Somewhere in this city—or close to it—there was a woman who had asked prying questions about me, impersonated me, made love with at least one man who called her by my name. Had she been close by tonight? Close enough for me to see? Would I have recognized her, or was she someone who had chosen me at random?
And what did I know about her? Nothing, except that she resembled me. I had no other information, unless she again contacted Clive Benjamin and he kept his promise to call me. I had all the tools of my profession and an entire agency of talented investigators at my disposal, but I was powerless until the woman made some move.
And God knew what that move might be.
Powerlessness. It's a state that frightens me more than losing a plane's engine over mountainous terrain in the middle of the night. That situation would quite likely result in my death, but at least I'd be trying to
do
something about it when I died.
Tonight I'm dreaming of a chameleon.
It sits at a small table in a warm, softly lighted room and transforms over and over again—from itself to a version of myself to a woman in a loose sweater who pulls its hood down over honey-blond hair and casts swift, angry glances behind her.
Behind her—where yet another version of myself sits, thinking she's safe among the people who love her.
T
wo-eight-niner, contact Oakland Approach on 135.4.”
I keyed the Citabria's mike and acknowledged the SFO air traffic controller's instruction. Then, as I switched frequencies, I heaved a sigh of relief.
I'd flown into the busy Class B airport many times, both as a passenger and as a pilot, but always on commercial flights or with Hy. Doing so was a tense, no-nonsense proposition; you didn't waste a word or a second, and you complied with air traffic control quickly and to the letter. During the flights when I'd piloted, I'd relied, emotionally at least, on the presence of Hy, a former commercial pilot who held nearly every license, certificate, and rating known to aviation; his concern over my dependency was what had prompted him to ask me to fly him into SFO tonight to catch the red-eye for Miami, where he'd connect with his flight to Buenos Aires. Departing there without him, he reasoned, would show me I could handle the situation on my own.
Well, I'd handled it—keeping my nervousness out of my voice, because even at this late hour the controller hadn't the time or inclination to coddle me. And now I was almost back to Oakland, regretting that the ride was such a short one. It was a beautiful evening, the clear spell that began on Friday having persisted. Below me, the lights of the Bay Area tried to outdo the stars and moon in their brilliance. And compared with landing at SFO, landing at Oakland was, in Hy's parlance, a piece of cake.
Back on the ground, I chained and locked the Citabria and started through the executive terminal to the parking area, intent on my car, home, and bed. But at the last minute I veered over to the lobby desk and asked the woman on duty if Jeff Riley was working tonight. Yes, she said, as a matter of fact he'd just gone into the vending room. I followed and found the short, bearded lineman cursing at a cup of what I call cardboard coffee that had spilled over his fingers while he was trying to wrest it from the machine.
“Hey, Sharon,” he said, “somebody told me Ripinsky coaxed you into flying him to SFO.”
“Yeah, he did. I could've had him there in twenty minutes by car—not to mention more cheaply, given the huge landing fee. But he wanted me to learn a lesson in self-reliance.”
“How'd it go?”
“Pretty well. I was nervous departing, of course, but now I know I can do it.”
“And a good thing, because someday you may have to do it—there or at another Class B airport. You're all grown up now, at least as far as flying's concerned.” Jeff leaned against the wall, sipping coffee and making a sour face. “I've always figured there're two kinds of pilots: those who deliberately choose to limit their experience, and those who go the whole nine yards. Nothing wrong with either; the ones who limit themselves're smart, recognize the extent of their abilities. But for a long time I've had you pegged as the other.”
“Have you? I'm flattered. By the way, that reporter—have you seen her around here again?”
“Nope.”
“Will you do me a favor? Keep a closer than usual eye on Two-eight-niner for a while.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks. Hy and I will stand you to a couple of rounds of beer someday soon.”
“Hell, it's a pleasure to help out. I wouldn't want any harm to come to that nice little plane. Or to you or Hy.”
Until he said it, the possibility of vandalism or sabotage hadn't occurred to me. But I carried the notion home with me, like a suspiciously ticking package.
