15th Affair (16 page)

“Three shots,” I told June. “No misses. Very professional. The shooter left no prints and no trace.”

June said, “Yeah, well, that’s Alison’s style all the way.”

When the limo stopped at Virgin’s curbside check-in, June reached over and hugged me. Out of reflex, I hugged her back. It felt OK. I got out of the car and moved through the airport like a zombie on Xanax.

Once on the plane, I collapsed into my window seat and buckled in. The flight didn’t scare me at all.

This was the fastest way home.

I HIT THE
ground running and was home within an hour. I was spending some cuddle time with my daughter and gab time with my little sister and darling Brigid and Meredith when Cindy called, saying, “We’re meeting at the clubhouse in thirty minutes. Your excellent presence is requested.”

I checked it out with Cat, who said, “Go. Please go ahead. We’ll be fine.”

Twenty minutes later, with my stomach growling and my bruises throbbing, I breezed through the entrance to a little joint on Jackson Street called Susie’s Café.

The four of us thought of this place as our clubhouse and tried to meet within these ocher-colored, sponge-painted walls every week.

With the catchy beat of steel drums coming from the front room and the aroma of Caribbean-style cuisine fanning out from the kitchen, we had shared years of laughter in “our” booth at the back of the house. And we’d solved a few knotty crimes while we were at it.

I sighed happily once I was inside.

I nodded to the old acquaintances at the bamboo bar and to Susie, who was penning the specials on the whiteboard. I passed through the narrow channel that skirts the pickup window and empties into the smaller back room.

As usual, Claire and Yuki had arrived first and had taken one side of the booth. Also as usual, Yuki had ordered a margarita. After all my years of knowing Yuki, she still didn’t care that tequila put her under the table. In fact, giddiness suited Yuki. Her ringing laughter was one of life’s pleasures.

Claire’s seat was on the aisle, so she stood up and hugged me, saying, “You OK, darlin’?”

“Never better.”

“Right,” said Claire, calling me on my bullshit with just her inflection.

I swung myself down to the seat across from my friends and ordered a beer, and that was when Cindy entered the back room with Richie in her wake.

True, Richie is not in the club, but we all love him dearly, and sometimes testosterone can move our thinking in a different direction.

Cindy sat next to me, and Richie pulled up a chair at the end of the table. Lorraine took our orders for the specials du jour and more beer. Then everyone turned to look at me.

The volume in this place was so high that unless there was a microphone buried in the jerked pork, this was as discreet a venue as possible for a conversation about Joe Molinari, Chinese spies, and a blond government operative who set honey traps.

I spilled the beans to a rapt audience.

“I have it on good authority that Alison Muller—that’s one of her names—is a CIA spy.”

I waited out the “What?” and “Who said so?” from Cindy and Claire, who were both familiar with the names of the victims. And then I said, “The same good authority told me that Shirley Chan was also a spy—for China.”

There were more gasps and OMGs and Richie said, “So what about Michael Chan? Was he a spy, too?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he got caught in the crossfire. But the same source, and this has been independently validated, dropped a bomb. Joe was in the CIA long before I met him. That makes me think maybe he’s working for the CIA now.”

“That would explain why he hasn’t been in touch,” said Rich. Discussion of Joe as a CIA operative rounded the table a few times; then the conversation turned back to Ali Muller.

Cindy was curious about what kind of woman slept with men in order to betray them. Claire added, “Sex for secrets. And she kills people, right?”

“Psychopath,’” said Yuki. “Or patriot. Maybe she’s both.”

I tried to keep my head in the conversation, to feel the love and the safety in this coziest of places.

But my mind kept veering toward what I hadn’t said. That Ali Muller had worked for Joe. That they had been close. I hadn’t told my best friends in the world the fear that I was harboring, that Ali and Joe were back together again.

Music came from the front room. People were clapping and shouting “Lim-bo. Lim-bo.” I drank my beer. I didn’t even have to form questions in my mind anymore. I ached for my missing husband. I ached for him all over.

