While Other People Sleep Page 12

  A few minutes later Keim drove up and parked. She walked toward Stoddard's building, spotted Mick, and did a double take. Then she crossed the street and went up to him.

  “Well, if it isn't my old buddy,” she said loudly. “What're you doing here?”

  One of the windows of apartment 10 opened a few inches.

  Mick glanced around uneasily, said something to Keim in a whisper.

  “Oh, who?” she asked.

  Another whisper.

  Keim whooped with laughter. That wasn't in the script; Mick must have said something risquè. “Oh, no, honey, you got it all wrong. That man's my client.”

  Mick shook his head and whispered some more.

  “You're kidding me. Who hired you?”

  “Can't say.”

  “Well, they must've been handing you a line of bullshit.” Keim whirled and started toward the apartment building.

  “Hey, where're you going?”

  “To see my client, jackass! And you better be gone when I come back.”

  Mick stared after her, shaking his head, then made some more notes.

  Jeffrey Stoddard—a handsome blond man whose ultra-smooth mannerisms had put me off during our initial meeting—greeted Keim at the building's door. “Who the hell is that?” he demanded, motioning at Mick.

  “Another P.I. At least he thinks he's one. Claims he was hired to run a surveillance on you.”

  “By who?”

  “Won't say. Mainly he works for financial institutions. But I wouldn't worry about him if I were you—guy's an idiot.”

  Stoddard stared at Mick, then looked down at Keim. “Hey, how come you're not in L.A.?”

  “That's what I came to talk to you about. I lost your old lady at the airport. She got tricky on me.”

  “You mean you don't know where she is?”

  “No. Like I said, she got very tricky, gave me the slip.”

  “Jesus!”

  “It might be the break we're hoping for. If she sneaked off to meet—”

  “Look, I can't talk right now.”

  “When, then?”

  “Later. I'll call you.” Stoddard stepped back inside and shut the door on her.

  Keim shrugged and walked back to her car, giving Mick the finger as she passed him.

  A few minutes after she drove away, an attractive blond woman rushed out of the building and drove off in the Blazer. Stoddard's face appeared at the window, looking toward Mick. Mick took out his cell phone and punched in a number. My own unit rang.

  “How'd we do?”

  “It's a wrap. Now all we do is wait.”

  We settled in to watch the ensuing show. It wasn't more than fifteen minutes before a tan BMW pulled over to the curb and another blonde—equally attractive but several years older—got out. She hurried to the building's door and let herself in with a key.

  Jeffrey Stoddard's fiancèe had taken the advice of the anonymous caller claiming to be a private investigator hired by an unnamed financial institution to run a surveillance on him. The investigator had told her he'd discovered something potentially damaging to her and urged her to return home at the earliest opportunity.

  It was a pity, I thought, that after all our careful staging we couldn't witness the drama's denouement. The fiancèe was now walking into a partially stripped apartment, and I doubted Stoddard would be able to come up with any explanation that wouldn't make her suspicious. Calls to their bank and broker would follow, and then, as Keim would say, our client would be made to feel smaller than a cake of lye soap after a hard day's washing.

  Of course, McCone Investigations would never recoup expenses on this one, but at the moment I didn't care. The afternoon in the field had been such a satisfying and diverting one that I'd scarcely given a thought either to Hy's silence or to That Woman.

  Naturally the respite couldn't last.

  As I neared Pier 24½ I saw two SFPD squad cars parked at its entrance. I sped up, U-turned where Brannan intersected the Embarcadero, and drove along the inside northbound lane so fast that I nearly missed seeing Hank standing behind a truck that was double parked in front of Red's Java House. He was trying to flag me down. I pulled over and lowered the passenger-side window.

  Hank gave me no explanation, just got in. “Keep driving,” he told me.

  “What—”

  “Drive! Don't stop at the pier!” The set of his mouth was grim.

  I did as he told me, my mouth going dry. “What're the cops doing there?”

