While Other People Sleep
This is book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1998 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Diane Luger
Cover illustration by Tony Greco
Hand lettering by David Gatti
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
A Time Warner Company
The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: May 1999
ISBN: 978-0-446-54972-1
Contents
Praise For
Sharon Mccone Mysteries by Marcia Muller
Dedication
Preface
PART ONE: February 12-24
Wednesday night
Thursday
Thursday night
Friday
Friday night
Sunday night
Monday
Monday night
Thursday
Thursday night
Friday
Friday night
Saturday
Saturday night
Sunday
Sunday night
Monday
Monday night
PART TWO: February 25–March 7
Tuesday
Tuesday night
Wednesday
Wednesday night
Thursday
Thursday night
Friday
Friday night
Saturday
Saturday night
Sunday
Sunday Morning–Later
Monday
Friday
Preview for A Walk Through The Fire
About the Author
The groundbreaking, long-running Sharon McCone mystery series, now over two decades old, has seen the intriguingly complex McCone evolve dramatically. Beginning as a ‘70s idealistic crime fighter, she has become a formidable, battle-tested veteran who has not lost her passion for justice. Now in the newest book in the series, McCone faces a frightening midlife crisis that will truly test her mettle. With her very identity at stake, she confronts an enemy who invades her privacy, disturbs her mind, and threatens to destroy her life.
PRAISE FOR MARCIA MULLER AND HER NEWEST SHARON MCCONE NOVEL WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP
“An excellent private-eye tale structured by a master of the form … moves smoothly and entertainingly from the first whiff of plot to the big finale.”
—San Francisco Sunday Examiner & Chronicle
“A rip-roaring conclusion.”
—Washington Post Book World
“A riveting tale…. [Muller is] a first-rate storyteller.”
—Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
“A fascinating novel that goes far beyond the range of most detective tales…. Muller has been turning out engrossing novels featuring an intelligent, maturing detective for two decades and shows no signs of slowing down.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Muller creates an agonizing puzzle … a plot enlivened by twists and counter-twists.”
—Chicago Sunday Sun-Times
“Evocative … one of the treasures of the genre.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Poignancy, page-turning action, and a standout cast … [an] outstanding series.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Muller's novels are models of thoughtful plotting and rich characterization.”
—Seattle Times
“The reigning queen of the female P.I. genre.”
—Booklist
“One of the best mysteries of the genre.”
—Southbridge Evening News (MA)
“Fast-paced and exciting. … McCone is a great female detective.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Sharon McCone is the new breed of American woman detective … redefining the mystery genre by applying different sensibilities and values to it.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Reading the McCone novels in order, one can track the astounding literary growth of author Marcia Muller as she hones her skills to scalpel sharpness. … A prime example of just how good the noir novel can be.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Marcia Muller launched the present wave of women writing about women as sleuths with Sharon McCone in 1977 … [and] quietly keeps getting better and better.”
—Charles Champlin, Los Angeles Times Book Review
“One of the most popular female heroines in the genre.”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Pace and plotting are very strong, but it's her characters—especially McCone—who will lure you back.”
—Atlanta Journal & Constitution
“Muller has gotten quietly, steadily better. She is building up steam, not running out of it.”
—Newsweek
SHARON MCCONE MYSTERIES BY MARCIA MULLER
WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP
BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT
THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND
A WILD AND LONELY PLACE
TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN
WOLF IN THE SHADOWS
PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES
WHERE ECHOES LIVE
TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS
THE SHAPE OF DREAD
THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY
EYE OF THE STORM
THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF
DOUBLE (with Bill Pronzini)
LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE
GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY
THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE
ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION
EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES
For the Mourants:
Tom, who won’t read it,
Teresa, who will,
Kirsten, who might,
Camille, who might when she's old enough.
And also for Patty and Walt.
Many thanks to:
Peggy Bakker, CFI, for her flying wisdom and expertise
Jan Grape, for her Texas-isms
Erlene Peeples, for her wonderful flying stories
Tim Talamantes, for the story that inspired McCone's nineteenth case
Melissa Ward, for her help, research, and sympathetic ear
And, of course, to Bill, for everything
PART ONE
February 12-24
The hours while other people sleep are the longest for me, and the most uneasy. All that's familiar adopts a vaguely menacing disguise, and the landscape of my life alters. Demons walk beside me, in the form of old regrets and guilts. I'm cut off from those I love. Whether at home and plagued by insomnia or on a long surveillance, I watch the clock and will its hands to move more swiftly toward the time when the darkness will lift and life will once again return to the safe and mundane. But the hands creep slowly, and I'm forced to face what I keep hidden inside.
