The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (13 page)

Still I rang the bell and, when I figured out it didn’t work, pounded on the door. Pounded again, long and hard enough that the door to the next apartment jerked open and a tall black woman in a pink quilted robe popped out.

“You lookin’ for Marlene?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone? When? Where?”

“For good, I guess. Piled her stuff into a little U-Haul van and took off yesterday. I dunno where. Frankly, I won’t miss her coming and going in the late hours. Kept wakin’ me up when I’m needin’ my sleep.”

I nodded sympathetically. “And now I’ve done the same. I apologize. Did you know Marlene well?”

“Uh-uh. That woman kept strictly to herself.”

“She have a lot of visitors? Loud parties?”

“Not too many visitors. No parties. She’s kind of…well, disfigured. Funny caved-in face, and her eyes and lips don’t match on either side. Back of her head’s flattened too.”

“What caused that? An accident?”

“Nope. She told me she’s been like that since she was born. Some botched delivery, I guess.”

No wonder she hadn’t been adopted. Most people don’t want disfigured babies, no matter what intelligence or emotion might be behind the mangled façade.

“So that’s why she didn’t have any friends,” the woman added. “I tried to be, but she wasn’t having any of that.”

“Is there anybody else in the building she might’ve been close to?”

“Honey, I can tell you’ve never lived in a place like this. Here, you don’t
want
to know your neighbors.”

“Well, thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered—”

“Aw, it wasn’t no bother. I was just watching a dumb rerun of
The Jeffersons
.”

1:41 a.m.

W
hen I heard the taps on the motel door I went to the window next to it and peered around the dusty curtain. Gregor Deeds, hunched against a strong offshore wind. Quickly I let him in.

“Anything from Hy?” I asked.

“No. He’s still out of touch.”

I felt a prickle of apprehension. “Who’s watching Camilla?”

“Another op—Veronica Mann. I think Camilla’s better off with a woman.”

“Good choice. I know Ronnie; like you, she’s good with anxious people. Any news on Van Hoffman?”

“Some. You got coffee?”

“Pepsi, wine, or beer. All lukewarm.”

“I’ll take Pepsi.”

I poured it for him, and some wine for myself.

Then we perched on opposite sides of the sagging bed.

“Van Hoffman’s still in the hospital,” he said. “Our people are keeping a close eye on him, as are the cops and the feds, but his lawyer’s shooing them all away.”

“Who’s the attorney?”

He mentioned a well-known Peninsula ambulance chaser.

Deeds added, “His wife and daughters haven’t visited him. In fact, nobody has.”

“Doesn’t surprise me; he’s not a likable man.”

“That’s not all. An exhaustive check of FBI records—arranged for us by your Mr. Morland—confirms that both Van Hoffman and the Global Policy Forum possessed no information that could jeopardize national security. They are, in fact, losing their funding after the first of the year.”

“Your contacts tell you anything about them?”

“They’re supposed to be this high-toned think tank studying how our government should run, but nobody listens to them. What they seem to do really well is spend the taxpayers’ money on unnecessary travel and expensive vehicles and high salaries.”

“Like a lot of our legislators.”

“Right. But they seem to have overstepped. Funding has been cut off and they’re disbanding in June. They were a creation of the previous presidential administration, and tolerance is low in this one.”

I thought of the shabbiness of the Hoffman home on the Peninsula, the low amount of the ransom demand. He must have been deferring maintenance in advance of a salary cutoff. Still…

“Are you sure they’ll really disband?”

“As far as the public goes, yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re fanatics, and likely to continue their activities independently.”

I said, “I happen to know that there are any number of covert organizations operating under any number of government umbrellas that have activities and information that even the White House isn’t aware of.”

“You came by this exclusive knowledge from the old Rip?”

“No. Let’s just say I worked a case once, and leave it at that.”

“Okay. But I still believe that with Hoffman and his Forum, the claims of access to secrets were for show, and their power started to erode years ago. With the help of the Night Searchers they’re staging all this weird stuff to shore up their public image.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, if there seems to be a distinct threat to Hoffman and the Forum from a band of renegades who creep around at night and do weird things, their claim to possessing secrets seems more valid. They may even have made up secrets that they’ll present to whoever controls their funding in the future.”

“Seems a very convoluted way of keeping their jobs.”

“Unless they need those jobs to carry out an agenda.”

“Oh, God, Gregor, this is getting too damn complicated.”

“Not for your mind. The old Rip’s told me about the way it works.”

I drew my legs up, put my forehead on my knees. “It’s not working so well now. I can’t fathom what that agenda might be.”

“Neither can I.”

“Next step,” I said. “Lay a trap. Make them play their own game—but one of our own devising.”

