While Other People Sleep Page 6

  “Nope. They tell us the kid's a genius, or close to, and are recommending she skip a grade.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “We don't think so. She's had to grow up too fast. She needs a chance to be a kid and to be with other kids her own age.”

  Habiba's mother had been an American poet, her father the son of a diplomat from an oil-rich emirate. Her entire family was now dead by violence, except for distant relatives in the homeland, and in spite of the love and support of all of us who knew her, Habiba often felt alone and insecure.

  “So you're telling the school no?”

  “We're telling them that Habiba'll decide if and when she needs more intellectual stimulation. If she wants private lessons, accelerated courses, fine. But it's got to be when she's ready.”

  I studied my oldest male friend. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses his eyes brimmed with affection for his foster child. “You love her as you would your own daughter, don't you?”

  “Yes, I do. And so does Anne-Marie—which is really something for a woman who used to refer to kids as ‘obnoxious, noisy little creatures.’ Of course, she doesn't have to live with Habiba…”

  Soon after their marriage, he and Anne-Marie had found that they were totally unsuited to living together. His untidiness drove her wild; her meticulous housekeeping drove him wild. Their solution was to occupy separate flats in the two-unit Noe Valley building they owned—with liberal visitation rights, of course. Habiba lived at Hank's, the more child-friendly of the two residences.

  I said, “No, she doesn't have to live with Habiba, but she's the one who's conferring with the teacher.”

  “And the one who taught her to ride a bike, and who helps her pick out her clothes, and who comforts her when she's feeling low. And who will soon become her legal mother.”

  “You're adopting her!”

  He nodded, grinning broadly. “Yep. The family in Azad's decided to cut her loose. Tainted blood from the mother's side, you know.”

  “Tainted by her mother! Her father was a sociopath, and that whole family is certifiable!”

  “And I thank God they don't want to get their hands on Habiba. I've been meaning to ask you, would it be all right if I gave your name to the social worker handling the adoption, as a character reference?”

  “Sure. It'll be a pleasure to help expedite the adoption. More than a pleasure. This is a wonderful turn of events!”

  “Thanks.” Hank got up and motioned me toward the seating area. “So what's on your mind?”

  “Does something have to be, for me to stop in to chat?”

  “No, but you seem on edge.” He put his hands on my shoulders, massaged them with his thumbs. “Big knots there. What's wrong?”

  I dropped into one of the leather armchairs, and he took the other, his eyes concerned. “Is it a legal problem?”

  “Maybe. Let me lay it out for you.”

  When I finished telling him about my impostor, he asked, “You have any idea who she is or why she's doing these things?”

  “Not the foggiest, and I've given it a lot of thought. She could be anybody, from a disgruntled former client to someone with a personal motive. Or she could've picked me at random. That's the scariest possibility of all.”

  He took off his glasses and polished their lenses, thinking. “Greg filed a report on the break-in?”

  “He said he would. And I faxed him a log of the other incidents, so they'll be on record when I identify her.”

  “When you identify her?”

  “Who else is going to do it? The SFPD has more important things to deal with than some woman who's annoying me.”

  Hank nodded, grimacing.

  “What I want to ask you,” I went on, “is if I have any legal recourse against her once I identify her, even if I can't prove she's the person who broke into my house.” I didn't feel uncomfortable about asking Hank for advice; I paid Altman&Zahn a yearly retainer, just as they paid one to me—our way of keeping our personal and professional relationships hassle free.

  He considered for a moment, slouched in his chair, his chin resting on steepled fingers. “Sorry, Shar, I don't see any recourse unless you can prove she did the break-in. Other than that, she's committed no crime.”

  That was what I was afraid he'd say—and exactly what I didn't want to hear. “You mean somebody can go around pretending to be me at parties, sleeping with men under the guise she's me, snooping around the airport for Hy's plane—and there's no legal way to stop her?”

