The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (7 page)

Slowly I prowled the bottom of the pit, looking for…what? I wasn’t sure. In a cleared area near the center were the remains of a fire, not the same remains I’d seen on my previous visit. I shone the flashlight on charred wood stained with drippings. There was no evidence of a pot of any sort, much less an iron one suitable for boiling an infant. I squatted down, leaned closer, sniffing. Bacon. Other meat odors. Something sweet. What…? Marshmallows. Even the homeless were entitled to a treat once in a while—

I picked up a stick and stirred through the charred wood pieces. Something glinted among them. I poked at it. A piece of metal with a small bit of leather attached to one end. I placed it in one of the plastic bags I keep in my “skulking clothes” for collecting evidence, then stirred the wood and ashes some more. Next, a cigarette lighter—gold, expensive-looking, probably a Dunhill. What the hell was that doing here?

Well, one of the homeless people might have found or stolen it, then dropped it while lighting a fire. I flipped the lid and flicked the control on its side: it didn’t work; the wick and elements looked burned out. Maybe tossed away by someone who didn’t know they could be replaced? Or couldn’t afford to replace them? It went into another bag.

There were remnants of long matches such as you use to start fireplaces or barbecues; a ballpoint pen with the name of its supplier obliterated; a segment of a thick ornamental gold cord; a paper clip chain, the clips in the shape of dog bones; a buckle that looked as if it might have come from a watchband. You never know, so all of that went into baggies too.

Clang!

Something struck a sheet of metal close to my head. Instinctively I turned the flash off and dropped to the ground, covering my head. The object thrown from above hadn’t sounded large. A beer can, maybe?

Another clang. Definitely a can of some sort.

Silence. Probably whoever had done the throwing wasn’t aiming at me. Just another refuse dumper.

We’re becoming a nation of slobs.

No sooner had I gotten to my feet than my cell vibrated. I pulled it from my pocket, checked the number. Ma.

For God’s sake, not again! Not now!

I switched the phone off, knowing there would be hell to pay when I returned the call.

I’d been there in the pit long enough. Carefully I made my way to street level, clutching the top edge and peering up and down the street before I pulled myself up and headed for my car.

11:20 p.m.

The landline was ringing when I stepped into our new house.

Not Ma again!

The machine clicked on and announced that the parties it served were not available.

The caller was my sister Charlene Christiansen, in Bel Air, outside of L.A. Mick’s mother, Ricky’s former wife. The smart one, with a PhD in international finance and a thriving career. But first and foremost a mother—she was devoted to her six kids.

“What’s the matter with Ma?” she asked when I picked up. “She’s driving me crazy!”

“I got the message about the show with her paintings in it, but that can’t be the trouble. What’s she upset about now?”

“That Patsy has, quote, gone and done it again, unquote.”

Patsy is the family’s youngest, a chef and restaurant owner currently living in the Napa Valley. She also has three kids by three different fathers, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if earth mother Patsy wanted a fourth.

“So what’s Ma’s problem? Pats can support any number of kids.”

“Ma finds it ‘unseemly.’”

“What’s unseemly is Ma objecting. She loves her grandkids. She’s always after Hy and me to give her another one.”

“That’s because you don’t have any. Have too many and—pow!—you’re in trouble.”

She ought to know. I said, “I suppose you want me to talk to Ma.”

“Would you? Please? Pretty please?”

“Maybe. What’ll you give me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t do family stuff for nothing, you know.”

“Bitch. What do you want?”

“Free tickets to a Cheryl Wheeler concert.”

“I’m sure Ricky can score some. Just ask him.”

“No,
you
ask him.”

“If this is about my reluctance to ask favors from my ex-husband—”

“There’s a concert coming up in Boulder this June. I haven’t seen the Rockies in ages.”

“You want plane fare.”

“For two. And when I’m in Denver, I love to stay at the Brown Palace.”

“Mercenary!”

“Oh, and there’s this great little restaurant that serves the most amazing duck—”

“Bitch!”

“Beloved sister, whom I’m saving from a very uneasy conversation—”

“Okay, you talk with Ma. I’ll foot the bill for your vacation.” Charlene’s voice softened. “Besides,” she added, “this mess of a family owes you more than you can imagine.”

Before I called Ma, I decided to call Patsy. She was a hands-on restaurateur who would be there until the last dish was washed and the last dime counted.

“Villa Napoli,” a chipper female voice said.

“Patsy McCone, please.”

“Ms. Patsy is busy right now.”

I knew very well what Ms. Patsy was doing at this hour: relaxing with a glass—or three—of wine after the evening rush. “Tell her to get off her butt and talk with her sister.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

In a minute Patsy came on the line. “Which sister?” she asked.

“The oldest one.”

“Shar! How are you?”

