A Wild and Lonely Place (35 page)

Morland shook his head. “I don’t think the Azadis are central to the case.”

“Why not?”

“There’s nothing to indicate it.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded me over the salt-encrusted rim of his glass. “Unless you
have information we don’t.”

For a moment I considered telling Morland everything; I sensed I could trust him. But he’d have to turn the information over
to Parkhurst, who would love to see me charged with obstructing a federal investigation. I couldn’t risk it.

Damn Gage Renshaw and his client confidentiality!

I said to Craig, “I just have a feeling about the Azadis, that’s all. I asked Parkhurst if there was anything new about Adah’s
situation, but he wouldn’t tell me. Has the bomber posted anything further?”

His eyes clouded and he sipped his drink before replying. “There’s been nothing.”

“You know about the message she left on my machine?”

He nodded. “Marcus on the SFPD passed along the gist of it.”

“If she was right…a man like that—he’d kill anyone who could identify him.”

“We’re acting on the assumption that he’s holding her alive as an insurance policy. We get too close, she’s his ticket out
of here.”

I wanted to believe that as much as he did.

My doubts must have shown on my face, because Morland launched into a monologue on the psychological profile of the bomber,
much of it aimed at easing his own anxiety. After a few minutes I cut him short by signaling for the check. His earlier recital
of his personal history had given rise to an idea, and I wanted to get back to the office and explore it.

* * *

I’d expected All Souls to be holiday-weekend quiet, but instead I heard angry voices coming from the law library as soon as
I walked through the door. Ted and—I thought—Mike Tobias, one of the flock of new partners and associates who had come to
the firm within the past couple of years. I fled up the stairs, the words “intolerable inefficiency” and “insufferable workaholic”
following me.

There had been entirely too much bickering around the co-op of late—serious arguments, as well. During the dozen or so years
Ted had presided over the front office I’d seldom heard his voice raised in anger. Now, it seemed, something or someone set
him off at least once a day. The co-op had turned into a place that most people were eager to quit at close of business; those
who remained stayed closeted in their offices or living quarters.

Upstairs I tossed the horrible shell-encrusted purse on my sofa and dug out a canvas tote from the bottom drawer of one of
the file cabinets. My possessions went in the tote and the purse went in the wastebasket. Damned if I was going to carry around
that reminder of the hideous journey. Next I sat down at my desk and called Hy’s room at Bakers-field Memorial.

“Much better,” he replied in response to my question. “They’ve still got an I.V. going, and they won’t let me have solid food,
but what the hell—I’m alive. How’re you doing? Is Habiba okay?”

“Fine, both of us. She’s with Anne-Marie and Hank. But, Ripinsky, he blew up the Azadi Consulate.”

“Hank? Oh, Christ, what am I saying? When?”

“Three this afternoon. Both Hamids were there, and presumably killed. The only survivor that I know of is Kahlil Lateef, the
trade attaché.”

He was silent, and I knew he was thinking Habiba could have been there. “The guy’s got to be stopped, McCone.” “Yes. I have
an idea that may help identify him, or at least narrow the range of suspects. Let me run this by you.” I detailed what I’d
thought of at the restaurant with Craig Morland.

Hy said, “What surprises me is that nobody’s thought of this before. Or maybe they did, but checked out the wrong group of
people.”

“I’m going to get hold of Mick and start him working on it right away.”

“Why not use Charlotte Keim, too?”

“I’d just as soon steer clear of RKI.”

“Why?”

“Renshaw and I are having a disagreement. I insisted he take all his information to the task force. He was willing to do it—with
or without Malika Hamid’s consent—when the bombs were sent to the Azadi Embassy and U.N. delegation. Now he’s backpedaling—protecting
the client’s interests, he claims, but he’s really protecting himself. He wouldn’t listen to the new information I have; all
he wanted was for me to turn Habiba over to him.”

“Sounds like it’s cover-Gage’s-ass time. What did you tell him about Habiba?”

“I refused to hand her over. He accused me of being on a power trip.”

“So?”

“Ripinsky, I’m
not.
I just want to keep the kid safe.”

