at the pier… Forensic job on our own system… Okay, see you then.” He replaced the receiver and said to Hy, “He’ll be here in half an hour.”
Hy was silent, distracted.
“You okay?”
“Do I look okay?”
“No.”
“Neither do you.” Ted’s Western-style shirt was rumpled, and he hadn’t trimmed his usually neat goatee.
Ted said, “None of us is. Shar… it scares me to death. Neal and I went by today, but they wouldn’t let us see her-doctors, nurses, visitors backed up out the door.”
“Try late at night or early in the morning. There’re no restrictions on visiting hours.”
“But I don’t want to disturb her.”
“Believe me, you won’t. In spite of not being able to move or talk, her energy’s still high. Seeing the people she loves keeps her going.”
Ted nodded. Hy knew he wanted to ask about Shar’s condition, but was hesitating because he thought it would upset him.
He said, “As recently as a few days ago I wouldn’t have believed it, but McCone’s not only fully aware, she’s working her own case.”
“What? How?”
“She’s taking verbal reports from everybody, and I can tell she’s focused on the facts and theories they’re giving her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one who puts it all together and IDs the perp. And then finds a way to communicate it to the rest of us.”
“My God. You can’t stop the woman, can you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never dared try.”
“Okay,” Derek Ford said, “I’ve got it.”
The tall, slender Eurasian leaned forward, gazing intently at the computer screen, his thick black hair flopping onto his forehead. He hit the save command, said, “All yours,” and stood. He was urban chic, perfectly groomed and outfitted, even on Sunday, with a tattoo of linked scorpions around his neck and numerous silver earrings.
Hy took the chair Derek had vacated. On the screen was the first page of the standard agency report form: client name, address, phone numbers; case number; operative assigned. Client request: deep background on Lee Summers, the Pro Terra Party, and Representative Paul Janssen. The client: the late Amanda Teller.
Hy scrolled down and read on.
SHARON McCONE
Julia and Rae arrived with their reports shortly after Craig and Mick left.
My night nurse, Melissa, preceded them, asking if I was up to having more visitors. I blinked. The frequency of visitors tired me, but it also made me feel a connection to the world I’d involuntarily left behind.
They were still there at ten o’clock when Hy arrived with the information that the file on the background investigations Amanda Teller had requested last year had been deleted from the office’s system but recovered by Derek. Hy had read it and found it was a simple background check on people Teller had considered potential political allies or adversaries.
But it had been deleted. Now I had a lot more to process.
If I could talk, or even write, I would’ve brainstormed with the three of them. Explained the connections I sensed, even if I couldn’t back them up. Asked them to look for the missing pieces. But for some reason Julia wasn’t reading the signals I was trying to give her with my eyes-probably exhausted from nonstop working. And Rae was reading too much into them. It made me afraid for her; she had a tendency to stray unprepared into dangerous territory.
Hy, on the other hand, understood. We were closely attuned to each other, as always. “You’re putting something together, but you need more facts.”
Blink.
“Well, maybe tomorrow…” He lapsed into silence as Rae and Julia gathered their things and left.
Hy looked discouraged, slouched in the armchair, his hair tousled and his cheeks stubbled. His cellular rang, and he checked it, said he had to take the call, and went out into the corridor. Since the shooting my hearing had become more acute-a compensation for the loss of other functions. Hy probably thought he was out of my earshot.
“Weathers, what d’you want?… No, nothing yet… I said I’d call you if I had a problem. Where did you get this number?… Well, don’t call it again.”
There was a pilot at North Field by that name. Flew a small jet, and Hy had always gone out of his way to avoid him. Come to think of it, Weathers went out of his way to avoid Hy. So why was Weathers calling him now?
I tried to remember what Hy had told me about the man. Couldn’t come up with anything. If he had talked about Weathers it’d been a long time ago and I hadn’t retained any of it.
Hy returned, sat back down. Instead of explaining the phone call, he said, “I’m going to sleep here tonight. Your brother’s driving me crazy. He keeps concocting preposterous revenge schemes for when we find out who did this to you.”
And right then I remembered that I did know something about Weathers-first name Len. Hy had known him in Thailand, was surprised when he turned up in the Bay Area. Avoided him because he suspected Weathers had become a professional killer.
MONDAY, JULY 21
HY RIPINSKY
He’d seen the bewilderment in Shar’s eyes when he reentered her room; probably she’d overheard his conversation and was trying to figure out who Len Weathers was. Alarm had soon replaced bewilderment. She’d tried with her eyes to get him to talk about his involvement with the man, but he’d avoided her unvoiced questions, pretending to doze. He had stayed in the chair beside her bed until she slept with decreasing restlessness. When he slipped out at first light she seemed less fitful.
The institute was close to Land’s End, a favorite spot of theirs because it resembled the wild, rocky coast at Touchstone. The westernmost promontory was called Point Lobos, after the sea lions-once called sea wolves-who now made their resting place at Seal Rock, offshore from the historic Cliff House restaurant. The shadowy cypress, pungent-smelling eucalyptus, and miles of coastal views made for a stunningly beautiful and peaceful setting- especially this early in the morning.
Hy drove there and took the trail down the bluff to the large viewing platform above the point. The sun was cresting the city’s hills, suffusing the sky with an orange-pink color. The open sea spread before him, the Farallon Islands faintly visible through the mist in the distance. A foghorn bellowed its melancholy message. Hy sat on a bench by the railing and did some soul-searching.
His past had been violent, that was true. The post-Vietnam era in Southeast Asia bred despicable activity, especially when you were in a kill-or-be-killed situation. He flashed on the memory of the bodies of the Laotian family attempting to escape to the US, frozen in the skin of the plane because they hadn’t listened to his
