bloody welt on the side of your head!”
She stiffened. Then: nothing to fear. It was Craig Morland’s voice; he wouldn’t hurt her. But somebody had.
Oh, yeah, that
Craig asked, “Can you sit up?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about turning over on your back? Or should I call nine-one-one?”
“Help me. Then we’ll see.”
When she was on her back again her vision swam, then focused on Craig, who was kneeling next to her.
He asked, “Did Susan do this to you?”
“Uh-huh. One minute we’re talking, the next she’s coming at me with Shar’s paperweight.”
“I think I should call for the paramedics. You could have a concussion.”
“Don’t. I can-” She tried to pull herself up, sank back weakly. “Maybe you better.” Then she remembered about the city’s emergency services’ dangerously slow response times. “
Craig was dialing, giving the address of the pier.
“Craig? Call my sister and let her know what happened. But ask her not to tell Tonio.”
“Will do.”
“And there’s something I dropped off at Richman Labs. They promised it for tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll pick it up, don’t worry.”
“Thank you.”
RAE KELLEHER
Laura Logan didn’t look any more like a porn filmmaker than the guy at Hot Shots had. She was petite, with dark shoulder-length hair, and beautifully dressed in black trousers and a flame-colored jacket. She lounged carelessly in her chair in the bar of the exclusive Barbary Hotel on Nob Hill-a place Rae had suggested they meet, thinking it might make the woman uncomfortable and put her at a disadvantage. Well, that idea hadn’t worked.
Logan sipped at an expensive zinfandel she’d ordered, then said, “You’re probably going to ask me how a woman could go into my industry. Exploiting other women, issues like that.”
“It interests me, yes. But right now I’m even more interested in specific projects of yours-DVDs you directed for Lee Summers and the Pro Terra Party.”
Logan recrossed her legs, took a long slow sip of wine. “I don’t reveal information about my projects or employers.”
“Under subpoena you’d have to.”
“What does that mean?”
“One of the women in a lesbian film you shot was Lee Summers’s daughter. A few weeks later she was found slashed to death in a SoMa alley. My attorney took a deposition from a witness this morning that indicates Summers may have killed his own daughter. I’ll be talking with the DA, and I’m fairly certain the DA will want to talk with you. Eventually, you’ll be called before the grand jury.”
“… Which woman was Summers’s daughter?”
“The blonde.”
“The one that was so out of it she didn’t really know what was happening. The other was a pro; I’ve used her before. Jesus, Summers hired me to film his
“Right. Apparently it wasn’t the first time she was a featured player.”
“I can’t testify about this to anyone. It would kill me in the industry. I have a nice life, a little girl to support-”
“A little girl who someday may be degraded and exploited and end up with her throat cut in some dark alley just like Alicia Summers.”
Logan’s hand shook, sloshing wine on the table. “No! I’ve provided well for her, a college fund-”
“Alicia Summers was a bright, happy young woman with everything in the world to look forward to. She’d been accepted at UCLA. Then her father pimped her for party donations and influence. It only takes one evil person to destroy a life. How would you feel if your little girl encountered a Lee Summers?”
Logan gulped what was left of her wine and stared at the splatter patterns on the table for a long time. “Okay,” she finally said, “I’ll give a deposition to your lawyer tomorrow.”
JULIA RAFAEL
What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
“Where are we?”
“Pier Twenty-four and a Half.”
“What happened to you?”
“This damn fuckin’
The paramedic’s face disappeared, and Julia looked up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. The glare hurt her eyes, so she squeezed them shut.
“She seems okay,” the medic said, “but she should be hospitalized overnight. Head trauma can be tricky.”
“Right.” Craig.
Julia said, “I want to go home.”
“Follow the doctor’s orders.”
“He’s not a doctor.”
“He knows a hell of a lot more than you do.”
She sighed, gave in. Wasn’t worth fighting when she was so tired. In the ambulance she asked the attendant, “Where’re you taking me?”
“SF General.”
Well, at least she’d be close to Shar.
MICK SAVAGE
He wedged the Harley into a spot between two sports cars on Filbert Street in the upscale Cow Hollow neighborhood. The address Susan Angelo had listed on her application for employment was a two-story sugar cube of a building mid-block. A light shone in a small entry with two mailboxes and intercoms on its wall. He approached quietly and looked at the names on the boxes.
No Angelo or D’Angelo.
He rang the bell of the first-floor unit, but got no response. A woman’s voice replied on the intercom of the top unit; it wasn’t Susan’s. He asked for Diane D’Angelo, and the woman said she wasn’t there.