  “They've got a warrant to search your office, car, and home for stolen goods. I took a look at it, stalled them for a while, but they wanted to get on with it. Rae's in charge; she'll make sure they don't overstep or damage anything.”

  “Jesus!” I nearly rear-ended a car stopped for the light at Folsom. “What am I supposed to have stolen?”

  “Five exceptionally valuable antique coins from the collection of one Carlton Maxwell. I presume you've heard of him.”

  Carlton Maxwell: dabbler in the arts, darling of the social set—and insatiable womanizer. “I've heard of him, yes. But I've never met him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turn left here.”

  “Where're we going?”

  “Glenn Solomon's office.”

  Glenn Solomon was one of the nation's foremost criminal defense attorneys, Hank's friend from law school, and my occasional client. “Why?”

  “Because after I read the warrant, I remembered about that woman who was hassling you. You've been on edge lately, so I've assumed it's an ongoing thing. When the cops started searching, I called Glenn and explained the situation. He says you're not to talk with the police till he can call his contacts in the D.A.’s office and find out the whole story. And he wants you in his office ASAP.”

  Behind us, somebody beeped.

  “Go!” Hank said.

  I wrenched the wheel to the left, my body trembling as if I'd narrowly averted a bad accident. “This is an absolute fucking nightmare!”

  “I imagine so, and it's about time you confided in somebody who's equipped to handle it.”

  How many times had I wanted to say that to Ted?

  A car edged out of a driveway to the right; I slammed on the brakes so hard that we were thrown forward, seat belts straining.

  “Shar, get a grip!”

  The only grip I had was on the wheel. I leaned my head against it, breathing hard. After a moment I straightened and pulled the van to the curb.

  “You'd better drive,” I told Hank. “I don't want to kill both of us between here and Glenn's office.”

  Monday night

  Hank, Glenn Solomon, and I stepped out of the Hall of Justice into the misty evening. Glenn—prosperously plump, silver haired, and trimly bearded—beckoned for us to stop and move in closer to him.

  “You may think the mess is resolved,” he said to me, “and it is, as far as Carlton's concerned, but this won't be the end of your troubles.”

  “I know. The woman's going to keep it up, escalate her activity.”

  “Exactly.”

  The woman, wearing her Sharon McCone disguise, had approached Carlton Maxwell on Saturday night at a club owned by the son of one of his society friends; he spent the remainder of the evening with her and took her to his home. There he showed her his valuable stamp and coin collections, and she spent the night; she slipped out early Sunday morning, and it wasn't till noon today that he discovered the coins— which the police this afternoon found in the driver's-side door pocket of my MG—were missing. Since no one else had been to Maxwell's home in the interim, it was obvious who had taken them; the police and the judge who had issued the search warrant gave the matter top priority.

  After Glenn Solomon—no stranger to San Francisco's official and society circles—learned about the events leading up to the issuance of the warrant, he called Carlton Maxwell and asked him to meet us at the Hall of Justice. He then called the detective in charge of the investigation
and said I'd be willing to come in and talk, provided the media were kept out of it. And the amazed look on Carlton Maxwell's face when Glenn introduced us verified my story.

  Now Glenn said, “This is one determined woman. She's not going to stop. And the police—in spite of that extensive report they took from you—are making promises they can't keep.”

  “I'm aware of that.”

  Hank asked, “So what d'you suggest she do?”

  Glenn spread his arms. “If I could come up with that kind of answer, I'd be rich.” To Hank's ironic grin, he added, “Okay, richer.” Then he turned to me. “Listen well, my friend. You have to start looking out for yourself. You've got the smarts, you've got the resources—so start using them before this woman destroys you.”

  I looked into his honest, concerned eyes, and then into Hank's. Yes, I had the smarts and the resources, including the friends and associates to back me.

  “Okay,” I said, “I'll start using them. First thing tomorrow morning.”

  Tonight, however, there was a personal matter that needed tending to.

