Both Ends of the Night Read online

  According to his father, Duncan Stirling had been a quiet child, preferring his own company to that of others. He was happiest when engaged in solitary pursuits: model-airplane building, reading adventure stories, fishing at the family cottage on Table Rock Lake in Missouri.

  He’d taken naturally to flying and was an excellent pilot, but shared none of David Stirling’s passion for it. To Duncan, a plane was merely a convenient mode of transportation. His Silver Whisper had disappeared with him and was never spotted again, in spite of the FBI having circulated its number throughout the country and to Interpol. Sold to an unscrupulous buyer or junked, Stirling said with a grim twist of his lips. One of his greatest disappointments was that his son had absolutely no reverence for fine aircraft.

  As Duncan grew into manhood he became increasingly distant from his father. Hunting and fishing trips were all they shared, and during them Dunc spoke very little. He was a good tracker, an excellent marksman, and harbored no sentimentality about his prey. Nor did he take pride in his kills; animals and fish were meant to be food, not trophies.

  According to Winthrop Reade, Dunc had abandoned the country-club set in his early twenties, gravitating instead to a rougher crowd who frequented the Razorback Tavern in downtown Alda. The men were blue-collar and outdoorsmen like Dunc; the women worked at low-end jobs and liked to party. Although the Razorback was known as a place to score drugs, Reade didn’t think Dunc became a habitual user; he took his pleasure seriously and was careful never to lose control. “It was like he had to work at having fun.”

  Both men agreed that during the years he’d been at the helm of Stirling Aviation Duncan became increasingly secretive; the trips he took alone in his Silver Whisper were a subject off-limits to everyone. He made Christmas plans with his father before he was indicted but inexplicably failed to appear, even though he knew David was counting on him. When David questioned him upon his return, he made light of the lapse, then flew into a rage when pressed. “That was when I knew I was losing my boy—maybe losing him for good.”

  As he showed me out of the library, Winthrop Reade handed me an envelope containing photographs of Duncan and said, “You’re to meet Cal Franklin at the Old Post Office restaurant at five-thirty. You know where that is?”

  “Yes, just down the street from my hotel.”

  “Good. He said to tell you he’ll be wearing a brown leather flight jacket. I’ve briefed him on the situation. Now, I’ll try to set up appointments for you with what few of Dunc’s friends I still know how to contact, but I can’t promise anything. Will tomorrow be all right?”

  “Yes. I’m going back to California tomorrow evening.” Sunday was Matty’s memorial service at Bodega Head—no way I would miss it.

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do and call you later at your hotel.”

  We reached the front door, and the maid appeared with my jacket. Reade helped me into it, and I turned to face him. “I notice you didn’t voice any opinion in there”—I motioned toward the closed library door—“as to Duncan’s guilt or innocence.”

  He shrugged. “Personally, I think he was guilty as sin on all charges, but David doesn’t want to hear that. I’ve spent damn near a dozen years shielding him, and I’ll keep on as long as is necessary.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good thing?”

  “Who’s it going to hurt? You saw David; he’s a real sick man. The only thing that’s keeping him alive is believing he’ll see Dunc again and somehow be able to make everything right.”

  “You must care a great deal for him.”

  “Damn right I do. My daddy was one of David’s pilots, bought the farm testing one of our early aerobatic models. When they found out that the crash was caused by structural failure, David started sending my momma monthly support checks—out of his own pocket. He personally taught me to fly, said he didn’t want me to miss out on the thrill of it on account of what happened to my daddy.”

  “He sounds like quite a guy.”

  “You bet he is. When I needed extra money for college, he was there with it. When my sister was in the hospital with breast cancer, he paid what the insurance didn’t cover. He tried to be a father to both of us, and I’ll tell you this—we’ve been better kids to him than Dunc ever was.”

  “And now you’ve undone Dunc’s damage and turned Stirling Aviation around.”

  “I figured I owed it to David.”

  “You must’ve benefited too.”

