Both Ends of the Night Page 3

Mick, my computer jock, was dealing best with the split and realignment. But that was to be expected: he was nineteen, caught up in his work and his own relationship with an older woman, and trying hard to act worldly. Still, his relations with Rae were somewhat strained, and recently he’d moved out of the office he’d shared with her and set up shop in a room that previously had been devoted to storage.

  Mick’s eighteen-year-old sister, Chris, was a freshman at U.C. Berkeley, and she’d found that the events of the previous summer, which had been fully documented by the gossip columns and tabloids, gave her a certain cachet among her new circle of friends. She visited the Seacliff house often with one or more of them in tow, obviously basking in reflected celebrity status. But she always called first to make sure her father was there; if he was in L.A. tending to his record label’s business or at his recording studio in the Arizona desert, Chris kept her distance.

  As for the younger children, ranging in age from fifteen to nine—their behavior could only be described as atrocious. They defied Charlene at every turn; they resisted any overtures from Vic, who badly wanted to be a good stepfather; and they’d each spent exactly one weekend with Ricky, who still became tight-lipped at the memory of those visits.

  Frankly, I was on the kids’ side. Their world had been shattered under unusually unpleasant and public circumstances, and they were fully entitled to act out their feelings in ways that justified their collective nickname—the Little Savages. At least, I was on their side until I considered what havoc they were going to wreak upon my Christmas.…

  Charlene and Vic had married after her quick Caribbean divorce in October, but deferred their honeymoon to the holidays. On December twenty-third they would fly up to San Francisco with the kids, turn them over to Ricky at the airport, and head off for a week in London. Ricky was upbeat about the long visit, but he tended to be upbeat about most things since he’d been with Rae, and I feared he was in for a crushing disappointment. Rae, on the other hand, was plainly appalled at the prospect of playing a starring role in what could easily turn into the best horror show of the season. Thus Aunt Sharon and honorary uncle Hy had been cast as supporting actors in a drama that I was certain had been scripted by a writer with a monstrous imagination.

  Christmas Eve, my absolute favorite night of the year, was going to be hellish beyond belief.…

  Matty’s voice saved me from contemplating the opening scene of my personal holiday version of A Nightmare on Elm Street. As we approached the rear of a large red-and-green frame building, she said, “That’s the sales office. We’re supposed to open the day after Thanksgiving.”

  One week away. “Can you, if John isn’t back by then?”

  “We have to, so we will.”

  To the left of the building was cleared land where cut trees were already stacked; the live firs crowded in on the other side, as if jostling for first place in the line to be chopped down and taken home. Wide double doors in the center of the building stood open, giving access to the parking lot out front, and just inside them a man knelt, fluffing the branches of a white-flocked tree. He heard our footsteps and looked up.

  The man’s curly hair and beard ringed an apple-cheeked face with blue eyes under thick brows; had they been white instead of gray, he’d have been a dead ringer for Santa Claus. “Hey, Matty,” he said, getting stiffly to his feet. Nodding to me, he added, “Goddamn sacrilege, these things.”

  “The flocked trees, you mean?” she asked.

  “Yeah, the flocked trees. In thirty-five years I never let a one of them in here, but ol’ John didn’t waste any time once he bought me out.”

  “Well, a lot of people like them.”

  “People like all sorts of things that’re just plain unnatural. Trees is trees, young lady, and they shouldn’t be dressed up like some prissy little girl in a pinafore.” He winked at me and said, “Don’t mind me. I’m an old curmudgeon. Ask my wife, if I haven’t already convinced you.” Then he stuck his hand out. “Wes Payne, former owner and pinch hitter for John.”

  I introduced myself, giving only my name, because I wasn’t sure how much Matty had told Payne about John’s disappearance.

  Apparently she’d entrusted him with the whole story; she explained, “Sharon’s a former student of mine, and a private investigator. I’ve hired her to try to get a line on John.”

  Payne sobered. “Still no word?”

  “None.”

  “Not like him, Matty. I’m starting to think the worst.”

  I asked Payne, “John didn’t say anything to you about going away for a while?”

