The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (12 page)

“Van’s already here, stashed in an inconspicuous place in the alley. It’ll fit right in in this neighborhood, but won’t be seen from the street or surrounding buildings.”

The van was a ten-year-old Dodge Ram, with dings and dents to attest to its rough past. Its paint was white except for where it revealed an undercoat of robin’s-egg blue, and on its doors you could see where the sign for Sparky’s Hot Dogs had been painted over. We hadn’t done anything about its appearance, but inside the hood was a powerful new engine and behind the front seat was a sophisticated surveillance system. No one ever gave the van a second look, but it had taken many looks at bad things that were going down.

“How’re you going to get back?” I asked.

He grinned. “You ever heard of the bus?”

Oh, yes I had—during the time when I was restricted from driving because of my injuries.

“Are you going to be okay here?” Deeds asked. “Shouldn’t we do something about getting the water and power on?”

“Water and power department trucks would be too conspicuous. Besides, I’m beginning to settle into this place. I’ve named it Cockroach Haven.”

6:08 p.m.

After Deeds left, I called Steve Burry on my new disposable cell and gave him the number, asked him to circulate it. No, still no contact with Hy, he told me. Deeds had said he’d now be busy trying to find out if there was more of a connection between Jay Givens and Van Hoffman than we already had.

I pawed through the assortment of clothing from the prop room, deciding on tonight’s costume. Not much was appropriate for night work, except for a bulky navy-blue sweater jacket so big that its sleeves covered my hands and its hem hung down to mid-calf. The nicest touch, I thought, was a gaping hole in one elbow. With it I’d wear the black jeans and T that I’d put on at home this morning.

Next I experimented with bandages: one suggesting a cut over my left eyebrow looked good; below it I placed another along my jawline. I left the makeup for later.

The light was fading fast outside the salt-rimed, filthy windows. I pulled the curtains till they overlapped, closed the door to the bath, and turned on the Maglite torch Deeds had brought. It was powerful, and I was afraid it might be seen even with the dark curtains closed, so I took it into the closet and read Erica’s and Patrick’s reports on their surveillances of the Givenses.

Camilla had done nothing on Friday except check her mailbox. At seven her husband had arrived and at eight they’d gone out for dinner at Rose Pistola and then returned home. On Saturday Camilla had shopped. All day, from leaving her house at ten to returning at four thirty. She had visited Saks, Abercrombie and Fitch, Bloomingdale’s, West Coast Leather, Max Mara, Cole Haan, and Tiffany’s. She’d emerged from the stores with big, medium, and little bags—every time with a smile on her face. At lunchtime she’d met a woman at a tearoom on Post Street; the photo Erica had taken through its windows made me wrinkle my nose. Little tables for two, with pink-and-blue-flowered chairs tied in back with a big pink bow and matching tablecloths and napkins. Quiches and other little treats too delicate to recognize from the photographs printed on the display menu posted in the window.

The description of the woman with Camilla matched that of her best friend, Anita Glynn. Camilla, Erica’s report said, didn’t seem like a troubled woman. She’d proudly shown off the contents of some of her smaller bags to her companion. And after they parted, she went to where she’d parked her car in the garage under Union Square. She deposited her packages in the trunk and then shopped some more. So far as Erica could tell, the Givenses had stayed home Saturday night.

Patrick’s report on Camilla’s husband differed in a few details. On Friday Jay had gone to his office and stayed in at the lunch hour; at half past noon, a delivery person from a nearby sandwich shop had taken an order to the firm. Twenty dollars had gotten him to reveal that one of the sandwiches was for the boss: something called the Dictator. What was in it? Patrick hadn’t been able to resist asking. Roasted pork, hot chilies, salsa, American cheese, and sauerkraut. All Patrick could assume was that the sandwich was a tribute to both Fidel Castro and Adolf Hitler. Which didn’t say a lot about Jay Givens’s taste.

After he’d left his office at six thirty Friday evening, Givens had gone home and later taken his wife out to dinner. But the next morning, a half hour after Camilla left on her shopping spree, Jay went directly to an apartment building on Balboa Street near Sixteenth Avenue in the Richmond district. The building had ten units, and most of the mailboxes were unmarked. Patrick remained on surveillance across the street all night; Givens finally emerged at noon on Sunday and went home. Patrick was having Derek do a property search for the apartment house.

