Tuesday night after dark a mean thunderstorm rolled off the Pacific and pounded San Francisco with heavy fists. Waverly and Su-Moon kept their faces down and held tight onto the railing as they climbed the fire escape at the back of Bristol’s building. The city was dark, almost black. They were nothing more than deep shadows in an equally deep world.
At each floor, they tried the exit door.
At each floor, the knob wouldn’t turn.
They climbed to the top, which stopped at the highest occupied floor.
That door was locked too.
Waverly’s heart raced.
She didn’t know whether she’d be able to do the next step.
The wind was fierce.
Her clothes were soaked to the skin and her skin was soaked to the bone. Next to her Su-Moon was fighting to get the rope and grappling hook out of a black bag. The plan, when they talked about it earlier, seemed simple and straightforward-hook the roof parapet then climb up.
Now it didn’t seem so simple.
Now it seemed insane.
Su-Moon coiled the rope loosely and said, “Watch your head in case this comes back down.”
“We should just forget it.”
“It’s too late.”
“We’ll come back tomorrow when the weather’s better.”
“We’re here now.”
The grappling hook wasn’t heavy, five pounds or thereabouts. The rope was half-inch braid, knotted every two feet for grip.
“Here goes.”
She twirled the grappling hook twice then sent it flying at the parapet. It hit the side, two feet short, and tumbled back invisibly, ricocheting off Waverly’s arm.
“Go down a ways until I get this done,” Su-Moon said. “There’s no use both of us being exposed.”
“No.”
“Just do it,” Su-Moon said.
“Let me throw it. You go down.”
“Fine.”
On the third try, Waverly got it hooked on something. She tugged and found it secure.
“Got it.”
True, she had it, but there was a problem. It was off to the side instead of directly above them. She let the rope slacken and found that it fell to the right of the landing. If they lost their grip climbing, the fall wouldn’t be ten or fifteen feet to the landing, it would be all the way to the ground.
“No harm,” Su-Moon said. “I’ll go up first then move it over.”
“Let’s just forget it. I got a bad feeling.”
“We’re fine. Just relax.”
Su-Moon tugged on the rope and then put her full weight on it.
“It seems secure.”
She climbed up on the railing, grabbed the rope just above the highest knot she could reach and said, “It’s slippery.”
“Don’t do it.”
“Just be careful when it’s your turn.”
With that, she shifted her weight off the railing and onto the rope, dangling in the darkness two or three feet to the right of the landing.
Then she climbed.
The wind whipped rain into her face with all the subtlety of a hundred needles.
60
Five minutes. River didn’t want to be in the house of Charley-Anna Blackridge any longer than that. If he couldn’t hit dirt in five minutes, he’d abort.
Five minutes came and passed.
River didn’t abort.
There was something here.
He could smell it.
He was careful to put everything back as he found it, except for a photo of the woman from one of a hundred he found in a shoebox in the closet, which went into his wallet. Several minutes further into the search he found something of interest, namely two spent airline tickets, four months old, roundtrip from Denver to San Francisco, one in the name of Crockett Bluetone and the other in the name of Charley-Anna Blackridge.
River had heard that name before.
Where?
For some reason it pulled up an aura of power and money.
Who are you, Crockett Bluetone?
River stuffed the tickets in his wallet and kept searching. Five minutes later he hadn’t found anything else of interest and left.
No one saw him, at least that he was aware of.
He pulled next to the first phone booth he came to, left the engine running and checked the book. Crockett Bluetone, it turned out, had two numbers. One was for a residence in Capitol Hill, the coordinates of choice for Denver’s rich and relevant, an area replete with lush lawns, tree-lined boulevards, wrought-iron fences and stone lions guarding cobblestone drives.
The other number was a work number.
It was for the law firm of Colder amp; Jones, one of Denver’s largest law firms if not the largest, with offices in the swank Daniels amp; Fisher Tower on 16th Street.
River drove over to 16th Street, found a place to park two blocks over on 14th and doubled back on foot. The Daniels amp; Fisher Tower was the highest structure in downtown Denver, in fact all of Colorado.
He approached it with a quick step.
Five minutes later he was in Crockett Bluetone’s office behind closed doors.