CAT AND I
had a good long talk that night, and we fell asleep in the big bed. Early the next morning, with promises both ways to stay closer in touch, I kissed my sister and nieces good-bye at the curb.

I took Martha for a good long run to the park and back. Panting and blowing, we returned to the apartment, where I showered, while Mrs. Rose made oatmeal and coffee. Breakfast time for Julie, Martha, Gloria Rose, and me was becoming almost normal, except for the empty sunlit chair where Joe had been sitting with his pancakes more than a week ago.

I drove my car through morning rush out to the airport, this time to meet Conklin for an update on the worst tragedy visited on the city of San Francisco since the great earthquake of 1906. We boarded a little red bus full of cops and journalists, and after zipping across the tarmac, we were deposited at the yawning mouth of the SuperBay at the northeastern turn end of the airport.

The SuperBay was huge, large enough to hold four jumbo jets. But under the lights, laid out on the football-field-sized concrete floor, was a giant, unsolved jigsaw puzzle made up of the blasted wreckage of the Boeing 777.

Vanderleest gave nothing away with his expression, but he was thorough. He walked the large group around the perimeter of the loosely assembled airplane carcass, showing where the tail section had broken from the fuselage; pointing out the fuselage itself, with its many rows of seating; indicating the ignition site, including the fragments of the wing; and showing us the nose of the plane with the intact cockpit, one of the few parts that bore any resemblance to its original form.

Vanderleest capped off his lecture by saying, “Anything that needed analysis was sent to our lab in DC. Investigations like this one typically take a year, sometimes a year and a half, to close. I’m always available to give updates, as needed.”

I asked Vanderleest if there was any news of parties who had fired the missile and he told me, “There are still no credible claims to this—this horror.”

It was a wrenching experience, seeing that total destruction, imagining the people who’d been only moments from a safe landing and reunions with friends and family. The explosion had killed hundreds for no reason anyone could explain, and to date, no one had been charged with any of it.

When we’d seen and heard it all, Conklin and I took the bus back to the domestic parking garage, where we’d left our cars. While in transit, my partner said to me, “Brady and I went to the Chan funerals while you were out.”

“In Palo Alto?”

“Yeah. Small church, but it was packed,” he said. “Lotta crying. I saw some of the people we met out at Stanford. That runner friend of Chan’s. And the department head, Levy, gave one of the eulogies. A lot of people only spoke in Chinese.”

“You didn’t see Alison Muller, by chance?”

“That woulda made it worth the trip. But I think I saw the guy who slammed into you at the NTSB briefing.”

“You think?”

“His face was sort of triangular. Wide forehead. Eyes sort of wide apart. A narrow white scar across his chin.”

“That’s
him
,” I said. “That’s the
guy
.”

“He saw me looking at him and just dissolved into the crowd. What’s he got to do with Chan?”

“Maybe he wanted to confirm that Michael Chan is dead,” I said. “Maybe he doesn’t know which Chan is the real one and which is the doppelganger. Fifty bucks says he’s with Chinese intelligence.”

“You know what I think?” Conklin said. “Flight WW 888. That plane flew outta
Beijing
. Michael and Shirley Chan and the Chinese thugs who’ve been dogging you. They’re all part of the same thing.”

“I buy it, Richie. Now we only need to figure out what this ‘thing’ is.”

AS SOON AS
I got to my desk that day, I called Claire and asked, “Any news from Dr. Marshall regarding the whereabouts of Michael Chan, version two?”

Claire said, “This is what she said, and I quote. ‘I am still sorting out body parts. I’ll call you when or if I locate Mr. Chan or parts thereof. Any more questions?’ She’s made herself clear. Still, whatever she says, she’s responsible.”

I had just rung off with Claire when Brenda paged me. I picked up line two and turned to look at Brenda at the same time.

Standing at her desk was a tall, dark, and immaculately dressed man. Brenda’s voice came to me in stereo.

“Mr. Khan is here to see you.”

“Send him back,” I said.

