A Wild and Lonely Place Page 8

  “Which is?”

  “Sketchy. Medium to dark complected, medium height and weight. No information about hair color because he always wears some kind of hat. No information about eye color because he always wears aviator-style sunglasses. Conflicting descriptions of his voice. No noticeable scars or defects.”

  “Where’d they get that?”

  “It’s based on the descriptions of the messengers who delivered the bombs that weren’t sent through the mail. They all sound like the same man, and the task force assumes they’re only dealing with one perp, because the psychological profile of this kind of bomber indicates he works alone.”

  “What’s his signature?”

  Every bomb maker leaves a “signature” on the explosive device, whether intentionally or otherwise. Subtle details identify him or her, much as brushwork and palette identify the creator of an oil painting. “That’s the detail the task force has held back from the public. It’s the device for completing the electrical circuit—a spring that looks like a pair of praying hands, held together by a twisted ring.”

  “Odd.”

  “It’s the same every time. He’s precise; the bombs are well crafted. He doesn’t get fancy; he uses ordinary black powder that can be bought at sporting-goods stores. He’s cool; he walks into post offices and mails the packages without calling attention to himself. And he probably enjoys a certain amount of danger, since he delivered some of the bombs personally. The task force knows all that, yet they’re no closer to identifying him than before.”

  Hy finished his beer and went to the refrigerator. “Well, maybe you’ll come up with something about Hamid from the newspapers that’ll give you the break you need. When’re you going back to the city?”

  “Tomorrow night. Renshaw’s assigned Charlotte Keim in Data Search to help me, and I want to get her working on this first thing Monday.”

  Hy began to take paper-wrapped packages from the fridge: oysters, some smoked salmon, a crab. We’d decided on an easy-to-prepare cold seafood-and-sourdough supper tonight. “Keim’s a good choice. She helped me out before I went to Managua.” His voice was muffled as he hunted for a package of shrimp that had found its way into the fridge’s depths. “Not only is Charlotte bright and a real pro, but she’s cute and has a hell of a sense of humor—something you don’t find in too many of our operatives.”

  “Hmm.” I pictured the young, attractive brunette.

  Hy backed out of the fridge, grabbed an apron, and tossed it to me. “Quit being jealous and start dismantling that crab while I shuck these oysters.”

  “Me, jealous? Never.”

  “Oh, yes, you are.”

  “And I suppose you’re never jealous?”

  “Never. By the way, how come it took you so long to get up here last night after your so-called business meeting with your former lover?”

  I smiled serenely at him and donned the apron.

  Sunday morning dawned clear, the sea glassy and gentle. We finished off the previous night’s leftovers in an enormous omelet, then climbed down the stairway that was anchored to the cliff face to Bootlegger’s Cove. For a couple of hours we walked, collecting shells and driftwood and exploring the caves that had served as stashes for illegal liquor during Prohibition. It was after one when we returned to the cottage. The phone was ringing, and I ran in to answer, my wet and sandy athletic shoes skidding on the hardwood floor.

  An unfamiliar voice said, “Ms. McCone?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you on the weekend. This is Craig Morland. I’m one of the FBI’s representatives on the Diplo-bomber Task Force.”

  Morland—the rather colorless man who had been with Adah at the consulate after the bombing attempt. “Yes, Mr. Morland?”

  “We’ve got a problem here, and Adah Joslyn asked me to call you.”

  A nervous prickle skittered up my spine. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s not injured, nothing like that. Sorry to alarm you, ma’am.” Now I caught a faint touch of the South in his voice, as though he’d been born there but left long ago. “The problem is, Adah’s been put on administrative leave. There was…a bad incident yesterday, and our task force head and her chief agreed she’d better take some time for herself.”

  A bad incident. Morland’s tone had been hesitant; I decided not to ask for details now. “Where is she?”

  “At her apartment. That’s where I’m calling from. I dropped in this morning to see how she was doing and, to tell you the truth, I don’t feel easy about leaving her alone.”

  “Why not?”

