”
“Natural causes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because foreigners in India only die of natural causes, even if the body shows signs of . . . of . . . shall we say . . . abuse? Our Ministry of External Affairs insists on it.”
“How much abuse?”
“Maybe as long as a few hours. Some bruises had time to form and some wounds scabbed over, others didn't. My guess is that he was strangled in the end.”
“Do the local police know who he is?”
“They suspect he's German because it's mostly them who come to India on the sex tours. More to Kolkata and Goa than to Hyderabad, but still . . .”
“How about encouraging them in that idea?”
“They'll find encouragement in anything that allows them to put the matter to rest.”
J
ust before sunrise, Gage brought a cup of coffee to Faith, still lying in bed and watching the local news. On the screen was a repeat from a previous evening's news segment.
A self-satisfied President Duncan leaned forward in his chair toward the interviewer.
“Of course, we'll swear them in immediately after the Senate vote.”
“What about a filibuster?”
the reporter asked.
“The Democrats would look ridiculous if they tried. A third of the Senate and the entire House hit the campaign trail in a few months, and nobody wants to carry that kind of ugly baggage.”
“Or is it merely that they don't want the same treatment if they take the White House a year from now?”
Duncan straightened his shoulders.
“That's not going to happen.”
Gage handed Faith her cup, then sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I think we've lost TIMCO.”
“Hawkins? Is that what Babu called about?”
Gage nodded. “Murdered.”
Faith shuddered.
“Now we have no admissible evidence.”
“Unless you can work back from whoever killed him.”
“That's assuming the killing was related. For all we know, it was something else. Maybe revenge for Hawkins's mistreating a girl.”
“But you don't think so.”
“No. But we'll never know for certain. There's nothing left of the crime scene except dirt and rotting mangos, and nothing left of Hawkins except ashes.”
“And Babu?”
“There's not much he can do. I'm positive the local cops he'd have to rely on have already been paid off by whoever did it.”
G
age called Joe Casey as he drove toward his office.
“Can you find out if a Robert Marnin came through customs recently?”
“Hold on.”
Casey came back on the line a few minutes later.
“He flew into Newark. Flight AIâ191 from Paris a few days ago.”
“Thanks.”
Gage disconnected and slipped his phone into his shirt pocket.
AIâ191. AI. Air India. A redneck like Boots Marnin wouldn't fly Air India from Paris unless the flight originated in Delhi, Mumbai, or Kolkata.
Gage looked up from the Bay Bridge at the fog intertwining itself in the financial district. Then his mind cleared: Charlie Palmer, the OSHA inspector Karopian, and Wilbert Hawkins weren't killed for revenge.
They were chosen one by one because they were links in an evidentiary chain Gage had followed hand over hand; one that now had exploded into a thousand pieces, just like the valve that had set off the TIMCO firestorm.
Gage shook his head and exhaled.
At least there's no one left to kill.
He drove on for a half mile, then found himself gripping the steering wheel.
Unless whoever was behind the killings stopped thinking like a lawyer.
I
nstead of taking the exit toward the Embarcadero, Gage continued on the freeway to the off-ramp nearest the Hall of Justice. After a couple of hours researching criminal files in the superior court clerk's office, Gage realized he was wrong.
There was one person left to kill.