“Mr. Benjamin, how did she look in that shade of blue? Did it suit her?”
“She looked sensational.”
So did Rae, a redhead. And Charlotte Keim, with her rich dark hair. But most women with my coloring … “Her hair, could it have been dyed? Or a wig?”
Benjamin thought, then nodded. “Now that you mention it, she was very … picky about her hair. Didn't want me to run my hands through it or even touch it. It was strange—a passionate woman like that worrying about getting her hair mussed.”
The situation with Clive Benjamin was sufficiently embarrassing that I ended up referring him to Joanna Stark, an acquaintance in Sonoma who was a sometimes-active partner in a city firm that specialized in security for art galleries and museums. Stark, a sharp investigator who spoke the language of the art world, would be of more use to Benjamin than any of my operatives. In return for the referral I extracted a promise from him that, should he hear from the bogus McCone again, he'd contact me immediately.
After he left, I remained at my desk for a while, listening to the rain on the roof and pondering this latest turn of events. A prank at a party was one thing, but claiming to be me and then sleeping with a casual acquaintance was another. To say nothing of offering my professional help and card to him …
And what if Benjamin wasn't the only one? There might be men all over town who thought Sharon McCone mixed business with pleasure!
I had to put a stop to this masquerade before she destroyed both my peace of mind and my reputation. Before she did incalculable harm to the agency. I'd have to find out who she was, why she'd fixated on me—and quickly.
When I got home I found a message on my answering machine: “Sharon, this is Jeff Riley, over at North Field in Oakland. I caught a woman who looks a lot like you prowling around the tie-downs this afternoon. When I asked what she was looking for, she said she wanted to know where Two-eight-niner was and if it was you or Hy who had it. Claimed to be a reporter doing a story on women pilots. I told her to do it on her own turf and escorted her off airport property. Anyway, I thought you ought to know.”
In dreams I'm sometimes two people at once—within myself, yet standing to the side, watching.
Tonight I'm in a strange light-filled room where people in formal dress mingle. Above them float colorful, grotesque animals—mixtures of many species, including the human. I shrink against a wall, avoiding a horse with a vulture's face and a man's hands that try to grab my breasts. But I'm also over there by the
Tyrannosaurus rex
with the Dalmatian's face and human hands that appear to pray. My other self is dressed in teal blue that clings to my body.
I can't wear that color. Why have I?
The animals move on a sudden breeze. I watch myself—the one over there—staring up in amazement at the
rex.
And then I'm inside her, going up on tiptoe to move closer to the monstrosity. Its spotted face inclines toward mine, and we kiss. I feel nothing.
Finally I pull away from the creature. Turn. And I—the self by the wall—realize she's not me at all. She's a woman with hair and a body like mine, who looks beautiful in teal blue.
I want to ask her why—why me? But as is usually the case in dreams, I can't speak.
T
ed and Neal lived on Plum Alley, a narrow half-block off the part of Montgomery Street where it dead-ended below the Disneyesque battlements of Julius’ Castle restaurant, high on the northeastern slope of Telegraph Hill. The rain had stopped this morning, and now, at close to noon, I glimpsed blue sky when I glanced up at Coit Tower.
I drove along the lower level of Montgomery, where it divided around a retaining wall, but found no parking space, so I hung a U-turn and climbed the upper level till I spotted one. This was a congested area, with not enough garage or curb-side space for the residents’ cars, much less for the vehicles of tourists visiting the tower; I was lucky to have to walk only a block.
In the alley cars were pulled up on the narrow sidewalks as well as nose in to the retaining wall at its far end, beyond which the waterfront was still shrouded in fog. The short block contained an eclectic mixture of nineteenth-century frame cottages and twentieth-century architectural mistakes, the exception being Ted and Neal's wonderful Art Deco apartment building. As always when I approached it, I admired its streamlined contours, the rounded glass-block elevator enclosure at one corner, and the facade dominated by a series of vertical art-glass windows with a boldly colored design that reminded me of peculiar sea creatures.