  “Well, we could file a civil suit and attempt to show that she's damaged you professionally, caused you to lose clients, but we'd need a whole lot more documentation than the situation with the art dealer. Other than that, it's difficult to prove damage when you're a public figure.”

  “A what?”

  “Shar, your name and picture have been in the paper how many times? To say nothing of that People article. And then there were those TV and radio talk-show appearances—”

  “I did those to build business!”

  “Doesn't matter why. Those things have made you a public figure.”

  “But—”

  “Listen, I could—with the help of a plastic surgeon and a wardrobe adviser—stroll across the street to Palomino tonight and claim to be Harrison Ford. I could drink everybody under the table, puke on the floor, insult all the customers—and Harrison wouldn't be able to do a damned thing about it.”

  “But he's a movie star, and I'm just—”

  “The definition of public figure varies widely, depending on who's doing the defining.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Okay, calm down. That's the downside. On the upside: The woman's seriously angry about something. She's escalating her activity. She's bound to make a mistake soon. If she does any of the following to you, we'll go after her: if she uses your name in an attempt to defraud someone, if she undertakes an investigation while pretending to be you, if she commits credit-card fraud, if… well, you get my drift.”

  I got his drift, all right. I raised my hands to my face, which was already burning with anger, and rubbed my eyes. “God, I hadn't even thought of those possibilities! Oh, Hank … !”

  “I know, it's a hideous situation. People can harass you and stalk you and try to assume your identity, and you have no real recourse. If you know who they are, you may be able to get a judge to issue a restraining order, but what's a restraining order to a head case?”

  Hank paused, his eyes going bleak and sad. “I don't know what to tell you, Shar, except that Anne-Marie and I will be behind you all the way when you need us. It's an ugly, scary world these days, and the good guys all too often don't have enough legal tools on their side to protect them.”

  “So how do you deal with that situation?”

  “Me, personally? I watch my back and the backs of the people I care about. I try to be the kind of attorney who protects those in the right, rather than one who turns the scumbags loose on the world. I'll tell you, there was a time when I was in danger of slipping over to the other side; the money was too good, the power too seductive. But Anne-Marie and Habiba have changed all that. My wife's an idealist who'd cut my nuts off if I sold out, and Habiba … Well, I want to do my bit to make this world a place where she can grow up unafraid.”

  Monday night

  Ted had told Neal he planned to work late, but at five-thirty I found him putting his desktop in order. “Going home?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I'm beat.”

  He did look tired, his dark eyes shadowed and the lines around his mouth deeply pronounced. This was the Ted I'd caught glimpses of at the height of the AIDS epidemic when many of his friends were dying; but back then he'd taken pains to hide his distress, putting on a cheerful front while providing comfort for those in need of it. Now his trouble, whatever it was, showed plainly.

  On the off chance he might confide in me, I said, “You haven't looked too well lately. Is something wrong?”

  He hesitated, face conf
licted, then shrugged. “Nothing I can't handle.”

  “I'd like to help.”

  “I know. Just let it go, Shar.” He pushed the chair up to the desk, raised a hand in farewell, and left the office.

  I waited only a few seconds before rushing back to my own office for my purse and the keys to the inconspicuous agency van.

  Ted drove his white Dodge Neon straight to Plum Alley but, strangely, did not enter the garage of his building. Instead he backed into a parking space next to the retaining wall at the end of the block and sat there. I continued along Montgomery, found nowhere to leave the van, U-turned in front of Julius’ Castle, and drove back on the higher section of the street. A car was just exiting Plum Alley. I sped up, made another U, and entered the alley; the vacated parking space was halfway down the street, behind a Dumpster that would block the van from Ted's line of sight—if he was still in his car.

  I got out of the van and crept through the shadows between the parked cars and buildings for a closer look. Yes, I could see Ted's head, backlit by the lights of the waterfront. He appeared to be watching his own building. From behind a utility wagon I watched him as several people entered and left, each causing him to straighten and take notice. He didn't seem concerned with others in the vicinity, however: a man who pulled in to the space next to him bumped his car door into the Neon, and Ted didn't even turn his head; a woman allowed her German shepherd to pee on the car's bumper, and he didn't roll down his window to protest. If he hadn't moved from time to time, I'd have feared him dead. Finally I went back to the van to wait.

