Locked In (7 page)

I couldn’t control anything at all any more.…

Walking through the thick fog along the Embarcadero…The pier, empty and spooky.… On the catwalk, opening the door to my office…
A sudden rushing motion, my head smacking into the wall.

And then the harsh fall onto the catwalk. Metal biting into my skin. The pop, the searing pain. Metal…

My eyes popped open, staring at the ceiling, which was dimly illuminated by a night-light.

Flashback to the night I’d been shot.

T
he videos he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo indicated a major sex scandal within city government—only he couldn’t understand
who was involved.

For once he was glad Adah wasn’t home—some dinner with an old college friend that would probably go on long past midnight.
He didn’t want her to see any of this, not until he’d had time to evaluate it properly. The apartment did seem empty, though—a
result of their elderly and obese cat, Charley, having died the previous winter. They planned to adopt another, but first
Adah had been getting settled in with running the agency. Then they’d taken a series of weekend driving trips: to Carmel,
Yountville, the Alexander Valley wine country. And his caseload had been heavy. Still, it was time.…

But not this weekend.

The doorbell rang. Craig moved on stockinged feet to the peephole and looked out. Mick. He’d called earlier and left a message
on the machine that he’d concluded the Celestina Gates investigation and was now free to help on city hall. Craig went back
into the living room, and after a few moments Mick’s footsteps tapped away down the tiled steps.

It wasn’t that Craig was jealously guarding his case or that he didn’t find Mick a good investigator. But what he had planned
was a delicate operation, and an additional person might attract attention. Since he’d worked for McCone, he’d become accustomed
to going it on his own. Besides, what he planned to do was illegal and could compromise the agency.

God, he suddenly thought, maybe Mick had come here with bad news about Shar! He grabbed the phone and dialed the Brandt Institute.
Ms. McCone was resting comfortably. No change.

He leaned back and thought about his boss. Initially there had been a veiled antipathy between them—typical fed-versus-cop-versus-private-investigator
crap. And he hadn’t liked it that she’d sensed his strong attraction to Adah early on and been highly protective of her friend.
But then he’d moved to town and she’d immediately hired him, finally worked out the arrangement that kept him and Adah in
San Francisco. Now, he knew, Shar was hoping the two of them would make it permanent, as she and Ripinsky had done.

Well, maybe they would, when Shar was well enough to attend. He was more than ready. Besides, it would be a hoot to introduce
Adah’s flaming liberal parents, Barbara and Rupert Joslyn, to his conservative WASP mother and father. Extremists, all four—and
he suspected they’d get along famously, bonding in their shared disapproval of their children’s lifestyles and career choices.

Enough. He needed to pack a bag and catch some sleep. By the time Adah returned from her women’s night out he’d be on his
way to Big Sur, where Supervisor Amanda Teller and State Representative Paul Janssen had scheduled their clandestine meeting.

H
e’d come to the Institute to commune with his aunt after Craig had pretended not to be home when he’d rung his doorbell. Did
the former fed really think Mick didn’t know he was there—or didn’t he care? Either way, Mick had put his own fix on the situation.

Now he sat in the armchair in the quiet, dimly lighted room beside Shar’s hospital bed, listening to the beep of the monitors.
Hy hadn’t been at the Institute when he’d arrived—exhausted, the nurse had said, and he’d finally gone home. She’d been kind
enough to allow Mick some time with his aunt; it was an exclusive place and apparently didn’t observe traditional visiting
hours.

He’d been confined to a place like that last November, when he’d gotten drunk and stupid and thought he could somehow fly
out of his misery on his Harley. But his injuries hadn’t been life-threatening, and he’d been conscious, alert when he hadn’t
taken the strong pain meds—able to use his laptop to help Shar with a case she’d been working.

But Shar—her stillness frightened him. Her face, below the bandages on her head, was serene, unlined, as if she were many
years younger. Maybe that was what was so unsettling: serenity wasn’t Shar’s thing. Keen concentration, purposefulness, action,
yes. Laughter, tears, anger, and the occasional white-hot rage, too. But not this, never.

