Ellipsis (24 page)

“I didn't mean that, Jill.”

“Didn't mean what?”

“What you implied. I wasn't talking about us being calm, I was talking about the other stuff easing up a bit.”

She shook her head with transparent disgust. “Typical man.”

“How?”

She used her hands like Bernstein. “You think there's us over here and the rest of it over there. And you can make changes in one thing without having any effect on the other. Well, what women know from day one is that if you care about someone, which means if you're really in
love
, then it's
all
us. Every bit of it. The intimacy, the professional problems, the cooking dinner, the commute to work, the cleaning the toilet, the politics at the office—all of it is
us
. There's no you and me anymore.”

“And that's the way you feel about me?”

“I think so.”

“You're not sure?”

“I think I'm sure.”

“You think so.”

“Hey. I've never done this before, you know. It's not like I can look back to my third marriage and say I feel exactly like I felt back then.”

“Okay. Bottom line is, you think you're sure you want to be with me.”

“Right.”

I smiled. “That's good. Because I think so, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

My laugh sounded as hollow as my head. “I'm not sure certainty is an option at my age.”

“Come on, Marsh.”

“Okay, Jill. Yes. I'm certain. More certain than I've ever been about anyone in my life.” I shook my head in wonder. “First Wally; now this. You're quite a woman, Ms. Coppelia.”

“I'll take that as a compliment, but you should know that I expect you to get better at it.”

I blushed and said, “I'll try.”

“Since we're sort of on the subject, I also want you to know that I'm going to want to get married someday. I'm warning you now. If this thing we have keeps going forward, I'm going to want it the old-fashioned way.”

“Fine by me.”

“And I'm going to want to discuss kids.”

“Our kids.”

“Of course.”

“I think I'm a little old for—”

“So am I. But the point is, we're not
too
old. Not yet. So we need to discuss it.”

“Okay.”

“Not now, though.”

“Okay.”

“Later.”

“Okay.”

“After you propose to me.”

“Oh.”

“After you get down on one knee and pop the question.”

“Ah.”

“And give me a ring.”

“Ah, squared.”

She laughed. “You look slightly terrified.”

I blushed. “I am.”

“Why? Because you don't want this to happen?”

I shook my head. “Because I do.”

She leaned over to kiss me. When she had finished, I stretched out on the couch and pulled her down on top of me. She put a hand behind my head and pressed her lips on mine and we kissed long and hard, breathing with the sounds of surf, tasting each other the way we tasted ice cream and chocolate.

I slid my hand down her spine and made us increasingly contiguous. After a moment, she raised up far enough to tug her shirt above her breasts, then wriggled forward so I could feast on them without risking injury. I was more than happy to oblige, just as Jill was happy to oblige me. We spent the next ten minutes doing what the other liked, though more avidly and extensively than ever before.

As I was trying to remove some more of her clothing, the telephone rang. After silently cursing the fates, I paused to let Jill decide what she wanted to do. Seconding my emotion, she grunted sourly and shook her head, then started to undo my belt.

After the fourth ring, the answering machine clicked on. “Jill? Mark Belcastro. They found Briscoe twenty minutes ago, sitting in his car out at Ocean Beach. There were two slugs in the back of his head and his tongue was sliced off at the root. Guess the lab boys will tell us whether he was tortured before or after he was shot. Not that it matters, I guess. I kind of liked the guy, you know? I mean, he wasn't a killer, he just wasn't strong enough to say no to the ones who were. Anyway, I thought I'd let you know before you turned on the late news. Hope I didn't ruin your evening.”

Although she struggled to get up, I kept Jill where she was and spoke into her ear in a voice I didn't recognize as mine. “I thought he was in witness protection.”

“He was. Sort of. We do the best we can, but we don't have the resources the feds do. I'm sorry, Marsh. I thought we had it covered.”

“Where's your gun?”

“Why?”

“Just tell me.”

“In the closet. Top shelf.”

I sat us both up. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To get the gun.”

“But why?”

“I'm spending the night. I want some firepower at my disposal in case they decide not to stop with Wally.”

Chapter 25

I lay awake all night, first in Jill's bed, then on her couch, then in her easy chair, thinking of Wally Briscoe and my role in his violent death. Try as I might, I couldn't evade the indictment that I had served as Wally's executioner.

A year ago, I'd killed Charley Sleet directly, with my own weapon. But Charley had initiated the drama, Charley had forced my hand, Charley had wanted it to be me who ended his life. Not some crooked cop, not a rapacious disease, but me. His best friend.

But Wally wasn't a friend, Wally Briscoe wasn't even a line in my address book. Wally hadn't asked for what had happened and Wally hadn't deserved it. He was just a weak and frightened man, like millions of similar men, trapped in a world he couldn't govern, a world he couldn't hide from, a world that preyed upon his weakness and used it for its own ends. What I had to live with from this day onward was that a part of that venal and vengeful world was me.

Not for the first time, I had objectified someone because it served my purposes to do so. Because of what was happening in my personal life, I had made Wally a token of my affection, a gift-wrapped charm I had given to the woman I was seeing, a sacrifice on the altar of what I thought was love. My actions, by any measure I knew and observed, were inexcusable. As far as I could remember, it was the worst thing I'd ever done to another human being. I had no idea how to atone for it, though I spent the long dark hours of night trying to find a way.

As subtly as a rumor, dawn finally made an appearance, months after Jill had gone to bed, days after she had fallen asleep, hours after I'd moved to the chair from the couch. To wrestle my mind off my transgressions, I got up, got dressed, got fed, and called Alta Bates Hospital, taking the phone to the kitchen so as not to wake Jill.

Lark McLaren answered in a voice that echoed my dreary mood. I asked her how it was going, knowing it couldn't be going well. “Okay, I suppose,” she murmured wearily. “I'll be better when I get some food in me.”