  The night grew cold and overcast; I wished I had some coffee and a sandwich. And soon images began to haunt me: An open bottle of Deer Hill Chardonnay and a glass under the warm lamplight in my living room. Cold fluorescent light touching the silvery corkscrew where it lay on my kitchen chopping block. An empty plastic compact that had contained birth control pills on the fluffy green mat in my bathroom. Rumpled bedclothes and a half-open closet door—

  Stop it, McCone!

  I breathed in deeply and thought I caught the scent of Dark Secrets perfume, but no one was there but me.

  The rain started around eight-thirty. Light mist turned into a torrent, smacking down on the van's roof. I leaned against the door, listening to the downpour. I don't like surveillances; they're one of the most boring aspects of my work. And I especially didn't like this one, because over and over my thoughts drifted to the woman who had invaded my home.

  Had her primary purpose been to trash it? Maybe, maybe not.

  Reconstruct her actions. That might tell you.

  Okay, she's been watching the place, sees Hy and me leave. She picks the lock, quickly, so the neighbors won't notice. That means she's as good with a set of picks as I am, and I'm very good. She checks the parlor, the guest room, the home office. She lights a fire, goes to the kitchen, helps herself to some wine. Sits down and has a couple of glasses.

  All right, at this point what's she thinking?

  That she's getting to know me. She may even be pretending she is me. Cozy, relaxing in my own easy chair. But then something sets her off. Something that makes her flush those pills, strip my bed. She does damage to things that're associated with sex.

  Is that it? No, sex had nothing to do with her stuffing the cat into the crawl space.

  The cat …

  Where was Allie on Sunday night? Out, like Ralph. They wouldn't come in when Hy and I wanted to leave, sensed something unusual was going on and got upset, so we said the hell with them. So how did Allie get in?

  Now, here's a scenario: The woman makes her way back to the bedroom. Allie's at the glass door, wanting in. The woman's now deep into her role-playing; she lets Allie— her cat—in and tries to pick her up, to cuddle her.

  And Allie, of course, is the most standoffish cat on the face of the earth. She won't let anybody but Hy or me hold her, barely tolerates Michelle Curley, the kid next door who lets her in and feeds her when I'm away from home. Sulks or panics when company comes, depending on who it is. So what's she going to do when a total stranger tries to handle her?

  Struggle. Hiss. Scratch her.

  And what's this particular stranger going to do when rudely yanked out of her personal fantasy?

  Pitch a fit.

  The bedclothes get dragged off, the pills go down the toilet, the cat goes into the crawl space. And I'm lucky she didn't do more—

  The Neon abruptly started up, its headlights flashing on. I slumped low, let it go by. Then I followed.

  Half an hour later Ted and I were parked several spaces apart on Van Ness Avenue near Pine Street, across from the Far West Academy of Martial Arts. He seemed to be watching its entrance.

  Regardless of what Neal thought, Ted had to suspect him of infidelity.

  I squirmed around in the driver's seat of the van, seeking a more comfortable position. Across the six lanes of rain-slick pavement was a four-story building occupied by one of our major electronics retailers, the Good Guys; some enterprising window dresser had turned TVs face out across its entire facade, and now the credits of the local CBS affiliate's news show began to roll. Soon dozens of tiny news clones began smiling and talking and bobbing their stiffly coiffed heads in perfect synchronization high above the sidewalk. I watched, in danger of becoming hypnotized.

  At the stoplight behind me brakes squealed and tires shrieked. I glanced back, saw a car that had slid sideways across two lanes. Why was it that the vast majority of San Franciscans forgot how to drive at the first drop of rain? Weren't they aware that rubber adhered to pavement even when both were wet? What would they do if they lived in Seattle, where it really rained? Or in the Sierras, where the roads were now slick with ice and snow?

