She called Home Showcase and learned that Ben Gold was working the day shift. Then she set out for Union Square.
A
ngie Atkins, a prostitute found dead in an alley off Sixth Street three years ago. Angie’s friend Callie O’Leary, who had
hooked up with a sleazy attorney and abandoned her fleabag hotel room. Rae might never find O’Leary. Sad fact, but women in
the sex trade often disappeared or were randomly killed and their bodies never identified. Some simply moved on. Others—the
lucky ones—retreated into lives of respectability.
So which kind was Callie?
Rae was sitting at the desk allotted to her in the office shared by Thelia Chen and Diane D’Angelo, Thelia’s assistant whom
Shar had hired last December. Chen was superefficient, a former analyst at Bank of America, with a wide range of contacts
within the city’s financial world; she was descended from an old, respected Chinatown family and could tell stories of the
history of the Chinese in California in which her own people were personally involved.
D’Angelo, a CPA, was something of a puzzle: she was very reserved, didn’t speak of her life outside the office, and generally…
well, didn’t fit with the agency culture. Rae had sneaked a look at her personnel file and found she was a member of a well-to-do
Peninsula family, had gone to an exclusive Bay Area private school and to Yale, then worked three years for a major New York
City accounting firm. Unspecified personal reasons were cited for her return to the Bay Area. From her address in fashionable
Cow Hollow, Rae assumed she didn’t really have to work and was getting a kick out of playing at being a private investigator.
Of course, Rae couldn’t criticize her for that:
she
didn’t need to work either.
But need wasn’t relevant to her situation, or Ricky’s. They were both driven people. Poor most of their lives, once they’d
found their respective niches they’d poured everything they had into their work. Being able to do the thing you loved was
rare—a gift that shouldn’t be squandered.
Besides, work had gotten her out of the house on a Sunday when Ricky, two of his band members, four of the kids, and Charlene
and her husband, Vic, were having a barbecue.
Talk about extended families.…
Angie Atkins, on the other hand, had had no family of any kind, no history. Today’s throwaway woman with, probably, only a
made-up name that had already faded in the SFPD’s files. Impossible to find her killer.
No, not impossible. She was going to close this one. And maybe find a link to Shar’s shooting.
H
e sat in a booth at Lulu’s Diner in Monterey, repeatedly turning his coffee cup in its saucer. In spite of what Craig had
told him about one’s appetite returning quickly, the smell of bacon, eggs, toast, and pancakes made him queasy. Pictures of
the dead man and woman—only flashes, but vivid—kept appearing in his mind.
He’d never venture out into the field again. A desk, a monitor, a keyboard—those were the things he needed to look at. Not
bodies and bloodstains. Leave that stuff to the pros with the strong stomachs.
Traffic whizzed by on Munras Avenue, a long street on the edge of the downtown area that seemed mainly populated by motels
and eateries. Low-budget tourist heaven. The fog was thick here—although not as thick as farther south—and people were bundled
up and walking quickly along the sidewalk. Getaway weekend for a lot of people from the Bay Area, where today the sun was
predicted to shine.
This location, Mick reflected, was uncomfortably close to the quaint seaside town of Carmel, where he and Sweet Charlotte
had gone for a supposedly romantic winter vacation. They’d checked into a little bed-and-breakfast on a side street, had lunch
at an expensive trattoria, window-shopped. He’d bought her a necklace she’d admired at a jewelry store—all the time thinking
of how surprised she’d be at the diamond ring in his jacket pocket—and at sunset, on the white sand beach at the end of Ocean
Avenue where wind-warped cypress grew, he’d proposed to her.
She’d said no. In fact she’d been planning to wait till the end of the weekend to tell him she’d be moving out of his condo
next week. She needed some space, she said.
Mick never took the ring out of his pocket. They’d walked silently back to the B&B, collected their things, and driven straight
back to the city. Next day, Charlotte had started packing her belongings; she’d already found a place on Potrero Hill. Mick
returned the ring to Tiffany’s later that week.
And had vowed never again to set foot in Carmel.