“That’s gonna take some creativity.”

“Creativity is my agency’s stock in trade.”

3:09 a.m.

The folks at McCone Investigations often come together to brainstorm. As many of us who can, convene and let the creative juices flow and blend to provide a possible solution to a particularly stubborn problem. Now, in the early hours of the morning, we couldn’t all be together in a physical sense, but with Mick’s and Derek’s expertise, we held a virtual meeting, by way of our computers.

I was seated, my back against the wall, on the saggy futon in Mick’s old condo. Now that he didn’t actually live in the place, he’d turned it into a technophile’s dream: monitors covered the walls; keyboards covered every flat surface, even the counters of the tiny galley kitchen; I wasn’t surprised to find a screen in the tiny bathroom.

Rae came on first. “I’ve got the still photos from the Bay-side. They show conclusively that Hoffman jumped into the water and Shar saved him.”

“Good work,” I told her.

Next Derek. “That ‘big, ugly guy’ who was trying to find out from the waterfront bum where you’d moved the agency is Gar Diggers. A minor enforcer for any number of scumbags. I’m tracing his movements.”

“Thanks.”

Julia: “The Kenyons are gone to Amsterdam; I checked with the airline. Chad says he’ll be in touch when he gets back.”

“Lucky you.”

“Lucky? I hope you mean that sarcastically. All Chad’s into is stuffing his lasagna hole. I’m starting a diet.”

“Good luck with the diet. I’ll find you a new assignment tomorrow.”

“Nothing to do with food.”

Ted: “The guys in suits still come around the office, but not as often now.”

“Good. Next time, chase them away.”

Patrick: “About Jay Givens’s friend out in the Avenues at Balboa and Sixteenth: apartment’s leased in Givens’s name. Neighbor says a woman lives there. ‘Witchy,’ she called her. They don’t speak, and she doesn’t know her name.”

“Description?”

“Black hair, pale skin, dark lipstick. Wears jeans and T’s and parkas in cold weather. That’s it.”

“Keep on it.”

Derek again: “Van Hoffman’s girlfriend. Not much to work on, but I’ve made a little headway.”

“What?”

“I’d rather not say prematurely.”

“Okay.” I’d learned to trust my operatives’ instincts.

“Erica,” I asked, “what about Camilla Givens?”

“All she’s done is shop.”

“Find out what she buys, if any of the people who help her in the stores know her well. Any ID on the woman she had lunch with on Saturday?”

“Her best friend, Anita Glynn. It’s a regular thing most weekends for them to meet there, the waitstaff at Pauline’s Precious Tea Room say.”

“Pauline’s Precious Tea Room?”

Erica shrugged. “Could anybody make that up?”

I looked at my notes. “Okay, Suzy Cushing, Jane Hoffman’s niece. Anybody got anything on her?”

“She checks out exactly as she presented herself to you,” Mick said.

“Good. I like her.”

“What about something for me?” Rae asked.

“I want you on call in case I need you.”

She shot back, “Which brings up a question: what’re you reserving for yourself?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ve got to get deeper into these files. And I need results from all of you first.”

I hated to lie to them, but the reasons I was going to be investigating Glenn Solomon were complex and probably—I hoped—invalid.

“Then Team McCone had better get going,” Patrick said.

Team McCone.
He’d coined a phrase I’d never get rid of.

The screens went black, and I sat there, feeling I’d betrayed them all. And my friend Glenn too.

Mick said, “What’s wrong?”

“…Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Really—nothing.”

But thoughts of the other day about Glenn echoed in my mind:
contrary to his upright image in the community he was not above a little chicanery in the interests of justice.

I didn’t think that Glenn had been into any criminal activity, but he’d brought me the Givens case with a vague explanation that, after all that had happened since, didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

He’d claimed he hadn’t known the Givenses well, and that he had assumed they’d come to him because of his friendship with Jay’s father in college. He’d said that when they brought him Camilla’s “extremely unbelievable tale” he sensed something that he couldn’t put into words. Something that was “hinky.” At that point I should have sensed something was also hinky about Glenn’s story, but when you’re dealing with old friends sometimes you ignore your instincts or make allowances for them.

But I needed more to go on than suspicions. Glenn respected facts. I’m more likely to give a straight answer if I’m presented with a few myself.

Mick said, “You want to sleep here tonight?” He had his jacket on, was ready to go home to Alison.

Suddenly I felt achingly alone.

Here I was, leading the life I’d chosen. Being free, doing what I loved to do. What did it matter if I spent the night on a lumpy futon or in a fleabag motel with a .357 Magnum as my sole companion? I’d still spend several sleepless hours trying to connect facts that might spell the end of one of my oldest and most cherished friendships.

