No. No way I could face that.
I’d always considered suicides to be cowards, heedless of the damage they did to those who loved them. Leaving messes behind for others to clean up, as my brother Joey had done when he’d overdosed on booze and drugs in a lumber-town shack outside of Eureka. On one level I hated Joey for the pain he’d inflicted on my family members and me-particularly for causing the shadows that, even on a happy day, never left my mother’s eyes. But Joey had been facing demons he apparently couldn’t control; now, facing my own, I began to wonder if he hadn’t done us, as well as himself, a favor.
And if I were to remain in this state indefinitely? No way I could endure that. I’d rather just check out.
But California didn’t have an assisted-suicide law. And asking assistance from someone I loved-namely Hy- would put a terrible burden on him.
Besides, I wanted to live. I’d reached a point in my life where I could say I was happy and looking forward to a good future. At least I had been, until someone fired a bullet into my skull.
I felt the rage bubble and boil over again. I wished I could scream invectives, hit something, smash the vase of roses placed prominently within my range of vision.
Slowly I regained control. Calm and purpose returned. I would not die a suicide, even if it was possible, because that would be giving in to the scumbag who shot me.
I began going over everything I’d been told so far, hunting for a lead that might ID him.
I wasn’t dreaming; it was another hideous, very real flashback.
HY RIPINSKY
He waited under the shelter of the Cessna’s high wing, in his tie-down space at Oakland Airport’s North Field. The afternoon was clear but windy-windy enough to make the wings of the neighboring aircraft, a homebuilt, creak and groan. After a while a man cut through the rows of planes and approached him: near six feet five, heavily muscled, wearing a brown leather flight jacket as battered as Hy’s own and a plain blue baseball cap pulled low on his forehead.
Len Weathers, an acquaintance from the old days in Bangkok. Weathers kept a Cessna Citation here at the field, and Hy and he had exchanged nods over the years, but they’d never spoken. Neither wanted to acknowledge those old days, and Hy didn’t want to acknowledge Weathers because of what it was rumored he’d become.
The word was that Weathers freelanced as an enforcer for various unsavory elements in California and Nevada. Among his alleged services were kidnapping and murder for hire. The same forces that had operated in Southeast Asia during the post-Vietnam era-greed, ruthlessness, and preying upon the weak and helpless-had affected both him and Hy in vastly different ways. Hy had returned with a load of guilt and nightmares enough to last his lifetime and-in time-a desire to make the world a better place. Weathers had continued in an ugly, downward spiral.
Hy had been certain he’d never again exchange a word with Len Weathers. But now he needed one of the man’s services.
Weathers ducked under the wing. Shook Hy’s hand. Said, “I understand you’ve got a problem.”
Hy had relayed his desire to talk with Weathers through one of the line men at the fuel pumps.
“Yeah,” he replied. “My wife-”
“I know what happened to your wife.”
“Her agency and I are working on finding whoever did it.”
“How does that concern me?”
“It doesn’t until we find the person.”
Their eyes met and held, each man taking the other’s measure. Hy flashed back to Bangkok: Weathers had been a hotdog pilot for K-Air, the flight service Hy was employed by, and a tough man. But there’d been a good- natured, humorous side to him. Now there was no trace of that; he was cold and hard and exuded the scent of danger.
Weathers also had not aged well; although he was only in his forties, his face was deeply lined. A scar from a knife fight in Bangkok cut crazily across his forehead, and Hy had noticed a limp as he approached. A few more years and he’d look like an old man.
Well, he knew what had happened to him. McCone had been shot and might die.
“Okay,” Weathers said after a moment. “You want me to take him or her out?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because this person is mine. But I want to know if I can call on you if there’s a problem.”
“Call on me any time you want. I’ve got to warn you-I don’t come cheap.”
“I don’t care about price; it’s dependability I’m after.”
“Deal.” Weathers held out his hand.
Hy took it, thinking, My God, I feel as if I’m shaking hands with the Devil.
CRAIG MORLAND
He’d spent the afternoon replaying the videos he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo. Young women and major players in state and city politics, engaging in all sorts of explicit sex acts. No clue as to who the women were-save one-but surprise and outright shock about the male participants. By the time the doors opened and closed in the rooms to either side of him, he felt both grim and outraged. Dirty all over again.
He picked up the earpieces to the listening devices he’d earlier installed.
Supervisor Amanda Teller sighed, unzipped her travel bag, and ran a bath.
Representative Paul Janssen went out for ice, opened a bottle and poured into what sounded like one of the plastic glasses provided in the bathroom. A chair groaned.
Teller bathed. Janssen drank. Craig fiddled with the volume on the earpieces and their connections to his recorders.
The phone rang in Janssen’s room. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
Noises from Janssen’s room; his door closed and his footsteps went toward Teller’s unit. He tapped on the door, and seconds later was admitted.
“Good trip down?” she asked.
“As if you care.”
“No need to be hostile in these beautiful surroundings.”
“Why not? Did you hear about Harvey Davis being killed?”
“Yes. Poor man.”
“That’s all you can say? Don’t you understand what his murder means to you and me?”
“Suppose you spell it out.”
“Harvey knew, or maybe only suspected, what was going on. But he was an insatiable information gatherer; the reason he was shot is that they knew he had those videos. If they know you’ve figured it out-”
“Don’t be nonsensical, Paul. I didn’t tell Harvey anything he didn’t need to know.” Teller paused, and there was a rustling of papers. “I have the document right here. I’ll go over it with you.”
“I’m perfectly able to read legal documents by myself.”
“Whatever.”
