“Shut up.”
I considered the situation: Neal was wearing a bathrobe, but Ted was fully dressed. The brandy bottle and snifter had been sitting on the kitchen counter, and in the living room the TV was tuned low to a black-and-white movie. And on the coffee table lay a handgun.
I looked questioningly at Neal. He jerked his head at the wall of glass overlooking the bayside deck. There was a bullet hole in one of the doors, surrounded by a web of cracks.
Ted still had his back to us, was pouring more brandy. I went over and examined the gun. Twenty-two caliber RG-14, serial number intact, but it wouldn't be registered to Ted. “Well,” I said, not bothering to keep the anger and sarcasm out of my voice, “what we've got here is a classic Saturday night special. And guess what, folks? It's Saturday night!”
“What we've got here is a real problem,” Neal said. “As well as a costly repair job.”
Ted remained silent.
“What the hell were you thinking,” I asked him, “fooling around with a gun in your condition?”
He mumbled something.
“What?”
“I said, you don't know the slightest thing about my condition. So shut the fuck up and go home!”
That did it. I stalked over there, picked up the bottle, and set it well out of his reach. Then I tried to wrest the snifter from his fingers; he resisted, pulled back, and it flew from his hand and smashed on the tiles.
He looked down at the spilled liquid and shards of glass, then back up at me. When I saw his eyes I realized he wasn't drunk; probably he was drinking the brandy to get his anger under control. But now it showed white-hot.
“What were you shooting at?” I asked.
“Somebody was on the balcony.”
“Who?”
“I couldn't tell.”
I went over there and opened the undamaged door. An Adirondack chair was overturned and some barbecue tools were scattered on the deck. I crossed to the railing and looked down into the alley. No one, but the bottom section of the fire escape that scaled the wall beside the balcony had been lowered to the ground.
Ted was watching me, his rage still glowing bright. I went back inside. “Did the person try to enter the apartment?”
“No, he didn't have a chance.”
“You shot at him with an unregistered gun when he hadn't yet attempted to break and enter?”
“The guy was on our
balcony,
for Christ's sake! Don't I have a right to defend our home?”
“I'm with you on that, philosophically. The law says differently. And, as I recall, you've never fired a gun before— which makes for a very dangerous situation.”
“I can fire it well enough.”
“Really?” I gestured at the glass door.
“This
is what Sandy Coughlin's twenty-minute course in responsible firearms ownership got you?”
Behind me Neal made a peculiar sound. Ted's face froze. After a moment he asked, “How do you know about Sandy Coughlin?”
Bad slip, McCone! “I have my sources.”
But he'd figured it out. “You've been following me,” he said flatly. He turned to Neal. “You got her to spy on me, didn't you?”
Neal was silent, his face etched into lines of helplessness and despair.
“You
did,
damn you!”
“Okay, yeah, I did! The way
you've
been spying on
me!”
Ted recoiled as if Neal had struck him. He turned away, braced his hands on the countertop, hung his head. His labored breathing was loud in the silence that followed Neal's pronouncement.
Neal added, “You ever hear of the right to privacy?”
“You ever hear of a rock and a hard place?”
“What does that—”
“I want both of you out of here—now.”
“Ted—” I began.
“Especially you. Get out of here, before you do any more damage. And, Neal, go with her. Please.”
I glanced at Neal. He shrugged and went upstairs to dress. I crossed the living room, put the .22 into my purse, and headed for the door.
“Cooling-off period,” Neal said when he joined me in the hall. “Let's go someplace, talk.”
Neal knew a small, quiet Italian bar on Green Street in nearby North Beach, so we went there and ordered grappa. Only a few other patrons sat at the small tables, and the faces that I glimpsed in the light from candles in wax-covered Chianti bottles were weary. Saturday night winding down and, at least in our case, a good thing.
We sat in silence till we'd been served. Then Neal said, “Jesus, I feel terrible.”
“Me too. It's like he's banished us from his life.”
“Maybe he has.”
“I can't believe that.” I put my hand on his arm. After a moment I said, “When I made that slip about Sandy Coughlin, you sounded as though you know him.”
