“What did?”
“… Disillusionment. Something in her experience had opened her eyes to the world in a way a person of her age and development couldn’t deal with except by giving up.”
“I didn’t tell you before, but she was working as a prostitute in the city when she died.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. That’s giving up as much as any woman can, isn’t it?”
SHARON McCONE
This evening I’m working on moving my toes. Toes, because dexterity on the rudders with one’s feet is essential to flying.
First one, then another. Concentrating hard, because I’m going to beat this paralysis. What Elwood said about my great-grandmother, how she became a warrior woman-I’ll never forget that.
I’m at war, too.
I closed my eyes, pictured my right toe. Willed it to move.
Nothing.
Okay, I thought, left toe.
Still nothing.
Frustration welled up again. Why was I putting myself through this? It was hopeless. I was trapped inside myself, a well-wrapped mummy, with no sensation except my raging emotions. And those…
Once, in a rented beachfront place on the island of Hawaii, Hy and I had been awakened by an earthquake. The house had shaken violently, gone still, then shaken again almost as hard. We looked outside, saw the sea was placid, but could feel its roiling potential. Fled to higher ground, along with all the neighbors.
The tsunami we’d feared never happened, although we later found out that we were within three miles of the quake’s epicenter at sea. But its innate rage and desire to destroy everything in its path charged the air, and a day later we cut our stay short and returned home.
Now a rage like that had invaded my body and threatened to consume what remained of my rationality.
What had happened to me? Where was the woman who had soared above the Sierras and Crater Lake, thrilled to controlled spins, loved and married a man whom some people, myself included, considered “still dangerous”? The woman who had braved a paramilitary encampment, a clandestine border crossing, a child rescue on an isolated Caribbean island?
Where was I?
No. Don’t you go there.
Right toe. Concentrate.
… Can’t.
Wait a while and try again. For now, concentrate on the verbal reports given to you today.
Julia had said that Larry Peeples told his lover his parents were giving him a hundred thousand dollars to return home and learn the winery business; instead he was planning to run off with Ben Gold and the money. But that hadn’t happened.
Rae had identified the hooker who’d been stabbed in the alley off Sixth Street. She was the daughter of a well-to-do and politically connected East Bay family. Rae had notified the SFPD who, after verifying her information, would contact the parents. Rae hoped to meet with them tomorrow, but till then was pursuing leads about the father’s involvement in the Pro Terra Party.
The Pro Terra Party. Hy didn’t like them. They ran candidates for local office around the state on an environmental stance, but he was dubious as to their motives and actual commitment to the movement. A stealthy money and power grab cloaked in altruism, he suspected. They lost more often than they won, but they were making gains: their most notable success had been with the election of State Representative Paul Janssen of San Francisco.
It would be interesting to see what Rae reported tomorrow.
Nothing from Mick or Craig. Curious.
I was tired. Too many visitors in too little time. Too many things to absorb. Soon Hy would arrive for his evening visit. I’d rest till then.
No, I wouldn’t. Not until I tried again… and again… and again to make my toes move.
HY RIPINSKY
He was going to be late seeing Shar, but she would understand. The one thing that had remained constant through all of this was their mutual psychic connection. It had been strong from almost the first day they’d met, and while it may have faltered at times during their relationship, it now tugged at him, taut as wire. He knew it tugged at her, too.
All afternoon he’d been at home, on the phone and Internet, talking and e-mailing with friends and informants around the world. He’d run searches trying to connect any of the cases the agency folks were working with his wife’s shooting. No definite links, but a whisper here and there.
Yes, I’ve heard the theory that she was attacked by someone looking for information… No, it probably wasn’t personal, but who knows?… Sometimes people are in the wrong place at the wrong time… She did have enemies. Couldn’t’ve helped but have, in her position… She’s received a lot of high-profile publicity over the years… That pier was featured in a nationally syndicated piece about unusual working environments… Maybe somebody was following her. That classic MG she insists on driving is distinctive… Let me call around to some of my contacts and get back to you…
Hy got into his vintage blue Mustang, which was parked in the driveway, backed out, and flicked on the radio as he turned down the street.
News broadcast. Special report.
San Francisco Board of Supes President Amanda Teller and State Representative Paul Janssen had been found dead in an apparent murder-suicide at a lodge near Big Sur. Mystery surrounded the crimes: as yet there was no explanation as to what they were doing there. Although they had checked into separate units, they were found together on Teller’s bed. Stay tuned for further details…
Amanda Teller.
Hadn’t Shar done some work for her about a year ago?
Worth checking out. And right away.
Shar would have to wait for him a little longer.
He called Ted Smalley at home and then set his course for Pier 24½, where Ted could access the records from the office computer system.
SHARON McCONE
I was expecting Hy but it was Mick and Craig who came into my room. They were arguing in the soft voices that this place seemed to bring out in people. Well, most people. Not Ma and not me; she shrieked and I had no voice.
Mick said, “This is the secure location where we’re gonna talk?”
“As secure as they get, man.”
“But what about Shar? She’s sick, she needs her rest.”
Stop talking about me as if I weren’t here!
“She also needs to hear this, and I don’t want to go over it twice.” Craig came around the bed, looked me in the eyes. “Shar? You okay to listen to a long story?”
I blinked. Damn right I was. Maybe my body wasn’t spearheading the investigation this time, but my mind was as sharp as ever.
Both of them sat down, Craig in the armchair and Mick in a folding chair he dragged in from outside.
Craig said, “Amanda Teller, president of the Board of Supes, and State Representative Paul Janssen were shot to death in a motel near Big Sur early this morning.”
I wanted to exclaim, “What? Why?” All I could do was rivet my gaze on his and wait.
“It was set up to look like a murder-suicide, but I don’t think it was. More likely a double homicide.”
He went on to tell me what he and Mick had witnessed at the Spindrift Lodge, ending with, “You know I’ve been investigating possible malfesance at city hall for the mayor’s office. I think these killings are connected to that.”
I remembered the case. One of the mayor’s closest aides and confidants, Jim Yatz, had summoned me to his office in early June and asked me to take on an undercover operation. He didn’t specifically know what the mayor was looking for, but there was some concern about certain confidential documents going missing. Yatz provided me with a list of them; they seemed innocuous enough to me: drafts of general plans for city land use, an updated rent control proposition, budget proposals. Some of the documents had been handwritten in draft, others were computer files that had subsequently been deleted. I offered the services of our computer forensics department to recover them, but Yatz turned that down. Find out who was doing it, that was all the mayor wanted.