“In all likelihood, the bullet has moved and a blood clot has formed and is causing more severe pressure on her brain stem. We’ll have further information when we get the results of the CT scan. In the meantime, we’re prepping her for surgery.”
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.”
RAE KELLEHER
She 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.”
CRAIG MORLAND
Close 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.