Ellipsis (23 page)

“None.”

“You weren't working for him?”

“No.”

“Or he for you?”

“No.”

“You're not part of some federal criminal investigation?”

“I'm a cheap-suit PI. Why would the feds even know I exist?”

“The feds use all kinds of people as informants. Even nobodies like you.”

I shrugged. “Who the hell would I inform on?”

Prester smiled. “You tell me.”

“You're fishing in the wrong bucket, Detective.”

Prester didn't seem to take it personally. “How about the woman?”

“Chandelier Wells?”

“Yeah.”

“What about her?”

“You claim you were her bodyguard.”

“You claimed that—I didn't.”

“Is that all you were?”

“If I was that, that was all.”

“Jesus,” Storrs muttered. “You sound like the captain. And he sounds like a fucking shyster.”

“You weren't digging up dirt for the Wells woman?” Prester persisted.

“Why would she need dirt? Is she taking up horticulture?”

Prester kept a lid on it, but only with effort. “Don't be so fucking cute. The kind of dirt I'm talking about she could put in one of her books.”

“You mean was I doing research for her?”

“That's what I'm asking.”

“Getting background information she could incorporate in a new novel?”

“Yeah.”

“Like solving a case the cops couldn't handle? Or uncovering one the cops weren't pursuing?”

Finally, Prester got mad. “Something like that, asshole. Yeah.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I wasn't doing anything like that. I was guarding her body. Period.”

“You could use some lessons,” Storrs grumbled heavily, then lapsed back into the role of adjunct.

“The car wasn't my responsibility,” I said, as petty as a kid squealing on his brother, then quickly wished I hadn't.

“That's a hit tune with all the fuckups,” Storrs said, still taking potshots when he could.

“You know Wally Briscoe, am I right?” Prester asked in all innocence, apparently out of the blue.

“Casually. Yeah.”

“He was tight with your buddy Sleet.”

“That's right. What about it?”

“Wally sang to the grand jury this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sang about what?”

“Some shit he calls the Triad.”

“Which you know nothing about.”

Prester nodded twice. “Which we know nothing about.”

“What's that have to do with me?”

“Just thought you might be interested. They subpoena you yet?”

“The grand jury? No.”

“Wonder why not.”

“Maybe it's because I've got nothing to tell them.”

“Or maybe it's because you told them what you know already.”

“Why would I do that?”

Storrs flashed a grin so lubricious it dripped. “So you could keep putting the wood to that lady DA.”

I stood up and balled my fists and placed them on the desk, knuckles down. “If you leave right this minute, you won't get punched in the mouth.”

Storrs popped to his feet and strutted like an underdog at the weigh-in. “Please. I'm begging you. Take your best shot.”

“Last time you begged, it was for Charley Sleet to spare your life. Lucky for you, I stopped him.”

“You saying I owe you, shithead?”

“I'm saying get out.”

They wanted to go to duke city, the way cops always do when you challenge their primacy, but they eventually thought better of it as I figured they would. Whoever was issuing the new marching orders had told them to tread softly and carry a limp stick, at least when it came to Chandelier Wells.

Without further ado, they shouldered their way out my door like beef cattle set free from a pen. Their fury was occupying so many of their senses they barely noticed the man coming down the hall in the opposite direction. But he noticed them. All of them there was to notice.

He was tall and thin and preppy-looking and he wasn't any more inclined than I had been to defer to the minions of the local law. As a result, there was a brief collision. The SF cops muttered expletives, then glared at the visitor as though he had a dozen wants and warrants, then continued on their way without a word of greeting or apology. I guess law enforcement reflects the society it polices. These days, I don't encounter common courtesy more than once a month.

As Prester and Storrs clomped down the stairs to the street, the tall man stopped at my doorway. “You Tanner?”

“That's me.”

He put out a hand. “Lieutenant Hal Bridger. Berkeley PD. Like to talk to you about what went down in our fair city yesterday.”

I pointed toward the stairway. “I thought you were having the local boys take care of things on this side of the bay.”

He shook his head in puzzlement. “We tend to do our own work when we can. And most of us have learned how to drive over the bridge.”

“You don't know those guys are city detectives? Prester and Storrs?”

“Never heard of them.”

“You didn't ask the department to send someone down to talk to me?”

Bridger smiled. “The guy who's going to do the talking to you is me.”

I led him into the inner office and poured him a cup of black coffee. He didn't waste time getting down to business and I covered my part in the bombing in five minutes. When I'd finished, he stood up and paced the room.

“She's a celebrity,” he said, thinking out loud. “I can understand a fan or a stalker or even a competitor like the Dane woman taking some sort of potshot at her. But this was a professional job—Semtex explosive, digital triggering device, multiple charges expertly placed. The only thing that saved her life was that ugly old Lincoln. Those Africans know how to weld steel.”

“So you don't think it was an amateur.”

“No way.”

“How about an independent contractor?”

“A contract?” He shook his head. “Possible, but I doubt it. A jilted lover usually wants to see the damage face-to-face.”

“Not always.”

He nodded. “Nothing's always in this business. The other thing is, how did they get past Filson? He was an experienced agent.”

“I think Filson thought like I did—some nutcase with a bone to pick who was all bark and no bite. Neither of us was sufficiently serious about the job.”

I was hoping for a rebuttal, but I didn't get it. “Let's say it was a pro,” Bridger went on. “Some sort of terrorist thing. How would the Wells woman get involved in something like that?”

“Book research, maybe,” I offered. “She liked to write pretty close to the bone. Maybe she stumbled on to some sort of plot.”

“That's quite a reach. I mean, why would a stone-cold terrorist give her the time of day?”

“Fame or fortune.”

“Maybe,” he said dubiously.

“Revenge?”

