the truth, wound up hanging me anyway.”
Mo put his fork down. “All right. So?”
“So I’m not comfortable telling the man this time that I was home alone.”
“Haven’t you already told him that?” Rae asked.
“I did.”
“Well, then…”
“Well, no. That’s not going to do it.”
“What do you mean?” Mo asked.
“I mean, I need something else. Something stronger.”
“So you’re thinking you’re going to change what you told them?” Mo’s brows had come together in a frown. “That is no kind of a good idea. They know you lied, they all over you.”
“Right,” Carter said. “Which is why I don’t go to them and tell them anything. Everything just stays the same. Except if they come back on to me.”
Mo’s expression was pure confusion. “And then what happen?”
“Then I tell them I lied.”
The couple exchanged a glance.
“I tell them, Rae”-Carter took a tentative breath-“that I was with you. That’s why I couldn’t tell them the truth the first time when they asked. I didn’t want it to get out to Mo. I couldn’t have it get back to Mo.”
Rae’s frown matched her husband’s. “So then they ask me? Then what?”
“Then they probably won’t even ask, but if they do, you tell them, yeah, you were with me. Mo was home, having some beers and watching the game, you told him you were out with your girlfriends, your book club, whatever it was. But really you came to my place and stayed on till late.” He took another sip of his milk shake. “You think you could go along with that, both of you? Make sure your brother doesn’t have to go back to the joint?”
24
Tamara had handled the preliminary meeting to okay the staffing earlier in the day, but now at three-thirty, Hunt was still in the middle of his follow-up meeting with the Willard White people-Will, Gloria, and three of their staff-running down the tasks he’d need to have them perform for his law firm clients over the next week or two. They were all jammed into his small back office, with straight- back wooden chairs for the principals, the others sitting on the file cabinets. Though he had told Tamara to hold his calls while the meeting was in progress, suddenly the phone on his desk chimed and he glared at it, then excused himself and picked it up.
Mickey was propped up in a bed in a double room at San Francisco General Hospital. His ribs were bandaged. His left arm was in a soft cast. The area around his left eye was swollen and discolored. Groggy from the painkillers, he was otherwise reasonably coherent, managing a feeble smile when he saw his sister and then Hunt behind her. “You should see the other guy,” he said, then grimaced.
He told them that because of the head injury, they wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but he was sure he’d be back to relatively normal in no time. He was, he said, actually very lucky-first, that he wasn’t killed, and second, some cops had come by and told him that the woman who’d hit him and who’d been completely and unarguably at fault was insured to the hilt. He’d probably get a good used car out of his totaled wreck of a Camaro, and at least some, if not all, of his hospital bill would be paid. They might not even have to make a claim on the insurance he carried through Hunt’s business. If all went well, they would let him out tomorrow-Tamara could pick him up in the old Volkswagen she hadn’t driven in six months-and he might even be in at work by the afternoon.
“Don’t push it,” Hunt told him. “Whenever you’re feeling better.”
Then Mickey wanted to tell Hunt about what he’d learned at his visit to Sanctuary House that morning, and did Hunt know that many of the reward participants, including Nancy Neshek, had actually been to a Communities of Opportunity meeting together on Monday night at City Hall?
“That became clear at the memorial,” Hunt said. “Although they all put on a good act that they’d barely heard about Neshek’s death.”
“You think that was bogus?” Mickey asked.
Hunt shrugged. “Hard to say.” He gave them both a pretty much word-by-word account of everyone’s reactions to Neshek’s murder-Turner, Hess, Carter, Jaime and Lola Sanchez, it didn’t take long-and then took a deep breath and came out with what he’d been avoiding. “But aside from them, there actually have been a few new developments.”
“Which you’re not going to like too much,” Tamara added.
“What?”
Hunt filled him in on the latest news about Alicia, and Mickey brought up the same objections that Tamara had earlier.
“Well, I know how both of you feel,” Hunt replied. “But I’d have to say at this point that Devin and Sarah consider her the prime suspect. And you both ought to know that. We’d be smart to think of her the same way. At least until we get something that positively clears her.” Hunt’s eyes went from Mickey around to his sister. “You think we can do that?”
“We can try,” Tamara said at last, folding under the pressure of Hunt’s gaze.
Hunt turned back around and leaned in toward the bed. “How ’bout you, Mick? Mick?”
But Mickey’s eyes were closed, his breathing regular. For all the world as though the pain drugs had kicked in again and he had faded off to sleep.
At a few minutes after six, Tamara said good- bye to Hunt, got out of the car he’d driven her home in, opened her building’s front door, checked her mail-mostly throwaway stuff except for the PG amp; E bill and the latest Gourmet-and climbed the stairs up to her apartment. Letting herself in with her key, she sang out a greeting, but not too loud, as her grandfather was known to take the occasional nap. “Hey, Jim. I’m home.”
When he didn’t respond, she walked over a few steps. His bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open enough to see inside. His bed was still made and he wasn’t in it. Well, he was probably hanging out with his friends, she thought. Usually he made it a point to get home by dinnertime, which tended to be around seven. She didn’t give his absence a lot of thought.
She dropped the mail onto its spot at the top of the living room bookshelf, then turned and hung up her coat in the closet by the front door. On her way into the kitchen to check the refrigerator for something to drink, she passed the phone, saw the number “1” flashing, and pushed the button for playback.
“Hi. This is Alicia Thorpe and I’m trying to get ahold of Mickey. Mickey, your cell phone’s not picking up. I think it must be not turned on or something, so I’m trying the other number you gave me. Could you give me a call as soon as you get this? Or Jim or Tamara, maybe you could get in touch with him and have him call me. I really need to see Mickey as soon as I can. The police came by again today and… well, I can tell Mickey all this when he calls.” She left her number and continued. “I should be able to answer all day. I called in sick at work, so really, anytime. But sooner would be better. Thanks. Talk to you soon, I hope.”
Tamara, her face now clouded over by concern and indecision, stood by the phone and pushed the button to hear the message again. This wasn’t any social call. Clearly, Alicia understood that her situation had changed. Her voice was charged not just with tension, but with an undertone of desperation.
Conflicted by the recent and unequivocal instructions from her boss, Tamara remained standing by the telephone for another minute or so. After that, she continued on into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, found some orange juice, and poured herself a glass. Bringing it with her, she went back to the living room and plopped herself down on the one stuffed chair they had by the back windows. She took a good drink and put the orange juice glass on the small table next to the chair. Then she came forward and clasped her hands.
She started to get up once, then-hamstrung by her indecisiveness-all but fell back into the chair. On her second try, she was more successful-she got all the way up and over to the telephone. It took her another minute