“I know that, but don’t you think it’s possible you may also enjoy calling the shots where Gage is concerned?”

“Well…”

“Exactly. You can fault him in any number of ways, but not for pointing that out.”

“But he said I have a
twisted need
for power!”

Hy laughed. “The cad! You want me to duke it out with him?”

“Ripinsky!”

“Okay.” Serious now. “You know, I like calling the shots, too, and I own a good chunk of that company. Nothing to stop me
from phoning Gage from my bed of pain and setting him straight.”

The offer was tempting, but I had to fight my own battles with Renshaw. Besides, this was a time when I should be distancing
myself from RKI. “Thanks, but Mick and I can handle things as far as the data search goes. And you’re in that bed of pain
to recover from this malady, so please concentrate on that.”

My nephew had come to the connecting doorway between our offices, freshly groomed and probably well fed. I said good-bye to
Hy and set the receiver in its cradle, then swiveled toward Mick. “You look ready to go to work.”

* * *

“Shar, get in here!”

“What?” I started at the urgency in Mick’s voice.

“Now!”

I pushed up from my worn oriental rug, where I’d been poring over the spread-out files on the people involved in the case.
Mick sat at the computer, its screen glowing in the darkness of his tiny office. We’d been working together for several hours,
narrowing our list to a small number of suspects.

He pointed to the screen as I came in. “I took a break and checked the boards on the Web. Look at this. He’s signed it differently,
but I’ll bet it’s him.”

I leaned over his shoulder and read the line he indicated.

I AM NOT FINISHED. I WILL POST MY DEMANDS SOON.

The message was signed “Tied Hands.”

“Of course!” I said. “Tied hands—the first signature on the bombs was a metal device that looked like praying hands tied at
the wrists. It fits the motive perfectly. Dawud Hamid couldn’t legally be punished because the authorities’ hands were tied
by his diplomatic immunity. As were the hands of the authorities in all the other cases.”

“Fine, but why isn’t he finished? He blew Hamid to hell this afternoon.”

“Did
he?”

Mick turned from the screen, and his pale eyes fixed on mine. In that instant I realized how alike we were, and felt a connection
click into place between us that would hold firm for the rest of our lives.

I asked, “You still have the number of that cab that picked up Hamid on Russian Hill?”

But he was already digging a notebook from his shirt pocket and reaching for the phone. He punched in a number and gave the
person who answered a name—Inspector A. Joslyn—and an SFPD shield number—also Adah’s. Asked his questions and sat back, tapping
his pencil impatiently.

“Have you gotten information that way before?” I whispered.

“A time or two.”

“Adah’ll have your ass for that.”

“Not if we save
hers.
” He scribbled in his notebook, thanked the dispatcher, and broke the connection.

“Hamid’s alive,” I said.

“Right. He asked the cab driver to wait around the block in front of the consulate’s annex on Pacific. Showed up less than
twenty minutes later.”

“And went where?”

Mick held the notebook out. “The trip log shows an address on Manzanita Lane in Brisbane. Mean anything to you?”

It certainly did.

At eleven-ten the fog hung thick and motionless in the eucalyptus along Manzanita Lane, reminding me of the night I’d returned
there after pulling Mavis Hamid’s body from the Bay.

I drove past the plank bridge that led to Langley Newton’s bungalow, kept on to where the potholed pavement ended in a tangle
of scrub vegetation, and U-turned. A stand of cypress blocked my view of the bridge now; I tucked the MG behind it and cut
the lights. Then I reached for the car phone and called Mick.

“Anything?” I asked.

“I checked with all the cab dispatchers on that part of the Peninsula.
Nada.
If Hamid left Newton’s place, it was by private car.”

“You talk with Blanca?”

“Reached her at the condo; more entertaining tonight. She overheard the three of them arguing this morning. Ronquillo picked
up on some sexual tensions—woman-man things, Blanca calls them—between his lady and Hamid, and told him he had to leave. Hamid’s
run short of cash, and Visa has started kicking back his card because he’s over his limit, so Leila called Langley Newton
and asked him if Dawud could stay with him after he visited his mother.”