Julia hadn’t had any further contact with either of the Kenyons; Chad was either away on business or shacked up with one of his many women friends. Dick was probably still sitting in the woods.

9:37 p.m.

Mick’s call brought bad news: Jill Kennedy, aka Grizeldy, had died of cardiac arrest fifteen minutes earlier.

I felt a stab of regret, thought about her words when I asked her why she was a Night Searcher:
Here I am, a plain, little, ordinary woman. Living a plain, little, ordinary life. No family still living. No friends, except for the Night Searchers, and I don’t even know their real
names. So I go out and I take risks and win a few prizes. But one of these nights, I may win the prize I really want…

No more prizes for Grizeldy. Not ever.

“Shar?” Mick said. “You there?”

“Uh-huh. Just feeling sorry for Jill, is all. Anything else?”

“I’m trying to get a handle on the peripheral members of the NSes. And track down this Zero woman. What’re you doing tonight?”

“Oh, rereading files on the case. Waiting for phone calls. Staying safe.”

“You sure you’re safe out there? From what Gregor told me a while ago, it’s kind of a Bates Motel.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve made a deal with the cockroaches to protect me.”

“Your safety isn’t a joke, Shar.”

“And it isn’t a problem, kiddo.”

“Don’t call me kiddo!”

I laughed and broke the connection.

11:04 p.m.

Just as certain questions nag at you until you’re compelled to find their answers, certain places draw you because you know something’s there that you’ve overlooked.

The big question I had was: were the Givenses, the Hoffmans, the Kenyons, the Night Searchers, and that vacant lot on Saturn Street all connected, and if so, in what way? So the place that had drawn me out of Cockroach Haven tonight was, of course, the lot.

Saturn Street was bleak and ugly, even in the darkness. As I turned right into it, I heard what I thought was a scream and then saw a dark-coated figure suddenly dart out of the shadows by the fence. Headlights from a fast-approaching car illuminated the running figure, but the person didn’t stop, just dashed blindly into the street. Tires squealed as the driver swerved, not quite in time to avoid clipping the runner, who sprawled into the street. The driver regained control, then gunned the engine without slowing down. The car, a low-slung sports job, nearly sideswiped the van as it roared past. I twisted the wheel just in time.

Cursing, I braked to a fast stop, got out, and ran to the figure in the street. It was a woman, apparently not badly hurt, trying to struggle up onto hands and knees—and furious.

“Goddamn that son-of-a-bitch driver! He’s one of them, he’s got to be!”

Camilla Givens. I recognized her first by her voice, then by her jasmine perfume. Her face, when I finally saw it under the hood of her coat, was contorted with a mixture of fear and rage.

I leaned down toward her. “It’s Sharon McCone, Camilla.”

“I don’t care if you’re Jesus Christ! Help me!”

“Tell me where you’re hurt.”

“Everyplace.”

“That’s not an answer. Shoulder? Arm? Leg?”

“It hurts everyplace. Inside and out, all the time.”

“Where, specifically?”

“My mind, my heart, my soul—if I have one.”

She was overdramatizing her accident—and she knew I was aware of it. “Oh, God,” she said. “Just pick me up and take me home.”

I helped her up, and we walked toward the van. She was still trying to make more of her injuries than they really were, but gave it up when we were halfway there. Physically, she seemed nothing more than shaken up and maybe bruised. Once I got her seated in the van, I said, “I’ll be right back,” and ran to peer through the fence into the vacant lot.

No one was down there. The excavation was dark and silent. Then, as I was about to turn and walk away, something caught my eye—a red glow, as if from embers of a dying fire.

I could climb down and investigate, but Camilla was spooked and I was afraid she’d slip out of my car and run off, searching for more weird happenings. Reluctantly I returned, found her slumped against the passenger’s side door, crying softly.

I reached into my jacket pocket for my recorder. “Why on earth did you come back here, Camilla? I heard you scream. Tell me what happened.”

What she told me—some of it sounding like previous tales—would be transcribed an hour later by Ted, who had been sleeping and growled at me for form’s sake, but came into the office anyway.

The problem now was what to do with her. She clearly was afraid of her husband and refused to go home (“If Jay has come back I don’t want him to see me this way. It’ll just be added to the list of his complaints against me”).

This presented an ethical dilemma: Camilla was my client, but so was Jay; they’d both signed my contract. Should I favor one over the other?

