Locked In (18 page)

Hy felt a wrenching in his chest. He propped his elbows on his knees, put his face into his hands.

Travers’s hand touched his shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as we know something.”

“Never mind me. Just save my wife.”

Mick came through the doors from the parking lot, his eyes wild, hair disheveled.

“Jesus, Hy,” Mick said. “Where is everybody?”

“I didn’t make any calls.”

“I was at the institute when she… I saw something was wrong and got the nurse.”

Hy nodded.

“You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“Go away, Mick.”

“What?”

“I
need
to be alone.”

“I don’t understand.”

He’d been alone when Julie died, staring off the bluff at the light—dying, too—on Tufa Lake. Left her in the care of her best
friend because she didn’t know him any more. He’d always felt guilty about that. Maybe it was his punishment to be alone when
Shar died.

Mick said, “No one needs to be by himself at a time like this.”

Hy just looked at him. It wasn’t something you could explain to anyone else.

Mick backed off, probably seeing the anger and desolation in Hy’s eyes. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll go. But I think you’re being
selfish. I love Shar, too.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I know something. And please don’t call any of the others.”

“… If that’s what you want.” Mick turned and left.

Want? All he wanted was for Shar to live.

An hour gone.

“She’s still in surgery, Mr. Ripinsky.”

“What did the CT scan show?”

“You’ll have to talk with her doctor.”

An hour and a half gone.

Hank Zahn and Anne-Marie Altman came into the waiting room. Two of Shar’s and his best friends. Both attorneys, both calm
and rational people. If Mick had to tell someone what had happened—and Hy had seen the need in his eyes—they were the best
possible choice.

They sat on either side of him, clasped his hands. Hank, lanky with gray curly hair; Anne-Marie, statuesque and blonde. Curious
couple: they lived in different flats in the same building. She bordered on the obsessive about housekeeping, and he was more
than slothful. Their adopted teenage daughter, Habiba Hamid, divided her time between their places—although she seemed to
favor Hank’s more offhand attitude toward housekeeping.

Sharon loved all three of them. So did he.

“Mick called you, huh?”

Hank said, “Yes.”

“I told him not to.”

“Why?” Anne-Marie asked.

Suddenly Hy felt foolish. Why had he thought he should be alone? Penance? Ridiculous. This was not about him or his past misdeeds.

He said, “Let’s wait a while, and if there’s no news, then we’ll call the others.”

S
he located Lee Summers at the Pro Terra Party’s headquarters in a refurbished warehouse south of Market. A fund-raising party
was going on, drinks and canapés being served all around.

The man learns his daughter has been murdered and he attends a party? Incredible!

She’d shown the man at the door her credentials, said she was here on official business. He let her in without question and
pointed out Summers. In Rae’s experience these gatekeepers—usually hired from security firms—were not always the brightest
individuals or totally committed to their jobs. She ought to know; she’d worked security for a time. There was the colleague
who read only comic books, moving his lips the whole time; the woman who painted her finger- and toenails while the entire
building was burglarized; the man who took sleeping pills on the job. Of course, there were smart and conscientious people,
too—many students working their way through college, as Rae and Shar had done—but they usually left for better jobs or different
careers.

Now Rae watched Summers from across the room: tall, silver-haired, expensively dressed, his posture and gestures hinting at
arrogance. He was surrounded by other well-dressed and attractive people who seemed to hang on his every word. Rae accepted
a glass of wine from a passing server, a shrimp canapé from another. Fringe benefits.

A woman who had long gray hair and was wearing a poorly fitting black cocktail dress came out of the crowd and went up to
Summers, touching his arm; Rae recognized her—Cheryl Fitzgerald. Summers looked down, clearly not pleased to see her there.
She went up on tiptoe and spoke into his ear. When she was finished Summers excused himself and ushered her to a door at the
rear of the room.

Rae set down her drink and followed.

The door opened into a long corridor with several other doors opening off it. One stood ajar, and voices came from inside.
She slipped along the wall until she was within hearing range.

“… Nothing to connect the party with what happened to Sharon McCone.”

