Both Ends of the Night Page 13

  “That’s got to be tough.”

  “On a normal person, it is. Say you have aging parents: You tell them good-bye, knowing you’ll never see them again unless they’re on their deathbed or in their coffin. When they do die, you’re not allowed to attend the funeral; a private viewing in the presence of a deputy marshal is all the closure you’ll have.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Oh, there’s more. You can’t practice your former profession, and any job you’re likely to get will be low-level because you don’t have a verifiable résumé. You can’t go back to college or retrain because you don’t have access to your transcripts. You can’t enjoy your former hobbies. You become afraid to make new friends because you might let something slip, might call your spouse or kids by their real names. If you’re unmarried, you can’t develop any truly intimate relationships because one of the conditions of the program is that you tell no one about your past. And while you have genuine documentation—Social Security card, driver’s license, birth certificate—you don’t have a credit rating or personal health records. Everything about you, everything you worked your whole life for, is erased.”

  As he spoke, Morland’s normally soft voice had become louder and emotional. He must have heard himself, because he glanced around and lowered it. “I guess you can tell this subject really gets me going. The program does the most for the least deserving people, like low-level mob figures looking to get a fresh start. The innocent bystanders who just happen to witness a crime and the good citizens who think they’re doing the right thing by coming forward—they’re the ones who suffer.”

  “You sound as though you’ve had some experience with people in the program.”

  “A number of my informants have entered it; some could hack it, some couldn’t. A few got to the point where they felt safe, went back to their old habits and haunts; they were recognized and killed.

  “I’ll give you one example: nice middle-aged woman, unmarried, an accountant with close family connections and an active social and volunteer life. She uncovered massive money laundering at a firm where she was temporarily employed and came to us with the information. The threats started before the trials, and afterward she requested permanent protection. The marshals relocated her from Virginia to New Mexico. The only job they bothered to find for her was as a clerk at a pizza chain. They rented her a crappy apartment and told her she was on her own. She went to work, holed up in the evenings and on the weekends, made no friends, did nothing.

  “After a while the isolation and dislocation got to her. The deputy marshal assigned to her was indifferent. That happens sometimes. He told her to adapt or leave the program. Finally she called me, asking if I could persuade the marshals to move her someplace else or at least arrange for a better job. I couldn’t, and she must’ve interpreted my failure to mean I was indifferent, too, because she stopped calling. Six weeks later she broke the rules and made a secret visit to her family in Virginia—the danger zone. The marshals found out and terminated her from the program. She returned home and within the month was shot to death while crossing the street to go to a job interview.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “Yeah. And she’s not an isolated case. What’s even worse is that the scum out there—some of whom you’ll find in the very best of company—think nothing of blowing people like her away. And what’s the absolute worst is that there’s nothing Justice can, or sometimes will, do about it.”

  “What do you mean—nothing they will do about it?”

  He looked down into his drink and after a moment muttered, “God, why am I doing this?”

  I waited.

  He made eye contact again, and now I identified what I’d earlier seen: edginess and anger, and an emptiness.

  “Sharon, you’re the last person I should be telling what I’m about to—but maybe that’s the reason I will. Try to remember that this conversation never took place.”

  I nodded.

  “Every year, the Justice Department receives referrals of close to a hundred thousand criminal matters from various federal investigatory agencies. The U.S. attorneys review and dispose of them—either by deciding to charge or by deciding not to make a case. What percentage of that hundred thousand do you think is disposed of without charges being filed?”

  “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

  “Over sixty percent. Granted, many are without merit, or there’re serious problems with the evidence or witnesses. But others—”

  A couple had taken the booth opposite us. Morland glanced at them, then slid around the banquette until he was close beside me. Putting his hand on mine and speaking low, as if we were having a lovers’ tryst, he went on. “Let’s take a hypothetical case. Say our San Francisco office has been investigating a businessman who happens to have been a major contributor to the president’s campaign fund. The identity of the hypothetical president can vary according to your party affiliation. Anyway, we turn up solid evidence against the businessman of fronting money for drug deals. The matter goes to the U.S. attorney out there, and after review, he decides not to make a perfectly good case. Now, why do you suppose that happens?”

  I shook my head.

  “It happens because the businessman has called his senator, whose campaign fund he also contributed to. The senator has placed a friendly call to the Oval Office. In turn, the Oval Office has called the attorney general, who is appointed by and responsible to the president. Next thing you know, the U.S. attorney in San Francisco is told to let the matter drop or start looking for another job.”

  “It really happens that way?”

  “Damn right it happens.” Morland’s fingers were rigid on my hand, his eyes now hard and angry.

  I said, “You sound more than disillusioned with the system.”

  “Way more. It’s been a gradual process. When I joined the Bureau I was pretty green; I couldn’t believe that that kind of deal could be cut, much less that Justice could be party to it. Later on, I tried to rationalize: political stability is essential to the national good; we can’t allow the reputations of our high elected officials to be dirtied. Well, after a while I decided that was a crock, but still I told myself, This is the way our system works; it sucks, but it works.”

  “And now?”