“Better.”

“Misdirection?”

“Best.”

“Filson told me she loved hanging out in low-life places. Maybe she came across something by accident.”

“If so, it's going to be hard to trace. Filson didn't keep a log.” Bridger paused and grinned. “Of course we seem to have help.”

“The senior citizens.”

Bridger nodded. “I assume they've been in touch.”

“Yep.”

“Guy named Cadberry.”

“Yep.”

“Seems capable.”

“Yep.”

“But he's a fed.”

“So he is.”

“Which means we'll never know what he's up to.”

“Probably not. But it did occur to me after I talked to him that we might be barking up the wrong tree in this.”

“How so?” Bridger asked.

“What if Chandelier wasn't the target? What if Filson was? And what if his pals on the pension patrol know it?”

“Then that would be a brand-new ball game, wouldn't it?” Bridger asked himself. Then he pointed to the painting on the wall. “That real?”

“Yep.”

“I'll be a son of a bitch,” he said, and stood looking at it for the next five minutes.

Chapter 24

Jill Coppelia lived at the dead end of a dead-end street in the Cow Hollow section of the city, a reclusive pond of privilege east of the Presidio and south of the Marina. The house was a granite and slate mini-château, with a small yard in front and a larger garden in back with enough vegetation to give an illusion of space and privacy even though the neighbor's house was less than fifty feet away. Its interior trappings were understated but luxurious, courtesy of the trust income Jill received every month by way of her late father's fortune. She didn't talk about her money, ever, or flaunt her wealth or demand my fealty to it, but Jill was quite a rich woman. It was one of three things that bothered me about her. The second was that she made her living sending people to jail. The third was that she thought I should cut back on the Oreos.

I parked at the curb and rang her bell at nine-ten. She let me in, let me sit, let me sip a cold beer, let me admire her new lounging outfit, and let me kick my shoes off and get comfortable on her blue-and-white silk couch, all without uttering a word more than the minimum. The couch was Italian, the beer was Czech, the outfit was a French version of black stretch pants below a billowy white top with a nicely scooped neck. Like the outfit, the atmosphere in the room was entirely warm and accommodating in terms of style, but tentative in interpersonal terms, as if we were about to debate religious differences or our positions on impeachment.

Even so, without intending to, I found myself grinning because Jill was such a lovely sight. “So how are things at the Hall of Justice?” I began since she seemed to be leaving it up to me to launch the ship.

She curled her feet under her and leaned back on the couch. “Better.”

“Than what?”

“Than yesterday.”

“That's good.”

“It's actually going to happen, I think. I'm going to make a real dent in the venality in the police department, Marsh. I'm going to root out lots of bad apples.”

“The barrel could certainly use it.”

She waited till she had my attention. “And then I'm going to quit.”

“The job?”

“Yes.”

“For sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Sounds like you got someone besides Wally to talk to the grand jury.”

She nodded. “These things are like avalanches. Once they get rolling, everyone wants out of the way.”

“So they won't get buried in indictments.”

“Right. The trick is to convince as many as you can that the avalanche has already started.”

“Which you managed to do.”

“With the help of Wally Briscoe. Right. And the way to get out of the way of the crush is to cut a deal.”

“With you.”

She nodded. “We got eight more statements this afternoon. Good ones. From good cops, mostly, who saw things they didn't feel comfortable seeing and decided to do what they should have done a long time ago. We've got eight indictments for sure, but there'll probably be more than two dozen by the time we're finished.”

“That'll make some waves around town. You could probably be the new mayor.”

Since politics was the last thing on earth she wanted to be part of, Jill ignored my idiocy. “It's a guy named Hardy, it turns out.”

“Who is?”

“The head honcho. Vincent Hardy. Top dog of the Triad. Ever hear of him?”

“Nope.”

“Sergeant out of the Potrero. Twenty years on the job. Third-generation cop; second-generation crook.”

“Too bad.”

“Our hope is that when he goes down, the Triad will go down with him.”

“And you'll ride off into the setting sun with a hearty ‘Hi-o, Silver.'”

She adjusted her position and took a sip of her wine. “The question is, will my faithful Indian companion be by my side?”

“Meaning me.”

“Very perceptive of you, Tonto.”

I smiled at the memory of a bad Lone-Ranger-and-Tonto joke having to do with Tonto disguised as a pool table, then drained my beer and asked for another, not because I wanted her to fetch it, but because I wanted time to think. After Jill left the room, I stood up and strolled around, admiring the California-school art and colorful blown glass, trying to decide what to say in response to her question, trying not to see this as the most important moment of my life.

When she returned, I sat back down and did a dance I've done before, though not yet with Jill. “I'm not sure this is the time to get into this, actually.”

“By this you mean …?”

“The future.”

“Ah. You mean Gore versus Bush; the Giants versus the Dodgers; the Internet versus traditional retailing …”

“
Our
future,” I amended.

“Ah, squared.”

“Things are pretty tense right now. For both of us. You've got the grand jury and I'm in the middle of the Wells case. Which I've screwed up totally so far. On top of that, I gave up Wally Briscoe. I'm not in a good mood about that, either. So maybe we should …”

“Wait.”

“Yeah.”

“And discuss this later.”

“Yeah.”

“When things have calmed down.”

“Right.”

“So we can analyze it objectively. Without being swayed by emotion and stress.”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“
Bullshit
, Marsh. Jesus Christ. I thought you'd been paying better attention.”

“To what?”

“To
life
, goddammit. Things
never
calm down, haven't you noticed? Emotions are
always
involved. Or should be. I mean, if you don't have any
emotion
about me, if I don't stir up any
feelings
in you, if you're perfectly
neutral
about whether we spend the rest of our
lives
together, then we don't need to have this discussion
ever
.”