I settled down to do some hard thinking.
Mick had been moved to a private room when I returned to the hospital. He was awake, his parents and their spouses beside his bed. His left limbs were in casts, the leg elevated; cuts and bruises marred his features and his nose was taped where it had been broken; both eyes were black. And he was angry-with himself.
“I’m such a stupid shit-” He saw me in the doorway. “Hey, Shar, you didn’t have to come down here.”
“I was already in town when you pulled your genius act.”
He smiled weakly. “I guess I better take the sign down.”
“I already did.”
Charlene hugged me and said, “I think the four of us should take off, so you can talk with Mick before he gets his next pain shot and falls asleep. Meet us at Rae and Ricky’s later.”
After they’d all exited, I said, “What did you think you were doing?”
He grimaced. “Jesus, I hurt. I don’t know. To tell the truth, I don’t remember anything except thinking I could fly on the bike.”
“Be glad you couldn’t.”
“… Charlotte was here. Dad was pissed, but he let her see me.”
“And?”
“She told me we’d talk later. I know that probably doesn’t mean much, but at least she came.”
“And you got the attention you wanted from her.”
He closed his eyes. “Not now, Shar.”
“Okay. How long’re they going to keep you here?”
“Dad’s having me moved to a private hospital ASAP.”
“Will you have computer access there?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”
“I don’t want your skills atrophying while you recover.” I reached out to take his right hand.
Again he grimaced. “I feel half dead. Only dead people don’t hurt this much-I hope.”
“They’ll give you a shot soon.”
“I’m counting the minutes.”
“Don’t talk any more now.”
We sat holding hands till the nurse came with the shot and asked me to leave.
The hard thinking at the pier had paid off. Now I detoured on the way home to the Spanish-style apartment my operative Craig Morland and SFPD homicide detective Adah Joslyn shared in the Marina district.
Adah came to the door wearing blue sweats. God, how did she manage to look elegant even when her armpit area was streaked with perspiration?
“Craig and I just got back from our run on the Green,” she said, catching with her fingertips a drop of moisture from one of the cornrows she’d recently taken to wearing. Her smooth, honey-tan face creased between her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
“Nobody called you two about Mick?”
“No. What happened?”
“It’s bad, but he’ll live. If you’ll invite me in and give me a drink, I’ll tell you both. And then I have a proposition for you.”
It was after five, and Hy and I were relaxing in front of the fireplace in the parlor, a cat in either lap, when Glenn Solomon returned my earlier call.
I cut from pleasantries to my main question: “How much influence do you have at city hall these days?”
“If you mean, do I have something on the mayor? No. But I’ve got the goods on some very highly placed officials.”
“What about the Port Commission?”
“One of those highly placed officials has influence there, yes.”
“You willing to call in some markers in exchange for a free pass on the next few cases you bring to the agency?”
“Always willing to call in markers for you, my friend.”
“Okay, here’s what I need…”
When I replaced the receiver, Hy toasted me and said, “You’re back, McCone. All the way.”
Monday
The Monday-morning staff meeting had gone well. In fact, a kind of giddiness had prevailed. The boss was back-even temporarily. But as I soared above Oakland’s North Field on my way back to Mono County, following the ATC’s instructions, once again I felt remote from the everyday concerns of the agency.
Hy had suggested I take Two-Seven-Tango. He didn’t have time to deliver me and was sure he wouldn’t need the plane for a while. I was more than glad to do so. As I set my course toward the Sierra Nevada, I fell into that strange state that I sometimes enter when flying: alert on one level, contemplative on another.
Contemplative about the new direction my life was taking. Contemplative about my current case. All other concerns slipped away as I planned what to do when I arrived.
As I passed the shack that served as Tufa Tower’s terminal, Amos Hinsdale gave me one of his “Female pilots-bah!” looks through the window. I waved cheerily in response.
I drove to the Ace Hardware in town and looked over their limited selection of answering machines. Hy had said to spare no expense, but I bought the cheapest. It would serve for the length of time I remained here, and before we came up again I could pick up a better one at a lower price at Costco.
When I reached the ranch I checked the old machine to see if it had somehow resurrected itself. Not even a peep out of the thing. I disposed of it in the trash bin, set up the new one, and called Kristen Lark for an update.
“Not much to report,” she told me. “My interview with Boz Sheppard went nowhere. I’m sure he knows more than he’s saying, but he’s stonewalling.”
“How about if I take a stab at him?”
“If you want, I can set it up. Tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure.”
Otherwise Lark had nothing else to report. She referred to the cases as “dead ends.”
I knew otherwise.
I was checking my e-mail when my cell rang. Mick.
“Thought I’d let you know that I’m in this convalescent place Dad had me moved to. It’s posh-gourmet meals and pretty nurses and great therapy facilities.”
He’d mentioned them in the order I would’ve expected. “That was fast.”
“SF General likes to free up beds.”
“You sound good.”
“Well, I’m on these terrific pain meds. You asked if I’d have computer access here, so I assume you need something.”
“I’ve got a situation to run by you.” I told him about my interest in why a man like Trevor Hanover would hire a high-priced attorney to represent a Vegas hooker.
“Let me play with this awhile,” he said. “Back to you later.”
I felt restless, so I drove into town. Petals was open; the clerk told me Cammie Charles and Rich Three Wings were due home from a camping trip in the Toiyabe National Forest that afternoon. Cammie always let her know where they were going and when they’d be back, in case there was a problem such as their vehicle breaking down. When I asked for Charles’ home address, the woman gave it to me without hesitation. Small towns-you gotta love them.
The address was a cinder-block house two blocks down on the same street where Miri Perez had lived. An old
