A Wild and Lonely Place (17 page)

“Thanks, I really appreciate your help. I just couldn’t see where I was stepping.”

“Who could? It got dark so early tonight, and it looks like nobody thought to turn on the pierside lights.” She shivered as
she held the gate for me. “Damned fog. I knew that stretch of good weather couldn’t last.”

I thanked her again and waited till she started off to the left. Then I went to the right and turned down one of the finger
piers, checking the names of the boats that were berthed there, looking for the
Freia. Lazy Daze, Marguerite, The Money Pit, Roger’s Jolly, Ms. Freedom
—

A high keening scream cut through the mist. Cut through me and set my flesh to rippling.

I slued around and ran back along the dock. The scream was a woman’s and it came from the direction that my Good Samaritan
had gone. The dock swayed beneath my feet, throwing my balance off. I dumped the cumbersome sack of food, spread my arms to
steady myself.

Now I heard voices, excited and distressed. A line of lights on the main pier had come on, and under one of them I saw the
woman. She leaned against a tall man, her face pressed against his brown leather jacket, rolling her head back and forth in
denial. A second man was looking into the water.

I ran up to them. “What’s wrong?”

The second man motioned down, looking sick. “Rosalie turned on the lights and saw it.”

It.
I went to the edge of the pier, squatted, and scanned the shiny blackness.

A body floated face down, bobbing on the slight swell, one bare foot caught by a loop in a mooring line. A small body, a woman’s,
clad in a loose garment that billowed out around her. A black garment with white piping on the sleeves and collar. Dark tangled
hair swirled across her shoulders.

I moaned. Dropped my bag, shrugged out of my jacket, toed off my athletic shoes.

“Hey,” the man said, “don’t—”

I braced myself for the shock, took a breath, jumped in feet first.

Cold! Heart-stopping cold and deep, I keep sinking. Air, I need air
—

My feet touched bottom. I pushed hard, shot up, and broke the surface. The body was about four yards away. I thrashed over,
grabbed its shoulders. Turned it on its back and got it in a lifeguard’s hold.

Heart-stopping cold for her, too. But her heart’s stopped for good. I’ll never forget this cold. I’ll feel it in my nightmares
to my dying day.

I began towing her toward the dock. Death made her slight frame heavy and ungainly.

Cold and still and God those blank forever eyes. She ought to be at home in front of her fireplace with her solitaire game
spread out and her glass of vodka to hand. Even that’s better than this. No, she ought to be talking about her poetry, forgetting
the booze for a little while—

Stop it, McCone!

More people on the pier now. Hands reaching to lift the body. Somebody was saying that he knew CPR. They hauled her up and
he set to work. I supposed he had to try, but it wouldn’t do any good. I’d been too late to save Mavis.

The hands reached for me now. I grasped them. Gained the dock but fell to my knees. Somebody wrapped me in a blanket.

Too late to save Mavis.

And where, oh God
where,
was Habiba?

When I made my statement to a San Mateo County sheriff’s deputy some thirty minutes later, I knew that my fears of becoming
like Gage Renshaw and his cohorts were one step closer to being realized. I said nothing about Klaus Schechtmann, Dawud Hamid,
or Habiba. I denied knowing Mavis’s identity. I did not admit to being a private investigator. I did not mention Eric Sparling
or the
Freia.

One of the men on the pier had called 911 and then contacted the marina’s manager, a Mr. Evans. When Evans arrived and saw
me wet and shivering in the borrowed blanket, he offered me the loan of his office to change into the emergency clothes I
kept in the trunk of the MG. But by the time I’d changed, Evans had thought the situation over and realized I was on the premises
without authorization. Quickly I confessed to employing subterfuge. I’d planned a dinner to surprise a friend who berthed
his yawl there, so I’d tricked Rosalie into letting me through the gate. The friend’s name? Eric Sparling.

“Mr. Sparling don’t live aboard,” Evans said.

“I know, but I thought he’d be here tonight.”

“Well, the
Freia
set sail late this afternoon. I know, because the crew was getting her ready at three-thirty when I went home.”

“I must’ve got my dates mixed up. You didn’t see Eric…Mr. Sparling?”

