Finally Rae gave up and decided to have a glass of wine while she waited for Ricky to return from his recording company’s
headquarters in LA.
Then the phone rang. An informant with an address for Angie Atkins’s friend Callie—last name O’Leary.
H
e was really pissed off, and Celestina Gates wasn’t improving his mood any.
She strode around the living room of her Nob Hill condominium issuing statements that boiled down to it’s-all-about-me and
why-haven’t-you-found-out-who’s-ruined-my-life. Tall, willowy, with long dark hair, she normally would have attracted Mick.
Had
attracted him when he’d first met her. Now, instead of taking her to bed, he wanted to dangle her off her twelfth-story balcony.
Being pissed off had to do with Shar’s condition: Gates’s problem seemed so trivial compared with what had happened to his
aunt. His aunt, who had put up with his immaturity, mentored him, given him a sure direction in life.
If this Gates bitch had anything to do with Shar’s shooting… He waited with gritted teeth till his client’s tantrum had passed,
sitting on her red leather sofa and looking at the gray sky above the grim brownstone facade of the old Flood Mansion across
California Street—a creation of famed architect Willis Polk that now housed the exclusive Pacific-Union Club. When Gates finally
sat in a matching chair opposite him and fumbled with a cigarette and lighter, he said, “Ms. Gates, something’s wrong here.”
“Of course something’s wrong! My life and career are destroyed!”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Her nostrils flared. “What, you think I’m not telling you everything?”
She’d said it, he hadn’t. “Yes, I do.”
“How dare you—?”
He held up his hand. “Last night I was rereading the case histories you describe in
Protect Your Identity
. In each one, it took a long time for the individual to regain access to bank accounts and establish new credit card accounts
and ratings.”
Wary now. “Yes.”
“I understand that as an expert on identity theft, this would be easier for you to accomplish than for a run-of-the-mill victim—even
one using your book.”
“I suppose so.”
“Yet you chose to hire our agency.”
“Well, sometimes an objective investigator can do a better job than the individual involved.”
“Uh-huh. You claim you’ve been financially ruined.”
“I have been.”
“This condo—your mortgage is ninety-five hundred and thirteen dollars a month.”
“How do you—?”
“And that Jaguar in the garage downstairs is leased for three thousand.”
“… Right.”
“Your credit cards are all clean, and over there in the foyer are five big shopping bags full of stuff from places like Gucci
and Neiman Marcus.”
“So what’s your point?”
“You don’t seem to be hurting—at least not as badly as you’ve made it out to be.”
“I’ve tapped into my savings—”
“Your column’s been canceled, nobody wants you on TV, clients are running like hell from your consulting firm. And you told
me a book contract’s on hold. You’re spending a lot for someone who’s living on her savings and has no prospects for future
income.”
She stubbed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. “I have an image to keep up.”
“According to you, that image is ruined.”
“All right, so I’m a compulsive shopper.”
“I doubt that. You’re too savvy a businesswoman to yield to impulse.”
“We all have our faults.”
“And one of yours is lying.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never lie to an investigator when you’re trying to pull off a scam, Ms. Gates. It’s too easy for us to check into your background,
credit rating, and finances. I did, when I started feeling uncomfortable about you. Everything’s golden, except for a scam
you pulled off before you left your hometown in Texas. And that’s been pretty well covered up; I had to dig hard for the information.
It was a similar scam to the one you’re trying to pull off now, but on a more minor scale.”
“What the hell—?”
“Failure and triumphant recoveries generate publicity and profits. Your career has been slacking off for at least two years
since other, more reliable consultants have come on the scene. My guess is that you hired our agency so you could outshine
us by solving your own manufactured identity theft and putting yourself back on top.”
She was silent now, glowering. Caught out.
“Who was going to be the lucky individual to take the blame for the theft?”
More silence.
“Well?”
“You’re so smart. Who do you think?”
It came to him in a flash. Himself! Why hadn’t he realized that before? Dumb, just plain dumb. He was the perfect scapegoat:
he had all her significant information, and she’d probably set up a way to prove he’d had it before she ever went to McCone
Investigations. Set up a way to prove the nonexistent identity theft, too.