  From my car, I checked in with the office, found Keim working late. “I'm glad you called,” she said. “You've got an urgent message from Ted; he left it at about six-thirty.”

  It was after eight now. “What did he say?”

  “Just that he needed to talk with you as soon as possible.”

  “At home?”

  “I guess. He didn't leave a number.”

  I thanked her and dialed his apartment, let the phone ring seven times before I hung up. Dammit, why wasn't his machine on? Next I accessed my own machine; he'd phoned there also, and his voice was shaky on the tape: “Shar, I really need your help. Please call me as soon as you get this.” The recording time was six thirty-five.

  Something must be very wrong, because he'd finally come to me.

  I called the apartment again, waited twenty rings this time. He must have gone out and forgotten to turn the machine on, unless …

  I started the car and drove toward Tel Hill.

  No lights showed in the windows of the third-floor rear apartment. I let myself into the building, took the stairs two at a time. When I unlocked Ted's door, darkness and silence greeted me. Quickly I moved down the hallway. No lights anywhere downstairs, but a spot on the deck made the bullet-shattered door gleam like fragmented starshine. Pieces of glass had fallen to the carpet, and cold air seeped through the hole.

  I hurried up the stairway, poked my head into the library. Nobody. Rushed across the catwalk to the bedroom. Same. The bathroom? Empty.

  I let out my breath and sat down on the bed. What had I been afraid of? That Ted had been murdered? Surely matters couldn't be that critical. That he'd taken his own life? No, he was not a man who would do that.

  This business with the woman had me so rattled that I took every possibility to the extreme. I wasn't thinking straight, but I'd better start. The important thing now was to find Ted.

  On the sidewalk outside the building I encountered Peter Jackson, a friend of Ted and Neal's who lived in a cottage near the end of the alley. I asked if he'd seen Ted, and he told me Ted had gotten into his car around seven. “He looked kind of unsteady—been drinking, maybe.”

  I didn't think so; something other than alcohol was responsible for Ted's condition. But Peter's mention of drinking made me remember a bar Ted and Neal sometimes frequented. I asked Peter its name and location.

  Jimbo's, on Filbert near Washington Square.

  The night was fog-warm, and the double doors of Jimbo's stood open. I stopped on the sidewalk, looking inside at the customers. No Ted. Still, he might have stopped in; somebody might know where he was.

  Through the doors where no woman was welcome I went.

  Several men near the door glanced at me and frowned. The plaid-shirted bartender set down a glass he'd been drying and came forward. “Sorry, ma'am—”

  I stopped him by showing my ID. “Ted Smalley works for me. Have you seen him?”

  “He was in earlier today, right after I opened up. Wanted to know if I had any idea where his partner, Neal Osborn, is. I didn't. He asked me if I'd check with the other regulars when they came in.”

  “Did any of them know?”

  “Uh-uh. And Ted hasn't called like he said he would.”

  “Seems both he and Neal are missing. I'm worried about them. Could you ask your customers about them now?”

  “You mean make some sorta announcement?”

  “Please. I think Ted and Neal may be in trouble.”

  He shrugged and rang a bell suspended above the bar. The patrons looked around, some checking their watches. Too early for last call.

  “Listen up,” the bartender said. “This lady's trying to find Smalley and Osborn. Thinks they might be in trouble. Anybody know where they are?”

  Silence. Then a bald, mustached man in a cowboy shirt said, “Ted called me at the office this afternoon, asked if I'd loaned Neal my place out at Inverness. I hadn't.”

  A biker type added, “I thought I saw Ted in his car tonight, stopped at the light at Lombard and Divisadero.”

  “Going toward the Golden Gate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven-fifteen, seven-thirty.”

  Leaving the city. Dammit, why hadn't I been available when he called?

  I sagged against a stool, and the bartender saw my distress. “Hey, why don't you sit down?” he said. “You look like you could use a drink—on the house.”

  For a moment I was tempted to refuse; after all, I had no business in his bar. But then the biker said, “Better take him up on it, lady. He don't usually buy.”