Somebody had broken into my house while I was gone.
I felt it the moment I opened the door and realized that in our haste to leave, neither Hy nor I had thought to activate the security system. I glanced at the lock; there were fresh scratches on it—picked.
I drew my gun—a new .357 Magnum—from my bag and shut the door quietly, then stood still, listening to the silence and taking in the signs. The temperature was warmer than earlier; somebody had turned up the thermostat. A light burned in the sitting room, but I distinctly remembered turning it off on my way out. And there was a scent on the air, a perfume that I didn't use. Familiar, though. What? I breathed it in and free associated.
Dark Secrets.
Yes, that was it. One of those new, heavily advertised scents that had emanated from a scratch-and-smell card enclosed with my last Macy's bill.
Appropriate—fiendishly appropriate.
Gun held in both hands, I moved forward and peered through the archway to the parlor. A novel I'd been reading while curled up on the love seat last week had been knocked to the floor. The doors to the guest room armoire stood open, but nothing else appeared to have been touched. I continued slowly along the hall.
In the sitting room, embers glowed in the fireplace; the last time Hy and I had made a fire was Saturday night. A bottle of Deer Hill Chardonnay—my favorite, and one that cost a for tune by my standards—sat uncorked beside a glass on the table next to the easy chair; the bottle was only half full.
I moved to the room I use as my home office. Several of the desk drawers had been pulled open, and the chair was shoved over by the closet, as if someone had stood on it to check the shelf. Thank God I kept my important papers in the safe at the pier!
One of the under-cabinet fluorescents burned in the kitchen; by its light I saw a corkscrew and cork positioned in the exact center of the chopping-block island.
In the bathroom I found that my birth control pills had apparently been flushed down the toilet. The empty pack lay on the floor next to it.
I slipped along the hall, still with both hands on the gun. The bedroom door was half closed; it was hung wrong and had a tendency to do that on its own, but … I nudged it with my foot and stepped inside, sweeping the room with the .357.
Empty. But my bedding had been ripped off and tossed on the floor.
One of the folding closet doors was ajar. I took my left hand off the gun, grasped the knob, and pulled.
Nothing inside but my clothes.
The intruder was gone. Not long gone, though; the scent of her Dark Secrets still lingered, as if she'd sprayed it in the air. Well, maybe she had. It was as good as writing a message on the mirror.
I looked down at the rumpled bedclothes, anger flaring. I'd been looking forward to crawling into bed immediately, but now I'd have to remake it—
A noise on the back deck—bumping and scraping.
I raised the gun, stepped into the dark hallway The outside spot was on, and through the glass I saw my orange tabby, Ralph. He had his nose pressed to the glass, and his yellow yes pleaded to be let in.
“Jesus,” I whispered. What if I'd shot him? Even though I $$$ a carry permit, I shouldn't be toting this gun around; it should be locked in the U.S. Navy ammo box bolted to the floor of the linen closet, where it usually resided with my old .38. But since Friday night I'd felt better with a weapon close to hand.
I opened the door, and Ralphie slipped inside, heading for his food bowl.
And then I thought, Allie—Where's Allie?
I leaned out the door and called my calico. Nothing. But Alice always came promptly when called after dark; neither she nor her brother was a night-prowling creature.
I hurried through the house, shouting her name. No response.
“God damn that bitch! If she's done something to my cat, I'll kill her!”
Then I heard a scuffling above my head, followed by an unearthly wailing that came from the home office. I ran in there—and realized the significance of the desk chair being moved: there was an opening to the house's crawl space in the closet.
The woman had stuffed my cat into the crawl space!
I climbed up on the chair, shoved the cover aside, and saw widely dilated, frightened eyes peering down at me. Quickly I reached for Allie, but she wasn't having any of that; she leaped down, leaving a long gash in my forearm.
“God
damn
her!” I yelled again—not referring to the cat.
I climbed down from the chair and went to the bathroom to wash and treat the deep scratch. Then I returned to the kitchen, patted Allie—who was frantically crunching Friskies—and poured myself a glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge. I loved the Deer Hill, but I couldn't bring myself to drink from a bottle that
she
had opened.