He didn’t have to ask her why she’d picked him. Publicity value. After all, he was Ricky Savage’s son.
Nearly choking on his anger, he stood and loomed over her. She squirmed a little but maintained eye contact.
He said, “On the night of July seventh, did you or someone you hired go to Pier 24½ looking for information I’d gathered?”
“Me? Why—Oh, God, that was the night your boss was shot!”
“Right.”
“I didn’t go there. I never hired anyone. You can’t involve me in that—oh, no.”
Her defensive reaction seemed genuine, made him think she was telling the truth. “I’ll accept that for now. But if I find
out otherwise, I’ll go to the police and the press and expose you for what you are.”
“Does this mean you’re dumping me as a client?”
“What do you think, Ms. Gates?”
In the elevator on the way down, he thought, I really should’ve dangled the bitch off her balcony.
H
e waited in the booth of the dimly lighted bar on Peach Alley, not far from the Civic Center.
He felt as if he were meeting Deep Throat, but at least this wasn’t a parking garage, so he could get a drink.
The Deep Throat analogy was valid, though: in 1973 and -74 Mark Felt, then assistant director of the FBI, had leaked details
of the Watergate break-in to a
Washington Post
reporter and brought down the Nixon presidency. Although San Francisco wasn’t Washington, DC, if what Craig’s informant had
been telling him was true, it could very well blow the lid off city government.
The bar was quiet, even now at the tail end of happy hour; politicos didn’t hang out there because there was nobody important
to see them and no deals to be made. During Craig’s tenure with the Bureau in DC he’d spent a lot of time in lively look-atme
establishments—sometimes on duty, sometimes to impress a date—and he hadn’t realized how much he hated them till he’d thrown
it all away and moved to San Francisco to be with Adah.
Adah: poster woman for the SFPD, assigned as liaison to the same special FBI task force as he was. Goal: to apprehend a man
who’d been bombing foreign consulates. Unused to playing hard-ball like the Bureau’s men, Adah had gone into an emotional
meltdown, and Craig had helped her through it. Later, after she’d fully healed, he himself became broken and disillusioned
by the work that had steadily eroded all his idealistic dreams, and during coast-to-coast phone conversations whose cost had
rivaled the national debt, she’d supported him in his decision to leave the Bureau. Now Adah had given up her similarly disillusioning
career with the SFPD, and only Shar’s need for an executive assistant had saved them from a move to Denver, where she’d been
offered an administrative position at the DPD. Good thing, too: he hated snow.
Thoughts of Adah and the agency immediately turned into thoughts of McCone. It was fucking unbelievable that she was in a
coma. That a random—or maybe not-so-random—encounter after hours at the pier could have reduced such a vital woman to a vegetative
state… Neither he nor Adah had been sleeping much since it happened, and some nights she’d slipped out of bed and he’d heard
sounds of crying coming from the bathroom. He didn’t cry, but a couple of nights he’d taken out his anger on the refrigerator,
pounding its door till his fist was bruised—which, for him, amounted to the same as tears.
Craig looked up as his informant came through the door, swept the room with wary eyes. Spotted Craig and moved toward him,
looking stupid in a hat and trench coat. Did he really think no one would notice him?
Harvey Davis was the former campaign manager for Amanda Teller, president of the city’s board of supervisors, and one of her
most trusted aides. Independently wealthy, handsome, sophisticated—in spite of tonight’s silly disguise—he had recently been
voted one of the city’s most eligible bachelors by a national magazine. He’d contacted Craig three weeks ago, claiming something
was very wrong at city hall.
“What’ll you have?” Craig asked as the man sat down.
“Scotch, neat. Single malt.”
“Done.” He went to the bar and ordered. When he returned to the booth and set the drink down, he asked, “What’ve you got for
me? You haven’t given me much so far.”
“She’s meeting with Janssen on Saturday.”
She: Amanda Teller. He: Paul Janssen, a state representative for this district.
“Where?”
“Down the coast. A rundown lodge near Big Sur.”
“Why Big Sur?”
