Ellipsis (26 page)

Lark's voice was thin and incredulous. “You're scaring me, Mr. Tanner. Who is this Triad you keep mentioning?”

“I'll tell you later.”

“But what's going on? What do the police have to do with it?”

“I think Chandelier's next book was about police corruption in the city. I think she came across some information that made her a danger to some crooked cops. She may have been attacked to keep her quiet.”

“By
police
?”

“Maybe. Right now, the thing to do is make sure Violet and her mother stay safe.”

Lark paused to absorb the implications. When she spoke, her voice was tiny and removed, reluctant to ask the question. “Mr. Tanner?”

“What?”

“If it's really the police, how do we stop them?”

“I wish I knew,” I said, and hung up after I told her not to worry. I didn't expect her to follow my advice, since I didn't expect to follow it myself.

The more difficult call was to Millicent Colbert. A threshold question was whether the call should be made at all. As far as I knew, only Eleanor's surrogate mother knew I was her biological father. That was the way I'd decided to play it after I'd learned what had happened with the embryo, and that was the way I wanted to keep it for the good of all concerned except me. A cautionary call to Millicent might frighten the Colberts for no good reason, which might in turn jeopardize the comforting genealogical myth that had been accepted as fact for the past five years.

On the other hand, I visit Eleanor a lot. And take her to the zoo and the planetarium and for walks in parks and on beaches. Anyone interested in learning what things I hold dear in this world would easily discover that Eleanor was on the top of that list, whatever the precise parameters of our relationship. The consequence of such information falling into the hands of people as ready to do violence as the Triad was unthinkable. Which is why I picked up the phone thirty seconds after I put it down.

The Colberts have a cook and a maid, and I spoke to the latter first, a young Latina named Victoria, who told me about Eleanor's latest exhibition of precocious behavior before she put me through to Eleanor's mother. When Millicent came on the line, there were giggling noises in the background, gleeful eruptions from the delightful little girl whom my brush with the Triad might have put in jeopardy.

When I told Millicent who it was, she bubbled the way she always did when we talked. “I was just
thinking
about you. Eleanor has been very emphatic that she wants to see Mr. Mush.”

“Mr. Mush misses her, too,” I said, feeling not nearly as stupid as I sounded.

“Why don't you come to dinner tomorrow night? Stuart is in New York at some spring showings.”

When Stuart's out of town is when I get invited to dinner. Millicent knew I didn't like him much and vice versa. “I'd like to,” I said truthfully, “but I can't.”

She paused. “What's wrong, Marsh? You sound worried about something.”

“I am.”

“About what?”

“Eleanor. And you.”

“Why are you worried about us, for heaven's sake? We're fine. We're—”

“Just listen to me for a minute,” I snapped, more brusque than I'd ever been with her. “This has to do with my work. I'm involved in a case where some nasty things have been happening.”

Her voice sobered. “The car bomb. I know. It's horrible. I'm going to the hospital later today to try to see Chandelier.”

“There's more to it than Chandelier, I'm afraid. The nastiness I'm talking about includes murder.”

“Murder? Of whom? Chandelier's driver, you mean?”

“Plus a policeman named Briscoe. His body was found out at Ocean Beach last night.”

“But what does that have to do with Chandelier? Or with us?”

“I'm not sure. But for Eleanor's sake, I can't take any chances.”

Her voice became shrill and insistent. “Are you all right, Marsh? You sound like you're in pain. You didn't get shot again, did you?”

“I'm fine,” I insisted, despite my emotional state to the contrary. “And I'm glad you and Eleanor are, too. I want to be sure you stay that way.”

“Why wouldn't we?”

“Some pretty bad people may be after me and some of them may be cops. They may want to get leverage on me so I won't tell the grand jury what I know about their off-duty activities.”

“But what does that have to do with
Eleanor
or me?” she asked again, as if her cocoon of safety were impregnable and any penetration of it unthinkable.

“The bad guys may know how much I care for you both. If they try to stop me from doing what I'm doing, they might hurt one of you. Or threaten to. So I'll keep my mouth shut.”

Her voice was electric with worry. “You're serious, aren't you, Marsh?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Eleanor's life may be in danger.”

“Possibly.”

“What do you think we should do?”

I broached the plan I'd hatched on the way back to the office. “Doesn't your sister live in Ohio somewhere?”

“Shaker Heights. Yes.”

“Take Eleanor back there for a week. Be spontaneous. No big deal; just some sisterly bonding. But do it now.”

“You mean today?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know if I can—”

“
Today
, Millicent. I'll have a travel agent book a flight for late afternoon. As soon as you're ready to go, call me on my cell phone. I'll send an operative to pick you up and take you to the airport.”

“Why don't I just take a cab? I—”

“The operative will make sure you're not being followed.”

“Surely it's not—”

“I can't take that chance,” I interrupted. “And neither can you.”

“I can't … I've never … I still don't understand why we're
involved
in all this.”

“I don't know that you are. I just know that if anything happened to Eleanor, I don't think I could stand it. Especially if it was my fault.”

“I couldn't either.”

“Then pack your bags for Cleveland.”

She hesitated. “Marsh?”

“What?”

“If this sort of thing is happening now, it's possible it'll happen again, isn't it? I mean, given what you do? I guess what I'm asking is, will Eleanor ever really be safe as long as you make your living exposing killers and bombers and criminals?”

I tried to find an answer that would reassure us both, but I didn't come close.

As I was about to leave the office, the phone rang. “Tanner? This is Hugh Cadberry.”

“The ex-agent.”

“That's affirmative.”

“What can I do for you, Hugh?”

“I wanted to give you a heads up that we've satisfied ourselves that the incident in Berkeley had nothing to do with Jed Filson.”

