I was stopped at a light on Duboce Avenue underneath the Central Freeway when my phone rang. I reached eagerly for it, thinking the caller might be Hy. Normally he wouldn't phone the cellular unit from as far away as South America, sticking me with a very costly bill, but we'd been out of contact for so long now …
“Sharon?” The caller was whispering.
“Yes, who's this?”
“Rae.”
“Rae?” All at once I was wire-tight again.
“I'm in trouble. I need your help.”
“Where are you?”
“The Vintage Lofts on Beale Street. Please come right away.”
The Vintage Lofts was an unoccupied warehouse currently under development as live-work space.
“Sharon?”
The light changed; I turned right, heading back to SoMa. “I'm here. Tell me what's wrong.”
“Can't talk. Come quick!” The connection broke.
The whispering voice had been a woman's, but I'd known from our first exchange that it was not Rae's. I'd have recognized hers, and besides, she and Ricky had gone to his recording studio in the Arizona desert for the weekend. Angrily I snapped the phone shut. How stupid did this woman think I was? Did she really believe I'd fall for such a setup?
My anger hardened to resolve. Tonight I'd settle the score once and for all.
The old warehouse was only blocks from Pier 24½ so I left my car at the curb there and hurriedly walked over, keeping well in the shadows. Most of the buildings in this area were still in commercial use or in the process of being developed as residences; at this hour the streets were deserted, and the only sound was the grumble of bridge traffic.
When I neared Vintage Lofts, I took shelter on a dark loading dock and studied the building. Squarish and unattractive by day, its contours were softened by night; no light showed in any of the narrow windows. The door was in a recessed entry portal in the center of the ground floor, and it looked to be open a crack.
How could I get inside without alerting her? She was probably watching for me, expecting to surprise me when I blundered in calling for Rae. But the element of surprise could work in my favor as well.
I slipped along the loading dock and went down an alley between two buildings. It came out on Fremont Street; from there I circled several blocks till I was behind the lofts. The shadows were thick, and I moved quickly through them, looking for another way inside. Found it when I spied a partially rolled-up garage door hidden behind a semitrailer.
I hesitated, glancing up. There were no windows on this side of the building, no way she could observe me. After taking my .357 from my bag, I dropped down and crawled under the door.
The garage was dank and cold; a faint stripe of light seeped under a door at its far side. I moved toward it quietly, one hand in front of me, the other on the gun. Twice I bumped into concrete support pillars, but by the time I reached the door my eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that I could make out a stack of Sheetrock leaning against the wall to its left. I grasped the knob and inched the door open.
A hallway, lighted for security purposes. Doors to what must be long, narrow loft spaces stood open on either side. I listened, heard nothing. There was a familiar scent in the air, though—Dark Secrets.
A sudden noise made me shut the door and flatten against the Sheetrock. Then I identified the noise: an elevator, at the extreme end of the hall. Going up.
I slipped into the hall, moved toward the elevator. Reached it in time to see the lighted numbers stop at three. No sound in the spaces around me, and the scent of her perfume was now dissipating. She was up there, all right—but doing what?
Laying a trap?
I went back down the hall and located the inside staircase; a door next to it led to a closet containing the circuit breakers. I went in there and flipped the ones for the hallways and the elevator. Then I climbed the stairs.
On the third floor I waited by the stairway till my eyes adjusted. Cold up there, and clammy. Smells of fresh lumber—and Dark Secrets.
Soon I could make out shapes: narrow rectangular windows a few shades lighter than the blackness around them; more concrete support pillars. None of the walls had been finished; the entire floor was a maze of wood framing and copper piping. Electrical conduit snaked between the studs, and underfoot was uneven concrete, cracked and pitted. Surely a woman's shape would stand out among these sharp angles.
I listened for a telltale sound, heard nothing. Narrowed my eyes, waiting for some sort of motion. She didn't move. She didn't even seem to breathe.
Finally I began to slip through the maze, gun extended in both hands. She gave no reaction to me showing myself; the element of surprise hadn't worked. I'd have to flush her out—
Sudden movement and sound behind me. I whirled. A figure ran up the stairs and a door slammed.
