The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (16 page)

The blinds that were closed on all the windows were thick metal, the kind that show little light to anyone outside. “Okay with the electricity,” I said to Hy.

He located switches, and suddenly we were seeing the interior in all its neglect.

The kitchen floor was dirty and sticky on the soles of my shoes; the bathroom was worse; the bedding on the single mattress on the floor looked as if it hadn’t been washed in at least a year, and clothing was piled in heaps. I wondered if all this filth might have contributed to Grizeldy’s bad health. The only clutter-free space was a section of the kitchen counter, where a phone, a fax/printer, and a Dell computer were set up.

I’m good with simple computer tasks, but Hy’s better. I asked, “You want to take a look at this?”

He sat down on the stool in front of it.

I went on searching through the poverty of Jill Kennedy’s life.

Three large, empty rooms that appeared as if they’d never been used. A closet with no hangers upon which the heaps of clothing could be hung. Randomly squeezed toothpaste tube on the back of the sink, toothbrush that should have been replaced long ago in the holder. Medicine cabinet: should have been revealing, as most are, but wasn’t. No prescription drugs, no over-the-counters except Tylenol, no makeup or hairspray or anything else that she might have bought in an attempt to make herself more attractive.

I went back to the kitchen. Hy was still tinkering with the computer, and I didn’t interrupt him. The cabinets were reasonably bare: Grizeldy had eaten off a few ancient plastic plates, with cheap, mismatched flatware; there were cans of pork and beans, chili, soup, and spaghetti, but their lids were dusty. The fridge contained a quart of milk two weeks past its sell-by date, a half-full bottle of a particularly vile brand of white wine, and a slice of moldy lemon.

The freezer was more bountiful, if you called three Hungry Man frozen dinners a bounty, along with two partially eaten cartons of ice cream—mint and dark chocolate—and part of a Sara Lee cheesecake. But then…

I moved the other items away and pulled at the plastic-wrapped package at the very bottom. It stuck. I tugged at it again, and it came free. There were newspaper wrappings under the thick plastic.

Hy was still busy with the computer. He hadn’t made a sound.

I started to open the package, peeling the wrappings carefully. When finally I freed the contents, I brushed the debris aside to reveal a wooden plaque with a raised plastic center and gold lettering. There are so many plaques given out in this world—I have several—that I wonder if every household doesn’t contain a few. But this one was different.

From its front, Grizeldy’s—Jill Kennedy’s—face stared out at me. She looked solemn and somewhat haunted.

It had been presented to her by the Other Worlds Society on the tenth anniversary of her witnessing her father’s alien abduction.

There was a note attached: “Grizeldy, if you find this first, you can have it back for keeps, for services rendered.”

How could this plaque be Grizeldy’s “grand prize”? It was too damned insignificant…and yet witnessing the so-called abduction had been the one event in her life that made her someone of importance. Again, I thought of what she’d told me in the car the night before she died:
…a plain, little, ordinary woman. Living a plain, little, ordinary life.

The sadness and emotional poverty that I often encounter in my work overwhelmed me, and I had to blink to keep tears from my eyes.

Midnight

S
omewhere close by, a church bell was tolling the beginning of a new day.

I stood at the shabby kitchen counter, staring down at Grizeldy’s plaque.

I said, “Ripinsky, come look at this.”

He slipped off the stool and peered at the plaque. “The Other Worlds Society,” he said.

I took out my iPhone and checked out the name on Google. “There’re two,” I said, “but one’s called the Other World Society and is devoted to the supernatural. The Other Worlds Society, plural, is concerned with alien abductions.”

“Which Grizeldy—Jill, whatever—claimed had happened to her father.”

“Right. Anything useful on her computer?”

“Just e-mails notifying people of their ventures. I’m going to print out their names and addresses.”