“That will come as a surprise to his family, given the fact that the incident killed him.”

“What I mean is, Mr. Filson was not the target of the explosive device.”

“You're sure about that?”

“To a reasonable degree of certainty.”

“That means you know who did it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh, I think definitely necessarily.”

“You're entitled to your opinion, of course.”

I laughed. “You retired guys are so radical. Well, here's a heads up for you Hugh. They're going to fall.”

“Who?”

“The dirty cops. And if any feebs have anything to do with them, they're going to fall, too.”

“I don't think there's anything to worry about on that score, Mr. Tanner. A federal agent would hardly be stupid enough to be involved with an organization like the Triad.”

“Who said anything about the Triad?”

“You did.”

“No, I didn't. Which raises another point.”

“What's that?”

“If the Bureau has someone under cover in there, they'd better get him out.”

Chapter 27

The bar in the St. Francis Hotel opened off Powell Street onto Union Square, which meant at any hour of the day or night it was filled with foot-weary tourists quenching their thirst with suds before heading back to Neiman's or Macy's or Nordstrom's, or riding off to Fisherman's Wharf via the ever-popular cable cars. I found a table in the corner, ordered a Grolsch from the matchlessly blasé waiter, and waited to see if Amber Adams would show up. I was virtually certain she had nothing to do with the attack on Chandelier Wells, but it was too early to head for the Porthole, so I might as well hear what she had to say.

I was on my second bottle before she showed. She was irritated before she sat down and even more so when she absorbed the kind of joint she was in. “I haven't drunk beer since I was a freshman at Skidmore,” she muttered as she regarded the encyclopedic listing of brews on the wall behind the bar. Her mood was a match to her outfit, which was a clone of the one she'd worn every other time I'd seen her.

“I imagine they could come up with something more potent if you want it,” I said, not caring much if they could or not.

“Let's try a Boodles martini. Very dry. Very large.”

I passed her preference along to the waiter, who had doubts they could come up with the Boodles. Amber allowed as how Tanqueray would suffice. Then she crossed her arms and waited for me to justify the affront to her tippling. “Well? Why am I here?”

“To talk about Chandelier.”

“I talk about Chandelier all day every day and it usually produces a profit. The question is, why should I talk to you?”

“Because someone committed a serious crime against her person, and a serious crime usually comes packaged with a serious motive.”

“So?”

“I hear you have one.”

She tried a blithe simper but didn't quite pull it off. “One what?”

“Motive.”

Given the time to mold it, her expression became gloriously disdainful. “Now what on earth would make me want to do bodily harm to my dear friend and client?”

“I understand she was about to change agents.”

Amber blinked, then blanched, then colored, then vamped to hide her surprise. “What idiot told you that?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Well, I'm at liberty to say it's bullshit. I made Chandelier what she is today. She knows it and I know it and neither of us has a problem with the status quo.”

“That's not the way I heard it.”

She swelled with righteousness. “She told me her new book would be the biggest yet. Why would she tell me that if she was going to fire me?”

“I don't know. Maybe she wanted to sharpen the knife before she stuck it in your back.”

I'd intended to provoke and I did. “I've put Chandelier's books in twenty-two languages in twenty-six countries,” Amber bellowed. “I got her the biggest advance Madison House ever paid, to man, woman, or child. I got a sixty-forty split on foreign reprints and seventy-thirty on all book club money. She's had a movie of the week and there are two miniseries in preproduction. She was the first female suspense writer to have
merchandise
, for Christ's sake. There were Maggie Katz sweatshirts and book bags in 1991.”

I smiled. “But what have you done for her lately?”

“What do you mean?”

“I hear she's upset about her royalty rate.”

“I'm surprised you even know what a royalty is.”

“I'm not sure I do, but I think it means money, and in my business, money makes motive.”

Her look became autocratic. “Chandelier gets a straight fifteen percent for each hardcover sold, and that's from book one. That's a better deal than ninety-nine percent of the industry has.”

“How about paperback?”

“Hard/soft with Madison House. We've got to keep them in business, after all.”

“Why?”

“Because they do a good job. And they were there for us in the beginning.”

“So you're loyal.”

“Damned right I am. Which makes me a princess in this business, let me tell you.”

“Is Madison House publicly held?”

She hesitated. “Not yet.”

“But about to be?”

“So I hear.”

“Do you own stock?”

“I …”

“I can find out if I dig hard enough.”

She shrugged. “I have a few shares from the private placement. Why?”

I smiled. “Just seeing how much loyalty is going for these days.”

She leaned forward so abruptly I thought she was going to spit in my face. “You don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Private Eyesore. Just before I came out here, I met with my tax accountant. Do you know how much I earned last year? Huh? Just from my little one-woman agency?”

“How much?”

“Five hundred and forty-two thousand dollars. Plus another fifty in investment income, not including my retirement accounts.”

“Very impressive. Until you realize that's only ten percent of what Chandelier earns. Am I right?”

She swore. “I'll bet I gave more to charity last year than you've earned in the last decade.”

“No takers.”

“The point is, I'm set for life. Financially. Psychologically. Philosophically. Which means money doesn't matter anymore.”

“Actually, everyone in this case keeps telling me it's not
about
money.”

“Then what
is
it about?”

“Status. Esteem. Self-respect. All that touchy-feely stuff. Which, as far as I can tell, sounds a lot like the testosterone struts that men are always accused of.”

Her lip curled dismissively. “Ha. That may be true for the rest of them, which I doubt, by the way. But for me it was
always
about money.”

“Until now, you mean.”

She blushed at being trapped in a contradiction. “Until now. Right.”