his facts before he enlisted the rest of them.
An hour passed. The sky was clear, but a cold wind was blowing in and the sea was beating against the cliffs, throwing up big fans of spray. Good weather in Big Sur didn’t last long.
As he waited and watched, Mick thought back to the night last November when he’d been on a similar stretch of highway, drunk out of his mind and stoned on grief because he’d lost the woman he’d considered the love of his life, Charlotte Keim. So drunk and stoned he’d decided to see how high the Harley could fly above the Pacific. He’d misjudged and landed hard on the roadside, hard enough to injure himself seriously and knock some sense into him. Sweet Charlotte had done the same: she was seven years older than he, and during repeated conversations over the next couple of months she’d convinced him that life and love didn’t end at twenty-two.
She was getting married next month to an old college sweetheart. He wished her well.
Activity at the inn. A car-plain, gray, probably a rental-pulled in. A woman in jeans and a dark-colored jacket, her head covered with a scarf, got out and went into the office. She returned quickly, retrieved a bag from the car, and entered Room 19, next to Craig’s.
Mick took out his binoculars, noted the license plate of the car. Jotted down her time of arrival.
Half an hour later another inconspicuous sedan arrived. White this time. A man in jeans and a parka, its hood pulled up and resting low on his brow, got out and went to register. When he came out, he moved the car and entered Room 21, to the other side of Craig. Mick noted down the plate number and time.
For an hour after that, nothing happened. It was getting cold on the clifftop: icy gusts of wind ruffled his hair and permeated his leather jacket. Finally he started the Harley and drove into the inn’s parking lot. The pleasant woman at the desk agreed to give him Room 22.
“That’s the second request I’ve had today for a certain room number,” she said. “Man came in this morning and took Room Twenty, said he was meeting two associates; he described them and asked they be put on either side of him. Said not to mention he was here-it was a surprise. You a member of his party, too?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.” He wanted to ask her the names all three had registered under, but didn’t want to arouse her suspicions. “Any good takeout places that deliver around here?”
“There’s a pizza joint, but I wouldn’t recommended it.” There was an ominous tone to her voice.
Mick was glad he always carried a couple of nutrition bars. It could be a long night.
RAE KELLEHER
The second of the Bill Delaneys turned out to be Callie O’Leary’s attorney. He had his office in the front room of his shabby Victorian on Shotwell Street in Bernal Heights, two blocks from All Souls’ former headquarters. When Rae came to his door and said she was an investigator hired to locate Callie so she could claim an inheritance left her by her grandmother, Delaney let her in, but the small eyes that peered out of poochy folds of flesh were shrewd and wary.
He probably didn’t believe her but hoped there might be something in it for him.
Delaney urged her to take one of his clients’ chairs and sat behind his old oak desk. The room’s sagging shelves were lined with law books, but the bindings looked brittle and were faded by the sun coming through the unshaded bay window. The air smelled of dust and stale cigar smoke; the collar and cuffs of Delaney’s blue oxford cloth shirt were frayed. Rae felt much better dressed in her jeans and sweater.
“So Ms. O’Leary is an heiress,” Delaney said, folding his stubby-fingered hands on a file in front of him.
“I wouldn’t put it that way, but the sum is substantial for a… woman of her means.”
“And how would you know about Ms. O’Leary’s ‘means’?” “I’ve been to her last address. And from what people tell me, she was a hooker.”
Delaney frowned reprovingly. “A sex worker, Ms. Kelleher. There’s a difference.”
She ignored his correction. “Can you provide me with Ms. O’Leary’s present address?”
“She doesn’t wish it to be made known. She calls me periodically, however. Perhaps you could leave the check for the inheritance with me, and I’ll hold it for her.”
Right. Did she look like she had an IQ of twenty?
“Sorry, no. First she’ll have to sign some documents in the presence of a notary.”
“Then I can’t help you, Ms. Kelleher.”
“Will you at least pass on a message asking her to call me?” Rae extended one of her cards.
“Certainly.” He took it, tossed it carelessly on the desk, and stood up. “More than anything else, I’d like to see my client financially secure and out of her present dubious occupation.”
Sure he would. But only if she’d go halves with him.
When she got back to her car-a lovely black BMW Z4 that Ricky had given her on her birthday two years ago- Rae checked her cell phone for messages. One from Ted, asking why the hell she’d missed the staff meeting, and another from Maggie Lambert of Victims’ Advocates. She wanted a report.
The Advocates had their offices only a few blocks away on Valencia Street. Rae decided she might as well go there and talk with Lambert in person.
The offices were up a dimly lighted, mildewy-smelling staircase above a taqueria. While many blocks of Valencia Street were now lined with good restaurants and chichi shops, the economic upturn hadn’t reached this pocket of poverty. At the top Rae pushed through the door and entered a room full of cast-off furnishings. Maggie Lambert-short, gray-haired, and clad in faded jeans and a red flannel shirt with one button missing-sat at her desk leafing through a thick file. When she looked up and saw Rae, her face became stern.
“Rae, thank you for coming. Is there any progress in the Angie Atkins case?”
Trust Maggie to get right to the point. Rae said, “I’ve got a lead to that friend of hers I told you about-Callie O’Leary.”
“And that’s it?”
“Her attorney will put us in touch when he hears from her.”
“This is very unsatisfactory.”
Rae bit back a tart retort about asking a lot of someone who was working pro bono. Said, “I’m not happy with it myself. If I could talk with Callie, she might be able to tell me more about Angie. From the police report, I gather that’s not her true identity, but there’s no guarantee she told Callie anything other than her street name.”
“What about dental records? DNA? Did you ask the police about them?”
Maggie must’ve been watching too many episodes of
“So exactly what is it you intend to do?”
“Wait for Callie O’Leary’s attorney to call. Talk with the investigating officers at the SFPD again. Comb through my files for overlooked leads. Especially anything that may connect this case with my employer’s shooting.”
Maggie’s face softened. “How’s she doing?”
“As well as can be expected. In fact, I’m going to visit her now: even though she can’t speak, I suspect she’ll be a great source of inspiration.”
SHARON McCONE
I closed my eyes after Rae left my room. Even with brief naps I was exhausted. Besides Hy and her, I’d had three other visitors: Julia, my sister Charlene, and my brother John. Enough already.
I was beginning to understand the routine of this place. The sun was slanting low on the eucalyptus grove, which meant the nurse would soon come in, check my vital signs, catheter, and feeding tube, and turn me onto my other side. I’d doze, and when I woke Hy would be there. He’d leave late, and then there’d be another visit from the nurse. If I was lucky, I’d sleep deeply for a few hours. If not, I’d face my demons alone in the dark.
My demons were large and numerous: looming figures from the past, including the dark one who had shot me. Vague shadows of the future-fleeting, unreal, frightening. And my present…
