A Wild and Lonely Place (16 page)

I felt as if I’d stepped back in time to the days when Brisbane’s residents kept goats and chickens and eked out their livings
farming the hillside. Present-day San Francisco seemed remote as I walked through the late-afternoon fog. I didn’t allow nostalgia
for simpler times to ease my caution, though; instead I reached into the outside pocket of my shoulder bag and rested my hand
on the .38 that I’d removed from the strongbox in the trunk before driving down here. For years I’d resisted carrying it,
in spite of my permit, but after a near-fatal incident the previous October I’d overcome my reluctance on the grounds of better-them-than-me.

I approached the bungalow warily, keeping an eye out for watchdogs. None growled in warning, none rushed out to investigate
my presence. In the house a medium-sized shape crossed behind the drawn shade on the lighted window. I mounted the shaky steps
and knocked. After a few seconds footsteps approached within.

The man who opened the door had a bald egg-shaped dome that gleamed above a ruff of curly silver-gray hair. His body was suety-soft,
clad in a threadbare maroon bathrobe. His feet, in equally threadbare black socks, turned out like a ballet dancer’s. His
brown eyes took a long time to focus on me, as if his mind was on something remote and preoccupying. When he greeted me cordially
I relaxed my hold on the .38.

I identified myself and verified that he was Langley Newton. Mentioned both Leila Schechtmann and Blanca and asked if I might
come in. Newton looked uneasy, as if he didn’t have many visitors and wasn’t sure how to deal with me. He wasn’t dressed,
he said. Could I wait a minute?

I waited, watching the fingers of fog reach downhill toward the Bay. They were claiming the marinas on its western shore when
Newton returned, wearing jeans and a blue pullover sweater, and invited me inside.

The front room of the bungalow ran the entire length of the structure and was as shabby as its exterior. An old dark-wood
hutch stood in shadow at one end, its shelves filled with dusty commemorative plates and floral-patterned teacups. At the
other end sat a potbellied woodstove, and in between a high-backed Victorian-style sofa upholstered in faded red velvet. A
card table on which a half-finished jigsaw puzzle was laid out stood in front of it. The only light came from a floor lamp
near the window, and the room was very cold.

Newton went to the stove, crumpled some newspaper that lay in an untidy pile on the floor, and lit the fire. He turned to
me with an uneasy smile. “The fog came in so quickly that I didn’t notice how cold it had gotten. I seldom use this room except
for company. It’ll warm up soon.”

“It’s not that bad.” I looked at a round table flanked by two chairs with needlepointed seats. Atop a crocheted doily on the
table sat a dozen or so Hummel figurines; a finger-smudged glass stood incongruously among them.

“My mother’s collection,” Newton said, motioning for me to sit on the sofa. “This was her home. She died last fall, and I
haven’t gotten around to clearing out her things.” He regarded the figurines disapprovingly, as if seeing them more clearly
than before. “I really should do something about those. I find them quite ugly.”

“I’m not too fond of them myself, but they’re probably worth something. You might try selling them.”

“Really?” He looked at them speculatively and with greater tolerance.

When I sat on the sofa a telltale puff of dust rose around me. What, I wondered, had the man been doing since last fall, that
he’d neither cleaned nor gotten rid of objects that offended him? Perhaps he simply didn’t see the dust and grime, didn’t
notice the knickknacks unless someone directed his attention to them. His capacity to connect with his surroundings did seem
somewhat limited; his gaze had become remote again, barely acknowledging my presence.

I asked, “You’ve lived here since your mother passed away?”

He nodded slowly, coming back from wherever his mind had taken him. “I suppose Leila’s told you that I’m having a hard time
of it. Since the bungalow’s paid for and the taxes and upkeep are low, I have no option but to stay here.”

“You sound as though you’re not too happy about that.”

“Oh, it’s all right here, I guess. It’s private and quiet. But there are inconveniences: no garbage pickup, and it’s a long
drive for groceries.”

“Blanca told me you also inherited an apartment building in the city. Why not live there?”

“I don’t really care to live at close quarters with other people and, besides, the building’s got problems. It’s for sale,
if you know anyone who’s in the market for rental property.”