“Just the crew and a fellow who’s used the yawl before—blond-haired man with a German accent.”

Klaus Schechtmann. “He have a woman and a little girl with him?”

Evans frowned; I was asking too many questions. “I didn’t see no woman or kid, no. And listen, you, don’t go sneaking in here
again, surprise or no surprise. That’s why we got the gate—to keep out potential insurance problems like yourself.”

I promised not to commit future trespass, and Evans left me alone. Then I gave my brief duplicitous statement to the sheriff’s
deputy and got out of there. I consoled myself both for my sins of omission and commission by telling myself that the deputy
wasn’t really interested in my story anyway. Twice he’d referred to Mavis as the victim of an accidental drowning, and he
seemed to find nothing unusual about me leaping into the Bay to recover the body of a total stranger. Perhaps he thought I
got my kicks by courting pneumonia.

From the MG I called Renshaw at the consulate and broke the news. When I finished he asked, “Murder?”

“Hard to say. So far, the sheriff’s department is leaning toward accident.”

“You didn’t tell them anything, then.”

“I thought about it, but I was afraid they’d send the Coast Guard after the
Freia.
Schechtmann’s a fugitive and, however she ended up there, I’m sure he’s the one who left Mavis dead in the Bay. I doubt he’d
allow himself to be taken. If Habiba’s aboard that yawl, I don’t want to jeopardize her.”

“Good judgment call.”

“You’d better get on to the sheriff down here with whatever cover story you can think of. I don’t like the idea of Mavis lying
unidentified in the morgue. And you’d better break the news to Mrs. Hamid.”

“Yeah. If I know her she’ll take it stoically, no matter what she feels. And explain nothing.”

“Well, good luck.”

“What’re you going to do now?”

“Find out where Schechtmann’s headed.”

* * *

The fog completely blanketed San Bruno Mountain now; it dimmed the lights of the small dwellings to faint glows, wrapped thick
around the trunks of the eucalyptus. Once again I left my car by Langley Newton’s mailbox and crossed the plank bridge. Once
again my hand rested on the .38 in my purse. Newton might be a remote, harmless-appearing recluse, but he was also a man with
a secret.

When I knocked on the bungalow’s door, it took him well over a minute to answer. Footsteps came from the rear and an overhead
bulb flashed on. Newton looked out; surprise flared in his eyes and he recoiled.

I pushed past him into the front room. The finger-smudged glass still stood on the table among the Hummel figurines. I went
over, picked it up, and smelled it. Vodka.

Newton didn’t ask what I was doing; he knew.

“Who brought them here?” I demanded. “Speed?”

His gaze slid away from mine. “Brought who?”

“You know—Mavis Hamid and her daughter.”

“I don’t understand why—”

“Yes, you do. Look, Newton, you told me you never use this room except for company, but this afternoon it had a lived-in feel,
as if somebody’d been here before it got so cold you needed to light the fire. Habiba’s a jigsaw puzzle enthusiast; you had
one half completed on the card table, but didn’t hesitate to dump it back in its box. Mavis is a vodka drinker, and this glass—”

“I drink vodka.”

“You didn’t smell of vodka earlier.”

“It’s been there several days.”

I held the glass up, let a drop of liquid slide out of it and splat to the floor.

Newton’s shoulders slumped in acknowledgment of defeat. “All right,” he said heavily. “Speed brought them.”

“When?”

“Around noon.”

So Schechtmann had probably removed them from the consulate while I was trying to persuade Malika Hamid to let them go with
me. I remembered Kahlil Lateef leaving the library twice on errands for her; she’d spoken to him in their native tongue and
I hadn’t given it a second thought.

“Why’d he park them here, rather than on the
Freia?”

Newton went to the sofa and sat down. “She wasn’t going to be ready to sail until four, and Speed didn’t want the marina manager
to see them. He’d planned to take them directly from the consulate to the boat, but some emergency came up and he had to get
them out of there early. So he called Leila, and Leila called me and said Speed would pay if I’d keep them amused for a few
hours. That wasn’t easy. The mother…” He grimaced.

“What about her?”

“She was drunk and upset and wanted to go home. Speed went down to the marina to check on things and in the hour he was gone
she ran out into the yard and tried to get away twice. When he came back he brought a bottle; she drank most of it, but she
didn’t calm down.”