“Slightly. Somebody brought him to a dinner party we were at a while back. Nobody was happy about that, and it made for a short evening.”
“But Ted remembered him when he wanted to buy a gun.”
“A gun. Christ! He doesn't even know how to shoot.”
“He's proved that, and his career as a marksman is over; I've got the twenty-two.”
“He can always buy another.”
“That he can.” I sipped the strong brandy.
Neal pressed a hand to his forehead, leaned his elbow on the table. His face looked tired and deeply lined, even in the gentling candlelight; he seemed far older than his forty-five years. “Shar,” he said, “what d'you suppose he meant by ‘between a rock and a hard place’?”
“I've been trying to figure that out, but I can't seem to figure out
anything
about Ted these days.”
“Me either. And you know what? Maybe I've had enough of trying to understand him.”
“Neal, you're upset and tired and hurt. Don't make any sudden decisions.”
“No, I mean it. I've got troubles of my own, financial problems with the bookstore. I don't think I can deal with Ted's as well—particularly when he won't tell me what they are!”
“As you said, a cooling-off period's in order. You're welcome to my guest room.”
“I'll take you up on that.” He punched my arm lightly. “Thanks, buddy.”
I'd already gotten Neal settled into the guest room before I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. Hy, I thought, and pressed the play button.
The first message was from Ted. In restrained tones he said that he hoped Neal was staying at my house, and would I please leave a message on his machine that we were both okay? He'd sleep better knowing that.
Odd, I thought, stopping the tape. Why wouldn't we be okay? Was someone threatening Ted, holding the safety or lives of his loved ones over his head? Was that why he wouldn't confide in us?
For a moment I considered calling him and demanding the truth. But he'd indicated he wouldn't be answering the phone, and besides, I was so tired that my mind wasn't functioning sharply. Better to talk tomorrow. I dialed, left the message he'd requested, adding, “Sleep well, guy.” Then I pressed the play button for my second call.
“Sharon, Gage Renshaw. Sorry to phone at this hour, but would you get back to me at our La Jolla office? Any time, no matter how late. I'll be here all night.”
I felt as if I'd been showered with ice water. Gage Renshaw was one of Hy's partners in RKI; he would never call me late at night unless something very bad had happened. I punched out the number of their headquarters with trembling fingers. The night operator was expecting my call and put me through immediately.
“Before you say anything,” Gage told me, “let me emphasize that Hy's okay.”
“What's happened? Where is he?”
“We have a hostage situation with one of our South American clients. Hy's handling it.”
“What kind of situation? Where?”
“You know I can't tell you that.”
“Well, what
can
you tell me?”
“That he's okay and will be in touch as soon as it's resolved. Actually, he's more concerned about you; he's left a number of messages on your machine in the past few days, and you haven't returned his calls.”
“Messages? What messages?”
“I don't know how many or when, but enough to make him worry.”
“I don't understand— Oh!”
“Sharon?”
“Nothing.” My impostor had obviously found the remote access code for both my home and office machines, where they were noted in the Rolodex. Easy for her to listen to and then erase any number of messages. I began to shake with anger. “Gage, I need to talk with Hy.”
“I can't put you in touch.”
“Then tell him to call me.”
“I'll tell him you're okay.”
“This isn't right!”
“No, what's not right is what's going on down there. This is an extremely critical situation, and I'm not going to jeopardize it by allowing Ripinsky to become involved in whatever's bothering you as well.”
“Dammit, Gage—”
“Sharon.” There was a softness in his voice that I'd never heard before. “You're one of us, in a sense. You can hold it together till the situation's resolved.”
“Can I?”
“Yes. I've seen you hold it together under far worse conditions. And I'll be in touch with an update as soon as I've got one.” Having made one small concession to humane behavior, Gage hung up on me.
I gripped the receiver, stared fixedly at a crack in the wall. Tried to repair my frayed connection to Hy. It still held, but for how long?
Things were very bad for him—I could feel that. Could he feel how bad things were for me? And if so, would the knowledge distract him, cause him to make an error that might prove fatal?
It was the first time I'd ever regretted the intuitive emotional bond between us.
