Locked In (20 page)

“Teller was in her forties. This woman is in her early twenties.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Can you get clearer images of the men in the scenes with the blonde woman?”

Daniel looked over his shoulder and smiled at him. “I don’t like to talk about bears shitting in the woods, but…”

S
o damn many hours gone that he didn’t try to count them any more.

McCone had survived the surgery. They’d removed the clot and the bullet and bone fragments and God knew whatever else crap
from her skull.

But now the waiting began.

The next several hours were critical, Travers had said.

Hy sat next to Elwood, who hadn’t stirred except for the occasional cigarette break outside. Hadn’t spoken much either. The
others had come and gone, as if in orchestrated shifts. They chattered and tried to cheer him, but he preferred El-wood’s
silence.

It was after noon when Travers came out and told him for the third time that the next few hours were critical.

His fists clenched. He felt like leaping on the doctor, demanding reassurance.

Elwood’s weathered, long-fingered artist’s hand touched his. “She will survive, but first
tsa’niigh saika bennenda’ga
. Loosely translated, that means let her go.”

“Let her go? That’s insane!”

“Set her free. She’ll come back to you.”

“What’s that, some fuckin’ Indian mysticism?”

Elwood released Hy’s hand. Smiled.

“No, it’s simple wisdom. Before this is over, you’ll own a large share of it yourself.”

S
he’d been up all night. Her eyes felt gritty and her head throbbed. Several hours at the hospital, then home, where Tonio
was sick with some kind of stomach flu and she’d taken over so Sophia could get some sleep. Then to the hospital, and back
to the pier after she’d found out Shar had survived the surgery.

Dios gracias!

Thelia’s reports—nothing from Diane—only contained information she already had. So she got on the computer and read through
old newspaper accounts of Haven Dietz’s attack and the embezzlement at her brokerage firm. Looking for that shred of information
that might provide a lead.

Nothing.

She pushed away from the monitor, picked up the phone, and called Hy at the hospital. No change in Shar’s condition; still
waiting.

How could he stand it, when she could barely stand it herself? If only she’d gone back to the pier with Shar that night after
they’d had dinner. If only she’d told her retrieving the cell phone could wait, invited her over for a glass of wine. If only
Shar wasn’t so forgetful about gassing up her car.

All the if-onlys, and focusing on them didn’t change a thing.

She closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair, and thought about Haven Dietz. Leaving the brokerage firm with a hundred thousand
dollars in her briefcase. Walking across the park from her bus. The briefcase had been found empty in a trash can several
yards from where she was attacked—a scarred black leather case that had seen better days. Not a case that would attract a
thief.

Someone had known the contents of that case.

And he or she had come prepared to carry the cash away, probably in the duffel bag that had been stashed under the floorboards
of the Peepleses’ tack room.

The attack had been savage. Dietz’s assailant had taken out extreme rage and hatred on her.

Larry Peeples?

Julia couldn’t stand sitting around, waiting on word about Shar, waiting for a sudden inspiration to strike her. She looked
at her watch: eleven o’clock, a good time for a drive to the wine country.

S
he’d stayed up late questioning Callie, slept a few hours. When she got up she made arrangements for the woman to give a deposition
to Ricky’s and her attorney, then fly to New York City and stay at an apartment that Zenith Records, Ricky’s company, maintained
there. An associate of Ricky’s would keep tabs on Callie until legal action about the things she had told Rae could be set
in motion.

Rae checked with the hospital—Shar was hanging in there but far from out of the woods. She cooked Callie breakfast, then took
her to the attorney’s office and then the airport. When she got back home, she listened to the tapes she’d made of their conversation.
The only detail Callie had been reticent about was who had threatened her, but Rae could guess.

“… Lee Summers pimped his own daughter. At first it was like, she was pretty so he’d take her around, show her off to political
people. But then he was setting her up with guys he wanted to give him a donation or owe him favors.… I don’t know who, but
they were important.

