The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (3 page)

More messages:

A half hour later:

Another half hour:

Fifteen minutes later:

“The person e-mailing you,” I said, “must’ve been piggybacking off other people’s accounts. All you need to do for that is wait outside some building with a laptop till you pick up a signal.”

“That’s how I’ve got it figured. The odd thing is,” he added, “the ransom demand. I reported it to Mrs. Hoffman, and she said it was exactly the amount they have in their savings account.”

“People with sophisticated skills can always hack into bank accounts. Did you bring the money?”

“No. We don’t pay off hostage takers; Hoffman knew that when his firm signed the contract with us.”

“How does Mrs. Hoffman feel about that?”

“Hard to tell. She’s a very remote woman.”

“Just how important to national security are the issues Hoffman deals with, d’you suppose?”

“I don’t know, not yet. But I’ve got operatives working on it, both here and in D.C. It’s odd, because Hoffman seemed an unlikely candidate to be snatched. The Global Policy Forum is about to lose its government funding and be dissolved.”

“Why?”

“It’s rumored that they’re ineffectual, don’t have access to important information, and have pissed off a number of influential politicians.”

“Politicians!” I snorted. “So why would they bother with Hoffman?”

“Good question.”

“Maybe someone in his family has an idea. Do you know any of them?”

“Just as names in a file. We were hired by his employer, not them.”

“Send me their contact information.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s one big connection between your case and mine—that vacant lot.”

“So what
is
your case?”

I told him in detail.

Hy said, “What if Hoffman and the Givenses are linked in some way?”

“You think? Jay Givens is a CPA with a good firm.”

“And according to you, Camilla’s crazy.”

“Maybe she’s not crazy after all. Maybe she’s a good actress, working from a script. When I meet with her again, I’ll have a better idea.”

“How?”

“By listening to what she says—and listening to her silences.”

Listen to the silence.

The phrase had come back to me from years before, when I’d been searching for the identities of my birth parents. There had been a lot of silences during my life, particularly when I was growing up, and it had taken the revelation that I was adopted to interpret them as substitutes for lies. Since then I’ve been alert for those telltale lapses, and recognizing them for what they are serves me well in my investigations.

11:02 a.m.

Our house on Avila Street was still being swept by RI’s technicians, so after I left Hy at Cockroach Haven, as I’d named the new safe house, I grabbed a super-large cup of coffee at Big Bad Bubba’s on Geary and went back to the office.

I felt grubby and tired, but I called Camilla Givens to make an appointment to see her alone at eight that evening, then showered in the agency’s large, fully equipped bathroom and took a nap on my sofa. I keep a few changes of clothes in the armoire in my office; I selected the outfit best suited for a business meeting, went through the papers that had accumulated in my in box—including another message from Ma, whose persistence is legendary—and checked my e-mail. Nothing from Mick.

My nephew, after a couple of harrowing experiences, professed not to want to do fieldwork any more, but every now and then he came up with an intriguing lead and went off on the hunt. The agency has a rule that operatives check in twice daily, but so far it had failed to penetrate his stubborn skull. Of course, there could be a simple explanation for his silence: he and his woman friend Alison were moving from a condo in one of the high-rises that—increasingly—overshadow our city’s formerly light-filled downtown streets, to the more pleasant clime of Potrero Hill. They’d probably gotten caught up in packing and transporting. They’d hated high-rise living and had also gone through a dicey time lately—a pregnancy scare and Alison’s so-far-undiagnosed inherited health issue. I was happy to see them settling into a lifestyle that suited them both.

3:18 p.m.

RI’s technicians were finally done sweeping and had found no bugs at our house or offices. After finishing up some routine work and giving operatives Julia Rafael, Craig Morland, Adah Joslyn, and Patrick Neilan a heads-up that I might be needing them for surveillances over the next few days, I picked up the printout from Mick and took it home to read in quiet.