I crossed the tiled entry courtyard and took the elevator to the third floor. As the cage rose, the rippled effect of the glass blocks made me feel as if I were underwater; the sensation was heightened as I walked down the hallway behind the etched windows. Ted and Neal's apartment was at the rear on the bay side; I let myself in with Neal's key.
I'd been there many times since they moved in the previous spring, but always when one or the other was home, and usually in the midst of a dinner-party crowd. Now the apartment held a thick silence characteristic of empty places. I shut the door behind me, then hesitated, reluctant to venture farther. The part of my work I dislike the most is prying into people's homes and possessions; it was bad enough with strangers, but to probe a friend's life …
Then I reminded myself that probing could save a friend's life and moved down the hallway that opened into the living room. The apartment was a dramatic one, with high ceilings and a wall of windows overlooking a balcony that faced the bay. The living room furnishings were in keeping with the building's era: 1930s-style salon chairs and bulky ottomans and other Moderne pieces. To my left a staircase curved up to a second level, and behind it was tucked a small but well-appointed kitchen; a carpeted, chrome-railed catwalk connecting the front and rear bedrooms spanned the dining area.
Chances were that if Ted had anything in the apartment that would give me a clue to what lay behind his uncharacteristic behavior, he'd hidden it in some private place. Still, I checked the kitchen and living room thoroughly, coming away with only the new knowledge that he and Neal were addicted to cookies ‘n’ cream ice cream, took a lot of vitamins, and subscribed to the
National Enquirer.
Next I climbed the staircase and went into the smaller of the bedrooms, which was set up as a combination library and office. I gave it close attention, but learned only that they owned a great many first editions of novels by a diverse group of authors. The desk contained correspondence and bills in orderly files; none of it told me anything more than that both men paid their credit card balances on time and in full every month.
I crossed the catwalk and entered the master bedroom. Its furnishings were also period pieces, or good imitations. Here I searched more slowly, checking the contents of the night-stands, bureaus, closets, and then going over the adjoining bathroom. Nothing unusual there, and certainly no evidence of drug use; in fact, the medicine cabinet held nothing stronger than Tylenol.
There are numerous places where people typically hide things, thinking they're being clever, and I know most of them. Feeling the inside pockets of suitcases and the undersides of drawers, checking the toilet tanks and objects in the freezer, looking for places where the carpet had been pried up or a baseboard removed and replaced—all of it took time. When I finished, it was nearly two o'clock and I had nothing to show for my efforts. Discouraged, I started across the catwalk.
A sound came from below—a key turning in the front-door lock. Footsteps clicked across the entry.
I darted for the library and slipped behind its door.
Who? Neither of the occupants. Neal had promised to take Ted to a long lunch today, so he wouldn't unexpectedly turn up here, as he was sometimes wont to do.
I waited. Silence from below; the plush carpeting muted footfalls. Then I heard a rustling, probably in the dining area. I moved from behind the door, intent on catching a glimpse of the intruder. Too late, though: whoever it was had already crossed the entry and left.
So what had the person been doing?
A large, heart-shaped box sat in the center of the glass-topped dining table. Of course, it was Valentine's Day. I wouldn't have taken either Ted or Neal to be a candy-and-flowers kind of guy, but you never knew.
I went downstairs and crossed to the table. Ten-pound box, red foil with white lace. Good God, did either of them have
that
much of a sweet tooth?
An envelope lay next to the box, plain white with nothing written on it. Why wasn't it addressed to either Ted or Neal? An oversight, perhaps, by the employee of the candy store who'd taken the order?
Since when did candy stores deliver like florists? And use keys to enter the places where they deliver?
I picked up the envelope and slipped the card from it. Block printing, probably done with a straightedge: “This could be yours.”
Your
what?
I set the card down and studied the box. It was neither encased in plastic wrap nor sealed. The lace was mashed down in places, the foil torn near the bottom. I recalled some hate mail Ricky had received—how it had radiated weirdness. This box was doing the same.
Quickly I yanked the lid off and looked inside.
“Yuck! What the hell—”
A dark, bloody mass, obscene against a white doily. It glistened wetly, gave off the scent of incipient rot. I'd seen its counterparts in the supermarket.