“Chandelier still improving?”

“That's what they say. I don't see much sign of it myself. I can hardly bear to look at her. And she can hardly bear to move.”

“Doctor knows best.”

“Not always, in my experience,” she countered grimly.

“Mine, either.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“I'm afraid I'm not making much progress. How did it go with the computer?”

She took a breath and blew into the receiver as though it needed cooling. “I got into the system okay, but I can't find any files on a new book—nothing shows up on any of the directories. The old book does, and the research notes she made for it, but not a new one. If she's done anything yet she must be using a secret file with some sort of coded access.”

“Would the new book have a title?”

“I'm sure it does—the title's the most important part, at least for Chandelier. Titles set the mood, is what she tells people—it's like naming a baby. The title's the first thing she writes down and she doesn't let anyone change it no matter how goofy it sounds. I mean,
Ship Shape
? The sales reps hated it. They told her Barnes and Noble would put it on the travel shelf and her fans would never find it. But Chandelier wouldn't budge.”

“No indication of subject matter either?”

“Not that I could find. It could be anything. She wrote a book set in the hardware business once, because her father had worked for TrueValue.”

“Well, keep trying.”

“I will.”

“Does she only have one computer?”

“No, she has a laptop and a desktop.”

“Did you check both?”

Lark sniffed. “The laptop burned up in the fire.”

“So all her research might have gone up in smoke?”

“Maybe. But she usually downloaded into the desktop every night when she got home. She put her current thoughts on the laptop—ideas for new books, for promotion, for jacket covers, for scenes and characters she might want to use later on. But she knew better than to keep them there because she had a laptop stolen from her car when she was at a reading in Los Angeles one time. She always put the daily input on the big machine and backed it up on a Zip drive.”

“Which you checked.”

“Which I checked. Several times.”

“I guess we need a geek.”

Lark McLaren laughed, which lifted my mood as well. “Anything but that.”

“Sorry, but if it's okay, I'm going to send someone to the house to play around with the machine.”

“Okay. I'll tell the staff to be on the lookout for a pocket protector.”

“In the meantime, take care of yourself.”

“You, too, Mr. Tanner.”

“Marsh.”

“Marsh.”

“Well, I'm off to see the rabid fan.”

“Randolph Scott.”

“That's him.”

“You'll be amazed.”

“It doesn't take much.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I started to hang up but Lark wasn't finished. “Mr. Tanner?”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to tell you, I just love Ruthie Spring.”

“Me, too.”

“Meeting her is the only good thing about this whole mess.”

“I'm glad there's something. Speaking of capable women, where can I find Amber Adams?”

“She's staying at the St. Francis. I'm not sure what her schedule is today. I think she goes back to New York tomorrow, though.”

“If you talk to her, tell her I'll meet her at five in the hotel bar for a drink. The one that specializes in beer.”

“I'll tell her, but I can't guarantee she'll show up. Amber doesn't pay much attention to anyone but Chandelier.”

Half an hour later, when Jill came out of the bedroom dressed for work, I handed her the gun. “Take this with you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

She looked at the rumpled couch and the crumpled chair. “You've been thinking.”

“Right.”

“All night. You're afraid they'll come after me.”

“Something like that.”

“I'm not the only prosecutor on this case, you know. There's Cassidy. And Schmidt. And sometimes even Sisco. Getting rid of me wouldn't accomplish anything.”

“Crooked cops don't tend to be rational. If you're ready, I'll take you to work.”

She shook her head. “I'll drive myself. But thanks for the offer.”

“I'd rather take you.”

“I know you would. But while I'm still on the public payroll, my safety is not your concern.”

“Like hell it isn't.”

“Officially, I mean.”

“Then maybe it's time to get unofficial.”

She laughed. “You're cracking, Tanner. Walls are crumbling; rust is blowing away. I'll have you eating out of my hand in no time.”

Given the doomfilled thoughts of my night, it was hard to see it as a blessing.

After Jill left for work, I drove out to Henry Street, which was in the Castro District not far from the Davies Medical Center. The house was a confection of white stucco and red tile, with a yard of green icing, two sprinkles of Japanese maples, and a trim of whitewashed rocks so uniformly round they could have come from a pastry gun. In spring, the flowers in the beds would be awesome. In summer, the days would be foggy and cold till well after noon.

I knocked on the door and waited. The man who finally opened it was still in his red silk housecoat and black silk slippers. And white silk ascot, blue silk pajamas, and red silk sleeping cap complete with pointed top and ball of white fur. He was round and jolly, with bright blue eyes and short brown hair and puffy pale flesh that seemed ageless and untouched except, perhaps, by a magic face cream he'd ordered from the TV.

He remained as cheerful as Santa as I took a brisk inventory. “Mr. Scott?”

“Yes?”

“My name's Tanner.”

I put out a hand and he took it in both of his. “Charmed.” He invited me in even before I asked him to. If he was a car bomber, I was a taxidermist.

The man who called himself Randolph Scott led me into a small living room decorated in powder blues and lemon yellows, with woven rag rugs tossed over the linoleum floor, dainty knit shawls tossed over the backs of the furniture, and so many art deco fixtures on the walls and in the ceiling it gave the place the aura of a high-class brothel. Here and there a variety of cut-glass vases held enough outsize silk flowers to stock a florist. It was a sunny home for a sunny person. I figured I'd be in and out in three minutes.

“You aren't a Witness, by any chance, are you?” Randolph asked as I sat on the couch at his invitation.

“Jehovah's Witness?”

He nodded, then took the chair across from me and crossed his legs and cocked his wrist and looked at me with eager expectation. “I have the most delightful discussions when they stop by. God is such a provocative concept, don't you think?”