He, Hy, and Glenn Solomon left the DA’s office in the Hall of Justice at Sixth and Bryant Streets and rode the elevator down.
“It’s not an airtight case yet,” Glenn said, “but it’s good.”
Craig said, “It still doesn’t link the Pro Terra people with what happened to McCone.”
Hy turned to him. “ ‘What happened’? Don’t sugarcoat it: my wife was
Tempers were flaring. Craig knew it all too well; at the Bureau, when a case was coming together, agents-male and female-were often on the verge of physically thrashing it out.
“Sorry,” he said. “I spoke carelessly.”
A pause. Then Hy said, “That’s okay. Since Shar crashed I’ve been flying on empty. I’m heading to the hospital now. When I see her I’ll feel better.”
He turned, cut across the street to the lot where he’d parked. Craig watched him go, then sighed and turned back to Solomon.
The big, silver-haired attorney was attired as usual in an expensive tailor-made suit. He and his wife, society interior decorator Bette Silver, were good friends of Shar’s and had been visibly shaken when Craig had run into them at the Brandt Institute last week. Glenn was known as a fierce litigator who could demolish an adversary’s case with a single caustic remark, but once he left the legal arena, he became his true self: an entertaining companion, a kind and compassionate friend, and a strong advocate for those in need. Or as Bette had once put it, “A pussycat who roars for a living.”
Solomon tapped him on the shoulder. “When was the last time you ate?”
Craig shrugged. “Yesterday. I forget.”
“Come with me.”
They got into Glenn’s Jaguar and drove over to Franklin Street near City Hall, where Glenn handed the car over to a valet parker at a small cafe called Bistro Americaine. Glenn was known there-he was probably known in most good restaurants in the city-and they were quickly seated in a booth. When Craig looked at the menu his stomach lurched, so Glenn ordered for him: steak, fries, a side of creamed spinach. Bottle of a chewy zinfandel for the two of them.
“Heart-stopper meal,” Glenn said, “but the wine’ll cut the grease.”
Craig smiled weakly.
“Actually I wanted to talk privately with you,” Glenn added.
“About what?”
“The issue of what happened to Sharon. In the brief time I had to review it, the information you presented to me-and I presented to the DA-didn’t indicate any link to her shooting.”
The feeling of dread that he’d been entertaining all day intensified. “That was my take on it.”
“I don’t mean to say these people aren’t killers; Lee Summers is my candidate for the murders of his daughter, Harvey Davis, and Teller and Janssen. But they didn’t do Yatz and Angelo-I’ve spoken to the SFPD and ME’s office, and they believe that was just what it appeared to be, a murder-suicide. And my gut tells me none of them did Shar.”
Craig rubbed his eyes. The waiter came with the wine, and he waited till the whole ritual of smelling the cork and tasting a sip was done before he asked, “Is that just a gut-level reaction, or is there some basis for it in fact?”
“There’s a basis. There was no need for them or anyone connected with them to enter the pier and search files. They had access to everything they needed to know.”
Craig sat up straighter. “How?”
“When I came to pick you up at the pier this afternoon, I took a close look at D’Angelo’s e-mails, then I asked Derek to take an even closer look. She sent copies of everything to Lee Summers.”
“Playing both sides, was she?”
“Three sides, I’d say. She was working for McCone Investigations, living with Jim Yatz, and selling out both to Summers.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Square one, my friend. Square one.”
HY RIPINSKY
He’d received a message on his voice mail, having had to turn the phone off for the conference in the DA’s office. Halfway to the parking lot he played it.
Ben Travers: “I have good news about your wife. Call me as soon as you can.”
He tried calling Travers back, couldn’t reach him. Ran into the lot, reclaimed his Mustang, and sped across town, weaving in and out among slow drivers. At SF General he parked in a physician’s space and rushed inside.
Shar’s floor was quiet; no one was at the nurses’ station for the moment. He went down the hall to his wife’s room, pushed aside the curtains around her bed.
A nurse was sponging off Shar’s face; it looked small and pale beneath the bandages that covered her head. The nurse turned and smiled at him.
“Mr. Ripinsky, we’ve been waiting for you. Haven’t we, Ms. McCone?”
Shar said, “
He stared at her.
“
It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever uttered.
JULIA RAFAEL
She slumped in her chair, staring at the duffel bag on her desk. She’d spent the afternoon phoning local luggage stores-over fifty in all. Most hadn’t carried this particular brand; the others didn’t keep sales records going back three years. Dead end, unless she wanted to extend her search to other communities, and she didn’t have the energy for that right now.
The phone buzzed, and she picked up. Ted said, “A Lt. Morrison on line two.”
She’d called Dave Morrison, the head of the team working Haven Dietz’s murder, to ask him to find out Dietz’s blood type.
“Type O positive,” he told her.
Earlier he’d asked her why she needed the information. She’d said something vague about a lead, and then he’d had to take another call. Now he repeated the request.
She badly wanted to tell him about the money and the duffel bag. Dump the case in his lap and move on. But if she did, she’d violate the bond of confidentiality with the Peepleses by admitting they-and she and the agency-had covered up evidence. But evidence of what? It wasn’t Dietz’s blood in the duffel, and she really couldn’t prove it was linked to the attack or murder.
“I thought I had a lead, but it turns out I don’t,” she said.
“Why don’t you tell me about this lead?”
Julia began the tale she’d thought up while being put on hold by the luggage store. “An informant spun this wild story about finding bloodstained clothing near Dietz’s apartment building. He said he’d had it tested, and the blood was type AB negative. But he couldn’t tell me what lab he’d had it tested at, and-after I called you-it turned out that he couldn’t produce the clothes. Then he admitted they’d never existed.”
Morrison sighed. “Informants… They can be a pain in the ass. Hope this one didn’t take you for much.”