I searched Google for additional mentions of the Other Worlds Society. There were several, most of them dismissive. A few were enthusiastic, but the writers sounded unbalanced. The organization’s official site ran profiles of people whom the group claimed might have been spirited away into outer space. Few names, except for Judge Crater and Jimmy Hoffa, rang a bell. Still, I bookmarked the site; I’d read the profiles later at my leisure.

Hy came up behind me. “I’m done here.”

“Me too.”

“Home?”

“Yes, please.”

We left the house and I relocked the door. As we walked toward the car, my cell rang. Jay Givens, sounding frantic. “It’s Camilla. She came home and trashed the condo!”

“You weren’t there?”

“No. I was out. When I came back the place was trashed and Camilla has the only other key.”

“I’ll get right back to you.”

I clicked off, then called the RI hospitality suite. The voice that answered after six rings was sleep-blurred and unfamiliar. “Camilla Givens—is she there?” I asked.

“Who’s this?”

“Sharon McCone, one of the owners of RI. Who are you?”

“Seth Over. I’m new—”

“Who authorized you to take this shift?”

“Veronica Mann. She had a date—”

“Never mind. Check on our client.”

The receiver dropped with a clunk.
Heads are going to roll
, I thought.

Pretty soon Over said, “Ms. McCone?”

“
Is
she there?”

“Um…no.”

“Search the entire suite, including the closets.”

Minutes passed. I filled Hy in on what was happening.

“Ms. McCone? She’s definitely not here.”

“And you, Mr. Over, are fired.”

“What? You can’t do that—”

“As co-owner of the firm, you bet I can. You have fifteen minutes to clear out, and you’ll receive your last paycheck by mail.”

Hy was grinning at me as I disconnected. “You’re tougher than I am.”

“The guy’s a fool—probably sleeping or watching a video when she contrived to slip out. And Veronica Mann—she goes too.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“My God, Camilla’s on the loose. No telling what harm she might do to herself or others.”

“You going to call her husband back?”

“I’m bound to; he’s my client.”

“You didn’t tell him where she was before.”

“Because I thought she was safe. And because I think she has reason to be afraid of him.”

“So now she trashed their condo. Why?”

“I have only Jay’s word about that, and he’s lied to me before. Want to bet the place is in perfect condition?”

“He’d say he got a cleaning crew in.”

“This late? I don’t think so.”

“Did he tell you exactly when the trashing supposedly happened?”

“…No. I’ll call and tell him I’m following up on a lead. And then I’ll go over there.”

“No,
we’ll
go over there.”

“Ripinsky, you really are determined to form a partnership with me, aren’t you?”

He just smiled.

1:33 a.m.

The Givenses’ condo
had
been trashed. Broken glass and overturned furniture and torn-down draperies lay everywhere. In the master bedroom the mattress had been flipped, the drawers emptied out; in a second bedroom that was used as an office, the computer and its ancillary devices had been battered. The worst destruction was in the kitchen: small appliances looked as if they’d been stomped on; frozen food lay melting amid the rubble; pottery shards and more broken glass and dented pots and pans intermingled on the floor.

As Hy and I walked through all this, I knew we were thinking the same thoughts:

Why destroy your own things, such as crystal and china, that probably mean nothing to Jay?

Why ruin your own computer, since Jay told us he mainly uses his laptop or the one in his office?

Why rip up your own clothing, while leaving his relatively intact?

Why, in your private bathroom, smash your mirror with your own bottle of costly perfume?

Rage, of course. But not Camilla’s.

We questioned Jay. He had no idea where his wife was now, he said. He hadn’t called the police because he was afraid of bad publicity, people prying into his life, and upheaval in his home, and he felt a migraine coming on. We told him we would try to locate Camilla and left.

“His doing,” I said.

“His, or somebody who has it in for him or Camilla. Where d’you suppose she is?”

“Maybe back at the suite.”

“I’ll check.” He took out his phone, auto-dialed. Asked a security guard to check to see if she was there. Waited a few minutes, then handed the phone to me.

