While Other People Sleep Read online

  “Yes. Lee D’Silva. Job applicant I turned down.” I glanced at what was left of the Citabria, quickly looked away. “God, I feel terrible about the plane.”

  “Don't. Frankly, Two-eight-niner was getting to be a pain in the ass. The radios've never worked right, and it's too small and uncomfortable for long trips. We're overdue for a new plane.”

  “But the expense—”

  “Insurance'll cover some of it, and the rest we can afford.”

  “You loved the Citabria.”

  “So did you, but it's not like it was a person. I can take its loss. What I couldn't face would be losing you—and for a moment when I heard about the wreckage, I thought I had.”

  “And I'd been thinking I'd lost you.” Quickly I returned to the security of his arms.

  After a bit he asked, “You know what shopping for a plane's like, McCone?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Well, be prepared for a lot of pushy salespeople who won't take no for an answer. But also be prepared to test-fly any number of aircraft before we make our decision. I don't know about you, but I'm thinking high-performance. I'm thinking comfort. I'm thinking sexy.”

  I tipped my head back and smiled at him. “Funny,” I said, “I thought you'd been thinking sexy ever since I met you.”

  Monday

  I hung up the phone and looked across the desk at Rae. Wearing a new blue sweater that matched her eyes, she seemed exceptionally cheerful; successfully managing the agency during the past week had given her confidence yet another boost.

  “So what was Greg's information about D’Silva?” she asked.

  “It wasn't so much information as a rumor. On Saturday evening he spoke with a former SFPD inspector who's currently on the Paradise force. The guy told him that at the time of D’Silva's mother's death there was some speculation that it had been an assisted suicide—or murder. And Lee was the only person with her the day she died.”

  “They look into it?”

  “Not very thoroughly; Lee had the reputation of little Ms. Perfect, and her father was highly regarded in the community. Besides, Mrs. D’Silva would've died within a matter of days anyway.”

  “So maybe Lee got away with murder.”

  “And maybe she thought she could get away with murdering me.”

  “You really think she lured you up to Touchstone to kill you?”

  “I don't know what she intended—or what she wanted from me. Maybe she doesn't know, either.” She was in the hospital in Fort Bragg, under police guard, and remained on the critical list.

  Rae glanced at her watch. “Fifteen minutes till the meeting between Anne-Marie and Hank and Bud Larsen's attorney. You attending?”

  “Yes. Ted, Neal, and Larsen'll be there too. As well as Glenna Stanleigh.”

  “Wish I'd been invited.”

  “No, you don't. It's likely to get ugly.”

  She nodded absently. “Shar,” she said after a moment, “I need to ask you something.”

  “Sure, what?”

  “Well, the wedding …”

  “Have you set a date?”

  “Tentatively we're thinking May, but it's not firm yet. The whole thing's complicated by Ricky having some surprise in store for me that's taking time to arrange. God, I wish he'd get it settled, whatever it is! He doesn't realize that even for the small kind of ceremony we want, there's stuff I've got to get started on.”

  “Such as what to wear.”

  “And flowers and food. And what the best man and woman're going to wear.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Well, Mick for him, of course. And for me … what I want to ask is—would you?”

  “Stand up for you?”

  “Give me away, too, if you want. I'm sure you've been dying to do that for years.”

  She phrased it lightly, but I knew my answer was important to her. I'd been both her mentor and her friend for a long time, but she was also marrying my sister's former husband and, given my past behavior, she must have been afraid I'd decline.

  I got up, went around the desk, and hugged her. “I'd love to stand up, give away, and help with the arrangements. Just don't make me wear something pink and frilly.”

  “That'd be like me wearing something white and frilly. We'll be coolly sophisticated instead.” She struck a fashion model's pose, and we both began to giggle at the concept. Sophistication was no more us than frills were.

  I perched on the edge of the desk. “So what d'you suppose Ricky's surprise is?”

  “I haven't a clue—and usually I can read his mind.”

  “Well, it's bound to be an interesting one.”

  “Yeah, it will. Between my job and Ricky, life's never boring.”

  “Let me see if I have your offer straight,” Alan Symons said. He was a portly, bald man in a shiny blue suit who affected folksy mannerisms that masked a sly shrewdness. “My client gives up his job at the Plum Alley building and agrees never to come within a hundred yards of your clients, their residence, cars, or places of business?”

  Anne-Marie, who had assumed a power position in the seating area of the law firm's office—a high desk chair facing the sofa where Symons and Bud Larsen sat—nodded. “That's correct. In return, Ms. Stanleigh will not use the footage of Mr. Larsen in her documentary on hate crimes.” There was no such documentary in the works, but Symons had neglected to ask for proof.

  “This is coercion,” he said.

  “No, counselor, it's negotiation. You viewed the footage— you know we could take it to the police. But my clients don't care to put Mr. Larsen behind bars; they simply want to put this behind them and ensure that they're left alone in the future.”

  I glanced at Bud Larsen. He was slumped in the corner of the sofa; occasionally he'd glare at Ted and Neal, but mainly he stared down at his lap.