“Fine. How’re you?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

I cut to the chase. “Ma says you’ve ‘gone and done it again.’ Are you pregnant?”

“God, is that all the family can give me credit for? I happen to have bought a new restaurant. In Sonoma.”

“That’s great! What about Villa Napoli?”

“It’ll go on. I’ve hired an excellent manager.”

“So you’re moving to Sonoma?”

“I am. Watch out, Shar, I’m getting closer and closer to you every year.”

Sonoma wasn’t all that much closer to the city than Napa. “I’ll worry about that when you buy down here.”

“Actually, I’ve got my sights set on a pretty good location there too.”

We chatted for a while about her kids, her current boyfriends—always plural these days—and Hy and me. Then I explained about Ma’s complaints to Charlene, which she promised to straighten out—leaving me free of further late-night conversation.

I regarded the ziplocks I’d offloaded onto the kitchen table when I’d come in. Then I got a section of newspaper from the recycle bin and emptied the bags onto it. Pretty slim pickings.

The gold cigarette lighter was the only valuable item. I checked it over, found it wouldn’t light—although it did give off an unpleasant butane stink—but I couldn’t imagine anybody throwing out such an expensive lighter as if it were a disposable Bic. I’d have it checked by Richman Labs for residual contents and prints tomorrow and then have them messenger it to the Dunhill store near Union Square; it was a long shot, but maybe someone there would be able to identify its purchaser.

The piece of metal with the leather attached to one end could have been from a watchband; also the silver buckle. But buckles and chains went into so many accessories these days…long matches? Well, what else would you use to start a fire in a windswept lot? Ballpoint pen, dog bone paper clip chain? Junk. Gold cord? Same.

I yawned. Looked at Jessie the cat, who was eyeing me in hope of more food.

“Tomorrow, Miz Scarlett,” I told her, “is another day.”

Then I scooped her up and carried her to bed.

8:10 a.m.

H
y phoned me right before he boarded his plane home from Des Moines, sounding grim.

“Situation here’s been resolved, and the one out there’s still under wraps, but Gregor Deeds, the op I put in charge of the Hoffman case in my absence, reports we’ve received another series of those weird, taunting e-mails.”

“Read them to me.”

“I’d rather not; this isn’t a secure line. How about I meet you at one o’clock in that parklet near our building? I’ll bring hot dogs and Cokes.”

“See you then.”

9:41 a.m.

I’d decided to deliver the gold lighter to Richman Labs myself, knowing it would expedite my request to analyze the remains of its contents and identify any prints if I asked in person. I was just leaving there when Mick called.

“You all set for our evening with the Night Searchers?” he asked.

“I guess. But what if Givens shows up and recognizes me?”

“Jeez, I’d think you, of all people, would know how to disguise yourself.”

“Of course I do, but the man’s seen me up close and recently.”

“It’ll be dark. Givens might not even show, and if he does, you just slip into the shadows and abort your involvement.”

“Sorry, I’m not tracking too well.”

“Late night?”

“Late and bad. Dreams, you know.”

“Yeah, I do.”

We made arrangements for meeting that night, and then I touched base with Julia.

“Chad loves Italian food,” she told me. “At lunchtime yesterday I followed him to a restaurant named Bella near his office building on Sacramento Street, where he ate for three hours: antipasto, scampi cocktail, soup, pasta, fish, roasted lamb, and a gooey, disgusting dessert. And wine, lots of wine.”

“You were right there in the restaurant?”

“In a small booth across the aisle.”

“Did he notice you?”

“Nope, he was too busy eating.”

“What did you have?”

“Are you worried about my expense account?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

“Minestrone, garlic bread, and a gooey, disgustingly wonderful dessert.”

“No wine?”

“I was working a case…well, yeah, two glasses of Chianti. But during three hours of observing a pig, I felt entitled.”

“Rightfully so. Where’d Kenyon go next?”

“Home to his house on Pacific Avenue. While he was at the restaurant, he didn’t speak or have any other kind of contact with anybody except the waiter.”

“Keep on him.”

“If he goes out again tomorrow, can I eat whatever I want?”

“Eat anything you please, but go easy on the wine.”

10:45 a.m.

Patrick Neilan, red-haired and ruddy-faced, was sitting in my office when I arrived.

“Done with the deadbeat dad,” he said, “and Ted tells me you can use help on another case.”

“Oh, yeah, can I ever.” I plunked my briefcase down on my desk and myself in my chair.

“Surveillance?”

“On a client.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Name’s Jay Givens.” I explained the case and gave him a folder with the details and a photo of the subject that Mick had pulled off the Net. “Stay with him no matter where he goes, especially at night.” I filled him in on the Night Searchers’ activities.

“Right. I get it. What about the wife—this Camilla?”

