A Wild and Lonely Place (5 page)

Actually, a lot of things about All Souls were beginning to pale for me. If it wasn’t for the relatively low rent and the
live-in presence of Rae and Ted, plus the daily presence of my oldest and dearest friend, Hank Zahn, I’d have seriously considered
moving the office. Trouble was, I didn’t know where I wanted to go; I’d been working out of this building for so long that
it felt like a second skin. But All Souls had changed, and so had I. The days whose memory I cherished, when the co-op had
been a laid-back, unconventional institution where the old me fit perfectly, were gone forever.

Can’t turn back the calendar, McCone, I told myself. And you don’t really want to, anyway.

* * *

I spent the next few hours scanning the data on the bombings that Mick had entered on disk. First I looked for commonalities:
among the nations whose diplomatic missions had been hit; among the members of those missions who had been the apparent targets.
None applied across the board. Next I scrutinized each file for references to messages other than the ones that arrived after
the bombings. There were none. None of the countries had a significant relationship with Azad, hostile or peaceful. My analysis
of the dates and times of the incidents revealed no pattern.

By the time I switched off the machine I’d developed a headache. I helped myself to three aspirin from the bottle on Rae’s
shelf in the communal bathroom’s medicine chest, then went back to my desk and made a list of things I wanted Mick to research:
Azad; its consulate here; the staff of that consulate; similar background on each of the other countries that had been bombed,
going back ten years. Was that far enough? Yes, for now.

I had a court appearance scheduled for tomorrow morning that would keep me away from the office, so I briefly considered calling
Mick and explaining the list. No, I decided, bad idea to intrude on his romantic evening with Maggie. My nephew was fairly
easygoing, but he had his limits; if I bothered him tonight he was likely to retaliate in some bizarre and unpredictable way.
I’d write a detailed note and, if necessary, call him from City Hall tomorrow.

I weighted down the note in the middle of his desk with a volume titled
How To Make Your Own Professional Lock Tools
by one Eddie-the-Wire. Mick’s taste in what he called professional reading ran to the lurid, and some time ago I’d decided
it was best not to think too much about what skills he might be developing. He had a checkered past as far as the uses to
which he’d put the computer and considering that, I supposed his interest in electronic eavesdropping, con artists, disguises,
and the driving of getaway cars was only natural. Until I actually caught him picking a lock or fashioning a bug, I’d leave
him to his somewhat suspect pastime.

It was now close to nine, but I felt too restless and wound up to go home. I went back to my desk and made a list of conditions
I wanted in my contract with RKI, adding to those Renshaw and I had already discussed a generous advance against expenses
and a limitation on how frequently I’d have to report. Then I straightened the papers in my In and Out boxes, went through
my pen holder for felt-tips that no longer worked, discarded three stubby pencils and sharpened two more. After I’d checked
the spindled message slips for calls I’d failed to return, I slumped in my chair and contemplated the velvety blackish-red
petals of the rose in the bud vase on the desk’s corner. A single rose arrived every Tuesday morning, courtesy of Hy; although
the color had changed over the time we’d been together, deepening along with the relationship, it was a constant I’d come
to depend upon.

Impulsively I picked up the phone receiver and dialed Mendocino County.

Hy answered after several rings, sounding groggy and oddly subdued. “Did I wake you?” I asked.

“No, I’m just feeling feverish. I think I picked up a bug in Managua.” He had conducted a hostage recovery there a few weeks
before—his area of specialization, and a service he provided RKI in exchange for autonomy on his own projects in the human-rights
area.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I will, as soon as I get back to the ranch. So what’s happening?”

“I spent the afternoon with your buddy Gage Renshaw.”

“Not in the sack, I hope.” A few months ago Renshaw had mentioned to Hy that he found me sexy; my lover still teased me, knowing
I considered Gage as sexually interesting as a banana slug.

“Bite your tongue, Ripinsky!”

“So what
were
you doing?”

I explained about the Azadis, the bombing attempt, and Renshaw’s proposition.

When I finished, Hy asked, “McCone, you sure you want to contract with him?”

“Why not? I’ve dealt with him before—under extremely stressful circumstances, as you remember—and held my own.”

“You holding your own is the last thing I’m concerned about.”