Yes, my gut instinct told me. Camilla was afraid of her husband, and after the things I’d found out, I didn’t trust him either.

She’d be too easy for Jay to find if I checked her into a hotel. I couldn’t see exposing her to the squalor of Cockroach Haven. Or dumping her on any of my friends. The suite at RI was fine as far as security went, but I didn’t trust her not to do something stupid. I needed a professional to look after her.

Gregor Deeds at RI came to mind.

12:26 a.m.

I
felt comfortable turning Camilla over to Gregor Deeds.

Apparently he didn’t inspire the same confidence in her. She shrank back as I made introductions and he held out his hand to shake hers.

Racial prejudice? God knew there was enough of that going around, but it didn’t seem to fit with what I sensed of the woman’s character. Maybe, given her situation, she was simply nervous about being put in the hands of a stranger.

Deeds ignored her rudeness, shrugged out of his jacket, and looked around the RI hospitality suite. “Man, these people in trouble live high. Huge-screen TV, gourmet kitchen, bet there’s even a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom.”

“In both of them,” I said.

“Oh, right, you’d know. You and the old Rip stayed here for a while recently.”

His reference to “the old Rip” reassured me further. It was a nickname only Hy’s most trusted operatives called him.

As Deeds moved about the suite, commenting on its luxuriousness, I understood that he was searching for anything that might be a bug or a potential hazard. After a while he wandered back to where Camilla stood and asked, “You like movies?”

“Some, as long as they’re not too violent.”

“Well, we’ve got our choice of just about anything ever recorded on DVD. You like popcorn? With lots of butter?”

“Yes.”

“The kitchen’s loaded with stuff like that, and there’s a state-of-the-art popper. And there’s soda and beer and wine. Guess what we’re gonna be doing while we ride out this little bump in your life.”

As Gregor talked, I watched Camilla relax: at first her rigid fists; then her tensed shoulders; and finally her face.

“May I pick the first movie?” she asked.

“You can pick ’em all, darlin’.”

I said I needed to go, but Camilla was too interested in the shelves of DVDs to give me more than a perfunctory wave. Deeds followed me to the door and stepped out behind me into the hallway.

“How on earth did you effect that transformation I just witnessed?” I whispered.

He shrugged. “It’s what I do, bringing calm to troubled people. My daddy was a preacher, and he always wanted me to follow him into the church. Let’s just say circumstances took me in a different direction. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but right now I’ve got to figure out how that fancy popcorn popper works.”

We said good night, and after some hesitation I took the elevator down two stories to my office. Wasn’t likely that the guys in suits would be hanging around at this hour, but I entered by a door only the cleaning staff used and made sure it was locked behind me. It had been an exhausting day, and the sofa, a thick, woven throw, and the oversize pillow I kept in the prop room seemed like a little chunk of heaven. Still, I removed my .357 from my bag and placed it next to the pillow. Then, with regret I loaded the gun.

The previous year I’d declared myself through with weapons, after a case reminded me what a horrendous blight on modern society they are. My then-client—a staunch anti-gun proponent—had made me think seriously about the role firearms play in our lives. Ironically, at the conclusion of that case, I’d saved myself and those working with me by wounding and apprehending a murderer.

Since then I’d been seriously conflicted about the positive uses and disastrous abuses of firepower. The horrific killings at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut, as well as many others, muddied my thinking. I still visited the firing range and kept my weapons—the second being a .38 police Special—in good shape. I reminded myself that they were not weapons of war like the assault guns the shooter in Connecticut had used on those helpless children and faculty. But once serious doubt about something you’ve always taken for granted creeps into your psyche, it’s a damned hard thing to dismiss.

4:06 a.m.

I awoke with a start, fingers groping for my Magnum, then realized the sounds that had awakened me were the voices of the cleaning staff at the far end of the hallway. They were chattering away in a mixture of Spanish, Filipino, Chinese, and other languages and dialects that have always sounded musical to me.

God, what if in my disoriented state I’d grabbed the .357 and leaped through the door, training it on them? Elisa, Jo, Lee, Natalia, and Maria—not to mention the two new women—would have fled in a panic, and either quit their jobs or complained to the custodial supervisor. The owner’s wife, as they thought of me, would be considered a head case. Not good for them to find me here. It was back to Cockroach Haven.

9:32 a.m.