W
hen I wandered into the kitchen at close to eleven the next morning, I found a note from Neal propped against the coffeemaker: “I'm going away for a few days to think things through. Will be in touch when I get back.”
I wondered if he'd informed Ted of his decision. Probably not; last night he'd said he wasn't sure he could deal with Ted's problems on top of his own, so he wouldn't have taken the chance of provoking yet another emotional scene.
The coffeemaker's light was on, the carafe full. Thank you, Neal. I poured a mugful, went to the sitting room, and found the Sunday paper lying on the couch. Thanks again.
MAYOR, ASIAN LEADER CLASH AT SUNSET COMMUNITY MEETING
Good. Real good.
HATE CRIMES ON RISE NATIONWIDE
Now, why didn't that surprise me?
CELLULAR PHONE CLONING PREVALENT IN BAY AREA
Enough, already! I tossed the front section on the floor and went to take my shower.
“Hey, Shar, how y'doing?” Craig Morland sounded excessively cheerful—and no wonder. He and Homicide Inspector Adah Joslyn were off this afternoon on a two-week vacation to Mexico before he came to work for me.
“I'm okay,” I said. “You all packed?”
“Packed and ready.”
“Is Adah there?”
“Yeah, but she's busy right now—feeding Charley.” Charley was Adah's enormous, gluttonous white cat; I fully expected him to explode someday.
“Cat's a basket case, right?”
“Ever since he saw the suitcases. Of course, that doesn't prevent him from tearing into his steak.”
“Steak?”
“You got it. Here's Adah.”
“You're feeding the cat steak,” I said accusingly.
“Don't start, McCone. It's left over from last night's dinner.”
“And if there hadn't been any leftovers you'd be giving him hamburger.”
“Albacore tuna. So why'd you call? Not just to wish us a safe journey, I suppose.”
“No, I need a favor.”
“It'd better be a fast favor; I've got to get down there, work on my tan.” It was a joke; Adah was half Jewish, half black, with flawless honey-brown skin.
“You know anybody at the department who's an expert on stalkers?”
“Sure. Stacey Nizibian. Girl's got an M.A. in psychology from the University of Michigan, and all that book learning hasn't ruined her yet.”
“I need to talk with her.”
“No problem, I can set something up.” She paused. “McCone, is somebody hassling you?”
“No, it's for a case I'm working on.”
“Client report the incidents to us?”
“They're on file.”
“Well, I'll call Stace, get back to you. You free this afternoon?”
“Of course.
I'm
not the one who's taking off for a tropical paradise.”
“No, and you sure are sucking sour grapes. Get off my phone and I'll call you back in a few minutes.”
Stacey Nizibian was waiting for me at a table next to the rain-streaked front window of Lavender Blue Deli Deli on Twenty-fourth Street. The overly cute name—one of many along Noe Valley's main shopping strip—had always put me off, but I loved their Brie and Black Forest ham sandwiches. It turned out Stacey did too; she ordered one with a beer while I studied the wine list. A slender woman wearing jeans that fit like a second skin, she apparently had as efficient a metabolic system as I.
“So,” she said, running long fingers through her mop of dark brown curls, “Adah tells me you want to know about stalkers.”
“Specifically, women who stalk women.”
“Lesbian client?”
“Not a client—me.” As Nizibian's face registered concern, I explained what had been going on. “I have no idea who this woman is, so any insight you can give me into that type of behavior will help.”
She considered while the waitress delivered our drinks, took a sip before she replied. “Well, there're profiles, of course, but every case deviates from them in some way. Before we talk about the stalker, though, let's talk about you. How're you doing?”
“Not too well. I feel frustrated. Helpless. Angry. Afraid of what she's going to do next. Afraid of what damage she's already done me. I'm distracted a lot of the time and not sleeping well. I have bizarre dreams. And there's another situation that's keeping me isolated from the one person I can talk openly with about this.”
“You're not doing too badly talking with me.”
I laughed. “No, and it feels damned good.”
“Well, feel free to call me any time. And I'll check with Greg Marcus about the report he filed. Now, about stalkers: basically you've got four different categories—those where the victims are celebrities, domestic partners, casual acquaintances, or random targets.”