  “Ms. Altman,” Symons said, “I may be dense, but—”

  Hank muttered, “I'll stipulate to that.”

  Anne-Marie frowned at him, while the rest of us did our best not to laugh. Symons appeared unruffled by the remark; probably he'd fielded many similar ones. “I may be dense,” he repeated, “but what you're doing is actionable. My client will file suit—”

  “Fine. And we will take the footage of your client to the SFPD. Where Ms. McCone has high-level contacts.”

  Symons was silent, looking at Larsen. Finally Larsen met his gaze and shrugged. “Job doesn't pay much anyway,” he said. “Be good to get away from those faggots.”

  Symons sighed, a trace of a sneer tugging at his lips, and I began to think better of him. He'd been hired to strike a deal, he'd done it, but that didn't mean he had to like or approve of his client.

  God, I was glad I'd never had the urge to become a lawyer! I truly didn't understand how good people like Anne-Marie and Hank could continue practicing without becoming hopelessly jaded. Or maybe I did. Maybe sessions like this were what kept them going.

  They discussed an agreement, set a date and time for it to be signed by all concerned parties. Then Symons stood and motioned to his client. Larsen followed him partway to the door, but detoured at the last second and went to loom over Ted and Neal, who were seated next to each other.

  He said, “Nothing's changed. You're still filthy perverts.”

  They exchanged glances and, without moving, became a unit, putting up an invisible wall between themselves and his hatred. They'd been having problems, both had told me, since Neal had found out about Ted's deception, but they were determined to try to work them out. Now I knew that time and their commitment to each other would see them through.

  Larsen sensed he couldn't get to them. His face reddened and he said, “I know your kind, all right. Uncle Nick, the nicest man on the block, took care of kids so their folks could get away. Always punched them on the arm and called them buddy—just like you, Osborn.”

  Symons said, “All right, Bud, that's enough.”

  Larsen ignored him. “Good old Uncle Nick—that wasn't all he was punch
ing down in his basement while his wife thought the kids were helping out in his woodworking shop. And afterward he'd say they'd be sorry if they told, and then he'd act like nothing happened.”

  Now we all exchanged glances. Larsen had used the impersonal plural pronoun, but obliquely he'd explained the roots of his rage.

  He added, “All this crap about genetic programming and your fuckin’ rights—the hell with it. You're sick, that's what it comes down to.”

  Slowly Ted stood, faced him squarely. “No, Bud,” he said, “you're wrong. Uncle Nick was sick; he preyed on children. Men like that are called perverts. Neal and I are healthy men who love each other. We're called gays.”

  Larsen blinked, swallowed. Then he muttered to his attorney, “Get me out of this hole.”

  We all watched them go in silence.

  Half an hour later, I faced my staff in the conference room and saw the unease that I felt mirrored in their eyes.

  Now was the time to address the issue that was on all our minds.

  “What's happened to us?” I asked.

  Headshakes. Shrugs.

  “We used to be a team,” I said. “Remember last fall? When we all pulled together to solve the Seabrook case? Why weren't we together on this?”

  Rae said, “Ted didn't trust us. And you didn't give us a chance either, Shar.”

  “But why?”

  “Maybe we're all too independent minded for our own good.”

  “So what do we do about it in the future?”

  Ted said, “Try harder,” and Neal nodded.

  “Well, you guys ought to know about that,” I told them.

  “Try harder,” Rae repeated, “and remember that there's too much … bad stuff out there for people to take things into their own hands.”

  “And,” Charlotte said, “remember that we're lucky we can trust each other.”

  “And,” Mick added, “remember that sometimes the boss can act like a horse's ass.”

  “And,” I finished, “remember that at least one of our people can sometimes act like a smart horse's ass. Now let's adjourn to Miranda's—burgers and beer on me.”

  Friday

  Propped against the headboard of her hospital bed, Lee D’Silva looked smaller than the woman I'd interviewed for a job last month. Her honey-blond hair was stringy, both eyes were blackened, and there was a strip of adhesive tape across her nose. Her right arm was in a cast, and her doctor had told me that she'd sustained three broken ribs and substantial internal damage, including a collapsed lung and a ruptured spleen. Much of this could have been avoided had she been wearing a seat belt when she put the Citabria into the ground loop.

  Although her eyes were focused on the small TV mounted high on the wall, they had a lifeless sheen that told me she wasn't really seeing the talk show it was tuned to. Her left hand toyed with the remote control, caressing its contours in a repetitious pattern. But when she saw me, her face became animated and she switched off the TV.

  “Sharon! I knew you'd come. It's all a big mistake, isn't it?”

  In her situation, I'd have been summoning the police guard to remove me from the room. But D’Silva had identified with me before we'd even met, and she probably still entertained the delusion that landing the Citabria together had been a bonding experience for both of us.

  Without responding, I shut the door and went to stand at the foot of her bed. My fingers found the rail, gripped it hard. In spite of the rage and revulsion she inspired, I wasn't about to let my feelings spin out of control; I'd come here for two purposes, and I wanted to accomplish them with as much calm and dignity as I could muster.

  D’Silva looked puzzled because I didn't speak. She said, “Sharon, they arraigned me on felony charges this morning, right here in the hospital.”