  “Not a word. We last talked… when? Two days before, when he asked me to come back and help out during the selling season.”

  “Wasn’t that short notice?”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “I understand he also asked if Zach could stay with you and your wife the night he left. What explanation did he give?”

  “Said Matty would be out late on a charter, and he had things to do.”

  “Did he ask in person or call?”

  “In person. He came over to my place; it’s down the road to the north.”

  “Did he seem his usual self?”

  “Well, now, Matty asked me that too. And at first I said yes, but I’ve been thinking on it, and… You know, I’m not good at figuring people out. Trees’re more my kind of thing. But I did pick up on a… Oh, hell, I’m not much with words, either.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Well, if I had to put a name to it, I’d say he was keyed up. Like he knew something was gonna happen, and he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he could handle it.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Yes and no. It was like… You’ve never been in combat, of course, but maybe you can understand. Beforehand, you’re scared, sure, but you’re up for it, too. You’re psyched, and you want to go out and get the bastards. That was the feeling I got off of John that day, only on a much lower level.”

  I’d never been in combat, but I’d survived some very dangerous situations, so what he described was perfectly clear to me. There’s a push-pull element in danger, and, at least in my case, the pull has a seductive quality that overcomes the push. If Payne had read John Seabrook correctly, he might by now be in very serious trouble.

  Matty, no stranger herself to the push-pull mechanism, was frowning, apparently having reached the same conclusion.

  I asked Payne, “Do you recall anything else unusual about the conversation?”

  “Not offhand, but if something does occur to me, I’ll let Matty know.”

  “Or you can call me.” I gave him my card, and then Matty and I started for the office. Wes Payne knelt and returned to fluffing the tree, telling it that it was “a silly little poodle dog of a Doug fir.”

  Matty led me around the sales counter, where sample wreaths hung on the wall, and into a small room beyond it. It was cold there; a quartz heater of the sort that had been all the rage in the eighties stood unplugged in a corner. Silently she indicated the personal drawer of the file cabinet and perched on the edge of the metal desk. I sensed she was closing off again, weary and for the moment unable to face further discussion of Seabrook’s disappearance.

  I made short work of my search, noting both his and Zach’s Social Security numbers as well as the numbers of bank accounts and credit cards. The files contained the usual items: back income-tax returns, the purchase agreement on the tree farm, receipts for current bills, a ten-thousand-dollar life insurance policy naming Zach as beneficiary, several gun registration forms, and pink slips on three vehicles. I asked Matty, “Which of these trucks did he take?”

  “The Dodge.”

  I copied its license-plate and vehicle-identification numbers as well as the serial number of the .44 Magnum, and kept searching. In the last file I found two birth certificates: Zach’s, showing he’d been born to John and Wendy Adams Seabrook at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan, and John’s, issued by Harper Hospital in Detroit. I
copied down all the information, including the attending physicians’ names.

  When Matty and I left the office a few minutes later, Wes Payne was delivering a lecture to another flocked tree. “What,” he demanded, “would your momma think if she could see you now?”

  Matty and I spotted the rolled-up sleeping bag on the back porch of the farmhouse at the same time. Her mouth went slack with surprise and she bolted toward the steps.

  John’s back, I thought. I won’t even have to open a file.

  But then she called, “Zach? Zach, what’re you doing here?”

  The boy I’d seen in the photograph appeared in the open doorway: taller and thinner, after one of those sudden spurts of growth they experience at his age. He moved awkwardly, as though he wasn’t yet comfortable in his new body.

  Matty asked, “How come you’re not at Kevin’s?”

  “He’s sick. His mom called off the sleepover.” Zach’s lips pushed out defensively, as if he was afraid she’d think it his fault.

  “Shit!” She smacked the porch railing with the palm of her hand and whirled, her back to the boy, fighting for control. Zach flinched.

  Matty closed her eyes and moved her lips, forming the words What next? I frowned, puzzled at her extreme reaction to the boy’s change of plans.

  She took several deep breaths, then turned and put her arm around Zach. “It’s not you, kiddo,” she said. “Honest, it’s not.”