On the roof. So she was going to play a cat-and-mouse game.
It was a game I knew how to play too.
I crept up the stairs to the roof, opened the door a crack. The night was reasonably clear for a change, with high scattered clouds and a bright moon. By its light I saw a raised area floored in iron mesh, with a huge kettle-type barbecue in its center—the so-called roof garden that ads for the lofts boasted of. A step down was the composition-covered roof itself, but the elevator housing blocked most of it from my view.
She was somewhere down there. I'd wait her out till dawn, if necessary. Eventually she'd have to show herself—
“So how am I doing, McCone?”
The voice came from behind the elevator housing, loud and demanding.
I drew back into the stairwell.
“I'm good, aren't I? Good as you. Maybe better.”
I couldn't tell a thing about her normal speaking voice; the shouting would distort that.
“Lots
better!”
A chill shot along my spine. Because as soon as I heard those words I realized what they meant.
She'd set this up knowing full well I wouldn't believe it was Rae calling me. And she'd known I'd come anyway. Somehow she'd become so intimately attuned to the way my mind worked that she'd known exactly what I'd do.
Well, I still had the advantage; I was at the top of the stairs, armed. And I'd disabled the elevator.
I shoved the door farther open and yelled, “All right! You got me here. Let's have this out—now!”
Amused laughter.
“The elevator's out of commission. There's no way off this roof except through this door, and I'm prepared to wait you out.”
Silence.
“You're in a no-win situation. Come on out.”
No response.
Then I heard a scuffling noise at the far side of the roof. More laughter, as if I'd told her a good joke—and coming now from below. I pushed through the door, skirted the elevator housing; behind it a ramp led down to a level midway between the roof and the third story. And on its inside wall a door was swinging shut.
Dammit, I'd bought into her entire plan! She'd led me all over this building as if I were on a leash. The woman was a lot smarter than I'd given her credit for.
So put yourself inside
her
head, McCone. What will she do now?
Go around to the other staircase and come after me?
No, she doesn't want a direct confrontation—at least, not yet.
Simply leave, having had her fun for tonight?
Not that, either …
“Oh, God!”
I ran down the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. The building's security alarm sounded as I reached the second-story landing. Panting, heart pounding, I got to the ground floor just as the front door slammed. I skidded around, wrenched the closet door open, hit the breaker for the alarm. The deafening noise stopped instantly.
But I'd worked in security; it wouldn't take long for whatever company monitored this building to arrive to investigate what they'd assume was a malfunction.
I rushed through the garage, slid under the partly raised door, and ran down the alleyway to Main Street.
When I got to my car I found a piece of legal paper tucked under its windshield wiper. Printed on it in block letters was a single sentence: so
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE so GOOD?
Tonight while other people sleep, I pace. To the front parlor, to the sitting room, to the kitchen, and back again. The house is quiet, too quiet. The cats are awake, wary, feeling my tension. I haven't spoken with Hy in nearly a week, and I sense our connection becoming staticky—emotional static, both his and mine.
The woman even guessed where I would park my car. She's smart, very smart. She's tapped into my mental processes, my reactions, my strengths and flaws. She's been in this house, maybe at the pier, too. I'll have to have both places swept for bugs, get the security code here changed, change the code for my cell phone. I've already spent an inordinate amount of time canceling credit cards and requesting new ones. And then there's all this unwanted merchandise …
God, I don't need this! My life is totally disrupted. My identity's being stolen from me.
Identity. What is it, anyway? A name? A physical appearance? An address, phone number, and all the other numerical codes that allow us to function in contemporary society? A profession? An avocation? A personal history? A series of connections to fellow human beings?
Identity is the inner you, the unique way you think and act and respond. When a stranger has such a strong grasp of those things that she can manipulate you, you're losing your absolute essence. Your soul.
Yes, that's what she's doing. She's trying to steal my soul.