“How was Habiba doing?”

“She was worried about her mother, but I guess she’d seen her behave oddly before. After a while she just tuned her out and
worked on her puzzle. It helped that she had something to look forward to; she said Speed was taking them on an adventure,
and when they arrived they’d see her father.”

“Arrived where?”

“I don’t think she knew.”

“Did Mavis know?”

“She barely knew she was
here.”

His description of Mavis’s last hours made me both sad and angry. “Well, she’s nowhere now, Mr. Newton.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mavis is dead, and Habiba’s missing.”

Something bright sparked in his eyes. “What happened?”

“She was drowned, whether on purpose or by accident, I can’t say.”

“Speed’s fault?”

“Had to be. She was floating in the
Freia
’s slip at the marina. Even if she went into the water by accident, Speed left her there. She was drunk and helpless and she
might’ve still been alive—but he left her to die.”

Newton’s facial muscles rippled, and when he spoke his voice shook with emotion. “I begged Speed not to give her that bottle.
He just laughed and said she needed to be sedated. Then he sat right here where I am now and watched her drink.” He stood,
took a quick turn around the room, his movements tight and angry. “I hate men who prey on women! I
hate
them!”

Then why didn’t you do something? I asked silently. And left him to his recriminations.

* * *

Blanca’s eyes widened in alarm when I arrived at Sandy Ronquillo’s condominium. Something in my face, I supposed, plus the
disheveled condition of the jeans and sweater that had long been crammed into the travel bag in the trunk of my car.

“Is she here?” I asked.

Blanca nodded, glancing across the foyer to a hallway.

“Sober?”

She didn’t bother to reply to the absurd question. “She is dressing to go out to dinner.”

“Get her, please.”

She hurried down the hallway, knocked on a door at its end, and went inside. I paced up and down on the black and white checkerboard,
trying to control my anger before it controlled me. After a few minutes the door slammed and Leila stalked down the hall,
wearing a short red silk robe and a scowl. “What the hell do you want now?” she demanded.

“Where is your husband taking Habiba Hamid?”

Under her freshly applied makeup, her face paled. She glanced over her shoulder. “Sandy,” she whispered. “He will hear.”

“Then let’s go upstairs to talk.”

“No, you must leave now!” She put out her hands to push me toward the door.

I sidestepped. “Shall I raise my voice, Leila?”

“Don’t! Please.” She looked around in confusion, then grabbed my arm and hurried me upstairs to the living room. Apparently
that wasn’t far enough from Ronquillo, because she motioned toward the spiral staircase and led me up to the greenhouse room
on the roof.

The room wasn’t as appealing in the night mist as it had been that afternoon in the sunlight. Its view of the city lights
was blurred by moisture that streaked the panes, and the air was cold enough to make Leila shiver. She sat on the edge of
one of the chairs, and I remained standing.

“Now,” I said, “where is he taking her?”

“How did you find out…? Fig, that rat!”

“Don’t blame him. Just tell me where Speed’s going.”

Her eyes moved from side to side as she tried to calculate how little she could get away with telling me.

“I know you arranged for them to stay with Fig. I know about the
Freia
and the ship offshore. Now give me the rest of it, Leila, or I’ll start talking very loudly. You don’t want Sandy to find
out everything I know.”

“Everything?”

“About your husband’s visits to you. About the money he gives you.”

She put her fingers to her lips for a few seconds, then recovered. “That Fig is a liar, you know, that’s why he can’t keep
a job.”

I didn’t reply.

“Or was it Blanca who told you? She lies, too. I have caught her stealing.”

“That I very much doubt. You’re lucky to have an employee like her—and a friend like Fig.”

“Who, then? Speed? Speed wouldn’t—”

“You don’t know what Speed would do. Now—where is he going?”

She bit her lip. “Sandy will
kill
me if he finds out. All right, you want to know where Speed is taking them. All right, I will tell you. I do not know the
exact location, but Speed owns an island somewhere in the Caribbean. He is operating the sports book again, but there he cannot
be charged with breaking the law.”

“He must be breaking the law of
some
country.”