Rare. What was Haven Dietz’s blood type? Her attacker must’ve gotten some on himself, and then in the bag. Was there blood on the money? She’d have to call the Peepleses and ask.
So what was this “situation” at the pier? Shar? Dios mio! Had Shar died?
No. Ted had sounded excited, energized. If Shar had died, he would’ve been crying. Besides, Julia had just been to the nurses’ station on Shar’s floor; they’d said she was resting, not dead.
The bus pulled into its last stop on Harrison. Julia got out and walked the few blocks to the pier.
MICK SAVAGE
The case was coming together so fast it was almost scary. He sat at the keyboard at Shar’s desk-because hers was the biggest office-inputting the facts Craig read to him. On the floor, Patrick crawled over one of the big whiteboard flowcharts he used to keep track of cases in progress, adding details, wiping out others, creating a timeline. In their separate offices, the rest of the staff were fact-checking, establishing a rock-solid foundation. Hy had gone to consult with Shar’s friend Glenn Solomon. Glenn would love this case: he loathed corrupt politicians.
Of course, who didn’t?
Mick felt higher than he had since Shar was shot. Miles higher than he’d felt since he and Craig had walked into that grim scene at Big Sur. Then and later, riding his bike to Monterey, he’d felt hollow and afraid; at Jim Yatz’s house last night he’d been more in control, able to handle the situation right. And now-this made the other things worth it. This was the conclusion of the hunt.
And maybe the answer to who had attacked Shar.
Thelia came into the room, handed a sheaf of papers to Craig, and went away. Craig read them, handed them to Mick, and pointed out a couple of lines: on the day before he was killed, Paul Janssen had ordered his broker at Edward Jones to sell off a number of stocks from his considerable portfolio; they had yielded more than five hundred thousand dollars, and the funds had gone into his cash account, upon which Janssen could have written a check on Monday.
Paying Teller off, in addition to signing whatever document she’d brought him.
Mick glanced at Craig. Craig nodded and went to give the information to Patrick. Mick entered it into the computer.
Derek relayed more deep background on Teller. She’d been linked romantically with Janssen for a short time before his successful run for the state house of representatives. It was not common knowledge, but the source-a blogger with excellent contacts in state government-was reliable.
More information into the timeline.
Patrick said, “This is shaping up really well. Can somebody get me another whiteboard?”
Mick hit the intercom for Ted, and shortly afterward Ted’s assistant Kendra hurried in with one.
Julia was out, interviewing a domestic employee of Amanda Teller whose name had surfaced earlier. Rae was in Lafayette, talking again with Senta Summers. She’d attempted to contact Cheryl Fitzgerald, the remaining cofounder of the Pro Terra Party who had threatened Summers the night before, but her office said she had left unexpectedly for Italy. Fled with a fistful of blackmail money, Rae claimed. She’d ask Hy to put one of the people in RI’s Rome office onto locating Fitzgerald. Adah had hired an operative from another agency to keep tabs on Lee Summers; he was at party headquarters, where he often stayed for days on end.
Hy returned. Glenn Solomon was in full battle mode, he said. Ready to roll. How soon could they have the timeline and files ready?
Soon, Mick told him. Very soon.
But as he went back to his keyboard, he found himself thinking that even though everything fit something was wrong. There was a missing piece. Who had gone to the pier that night and put the bullet in Shar’s head?
SHARON McCONE
L ooking at the ceiling again. God, I hate ceilings! I want to sit up. Get up. Walk out of here into the sunshine. Breathe fresh air. They’ve taken me off the ventilator again; I could do it, if I could just make my damn limbs work right.
My fingers tried to make a fist-
They moved!
Just a fraction of an inch, but they moved!
A wild elation coursed through me. I tried to call out for the nurse.
“Ack.”
My throat was raw, the sound weak and pathetic.
But I’d made a sound!
“Ack… ack… ack…”
I sounded like an asthmatic duck, but so what?
I moved my right index finger-tremulous, tiny motion, but all my own!
“Ack… ack… ack…”
I’d get their attention yet.
The doctor, what was it he’d said? The remaining crap was out of my head-well, he’d spoken more eloquently and technically than that, but what it boiled down to was that the crap was gone, there was no more swelling, and I should start regaining bodily functions.
“Ack!”
A nurse appeared around the curtains. She moved forward swiftly, took my pulse, looked into my eyes.
“Ack!”
She nodded. “I’ll page Dr. Travers, Ms. McCone. I think he’ll be as happy as you seem to be right now.”
CRAIG MORLAND
He, Hy, and Glenn Solomon left the DA’s office in the Hall of Justice at Sixth and Bryant Streets and rode the elevator down.
“It’s not an airtight case yet,” Glenn said, “but it’s good.”
Craig said, “It still doesn’t link the Pro Terra people with what happened to McCone.”
Hy turned to him. “ ‘What happened’? Don’t sugarcoat it: my wife was shot!”
Tempers were flaring. Craig knew it all too well; at the Bureau, when a case was coming together, agents-male and female-were often on the verge of physically thrashing it out.
“Sorry,” he said. “I spoke carelessly.”
A pause. Then Hy said, “That’s okay. Since Shar crashed I’ve been flying on empty. I’m heading to the hospital now. When I see her I’ll feel better.”
He turned, cut across the street to the lot where he’d parked. Craig watched him go, then sighed and turned back to Solomon.
The big, silver-haired attorney was attired as usual in an expensive tailor-made suit. He and his wife, society interior decorator Bette Silver, were good friends of Shar’s and had been visibly shaken when Craig had run into them at the Brandt Institute last week. Glenn was known as a fierce litigator who could demolish an adversary’s case with a single caustic remark, but once he left the legal arena, he became his true self: an entertaining companion, a kind and compassionate friend, and a strong advocate for those in need. Or as Bette had once put it, “A pussycat who roars for a living.”
Solomon tapped him on the shoulder. “When was the last time you ate?”
Craig shrugged. “Yesterday. I forget.”
“Come with me.”
They got into Glenn’s Jaguar and drove over to Franklin Street near City Hall, where Glenn handed the car over to a valet parker at a small café called Bistro Americaine. Glenn was known there-he was probably known in most good restaurants in the city-and they were quickly seated in a booth. When Craig looked at the menu his stomach lurched, so Glenn ordered for him: steak, fries, a side of creamed spinach. Bottle of a chewy zinfandel for the two of them.
“Heart-stopper meal,” Glenn said, “but the wine’ll cut the grease.”
Craig smiled weakly.
“Actually I wanted to talk privately with you,” Glenn added.