  “…Well, she’s not herself.”

  “In what way?”

  “She’s very withdrawn. A while back she was crying and now she’s barricaded herself in her bedroom. I’ve taken charge of her revolver.”

  Adah, suicidal? “What about the nine-millimeter automatic?”

  “I didn’t know she had one; I’ll check around for it. But the reason I’m calling you—she says that if you could stop in and talk with her later, it’d be a big help.”

  “The last time I tried talking with her, she hung up the phone on me.”

  “Apparently she’s changed her mind since then. She asked me to make this call.”

  I hated to leave the coast early, but this sounded serious. “I can be there in about four hours. Can you stay with her till then?”

  “I can stay all night if I have to.”

  I said good-bye and hung up, trying to imagine what relationship the bland-looking FBI man might have with Adah, that he was willing to play nursemaid to her all night.

  Hy had come in behind me and caught the tail end of the conversation. When I turned he smiled regretfully. “There’s never enough time, is there, McCone?”

  I shook my head, feeling keenly the loss of my afternoon with him.

  “You have to leave right away?”

  “Adah needs me; she’s been put on administrative leave and is taking it badly.”

  “Well, I’ve got an idea that might buy us some time.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh. You take the Citabria. I’ll drive down in the MG tomorrow.”

  I blinked in surprise. “Take the Citabria—solo?”

  “Sure. I’d go with you, but I’ve got to finish going over those reports and, besides, we can’t just leave your car at the airport. You can do it. Since you soloed last winter you’ve been zipping around the block just fine.”

  Zipping around the Bay Area and the little airstrip in Mono County wasn’t the same as flying alone from Little River to Oakland.

  All of a sudden I couldn’t wait to leave.

  1,500 Feet Above The Mendocino Coastline

  May 21, 3:33 P.M.

  It was a high, beautiful world up there and not the least bit lonesome. The little white plane and I skimmed south along the coast as if together we’d made the journey many times. Double-luck-two-eight-niner—her registration number was 77289—responded to my touch as a racehorse to a jockey’s.

  I’d felt somewhat uneasy when I waved good-bye to Hy at the Mendocino County Airport at Little River, but a rush of exhilaration on takeoff cured me. By the time I made my turn over the sea, I was confident and in control, and for the first time I really understood what it is about flying solo.

  You lift off the ground—a triumph over gravity and human limitation. As you gain altitude you become single-minded and precise. You check this, you adjust that. It’s just you and your aircraft; anything else becomes far away and inconsequential. You can rely only on your skills and instincts.

  By the time I reached Bodega Harbor, I realized my world had narrowed to the elemental. Below was all manner of chaos and complexity, but here none of that mattered. My thoughts were clear, my movements sure. I was in perfect balance with the very real danger of dropping from the sky to my death.

  And that’s exactly what it’s about, I thought. Placing yourself at risk and overcoming it.

  I’d always had a love-hate
relationship with danger. I’d run from it, balanced on its thin edge, plunged in headlong. Now we renewed our affair.

  As I corrected course for Oakland Airport, I knew that I’d never before felt so alive—or so free.

  Eight

  My cab dropped me off at Adah’s building at six-twenty. It was a wonderful old Spanish-style apartment court on North Point Street, not far from the Marina Green and the yacht harbor. A Moorish arch in its white stucco facade let onto a mosaic-tiled courtyard where roses bloomed around a fountain; the units were set at various levels, up private staircases and fronted by tiny wrought-iron balconies. I climbed to Adah’s and knocked on the thick paneled door.

  The judas window opened and Craig Morland looked out. His pale, slender face was honed sharp by vigilance. “Ms. McCone?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see some I.D., please?”

  Federal agents! I took my I.D. folder from my purse and held it up. Almost immediately Morland stepped back and worked the dead bolt. “Sorry about that,” he said as he held the door open. “I’ve only seen you a few times, and then you were dressed up, so I didn’t recognize you. My training kicks in at the damnedest times.”