  “Well, sure I have. I’ve got stock, I’ve got a good salary. But I could’ve had that with any firm. No, I did it for David, and now I’m gonna make sure he dies happy. If that means bringing Dunc home and keeping him under wraps till the old man’s gone, I’ll do it. But afterward the law can have its way with that lousy excuse for a human being.”

  “What if Dunc manages to beat the charges? On a technicality, for instance?”

  “How’s he gonna do that?”

  “Well, the primary witness for the prosecution, Ash Walker, has been missing for over ten years.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “Seems to me it is. And I understand Mr. Stirling has put his company stock in trust for Dunc. What would happen if he got off and took control again?”

  “I tell you, he won’t. That boy is guilty as sin, and everybody knows it.”

  “But without Walker’s testimony—”

  “I said it’s not a problem. Now, why don’t you take yourself back to Fayetteville and meet with Cal while I try to line up some of these other folks?”

  No, I thought as I went down the front walk, Reade wouldn’t consider Walker a problem; he’d spoken with him as recently as two weeks ago. He thought he knew exactly where he was. What he hadn’t taken into consideration was the sight of Cal Franklin sending Walker on the run again.

  Calder Franklin’s appearance did indeed betray Native American bloodlines, but if he noted any similarity in mine, he chose not to mention it. Seated across a polished oak table from me, his angular features blunted by the dim light from the Old Post Office’s vintage sconces and chandeliers, he seemed aloof and somewhat amused. Once our preliminary greetings were out of the way and our glasses of wine had arrived, he cut to the heart of the matter.

  “I want you to know that I don’t believe the line you handed the old man.”

  “You mean you don’t believe I can locate Duncan?”

  “No, I think it’s possible you can. But I don’t believe this crap about thinking Dunc was innocent.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Win told me you seem like a bright woman, and from what little I’ve observed of you, I’d say he’s right. All you have to do to know Dunc was guilty is read the newspaper accounts. You’re in this for the money, nothing better than a bounty hunter.”

  “So why didn’t you advise your client not to deal with me?”

  “When it comes to his son, David Stirling listens to no one.”

  “And why did you agree to meet with me?”

  “I have my reasons, and I’ll get to them in a minute. But I do want you to be aware of what I think of your attempt at petty extortion.”

  “Extortion?”

  “What else would you call showing up here and taking David’s money—”

  “Mr. Franklin, do you know of a San Francisco attorney named Glenn Solomon?”

  His scornful expression altered subtly. Glenn Solomon was one of the more respected criminal defense attorneys in the country—and a friend of Hank’s from law school; he’d recently referred a number of cases to me.

  I added, “Do you really think a man of his caliber would retain an extortionist? And remember—no money has changed hands between Mr. Stirling and me.”

  He hesitated, dark eyes glittering as they shifted in calculation. “Do you mind if I check with Mr. Solomon?”

  “Feel free. His office number is—”

  “On second thought, that won’t be necessary. Now, let’s assume you do locate Duncan and can deliver him
home. What possible good can that do?”

  “David Stirling—”

  “Is a fool where his son is concerned. And as for Win Reade’s plan to keep Dunc under wraps till David’s gone—well, it’s unworkable. Dunc will be taken into custody, tried, and convicted of capital murder. And that will kill David, if the cancer hasn’t already.”

  “So you’re trying to talk me out of pursuing this.”

  Franklin leaned back in his chair, studying me, fingers playing restlessly with his wine-glass. “Not at all. You see, when I say Win’s plan isn’t workable, I mean he can’t make it work. He’s a good man and a good CEO, but he… well, I won’t go into that. Suffice it to say that I can handle the situation much more effectively.”

  “How?”

  “That doesn’t concern you. What I’m proposing is this: I’ll double your fee if you locate Dunc, lead me to him, and allow me to take it from there.”

  “How?” I repeated.