“She told me she freaked the first time, didn’t know her dad had turned her over to this older guy for sex. But after a while
she kind of got into it, because it was a way of sticking it to Daddy in return. I could’ve told her Daddy couldn’t care less,
but she didn’t want to hear it. He’s one cold son of a bitch, that Summers.…

“I met her when Summers hired me to do a twosome with her. She was pretty drugged up, didn’t even know they were videotaping
it. Afterwards I took her home with me, sobered her up, calmed her down. She didn’t want to go back to her parents’ place,
so I let her stay. She changed her name, bought fake ID, turned some tricks, and six weeks later she was dead.…

“Yeah, I knew who she really was, but I wasn’t gonna go to the cops with it. That Lee Summers is a bad dude; I wouldn’t be
surprised if he killed her himself.… Why? Because she was outside of his control. What if she decided to go to the press?
What if she told somebody and they talked?

“… I don’t know who else was involved in the taping. Summers hired me, and a director and a couple of porn techies that I’ve
seen around town handled the shoot.… No, I can’t give you their names, but they work for a production company, Hot Shots.
They’ve got an office and soundstage on Howard Street.

“… I’m talking to you because I read about what happened to your boss and I think Lee Summers had a hand in it. I hate men
like him. I think you might be able to do something about this; then I won’t have to be looking over my shoulder my whole
life.”

Rae clicked off the recorder.

All right
, she thought,
on to Hot Shots.

H
e’d been at the hospital for hours, but there was no change in Shar’s condition and he needed to do something at the pier.
It was nearly noon, when Diane D’Angelo always left promptly for lunch—a good time for him to get into her files on the city
hall case.

Craig distrusted the socialite who was playing at being an investigator, and Mick did, too. Not only because she’d produced
no results on the case, but because her self-blaming remark about how Shar had gotten shot because she’d failed to solve the
case smacked of insincerity, and—he’d realized this afternoon—the woman had never once visited his aunt since she’d been hospitalized.
Everybody else from the agency had been at both SFG and the Brandt Institute.

Mick parked his Harley in his allotted space on the pier’s floor. Of the vehicles belonging to agency personnel, only Ted’s
new red Smart car was there. He went upstairs, looked into Ted’s office: the office manager—or Grand Poobah, as he jokingly
referred to himself—was at his desk, scowling at the computer monitor. Mick slipped by unobserved.

The agency’s system was difficult for outsiders to access, but simple for employees. They were a team, they trusted each other,
no need to take extra precautions. Mick pulled his chair up to his workstation and began typing in passwords.

Diane D’Angelo’s files were blocked.

Uh-huh, but not for long. Not with the new software he and Derek had developed for just such contingencies.

He accessed the blocked files within three minutes. Found the ones D’Angelo had passed along to Craig and him, and also the
file on the inquiry that Shar had handled last year for Amanda Teller. The one Derek had retrieved for Hy on Monday.

No reason for D’Angelo to have that file.

Next job: find out about the woman.

Mick’s fingers tapped over the keyboard as he moved from one search engine to another. What he discovered didn’t surprise
him.

She wasn’t who she claimed to be. Diane D’Angelo, formerly of San Francisco and then of New York City, had died in a boating
accident off the coast of Maine five years ago.

So who was this imposter? And why hadn’t Shar run a routine background check when she hired her? Or asked Derek or him to
do it?

He began searching again.

S
he arrived at the Peepleses’ winery at a quarter to one. It was hot in the Valley of the Moon, the surrounding vineyards still
on this windless day. A couple of men in work clothes and sun-shade hats were out, doing whatever people did to tend vines,
but they moved in slow motion. Julia parked in the driveway and went down a path at the side of the house to the stables,
where Judy Peeples had told her she’d be. The tall, frail woman was grooming a big black horse that, to Julia, looked mean
and dangerous.

When she called out, Mrs. Peeples turned and greeted her. She set down the brush she’d been using on the horse and put him
in his stall, then came over and shook Julia’s hand.