  “That’s okay.” I bent to pat Adah’s white cat, Charley, who was rubbing around my legs. Like my first cat, Charley had once belonged to a murder victim; Adah had adopted him at my urging. “How is she?” I asked, motioning at the closed bedroom door.

  “Asleep.”

  As Morland relocked and tested the dead bolt, I looked him over. In spite of it being Sunday, he wore a dark suit, conservative tie, white shirt, and wing tips. The FBI uniform was spoiled by a dusting of cat hair; Charley loved any kind of fabric to which his hairs would adhere.

  “Did you find the other gun?” I asked.

  “Yes. Thanks for telling me about it.”

  “Fill me in about this bad incident you mentioned.”

  Morland motioned at the couch, which was upholstered in flamboyant splashes of primary colors. The fabric was expressive of Joslyn’s personality—and immune to white cat hair—but when the FBI agent perched at its end he looked horribly out of place. Charley jumped up and tried to crawl on his lap; he pushed him away, lips tightening. I made a clicking sound with my tongue and the cat came over and began kneading my thigh with his paws.

  I asked, “So how come you’re not in there comforting Adah, dude?”

  Morland looked alarmed, then grinned weakly. He’d thought I was talking to him. “I didn’t know if the cat was allowed in the bedroom or not.”

  “This cat is so spoiled he’d be allowed at the table if he could handle a knife and fork.” I pushed Charley flat so he’d stop kneading. “Tell me what happened with Adah.”

  The agent relaxed somewhat, resting his closely clipped head against the high back of the couch; I supposed he felt more comfortable addressing official matters. “Last night Ed Parkhurst—he’s FBI, head of the task force—called an emergency meeting. There had been a leak of information on the TechnoWeb, something only members of the force or the bomber himself could know. You’re pretty close to Adah, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, then she’s probably told you that she’s been feeling shunted aside on the investigation. In a way I don’t blame her. Parkhurst thinks the Bureau should be running the show; he particularly didn’t like the SFPD demanding to be represented on the force. But Adah’s not the only one who’s been slighted; the ATF and USPS people feel it, too. She just takes it more personally.”

  “She’s been unusually sensitive lately,” I admitted.

  “And somewhat out of control. No, a whole lot out of control. Parkhurst’s been keeping an eye on her. Anyway, at the meeting Adah realized that she hadn’t been told the detail that was leaked on the Web. I doubt that’s true. A memo went to all members. My guess is that she didn’t read it and then misplaced it. Anyway, she snapped, got into it with Parkhurst.”

  “Uh-oh.” I’d never seen Adah lose it, but it didn’t tax my imagination to picture how awful the scene must have been.

  “First she accused Parkhurst of deliberately shutting the SFPD liaisons out of the investigation. Wells, the bomb squad guy, tried to tell her otherwise, but she told him to shut up. Then she told Parkhurst that he couldn’t run a task force any better than he could find his ass with both hands. And then…” Morland closed his eyes. “And then she called him a macho, elitist asshole.”

  “Jesus!”

  “You can understand why they placed her on leave.”

  I was stunned. She’d crashed right over the edge—and taken her career with her.

  Morland got up and began to pace, hands locked behind his back. “I couldn’t fucking believe it. I just sat there and watched while she trashed her life. I’ve been spending a lot of time with her; I suppose I should’ve seen this coming. I care about her; I suppose I should’ve gotten her out of there. But I just couldn’t fucking believe it.”

  “Not your fault. She did this to herself. Any chance she can turn it around?”

  “Not if I know Adah. They’re going to make her see a shrink, and you can be sure that’ll go badly. She’s too damn proud and stubborn to crawl into Parkhurst’s office with an apology, and I doubt he’d accept one, anyway. No, she’s really done it this time.”

  I stroked Charley, sinking my fingers deep into his fur—and into his fat roll. Adah feeds the cat too much, I thought. He’s like a child to her, a substitute source of love.