  He resisted for a moment, then leaned against her. “I know—it’s Dad you’re mad at.”

  “No, I’m not mad. I’m worried, and I want him back here with us.”

  “Me too.” But something in Zach’s eyes said he wasn’t accustomed to getting what he wanted and didn’t hold out much hope of this wish being granted.

  Matty must have realized that. She brought him over to me and said, “Hey, you remember last night when I told you I was going to talk to somebody who knows about stuff like this? Well, here she is—Sharon McCone, my former student and a private investigator. She’s going to find your dad for us.”

  Zach looked me over without replying to my greeting, his gaze skeptical.

  “And now,” Matty said, “we’ve got to work on the problem of where you’re gonna stay.” To me she added, “I’m doing an air show up north of Sacramento tomorrow. I’ve got to fly there tonight.”

  Zach said, “I already called all my other friends. No go. What about Uncle Wes’s?”

  “He and Aunt Karla are driving down to their daughter’s in Danville for the weekend.” Matty bit her underlip, thinking.

  “I’m old enough to stay alone—”

  “No. Not because I don’t trust you, kiddo, but till your dad’s back, I don’t want to leave you by yourself. He’d have my ass if he thought I hadn’t taken good care of you.”

  Of course that wasn’t the whole reason. She was afraid that someone might harm Zach because of whatever his father was involved in. And Zach knew that; the kid wasn’t stupid.

  Suddenly I was afraid, too—for Matty. With all this weighing on her mind, how could she fly tomorrow—performing snap rolls and Whifferdills and Cuban eights at high speeds and low altitudes within a narrowly defined box of space?

  I said, “Maybe you should skip the show.”

  “Can’t. I’ve committed to it. It’s the last show of the year, and I need the money. Besides, if I don’t go up there and do it, I’ll be letting this thing get to me. You start that, and pretty soon you lose all your confidence.”

  I understood altogether too well; I’d had a near miss in a rented twin-engine Beechcraft earlier that year and almost lost all my confidence. Almost.

  “Well,” I said, “why not take Zach along?”

  “You saw the picture of my plane. Where’s the passenger seat?”

  “Oh, right.” Suddenly I noticed her gaze had turned speculative. “What?”

  She eyed me some more, beginning to smile. Zach glanced from her to me. Then he folded his arms across his chest and tried to ignore both of us. Matty nodded encouragingly at me. I scowled.

  Dammit, I knew what she wanted. And the worst part was that Zach did, too. He was trying hard to act as if what I decided didn’t matter, but it did. And I wasn’t sure he could take yet another bruise on his already tender feelings. Still, how the hell was I going to get started on the investigation if…?

  Quickly I did a mental review of friends with children. Anne-Marie Altman and Hank Zahn, two of the oldest and dearest, had a foster daughter who was only a couple of years younger than Zach. Maybe the kids would hit it off—or at least tolerate each other for the weekend.

  “Zach,” I said, “I understand you like to fly.”

  Three

  Pier 24½, where I’d moved my offices the previous summer, was on San Francisco’s Embarcadero, next to the SFFD fireboat station and directly under the span of the Bay Bridge. Not an ideal location if you’re into quiet contemplation, but splendid if your goal is to keep the rent payments low. I’d heard of the vacant suite from an architect client whose firm was located there; fortunately he and the leasing agent from the Port Commission’s Tenant Services division had engaged in a conspiracy of silence—the only silence I’d ever be likely to associate with the pier—until I went to look at it.

  When I saw the generous size of the rooms opening onto the catwalk on the north side, I convinced myself that the overhead roar of the bridge traffic was really a distant rumble. The whoop of the fireboat’s siren didn’t faze me as I stood in what could become my private office: a spacious tan-walled room where a huge arched window at the very end of the pier afforded a view of Treasure Island. The suite was far too large for my agency, but that was no drawback, since I’d committed to sharing with the newly formed firm of Altman & Zahn, Attorneys-at-Law.