A beef heart.
This could be yours.
I stared at it for a moment, then went to the phone.
“You're kidding,” Neal said.
“I wish I was. It's pretty disgusting, and the implication is downright scary. Is there any chance of this being a joke on Ted's part?”
“If it was, I'd be laughing. Besides, this isn't funny, and his jokes are.”
“Who else has access to your apartment?”
“Nobody, other than you.”
“You don't have a housecleaner? Or somebody who comes by, say, to water the plants while you're away?”
“We do our own cleaning, and you know we don't have any plants.”
“What about the building manager?”
“Mona Woods? No. We had the locks changed when we moved in, and since she didn't ask for a copy of the key, we didn't give her one. It's not that we don't trust her, but we don't like anybody in the place when one of us isn't there; the book collection is quite valuable, and somebody who isn't a collector might mishandle the volumes.”
“And Ted wouldn't give anybody a key?”
“No. We agreed on that from the start.”
“What about the key you keep in your car?”
“I never leave the car unlocked. And my other keys're in my pocket when I'm here at the store. Maybe somebody got hold of Ted's at the pier?”
“Not likely. I've never seen them lying around.”
“But possible.”
“Anything's possible. What should I do about this disgusting gift?”
“Just leave it where you found it. I'll close up early, be there when Ted gets home. Seeing it might make him tell me what's going on. Or at least give some indication.”
I'd been thinking of taking the box and note to an investigative laboratory I use, but Neal's idea was better. Chances were an analysis would turn up nothing; given the proliferation of crime novels, films, and TV shows, the average individual has become as savvy in ways of avoiding detection as your typical street criminal. “Okay, I'll leave it. Now, if seeing it doesn't make Ted confide in you, here's what I want you to do over the weekend: write down the details of his behavior; note anything unusual or out of character, no matter how minor. I'll stop by your store on Monday and pick up the list.”
“List? More likely it'll approximate a volume of the
Encyclopedia Britannica.
His every action has been unusual and out of character for weeks.”
“You get very fast results,” Bea Allen said. She sat in one of my clients’ chairs—a slender woman with very short brown hair and narrow features. Her fingers played nervously at the briefcase she held on her lap.
I handed her the report on the background investigation of her suitor—which Mick had written in his own inimitable style and I'd then edited to make it more palatable to the client.
Allen opened it and began reading. I swiveled around to give her privacy, taking in the blue sky and the sunlight sparkling on the bay. It seemed the weather gods knew this was a day for lovers, since they'd allowed San Francisco to shine at its romantic best. The respite from the string of storms that we'd all needed to maintain our sanity had finally arrived; I hoped it would last at least through the weekend.
I heard a noise behind me. Oh, God, I thought, she's going to cry, and looked to see if Ted had replaced the empty Kleenex box on top of the file cabinet. But, no, that hadn't been a preliminary to a sob; Bea Allen was now laughing.
“I didn't know he was part of
that
family,” she said. “It must be on the maternal side. And this stuff about his business dealings—the man is such an
idiot!
He
needs
me!”
I swiveled to face her again. “He needs someone with good business sense, yes, but did you get to the part about the history of mental illness? It's not encouraging, and the incident with his former wife is alarming.”
Allen dismissed my words with a wave of her hand. “1 don't care about the family history; I'm not interested in having children. As for the rest, I'll handle it.”
She asked for a final invoice, and I said I'd have it mailed to her. “So do the two of you have Valentine's Day plans?” I asked as I walked her out.
“Now I do. I'm going to set the wedding date.” Waving the report at me, she walked away, but not before I caught the keen acquisitive glint in her eyes.
I went back to my office, constructing a profoundly depressing scenario: Bea Allen would circumvent a prenuptial agreement, marry the man, and within the year inveigle him into giving her power of attorney so she could properly handle his affairs. Then she would provoke an incident that would force her to commit him to a mental institution, leaving her free to do what she wished with the remainder of the robber baron's fortune. Her husband would escape, of course, and come after her.