The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (6 page)

“It’s a stupid name for a restaurant. Besides, I read a review of it; they’ll probably close within the year.” I flopped into the chair, added, “I can remember when McDonald’s suited you just fine.”

He hesitated, then grinned. “Still does.”

“You have anything to tell me besides that duck confit is passé?”

“This Treasure Hunting game—it’s getting interesting.”

“Tell me more about them,” I said.

Mick settled back into his conversational posture—leaning back in his chair, feet propped on an open desk drawer. “They’re a loosely knit national organization, brought together on the Internet. Each ‘chapter,’ as they call them, has a different name; in this city it’s the Night Searchers. In New York it’s the Canyon Creepers. In L.A. it’s the Smog Skimmers. You get the drift.”

“Right,” I said, ignoring the unintentional pun.

“All the information,” Mick went on, “except for real names, addresses, and so forth, is right out there. You tap into their website, where times and starting places for the hunts are posted.”

“Do you have to sign up with them, or what?”

“No. You just show up. It’s all anonymous.”

“And what is the purpose of these hunts?”

“Well, there’s a prize, usually something of considerable value, donated by the ‘hider’ for that particular game. But I think the real motivation is the creeping around, the danger of getting caught where you’re not supposed to be. That’s the real deal.”

“You ever been on one of these hunts?”

“No, but I’ve met people who have.”

“You want to go on one?”

“I’ve got the feeling I will, whether I want to or not.”

“Look up when the next one is.”

He swiveled to his keyboard. “Tomorrow night at seven thirty, starting in the Panhandle. A map is included.”

I hesitated. There was a possibility I’d run into Jay Givens if I went along, but the possibility of his finding my presence suspicious was greatly outweighed by the possibility of learning something. I said, “Print out two, in case we get separated.”

“D’you suppose,” Mick said, “that these Night Searchers have something to do with that vacant lot on Saturn Street?”

“Possibly. Were you able to line up appointments with the owners for me?” Earlier I’d texted him and asked him to do so.

“The Kenyon brothers, Chad and Dick, have more gatekeepers than President Obama. Their people say they’ll check with the Kenyons and call back, but they don’t call back—you know the routine. But there’s a weak spot in the gate—Chad. He’s a creature of habit, seldom varies his personal routines, dismisses his ‘keepers,’ as he calls them, when his private time begins.”

“So it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone to locate and approach him.”

“Right.”

“He married?”

“Nope, but he likes the ladies. In particular, beautiful Latinas.”

“Perfect.”

“Shar, what’re you up to?”

“I’m not ‘up to’ anything at all. If Julia’s still in the office, would you ask her to come in here?”

5:15 p.m.

Julia Rafael, a tall, strong-featured Hispanic woman whose shining black hair was today swept up on top of her head and secured with abalone-shell combs, swept into my office and flopped into one of the visitors’ chairs.

“
Dios mio
, what a day!” she exclaimed. “And now I suppose you’re going to heap more
cagada
on me.”

When she’d first come to the agency, she’d never have talked to me in such a manner. A former teenage prostitute who had done time in the California Youth Authority, she had been turned around by the birth of her son, Tonio, and she’d been determined to make a good, if stilted, impression on a prospective employer. After months of working at the agency—months of hearing and seeing how the rest of us spoke and interacted—she’d finally let her real persona shine through. It was a persona we were all happy with.

“Yes, but this is the kind of shit you might not be too unhappy with.”

“Oh? What now?”

“A surveillance. Chad Kenyon. The details are in this folder.” I pushed it toward her.

She scanned it. “You sure I’m the right person for this? High roller, pricey haunts?”

“And a weakness for beautiful Hispanic women—or so Mick says. Grab something glitzy from the property room”—what we called the closet where we kept an assortment of clothing to suit anyone from a beggar to a socialite—“and keep track of him.”

“Contact? No contact?”

“Either. The closer you can get to him, the better. If you make actual contact, try to find out the points I’ve outlined in the file.”

“Will do.”

“I forgot to ask: is Tonio covered tonight?” Even though Julia lived with her sister, who cared for her son in her absence, I was concerned about him.