“Good halfway point: Amanda’s giving a talk at UC–Santa Barbara Friday evening. Besides, the lodge is isolated and no one’s
likely to recognize them there.”
“So what’s this—about sex, power, money?”
“Not sex, I don’t think; they reserved separate rooms—under false names, of course. Power and money? For sure. What else?
Who knows?”
“You’re not giving me a lot to go on.”
“It’s all I have. How’s your boss doing?”
“Still in a coma.”
“Too bad. McCone’s a good woman.”
“Yeah, she is.”
Craig’s informant tossed back what was left of his drink, stood up, and slid a piece of paper across the table. “Here’s the
information on Teller and Janssen’s meeting.”
“Thanks.”
“I also want to give you a key and the security code to my condo.”
“Why?”
“Evidence there. Videos. If something happens to me…”
“What, you mean—?”
“Just take the key.” He placed it on the table. “The security code’s 1773. I’ll be in touch.”
Craig pocketed the key, watched him go, and after half a minute, followed him.
The street was deserted, dusky, fog-damp. Davis’s footsteps echoed off the pavement down the block. Craig went the other way
toward his SUV, fumbling for his keys. They caught inside his jacket pocket and he had to pause to extricate them.
Behind him Davis’s footsteps stopped. Craig glanced back, saw him unlocking the door of a white Mercedes sedan. Davis looked
at him, gave him a thumbs-up sign, and got into the car.
Finally the keys came free. Craig again started walking toward his SUV. Davis still hadn’t started the Mercedes; he was a
methodical man and was probably making minor adjustments to the seat and mirrors—as if they would’ve moved in the brief time
he’d been in the bar.
Craig was halfway around to his driver’s-side door when a vehicle started up, its engine burbling as if something was wrong
with the exhaust manifold; it pulled out from the curb across from him, nearly grazing his front quarter panel. Black pickup
with a white camper shell. The driver had forgotten to put on his lights—
Craig whirled, shouting after the truck, but it kept going toward the end of the block where Harvey Davis’s headlights were
flashing on.
A gunshot echoed loudly in the narrow street.
Instinctively Craig dropped to the pavement, his hands protecting his head.
Two more shots, staccato bursts. Semiautomatic weapon, he thought. The pickup’s tires squealed as it sped around the corner
onto Golden Gate. Harvey Davis’s car stayed in place, its engine purring in the sudden quiet.
Knowing what he would find, Craig pushed to his feet and ran toward it.
S
he looked across her desk at Haven Dietz and said, “I’m sorry I asked you to come in so late in the day, but there’re some
things about your case I need to check out.”
A jagged scar extended from below Dietz’s right eye to her chin, another across her brow. Although you couldn’t tell it unless
she moved, her right arm was useless because tendons and muscles had been severed during the knife attack last year. Before
that, according to Julia’s file, Dietz had been pretty and confident, a junior executive with a top financial management firm.
Now her blonde hair hung lank and unwashed; she wore no makeup; she seemed shrunken inside her baggy sweater and jeans, as
if protecting herself against further attack. She had other scars that you couldn’t see, but they were psychological and emotional.
Pobrecita.
Julia always thought in her primary language when she was upset. And every time she conferred with Haven Dietz, she had trouble
concealing her emotional turmoil.
Thing was, it could’ve been her. Was more likely to have been her, given her past. She’d been hooking and dealing on the tough
streets of the Mission district when she was a teenager; Haven had been assaulted while taking a shortcut home through a park
in the supposedly safe, middle-class outer Richmond district.
Por Dios…
But something wasn’t right with Dietz, and Julia couldn’t pin it down. She’d come to the agency for help, but her behavior
ranged from noncooperative to hostile. Also, she professed to dislike Larry Peeples’s parents, yet she’d strongly urged them
to contract with the agency and request Julia as their investigator. Of course the cases were connected, and Dietz knew it.
Always before, Julia had met with Dietz at her apartment, but today she’d asked her to come here. Power play.
“I’m finding strong links between your case and the Larry Peeples disappearance,” Julia added. “Can we talk about your relationship
with him again?”