“I’m sorry my husband can’t be here,” she said. “He’s at a wine-makers’ luncheon in town. A regular monthly event. I didn’t
want him to miss it; he’s had so little diversion since he discovered that money.”

“And you? How’re you holding up?”

“Oh…” She made a dismissive gesture. “I have my diversions. I ride and I consult with our accounting personnel and I look
after Thomas.”

And who looks after you?

Julia bit back the question, asked, “Could I take another look at the money and the bag that it was in?”

“Oh, dear. You came all the way up here for that?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“Well, the money is still in the safe, but the bag—Thomas disposed of it.”

“Why? It was evidence!”

“Evidence of our son’s wrongdoing, Thomas said. He didn’t want it in the house.”

“
Mierda!
”

Mrs. Peeples looked conflicted. After several seconds she said, “It’s true that the bag isn’t in the house any more. But I
removed it from the trash and put it back where he found it, under the floor of the tack room. It’s evidence, but I don’t
care what my son did. I just want to know what happened to him.”

They went into the tack room and Julia pried up the floorboard. The bag was newish black leather with a plaid lining. No initials,
nothing distinctive.

“Mrs. Peeples, had you ever seen this bag before your husband found it?”

“No, never.”

“Has he?”

“I don’t think so.” But doubt flickered in her eyes, indicating the opposite.

“Can I take it with me? A laboratory my agency uses might be able to tell me more about it.”

“Please, take it. I want it out of here. It’s been on my conscience, going against my husband’s wishes.”

Julia drove back to the city, the duffel bag a silent passenger beside her.

H
ot Shots was located in a former auto-body shop on Howard Street near the Highway 101 on-ramp. Its facade still bore the weathered
name—Don’s Fix It—but the overhead doors had been boarded up. A small entry opened off the space between the building and
the one adjacent to the south. It was blocked by a grille, an intercom beside it.

On the way Rae had debated what approach would most likely get the people there to volunteer information. She put the one
she’d decided on into operation as soon as a male voice responded to her ring.

“Hi, I’m Rae Kelleher. My husband, Ricky Savage, and his partners own Zenith Records.”

“Yes?” the voice said.

“We’ve seen some of your films, and we’re interested in speaking with one of the directors.”

“Wait a minute—Zenith Records. What’s that got to do with our films?”

“We’re diversifying. Are you interested?”

Long pause. “Call back tomorrow.”

“Onetime offer. Are you interested?”

“… Come on in.”

“Nick Carson,” the slender, trendily dressed man said, holding out his hand. He looked like an Internet entrepreneur, not
a porn-flick maker.

She shook the hand. “Rae Kelleher.”

“We can talk in my office.” He motioned to a short hallway.

Rae looked around. A pair of closed doors, red lights burning above them.

“Shooting today?”

“Yes.” Tersely.

Carson led her down the hallway to an office that might have housed a busy accountant—spreadsheets on the desk, an adding
machine, a computer. The computer was on, but Carson blocked her view of it and closed the file displayed there. He motioned
toward a straight-backed chair, sat in an upholstered one behind the desk. Eyed her keenly. His eyes were blue, his features
regular, his dark hair slicked back into a short ponytail.

“So Zenith Records wants to go into the porn business,” he said.

“Not exactly. We’re interested in the film industry—as I said, one of your directors.”

“His name?”

“I don’t know. He did some work for the Pro Terra Party.”

Understanding came into Carson’s eyes. “And you and Mr. Savage just happened to see his work where?”

“Pirated copies of DVDs that a friend loaned us. We’re… into that sort of thing.”

“Like to watch, do you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And what makes this director so special?”

Rae shrugged. “I don’t know. My husband asked me to find out who he was.”

“I see. Why didn’t he do it himself?” There was a silver letter opener on the desk; Carson toyed with it.

“I’m better than my husband at locating people.”

“You know what? I don’t believe your story.”

“Why not?”

“Zenith Records is not going into film. You’re interested in this director because you want to make your own film. You like
to watch, so why not watch yourselves? Right?”