Go-Between (26 page)

“I'd like cold sake,” she said.

“Our house cold sake is Ozeki. But we have a big list if you want to try something more unusual.”

“What do you recommend?”

“We have so many good ones. But I like Akita Seishu Dewatsuru Hihaku. It's Junmai Daiginjo sake, so very high quality.”

“Sure,” Michelle said. Why not? She wasn't paying for it.

The sushi chef closest to her seat finished searing the albacore he was preparing, and as he shaped the rice for the
nigiri
, said: “What would you like?”

“
Omakase
,” Michelle said, managing a smile. “You choose.”

Just let someone else make the decisions.

The waitress brought her the sake, a full crystal glass in a wood box nearly overflowing with sake. Michelle sipped. It really was delicious: crisp, floral, with a hint of some fruit she couldn't place.

I should have some water, she thought. Her mouth was dry—she was probably dehydrated from the flight. She turned to catch her waitress's attention.

There at a table on the other side of the tangled branches were Caitlin and Troy. She couldn't see Troy's face from this angle, but she could see Caitlin, and she was laughing, as though Troy had just told her a joke.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Unfortunately, it doesn't seem
to have been an administrative error.”

Michelle nodded, though of course Marisol couldn't see that. The lawyer had called her late in the afternoon, after Michelle and Caitlin had gotten back from clothes shopping, with the news that Michelle had expected.

“We filed the request for the transfer, and if we don't get a favorable response or if they drag their heels about it, we'll take the next step.”

Marisol sounded tired. Maybe even discouraged. Michelle didn't know her well enough to be certain.

“How long before they make a decision?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Two to four weeks. Though I've seen it happen in as soon as five days.”

She was pretty sure it wouldn't happen in five days.

Two to four weeks. Could she afford to wait that long? With Danny in that place and with whatever Gary was planning?

“Okay,” she said. “And
. . .
Jeff. How is he doing?”

“Well, you know Jeff,” Marisol said. Like she actually knew him. “He's hanging in there, making the best of it.”

“Can he
. . .
is he able to call me?”

“You may have to set up a new account. I'm pretty sure a different company runs the phones there.”

“Great,” Michelle said. “I'll do that.”

Just great.

She wrote Derek an
email.

 

Hi Derek,

I can't set up that meeting you wanted for another few days. I'm going to send you some additional funds to cover your expenses in the meantime.

Thanks for all your efforts.

Best,

Miche

 

She stopped. Erased that portion of her name. Typed in “Emily,” and sent the email.

“So
. . .
how was your dinner with Troy?”

“You know
. . .
it was really good. We talked so long I think we just about closed that bar down.”

Michelle and Caitlin rode in the back of a town car on the way to the event in Sea Cliff. The event was cocktails and hors d'oeuvres beginning at 6:30
p.m.
and running until 9:30, but Caitlin wasn't expected to appear until 7. They had some time and the traffic was bad, so the driver took them on a circuitous route along the outer edge of Golden Gate Park, with views of the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge: a series of postcards of the long, slow summer sunset, the encroaching fog.

“I can't explain why Troy and I've hit it off the way we have. It sure wasn't anything I was expecting. But I'm really thankful for it. You know, he lost a parent to addiction and a brother to violence, along with a lot of friends. There's plenty of pain in the world to go around. Maybe I just needed a reminder of that.”

Caitlin looked thoughtful. Not like she'd looked before when mentioning Troy, not embarrassed, not flirtatious, not like a woman who was doing something a little rebellious and enjoying it.

“I've been feeling for a while now that the way we've been approaching things in Safer America is just
. . .
that we're doing it wrong. That a lot of what we've been supporting isn't productive, and maybe it's even the opposite of that.” Now she turned to Michelle, briefly rested her hand on Michelle's arm. “I can tell you these things, right? I mean, you're not committed to what Safer America's been doing the way
. . .
well, the way the board and most of the employees are. Are you?”

Michelle swallowed hard. “No. No, I'm not.”

Caitlin smiled. “Good. I didn't think you were.”

I'm not here to help you, Michelle wanted to say. I'm not your friend. And if I'm being at all smart, I need to get on the phone to fucking Gary and tell him that you've slipped your leash. Unless of course that would trigger whatever endgame he has to blow things up and blame me for it.

“So
. . .
it's not like I met Troy and I suddenly had a come-to-Jesus moment,” Caitlin said. “I was thinking a lot of this stuff already. I just
. . .
I didn't want to think it all the way. Does that make sense?”

“Sure,” Michelle said. “Yes. It does.”

“He's really helped me take that last step, and
. . .
” Now Caitlin did blush. “I don't feel so afraid.”

But you should feel afraid, Michelle thought. You really should.

“That's great to hear,” she said.

“And you know
. . .
you've been a part of it too. You showed up at just the right time. I really have wanted to make some changes. To
. . .
to just get moving again. You gave me the push I needed. And I can't tell you how much I appreciate that.”

Michelle felt tears gathering in her eyes. Stop it, she told herself. You don't have time.

“That's nice of you to say. But
. . .
you did it on your own. Without me, and without Troy. You're a really strong person. Just
. . .
remember that. Okay?”

What the fuck was she going to do?