  “Now you know why I let Adah talk me into meeting with you tonight. I just don’t give a shit anymore. I’ve turned into a loose cannon, and I’m setting myself up to take a fall.”

  “Why?”

  He looked away from me, lips tightening. “A combination of things. The specifics aren’t important.”

  “Is one of them all the nonsense that went down around the Diplo-bomber investigation last spring?”

  “Yeah, one of them.” His eyes met mine again. “That’s enough about me. What else do you need?”

  “If the Fullers actually were in the Witness Protection Program, is there any way I could get the details?”

  “Sure. Our ADPT—automatic data processing and telecommunications equipment and services—isn’t as secure as it should be. About half a million insiders have access to it, and there’s always someone who’ll misuse information for fun or profit. Or for the sake of old times. Of course, you and this insider would be committing a crime.”

  He was teetering on the same invisible line I’d crossed so many times. Some of those crossings I regretted, and I couldn’t make myself give him the shove he was asking for.

  “There’s no legal way?”

  “… Well, you could work it from the other end.”

  “How?”

  “You know when Marie Fuller was killed. You know the husband’s still running scared. That indicates he was the primary target, the witness. If the threat was that serious, that long-term, there should be publicly available documentation of the circumstances that produced it.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.”

  “And I understand why you’re refusing my offer. It’ll still be open if the legal way
doesn’t work. But go ahead and try it from the other end first. You know how to do it.”

  I didn’t, not exactly—but Mick would.

  Twelve

  Tuesday morning: San Francisco

  Alice, my calico cat, ran ahead of me up the front steps of my house and pawed frantically at the door. I juggled my purse and travel bag while trying to fit the key into the lock.

  “Don’t panic,” I told her. “I’m here, all’s well.”

  Neither Allie nor her orange tabby brother, Ralph, was a night creature; in fact, they hated to be left out after dark. I was sure they’d been inside on Sunday night, and I’d given the Curley kid next door explicit instructions to confine them to the house in my absence, but it seemed that at least one of the wily beasts had slipped out—and now heartily regretted it.

  Gray light filtered through the windows of my parlor and guest room, dissipating the gloom in the hall. I reset the security system as Allie streaked toward the kitchen—intent, no doubt, on her food bowl. Yawning widely, I dragged the bag that I hadn’t opened the whole time I’d been away toward my bedroom at the rear of the house.

  I’d caught a series of red-eye flights across the country—preferring motion over a hotel room or long hours at the D.C. airport—and now felt justifiably rumpled and cranky. While I’d slept heavily on the planes, I’d more or less navigated SFO, the shuttle to the parking lot, and the drive home on autopilot. I badly needed coffee and a shower. In my haste I didn’t bother to turn on the lights in the sitting room, miscalculated where an end table was, and banged the bag against it. The lamp toppled onto the couch, and someone moaned in protest. Startled, I fumbled for the switch and put on the overhead.

  Hy squinted up at me over the edge of a brightly patterned cotton throw. His dark blond curls resembled a clown’s wig, his eyes were red, and he wore two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. “Jesus, McCone, are you trying to wake the dead?”

  My surprise turned to relief, followed swiftly by annoyance. I’d been calling everywhere for him between flights, and he’d been here the whole time. “Why did you let my calls go on the machine?”

  “What’d you find out in Florida?”

  “Where were you all of yesterday?”

  “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

  “Where’s Ralph? Are you the one who let Allie out?”

  He grinned and sat up, running his fingers through his tangled hair. “This isn’t getting us anyplace. Ralph was asleep in the guest room the last I saw him. Allie might’ve sneaked out, I guess. I only got here a couple of hours ago, and the phone hasn’t rung. And as far as the more complicated stuff goes, you’re up first. What’d you find out?”

  “Why don’t you put some coffee on before we talk. I need to shower.”

  “Deal.”

  By the time I wrapped myself in my long white terry-cloth robe and went to the kitchen, the coffee had brewed. Hy paused in pouring it, looked at me, and said, “What is it about you in that robe that turns me on?”

  “I can’t imagine. It hides virtually every inch of my body.”

  “Maybe that’s it—the mystery factor. Come here and give me a kiss.”

  I went to him, pleasure sharpening as he wrapped me in his arms. Even the rasp of his stubble against my face didn’t dull the odd combination of excitement and safety that I always felt on coming home to him. After a moment he stepped back and held me at arm’s length, saying, “I think I’ll buy you one of these robes in every color, just in case they stop making them.”

  “Do that. In the meantime…”

  “Coffee.”

  We took our mugs to the sitting room, pushing aside the throw and cushion he’d had bunched up under his head. “You know, I do own such a convenience as a bed,” I told him. “You didn’t have to await my return on the couch.”

  “I planned to go to bed, believe me, but I lay down here to rest my eyes, and next thing I knew, a lamp was falling on me. So how was the trip?”

  “Fruitful. I ended up in Washington, D.C.” As I filled him in on the past twenty-four hours, I could see him becoming quietly excited.