  Again the analytical gaze, this time over the rim of his glass. “Ms. McCone,” he said after a minute, “ten years ago a lot of things got ruined for a lot of people around here. First Dunc destroyed Stirling Aviation; jobs were lost, careers went down the drain. Then his so-called friend Ash Walker”—he spoke the name as if it were an epithet—“stepped forward and ruined other lives, lives of people who were going somewhere, going to accomplish things.”

  “Accomplish things by dealing in drugs and arms—and murder?”

  He moved his hand dismissively. “The murder-for-hire business was a small element in what went on. As for the rest—hasn’t our own government participated in similar trading? Not that I condone what happened,” he added quickly. “I’m just trying to impress upon you that some very valuable people were dirtied in Ash Walker’s rush to save himself. The public is only now beginning to forgive our guilt by association.”

  I recalled what Iona Fowler had said about Franklin’s chances at the state attorney generalship going away; the use of “our” was probably intentional.

  “So you’re afraid that if I deliver Duncan and he does stand trial, all the dirt will be stirred up again.”

  “It’s a distinct possibility.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose Walker will resurface to testify. From what I was able to find out, he’s gone to ground.”

  Franklin’s gaze grew remote; he was probably remembering the scene at Los Alegres Airport. After a moment he said, “No, I don’t suppose he will.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question about how you intend to handle the situation if I lead you to Duncan.”

  “No, and I see no reason to.”

  “It seems to me there’s only one action you could take: kill him.”

  Franklin started and glanced at the nearby, mostly unoccupied, tables. “Good God, are you insane? And keep your voice down. All I intend to do is spirit Dunc away someplace where he can’t cause any further damage.”

  “Where?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far in my planning.”

  “Any measure you might take seems extreme, simply to avoid him going to trial.”

  “You don’t understand what’s at stake here, Ms. McCone. For one thing, Win Reade is headed straight for the U.S. Senate next election. He’s young, energetic, bright, and very charismatic. We need leaders like him, who can go the whole way.”

  “To the presidency.”

  He nodded.

  “With a lot of you riding his coattails. ‘Attorney General Calder Franklin’ has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

  To my surprise, he smiled faintly. “I suspected you’d researched me. Well, why shouldn’t I ride Win’s coattails? That’s the way things are done in this country, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, it certainly is.” I finished my wine and stood. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Franklin. I’ll think about your offer.”

  “An immediate reply would be preferable.”

  “I can’t give you one. I make it a policy to discuss decisions of this sort with Glenn Solomon.”

  Franklin didn’t like that one bit. He knew Glenn by reputation—had to be aware that on the ethical compass, they were a full hundred and eighty degrees apart.

  Outside the restaurant I set off on foot to think over what I’d learned in the course of the day. The night was cold and starshot; wind sent dry leaves skittering and rattling across the pavement; in the distance I heard music, the wail of a steel guitar. I turned right at Post Office Square, walked along with my hands in the pockets of my jacket, looked at the displays in the lighted shop windows, and thought of my long list of unpurchased gifts.

  Was it possible Christmas would come this year as it almost always did, in a bustle of activity and then a rush of peace? Or would it be snatched from me as Thanksgiving had? What I’d previously thought of as the Christmas Eve from hell now seemed a highly desirable event; family, friends, even the most ill-behaved and wounded of the Little Savages were what I needed—

  Footsteps behind me, treading lightly.

  I glanced over my shoulder, caught a slight motion, as though someone had ducked into a shop entry. Then nothing.

  I kept going, stopped a few doors down before a window displaying an eclectic assortment of artifacts. Pretended to study a carton of gilded eggs while holding the sidewalk in my peripheral vision. No more motion. After a moment I continued walking softly, listening. The footsteps started again.

  Sloppy tail job. Clearly an amateur.

  The shop to my right had red velvet draperies tied back with green bows to either side of its entry. Velvet draperies—and no one had stolen them. In San Francisco I’d have given them five minutes, max. I glanced at the window next to them, saw the reflection of a large figure darting between two buildings.