  Anne-Marie and Hank were horrified when I brought them to view my find. How, they asked, could we concentrate in such surroundings? We’d develop chronic headaches, begin mainlining aspirin. How could we talk with clients on the phone or, worse yet, in person? We’d go completely deaf in months—weeks, even.

  Not so, claimed Ted Smalley, former office manager for the now defunct All Souls Legal Cooperative, and soon to be our shared factotum. To get our hands on that kind of space we could adapt to anything. There was room for both firms to expand; we could have a library and a conference room; and he—praise the Lord—would at last have a large office all his own and a separate copy-and-supply room. Compared to such luxury, what was a little background noise?

  At that exact moment the fireboat siren went off and Hank, who had been in Vietnam, almost hit the floor.

  By the time he recovered, Anne-Marie was looking around with the same shrewdly appraising expression as Ted, and the leasing agent was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Hank still balked, so the agent offered a twenty percent rent reduction because of the “unfortunate noise factor.” We signed the lease on the spot, and ever since had bragged about how cleverly we’d fooled the agent into cutting the asking price.

  When Zach and I arrived there at a little after six that Friday evening, the shoreline boulevard and the nearby streets of the South Beach district were full of people heading for the many bars and restaurants that had sprung up with our waterfront area’s recent renaissance. Inside, the pier was nearly deserted. Lights burned in the first-floor suite of a documentary filmmaker, and Ted’s white Dodge Neon sat in its parking space, but the other tenants had left for the weekend. I pulled into my assigned place on the concrete floor where forklifts used to move and stack cargo.

  Zach jumped out of the car, looking around eagerly. His interest in his surroundings eased some of my growing concern for him; up to now he’d resisted my attempts at conversation and had voluntarily spoken only six times since we left Los Alegres.

  On the climb-out in the Cessna, he’d asked me, “Did Matty warn you not to fly over that yellow house where the guy who likes to shoot at planes just moved in?” Mercifully, she had. When I leveled off, h
e said, “Cruise speed for one of these is about a hundred, right?” Yes, I told him, it was. And on final at Oakland, he asked, “How come you flew out of here, when you live in San Francisco?” I was familiar with Oakland, I explained, and saw no reason to brave Class B airspace at SFO when Class C was less congested.

  After that he didn’t speak until we were on the bridge in my MG. “This is a really old model,” he said. “Did you have to do a lot of work on it?” A rebuilt engine, body work, and a new red paint job. A few minutes later: “This Habiba Hamid I’m supposed to be staying with—what is she, some kind of towelhead?” I replied that Habiba’s father had been from the Arab emirate of Azad, and she wouldn’t appreciate being called a towelhead. In response he asked, “When’s Matty coming to get me?”

  “Sunday afternoon.” And it can’t be too soon for all concerned.

  But as soon as I mentally voiced the comment, I looked at Zach’s wan face and felt a stab of sympathy for him. At eleven he’d been thrust into the hands of a stranger who was, in turn, about to thrust him into the hands of other strangers. His father was missing, Matty was about to fly in an air show while in a dangerous emotional state. And if anything happened to her, Zach’s future would be very uncertain.

  Besides, even taking into consideration the towelhead remark, his behavior was positively decorous in comparison to that of the Little Savages.

  Now his interest in the pier drew him from his protective shell. As I got out of the MG, he asked, “You really work here?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Cool.”

  “Want to explore while I check in with my office manager?”

  “Uh-huh.” He ran for the iron stairway leading to our catwalk.

  I followed, patting one of the oleanders that sat in redwood tubs at its foot—purchased by Ted because, he claimed, they thrived on murky light and exhaust fumes. And indeed they must, because their robust health put the other tenants’ ficus and citrus and ornamental evergreens to shame.

  The door to Ted’s office, located between my agency and the law firm, stood open. As Zach ran off along the catwalk, I knocked on the frame, stepped inside, and stopped—my way blocked by two cardboard boxes filled with fake garlands and tree lights and Christmas ornaments. Ted—a dapper, goateed man who likes to wear opulent vests and jackets with his faded Levi’s—smiled up from behind a desk stacked high with paperwork.