“What, then?”

“…Nothing, really. I suppose I’m projecting the uneasy quality of my own relationship with Gage onto your situation.”

“Well, uneasy describes how I always feel about him, but I can handle it.”

“Good.” Then he changed the subject. “What time’ll you be up here tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure. It could be a long day.”

“Why don’t I fly down and get you, then. Save some travel time.”

“No, I’m bringing some stuff along, so I have to drive.”

“For the cottage? What this time?”

“Some more pottery. New towels. A mirror I found at a garage sale.”

He laughed. “Nest feathering again, huh?”

Ever since he and I had acquired the cottage, I’d found myself irresistibly drawn to objects: rugs, linens, kitchen gear,
furniture. I’d begun scouring the flea markets and garage sales for brightly glazed pottery from the thirties, forties, and
fifties—even though Hy had pointed out that we’d have to wash it by hand since it wasn’t dishwasher-proof. Of course, that
hardly mattered, since we hadn’t yet bought the dishwasher.…

I smiled at how the thought triggered an urge to order one first thing tomorrow.

“Kind of strange, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not really. You must know why you’re doing it.”

“And why am I, Dr. Freud?”

“That’s easy. You’re surrounding yourself with things that’ll give the illusion of keeping the craziness of the world at bay.
It’s pretty goddamn wild and lonely out there nowadays.”

It made sense. “You ever feel that way?”

“God, yes. Why do you think I wanted this cottage?”

“But you’ve got your ranch, your stuff. I’ve got my house here, my stuff. Why do we need more?”

“Somehow the craziness keeps its distance better when we’re in our place, surrounded by our stuff.”

My eyes stung; I swallowed. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow night with another carload of it.”

* * *

When I got home half an hour later, I found the craziness had invaded my earthquake cottage. W.C. Fields was lying mutilated
on my sitting room floor.

I let out a howl of dismay and scooped up the seventy-five-buck silk parrot. He’d been dragged from his perch by the window,
and his colorful tail hung in tatters. One talon was severed, and both beady eyes hung by threads. His formerly crotchety
expression looked woeful. I didn’t know whether to try to repair him or bury him in the backyard.

“All right!” I shouted. “All
right!
Who did this?”

From the kitchen door two pairs of feline eyes watched me warily. I set W.C. on the coffee table and advanced upon my orange
tabby, Ralph, and his calico sister, Alice.

“I have warned you—that parrot is not for you! But did you listen? No, you did not.”

Surprisingly, both cats held their ground, looking defiant and not a little smug. They’d hated W.C. since the day I’d brought
him home, and apparently felt fully justified in their attack.

I leaned down and studied them carefully, hoping to spot a telltale scrap of silk hanging from a mouth or a claw. No clues.

“We have ways of making you talk,” I told them.

Ralph glanced at Allie.

“And I will offer immunity to the accomplice who’s willing to testify against the other.”

Allie looked at Ralph.

“I’d read you your rights, but you have none.”

They whirled and galloped toward their pet door.

“Don’t leave town without informing me!”

The pet door flapped and clattered shut.

“I must be losing my mind,” I said.

* * *

Adah called at quarter after eleven. I’d been soaking in the bathtub, alternately contemplating the feasibility of repairing
W.C. and trying to decide how much to tell Joslyn about my deal with RKI. When the phone rang I got out of the tub, pulled
on my white terry-cloth robe, and padded into the kitchen, dripping water in my path.

“So,” she snapped, “what were you doing at the Azadi Consulate with the head of their security firm?”

“That’s a pleasant greeting.”

“Just answer the question.”

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” I took the cordless into the bathroom, slipped out of my robe, and slid back into the
tub.

“One thing, I’m still at the office and likely to be here all night. The others—ah, shit, you don’t want to know. Now will
you tell me…please?”

I settled on a half-truth. “After I left you, I ran into Gage. We were having coffee when he got the call about the bombing,
so I went along for the ride.”

Joslyn snorted. “Cut the crap. You can’t stand Renshaw; you wouldn’t have coffee with him if you were going into caffeine
withdrawal. Besides, why was Renshaw hanging around task force headquarters?”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“Craig Morland, the FBI guy I was with at the scene, told me he saw the two of you getting off the elevator at Eddy Street.”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“All right—I may be onto something, but I can’t talk about it yet.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Both.”