What now? I thought. Call 911? Normally I would have, but this business was too bizarre, too convoluted, too potentially damaging to entrust to just any officer. Call a friend–Greg Marcus on Narcotics or Adah Joslyn on Homicide? No, you didn't bother a friend at this hour. Besides, the assault on my home and privacy had the feel of having been well planned and executed; she'd have been careful to leave no fingerprints, no clues to her identity.
Only a silent challenge.
I was here. I can enter your home. I can take your identity. And you don't know who I am or why I'm doing these things.
Yes, you were here. Yes, you entered my home. But you can't take my identity. I can figure out who you are. I can figure out why you're doing these things.
I can stop you.
Y
our initial assumption was correct,” Greg Marcus said. “She probably didn't leave you anything to go on.”
The Narcotics captain was a big gray-blond man, heavier now than when I'd first known him, and he seemed to fill up my small sitting room. Years before, we'd been lovers—a relationship destined to fail, given its volatility. But time had mellowed us both and nowadays sparks rarely flew between us; we'd settled into a comfortable friendship, having dinner together every couple of months. This morning when I decided I wanted someone I trusted from the SFPD to check out the scene at my house, it was only natural that I call Greg. And just as naturally he'd agreed to stop by on his way to the Hall of Justice.
“I could send a technician,” he added, “have the place dusted for latents. But then we'd have to take prints from everybody who normally visits here.”
“And even if you isolated an unfamiliar one, it might not be the woman's. Or her prints might not be on file anywhere.” And I'd known that before I even called him.
Greg saw my discouragement and put his hand on my shoulder. “You want me to have somebody canvass the neighbors, ask if anybody saw anything unusual?”
“I already did that. Nothing.”
“Well, then, I'll file a report, in case she pulls something else.” He squeezed my shoulder, took his hand away.
“Thanks.”
Greg studied my face for a few seconds. “You look tired. Losing sleep over this?”
“Some.”
“Hy's not in town?”
“No, he's in South America for a couple of weeks.”
“Maybe you shouldn't be staying alone here. Why not get out, move in with a friend for a while?”
“Absolutely not. I won't allow this woman to disrupt my life any more than she already has. Anyway, her getting in was partly my fault; I'll have to be more careful to arm the system from now on.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I didn't mean to imply that I doubt your ability to take care of yourself, but with crazies … Well, you never know. She seems to be a controlled crazy, though, so she may avoid a direct confrontation. You carrying?”
“I have been, but I'm spooked enough that I'm not sure I should be.”
“Which gun?”
“A new one—.357 Magnum, Smith and Wesson. Hy finally convinced me that my old .38 doesn't have the stopping power I'd need in a critical situation.”
“He's right. The .357 is a good weapon. You can wound an opponent enough to stop him from a distance of more than twenty feet. I'm glad you got it.”
“Well, I hope I don't have to use it, especially in my present frame of mind.”
“Trust yourself. You're an excellent shot, and you've got good judgment.”
Coming from him, that meant a lot. “Thanks for everything, Greg. I haven't been able to bring myself to tell anybody but Hy about the woman. It helps, talking with you.”
He smiled gently, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Long ago I told you that I'd always be there for you, and I meant it.”
Anachronism Bookshop smelled of old bindings and age-mellowed paper. It was a long space—something of a maze— filled with stacks and nooks where browsers could sink into comfortable old armchairs to read. A narrow mezzanine containing more shelves girdled it on four sides, a wide foot-worn staircase ascending to it at the rear. When I arrived soon after ten, I found Neal perched on his stool behind the high, mahogany-paneled counter to the right of the door, perusing a price guide and smiling contentedly.
Seeing me broke the spell, however; he scowled and reached under the counter, bringing out a small spiral-bound notebook and thrusting it at me.
“The weekend didn't go well?” I asked.
“It's all in there, in detail.”
“Why don't you recap it for me? You look and sound as though you need to talk.”