Daniel Kane-after my last name, and that of my partners, who’re brothers. Jacob’s designed a terrific building, and we’ll be breaking ground later this month.”
Ziff appeared with three glasses of wine and set them down on the table. To Daniel he said, “Daniel Kane Private Reserve Zin.”
“One of our best. Cheers.” He raised his glass.
I sipped. They made a good wine-if the opinion of one who only in recent years had begun buying bottles with corks in them held any weight.
Ziff said, “So what happened out there in the courtyard?”
“Someone fired a handgun. I don’t know what they were shooting at, but they came close to hitting me.”
“Did the police catch the person?”
“He or she is long gone. Easy to conceal a small-caliber handgun and slip away; there’re exits leading to the parking lots between the wings.”
Daniel said, “How do you know it was a handgun? And small-caliber?”
“I’ve been around guns for years, have owned several. I could tell by the sound of the shot.”
“Must be scary to be shot at.”
“As I said, I don’t know that the shooter was aiming at me. But, yes, it’s scary.”
“Enough to make a woman pee in her pants, I’ll bet.”
I was beginning to regret having taken him up on the offer of a drink. “My being a woman has nothing to do with it. And I didn’t pee in my pants.”
Ziff cleared his throat, probably hearing the irritation in my voice and attempting to warn off his client.
If he noticed, Daniel didn’t care. “You’ve been shot at before?”
“Yes.” I’d also been shot once-in the ass, to my great embarrassment-but I wasn’t about to bring that up.
“Shot anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“I don’t care to talk about them.”
Ziff said, “Let’s change the subject, Kev.”
Daniel’s eyes had gone hot and flat with curiosity. “No, I want to hear about this. You kill anybody?”
“She said she doesn’t want to talk-”
“Because that’s what I’d do. Shoot to kill, it’s the only way.”
Unfortunately he was right: in a situation where guns are drawn, you shoot to kill; I’d learned that when I became firearms qualified, and doing so had once saved my life, twice saved the lives of people I cared about.
I stood and said, “Jacob, thank you for the drink. I have to be going now.” As I moved toward the door, I heard Ziff’s chair scrape on the floor and his footsteps follow me.
He caught up with me in the lobby. “Sharon, please excuse my client. He’s a spoiled rich kid, came down here from San Francisco four years ago with a lot of money and romantic notions about himself as a vintner, bought his way into a winery that badly needed a cash infusion.”
“He’s got to be in his forties-no kid. And apparently he romanticizes the concept of shooting someone to death.”
“Yeah.” Ziff looked troubled. “Under that smooth exterior, I sense he’s something of a loose cannon. Not that he hasn’t done wonders for Daniel Kane; he’s got a good head on his shoulders.” Ziff smiled crookedly. “Anyway, I apologize for his behavior.”
“Not your fault.” I moved toward the door to the courtyard.
Ziff wasn’t content to let the matter drop. “I guess I shouldn’t have told him about you and your investigation, but I had no way of knowing we’d meet up with you-or under what circumstances.”
“No harm done. But let me ask you this: did you tell anyone else?”
“No.”
“Do you know a reporter on the San Luis paper named Mike Rosenfeld?”
“I know of him.”
“But you haven’t spoken to him about my investigation?”
“No, of course not. What’s this about, Sharon?”
I sighed, suddenly feeling weary. “Nothing, really. The shooting incident’s made me a little paranoid, that’s all. I’d better go now; tomorrow’s going to be a very long day.”
But the sensor that an attorney friend in San Francisco called his “shit detector” had kicked in. Immediately before closing time I returned to the lounge and spoke with the bartender. Did he know Jacob Ziff and Kev Daniel? Yes, they were both good customers. Had Mr. Ziff been standing at the bar when the police arrived earlier? No, he had been at the bar about two hours earlier, but had left and returned later with Mr. Daniel and me. And when had Mr. Daniel arrived? The man looked puzzled, then said, “I’m not sure. He was at a table in the patio when I came on shift at eight.”
Seemed like I’d had a drink with a pair of liars.
Sunday
Ma’s “little wedding reception” turned out to be quite the event.
The spacious home north of San Diego that she shared with her husband, Melvin Hunt, was filled with their friends and neighbors, most of whom I didn’t know. A full bar was set up in the living room, waiters circulated with trays of canapes, and a string quartet played softly in the garden gazebo. All this she’d organized in a little over a week, and, knowing Ma, if she’d had a couple more days’ notice she’d’ve had the house redecorated-something she did with great regularity. It was a far cry from the family barbecues she used to throw in the backyard of our old rambling house in San Diego proper, and I was hoping the genteel atmosphere and presence of strangers would stave off the contretemps that usually erupted when the clan gathered.
If any of them ever arrived.
Hy, in a beige summer suit, circulated through the crowd, beer in hand, charming the women and discussing with the men the stock market, the price of real estate, and golf handicaps-even though, so far as I knew, he’d never so much as picked up a club. Tall and lean, with curly dark blond hair, a hawk nose, and a swooping mustache, he wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, but he had a presence that turned heads. When he smiled and winked at me across the room, I felt a rush of warmth. This man was my husband.
Then he was swallowed up in the crowd. I clutched my wineglass with tense fingers, looked around for a familiar face, but saw none. No one was paying attention to me, and even in my most becoming pale green silk tunic and flowing pants, I felt more like a wallflower than the guest of honor.
Where the hell were my relatives, anyway?
About three minutes later the front door opened and my older brother John entered, accompanied by his teenaged boys, Nate and Matt. Nate, blond and clean-cut like his father, was carrying a large, silver-wrapped package and looked around expectantly. His brother slouched, a sullen expression on his face, which appeared to have fallen victim to recent piercings-a gold ring dangled from one nostril and his right eyebrow sported a silver one. His hair, a peculiar shade of orange, looked as if it had engaged in a hostile encounter with an eggbeater. Nate and John came toward me, but Matt slunk off toward the door to the garden. Probably planning to go behind the gazebo and smoke some dope.
John enveloped me in a bear hug, lifted me off the ground, and twirled me around. “Hot damn, you finally did it! Where’s the lucky man?”
“I think Ma’s friends have co-opted him.”
“We’ll have to make a gallant rescue.” He raised his head, listening to the faint strains of the music. “What the hell’s
“Vivaldi,” Nate said. “