  I got up on the stool and had my first and only drink at Jimbo's.

  When I got home I found a dark shape sitting at the top of my front steps.

  “Shar.” Ted's voice, soft and flat with depression.

  “Where've you been? I drove all over the city looking for you!” I ran up the steps and threw my arms around him.

  He put his around me and we hugged for a moment. Then he gently disentangled us and stood up. “I went over to Marin on a hunch, looking for Neal. The hunch was wrong. Since I got back I've been sitting here waiting for you.”

  I looked up, saw his pain-etched features. Felt the same kind of pain reflected in mine.

  “Thank God you've finally decided to confide in me,” I said. “Maybe now we can help each other.”

  PART TWO

  February 25–March 7

  The hours while other people sleep are when things come together for me: facts, impressions nuances, shades of meaning. Patterns emerge—some clear, others like cracks in a bullet-pierced pane of glass. But all are patterns and contain some inner logic.

  The clear patterns are well integrated, concise. One detail leads neatly to another. I tend to distrust them; simplicity of structure can hide falsehood. The chaotic patterns interest me more. One crack intersects another, then leads to a third, a tenth, a hundredth. If I allow my thoughts to flow freely along those cracks, a truth may appear.

  It's not easy to give myself over to that kind of mental meandering. There's the compulsion to manipulate, create order where none really exists. Or to throw everything into greater chaos and destroy something of value.

  In these late-night hours I try to match my actions to my thought processes. I move about my home—or wherever else I might be—slowly and deliberately. I pour a cup of coffee or a glass of wine carefully, without spilling a drop. I sip measuredly. But my thoughts surge onward.

  As they gain speed, the thoughts meld with emotion. Then there's no stopping the process. A conclusion lies ahead—but who's to tell if it's true or false? A conclusion I may have to stake my life upon—and who's to judge its validity?

  Not I.

  The hours while other people sleep are a fragile balance between truth and falsehood, a time when the scales may tip either way.

  Tuesday

  The faces aroun
d the old oak table in the conference room my agency shared with Altman & Zahn were attentive and solemn: Rae, Charlotte, Mick. Ted sat a little apart, tension and weariness evident in his face and posture. I'd just finished explaining that both he and I had serious problems that needed the entire agency's attention, and now I handed Rae three sets of fact sheets that Ted and I had worked up this morning, detailing his situation. She took one, passed the rest on.

  For a moment I flashed back to the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of hours I'd spent at this table when it stood by the kitchen window in All Souls Legal Cooperative's big Victorian; back before the poverty-law firm began its inevitable decline, many of us had frequently gathered there to share triumphs or miseries, to play poker or Monopoly. Sitting at it today reminded me that things hadn't changed all that much since those times; I still had people in my life whom I could count on.

  I said, “Those sheets give dates and details of some horrifying incidents in Ted's life over the past month, but before you read them, he's going to outline the situation for you.” I motioned to him that he had the floor.

  He hesitated briefly, then shrugged as if he was letting go of something that wasn't important anymore. Cleared his throat and said, “Why do I feel like I ought to announce, ‘Hi, my name's Ted, and I'm an asshole’? Well, that's what I've been this last month. I've hurt a lot of feelings around here, and I'm sorry. The whole thing started when I came home from work one day and found a folded slip of paper with Neal's name on it stuffed into our mailbox. Normally I wouldn't’ve read it, but it flipped open and I saw the word ‘faggot.’ So I took a look. Only one sentence: ‘Why don't you die of AIDS, faggot?’ ”

  Rae and Charlotte groaned, and Mick muttered, “Some gay-bashing bastard!”

  “Yeah. I decided to ignore it, threw the note out, and didn't tell Neal about it. The bookstore isn't doing well, the IRS is auditing him, and I didn't want him to have to worry about some homophobe on top of everything else. The notes kept coming, though—uglier each time. Finally I filched his mailbox key so he wouldn't see them.