“About what?”
“The issue of what happened to Sharon. In the brief time I had to review it, the information you presented to me-and I presented to the DA-didn’t indicate any link to her shooting.”
The feeling of dread that he’d been entertaining all day intensified. “That was my take on it.”
“I don’t mean to say these people aren’t killers; Lee Summers is my candidate for the murders of his daughter, Harvey Davis, and Teller and Janssen. But they didn’t do Yatz and Angelo-I’ve spoken to the SFPD and ME’s office, and they believe that was just what it appeared to be, a murder-suicide. And my gut tells me none of them did Shar.”
Craig rubbed his eyes. The waiter came with the wine, and he waited till the whole ritual of smelling the cork and tasting a sip was done before he asked, “Is that just a gut-level reaction, or is there some basis for it in fact?”
“There’s a basis. There was no need for them or anyone connected with them to enter the pier and search files. They had access to everything they needed to know.”
Craig sat up straighter. “How?”
“When I came to pick you up at the pier this afternoon, I took a close look at D’Angelo’s e-mails, then I asked Derek to take an even closer look. She sent copies of everything to Lee Summers.”
“Playing both sides, was she?”
“Three sides, I’d say. She was working for McCone Investigations, living with Jim Yatz, and selling out both to Summers.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Square one, my friend. Square one.”
HY RIPINSKY
He’d received a message on his voice mail, having had to turn the phone off for the conference in the DA’s office. Halfway to the parking lot he played it.
Ben Travers: “I have good news about your wife. Call me as soon as you can.”
He tried calling Travers back, couldn’t reach him. Ran into the lot, reclaimed his Mustang, and sped across town, weaving in and out among slow drivers. At SF General he parked in a physician’s space and rushed inside.
Shar’s floor was quiet; no one was at the nurses’ station for the moment. He went down the hall to his wife’s room, pushed aside the curtains around her bed.
A nurse was sponging off Shar’s face; it looked small and pale beneath the bandages that covered her head. The nurse turned and smiled at him.
“Mr. Ripinsky, we’ve been waiting for you. Haven’t we, Ms. McCone?”
Shar said, “Ack!”
He stared at her.
“Ack!”
It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever uttered.
JULIA RAFAEL
She slumped in her chair, staring at the duffel bag on her desk. She’d spent the afternoon phoning local luggage stores-over fifty in all. Most hadn’t carried this particular brand; the others didn’t keep sales records going back three years. Dead end, unless she wanted to extend her search to other communities, and she didn’t have the energy for that right now.
The phone buzzed, and she picked up. Ted said, “A Lt. Morrison on line two.”
She’d called Dave Morrison, the head of the team working Haven Dietz’s murder, to ask him to find out Dietz’s blood type.
“Type O positive,” he told her.
Earlier he’d asked her why she needed the information. She’d said something vague about a lead, and then he’d had to take another call. Now he repeated the request.
She badly wanted to tell him about the money and the duffel bag. Dump the case in his lap and move on. But if she did, she’d violate the bond of confidentiality with the Peepleses by admitting they-and she and the agency-had covered up evidence. But evidence of what? It wasn’t Dietz’s blood in the duffel, and she really couldn’t prove it was linked to the attack or murder.
“I thought I had a lead, but it turns out I don’t,” she said.
“Why don’t you tell me about this lead?”
Julia began the tale she’d thought up while being put on hold by the luggage store. “An informant spun this wild story about finding bloodstained clothing near Dietz’s apartment building. He said he’d had it tested, and the blood was type AB negative. But he couldn’t tell me what lab he’d had it tested at, and-after I called you-it turned out that he couldn’t produce the clothes. Then he admitted they’d never existed.”
Dios, Shar had told her this job would turn her into a liar. Now she’d gone world-class.
Morrison sighed. “Informants… They can be a pain in the ass. Hope this one didn’t take you for much.”
“Nah, he was in it for the publicity.”
After she hung up the receiver, she slumped back again, brooding over the duffel bag.
There were footsteps on the catwalk, and Rae came into the office. “God, I’m exhausted!” she exclaimed and flopped on her back on the floor.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Lafayette, interviewing Senta Summers again. No surprises there. It’s hotter than hell in the East Bay, and traffic got snarled near the Caldecott Tunnel.”
“I’ve never been there-I mean, past the tunnel.”
“Pretty suburbs, rolling hills. But it’s getting so damn overpopulated. Every place in California is getting overpopulated. What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“The bag on your desk.”
“A big pain in the culo.” She briefly summarized her theory about the bag.
Rae listened, massaging her temples with her fingertips.
“Okay,” she said. “Your reasoning sounds solid. Whoever attacked Dietz bled, and some of it came off on the bag’s lining. If you were a cop, you could go to databases of known offenders and try for a DNA match. But you’re not a cop.”
“And I can’t break my agreement of confidentiality with the Peeples. I was the one who told them to keep the money in their safe.”
“Because there was no evidence of a crime. You’re entitled to hold money you find on your property any place you choose. Even the bloodstains don’t prove a crime-their son could’ve cut himself shaving the day he stashed the cash.”
“Right. So what should I do? I’ve never had to deal with anything this complicated before.”
Rae was silent, her knees bent, arms outflung on the carpet.
“Let Shar hear the evidence. She’ll know.”
“How? She’s fighting for her life.”
Rae sat up, blue eyes wide. “Didn’t anybody tell you? She’s completely conscious, making sounds, and moving a little-a miracle. Give her a few days. This case will wait till then.”
Julia put her head in her hands and cried with relief.
MONDAY, JULY 28
SHARON McCONE
Today is the day I really start living again.
I can move-minimally. I can talk, even if it does come out garbled most of the time. I’m responding to therapy.
But best of all, they’re all coming this afternoon. We’re holding a staff meeting right here in my new room at the Brandt Institute.
It was a bigger room with two upholstered chairs and an even better view of the eucalyptus grove. Same restful blue walls, but I now found myself drawn to the bright spots of color of the flowers people had sent and a poster of Rae’s new book jacket that she’d tacked up.
Bright color, a symbol of action, liveliness, my future.
Hy, of course, had briefed me all along on the investigations. Indictments were being prepared against Pro Terra Party Chairman Lee Summers, his aides, and a dozen city and state officials. Summers was under investigation for the murders of his daughter, Harvey Davis, Amanda Teller, and Paul Janssen; whether he’d done them or hired them out made no difference. He was going down.