I'm not as kind as I'd like to be, or as loving.
I'm not as honest as I used to be, and my ethics are eroding.
I'm not as brave as I pretend to be.
I've hurt people, peopl
e I care about.
I've killed people, played God.
The list goes on, then replays in an endless loop as I wait out the night. I feel threatened, but not by anything external.
During the hours while other people sleep, the threat always comes from within.
Wednesday night
At 11:37 P.M. the interior of Pier 24½ lay in darkness broken only by a few badly placed security lights. The air was cold and damp, redolent of brine and creosote. Rain hammered the flat roof, and directly above it on the span of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, a truck's gears ground. Another vehicle backfired, sounding like gunshots.
I paused on the iron catwalk outside my office, watching and listening, my senses sharpened as they always were when I worked alone here at night. The old pier's security was easily breached, there were many places for an intruder to hide, and the waterfront, while undergoing a renaissance these days, was still a potentially dangerous place. Given the right combination of circumstances, most places in this city could be dangerous.
No one was visible on the catwalks that crossed over to the opposite suites of offices; no light seeped through the cracks around the doors. The ironwork threw an intricate pattern of shadows on the concrete floor below, where we tenants parked our cars. After a moment I moved along the catwalk toward the office of Ted Smalley, the efficient and somewhat dictatorial man who keeps both my agency and Altman & Zahn, Attorneys-at-Law, functioning smoothly. The sound of my footsteps echoed off the high ceiling and exposed girders. A sudden rush of air, and something flew at my head. Reflexively I threw up an arm; my fingers grazed thin membrane and bone.
Jesus Christ, a bat!
Heart pounding, I ran into Ted's office, slammed the door, and leaned against it, clutching the files I carried.
“McCone,” I gasped aloud, “you've faced down armed criminals without blinking. Why the hell're you running from a little bat that's probably cowering in the rafters by now?”
I knew the answer, of course: the encounter with the bat had tapped into my old phobia of birds—one I thought I'd long before conquered. Apparently not, though, at least not when I was already nursing a low-level depression and edginess, brought on by the wet and stormy weather that had persisted with scarcely a break since the day after Christmas.
A low-wattage lamp burned on Ted's desk. I used its light to scribble a note, which I then stuffed under the rubber band holding the files together. They contained job applications, background checks, and turndown letters for three candidates I'd recently interviewed. Two of the applicants had been excellent, and my note to Ted asked that he keep the files active, but early last week my friend Craig Morland had finally accepted the position I'd offered him last December. Craig, a former FBI field agent, was just the man McCone Investigations needed; his connections from fifteen-plus years with the Bureau had already proved invaluable to me.
Back on the catwalk, I strode fearlessly toward the stairway. No bat was going to intimidate me.
“Hey!”
I froze at the top of the stairway, trying to pinpoint the source of the shout, then dropped down behind the railing and peered through it.
“Hey, Sharon, how come you're hiding from me?”
I let my breath out slowly, recognizing the Australian accent of Glenna Stanleigh, a documentary filmmaker who rented the ground-floor suite next to the pier's entrance. Feeling both foolish and angry, I straightened.
“For God's sake, Glenna! I damn near died of fright.”
“You? No way.” She came out from behind her Ford Bronco—a petite woman with long, light brown curls and huge, lamplike gray eyes. “Seriously, I am sorry. I wasn't thinking.”
“No permanent harm done.” I started down.
“I wouldn't’ve shouted like that,” Glenna added, “but I've been anxious to see you. To tell you about a bizarre experience I had last weekend.”
“Oh?”
She nodded, looking exceptionally solemn for one with a perpetually sunny disposition. When I first met Glenna, I'd found her cheeriness suspect; nobody could possibly be that upbeat—to say nothing of that nice—all the time. But as I got to know her better I realized how genuine she was, and we became friends of a sort. I often sought her out when I was feeling low, and this past rainy month I'd spent a fair amount of time drinking tea with her in her office.
She said, “It's kind of a long story, but I think the sooner you know, the better. Would you like some brandy? I've a leftover Christmas bottle in my desk.”
Brandy sounded perfect. “Lead me to it.”
