Burn Out Read online

  “McCone? No new machine yet?” Hy.

  “Sorry. Busy day. Where are you?”

  “SFO, about to grab a cab for home.”

  Home. I could sleep next to him in our own bed tomorrow night, see our cats . . .

  “I need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Will you fly up here tomorrow and take me back?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks. There’re some things I need to take care of in the city. And I really want to see you.”

  “Me too. Here’s a suggestion: why don’t I come up tonight?”

  “Aren’t you tired after that long flight?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, just phone with your ETA.”

  “I’ll do that, darlin’.”

  Saturday

  NOVEMBER 10

  We lazed in bed till almost noon—it had been another nightmare-free sleep for me—and then Hy went over to see how the Perezes were doing. He came back quickly; no one had been there, but he’d left a note of condolence.

  “They’re probably still in Sacramento,” I said. “This is so much for one couple to bear. I wish I could help more. . . .”

  Hy hugged me. “You already have, McCone.”

  “I feel bad, leaving at a time like this. But the situation in the city—”

  “I know. And Ramon and Sara will understand.”

  “But, Ripinsky, what about King?”

  “Who?”

  “King Lear.”

  “Lear Jet?”

  “No, King. Who’s going to take care of him?”

  “One of the sheepherders. They know when Ramon’s gone, and they pick up the slack. How d’you think Lear . . . uh, King’s survived all these years?”

  “Are you sure the herders know Ramon’s not home?”

  “In territory like this, everybody knows what’s going on.”

  “Not everybody. Not by a long shot.”

  We arrived in San Francisco at around seven that evening. The cats, Ralph and Allie, were happy to see us, and while Hy was ordering a pizza, Michelle Curley, the teenager next door who tended to them and the house when we were away, came over to give us a report and an arrangement of pyracantha berries from her mother’s garden.

  ’Chelle was an amazing young woman: all-A student; star basketball player; budding entrepreneur. She’d told me only a month before that her dad had volunteered to match the funds she had saved to rehab a wreck of a house in the next block; the purchase had been sealed, and Curley & Curley were in business. I wasn’t to be concerned about losing her as a house-and-cat-sitter, she’d reassured me, because projects like this first one always went over budget and she’d need the cash flow.

  Real-estate mogul in the making—purple hair, tiger-striped fingernails, multiple piercings and all.

  ’Chelle’s report was good: the cats were eating well, the ficus in our bedroom had responded to the new food she’d been giving it, the chimney sweeper had come out and cleaned both fireplaces. We invited her to share the pizza, but she declined, admitting shyly to having a date.

  That night we slept peacefully in the new bedroom suite we’d had constructed on the lower level behind the garage. Just before we drifted off I said to Hy, “I can fix these things with Mick and the agency. With you guarding my back, I can fix anything.”

  Sunday

  NOVEMBER 11

  Wrong again, McCone.

  The phone woke us before eight that morning. Ricky, saying Mick had been involved in a motorcycle accident and was in critical condition at SF General’s trauma center.

  I didn’t ask for details, simply said we’d be there as soon as possible. As I drove, white-knuckled, to the hospital, Hy said, “This is not your fault. You know that.”

  “I’ve been up at the ranch wallowing in me, me, me. If I’d been here it wouldn’t’ve happened.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. You’re not that powerful.”

  I glared at him, and he shrugged, looked out the side window.

  The waiting room at the trauma center was quiet at almost nine; presumably most of the victims of a San Francisco Saturday night had been cared for and released or admitted, and their loved ones—if any—sent home. Rae and Ricky sat on a sofa, holding hands. Her face was pale beneath its freckles. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair unkempt; given that and the beard he was growing for a film role he’d accepted, you’d have thought him a derelict who had come in to escape the fog, rather than a country-music superstar.

  We all hugged, and I sat down on the sofa with them while Hy went outside to use his phone.

  “You hear anything yet?” I asked.

  “He’s still in surgery,” Rae said. “Broken bones, ruptured spleen, all sorts of injuries.”

  “Damn kid,” Ricky muttered. “Charlene and I never should have let him talk us into that moped.”

  Ancient history. When he was in his teens Mick had run away at Christmastime because Ricky and my sister had refused him the scooter; as my luck would have it, he’d come to the city and my Christmas Eve job was to find him. And later, as overly well-off and permissive parents will do, my sister and Ricky granted him his wish. A string of more and more powerful bikes had followed.

  “He’d have pursued his passion anyway,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s what the Savage men do—pursue their passions. I should’ve set a better example—”

  “Stop it, Ricky,” Rae said. “You’ve been a good father to him.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes.” She stood. “I’m going to try Charlene again.”

  Ricky watched her leave the waiting room, then said to me, “This is about Keim, isn’t it?”

  Charlotte Keim, the operative I’d lured away from Hy’s firm years ago, only to have to ask him to lure her back when she broke up her relationship with Mick. “Probably.”

  “A passing driver found him under his bike on the shoulder of Highway 1 at five this morning, reeking of alcohol. What the hell was he doing there?”

  Playing with his death wish.