Now he tried to blank out, lose himself in the flow of vehicles on Munras, but unpleasant images of both the crime scene and
the abortive trip to Carmel persisted. He was grateful when he saw Craig’s SUV pull into the lot.
Craig came inside, looking like the ordinary tourist in search of breakfast. He raised a hand to Mick and came back to the
booth. A waitress appeared quickly, and he ordered something called the Seaside Special, raised his eyebrows at Mick.
“Toast,” Mick said. “No, make that an English muffin. And a glass of milk.” When the server departed, he leaned toward Craig
and asked, “Took you a long time.”
“Flat tire a few miles down the coast.”
Mick glanced around; nobody was paying any attention to their conversation. “What were those things you had to do in Big Sur?”
“Take another look at… the people. And search for a document she made him sign.”
“That… thing, you’re sure it wasn’t murder-suicide?”
“I’d stake my life on it. When I went back to the room I took a closer look at them. Needle marks on their necks, probably
some kind of fast-acting sedative. Made it easier to move him to her room and set up the scene beforehand. Any good ME will
spot them immediately.”
“So the shooter doesn’t care if it comes out that it was murder?”
“All he wanted was that document—he got it—and a clean getaway. The initial news reports will create a commotion that’ll overshadow
what the autopsy reveals. And by that time the story’ll be off page one.”
Their food arrived. Mick took a sip of milk. Better.
He asked, “But how did the shooter get in? They wouldn’t’ve left their doors unlocked.”
“No dead bolts—remember? Those old snap locks are flimsy. Or he could’ve gotten hold of a passkey; that clerk who checked
me in didn’t look as if she was above taking a bribe.”
“You think it was a man who did it?”
“A man, or maybe a woman with a male partner. Janssen was big, would’ve been hard for most women to carry. Hard to drag, even.”
Mick bit into his English muffin. If it stayed down, he might consider ordering a real breakfast. “So why’re you investigating
Teller and Janssen?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you that when we get to a more secure location.”
E
lwood sat in the chair next to me, his gaze gentle on mine.
“I can feel your spirit, Daughter,” he said. “I can feel your fear. But also your determination and hope.”
Well, that’s a hell of a lot better than wailing and hurling yourself on my chest and nearly crushing me.
“I can also feel your anger. At the one who did this to you, but—worse—at those like Kay who indulge their own emotions at
the expense of yours. Or those who treat you as a person forever changed.”
I blinked once.
“You must let go of that anger. People are fallible, often weak, but they love you. Focus it instead on the one who did this
to you.”
Blink.
Elwood touched my arm. First time I’d ever had comforting physical contact with my birth father. Tears blurred my gaze.
“Anger is powerful and good, if not misused,” he added. “You must tap into your roots, feel the rage and the power of those
who have lived before you.”
I blinked, and the tears trickled down my face.
“Your great-grandmother, I understand, knew anger and became a warrior woman. She found the courage to leave the Indian agent
who had taken her for his own and abused her, to accompany a kind white man to California and build a new life. Your grandmother
on my side was a woman who accepted nothing—poverty, lack of education, abandonment—on other than her own terms. Your mother,
Saskia, she’s brave and smart, has argued before the United States Supreme Court—and won every case. And your people, the
Shoshone, go on and on against all odds.”
My emotions were on a roller-coaster ride again. Elwood’s hand touched my forehead, then brushed my tears away.
“It’s in your blood, Daughter,” he said. “You will continue to fight this, and you will win.”
I must have slept because I didn’t remember Elwood leaving. One minute he was talking to me, the next I felt someone holding
a cool cloth to my face and opened my eyes to see Saskia. As ever I was struck by our resemblance to each other and to my
half sister Robin. Put the three of us together in a photo, and you’d see one individual aging well through different stages
of life.
She smiled at me. “Rough morning?”
I blinked.
“Your mother is… not emotionally stable these days, and your condition has somewhat unhinged her. Your doctor prescribed a
mild tranquilizer, and Hy took her back to her hotel. She’ll be here again tomorrrow.”