“I’d like someone on her, but everybody else is tied up.”

“You know, that woman you hired as a temp a few weeks ago—Erica Wilbur—strikes me as a person with a talent for our kind of work.”

“Really?”

“She’s jazzed about investigation, very detail-oriented, logical, and observant.”

“And?”

“Okay, I’d like you to keep her around, so I could see more of her.”

Romance and business. They seldom work, but sometimes they do. Witness Hy and me.

“Why don’t you send her in and I’ll talk with her?”

11:20 a.m.

Erica Wilbur had come to us because of an ad we’d placed three weeks ago for someone to transfer our older case files to our central computer. She’d proved to be efficient and, though somewhat shy, fit well into the mix of personalities. When she entered my office, she nervously pushed a strand of her long dark brown hair behind her ear—something I’d seen her do before in times of stress. Probably she was afraid I was going to tell her that we no longer required her services.

I motioned for her to sit, and she did, pulling the hem of her shirt down as far as it would go—which wasn’t much. The way she folded her hands and crossed her legs at the ankles reminded me of an anxious little girl at dancing school.

“Patrick tells me you’re excited about investigative work,” I said.

“Oh, yes.” The edgy expression disappeared and her gold-flecked eyes shone. “I’ve been reading some of the files I scan. That is okay? I’m only reading them for my own information.”

“It’s okay as long as you don’t discuss what you read with anyone outside the agency. How much information have you picked up about surveillances?”

“Quite a bit. Always take water and food and something to…pee in. Don’t stare fixedly at any one point, but scan the scene. If in a car, park inconspicuously. Wear dark clothing, even in daylight, and have a couple of changes in case you need to go someplace where what you’ve got on isn’t appropriate.” She was ticking the items off on her fingers. I stopped her before she got to number five.

“How’d you like to run a trial surveillance?”

She asked eagerly, “When?”

“Right away.” I pushed the file containing a photograph and information on Camilla Givens across to her. “I want to know where this woman goes and what she does twenty-four seven. If you see her with a man and spot Patrick in the vicinity, don’t be surprised or acknowledge him. I’ve got him on the husband.”

“I’ll read it and be on my way in my trusty Ford Falcon.”

Ford Falcon?
As far as I knew, they hadn’t been manufactured in this country since the sixties. I hoped Erica’s was more trustworthy than Rae’s now-defunct Rambler American—called the Ramblin’ Wreck—had been.

1:00 p.m.

Hy and I met at the parklet next to the RI building exactly on time. He carried the promised bag of hot dogs and Cokes. I carried what files I thought were relevant to our conversation. We sat down on a secluded bench to eat.

“Parklets” are another recent phenomenon in the city—or perhaps they’ve always existed but have now been given a name. Little grassy and well-landscaped oases—often equipped with benches, tables, and chairs—tucked away from the general foot traffic, where people can eat their lunches, have quiet conversations, or simply contemplate their lives. Most are privately financed, as was this one by RI; others are the products of nonprofits; a few are maintained by the already-strapped coffers of the city. They add to San Francisco’s old-world charm and sense of concern for the well-being of its citizens.

Hy pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and handed them to me. There, in the familiar capital-letters format, were five messages:

“They—or he—are getting more aggressive in his tone,” I said. “Frustrated that there’s been no publicity or definite response.”

“So let’s up his aggression and frustration. Those’re two emotions that can lead to revealing actions.”

“Dangerous actions too. We don’t want any more out-of-control killings in this country.”

“This guy’s not dangerous. Not like that.”

“How d’you know?”

“Believe me, McCone, for more years than I care to remember, I’ve sat across tables in interrogation rooms from guys like this. Give me a little time and I’ll figure out how to lure him right into our arms.”

“Okay. Now we need to talk more about the situation. I e-mailed you about those conflicting reports from the family members. Which sounds the most genuine to you?”

“None, but there’s a grain of truth in all of them.”

“Let’s start with the Global Policy Forum. I put Derek on it, and it turns out that it
is
going to be terminated. Leaving Hoffman out of a job and with minimal retirement and health benefits.”

“And the violence that the one daughter talked about?”

“No hospital or emergency services reports. Doesn’t go with the apathy his niece Suzy described to me.”

“Jane Hoffman’s take on things…?”

“Doesn’t count. She’s either an expert liar or so far out in la-la land that I don’t think she’ll ever make her way back.”

“Terrific family.” Hy shook his head. “Crazy mom, crazy daughter, estranged daughter, and Suzy, who seems to be the only one of them who’s halfway well wrapped.”

“Or devious mom and daughters. Suzy’s really the only one I trust—with reservations.”

“Which are?”

“I sense she doesn’t like any of the others, and as the favorite niece, Suzy has a great deal to gain if they fall out of favor with their parents.”