I didn’t, so I continued a line of questioning that would gradually lead up to the subject of Dawud Hamid. “When I spoke with
her, Leila went into great detail about how Speed sold Das Glücksspiel. Was it really as sudden as she says?”

“Yes.” He took a box from beneath the card table and swept the puzzle pieces into it, carelessly undoing his time-consuming
work. “She’s bitter, and she’s got a right to be. I at least was employable. Although having worked downstairs from an illegal
gambling operation didn’t score me too many points on job interviews.”

“You must’ve known about the sports book.”

“No, I didn’t. Speed kept the two businesses strictly segregated. I thought he was running some sort of mailorder outfit up
there.”

I must have looked skeptical because he added, “Hard to believe, isn’t it? The D.A. didn’t credit it, either, but the other
employees backed me up.”

“What did you do after you were fired?”

“Nothing very impressive.” He stowed the puzzle box in a small bookcase, then sat down on one of the needlepointed chairs.
“Speed sold the restaurant in eighty-nine. For a few years I worked for a government contractor setting up management systems
for food services on military bases, but with the closings…For a while after that, I worked abroad for a franchise that was
establishing itself in Europe. But now I’m down to scrounging odd jobs. Did Leila send you to me about one?”

“Actually, I’m trying to trace some people you might’ve known when you worked for her husband. Dawud Hamid— is that name familiar?”

“Hamid.” Something indefinable flickered beneath the surface of his remote gaze, but he simply said, “There was a Dave Hamid
who ran with the diplomatic crowd. I believe he and Speed were close friends.”

“That’s the man. He ran the sports book.”

Newton nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. At the time of the indictments there were rumors that one of the major players
had gone unnamed because he had diplomatic immunity, but his identity never came out.”

“You didn’t know Hamid, then?”

“Hardly at all. I didn’t run with Speed’s crowd; they were too rich for my blood—and too corrupt.”

“What about Chloe Love?”

“Chloe?” He seemed startled. “What about her?”

“Leila said Hamid was interested in her. Is there a possibility they might still be in touch?”

“That I very much doubt.” Newton glanced at the woodstove, which had begun to smoke, and got up to tend it.

“Do you have any idea where Chloe Love might be living now?” I asked.

“Living? No, I don’t.” He prodded at the logs with the poker, then set it down and dusted his hands off. “But I do know you
won’t find her with Hamid or any of that crowd.”

“Why not?”

“Because Chloe was a nice person, through and through. She was intelligent and she wasn’t taken in by money or appearance.”
He returned to his chair. “Men from the diplomatic crowd were always visiting her in the kitchen and hitting on her, but she’d
have nothing to do with them. She was…an impressive woman.”

“You sound as though you were fond of her.”

“I was. She was probably the most kind and genuinely decent person I’ve ever known. She went to bat for me with the D.A. when
he didn’t believe I hadn’t known about the sports book. I owe her a great deal for that.”

“And yet you lost touch with her.”

He shrugged. “After the restaurant closed, we all went our separate ways. The industry was in a bad recession, and we had
to scramble for jobs, thanks to Speed.”

“Tell me about Speed.”

“As Leila’s fond of saying, he’s a pig.”

“Leila’s no saint herself.”

“She’s a naughty little girl and none too bright, but that doesn’t mean she deserved to be abandoned that way.”

“And yet she welcomes Speed back into her bed whenever he’s in town.”

“Oh?” The questioning syllable came too quickly.

“She’s told you about his visits, hasn’t she?”

“…Yes.”

“How does Speed get back into the country—on a false passport? And why does he come back?”

Newton was silent.

“Mr. Newton, I’m not acting in an official capacity. I don’t care if they ever bring Speed Schechtmann to trial on the gambling
indictment. But I do need to locate him.”

“Why?”

I explained about the ongoing relationship between Schechtmann and Hamid, about the Azadi Consulate being the latest target
of the Diplo-bomber, and about Mavis’s and Habiba’s earlier disappearance. “The consul general seems curiously unworried,
so I assume they’re in a safe place, but I want to make sure that they’re not with Hamid or on the way to him.”

