In the car Cassie said, “Now what?”
“I don’t know, let me think... South Beach. The converted warehouse where Rakubian had his offices. Maybe somebody there knows where we can find her.”
Another dead end.
There were half a dozen small law firms in the building on Harrison Street; they asked in all of them, and the answer in each was the same. No one knew what had happened to Valerie Burke — or to the secretary, Janet Yee, after Rakubian’s offices were vacated. The building manager there couldn’t tell them anything, either.
Frustration ate at Hollis like acid. “We could try to find Janet Yee,” he said, “but there’s not much chance she’d know Burke’s current address.”
“Is there a professional organization for paralegals? If there is and she’s a member, they might know.”
“They might, but I doubt it. The state she’s been in the past two months, the trips to Los Alegres... I don’t see her notifying a professional organization of her whereabouts or even holding down another job.”
“Then what has she been living on?”
“I don’t know — savings, a loan from somebody.”
“We’re just running around in circles,” Cassie said, “asking a lot of questions we can’t answer. We can’t do this by ourselves. Like it or not, we need help. Professional help.”
“You think we should keep the appointment at McCone Investigations?”
“It’s less than an hour from now. And we’re practically within walking distance of the pier. A private investigator has the resources to find someone much faster than amateurs like us.”
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll talk to her, see what she has to say.”
Thursday Afternoon
Pier 24½ was next door to the SFFD fireboat station, its cavernous interior renovated into office space for a variety of different businesses. Hollis wasn’t sure what to expect of a detective agency located in such surroundings, though McCone Investigations had to be reasonably successful; a prime waterfront location would not come cheap. Their suite of offices impressed him, and so did Sharon McCone. She kept them waiting less than five minutes, and when she appeared she was as crisply businesslike as she’d been on the phone. She was about forty, dark-haired, attractive in a striking way. More than that, she radiated competence and inspired confidence in return.
The private office she ushered them into had windows that extended to the pier’s sloping roofline, providing a broad view of the bay and the East Bay hills. The only negative thing about it was that it was noisy; the span of the Bay Bridge was directly overhead, the throb and hum of traffic muted but constant. When the fire sirens went off next door, he thought, it would probably make people here jump out of their seats.
They sat in comfortable chairs arranged before a functional desk. McCone asked if they minded having their conversation taped; Hollis gave permission. With a small recorder whirring, she asked a few preliminary questions and then requested that they outline their problem in detail. Hollis told most of it, as much as he felt she needed to know. They had no clear idea, he said, of why Burke was stalking them, unless it was because she blamed them somehow for Rakubian’s disappearance.
McCone didn’t interrupt, also took a few written notes. When he was finished she said, “One stalker in a lifetime is bad enough, but two within a few months is as bad as it gets. I sympathize, believe me. And I understand why you’re reluctant to involve the police. There isn’t much that can be done officially based on what’s happened so far.”
Cassie said, “It sounds as though you’ve had experience with stalking cases.”
“Oh, yes.” At least one unpleasant experience, judging from the faintly rueful quirking of McCone’s mouth. “I won’t pretend they’re not hard to handle for all concerned, because they are. There’re as many different breeds of stalker as there are people, each one predictable in some ways, unpredictable in others. On the surface it seems David Rakubian was the more dangerous of your two. What Valerie Burke has done to you so far — the anonymous notes, the vandalism — are childishly vicious acts. She may intend to continue in that vein, but she may also be planning something more overt. We don’t know enough about her yet to make an accurate assessment.”
“You’re not telling us anything we don’t already know,” Hollis said.
“I realize that, Mr. Hollis. But I believe in maximum communication with my clients, in making sure we understand each other and the situation we’re dealing with. Sometimes that requires stating the obvious, covering familiar ground.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’d be pretty distraught myself in your position. Another thing. Most of Valerie Burke’s actions so far have been directed at the two of you, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll remain her primary targets. The note to your daughter indicates she could also be in danger.”
He nodded. “What can you do to help us?”
“The most important thing right now,” McCone said, “is to locate Burke. If she has a fixed new residence in or out of the city, we ought to be able to find it pretty quickly. If she’s living with a friend or in a hotel or motel somewhere, that’ll take longer. I’ll put David Rakubian’s home under immediate surveillance; if she shows up there, the operative will be instructed to follow her wherever she goes when she leaves. We’ll run a DMV check to determine what kind of car she’s driving and the license number — assuming she has and is using a legitimately registered vehicle. We’ll also make a thorough background check on her — build a personal, professional, and psychological profile. The more you know about any individual, a stalker in particular, the better your chances of gauging what they might do next.”
“How long will that take?”
“The background check? It depends on how much of Burke’s life is a matter of public record. We ought to have some information for you — the DMV material, at the very least — by close of business today. Additional information, possibly a useful profile, by close of business tomorrow. Of course, I can’t make any definite promises, but what I will do is to mark your case priority with my staff.”
It sounded straightforward enough to Hollis. He asked, “What do you advise we do in the meantime?”
“Be cautious and vigilant,” McCone said. “Specifically, convince your daughter to move herself and your grandson back in with you until the matter is resolved. Don’t go anywhere alone after dark if you can avoid it. Alert your friends and neighbors and ask them to contact you immediately if they see a woman answering Burke’s description. Make certain your property is as secure as possible night and day. That includes your cars — parking facilities at home, at work, in public places.”
Cassie asked, “Would you recommend putting one of your people on watch at our home?”
“No, I wouldn’t. It isn’t likely Burke will try to break in again or even turn up in your neighborhood. She knows you’ll be wary, and stalkers are nothing if not sly. Whatever she intends to do next, it probably won’t be either repetitive or obvious. There’s another reason I wouldn’t recommend home surveillance at this point. One operative couldn’t stand a twenty-four-hour watch; it would take a team of three. And a much larger team to maintain regular surveillance on your entire family, day and night. The cost would be prohibitive over a period of time, and there’s no telling how long it will be before Burke is located. Also, there’d be no guarantee my people would be able to catch her at anything overt enough to put her in jail. We may believe she’s a dangerous stalker, but there’s no proof of it, remember.”