Nothing from any of my operatives, nothing from Hy or anyone else at RI, nothing from Glenn. Had I dropped into a shabby, red-headboard alternate universe?

Well, that would be a fine kettle of carp, as my adoptive mother—who is prone to malapropisms—would say.

A tap on the door.

“Shar? You in there?” Rae. I went to the door, opened it enough so she could squeeze through. She looked like I did—another homeless woman seeking shelter.

“You shouldn’t have taken the chance—” I began.

“No sweat. And I borrowed the new op’s car—what’s her name?”

“Erica Wilbur.”

“Right. She’s really nice, but the car’s a piece of shit—like the Ramblin’ Wreck. I brought food,” she added. “Gregor Deeds from RI called the office while I was there going over the report on the case. He asked me to make sure you didn’t starve.”

“What’d you bring?” I looked greedily at the bags she had set on the table.

“Go on, find out.”

Deli sandwiches—big ones. Potato chips—salt and vinegar, my favorite. Freshly packaged Italian blend salad. Wine. Of course wine! And—oh my God—peach, cookies and cream, and Sinful Vanilla ice cream.

Rae had even thought to bring paper plates, plastic forks, and spoons. We dug in.

“How come Gregor Deeds sent you, instead of coming himself?” I asked between mouthfuls.

“He’s busy on the Hoffman case.” She grinned. “Besides, I think he was embarrassed to be alone in a motel room with the boss’s wife.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“I think he’s got a crush on you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m years older than him. I’ve got crow’s-feet, and I dye my hair.”

“No telling about individual tastes. In second grade I had a terrible letch for Bobby Stravinsky, who was a sixth-grade hall monitor. You know, the guys who told you not to run or push each other.”

“You had a
letch
for him?”

“Well, from an adult perspective, that’s what it seems like. God knows why, given those buckteeth of his. And then there was Leo Burnell—I lured him into kissing me at a fourth-grade party and he never looked at me again. I guess I wasn’t such a good kisser in those days. But I learned fast; practice makes perfect. And then there’s Ricky—”

“I don’t think he’s in the same category with Bobby or Leo.”

“Well, no. Or Jimmy or Matt or Charley or Miguel or—”

“Stop!” I knew enough about her checkered past not to want to hear any more.

“And then there was Willie.”

“Spare me.” Willie Whelan had been a receiver of stolen property who later cleaned up his act and became a legitimate businessman—owner of a company that specialized in cut-rate diamond jewelry for young lovers. He even performed his own outrageous TV commercials to hawk his wares on the off-brand late-night channels.

He hadn’t given Rae a diamond, however, and later had been enticed to New York City, where he’d become a leading player as a villainous millionaire on a—then—top-rated soap opera. Rae and I had shared a bottle of champagne on the day the network announced it was canceling the show. But leave it to Willie: he now had his own prime-time cable show, titled
Reprobate
. From the few times I’d viewed it, I’d decided he’d convinced the scriptwriters to tell his life story in a highly fictionalized fashion.

In spite of myself, I couldn’t help asking, “Willie still doing
Reprobate
?”

“Nope. He’s become a TV chef, but that won’t last. All he does is drop the food on the floor or set it on fire.”

A Julia Child in the making.

“Also, he swigs some terrible jug wine.”

His success was secured—at least in some parts of the country.

“Back to Gregor Deeds,” I said. “You don’t even work for RI, so why’d he send you?”

“I was the only one who answered the phone at the agency when he called to ask what you like to eat.”

“Only you? Where were the others?”

“Out working on this case, I hope.”

“What about Ted? What does he think? He and I have been together since day one. He’s seen a lot of things go down, and his memory doesn’t let go of the slightest detail.”

“My bad. I didn’t ask him his opinion. But I will.”

“Ask Kendra too.”

“Why? Oh, of course, receptionists see and hear more things than most people.”

“Right,” I said. “I sense connections here, and I don’t have an inkling of what they are.”

“How long ago did all this weird stuff with Camilla Givens start?”

“Nearly three months now.”

“There’s got to have been a trigger.”

“You mean something unusual that happened in her life back then?”

“Hers, or somebody else who’s connected with her.”

We rehashed the case for a while, scribbling on legal pads, entering data into our electronic devices, running searches—but came to no conclusion. Hoffman’s obvious lies puzzled both of us. I sensed two parallel stories: the one that was supposed to have happened, and the one that ultimately had. But the details of both remained vague.