  I didn’t voice the thought. “Apparently he’s been in a pretty self-destructive mode lately.”

  “You knew this? And you didn’t warn us?”

  “I only found out yesterday. It was one of the reasons I came down.”

  He nodded, grasped my hand. I followed his gaze as a doctor in scrubs approached us. The doctor looked too young to be so tired; he smiled reassuringly at Ricky.

  “Your son’s a lucky man, Mr. Savage. He’ll be in casts for a while—left arm and leg—but he’s young and he should heal completely. He’ll need physical therapy, and I’d also recommend counseling. Has he been drinking heavily for long?”

  Ricky looked at me, shrugged. “I haven’t seen much of him lately.”

  I said, “I think his drinking may have been escalating since last winter, when his woman friend broke up with him.”

  The doctor looked questioningly at me. Ricky introduced me as Mick’s aunt and employer.

  “Well,” he said after we’d exchanged greetings, “he’s still in recovery, but you should be able to visit with him soon for a few minutes. One of the nurses will take you to him.”

  Then he was gone and Rae was back, saying Charlene and her husband Vic were on their way up from Los Angeles. Hy followed her in, asked about Mick’s condition; Ricky reported what the doctor had told us. At that point Charlotte Keim rushed through the entrance.

  “What’s she doing here?” Ricky asked.

  “I called her,” Hy said.

  “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “She has a right to know. And he has a right to see her if he wants to. It may even help him.”

  “Get her out of here.”

  Hy kept silent, his gaze level with Ricky’s. After a moment, Ricky looked away. “Ah, what the hell. Just keep her away from me.”

  Hy went over to Keim, who was pale, her brown curls disheveled, and guided her t
o the opposite side of the room.

  Rae said to Ricky, “You can’t blame Charlotte. Mick did this to himself.”

  “. . . I know that. Like I did a lot of things to myself. And like me, I suppose he’ll try to blame it on everybody else.”

  “I don’t think so. Over the past few years you’ve set a good example for him.”

  “Whatever. I just want to see him.”

  I moved away, went over to Hy and Keim. She looked at me, eyes moist. I put my arm around her and said, as Hy had to me earlier, “This is not your fault. It’s good of you to come.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care for him.”

  “I know.” I looked at Hy. “Why don’t you guys get some coffee? I’m going to drive over to the pier for a while.”

  The pier was always occupied, even on a Sunday. This morning, two cars belonging to the architects in the second-story suite opposite ours were parked in their spaces on the floor. I went up the stairs to the catwalk, and ripped down the GENIUS ROOM sign from Mick and Derek’s door, before I continued to my office. I shuffled through the papers in my inbox till I found the Port Commission’s rental-increase notice.

  They had to be crazy.

  No way we could afford this. And even if that hadn’t been the case, I’d feel I was being extorted every time I walked through the door.

  But where the hell would we find comparable space?

  Maybe it was confirmation that I’d be better off out of this business. But maybe not . . .

  I settled down to do some hard thinking.

  Mick had been moved to a private room when I returned to the hospital. He was awake, his parents and their spouses beside his bed. His left limbs were in casts, the leg elevated; cuts and bruises marred his features and his nose was taped where it had been broken; both eyes were black. And he was angry—with himself.

  “I’m such a stupid shit—” He saw me in the doorway. “Hey, Shar, you didn’t have to come down here.”

  “I was already in town when you pulled your genius act.”

  He smiled weakly. “I guess I better take the sign down.”

  “I already did.”

  Charlene hugged me and said, “I think the four of us should take off, so you can talk with Mick before he gets his next pain shot and falls asleep. Meet us at Rae and Ricky’s later.”

  After they’d all exited, I said, “What did you think you were doing?”

  He grimaced. “Jesus, I hurt. I don’t know. To tell the truth, I don’t remember anything except thinking I could fly on the bike.”

  “Be glad you couldn’t.”

  “. . . Charlotte was here. Dad was pissed, but he let her see me.”

  “And?”

  “She told me we’d talk later. I know that probably doesn’t mean much, but at least she came.”

  “And you got the attention you wanted from her.”

  He closed his eyes. “Not now, Shar.”

  “Okay. How long’re they going to keep you here?”

  “Dad’s having me moved to a private hospital ASAP.”

  “Will you have computer access there?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

  “I don’t want your skills atrophying while you recover.” I reached out to take his right hand.

  Again he grimaced. “I feel half dead. Only dead people don’t hurt this much—I hope.”

  “They’ll give you a shot soon.”

  “I’m counting the minutes.”

  “Don’t talk any more now.”

  We sat holding hands till the nurse came with the shot and asked me to leave.

  The hard thinking at the pier had paid off. Now I detoured on the way home to the Spanish-style apartment my operative Craig Morland and SFPD homicide detective Adah Joslyn shared in the Marina district.

  Adah came to the door wearing blue sweats. God, how did she manage to look elegant even when her armpit area was streaked with perspiration?