She’d always been his favorite aunt. He loved Aunt Patsy, but she was so flaky she made him nervous, and those three kids
of hers, each by a different boyfriend—forget it. But Shar had been solid as a rock, taking him seriously, treating him like
a man when he was only a kid.

Like when he’d pulled that stupid stunt of running away to San Francisco at Christmastime because his parents wouldn’t give
him a moped, and she’d found him and taken him home for Christmas dinner. Later, after his high school in Pacific Palisades
had nailed him for hacking into their system and selling fellow students’ confidential information, his folks had temporarily
paroled him to Shar, and he’d ended up going to work for her permanently. When his mother had found another man and his dad
had taken up with Rae, Shar had made him see that sometimes changes were for the best. And after the drunken Harley incident,
she’d held his hand until the meds wiped the pain away.

He wondered if she was feeling any pain now.

Or maybe she was dreaming of something pleasant. Probably of flying the plane. Aside from being with Hy, he knew that was
what she loved most, and more often than not they flew together.

Hy. The nurse had said he was exhausted. Not a word you usually associated with the man, but the emotional drain must be enormous.
How long before it turned to rage and he did something violent? Hy had been a lot of things in his lifetime, and one of Shar’s
descriptions of him stuck in Mick’s mind:
He’s still dangerous.

If anything would make Hy dangerous, it was this assault on Shar. What if he identified and went after the shooter by himself?
The person was bound to be dangerous, too, could get the upper hand. Hy, streetwise and well trained as he was, still was
not invincible.

Now Mick felt really scared. He couldn’t bear to lose both of them.

I
say we find the son of a bitch and just plain kill him. None of this justice-for-the-poor-misunderstood-criminal crap.”

“You’re drunk, John,” Hy said, eyeing Sharon’s tall, blond brother, who slumped in the armchair in their living room, beer
bottle in hand.

“I’m not drunk, I’m pissed off. Aren’t you?”

Hy sat down on the couch, set his own beer bottle on the end table. The sitting room of their restored earthquake cottage
near the friendly, almost suburban—but recently crime-plagued—Glen Park district was small but comfortable. Light from the
kiva-style fireplace gave the wooden wainscoting and pegged-pine floor a rosy glow.

He loved this house—even more than Touchstone or the ranch house that he’d inherited from his stepfather. Loved it because
of the life they shared here on a regular basis. Allie, the calico cat, jumped onto his lap and pushed her nose at his hand
for reassurance. Ralph, the orange tabby, crouched near the hearth, eyes watchful. Disruption like this affected animals as
deeply as people, Hy thought, maybe more so because they couldn’t understand what had gone wrong.

“So,” John said belligerently, “are you or aren’t you pissed off?”

“I’m more than pissed off,” he replied. “Do I want to hunt the shooter down and kill him? Damn right. But at this point your
sister needs me. Besides, the whole agency’s on the case. They’ll come up with something soon.”

“And then they’ll turn the info over to the cops, who’ll arrest the prick. There’ll be a trial. If Shar dies, maybe he’ll
get the death penalty but only after fifteen years of appeals—”

“She’s
not
going to die.”

They regarded each other silently.

“You’ve got to believe that,” Hy added.

John’s eyes went remote. Hy imagined what he was seeing: McCone as a little girl who resembled no one else in the family,
supposedly a throwback to their Indian great-grandmother. McCone as an annoying preteen, always wanting to help him and their
brother Joey with repairing their cars instead of playing with dolls the way she should. The high-school cheerleader; the
first of them to go to college; the investigator who had reluctantly let her brother join in on a couple of cases. Hy knew
much of this from Shar; he knew even more now because John had been waxing nostalgic—bordering on the maudlin—since he’d come
up from San Diego and moved into their guest room nine days ago.

Frankly, he was sick of it.

To forestall any further reminiscences, he said, “Okay, say the folks at the agency identify the shooter and
don’t
go to the police. What happens then?”

“We lure him to someplace where the body’ll never be found and blow him away.”

“Not so easy to do.”

“What d’you mean? The whole California and Nevada desert is a boneyard. There’re still people out there in Death Valley looking
for the remains of Manson Family victims—and that happened over forty years ago, man.”