“Ms. McCone?” the RI man said. “Mrs. Givens returned half an hour ago.”

“She say where she’d been?”

“Only that she was getting her life straight.”

“Let me talk to her, please.”

“I’ll get her.”

Long silence.

“Ms. McCone, she refuses to come to the phone. Wants to talk with you in person—tomorrow.”

“Tell her I want to talk with her
now
.”

“She’s in the Jacuzzi tub, and the door is locked.”

I felt an overwhelming desire to drive over there, kick the door in, and drag Camilla out of the tub by her whisk-broom hair.

“Well,” I finally said, “make sure she stays put.”

“She’s very willful.”

“Then get hold of the RI doctor. After her absence, she needs a physical checkup. And a shot that will put her out for a good eight hours of sleep.”

3:01 a.m.

Hy and I talked over the situation at home, discussing what my next plan of action should be. I wanted to establish a definite connection between Jay Givens and Van Hoffman and, barring that, a connection between both men and the Night Searchers. We discussed the best way to accomplish that, but couldn’t come up with a viable solution.

Mick called around three thirty. “I’m in the men’s room at one of those horrible all-night restaurants, so this has got to be quick. The Searchers are ending up at Grizeldy’s house tonight; the last clue indicated the big prize is there.”

“How’d you find out that?”

“Kilkarzo let it slip while we were at the urinals. He’s the one who wrote the clues.”

“So why doesn’t he just go there and grab this prize?”

“I think because, more than the others, he’s the one who really believes in this game. He’s simpleminded and really cared about the Griz.”

“But he told you their final destination tonight.”

“He’s also pretty drunk.”

“Are you sure they aren’t setting it up to lose you? Send you to the wrong place?”

“You’re always talking about your gut instincts. Well, I’ve got them too.”

“Yeah, you’ve proven that. Can you duck out on the Searchers?”

“Sure. I doubt that they want me around anyway.”

“Do it, and wait outside Grizeldy’s house in the agency van. Hy and I will be inside, and there’ll be others outside. Call me when you see the Searchers approaching.”

I began marshaling everyone on my phone. Those I was able to reach would be staking out Grizeldy’s house when Hy and I arrived to wait for the Night Searchers.

3:40 a.m.

Hy and I were again inside Grizeldy’s lonely, barren house. We sat in the dark, empty room at the rear, our backs against the wall.

By now Team McCone was in place: Mick in the agency van across the street; Julia on the walkway to the house’s left; Craig and Adah at different locations in the backyard. Patrick hadn’t been able to get somebody to look after his two boys, until Rae volunteered; I knew she was chafing at being left out of the action. Even our newbie, Erica, was stationed nearby, alternately nervous and excited.

The Searchers still weren’t there. What were they waiting for? Of course, Mick had said they were at a restaurant, and I hadn’t thought to ask him where. Maybe they were taking a long time with their meal, or the place was on the other side of the city. Still, the wait was making me edgy.

We’d been there fifteen minutes when my phone vibrated. Derek. I answered in a low voice.

“Opal Carson didn’t show up for work today,” he said. “I’m keeping watch on her building, but she’s not there either.”

“You find out anything more about her?”

“Nothing important. The woman doesn’t seem to have much of a life outside her work as a chemist.”

“Well, keep me posted.”

After I broke the connection, I lapsed into silence. Hy put his arm around me, drew my head down onto his chest.

Minutes later, he said, “They’re not coming.”

“If they are, it’s taking a damn long time.”

“Maybe the other team’ll come. We never did spot any of their clues.”

“I’m not sure there
is
another team. Have any of us heard their names, seen them?”

“No.” He shifted his arm around my shoulders. “But what purpose would they have in creating a fictional team?”

“Phantoms to put the blame on in case they got caught? An alleged team that vanishes when others come looking for them?”

“You may have something there. Maybe they also created Supercom.”