  Mental question-and-answer session, designed to keep my mind alert at this late hour—as well as off the subject I'd begun to label as The Woman.

  People were beginning to drift through the door of the academy now. Through the windows of the parked cars ahead of me I saw Ted's silhouette straighten; I did the same, my hand on the key.

  Neal came outside, gym bag in hand, waving good-bye to a pair of men. He turned down Pine Street and walked toward Polk.

  Ted waited for a break in traffic, then pulled away from the curb. I waited a little longer before I followed. The Neon shot across three lanes, made a left on Bush. I got caught at the light, but when I turned onto Bush, I spotted Ted making another left onto Polk. I duplicated it, saw that he was driving unhurriedly, keeping Neal in sight as he walked along to Anachronism, bypassed the shop, and crossed in mid-block to a parking garage.

  Ted pulled over to the curb and idled there. I stopped to let pass a trio of young men who seemed to have pierced every conceivable body surface with metal objects that looked as though they'd been subjected to a few whirls in the garbage disposer, then waved across an elderly couple toting sacks from an all-night supermarket. In minutes Neal's beat-up Honda exited the garage and turned north on Polk. I eased forward, watching Ted follow.

  Separated at times by various other vehicles, the three of us proceeded along Polk, through the Broadway tunnel, and ultimately to Tel Hill. By the time I arrived at Plum Alley, Ted had emerged from his building's garage and was entering the lobby courtyard. Neal—who parked on the street, since the apartment was allotted only one garage space and Ted's car was the more valuable—had presumably gone inside.

  I idled a few doors down from the building as Ted checked their mailbox and stepped onto the elevator. Watched him through the glass blocks as it rose to the third floor. When he passed behind the art-glass windows, I realized why I always had the sense of being underwater when I walked down that hallway; Ted looked as if he were drifting among the strange sea creatures.

  Submerged, perhaps, in whatever lay heavy on his mind.

  When I got home, I found a grocery bag on my front porch. Another unpleasant surprise, no doubt.

  Without touching it, I opened the door, disarmed the security system, and turned
on the overhead light. Then, cautiously, I brought the bag inside and opened it.

  A bottle of Deer Hill Chardonnay—the right vintage, no less. Taped to it was a Post-it note bearing one typed word: “Sorry.”

  I let my breath out in a hiss that was a combination of relief and rage.

  Sorry. She'd broken into my home, drunk my wine, flushed my pills down the toilet, terrorized my cat—and now she was sorry?

  Yeah, sure she was.

  I left the bottle in the bag, picked it up by its top edges, and took it to the kitchen. Tomorrow it would go to Richman Labs for fingerprint analysis and to see if it was contaminated, but I suspected the fee I'd pay the investigative laboratory would be wasted; she'd been careful last night, and she'd have been more careful with this specious gift.

  Before I reset the alarm, I gave consideration to asking the neighbors if they'd seen who dropped off the bag, but decided against it; I'd already bothered them this morning, and it was too late to go ringing doorbells.

  Both cats were sleeping on the sitting room couch, let in by Michelle from next door. The light on the answering machine was blinking—one message. I hit the play button and heard Hy's voice.

  “Just wanted to let you know I arrived here safely. Buenos Aires is even better than I remembered it; someday you'll have to make the trip with me. Anyway, I miss you. Hope that woman hasn't given you any more trouble, and that you've got the problem with Ted and Neal sorted out. You have my itinerary and numbers, so if I don't get hold of you, call me. Love you.”

  I'd call him tomorrow. I badly needed the comfort of a talk.

  Tonight I'm underwater. Murky water in a dimly lighted aquarium where opaque green plants wave their silky tendrils. The pebbles under my feet glisten and shift with my steps.

  How can I be underwater and still breathe?

  I watch myself move through the plants, clumsy in contrast to their gracefulness.

  Movement at the far side of the tank, whipping the plants to a frenzy. Bubbles rise toward the surface. I draw back into a sandstone cave.