“As I said, terrific family.”

3:45 p.m.

Julia came into my office looking tipsy. She flopped into a chair, removed the abalone-shell combs from her hair, and let it fall.

“What a day!” she exclaimed, exhaling heartily.

I could smell her breath: red wine and garlic.

“Imbibed a bit again, huh?”

“A bit? No, a lot. That Chad Kenyon can really put his booze away. And eat? That man could gobble down a whole steer and then ask for an ox.” She burped and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I hooked up with him for lunch, and he practically forced me to keep pace with him.”

“How’d you manage that? The hooking up, not the keeping pace.”

“Wasn’t difficult. He came out of his office building, went to Bella—same restaurant as last night. Same private booth. I asked the waiter for the booth across the aisle. Only this time I oogled him.”

“Oogled?”

“Maybe it’s pronounced
ogle
. Anyway, turns out he really is a sucker for Latina beauties—that’s what he called me, a Latina beauty.”

“And you called him?”

“Chad.”

“Okay, while all this talk of your beauty was going on, did you manage to learn anything of relevance?”

She cast me an indignant look. “Yes, I recorded the conversation. It wasn’t a situation where I could take notes, and I was afraid that with the wine, my mind—”

“I understand.” I had been there a number of times myself. “Play the tape.”

At first there was some talk about what Julia did for a living—she’d inherited a lot of money from her mother, who was a descendant of one of the original Spanish land-grant families, and didn’t have to work, but she had once published a book of poetry and was thinking of setting up a gallery to aid unappreciated young artists. Then Chad talked about buying and selling things. (“Never hold on to anything longer than sixty days, that’s my philosophy.”)

Julia interjected, “Chad hates his brother Dick.”

And apparently he did, for his voice went on and on about the number of their shared deals Dick had cost them by failing to make the right move at the right time. (“He’s a loner. Doesn’t want to negotiate. Just wants to go off to his cabin in Cazadero and sit in the woods.”)

“Where the hell is Cazadero, anyway?” Julia had asked him.

“Sonoma County, the western hills.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“It’s nowhere land. And Dick just sits in the woods. What kind of man does that?”

“What should he be doing?”

“Tending to business, dammit! We’ve got this building site, bought it two years ago and started the foundation for a high-rise. Then when he’s supposed to go to get the other permits, he doesn’t. He just hangs around in the woods. Says it gives him peace. I should get some peace sometime, maybe. But that ain’t gonna happen in this life.”

“So what’s your next project?”

“We’re leaving for Europe tomorrow—Amsterdam—if I can get him out of the woods.”

“Going to buy Holland?”

A pause, then a chuckle. “Why not?”

Julia shut off the recorder. “The rest is mostly eating noises, and you don’t want to hear
those
.”

“You bet I don’t. So the Kenyons are pretty much out of the picture.”

“Sorry I couldn’t get anything significant.”

“It was a blind lead. As you know, you get a lot of them in this business.”

“Well, at least I got a couple of great meals.”

5:10 p.m.

Mick said, “I’m not getting anyplace. There’s some pretty sophisticated stuff blocking access to these sites.”

“What’re you looking at?”

“Van Hoffman’s personal accounts. His company’s. Even the flight service he uses.”

“What about commercial airlines?”

“Doesn’t fly them, according to his executive assistant.”

“And how did you find that out?”

He did a good imitation of a villain’s leer for me. “I met her for coffee. She’s pretty, hot, and twenty-two.”

“And you worked your magic.”

“Um, sort of.”

His tone was short, meaning it was an avenue he didn’t care to pursue because it would lead straight to his relationship with Alison. I respected his silence; he’d tell me when he was ready.

“Let’s go over our plans,” he said. “Seven thirty, we’re to meet in the Panhandle, under a cypress tree near Masonic and Lyon. I think we ought to drive there separately; we might need two vehicles later.”

“So then we follow the clues, and somebody wins the prize.”

“That’s about it. I know it doesn’t sound all that exciting to you, given what you’ve been doing all these years, but I can see its appeal to people with basically nothing in their lives.”

“Actually, it sounds pretty interesting.”

“Unless there’s danger involved that we don’t know about.”

“If there is, we’ll deal with it.”

He looked at his watch. “If we’re to make it by seven thirty, that leaves just enough time for you to treat me to a home-cooked meal.”

6:45 p.m.

The meal wasn’t really home-cooked, but Stouffer’s lasagna and a bagged green salad with cranberries and candied walnuts are always good. Hy wasn’t home yet, so I covered the rest of the meal with foil and left it on the kitchen counter for him. Then I made a quick call to Camilla Givens, asking if we might get together—just she and I, and I emphasized it this time—for a talk in the morning.