Hy and I had only been living in the new house on Avila Street for a couple of weeks, and every time I pushed the button on the garage door opener and drove inside, I felt a proud rush of ownership. I’d always loved the area, and we were fitting right in. Adah and Craig lived in an apartment only two blocks away, and we’d already begun to get to know our neighbors. Initially they’d been leery of us: they knew us by reputation and it was only after being reassured by Hy that it was extremely unlikely we’d be shot, fire-bombed, or murdered in our bed that they had become friendly and begun issuing dinner invitations.

I wasn’t convinced that we were as immune to violence as Hy claimed, but my husband is excellent at persuading people to look at things in a positive way. He persuades everybody except me. And himself.

I loved everything about the house: the terra-cotta and hardwood floors; the hand-painted tiles in the kitchen and the bathrooms; the dark wooden beams; the archways that led from room to room. The gracefully curving staircase had an intricate black iron railing; the kitchen had been updated, but not in a way that clashed with the overall décor, and the same was true of the Jacuzzi tubs and other conveniences in the bathrooms. And then there was the hot tub and the garden gnome. Adolphus, we called him, in homage to Hy’s only living relative, Uncle Al.

Normally I hate garden statuary, but Adolphus had won my heart. He was fat and jolly-looking, but not the least bit garish. And damned if he didn’t resemble Hy’s uncle, a rancher who lived in eastern Oregon. I planned to deck the gnome out in a red-and-green scarf and cap at Christmas, when Uncle Al was scheduled to visit.

Messages on the machine: Ma again. There would be an exhibit including two of her oil paintings at the local YWCA next month; she hoped Hy and I could make it. My adoptive mother (who raised me) is an amazing woman. Years ago she divorced my father—who scarcely seemed to notice her absence—and remarried. When her new husband died a couple of years ago, we kids worried about her because she seemed lost for a time. Then she took an art class at the community college, and her true talents were revealed. Ma had always excelled at things—gardening, cooking, sewing—but as a painter she was something else.

Saskia Blackhawk, who put me up for adoption when I was born, is also incredible. An attorney who has argued cases for the rights of American Indians before the Supreme Court (and won), she’s a high-powered, driven individual who’s nevertheless able to kick back and enjoy life with the pleasure of a child. She, my half sister Robin (a law student at Berkeley), and I have enjoyed many memorable women’s weekends at the coast and points east.

And then there’s my birth father, Elwood Farmer. He’s an artist who made a name for himself in New York many years ago, but returned to marry a Blackfoot woman and live on their reservation near Great Falls, Montana. Elwood isn’t much on phone chats, but occasionally he leaves a cryptic message on my voice mail—usually at times when he thinks I won’t be answering. The last one had said, “Daughter, I had a dream last night. Creatures are snapping at your heels.”

Story of my life, Elwood, Daddy, whatever you want me to call you.

Neither call from the mothers required an answer just this minute, so I went to the kitchen, where Alex and Jessie began chattering for their supper. I fed them some of the evil-smelling stuff they so love, then got myself a glass of wine and took it to the living room, slipping off my shoes as I went. I’ve never had a decent relationship with a pair of shoes—probably never will.

The Givenses, Mick’s report said, had something of an odd background. Jay was the son of Roy Givens, Glenn Solomon’s classmate at Stanford, but Roy had left the family when the boy was only three. Wife Julie had divorced him and remarried quickly, to a man named Paul Sonnen; together they had set out to raise Jay, but Roy Givens returned five years later and claimed his son. Paul Sonnen was seriously ill at the time, and the couple had no funds for a custody battle, so, regretfully, they let Jay go.

With his father, Jay Givens lived a nomadic life, without ever ranging far from the Bay Area. Marginal neighborhood to marginal neighborhood. Trailer park to trailer park, each shabbier than the one before. Roy Givens drank and gambled; he taught young Jay many confidence games, and the boy was adept at them. But then, when he was thirteen, Roy Givens died of a heart attack and Jay was sent back to the Sonnens.