OPEN TODAY, 10-4: LOFT LIVING AT ITS FINEST
T
he banner hung limp across the facade of the old warehouse; the building looked as dingy and gray as the sky. I pushed through its door and turned left into a makeshift sales office where three men in suits stood talking and drinking coffee. One put down his cup on a folding table stacked with brochures and came forward.
“Welcome to Vintage Lofts,” he said, extending a business card. “Are you familiar with the concept of live-work space?”
“Yes, I am.” And he wouldn't be happy if I voiced my opinion. The loft concept has always struck me as a colossal real-estate scam. You pay upwards of two hundred thousand for a relatively small space equipped with nothing more than piping for the plumbing—whose location locks you into a limited number of floor plans—and then either finish it yourself or pay somebody else to do so. And the developers, who have probably bought the property cheap, walk away with huge profits.
The salesman offered a price list. “As you can see, we've sold a number of units already, but some are still available on every floor.”
I scanned the sheet. The third-story units ran close to three hundred thousand. “These top-floor units,” I said, “do they have views?”
“Well, not in the sense of bay vistas, if that's what you have in mind. But their windows are large, and the rear units have skylights.”
They'd
need
skylights; there were no windows at all at the rear. “And how many of them are left?”
“Ah, most of them, actually.”
Meaning the people who'd looked at them weren't as gullible as the developer had hoped. “I'd like to take a look around up there.”
“Certainly. The entire building's open today. Just take the elevator and all the time you need. And don't forget to check out our roof garden!”
I intended to.
The third story was shadowy, even with daylight filtering through the windows and skylights. Building supplies were piled near the elevator, but a thick layer of dust lay over them, and the place had an abandoned feel about it. Having both remodeled and added on to my house, I had a fairly good sense of how construction projects come together, but I couldn't visualize what this one would look like when completed. Not that I cared; I was here to search for some tangible trace of the woman who had led me on a cat-and-mouse chase through this building last night.
I took out my flashlight and systematically began prowling around. Anything at all—a lost button, a discarded tissue— would enable me to believe that the woman was not as clever as I imagined, but I came away empty handed. Next I went to the roof, stepped off the iron-mesh area, and checked behind the elevator shaft. I found two cigarette butts, but I doubted they were hers; there hadn't been any tobacco odor in the air, either here or at my house after Sunday night's intrusion.
When I went downstairs the salesman accosted me, looking hopeful. “What do you think of the building?”
“Very interesting.”
“I have a list of contractors we recommend for the finish work—unless, of course, you plan to do it yourself.”
Contractors who undoubtedly gave kickbacks. “Actually, I'd like to see a list of people who have already purchased units. Would that be possible?”
“Uh, I'm sorry. That's confidential information.”
Bullshit. It was a matter of public record. “The reason I ask, a couple of acquaintances of mine mentioned buying into a place that sounded like this. They had very good things to say about the management company and the contractors.”
“If you could give me their names, I can check.”
“One's Sharon McCone. The other's … Sue Macmillan.”
He went to the table and opened a loose-leaf notebook that was lying there. “No, neither has purchased a unit.”
“I'm almost certain Sue did. Let me describe her: she's got honey-blond hair, features that I guess you could describe as cute, is about my height and weight.”
“Doesn't ring a bell.” Turning to the other salesmen, he asked, “Either of you guys close a deal with somebody like that?”
One shook his head. The other said, “If I had, I'd've asked her for a date.”
I said, “Are you three the only salespeople?”
“That's right. And we'll be happy to answer any further questions you might have.”
Any questions except the important one: How had the woman gained access to the building? The same way I did, or…?
It was only one o'clock, but before I visited Vintage Lofts I'd sifted to no good result through the garbage I'd snatched from the alley the night before; arranged for RKI to sweep my home and offices for bugs; requested that my cellphone code be changed; gone to the post office to send back the unwanted mail-order items; stopped by Nell Loomis's studio and found her not there again; and dropped off the MG for servicing. It wouldn't be ready till three, so I decided to go to the pier and clear up some remaining paperwork—or maybe just sit and think.