Belatedly I remembered I’d forgotten about asking Mick or Derek to try to identify Pamela, Hoffman’s girlfriend. We tried calling both Suzy and Melinda to find out if they knew the woman’s last name, but neither was available.

Finally Rae left and I continued perusing Mick’s files, pulling out the one on Marlene Daniels—aka Zero—the leader of the Night Searchers.

His notes read:
Marlene Daniels. Spotty history, even in childhood. Born in a Fort Wayne, Indiana, home for unwed mothers. Given up for adoption, but no takers. Caucasian. Odd, there’s always been a big demand for Caucasian infants. Something wrong with her? Kicked around from foster home to foster home, ran away from the last when she was sixteen. Next trace of her—Berkeley, eight years later. Street person. Hooked up with Al Zeronsky, dropout from the graduate philosophy program, & they moved to North Beach. That address no longer theirs. A listing for Zeronsky, A., at an address on Bay Street. Nothing for Marlene Daniels or Zeronsky or Zero in the Greater Bay Area.

I called the number for A. Zeronsky. After five rings a sleepy, half-drunken male voice answered. “Marlene?” he said in response to my question. “That ugly bitch? She left me two, three years ago…”

“She’s now calling herself Zero.”

“Zero? Must’ve shortened my name, just like she shortened my dick.”

“Do you know where she lives now?”

“Yeah, I got an address in the Excelsior district somewhere. A buddy keeps me informed. I like to know where my enemies are.”

“May I have it?”

“You gonna cause her trouble?”

I hesitated, gauging what he wanted to hear. “Probably.”

“Hang on, let me get it.”

1:20 p.m.

After Rae left, I contemplated going after Zero, but decided to put it off until after dark. The element of surprise is always greater at night—and surprise is one of the tools of my trade. So what to do till then?

I tried to read, but no matter which book I chose, it couldn’t hold my attention. Even meditation, which I’d recently started practicing at the urging of my friend Piper, didn’t do the trick. Finally I bundled up and went for a long walk at the Ocean Beach seawall. It was a gray day with crisp offshore winds, the water pale green and foamy. The kind of a day that makes for loneliness and regret. Even though I didn’t particularly regret anything at the moment, I felt it gnawing at me, and soon I was mentally searching for past regrets to indulge in.

This has to stop
, I told myself.
I’ve got too much time on my hands
.

I made a right turn then and spotted a family going into the zoo. Aha! Soon I was laughing at the antics of our newest baby giraffe.

9:47 p.m.

The Excelsior district was pretty rough territory and hopped up even on a Monday night. Lowriders cruised on Mission Street; gang members with attitudes gathered on street corners, trading insults and lobbing empty beer cans and liquor bottles back and forth. Drunks wandered into traffic, prostitutes trolled the sidewalks, and numerous people proclaimed their insane views in loud voices.

The district isn’t the seediest in the city, but it directly borders the very worst area: Visitacion Valley/Bayview/Hunter’s Point. Lots of gang activity spills over, and a statistically suspicious number of Excelsior fires had recently burned decrepit but well-insured homes to the ground. I’d driven here in the agency’s van; it fit right in with the territory.

I spotted the address Al Zeronsky had given me and began looking for a parking place. Good luck. Even if I’d found one, the heavy traffic would have made it impossible to stop and parallel-park. Slow traffic too. People called out from cars to others on the sidewalks and stopped to talk. Jaywalkers abounded. I had to look out for an unusual amount of people with walkers, canes, and crutches who had difficulty in the crosswalks. I went around the block three times. Finally, when I turned onto Mission, I saw two adjacent spaces opening up at once.

In front of me, a beer delivery truck—what was it doing here at this hour?—put on its flashers and stopped dead, leaving no room to squeeze by.

I put down my window and yelled, “Hey, move that! You’re blocking traffic.”

The man who’d come around to open the rear doors raised his hands in helplessness. “Sorry, lady. Emergency supplies.”

10:17 p.m.

When I finally got to Zero’s address, after walking three long blocks from a mostly illegal space and putting up with obscene calls and whistles from drunken males and females, I found it was a unit off a long third-story gallery in one of those concrete-and-steel buildings that always make me think of prisons—minus the bars and guards. No light showed behind the lowered blinds. Asleep or out somewhere.