“So how do you lure this guy to the desert?”

John frowned.

“Or do you kill him wherever he is and drive the body there—taking the chance you’ll be involved in a traffic stop? How do
you kill him? You don’t know guns. A knife, strangulation? I’ve killed before, and it’s not easy. In fact it’s the hardest
thing there is, even in self-defense. Just ask McCone—”

He realized what he’d said, put his hand over his eyes. Sweat began beading on his forehead and all at once he felt disoriented.

John stood and his big hand touched Hy’s shoulder. “Hey, bro, I’ll ask her as soon as I visit tomorrow. Even if she can’t
talk, she can answer me.”

T
he driveway was going on forever, and she couldn’t see a thing. Didn’t these people believe in lights?

The town of Sonoma had looked old-fashioned and pretty, with its central square and courthouse and restaurants and shops that
had to be way out of most people’s price range. Touristy—lots of people on the streets even at this hour. Couples holding
hands; families eating ice cream cones. But the highway up the Valley of the Moon passed through a couple of rundown places
full of shacks and old trailer parks, and then she was in the dark, wide-open country. She’d almost missed the secondary road
that would take her to Peeples Winery. And now this…

She’d lived in the city too long to feel comfortable in the country. Had been born in Watsonville, but barely remembered Santa
Cruz County or those artichoke fields her folks had worked—

What was that? A house lit up like a Christmas tree.
Dios
, it was huge—long and sprawling pale tan stucco with a second-story galleria and a steep tiled roof. Big old oak trees were
illuminated by floodlights. No wonder the Peepleses had skimped on the driveway lighting: their PG&E bill must be thousands
a month.

She pulled into the circular driveway, braked at the flagstone walk to the carved double front doors, then—suddenly ashamed
of the car—moved it forward into the shadow of one of the oaks. She’d been so proud the day she bought the blue Toyota—her
first car ever. Now it reminded her of how ordinary and marginal her life really was.

Well, maybe not so much any more. Things were going well. Next year, if she was careful about spending, she’d be able to send
Tonio to a private school.

She went to the door and rang the bell. Soft, pretty chimes inside.

About half a minute later, Mrs. Peeples opened it. She was more frail than the last time Julia had seen her, and moving the
heavy door seemed a strain. “Ms. Rafael,” she said, her lined face tense, “thank you for coming.”

“I’m glad to help.”

“Please, come in.”

She stepped into a long hallway running the length of the central wing of the house. When Judy Peeples struggled to shut the
heavy door, Julia helped her. She noticed the tall, gray-haired woman was short of breath and took her arm to steady her.
Mrs. Peeples smiled faintly and accepted her support.

“We’ll go back to the den, where my husband’s waiting,” she said.

The den was at the rear of the house, past big, dark rooms opening off the hallway. Small and comfortable. Deep corduroy-covered
chairs, faded and wrinkled from years of good use. Small color TV and a wall covered with bookshelves. Books also on the floor
and end tables. The Peepleses matched the décor, both casually clad in jeans and T-shirts, Tom’s ripped out at the knees.
Tom was white-haired, tall and lean, with the kind of sun-browned face that told you he worked outside.

Judy Peeples had seemed on edge when she opened the door and now, in her husband’s presence, even more so. Julia could feel
the tension in the small room. Tom grunted a greeting and glared at his wife. Obviously Julia had interrupted a fight.

He said, “I told you to call her cellular and cancel.”

“I couldn’t do that, Tom.”

“This is a reckless course. It could bring ruin to us, the winery, and Larry’s memory.”

“Of course Larry’s memory comes last on the list.”

Julia looked around and took a chair opposite where Judy Peeples stood in a defensive stance over her husband.

“You know,” Mrs. Peeples said to him, “your objections aren’t valid. We will survive. The winery will survive. But what we
found in the tack room could be our only hope of learning what happened to our son. The only way of bringing him home to us.”

How much cash
had
they found? And why was it in a tack room, of all places?

Julia said, “Mr. and Mrs. Peeples—”