“I’ll stay,” I told Mick. “Thank you.”

10:33 a.m.

In the morning I commandeered some of Mick’s computer equipment and looked into Glenn’s story.

I was right to do my research before I spoke with him: there
had
been something hinky about his actions. I called his home; he wasn’t there, so I talked to his wife, Bette Silver. Turned out Glenn knew the Givens couple better than he’d claimed. They had been occasional visitors to the Givens’s home, and Glenn was Jay’s godfather.

Had Glenn recently mentioned them to her? I asked her. The answer was no, not in a month or more, but that wasn’t unusual.

“Why aren’t you asking Glenn about the Givenses?” Bette said.

“I didn’t want to disturb him at the office. Tuesdays, you know…”

“Do I ever. The only reason you caught me at home was that a couple of clients canceled on me.” Bette was a high-end interior decorator.

“What do you think of the Givenses?”

“Jay makes me nervous; I’ve always intuited he has hidden agendas. Camilla…she’s a little intense for my taste.”

“Has she gotten more intense recently?”

“You could say so. Glenn told me there was some strange business about a horse on Lombard Street and…I don’t know what. He says she fantasizes.”

“Can you think of anything that’s changed in her life that might make her fantasize more than usual?”

“No, but we’re not really close.” She paused. “There was some legal thing about her that came up last fall. Jay talked it over with Glenn, but it turned out it was a matter Jay could easily handle on his own. Why don’t you ask Glenn? I really shouldn’t have mentioned it at all.”

“Confidentiality.”

“Right.”

“Sometimes I hate that word.”

“So do I.”

Okay
, I thought after we ended the call,
Glenn lied to me. But he doesn’t lie unless he has very good reason to. Does he have some information that he feels will mislead me? Or prejudice
me? Or skew my investigation? Or incriminate himself?
And then there was the legal question about Camilla that Jay had consulted Glenn about, that he then decided he could handle himself. What?

The files. The answer might be in the Givens files Glenn had let me read on his computer—the ones I’d printed out when my eyes started to hurt from staring at the glowing screen. The files that I still had in my office…

11:45 a.m.

“Rae, I need you to get me some files from my office.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Lunch?”

“Why did I even ask? Burgers? Fries? Tacos?”

“Tacos!”

“Where’re the files?”

“Top drawer in cabinet one. Key’s taped to the bottom of my computer keyboard.”

“Where any idiot could find it.”

“Files. Tacos. Ginger ale and lots of ice.”

“Wait a minute—are you still at Cockroach Haven?”

“Oops! I forgot to tell you—I’ve moved into Mick’s old condo.”

“Be there in a flash.”

12:31 p.m.

The tacos were great.

While we ate, I paged through the files. It didn’t take long to find the first mention of Jay Givens, from some three and a half months earlier. In Glenn’s cryptic style it said, “JG was contacted by an HH—David Turnbull—and didn’t know what to do. Turnbull is reputable, so I suggested he respond directly and waived my fee.”

“HH?” I said. “What’s that mean?”

“Don’t know. David Turnbull.” Rae was tapping on one of Mick’s keyboards. “Nothing in the business pages.” More tapping. “Or in the residential.”

I went to Google. No David Turnbull in the city or Bay Area. Next I tried a general search: many David Turnbulls, so many I didn’t know where to start. “Well, hell,” I said.

“Yeah, and not as many people are Google-able as you might suppose, so that leaves plenty more. Also, he could’ve died or left the country or gone to ground or never been that important—”

“That’s encouraging.” I got up, started pacing around the room. “I’ll turn it over to Derek or Mick.” I flopped onto the bed. “You know…”

“What?”

“There’s only one of the Night Searchers we haven’t seen in person—Brother Timothy, the Mantis who prays. My sources tell me he’s usually around Civic Center Plaza at this time of day.”

2:39 p.m.

The Civic Center Plaza is bounded by city hall, the former main branch of the public library (now the Asian Art Museum), and various other important city buildings of the Beaux Arts period. Regrettably, it is also in close proximity to the Tenderloin, San Francisco’s skid row, and the spillover has taken the shape of homeless encampments, trolling prostitutes, panhandlers, and crazies.

Crazies such as Brother Timothy “Praying” Mantis.

Just my luck: today Brother Timothy was nowhere in sight.

Rae had dropped me at the plaza in Erica’s beater car and promised to come back in an hour. I was wearing my hippie clothing and facial bandages, so there was scant likelihood of anybody recognizing me—including members of my immediate family. I sat on a bench, moved to another, studied the people around me. Plenty of odd individuals—including my own disguised self—but no one in a long robe and bare feet dancing to his inner music.