Khalid Khan pushed at the gate and came through our gray and depressing squad room. He sat down in the chair next to my desk and blew his nose into a handkerchief. I could swear he’d been crying.

He said, “It’s hard to admit this, but when you left the house the other day, I knew I’d been an ass. I apologize for the way I spoke to you. No, you don’t have to say anything. Thanks for what you did. I’ve been deluding myself for years, and now that I’m willing to look at the truth, I don’t know where to find it.”

“Tell me what you do know,” I said.

Khan told me his daughter was sure that the woman in the Four Seasons security footage was Alison. Caroline had listed some of the lies Alison had told him, and he was shaken to his soles by her mendacity. Khan told me now of several times when Ali had gone on her “focus downs,” coming back a week later without telling him anything about where she’d been and what she’d done.

“We have always said that what was good for each of us was good for the marriage,” he said now. “That made sense. Ali was never cut out to be a traditional wife, and I loved that about her. And now I’m paying the price for my incredible gullibility. Please tell me what to do.”

I told Khan we were looking for his wife in San Francisco, that Monterey police were looking for her also, and that the FBI was involved because of the four people who were killed in the hotel.

I said, “The crash has sucked up the time of every law enforcement officer in the state, Mr. Khan. But no one has forgotten that Alison is missing. She hasn’t called you or your daughters?”

“No.”

“Before the hotel shootings, had you ever heard of Michael Chan?”

“Never.”

“What about Joe Molinari? Is that name familiar to you?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Khan. “Who is he?”

“A person of interest, that’s all.”

I’m pretty sure my face colored, but Khan didn’t notice.

“I don’t know if I want her back,” he told me with a broken voice, “but I have to talk to her. It just can’t end like this. I need to see her.”

“We want to find her, too, Mr. Khan.”

I was thinking,
If I was any good at finding lost spouses, I would find mine.
It came together then.
Sure. Why the hell not?
I would find them both.

I WAS BATHING
Julie when the phone rang.

I grabbed it, stabbed the button, and growled, “Boxer.” It was a juggling act, pinning the phone under my chin while keeping my slippery baby in hand.

A voice said, “Mrs. Molinari, this is Agent Michael Dixon from the CIA.”

“Yes?”

My thoughts were as slippery as my daughter. CIA? What the hell was this? Good news or bad? Had they found Joe?

“We’d like to have a few words with you.”

“OK. When?”

“We’re downstairs.”

“Here? Now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, give me a second. Make that five minutes and then buzz me.”

I rinsed Julie off, wrapped her up in a towel, and from there dressed her in PJs. She was not tired and she was not going to bed, so I put her in the playpen. I left Martha loose, but I got my gun out of the cabinet and tucked it into the waistband of my jeans.

When the intercom buzzed, I told Dixon and his partner to put their badges up to the camera. They did it. And still, I checked them out through the peephole in my door. Satisfied, I undid the chain lock and let the two men inside.

They introduced themselves as Agents Michael Dixon and Chris Knightly from Langley. They were both in their thirties, both in business attire, jackets and ties and well-shined shoes. They weren’t a twin set. Dixon was average height, dark hair, button nose. Knightly was large and blond with an American flag lapel pin.

Dixon was the man in charge.

When they were seated on the wide leather sofa, Dixon said, “I understand from John Carroll that you’re interested in locating Alison Muller.”

“She’s a possible witness,” I said. “She may have been the last to see a victim of a recent homicide.”

“Yes, we understand that she may well have been with Michael Chan.” Dixon went on. “We want to level with you, Mrs. Molinari. Call it interagency cooperation. But in exchange, we need you to back off your inquiries into Alison Muller.”

Really? They didn’t have the authority to take me off my case. If that was what they wanted, they shouldn’t have come to me here. What was up?

I said, “That’s not my call. Not yours, either. Muller is a person of interest in a quadruple homicide. Our case. SFPD.”

“I want to assure you that Muller didn’t kill Michael Chan,” said Dixon. “Muller wanted him alive. We all do.”

“So what happened?” I said, not promising anything.