While Glenna searched her editing room for glasses, I sat in one of the low-slung canvas chairs in her office and listened to the rain splatter against the high arched window overlooking the Embarcadero. Across the waterfront boulevard, Hills Plaza—a former coffee mill converted to residential and commercial use—was largely dark; the globes of the old-fashioned streetlights along the Muni tracks glowed, highlighting the fronds of the recently planted palm trees. I caught my own reflection in the glass and glanced away, thinking I looked tired.
There was a smashing noise in the editing room, and Glenna exclaimed, “Damn!”
“You all right?”
“I am, but that brandy snifter isn't.”
I smiled. The glass had probably been perched precariously, if the editing room contained as much chaos as the office. Framed posters for Glenna's documentaries, on such diverse subjects as Appalachian folk medicine and the ecology of the Great Barrier Reef, leaned at intervals along the walls, where they'd been waiting to be hung for as long as I'd known her.
Glenna returned, a trifle flushed and carrying two plastic tumblers. She poured the brandy, handed one to me, and sat in the matching chair. “Yes, it's a mess in there too,” she said, “which is why I broke the last of my snifters. I plan to do something about it one of these days. Or years.”
“More likely years.”
“You know me—I'm hopeless.” But she grinned cheerfully, quite content with her slothfulness. “So what're you doing here this late?”
I shrugged, sipping the brandy. “Paperwork.”
“You can't find time for it during business hours?”
“Not unless I chain myself to the desk—and I established the agency to keep from being confined to the office. Besides, I spent most of the afternoon helping Ted sort out what brand of new copier to buy. Leave it to him to suffer a totally uncharacteristic fit of indecision when I have a full in-box. He's been acting weird; it's hell when you can't rely on your most dependable employee.”
“Lord, you sound like me: be your own boss and end up working harder and longer than you ever did for anybody else.”
“Right.” Still, I didn't regret the decision. McCone Investigations was turning a profit and growing; we were steadily earning a reputation for solid, intelligent, reliable work.
“So,” I said to Glenna, “what's this bizarre experience you want to tell me about?”
Her small face grew solemn again. “Well, you know that I'm on the board of the Bay Area Film Council?”
I nodded.
“Saturday night we held this positively smashing fundraiser at the Russian Hill penthouse of one of our patrons. Cocktail party for hundreds. The big money came out in droves. Heavy security, of course, and special name tags so none of the riffraff could sneak in. I networked madly, talking up that Hawaiian documentary I want to do, and somebody told me that a member of the Dillingham family—they're big in construction in the Islands—was in the room where they'd got the buffet set up. So I took myself there and came face to face with a woman wearing a familiar name tag.” Glenna paused dramatically.
“Who was it?”
“You.”
“What?”
“I am not kidding, Sharon. A woman I'd never seen before in my life was wearing a tag that said ‘Sharon McCone.’ “
“My God. Did you speak with her?”
“Yes. I went over and asked her if she was the well-known
private investigator. She said she was, so I decided to play along for a while, see what I could find out. She knew a lot about you.”
I felt a prickle of unease. “Such as?”
“Mainly professional stuff. Nothing she couldn't have gotten from the papers or from that interview in People after the Diplo-bomber case.”
Agreeing to the People interview was one of my worst mistakes; the reporter had made me sound more macho than Dirty Harry, and in the accompanying photograph I looked like someone Harry himself wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley.
“But,” Glenna added, “she also knew things that I don't recall seeing in print. Such as what kind of plane you fly, who it belongs to, and what he is to you.”
“She knew about Ripinsky?” Hy Ripinsky, my very significant other and the owner of Citabria 77289.
“She did. And she mentioned your cottage. She called it a name … Touchstone?”
I nodded, very uneasy now. The small stone cottage on the Mendocino coast, which Hy and I jointly owned, was our refuge when the world became too much for us. We rarely spoke of it by name to others, and we invited only close friends there.
“Did she say anything about the house we're going to build on the property?”
“No.”
“Then her information's not completely up to date. So you played along for a while …”
“And then called her on it. I told her I had my office here in the pier and knew you. At first she didn't believe me and tried to bluff her way out of it. Then she admitted that she'd been given a ticket to the benefit by a friend who couldn't attend, and she felt outclassed by all the big names and rich people. So she decided to make herself important by impersonating you.”
“If impersonating me is her way of achieving importance, the woman's in serious need of a life.”