MICK SAVAGE
We can eliminate Celestina Gates,” he said. “In fact, I’d’ve liked to do it with my own bare hands.”
Patrick Neilan, freckled face lined with weariness, red hair tousled from many finger-combings, asked, “Why?”
“The woman is a total asshole. A fraud, too.” He filled Patrick in on his meeting with the identity-theft expert. “Just a publicity stunt.”
Patrick consulted the large flowchart on the wall of the office he shared with Adah, wiped out the Gates line of investigation. “So we can assign you to help somebody else?”
“Sure. Derek’s got the computer forensics stuff in hand.” Derek Ford: a tall, slender Eurasian man of about Mick’s age. Always expensively attired and well groomed-one of those males the press had termed “metrosexual.” Mick and Derek were close friends and had developed some awesome software programs together. They’d be millionaires when they licensed them, but neither had any intention of quitting investigating or tinkering with new concepts.
“Let’s see where we’re at.” Patrick got up from his desk, consulted the chart. “Julia’s cases-interesting. The vics knew each other, parents of one are involved. Rae’s-dead hooker. Kind of open-and-shut, but the Victims’ Advocates won’t let go of it. Craig’s thing with city hall-I don’t think he’ll let you in on it.”
“Well, let’s see about that.”
“I’ll talk to Adah. She’s the boss woman for now. You got anything going for tonight?”
“I did-woman I met at the health club. She bailed.”
“
“Yeah. Partly as therapy, partly because I’m trying to avoid the clubs.” Mick had been in a serious, drunken motorcycle accident last November-the culmination of a binge that started when his live-in love, Charlotte Keim, left him. Broken bones and a ruptured spleen, plus two surgeries, had taught him one of life’s big lessons. Charlotte had taught him another: in spite of rushing to the hospital to comfort him, she wasn’t coming back.
“What about you?” he asked Patrick.
“Pizza night with the boys.” Patrick was a single father, with sole custody of his sons.
“Exciting lives we lead, huh? You seeing anybody?”
“Are you kidding? The only people I’m seeing are the other parents at PTA and the kids’ teachers. I hang around the laundry place down the street hoping somebody new’ll come in and change my future.”
“Could be worse for both of us. At least you can go out for pizza and I can work out.”
Patrick’s face sobered. “Yeah, God, Shar… You know, she hired me because she’d done a job locating me for my greedy junkie ex and felt bad about it. And she helped me get custody of my boys. She even cosigned on a new car when my old one died. I owe her.”
“So do I. We’ve got to nail whoever shot her.”
“Well, we’ll be working on it all weekend. I’ll let you know what Adah says about your reassignment.”
“Thanks.” Mick got up and left Patrick’s office. The loneliness of an empty Friday night came over him, and he decided to head for the Brandt Institute: maybe Hy needed company.
CRAIG MORLAND
He watched from among a crowd of onlookers at the end of the alley as the police and paramedics arrived.
If Davis had documented the information he’d passed along to Craig, the shit was about to rain down.
Craig slipped away from the rubberneckers into the darkness on Golden Gate, where he’d moved his SUV before the area became crowded. He had an hour, maybe less, to get to Davis’s fortieth-floor condo in One Rincon Hill, which at sixty stories in the main tower was the tallest residential building on the San Francisco skyline.
The South of Market district-once known as South-of-the-Slot-had long been an undesirable industrial area on the wrong side of the Market Street cable-car tracks. Now it was upscale, with luxury mid- and high-rises luring affluent young professionals as well as empty nesters from the suburbs where they’d raised their families. Craig had heard various names applied to SoMa: Mid-Market, Transbay, Rincon Hill, and Mission Bay. Each had its own character and price tag, but all were known for proximity to fine dining and cultural attractions, as well as killer views of the city and bay.
He found a parking space on Harrison, a block from One Rincon Hill, and hurried toward the high-rise building while pulling on a baseball cap that shaded his features. It could be tricky getting around the doorman, but as a former FBI agent he was used to playing tricks. One of the number of cards he kept in his wallet identified him as Walter Russom of Ace Couriers. He flashed it at the man, explaining that he had to pick up a rush delivery from Harvey Davis. The doorman was the trusting type: he let Craig in and motioned toward the elevators.
Craig had met with Davis at his condo only once, on the day Harvey first asked him to look into the malfeasance at city hall. Davis hadn’t wanted to meet at the pier; someone might recognize him and word could get around. At the time, Craig had thought him paranoid. He didn’t any more.
The hallway of the fortieth floor was deeply carpeted, the walls well insulated. Someone was playing the piano at the opposite end from Davis’s condo, but the sound was faint, soothing.
Craig took out the key Davis had given him, unlocked the door. Punched the code into the keypad, then shut the door and rearmed the system. He waited, allowing his eyes to acclimate to the darkness.
Short hallway ahead, with louvered doors opening into what must be closets. He moved along, alert, listening for someone else’s presence. The hallway ended in a spacious living room. The lights from the surrounding buildings and the Bay Bridge were spectacular. Craig turned away from them, went down another hallway to the den where he’d met with Davis.
The den was a middle room that backed up on the outside corridor; no windows, so he felt safe turning on a light. He began with the desk, sifting through the files and papers in its drawers.
Nothing.
Videos…
No file cabinets. Closet-empty.
Back to the living room. Big entertainment center, but aside from a few movies with political themes, the only discs were from Netflix.
So where were these videos Davis wanted Craig to take in case something happened to him?
Where would
Bathroom, bedroom, closets. Nothing.
Kitchen, seldom used judging from the contents of the fridge and cabinets.
Seldom used, except the man had owned a large selection of spices, which were lined up in wood-bracketed rows in a deep drawer. So many spices that Craig, a fairly good cook, hadn’t heard of most of them. Hibiscus powder, zhug, ajwan seed-and not a one of them with the protective seal broken.
Why was it that a deep drawer seemed so shallow?
He began removing the jars. The bottom that they rested on was a different kind of wood from the drawer itself. He pried it up.
Two DVDs.
He pocketed them.
A buzzer sounded. Intercom from the doorman.
The police were there. He had to get out now.
He rushed to the door and down the hallway. Went through the exit to the stairs and waited. Elevator arriving. Footsteps and the doorman’s voice proclaiming, “Told me he was from some courier company. Urgent pickup, but he never came down. What the hell’s going on?”
Craig took advantage of the confusion and the absence of a gatekeeper to escape the building with his evidence.