Julia smiled archly. “Tonio is going to the movies with my friend Joseph tonight, and then staying over at his apartment.”

“Who’s Joseph?”

“Boss, you haven’t been listening to the office gossip these days.”

She winked at me as she left my office.

6:01 p.m.

I poured myself a glass of wine and sat in my armchair, contemplating strategy, then went back to my desk and began listening to messages and making calls.

Hy: “Nothing yet on the VH matter. I’m still working the situation in Des Moines, but we’re close to a resolution. Love you.”

Julia’s cell was turned off. She was already on the trail of Chad Kenyon.

None of Mick’s numbers answered.

Duck confit
, I thought.
Uh-huh.

Derek Ford, my other techie, was at home—surprisingly. Of course, it was too early for him to hit the restaurants and clubs he enjoyed.

“Sure,” he said, “I can run those checks in no time. Let me see if I’ve got them straight: Chad Kenyon, Dick Kenyon. The Global Policy Forum. Anything else?”

“Not for now.”

“Call if you think of anything.”

“What, you’re not going out?”

“I am”—he made a mock sobbing noise—“disappointed in love.”

“What happened? And with whom?”

“Can’t remember. Now that I’ve got work to do, I’m over it.”

I clicked the phone off, smiling.

My other operatives were working cases I’d assigned to them: Patrick Neilan, a single father with sole custody of his boys, was after a deadbeat dad—his favorite kind of hunt. Craig Morland and Adah Joslyn—he a former FBI agent, she a former SFPD homicide investigator, and recently married to each other—had taken on an overnight surveillance of a woman suspected of insurance fraud.

I might as well go down the Embarcadero to Carmen’s, one of the last few waterfront diners, for a bite to eat.

8:03 p.m.

The diner had seen better days. Its original owner, a former longshoreman, had been a good cook and a genial host, plying his customers with tales of the old waterfront when San Francisco had been a true seafaring port, before the shipping business decamped to more modernized facilities across the Bay in Oakland. When he retired, the diner passed through the hands of various owners, and with each one the food and service grew worse. Now the leatherette booths were cracked and bleeding stuffing, the Formica tables were gouged with drawings and initials, and one of the windows overlooking the water was badly cracked. Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered to go there.

Well, I supposed because the waterfront diners were a dying breed: only a handful of them still existed. As with the piers, many had been torn down or replaced by boutique shops and expensive restaurants. But even with today’s public art, new sports stadium, and upscale businesses, part of the waterfront was dying. The hundreds of palm trees that had been planted on the median strip after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake were succumbing to a contagious fungal disease called Fusarium wilt, which is almost always fatal. Many would live on for years, and the city planned to replace those that didn’t survive with a hardier species, but it would never be the same. Just as the rough-and-tumble Barbary Coast had vanished. And the steamship age. And a lot of other things that had made this city unique.

Enough, McCone!

At Carmen’s I took the least disreputable of the booths and ordered a cheeseburger—rare, since it would come out overcooked anyway, but maybe that way the cook wouldn’t incinerate it quite as much. It arrived well done, with a slab of American cheese oozing over the sides. I ate it anyway. No sending food back at Carmen’s.

I was the sole patron except for a very old man—known only as Micah—whom I’d occasionally used as an informant. He ignored me. No skulduggery on the waterfront, nothing to sell, therefore I didn’t exist. Fine with me. He was unpleasant and demanding, and his information was often inaccurate. I paid the check and started for the door, but then he hissed at me.

For a moment I almost didn’t turn around. When I did, he beckoned for me to come closer.

“Was a guy askin’ around about you today.”

“A guy.”

“Big, ugly guy. Smelled funny—like lime juice. Seemed to me that he thought you was still at the pier.”

“He tell you his name?”

“Hell no.”

“Say why he wanted to see me?”

“Nope. Wasn’t up to no good, I bet.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Somethin’ about the way he asked. I dunno. What do I look like—a shrink?”

“You tell him where I’d gone?”

“How could I? How would I know?”

“Thanks for telling me.” I dug in my bag, handed him a five.

“Twenty’d be better.”