  “McCone, that’s good stuff. Now let me tell you what I’ve been doing, and we’ll see how all this fits together. Yesterday morning I got to thinking about that mechanic, Ed Cutter. It occurred to me that if somebody wanted to approach him about planting a device in Matty’s plane, they couldn’t just go in cold, now, could they?”

  “Not very likely. Cutter, as you said, appeared devoted to Matty; anybody who knew that would’ve been hesitant to approach him.”

  “Right. So it figures that whoever put Cutter up to it—and later killed him—knew something about him that we didn’t.”

  I nodded. “Something that would lead him or her to believe he was the man for the job. Maybe something the person could use as leverage to get Cutter to take the job.”

  “My exact reasoning. So here’s what I did: Since early yesterday morning Two-eight-niner and I have flown all over northern California. I’ve fueled up enough times to put a serious balance on my credit card, spoken to God knows how many linemen, mechanics, pilots, and fixed-base operators. I’ve drunk about eighty-seven cups of coffee, eaten six cheeseburgers, and collected dozens of rentals and repairs price lists from the FBOs—all of this so I could ask questions without seeming too obvious.

  “I’d land, chat up whoever was around, and then I’d say, ‘Hey, you hear about those murders at the strip over near Healdsburg Saturday night?’ Of course everybody had. Then I’d say, ‘You know either of those guys?’ A fair number of people had. And the upshot of all that chatting—to say nothing of probably ruining my stomach lining—is that Ed Cutter was dirty. Matthews, too.”

  “In what way?”

  “That’s the interesting part. Nobody could—or would—pin it down for me. But there’s this widespread perception that the word was out: you want something done, see Cutter or Matthews.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I should’ve known something was wrong at that strip. Now that I think back on my conversation with Matthews at Willits, I realize he was very interested in the fact that I’d worked for K-Air. He’d been in Southeast Asia himself, and their rep wasn’t any too clean. I’ll bet when he asked me if I wanted to pick up some work, he was feeling me out about doing some flying below radar level.”

  “Transporting contraband.”

  “Right.”

  I thought about that as I sipped coffee. “Okay, what was Cutter’s role in this?”

  “Probably making undocumented modifications to aircraft—things that, if they were noted in the logs, would’ve tipped the FAA off to the fact that the planes were being used for illegal purposes. Removing seats to make space for additional cargo; installing extra fuel tanks or special radar equipment.”

  “Interesting. In your travels, did you stop at Los Alegres?”

  “No. The folks there know I was Matty’s friend; they’d’ve seen through me in a heartbeat.”

  “Well, they know I was Matty’s friend, too, but I didn’t hide the fact I was working for her. Maybe I’ll drive up there this afternoon, ask some more questions. And I’ll find out if there’s going to be a memorial service for her.”

  “Why drive? Take Two-eight-niner.”

  “No. I also want to visit Seabrook’s former partner at the tree farm, so I’ll need my car.”

  Hy nodded, his eyes moving away from mine, focusing on the cold fireplace. After a moment he said, “You know, McCone, it was damned lucky Cutter was dead when we got there Saturday night. I know I told you I wasn’t going to harm him, but now I’m not so sure I wouldn’t’ve killed him with my bare hands if I’d faced him down and he’d admitted what he did.”

  “And I’m not sure I wouldn’t have helped you.”

  “Jesus, we’re really out of control, aren’t we?”

  “Seems so. I keep waiting for some sort of… settling, whatever. For some sense of wanting justice rather than revenge.”

  “Isn
’t happening.”

  “No.”

  “Trouble is, now it seems like Matty’s dying was a small part of a very big picture. Maybe we’ll never get the satisfaction of taking down the one who’s responsible.”

  “Maybe what we’re after is more important than taking down a single individual.”

  I spent part of the morning in the office catching up on paperwork and getting Mick started on his latest assignment. As I’d expected, my nephew welcomed the challenge of back-tracking the Fuller family’s movements and quickly shifted into high gear; when I left him he was talking to the PowerBook as he might to a woman: “You and I are going to have one hot time today, baby!”

  Since Seacliff was only a slight detour from the direct route to the Golden Gate Bridge, I decided at the last minute to drop in at Rae and Ricky’s to check on Zach. The semicircular driveway of the redwood-and-glass house was clogged with vehicles, and after my I.D. passed scrutiny of the RKI guard, Ricky’s keyboards player, Pete Sherman, answered the door. Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I belatedly remembered, were reserved for rehearsals, with two band members flying up from southern California and two others driving in from their Bay Area locations.

  Pete kept me in the entryway for a few minutes while he showed me a fresh batch of photos of his baby daughter, then pointed me toward the kitchen. There I found Ricky eating a bagel with cream cheese while his drummer, red-haired Jerry Jackson, rummaged in the fridge. When he heard my voice, Jerry turned, winked at me, and handed me a jar of mayonnaise. “Set that on the counter, would you?”

  I put the jar next to an astonishing assortment of deli food and went over to Ricky. “Good trip?” he asked.

  “Productive. I stopped by to see Zach.”

  “He’s not here. Red had to go to Monterey—something about a deposition in a case she worked for All Souls down there last year. She decided Zach needed a change of scene, so she took him along and promised they’d do the aquarium this afternoon.”