“This Rae Kelleher told me it was just one of a number of lines of investigation, but if there wasn’t something compelling,
why did she bother to come see me?”

“Fishing.”

“I’m not so sure. I know about Kelleher and McCone and that agency. They’re good. If they find out about Alicia and—”

“Don’t mention my daughter’s name to me!”

“I saw it on the six o’clock news—the body of a hooker killed in a SoMa alley identified as Alicia. Celebrating, Lee?”

“What kind of comment is that?”

“I’ve heard the rumors about what you did to her. What if Rae Kelleher finds out about them?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not. But for a while now I’ve been wanting to move on to someplace where the smog isn’t as thick as it is in Silicon
Valley.”

“Don’t even think of blackmailing me, Cheryl. Others have tried; they’ve all regretted it.”

“What others? The mayor? Jim Yatz? Or are you talking about Amanda Teller and Paul Janssen?”

“Clearly you’re out of your mind—”

Rae’s cellular vibrated. She ignored it.

“… Perfectly sane, and my lawyer has a letter in his safe that tells all about Pro Terra. All I have to do is give the word
and it goes straight to the authorities. Or if something happens to me—”

“God, you’re melodramatic, Cheryl. What do you want? A trip to an expensive fat farm? You could use it, I admit—”

Sound of a slap.

“Jesus! Okay, what
do
you want?”

“Let’s begin with a first-class ticket to Rome.”

Rae’s cell vibrated again. Shit! It might be important. And Cheryl Fitzgerald wasn’t going to pack up her life and move to
Italy overnight; plenty of time to find out what knowledge she’d used to exert such pressure on Summers. Rae looked around,
saw an exit door, and slipped outside. A ways down the alley, she checked the number—an unfamiliar local one—and answered
the call.

“Ms. Kelleher, this is Callie O’Leary. My attorney said you want to speak to me about an inheritance.”

Delaney had passed along the message to Alicia Summers’s—aka Angie Atkins’s—friend, probably in exchange for a cut of the
fictional money.

“Yes. When can we meet?”

“Tomorrow, at Mr. Delaney’s office?”

“I’d rather we do this one-on-one. Your attorney…”

Long pause. “Yes, I understand. I’m staying at Hope House in the outer Richmond. It’s a shelter for women at risk. I’ll give
you the address.”

“I can be there in less than an hour.”

C
lose to eleven. He pushed away from his desk and the voluminous paper files on the city hall investigation. He’d replayed
the surveillance tapes he’d made on Teller and Janssen from his room at the Big Sur lodge. They’d run out some time between
when he fell asleep and when he was awakened by the shots, but the Monterey County authorities could use what was there.

Now he was having a crisis of conscience. The tapes were illegal. If he turned them over to the sheriff’s department, it could
compromise his license and the agency. Even sending them anonymously would be a risk. Besides, as a former fed, he harbored
a great distrust of local law-enforcement agencies.

Screw them, he thought. He’d probably solve the case before they even broke significant ground.

To that end, he slipped one of the DVDs he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo into the computer and watched it once again.

A tall, slender woman—naked, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Facing away from the camera. A man, facing her,
but in shadow so his features weren’t clear.

“Oh, baby, you are something else. As advertised and then some.”

“Tell me I’m beautiful. I’ve always wanted somebody to tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful. You are beautiful.”

Cut to another, similar shot. Different man, different shape, but also in shadow.

“You’re worth the money I gave, all of it.”

“Because I’m pretty.”

“And incredibly hot.”

“How much money did you give?”

“A lot.”

“I could use some money for myself. They never give me anything. Would you pay that much to me? If I’m good to you?”

“If you’re very, very good…”

Next scene: a couple in bed, indistinguishable except for the long sweep of blonde hair. Graphic noises.

Next: similar recording.

Craig ejected the DVD, slipped the other one in.

Another unclear view: a man with a hairy back, humping.

Another man, a tattoo visible on his shoulder. The same well-publicized tattoo of the insignia of USC, his alma mater, that
the mayor bore in the same place. He’d often joked with the press that he intended to have it removed, since his wife had
graduated from rival UCLA.

