McFate stiffened slightly. Greg leaned forward, interested.
I said to Greg, "Yesterday you also told me you were annoyed at how Leo kept disappearing."
"That's right."
"On at least one of those occasions-and I'm willing to bet quite a few others-he was over at his old detail."
"So?"
I glanced at McFate. He was sitting very still now.
"I suspect what he was doing there was going through back files on radicals they spied on in the sixties, looking for information on Hilderly and his other heirs-just in case the lead I'd given him was valid after all. One of the things he discovered was the circumstance that twenty years later caused Hilderly to change his will-which in turn triggered Grant's murder."
"Why did Hilderly change his will?"
"Hilderly was never a part of that collective, at least not in the sense its members thought he was. He was close to the people, and they assumed he was using his job as a reporter to further their propaganda efforts. What he was really doing was gathering information for a story, perhaps something along the lines of 'Inside a Weather Collective.' But when they began to formulate plans to bomb Port Chicago-plans that were certain to result in the deaths of innocent people-he became disillusioned and concerned."
McFate said, "Why would he? He was a radical. None of them cared-"
"Hilderly cared. He valued human life above anything. Even above his loyalty to his closest friends. I think he went to the ID-their activities were well known even in those days-and warned them about the bombing plans. He knew he'd done the right thing, but his guilt over the betrayal more or less soured the rest of his life. Then last May he ran into Tom Grant, who handed him an untrue story about his ruined life, and Hilderly decided to atone for what he'd done-by leaving money to three of the people he'd harmed, plus to the only living heir of the other."
Greg looked at McFate. "Is it true that Hilderly went to the ID, Leo?"
It was a moment before he replied. "Yes. I don't know about the business with the will; I don't know how she can surmise all that. But Hilderly did talk with the ID. They, in turn, contacted the FBI. When the Bureau got back to them, they said they already had the situation covered and that arrests would be forthcoming. Hilderly needn't have felt guilty about anything; he didn't even try to turn them in to the agency with jurisdiction."
McFate spoke as if what had happened was amusing-a joke that Hilderly had led a guilt-ridden life and then attempted to atone for something he hadn't actually done. I frowned at his callousness, saw Greg was frowning, too.
"How did you, put all that together?" Greg asked.
"I'll explain later." I was notgoing to tell him in front of McFate about my dream of the previous morning-the sly visual pun on the word "intelligence," in which a gilt suit of armor stood for "guilt" and a gnawed diploma indicated its possessor had "ratted on" someone.
"All right," Greg said. Then to McFate, "Why wasn't I apprised of any of this, Leo?"
"I didn't find it relevant-"
"Bullshit! The reason you didn't report it to me is that you were protecting your pals at the ID."
"Lieutenant, twenty years ago it was acceptable for the division to maintain surveillance on groups who could be deemed-"
"Yes. But it hasn't been acceptable since nineteen seventy-five, when the commission adopted rules against such activity. And recently the ID has taken a lot of heat for having ignored those rules. They like to maintain a low profile over there these days; I'm sure your pals made it clear they'd appreciate being kept out of something like the Grant case-even though their involvement was a long way back and very peripheral."
"I… well, I…"
"Funny thing about this, McFate: Sharon-this civilian-shared most of the details of her investigation with me. I knew a lot of the facts you didn't deem 'relevant.' If you'd reported properly, I would probably have worked out the solution to your case, and Taylor would still be alive." Greg was as angry as I'd ever seen him.
"Lieutenant, I-"
"Oh, get the hell out of here. We'll discuss it tomorrow."
McFate left the cubicle without looking at either of us.
"You know," Greg said when he was gone, "I'm pleased that one of my last official acts on Homicide will be making sure he's reprimanded for this. I damned well want it to go in his file."
"The captaincy came through, then?"
"They're announcing it Monday."
I felt an odd tug of sadness. "Congratulations."
"Jesus, you make it sound as if I'd just told you I had a fatal disease."
"Oh, Greg." I stood and moved toward the door, suddenly needing to be out of there. "It's only that it'll seem strange for you not to be here, where you've been ever since I've known you."
"Wherever I am, I'll always be there for you."
"I know, but… everything's changing." I actually felt as if I might cry.
As soon as I closed my front door behind me, I realized how weary I was-and that I was also coming down with a cold. I took a handful of vitamin C with a big glass of red wine, then showered and washed my hair and bundled up in my white terry-cloth bathrobe.
And thought, My God, I haven't checked on Hank in nearly ten hours!
I hurried to the phone, but before I could dial the hospital I saw the red light was on on my answering machine. Quickly I reached for the rewind button-five calls.
My mother: "Are you there? I read in the paper about Hank getting shot and you chasing after that sniper like a lunatic. Oh, Shari, why can't you get a decent job where you won't always be-"
I thought, Oh, Ma, I love you, too. And fast-forwarded through the rest of the message.
Luke Widdows: "I heard about the shooting. Are you okay? Call me anytime."
Jim Addison: "You didn't return my last call, but don't bother. I've been reading about you in the papers. You know, I always thought you were a gentle person like me, but this thing with the sniper… what you did was like police brutality. Sharon, you're just too violent for me. Violent women are unnatural-" The beep cut him off with a satisfying finality.
I smiled, remembering how I'd worried about Jim's potential for violence. Now he was put off by mine!
The fourth call was the one I'd been hoping for, Anne-Marie: "Well, God, he's okay. Surgery went fine. I think that on Sunday he'll be able to have a certain visitor he's already asking for. I'm going home to sleep now, so check with me sometime after noon tomorrow."
I stopped the tape, replayed the message. Hank was all right; soon I could visit him. I'd take him a stack of magazines, a care package from that bakery on Twenty-fourth Street whose blueberry muffins he so loved…
I'd almost forgotten that there was one more message. I switched the tape on. It was from George Kostakos.
I played it all the way through. Reversed the tape, listened to it again. His wife was fully recovered from her breakdown, and they'd begun divorce proceedings. She'd taken the Palo Alto house, and he'd moved to a condominium on Russian Hill. He still cared for me. If I felt the same, he'd love to see me. His new phone number was…
At first I felt a stubborn resistance. All those months he'd been silent, left me wondering where we stood, and now he thought he could simply walk back into my life. But then I felt a softening: it couldn't have been easy for him, either. Besides, on some level I'd always known where we stood, known he'd eventually return.
I pictured George: his rough-hewn face, his changeable hazel eyes, his gray-frosted black hair, his tall, lean body. I put my hand to my lips, imagining how it would be to see him after all this time. Imagining how we would be together.
The pain and anger and disillusionment of the past week fell away from me. Their vestiges would return, I knew. Bad memories would recur-probably for the rest of my life. But I would take comfort in moments like this, when I felt temporarily safe, warm, insulated. I stretched, yawned. What an embarrassment of riches I'd come home to!