Caitlin gave her a look that Michelle couldn't quite interpret. Some combination of measuring and amused. “You are one fierce lady,” she said. “One of these days you're gonna have to tell me how you got that way.”

They rode for a while in silence, the car turning away from the sea road with its cliffs and pines.

“I don't want to embarrass the people who're hosting the event,” Caitlin said with a sigh. “Though, I don't know, I also don't want to take peoples' money under false pretenses. Because when we get back to Houston, I'm planning on switching up our priorities. I don't want to put our money into this election. I might not agree with legalizing marijuana, but it's a waste of our resources fighting it. And I definitely don't want to support going after this sentencing proposition. It makes no sense to me at all. But a lot of the folks who're coming tonight, well, they're only showing up because of our positions in this election.”

She hesitated.

“What do you think I should do? How should I handle it?”

Oh, Christ, Michelle thought.

“Shake their hands and take their money?” She said it with a smile, lightly, like she was making a joke, but she knew that of all the things that could happen tonight, this would be the safest option for Caitlin, and for her.

“Yeah, except I don't want to deal with the mess when they start screaming for their money back.”

Michelle scrambled around for the next best option.

“Maybe
. . .
say something along the lines of what you did in Los Angeles. That your goal is a safer America, and you're open to new approaches on how to achieve that.”

Caitlin grinned. “You know, I invited Troy to come along tonight. He didn't think that was a good idea. Said he could just see people's heads explode. But I'm still gonna put him on the guest list. Maybe he'll show up. Wouldn't that be a hoot?”

“Hahah, yeah.”

Please don't show up, Troy, Michelle thought.

This was already going to be bad enough.

From what Michelle knew,
Sea Cliff was one of the wealthiest areas in San Francisco, with large homes on actual reasonably sized yards instead of the postage-stamp lots found in most of the city. Still, they were dwarfed by the compounds of River Oaks, by the estates in Beverly Hills for that matter. Land in San Francisco was simply too scarce.

There was a valet station set up at the drive of one of the larger houses in the neighborhood: a yellowish cream Mediterranean-style three-story villa with a Spanish tile roof perched on a corner lot. Michelle suspected it would have an ocean view from the other side, or would it be considered the bay? She didn't know San Francisco all that well, not the way she knew Los Angeles.

“Thanks, hon,” Caitlin said to the driver. “We'll see you in an hour and a half or thereabouts.”

As they started up the red terra-cotta stairs that led to the front door, Caitlin drew in a deep breath.

“Here's hoping we can get through tonight without completely pissing everyone off,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

“You'll be fine,” Michelle said.

She wished she actually believed that.

The party was hosted
by one of San Francisco's richest men, a venture capitalist and hedge fund manager named Garth Johannsen. He'd been a big donor to Safer America in the past, one of the more useful bits of information Michelle had gotten from reviewing the DonorSoft database with Caitlin the other day. And it was pretty easy to see what his stake was: he'd invested heavily in the private prison industry and the various companies that provided food and other services to the prisons. Some of his other investments included companies that used a lot of prison labor. It hadn't been that hard for Michelle to track all this down. Just a couple of hours of work during some downtime here in San Francisco, and if anyone asked, she was just getting up to speed on an important donor, one they needed to coddle with informed flattery.

Inside, the house was contemporary, a mismatch with its original style: spare, straight lines and sharp angles, recessed lights, carefully chosen art.

Garth Johannsen and his wife greeted them in the entry.

“Ms. O'Connor, it's wonderful to finally meet you.”

He was in his sixties, trim, with a handmade suit and expensive haircut.

“Please, call me Caitlin.”

“Caitlin, I'm Mary. Welcome to our home.” This was his wife, several decades younger, round cheeked with a pixie cut and eyes set in a permanent twinkle. She was originally from China and they'd met when she'd worked at Johannsen's firm as a new hire out of Harvard Business School. Her family had ties to the Chinese leadership, Michelle recalled.

Wonder how
that
affects his investments, Michelle thought.

“This is Michelle,” Caitlin was saying. “If you need anything from me or the group later, just get in touch with her, and she'll make sure it happens.”

“What can we get you ladies to drink?” Mary asked. A server in white and black had appeared next to them—Chinese? Michelle wondered.

It looked to be another gathering where most of the guests were white.

“Just water, thank you,” she said.

The next half hour passed in a blur of introductions and handshakes as she trailed Caitlin, collecting business cards and making notes. The guests were bankers, business owners, wealthy retirees, a police chief from a nearby city, a representative from the state prison guards union, one of the few non-white faces here, aside from Mary Johannsen and the serving staff.

Caitlin was good. She'd stuck to the one glass of wine, but it was more than that: she was focused, charming, on her game.

Well, she'd need to be, tonight.

The guests had started to settle in the living room, where Caitlin was to speak. You could see the remodeling here, too, Michelle thought: floor-to-ceiling windows had been installed for the ocean view she'd figured the house would have on this side. She couldn't see the ocean because of the fog, but she could hear the boom of the waves through the double-paned glass.

“Well, look who's here,” Caitlin said.

Michelle turned to Caitlin, who was smiling like she meant it.

Coming across the living room was Troy Stone, excusing himself a few times as he worked through the crowd on his way to her side.