Her voice rose now. “McCone, what’re you trying to pull on me?”

“I’m not trying to ‘pull’ anything. We agreed I’d help you with this case, but you’ve got to let me do it my own way. Give
me some room to operate, will you?”

“Room to operate?” She sounded downright shrill. “Give you room, so you can fuck me over just like the feds—”

“Adah, take it easy. You’ve had a long day, a bad day. Why don’t you go home—”

“I don’t need advice from you. I don’t need advice from anybody!” She slammed the receiver down, hard.

I held the cordless away from my ear and stared at it, as if I could see along the electronic waves to my friend’s face. Then
I flicked it off and set it on the floor next to the tub. I’d never heard Joslyn so out of control.

After a moment I added more hot water and bath oil, slid down till my chin was immersed and the ends of my hair trailed out
around me, and thought about the nature of my friendship with Adah.

We’d met a couple of years before when a client of mine was murdered. I’d broken that case, in cooperation with her and her
then partner, Bart Wallace. Afterwards we’d started hanging out together: she’d meet me after work at the Remedy Lounge down
the hill from All Souls, or I’d pick her up at the Hall and we’d go out for dinner. We’d ride our bikes in the park—yet another
of my schemes to get more exercise—or drive up into the wine country on weekends. Recently she’d even talked me into joining
her health club. But while we were doing all those things, we also talked about her cases.

Adah used me as a sounding board. She’d fill me in on the details of a given case, run her theories by me; she’d note my reactions,
draw out my ideas. I didn’t mind; if anything, I felt as if I was contributing something to the effort to get criminals off
the streets. But now that I thought about it, I began to see a pattern that I didn’t like.

My input often helped Joslyn make her collars. But once made, they were strictly hers; she never acknowledged my help, not
even to say a private thank-you. One time I’d casually mentioned my efforts, and her reaction startled me. What did I want,
she asked, a citizen’s commendation? My name engraved on the cornerstone of the new jail?

Well, no, but a few words of appreciation wouldn’t have hurt.

Now I began to wonder why I’d spent the past two weeks brainstorming with her about the Diplo-bomber. Why I’d put in long
nights poring over files that had to be back on her desk first thing in the morning. Given her past pattern, if I helped her
solve the case Joslyn would take all the credit and, promise or no promise, neglect to recommend me for the reward.

I wasn’t going to allow that prospect to stop me, though. The bomber was still walking the streets of the city. And now that
I’d seen Habiba Hamid’s shiny dark eyes, I was in this for the duration. I’d find a way to handle Joslyn, just as in the past
I’d found a way to handle Renshaw.

But, damn. I hadn’t expected that I’d need to play manipulative games with a woman I regarded as my friend.

Kahlil Lateef, trade attaché to the Azadi Consulate, was rotund and bore an unfortunate resemblance to the late Richard M.
Nixon. He glared down at the plates of tapas on the table between us and prodded the
ropa vieja
with his fork. Lateef had chosen the Mexican restaurant near Valencia Street in the Mission district because he’d read about
it in a food magazine, but now he seemed displeased.

“What did the waiter say the name of this dish translates to?” he asked me.

“‘Old clothes.’”

“Why would they call it such a thing?” His Oxbridge accent would have sounded haughty, were it not underscored by the softer
cadences of his native tongue.

“I suppose because it sounds more interesting than ‘shredded beef’.”

Lateef set down his fork and sipped water, frowning.

“Try some of that chicken in peanut sauce,” I suggested, glad we’d ordered a large variety of the tapas.

He examined the chicken suspiciously, even though it had been his choice.

The restaurant was one of my favorites—bright and homey, with excellent food and a lively staff who made every meal a festive
occasion, but I was surprised Lateef had wanted to eat there, given the dietary restrictions of Islam. I suspected he’d chosen
it solely for its location—near my office and about as far from the consulate as he could get. When Gage Renshaw had asked
the attachée to meet with me, he’d expressed concern about Mrs. Hamid rinding out he’d done so. Even now he glanced around
furtively, as if afraid she’d stationed spies in the heart of the Mission.