“Why couldn’t he persuade her to let him stay at the consulate?”

“Newton asked that, too; apparently he didn’t really want a visitor. Leila told him Malika had granted an audience of no more
than twenty minutes, on the condition that Dawud take the first flight back to the Caribbean. But he’s determined to stay
around till he can collect his daughter.”

“So it’s safe to assume he’s still here at Newton’s.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I know; I’d better make sure.” I looked glumly out the window at the thick, uninviting fog. “You making any headway on our
list of suspects?”

“Some. Blanca was able to answer a few of the questions I couldn’t find in any database, so I should have something for you
within the hour.”

“Then I’ll call you back after I take a look around here.”

I set the receiver back in its cradle and took the .38 that I’d picked up at home from my tote bag. Slipped out of the car,
locked it, and stood listening for a moment. Mutters came from a TV in one of the downhill dwellings; a dog barked monotonously
on the ridge. I stuck the gun into the waistband of my jeans, pulled my jacket collar up against the chill, and slid down
the incline to where the little creek trickled over moss-slick stones. As I moved along the creek bed I braced my hands against
the slope. When I sighted the plank bridge I scrabbled to higher ground and struck out through the grove.

Soon I sighted two rectangles of light: the front window of the bungalow and a smaller one toward the rear. I stopped at the
edge of the trees and scrutinized them; both were like projection screens on which the film had yet to run. I waited for several
minutes, smelling the distant sea under the more insistent cat-spray scent of the eucalyptus.

The black Citroen was pulled up in front of the bungalow, and beyond it the junk on the porch was a shadowy mare’s-nest where
anything or anyone might lurk. The dark hulks of the pickups didn’t look much more inviting, but they presented good vantage
points for watching the windows. I glanced around, then sprinted toward the closest one and crouched in its shadow, studying
the front window some more.

Newton had told me he seldom used that room except when he had company.

After about ten minutes an elongated shadow rippled from left to right across the pulled-down shade. It seemed to grow smaller,
then lengthened again and rippled back the way it had come. The tang of woodsmoke drifted through the air.

I looked up at the bungalow’s roof. There was a metal chimney above the spot where I recalled a woodstove standing, and it
now emitted a plume of smoke. Someone had stirred the fire. Who? And what about that light in back?

The other pickup was closer to the rear window. I ran to its shelter.

The shade back there was also taut, and the window was covered by a security grille. I watched, resting my eyes frequently
when the shadows cast by the bars began to play tricks on me. Five minutes. Ten. Fourteen—

Someone moved inside the room, had probably just come in. An indistinct shape passed the window. Passed once more, and a third
time. Then another figure appeared—larger and to the left. The first shape pivoted, and I imagined an exchange of words. In
less than a minute the light in the room went out.

I glanced at the front of the bungalow. The parlor window still glowed. Bent over, I dashed toward the other pickup. Reached
it in time to see the same tall shape pass the front window.

One person going to bed, one sitting up late. Two people in residence, anyway.

Quickly I retraced my path to the MG.

* * *

“Anything?” I asked Mick again.

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’re gonna like it. This analysis isn’t working for us.”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, I used the variables you gave me: presence in San Francisco during nineteen eighty-nine; presence in D.C. from ninety
through ninety-one; presence in New York City from ninety-one through ninety-two; and absence from the country from ninety-three
to late ninety-four. Based on that I came up with only two names of men connected with the case.”

“Who?”

“One’s Langley Newton.”

Newton, the bomber? Not too damn likely, given that he was currently playing host to the bomber’s primary target.

“No, I don’t like that,” I told Mick, “but give me the details, anyway.”

“Okay, he worked at Das Glücksspiel from the mid-eighties till it was sold in fall of eighty-nine. Remained in the city through
the holidays, then took a job with a firm that manages food services on military installations. Was in the D.C. area till
ninety-one, New Jersey from ninety-one through two. Then he left that company and went to work for a franchise that was setting
up outlets in Europe. Was overseas where he couldn’t’ve mailed a bomb during ninety-three and the early part of ninety-four.
It all fits.”