Why is she unstable?
Saskia had seen the question in my eyes. “Her husband has been diagnosed with bladder cancer. And she has been having dizzy
spells and weakness in her limbs. Most of her problems, I think, are in response to his condition.”
Ma hasn’t told me any of this! Nobody’s told me. What’s wrong with them? Do they think I can’t take upsetting news?
Again Saskia understood. “Neither of them wanted anyone to know or to worry. Just as you wish you could go through this ordeal
in private. But that’s a mistake, Sharon. Your life and health don’t belong exclusively to you; those who love you have a
big stake in your future.”
Obligations to others? Fuck that!
“And they can help you through this.”
Well… maybe.
Saskia and Elwood, they were both so insightful in their different ways. And Pa was wise, too: he had left me the documentation
to find out who I really was. Ma: she took me in as a tiny baby, loved me, and never treated me as if I weren’t her flesh
and blood.
Hy—he was and always would be my lover and my best friend.
My stepfather, Melvin Hunt. Bladder cancer—my God! He and Ma would need my support, but how could I give it to them from a
hospital bed? I
had
to get better.
Rae and Ricky and the kids. Especially Mick. Ted and Neal. Craig and Adah. Julia. Charlene, Vic, Patsy, and John. Patrick.
All the others who were family, bloodlines not withstanding.
Saskia is right: my life belongs to them as much as it does to me.
My eyelids were getting heavy again. My birth mother said, “Rest now. You’re not alone, Sharon. Not ever.”
U
nion Square was teeming with people clutching bags from the department stores and specialty shops. Many were tourists who
had come unprepared for a San Francisco summer and shivered in shorts and T-shirts. In spite of their discomfort, the scene
was lively. Cable cars rumbled and clanged on Powell Street, people hanging off the sides and, in some cases, waving energetically.
Pigeons flocked to a woman who stood in the square, tossing them bread. There were long lines at the discount ticket office
for plays and concerts. Julia could feel the crackling energy.
Although she’d lived most of her life in the city, as a child and young adult Julia had seldom come downtown; the Mission
district was her turf—a closely defined and confined neighborhood. Many of San Francisco’s poorer areas were like small cities
unto themselves, their residents rarely venturing past their limits, except to go to work—if they had work.
Besides, what would’ve been the point in coming here? Bus fare was expensive, and Mission district families like Julia’s didn’t
have the money to shop in the stores, to eat in the restaurants, to go to the theaters. She remembered one time when her sister
Sophia had brought her to see the annual Christmas tree all decorated in the square: the tree had been nice, but it was the
people who fascinated her—well dressed and carefree, the women smelling of expensive perfumes and the men of aftershave, many
of them getting out of cabs and limousines or turning their beautiful cars over to valet parkers. It was an exciting experience,
but after enjoying a gingerbread man Sophia bought her from a street vendor, Julia had been glad to go home to the Mission.
It was where she felt comfortable.
But now, she realized, all that had changed. Sure, she had a crappy car, but she also had parked it in the garage under the
square, on her expense account. She was wearing a good leather jacket—almost paid for—and a pair of stylish jeans and boots.
Best of all, she was a woman with a business to go about, and a State of California private investigator’s license to prove
it. And last night—much as she’d hated the silence—she’d spent the night as a guest of a Sonoma Valley vintner.
Don’t let it go to your head,
chica
, you’re only the hired help.
But it was a lot better than what she used to do when men hired her.
The light changed, and she crossed the intersection. The big Home Showcase store on Stockton Street was crowded with shoppers
inspecting the specialty food items, glassware, china, and linens. Julia angled toward the sales desk, briefly slowing her
pace to admire a set of candlesticks that she knew Sophia would love. Maybe she’d buy them for her birthday; that way they
could use them on the Thanksgiving table.…
Ben Gold was behind the desk, wrapping up a cut-glass vase and a bunch of multicolored dried flowers. He handed the shopping
bag to the customer and turned expectantly to Julia. His smile faded when he saw her, and his handsome features sharpened;
alarm showed in his bright blue eyes.