“Five’s what it’s worth. You see him again, you find out more, then we’ll talk money.”

“Stingy bitch,” he muttered.

I walked away.

Big, ugly guy who smelled like lime juice.
Well, that could fit any number of men in this city. I thought about the Givens case and the Hoffman inquiry I’d taken on for Hy. No big ugly guys associated with either.

Wasn’t up to no good.

A disgruntled former client, like the man who had hired the arsonist who torched my home on Church Street? Somebody whom I’d caused to be arrested and testified against? You made enemies in this business, and even if they were incarcerated there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t be out on the streets again seeking vengeance. Nothing to do but stay alert.

Might as well head home. The cats would be hungry, and maybe there was something watchable on TV.

9:13 p.m.

On the way to the garage I changed my mind, and against my better judgment decided to go by the lot on Saturn Street again. I paused to admire my new car before I got in. When my BMW Z4—sold to me by Rae, since Ricky insisted on buying her a new car every year on her birthday—was destroyed in the house fire, I’d been devastated. For years I’d driven and loved an old MG I’d owned since college, but I’d loved the Z4 even more. For a while I drove rentals, and then Hy surprised me with a Mercedes SLK 350 roadster. Red, with a removable hardtop and a black ragtop.

At first I’d thought the car was too showy for someone in my position, but Hy explained it was the opposite: nobody would believe that an investigator would drive such a sporty machine. Besides, the car was powerful enough that I could easily lose the most determined of pursuers. All my life I’ve had love affairs with cars, but this was the biggie.

I took what I thought of as my “skulking clothes” from the trunk, and went back to the office to put them on. Then I drove to Russian Hill, parking even farther away than I had before. Darted for the shadows of the overhang where I’d waited on my previous visit, and checked out the area for pedestrians or people at windows. There were none, but from the pit I heard low voices, their words indistinct.

An icy wind whistled above the excavation and was sucked down in a vortex. Not a good place for anyone to take shelter tonight. As I stood in the shadows, I heard a moan, and then a gruff voice said, “We better get outta here. A doorway’s better than this.”

“But the baby…”

In a moment two figures appeared from the darkness through the hole in the fence and emerged onto the sidewalk. They didn’t see me as they huddled together. The woman was obviously pregnant and close to term.

“Where’re we goin’ to go, honey?” Her voice was tremulous; she was trying not to cry.

“Wherever. At least we’re still together.”

I thought quickly, then turned on my flashlight and approached them. They froze like a pair of frightened deer caught in the glare of headlights.

“What were you two doing down there?” I asked in a brusque, official voice.

“Nothing, ma’am. Just lookin’ for shelter till this wind stops.” He raised his hand at the sky.

“Have you sheltered there before?”

“Twice, maybe three times. But that was in the fall when it was warmer.”

“Did you see anybody else tonight?”

They both shook their heads.

“Only fools like us would try it in this weather,” the man said. “Like I was tellin’ her when we climbed out, even a doorway’s better than down there.”

“Okay. You know we usually arrest people for trespassing on this lot, but in weather like this…well. I’m not going to hassle you. In fact, I’ll help you people out.”

“Why would you do that?”

I thought of Joey McCone, dead of a drug overdose in a rain-soaked shack near Eureka.

“Let’s just say I once had a brother who was in a fix like yours.”

“What happened to him?” the woman asked softly.

“He died. I don’t want that to happen to either of you—or your baby.”

The woman closed her eyes; the man cleared his throat gruffly.

I dug in my pocket, pulled out what cash I had there. Didn’t count it—it wasn’t much, but enough to help people with none at all. Added my business card to it.

“Take this. If you need any more help, get hold of me.”

After a hesitation, the man took it. “Thank you.”

“Better get going; there’s a rainstorm supposed to blow in soon.”

When they were gone, I slipped through the fence and descended carefully by the light of my flash. The pit was the same desolate, post-apocalyptic scene as before: slabs of broken concrete, discarded household items, rags and cans and other trash. But this time I noticed something new: the top to a refrigerator’s vegetable crisper, snapped in half. I had one like it, and I’d long yearned to exert the same violence upon it.