“Very possibly.” My cell vibrated. Mick.

“There’re three people in dark clothing coming along the block. Being very quiet and looking kind of furtive.”

“Keep the line open.”

Long pause. Then: “They just passed under a streetlight and I caught sight of them. Kilkarzo, Alinzsky, Malanzky. They’ve started across to the house.”

“Inform everybody outside.” I broke the connection, said to Hy, “They’re on their way.”

We stood up and retreated to a recess beside the long-unused fireplace. Hy un-holstered his .45. Regretfully I took out my own weapon. Another promise to myself broken.

Soft footsteps coming up to the front door. A key turning in the lock. The door being shut and locked behind them. I turned on my ultra-sensitive voice recorder.

First person: “So where do we start?”

Second: “Easy. I been here before. She only lived in three rooms—little bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen.”

“Bathroom? Toilet tank? That’s where I keep my dope.”

“I don’t think this is dope, but you take the bathroom, Kilkarzo.”

A third voice said, “I’ll take the bedroom. Broads always hide stuff in their bedrooms.”

“Thanks for your wisdom, Alinzsky. I’ll do the kitchen.”

The speaker, presumably Malanzky, moved into the kitchen. “Jesus,” he said, “gross.” Then he began to rip it apart, breaking dishes and glassware, emptying out drawers. Finally he said, “Oh yeah! Of course,” and pulled open the freezer. There was the sound of rock-hard foods being tossed onto the filthy floor.

“Oh, man,” Malanzky said in a soft voice that wouldn’t carry to his partners, “what’s this?”

Ripping and tearing noises. A silence. And then an exclamation of rage.

“A plaque? A fucking plaque?
This
is what she was so eager to get her claws onto?”

The others heard him, rushed in.

Malanzky’s voice rose even higher. “The bitch had us running all over the city for this valuable thing that was gonna make us all rich. And look at it—a fucking plaque about her father’s so-called alien abduction.”

Kilkarzo’s voice was more tempered. “That so-called alien abduction was the defining moment in the Griz’s life. But what does this note mean? ‘If you find this first, you can have it back for keeps, for services rendered?’ Who was the Hider when we went looking for this? And why did he hide it in her own house?”

“Who the fuck cares?”

Kilkarzo asked, “
What
services rendered?”

Malanzky answered, “We done a lot of services for a lot of people and been paid real good too.”

“But this is different. This is something special we did. Like we’re supposed to do tomorrow night.”

Alinzsky said, “I’m not putting on any more acts in that vacant lot! I’m splitting tonight for my sister’s place in Yuba City.”

Hy and I stepped out from the recess, weapons leveled.

They froze, then exchanged panicky looks. Alinzsky muttered, “Oh, shit.”

Hy and I moved toward them.

“Those acts in the vacant lot—what were they?” I asked.

Silence.

I questioned them about the services they’d provided for other people. More looks passed between them and they remained mute. I asked about what they were supposed to do in the vacant lot tomorrow. Defensively they folded their arms across their chests.

Alinzsky said, “You’re not the cops. We don’t have to talk with you.”

I told them that was true, asked if they’d ever heard of a citizen’s arrest. Malanzky said they had their rights.

I recited the Miranda warning.

They insisted that they wanted their lawyers, and I told them that they could call them now and have them meet us at the Hall of Justice.

Helpless looks; they probably didn’t know any lawyers.

We took them downtown.

1:10 p.m.

A long, exhausting passage of time. Hy and I had given statements to SFPD detectives and FBI agents under the harsh neon lights of an interrogation room at 850 Bryant Street—a monolithic, forbidding stone building.

At first they were rough on me, especially the feds: why had I been hiding since the warrants went out on me?

I hadn’t been hiding, I asserted. I’d simply been taking a few mental health days, not answering my phones or doorbell or going out. My office manager had kept me apprised of what was happening at the agency—events that had made me reluctant to resurface.