  What now, McCone? Confront whoever it is? No, you’re five-six; he or she is at least six-two and hefty. When unarmed, don’t tangle with people who are bigger than you.

  I turned back toward the hotel. All the way there I heard footsteps behind me. When I was half a block from the Hilton they stopped as suddenly as they’d begun.

  My room had been searched.

  Nothing so obvious as the trashing of John Seabrook’s house, but subtle signs were there: a zipper undone on the toiletries bag I’d hung in the bathroom; a rearrangement of the folders in my briefcase; a minute shift in the position of the audiotapes next to the cassette player I often use to lull myself to sleep. Subtle signs, but they added up.

  So who had done it? Someone in the employ of David Stirling and Winthrop Reade or perhaps Calder Franklin. They’d want to find out more about me, verify my story. And the person who had followed me at Post Office Square? Someone working with the searcher, keeping tabs on me.

  Quickly I inventoried the contents of the briefcase; nothing had been taken, and I’d left at home any papers naming either John Seabrook or Matty. The only file I’d brought along was on Stirling Aviation, and it backed up what I’d told the two men. No harm done.

  The discovery made me edgy, though. I hooked the chain on the door before I went to the phone and called my home number, hoping to reach Hy and make arrangements for flying to Bodega Head on Sunday. No answer there, only my taped voice. “Shut up, McCone,” I told it after the beep.

  My phone quest for Hy widened without success over the next few minutes, and when I called his ranch and heard only his recorded message, I felt a wrenching so severe that I made a little pained noise. This time I hung up before the beep.

  The 757 droned through the dark evening sky between Dallas and San Francisco. I leaned back in my seat, thinking over the day’s interviews with former friends of Duncan Stirling. They’d fleshed out my image of the man but left me curiously unsatisfied; I didn’t feel as though I really knew him, and I hadn’t a clue to his present whereabouts. Finally I pulled out my recorder, put on the earphones, and began replaying the tape, skipping from section to section.

  Emily Forrester, former girlfriend: “For the first six months things we
re good with us. Then Dunc started to scare me.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, it was the guns. He started keeping them all over his house and under the bed at my apartment. Why? I asked. Cautious, he said. Paranoid, I thought.”

  “Did anything else frighten you?”

  “Long silences. He’d sit and not talk for hours, and I’d catch him staring at me like… well, like I was one of the pieces of sculpture he had in his living room, and he was wondering whether to move me or get rid of me or… well, or just take me out on the patio and smash me.”

  Paul DeSoto, former poker buddy: “Sure, Dunc did coke—grass, too. Doesn’t everybody? But I never saw him wrecked. Not once. No way. Dunc’s weirdness was real inside stuff, not the kind that comes from getting too much of a load on.”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘inside stuff’?”

  “The kind of shit that comes from deep down here, in your gut. Something was twisted inside of that boy. Had to’ve been, to do what he did.”

  “You knew what was going on at Stirling?”

  “Suspected. Most of us did. Even the local cops knew, but after the chief tried to talk to old man Stirling and was told to back off, they stayed out of it on account of his political clout. If it wasn’t for the state cops, ol’ Dunc’d probably be operating out there at the field to this day.”

  “Did you also suspect about the murders?”

  “Absolutely no fuckin’ way! You think I could’ve sat across a poker table from him if I did? That Cindy Kershner, the one they say was blackmailing him, she was a nice lady. I think Dunc had her blown away because he got tired of her. And that makes him the lowest of the low. The absolute lowest.”

  Tim McCorkle, former Stirling Aviation designer: “Dunc and I went to school together, kindergarten through college. He was a real straight arrow up until the summer after our junior year at the university. Then he started to change.”

  “How so?”

  “He didn’t come around anymore, either to the country club or to parties. I heard he was running with a rough crowd that hung out at one of the local bars. It was the same at school; he dropped out of the fraternity, rented a run-down house, spent a lot of time in the bars. Not drinking—at least not much. Just… I don’t know. Soaking up the atmosphere? One thing I’ve got to credit him with—he always made his grades.”