  “Craig and I just got back from our run on the Green,” she said, catching with her fingertips a drop of moisture from one of the cornrows she’d recently taken to wearing. Her smooth, honey-tan face creased between her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nobody called you two about Mick?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “It’s bad, but he’ll live. If you’ll invite me in and give me a drink, I’ll tell you both. And then I have a proposition for you.”

  It was after five, and Hy and I were relaxing in front of the fireplace in the parlor, a cat in either lap, when Glenn Solomon returned my earlier call.

  I cut from pleasantries to my main question: “How much influence do you have at city hall these days?”

  “If you mean, do I have something on the mayor? No. But I’ve got the goods on some very highly placed officials.”

  “What about the Port Commission?”

  “One of those highly placed officials has influence there, yes.”

  “You willing to call in some markers in exchange for a free pass on the next few cases you bring to the agency?”

  “Always willing to call in markers for you, my friend.”

  “Okay, here’s what I need. . . .”

  When I replaced the receiver, Hy toasted me and said, “You’re back, McCone. All the way.”

  Monday

  NOVEMBER 12

  The Monday-morning staff meeting had gone well. In fact, a kind of giddiness had prevailed. The boss was back—even temporarily. But as I soared above Oakland’s North Field on my way back to Mono County, following the ATC’s instructions, once again I felt remote from the everyday concerns of the agency.

  Hy had suggested I take Two-Seven-Tango. He didn’t have time to deliver me and was sure he wouldn’t need the plane for a while. I was more than glad to do so. As I set my course toward the Sierra Nevada, I fell into that strange state that I sometimes enter when flying: alert on one level, contemplative on another.

  Contemplative about the new direction my life was taking. Contemplative about my current case. All other concerns slipped away as I planned what to do when I arrived.

  As I passed the shack that served as Tufa Tower’s terminal, Amos Hinsdale gave me one of his “Female pilots—bah!” looks through the window. I waved cheerily in response.

  I drove to the Ace Hardware in town and looked over their limited selection of answering machines. Hy had said to spare no expense, but I bought the cheapest. It would serve for the length of time I remained here, and before we came up again I could pick up a better one at a lower price at Costco.

  When I reached the ranch I checked the old machine to see if it had somehow resurrected itself. Not even a peep out of the thing. I disposed of it in the trash bin, set up the new one, and called Kristen Lark for an update.

  “Not much to report,” she told me. “My interview with Boz Sheppard went nowhere. I’m sure he knows more than he’s saying, but he’s stonewalling.”

  “How about if I take a stab at him?”

  “If you want, I can set it up. Tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  Otherwise Lark had nothing else to report. She referred to the cases as “dead ends.”

  I knew otherwise.

  I was checking my e-mail when my cell rang. Mick.

  “Thought I’d let you know that I’m in this convalescent place Dad had me moved to. It’s posh—gourmet meals and pretty nurses and great therapy facilities.”

  He’d mentioned them in the order I would’ve expected. “That was fast.”

  “SF General likes to free up beds.”

  “You sound good.”

  “Well, I’m on these terrific pain meds. You asked if I’d have computer access here, so I assume you need something.”

  “I’ve got a situation to run by you.” I told him about my interest in why a man like Trevor Hanover would hire a high-priced attorney to represent a Vegas hooker.

  “Let me play with this awhile,” he said. “Back to you later.”

&n
bsp; I felt restless, so I drove into town. Petals was open; the clerk told me Cammie Charles and Rich Three Wings were due home from a camping trip in the Toiyabe National Forest that afternoon. Cammie always let her know where they were going and when they’d be back, in case there was a problem such as their vehicle breaking down. When I asked for Charles’ home address, the woman gave it to me without hesitation. Small towns—you gotta love them.

  The address was a cinder-block house two blocks down on the same street where Miri Perez had lived. An old Toyota with peeling paint and various dents sat in the driveway. I rang the bell, but no one was home.

  It was a long drive to Rich Three Wings’ place at Elk Lake. I decided to wait a while, see if Cammie came home.

  That left T.C. Mathers. Was I up to tackling her? Sure. I’d dealt with tougher, more hostile women in my day and come out with the upper hand.

  The wilderness supply store was closed when I got there. Tom Mathers had told me they lived on the property, so I followed a dirt driveway around the store and across a barren acre till I spotted a prefab house nested in the shade of a grove of cottonwoods. A Ford SUV was pulled up outside.

  I knocked on the door. For a moment there was no reply, then T.C.’s voice called, “Go away!”

  “It’s Sharon McCone, T.C. I met you at the wilderness supply last week. I wanted to check and see how you’re doing.”

  “The hell you say.” She slurred the words.

  “That’s what I say.”

  The remark seemed to confuse her. There was a silence, and then she opened the door.

  Drunk, all right: her long reddish-blonde hair was tangled, her eyes unfocused, and there were stains on her sweatshirt and jeans. She reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. She stared at me for a time before motioning me inside. I watched her stumble across the room to a sofa and flop down. She picked up a pewter mug from an end table and raised it to me.

  “Welcome,” she said. “You here to tear my home apart like those fuckin’ deputies did?”

  I shut the door and sat in an armchair opposite her. “I only want to talk. Tough time, huh?”