  “I know.”

  “Isn't there something you can do?”

  “I wouldn't if I could.”

  “But—”

  “What did you expect, Lee? You broke into my cottage. You set a fire. You stole my friend's airplane. You endangered the lives and safety of people in the air and on the ground. What did you expect?”

  “… You're really going to press charges?”

  “Damned right I am—both here and in San Francisco. For once in your life you're going to learn that you can't escape the consequences of your actions.”

  She stared at me. Her stunned expression confirmed that up until now she'd been in denial about those consequences.

  I said, “I came here to tell you that. And to ask why you did all those things to me.”

  Silence.

  “So why did you do them, Lee?”

  No reply.

  “You did them. You must've had your reasons.”

  She looked down, began toying with the remote again.

  “Was it my letter turning you down for the operative's job? Is that what decided you?”

  “I didn't decide to do anything. It just happened.”

  It just happened. You hear the phrase all the time these days. Half the population, from inefficient employees to mass murderers, use it to excuse their transgressions.

  It just happened that your order got lost.

  It just happened that I blew them all away.

  “You made a lot of preparations and went to great lengths for something that just happened.”

  Shrug.

  “What did you hope to gain from your actions? My approval? My friendship?”

  “… Maybe.”

  “I don't think so. Where was all this supposed to lead?”

  Silence. Her fingers gripped the remote, the knuckles going white.

  “Where, Lee?”

  She looked up, eyes flaring and then going stony. She raised her hand and hurled the remote against the wall below the TV. Suddenly I was seeing the real Lee D’Silva.

  “I didn't know—all right? I was just … doing things.”

  “No, you had a plan. You're not the sort of person who operates without one. Remember when your mother was dying and you were working at your father's company? For two years you carried out your plan—embezzling that money and hoarding those morphine pills. And then you put it into effect. And it worked.”

  She lay pale and still; for a moment she actually stopped breathing. It was as if she'd died too, and maybe in a way she had, because when she spoke again her voice was flat and emotionless, her expression blank.

  “You don't know anything about those years,” she said. “You don't know anything about that day. Or what kind of a person I am. Why should you? You're too wrapped up in being you, in living your glamorous life.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Valentine's Day? I went to your office late, when I thought you'd have time to sit down and talk. I planned to beg you to give me another chance at the job. But you weren't there, so I took a long walk along the Embarcadero, trying to figure out how to convince you to take me on. I'd had a horrible experience a few days before—”

  “With Russ Auerbach.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I spoke with him.”

  “God.” She closed her eyes for a moment before she went on. “I can't talk about him—now or ever. So anyway, Valentine's Day. I was coming back from my walk, and I saw you and some other people getting out of a limo in front of Hills Plaza. I was there to beg, and you were getting out of a limo, all dressed up in red, surrounded by beautiful people. I followed you into the restaurant and watched you having a good time and hated you because I knew my life would never, never be that way, unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  She whispered something I couldn't hear.

  “What, Lee?”

  No reply.

  “Unless you dismantled my life piece by piece? What did you think that would accomplish?”

  “Just go away. Please go away. You've betrayed me enough, don't add to it.”

  “I betrayed you?”

  “You said we'd land Two-eight-niner together, and lo
ok what happened.”

  I stared at her in amazement. “Lee, we did land the plane. You lost control of it on the ground.”

  Her eyes became slits and her jaw clenched; I sensed she was fighting down a scream. Little Ms. Perfect was getting a foretaste of what she'd be in for in court; there, the facts behind her fantasy would be all that counted.

  After a moment she spoke. “Sharon?” she said in a soft little-girl voice. “You think you know everything about me, but you don't. The day my mother died? It wasn't me.”

  What next? I waited.

  “It was my dad. He gave Mom morphine he'd saved up. I found out about it and was going to tell the police, so he gave me the money to cover up for him and go away.”

  No way. The embezzlement had started long before her mother's death—at a time when Lee was in charge of the books. “You'll do anything to get sympathy, won't you?” I said. “Anything, including framing your own father for something you did. You're a very sick woman, and I hope that in prison you'll get the help you need to come to terms with your past and cope with your future.”

  “Prison!” The little-girl mask fell away, and her eyes flared. “You fucking bitch!” she exclaimed.

  “Ah, that's more like it.” I leaned across the bed rail, looked straight into her eyes. “Show that side of yourself to the jury, why don't you? Won't make any difference: the evidence is plain.”

  “You can't do this to me!”

  “I can and I will.” I turned my back on her and walked out the door.

  On the sidewalk I paused for a bit, taking in the brilliantly clear day—one of those that make our wild north coast a paradise. The sun was already sinking toward the sea; the smoke from the stacks at the Georgia Pacific lumber mill along the shore drifted in the light breeze. Hy was over at Ace Hardware, buying supplies for some repairs he wanted to make at Touchstone tomorrow. I'd meet him there, and then we'd drive south, stopping at a favorite fish market in Mendocino for the catch of the day before we continued home.

  Home. D’Silva had violated but not destroyed it. This weekend we'd reclaim it.