And now the last one: two unidentifiable naked women, one blonde and one dark-haired, twined in an embrace.

The dark-haired one: Amanda Teller, or someone made up to look like her.

Craig slowed the recording speed, played the disc again.

The mayor’s tattoo could have been faked. The woman who resembled Teller could be younger than the dead supervisor.

Where had Harvey Davis gotten these discs? Who had made them? And who were the unidentifiable participants?

Craig checked his watch. After one now, but his friend Daniel Blackstone down in Scottsdale, a video and audio forensics specialist,
would probably still be at his computer. Daniel worked best in the cool night, slept best during the hot daylight hours.

Craig punched in his number and got an immediate response.

“You need work?” he asked.

Daniel laughed—a habitually harsh sound exacerbated by the two packs of Marlboros he smoked daily. “I’ve got plenty of work,
but I can fit you in. What’s the job?”

Craig outlined what he thought about the videos.

“That shouldn’t be any problem. You want to messenger them to me?”

He thought about the call he’d received earlier from Hy. He wouldn’t be doing McCone any good sitting around a hospital waiting
room.

“Just a second.”

His fingers skipped over the keyboard. Southwest Airlines had a seven a.m. flight that got into Phoenix’s Sky Harbor at nine-fifteen.
Seats were available.

“I’ll see you around ten-thirty tomorrow,” he said.

N
ow she was digging deep on the embezzlement at Haven Dietz’s former financial management firm. Reviewing the reports Thelia
had delivered to her, plus information on the woman, Delia Piper, who had been accused of the crime and then exonerated. Piper
now lived in Hawaii, on Oahu: four hours earlier there. Julia got her number from information and called.

“Of course it was Haven,” the woman said when Julia had explained about her investigation. “I never doubted it, and neither
did a number of my colleagues. The audit couldn’t pinpoint the time of the embezzlement, but she was still with the firm the
first two months of its fiscal year.”

“Why did they suspect you?”

“I had more responsibility than Haven, and access to cash. Also—I admit it—I was the company bitch. A lot of people didn’t
like my style. Still don’t. And I’d been very outspoken about the conduct of our married branch manager, with whom Haven was
having an affair.”

“Oh? And he is… ?”

“Was. Todd Daley. He committed suicide a week after Haven was attacked. Shot himself. I guess he was afraid she would talk.”

“I understand Ms. Dietz didn’t have access to cash.”

“No, but Todd Daley did.”

“So you think they were in on the embezzlement together?”

“Well, sure. Todd had a shrewish wife and three snot-nosed kids in a tract house in Pacifica. Haven was pretty and smart.
A hundred thousand dollars doesn’t sound like much to start a new life on, but Todd knew how to make money work for the clients.
Haven must’ve persuaded him to let the clients’ money work for them.”

The venom in Delia Piper’s voice annoyed Julia. “Ms. Piper, are you aware that Haven Dietz is dead?”

“No. Really?”

“She was killed by an intruder in her apartment Sunday night.”

“Well, that’s too bad, but I don’t feel sorry for her. The woman was one of the most unpleasant people I ever worked with.”

That, coming from the self-described office bitch.

Haven Dietz, her boss Todd Daley, a hundred thousand dollars missing from the management firm but not discovered till the
annual audit.

Haven walking through the park on her way home, a small fortune in cash in her briefcase.

Haven brutally attacked, the briefcase gone.

A hundred thousand dollars in the tack room at the Peepleses’ vineyard.

Was Larry Peeples Haven’s attacker? Had she perhaps confided her plans to him?

But then why had he nursed Dietz back to health?

And why had he abandoned the cash?

And where was he now?

S
he’d meant to get to the Hope House an hour after Callie O’Leary’s call, but everything had conspired against her. Ticket
for making an illegal U turn on the Embarcadero; accident blocking an intersection on Franklin Street; heavy traffic on Geary;
and no parking spaces within six blocks of her destination.

Now it was after eleven. Would they even let her in to talk with O’Leary?