“Why should you concern yourself? They’re his wife and child.”

“Because I think the Azadis are more than a target of the bomber; I think they’re the primary one. My gut-level instincts
tell me that Dave Hamid’s involvement in the sports book and his later disappearance are at the very root of these bombings.
If that’s the case, you can understand the danger his wife and child will be in if they’re anywhere near him.”

“But they were in danger at the consulate.”

“Yes, and I was about to remove them to a secure place when they disappeared.”

Newton picked up one of the figurines and turned it round and round in his hands, studying it. “What would you do if it turned
out they were with Hamid?”

“Go after them and bring them back—forcibly, if necessary.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but now the answer seemed obvious.

“And take them to that secure place you mentioned?”

“Yes.”

“What if Hamid came after them?”

“I certainly hope he would. I’d like to get him back here, where the Diplo-bomber Task Force could question him about his
involvement in what’s going on.”

“Not likely—given his diplomatic immunity.”

“Then maybe I’ll just have to question him myself, using my connection with the consulate’s security firm. At any rate, to
do that I need to find him, and to find him I need to locate Speed. You can help, Mr. Newton.”

He hesitated, then sighed and set the figurine on the table. “All right, I don’t know where Speed has been living. Leila does,
I think, but you’ll never force her to reveal it—she likes the money he gives her too much. I do know that Speed moves in
and out of the country on a yawl that one of his gambler friends, Eric Sparling, keeps berthed at Salt Point Marina. He has
his crew pick Speed up at an offshore ship and bring him back to the city.” “This yawl—what’s her name?”

“The
Freia.”

“And Salt Point Marina is one of those between Candlestick Park and the airport?”

“Yes.” For the first time Newton’s eyes connected with mine; there was something else he wanted to tell me.

“What?” I asked.

“…Yes, all right. Speed visited Leila yesterday. I went there to put up some towel racks for her, and he was just leaving.
I heard him say he’d be returning home today.”

* * *

Salt Point Marina nestled in the curve of land that bowed out just south of the San Francisco—San Mateo County line. Strong
winds are a given there in any kind of weather; tonight they blew the fog like snow and chilled me to the bone. The marina
was fronted by a mostly empty parking lot and surrounded by a high electrified fence. I left the MG next to an empty boat
trailer and crossed the ramp to the gate. It operated on a key card, and there was no guard or any way of summoning someone.
I peered through the eerily blowing mist and saw cruisers and sailboats of all sizes moored in their slips; faint lights shone
in the windows of a few.

Security lights, or evidence of people living aboard?

The hum of rush-hour traffic on the Bayshore Freeway was at my back; the only sounds in the marina were the water’s gentle
swell and the creak of lines. After a moment I got back in the car and sat in the gathering darkness, drumming my fingers
on the wheel as I tried to decide what to do next. Headlights flared behind me and I watched a dark-colored Porsche pull up
on the other side of the boat trailer. A man in a business suit got out, locked the car, and headed toward the gate.

People living aboard, then.

I was out of the MG immediately, but before I could get to the gate the man used his key card and shut it behind him. Chances
were he wouldn’t have let me in, anyway; when he locked the Porsche he’d activated an alarm—the security-conscious type. I
needed to create the impression I belonged here.

I got back into the car and drove into Brisbane, avoiding the clogged freeway. There I found a market and bought a sack of
groceries, including the sourdough I’d promised Hy I’d bring home. When I returned to the marina a few more vehicles were
parked in the lot. I waited.

After about ten minutes a Mustang drove in and parked a few spaces away from me. A tall woman in a tan suit got out and hurried
toward the gate, hugging her jacket around her. I followed, pretended to stumble on the canted ramp, and dropped the grocery
bag.

“Oh, no!” I fell to my knees and began running my hands over the ramp.

The woman turned. “Your groceries! Let me help you.” She squatted and started gathering up apples that had rolled from the
bag.

“It’s not the groceries I’m worried about,” I said. “I dropped my key card. Oh, dammit, you know what? I think it fell in
the water.”

She put the apples in the bag and set it upright. “Well, you can get a new one from Evans tomorrow. I’ll let you in.”