Overnight, everything changed: Jay had a real family; he went to school and studied hard. He was quick with figures, and in college entered a fast-track CPA program, and graduated with honors. Met Camilla Hope while he was working for a Big Eight firm in Southern California and married her three months later. Landed a plum job with an excellent accounting firm when he returned to San Francisco and climbed the ladder rapidly, soon becoming a full partner. Even though both Sonnens died a couple of years later, life had been good, until now—when Camilla appeared to have gone at least a little crazy.

Mick had done background on Camilla too: born, Orlando, Florida; BA in English literature from Florida State University; both parents deceased when she was in college; moved to Tustin, California, where she taught English at a local high school. Met Jay Givens through friends at a party. There was a list of the “little things” she’d occupied her time with since they’d moved to San Francisco, but she hadn’t done anything in over a year.

Mick had appended a note saying I’d have more detailed information shortly.

My phone rang. Mick. Think of the devil…

“One interesting new piece of information about Jay Givens,” he announced. “He has a strange hobby, according to a couple of Google sites: Urban Treasure Hunting, an Internet game. The concept is that a group of people—not necessarily known to each other—get together and donate an object of value—monetary or sentimental—to a pool. Every week or so, they nominate one member as the Hider. He or she secretes away one of the objects in an undisclosed location and then provides the others with clues as to where to start, always after dark. After that, they follow the clues. Whoever discovers the item gets to claim it.”

I’d been on treasure hunts as a kid, where you’d hide something fairly worthless—such as a bag of clothespins or your brother’s cast-off tennies—and leave a chain of clues leading to its whereabouts. The one who found it got a prize—usually a soft drink or a nip from somebody’s parents’ liquor cabinet if they were out of town. Later we graduated to joints. But something valuable to us? No way.

Well, this was an adult game; the stakes were higher. But why on earth would any reasonable adult want to play it? Strictly for the prizes? Not if the players were already well-off individuals like Jay Givens.

Okay, then, the group members were not reasonable people. The element of adventure attracted them, I supposed. Being out in the dark, searching unknown territory. Maybe taking risks of one kind or another.

Fear? That too. Adrenaline-pounding excitement. Unknowns. A return to the primal urges of the hunter. Something along the lines of why I’d been attracted to my job. Danger, I know all too well, can be highly addictive…

My thoughts returned to that vacant lot. Was there a connection between it and this Urban Treasure Hunting game? Or to the Hoffman kidnapping?

“You still there, Shar?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Who’s that psychologist friend of Alison’s—the one who teaches at SF State?”

“Terry Baldwin.”

“D’you think she’d be willing to answer a few questions for me?”

“I’m sure she would. Let me give her a call, and she’ll get back to you when it’s convenient.”

Five minutes later I was talking with Baldwin, a husky-voiced woman with faint strains of a Southern accent.

“Groups as you describe,” she told me, “aren’t uncommon. They provide the individual with something that’s lacking in his or her life. Suppose a person who is really adventurous is stuck in a dull job and has no money to go skydiving or hang gliding or whatever turns him on. Sneaking around the city looking for treasure can alleviate some of that dead-end feeling.”

“You said ‘him.’ Are most of the people male?”

“I would say it’s about seventy-thirty percent in favor of men, but women have those needs too.” She chuckled. “As you should know, Ms. McCone.”

“But I don’t seek danger; it comes to me.”

“You sought out your profession, didn’t you?”

“You’ve got me there.”

“Of course, I don’t suppose any of your fellow professionals engage in such behavior when they get together.”

“No. Mostly we just drink and complain about getting stiffed on our fees.”

She laughed. “Exactly as at every gathering of psychologists.” Then her tone grew more serious. “I don’t think you should underestimate the dangers presented by this…well, I hate to use the term
cult
, but essentially that’s what they are. Mixtures of various types of personalities: some dominant, some weak; some worldly, some naïve; some control freaks, some victims.”