  Well, it was only natural. My friend received little enough in that line. Her parents, Rupert and Barbara, were also like children to her, but problem children—eccentric, self-absorbed, willful. She had no siblings to help her shoulder the responsibility, and for as long as I’d known her she’d had no romantic interest to brighten her life. No wonder she overcompensated Charley for his comforting purrs.

  My fingers prodded the cat’s well-nourished hide until he wiggled and emitted a sound that was a cross between a growl and a burp. I stood, tucking him under my arm like a struggling sack of potatoes, and said to Morland, “I think I’d better look in on Adah now.”

  * * *

  She lay on her stomach beneath a lurid jungle-print comforter, her head buried under the orange-and-green pillows. When I shut the door her body tensed slightly. I went over to the bed and deposited Charley on the small of her back.

  “Cat delivery,” I said. “That’ll be eleven dollars and fifty cents, plus tip.”

  Slowly she pushed the pillows away and looked over her shoulder at me. “Is he gone?”

  “Morland? No, he’s still out there. In a few minutes he may actually loosen his tie.”

  “Shit.” She flipped over onto her back, sending Charley rolling. He dug his claws into the comforter to keep from falling to the floor.

  “I’ve tried everything, McCone, but he won’t go. I yelled at him. He made tea. I pretended to cry. He brought me a box of Kleenex. I told him I was going to take a sleeping pill. He confiscated them and took my thirty-eight. I asked for you. He made the call and then started pussyfooting around. By now I suppose he’s got his paws on the automatic. I’ve been pretending to be asleep and praying you’d get here quick.”

  “He hinted you were suicidal.”

  “I did consider hanging myself if he didn’t leave.”

  “He also told me what happened last night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She reached for the cat, who was tearing at the covers, and pushed him under them. He wriggled down by her feet, then lay still, purring loudly.

  “What made you snap like that?” I asked.

  “What the hell makes anybody snap?” She glowered at me, then relented. “Okay, I’ve been letting the stress build. Maybe I can’t control it like I used to. Maybe I do need help. But for God’s sake, McCone, first you help me by getting Craig out of here! And please don’t let him make off with my guns.”

  I studied Adah. She seemed too calm for someone whose career had just crashed and burned. Sho
ck? No, probably relief at having taken the edge off the stress by ventilating. “Okay,” I told her.

  But I’d take charge of the guns.

  * * *

  Morland didn’t want to leave. I must be tired, he said. Why didn’t I go home and let him watch over Adah? I could talk with her tomorrow, when she also was rested. When I finally convinced him he wasn’t needed, he wanted to retain custody of the guns. I had to show him my carry permit before he’d concede that I was a responsible guardian. Finally, mercifully, he went.

  I returned to the bedroom. Adah lay on her back now, a Charley-sized lump on her stomach. When I gave her a thumbs-up sign, she sat up and the cat oozed out from beneath the covers and hit the floor with a thud.

  “Jesus, what a relief!” she exclaimed. “I got more mothering from Craig today than I did my entire childhood with Barbara.” She got out of bed, shaking the wrinkles from her striped caftan, and stalked into the living room, looking around as if she expected to find some noxious residue of the FBI man. “You want a drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beer, wine, or hard stuff?”

  For a moment I seriously considered a double shot of the hardest stuff she had. Then I cautioned myself against doing something that would only make the situation more bizarre and scaled back my request to white wine. Adah started toward the kitchen, Charley following hopefully, but she paused to say, “Let’s sit out on the deck, huh? I need some air.”

  I nodded and went back through the bedroom to a sliding door that opened onto a deck that Adah shared with the residents of the adjoining apartment. It overlooked a narrow alley and then the backyard of a peculiar-looking Bavarian-style building on Fillmore, the street that ran perpendicular to hers. A tangle of vines and old rosebushes forced their way over the high fence toward the sun and spilled down onto a garbage dumpster beside its gate. I flopped onto a green-and-white ribbed lounge chair and listened to the conversation that floated through Adah’s kitchen window: a debate on the merits of kitty mixed grill versus sliced veal with gravy. Naturally the food with the gravy won.