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.
RAE KELLEHER
Hot 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?”
“Okay, you’ve caught me out. So can you put me in touch with him?”
“Yes, I can. But she’s a woman-Laura Logan. I’ll call her, ask her to get in touch with you.” His smile showed small, pointed teeth. “That way she’ll be sure to give me the twenty percent I get for throwing jobs her way.”
CRAIG MORLAND
By two-fifty he was airborne again. Going back to SF with a briefcase full of photos and enough information to shake city and state government to its foundations.
After takeoff, he tilted his seat back and thought about the prints Daniel had made for him from the videos.
The woman with the long blonde hair: no clue as to her identity.
The same for the dark-haired woman in bed with her.
But the men: top city hall figures and state officials, including Jim Yatz, the mayor’s closest associate.
Craig looked out the window at Phoenix’s receding smog-shrouded skyline, making connections.
Okay, somebody was trying to gain control over the city hall crowd, as well as minor state officials. They couldn’t entice the mayor or Amanda Teller, so they did their best to fake it.
Teller had had a hold over State Representative Paul Janssen. Forced him to sign a document.
Their deaths had been arranged to look like a murder-suicide pact, and someone had taken the document.
So how did all of this pertain to the attack on Shar?
Still unclear.
He thought of the call he’d received from Mick before he boarded his flight: “We’ve got an imposter in the office. Diane D’Angelo is really Susan Angelo, a small-time investigator from DC-and a close friend of Jim Yatz.”
So Yatz had probably hired her to find out what was in the agency files about the city hall investigation. But she had free run of the office and its computer system. Why would she have gone there at night to retrieve information and end up shooting Shar?
Whatever, Diane and Yatz were dirty, and they were going down. A large number of state and city officials as well. And the mayor, whom Craig liked, would have a hell of a time extricating himself from this one.
No worries. He’d done it before. The mayor was one slick, smart bastard.
HY RIPINSKY
It was after four in the afternoon when Ben Travers came out and told him the news-the good news. McCone was awake and responsive-not locked in any more. He could see her briefly.
“Don’t expect too much,” Travers told him as they took the elevator to intensive care. “We don’t yet know what damage the pressure on her brain stem did. Even if it’s not severe, she’s still got a long way to go-therapy, relearning skills she’s lost.”
“But she’ll be all right?”
“Ultimately that’s what we’re hoping for. The important thing is that she’s alive and cognizant.”
Hy leaned heavily against the elevator wall. “I don’t care how long it takes for her to recover. Just so she does.”
Travers looked as if he wanted to say more, but the elevator door opened. He led Hy through a large circular area of rooms arranged around a central nurses’ station. Each room had a window and its door was open-so the nurses could monitor the patients from the desk, Hy supposed.
Shar’s head was swathed in bandages and she was hooked up to monitors that kept blinking on and off, providing running strips of information. Her eyes were open, and they lighted up when she saw him.
Hy kissed her cheek. “Welcome back. You’ll be all the way back in time.”
Doubtful look.
“Don’t try to talk now. You need your rest.”
Hy studied her face. The skin below her eyes looked bruised and her complexion was sallow. There were lines around her mouth that he hadn’t noticed before. But she was alive, and that was everything to him-everything.
She regarded him with a long, intense stare.
“They removed a blood clot and some bone and bullet fragments. No more pressure on your brain stem now.”
Still she stared at him.
“Dr. Travers, your surgeon, will explain more fully later on.”
Still staring.