Locked In
S
HARON
M
C
C
ONE
M
YSTERIES
B
Y
M
ARCIA
M
ULLER
BURN OUT
THE EVER-RUNNING MAN
VANISHING POINT
THE DANGEROUS HOUR
DEAD MIDNIGHT
LISTEN TO THE SILENCE
A WALK THROUGH THE FIRE
WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP
BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT
THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND
A WILD AND LONELY PLACE
TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN
WOLF IN THE SHADOWS
PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES
WHERE ECHOES LIVE
TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS
THE SHAPE OF DREAD
THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY
EYE OF THE STORM
THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF
DOUBLE (With Bill Pronzini)
LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE
GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY
THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE
ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION
EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES
N
ONSERIES
CAPE PERDIDO
CYANIDE WELLS
POINT DECEPTION
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
.
www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub
First eBook Edition: October 2009
Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-55829-7
Contents
For Bette Golden Lamb,
with many thanks from her honorary medical person
and
Bill,
for a story that started out as a joke
A
typical July night in San Francisco. Mist swirling off the bay, a foghorn bellowing every thirty seconds out at the Golden
Gate. Lights along the Embarcadero dimmed, and the sidewalks and the streets mostly empty at a few minutes after nine. Sounds
of traffic on the Bay Bridge curiously muted. In contrast, my boot heels tapped loudly on the pavement.
Ahead of me lay Pier 24½. Three long blocks behind me my vintage MG sat in a no-parking zone, out of gas.
Way to go, McCone. When you fly, you’re meticulous about fueling. But with the car, you resist stopping at a station till
the damn thing’s running on fumes.
Just my luck—the fumes had given out short of my destination tonight.
Pilot error—on the ground.
A sudden blast of wind came off the water, and I gripped my woolen hat, pulled it lower on my forehead. Something to my right
was banging, metal on metal: I glanced over and saw a
NO TRESPASSING
sign loosely attached to a chain-link fence barring access to one of the old piers scheduled for demolition.
This is my workday neighborhood. I walk this lovely, palm-lined boulevard all the time. I shouldn’t allow sounds to spook
me.
Another moan from the foghorn. Why did it sometimes seem melancholy, at other times strident, and at still others like the
scream of a victim in pain?
Now I was passing a derelict shed on the far side of the doomed pier. A heap of rags lay on its loading dock. No, not rags—a
human being seeking shelter from the inclement weather. Another member of San Francisco’s homeless population.
One of many things wrong with this damned city—too few resources, too little compassion.
I had a love-hate relationship with the town I’d made my home. But I knew, no matter how bad the urban situation became, I’d
never leave.
Ahead the security lights of Pier 24½ glowed through the mist. I quickened my steps.
The city’s port commission had tried to raise the tenants’ rental rates last fall—a first step toward also demolishing this
pier—but an influential attorney friend of mine had prevailed upon them to maintain the status quo. For a while, anyway.
Where, I wondered now, would I find a comparable rate and space for an agency that was growing quickly? Profits were up, yes,
but salaries and the cost of employee benefits were also escalating. Maybe…
I put my worries aside and concentrated on my original purpose: retrieve the cell phone that I’d accidentally left on my desk
before going out to dinner with one of my friends and operatives, Julia Rafael. The phone whose absence had prevented me from
calling Triple A when the car ran out of gas. If I contacted them from the office, they’d be there by the time I walked back
to the MG—
A hand touched my forearm. I jerked away, moving into a defensive stance. A dark figure had loomed out of the mist.
“Lady, can you spare a dollar?”
Jesus, he was panhandling in a nearly deserted area in
this
weather? Better to fort up in the shelter of one of the sheds, like the person I’d glimpsed earlier.
He waited, arms loose at his sides, shoulders slumped. I couldn’t see his features, but the wind whipped at his jacket and
I saw it was thin and had a ragged tear.
I reached into the pocket of my peacoat and found some bills that I’d left there whenever I last wore it. Held them out to
him. He hesitated before taking them, as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.
“Thank you, lady. God bless.”
He disappeared into the fog as swiftly as he’d appeared.
I pulled the collar of my coat more tightly around my neck and went on toward the pier.
The powers that be say you shouldn’t give money to the homeless; they’ll only spend it on drugs and liquor. What was that
slogan they made up?
Care, not cash.
All shiny and idealistic, but the truth is, some people slip through the cracks in the care department, and cash for a bottle
or a fix is what they need to get themselves through a cold, damp night like this one.
I thrust my hands deeper into my pockets, but a chill had invaded me that couldn’t be touched by the warmth of wool and lining.
The fog seemed thicker now. It played tricks on my vision. Someone was coming at me from the bayside.… No, advancing toward
me on the left… No, there was nobody—
A shriek echoed over the boulevard, high-pitched tones bouncing off the surrounding buildings.
I stopped, peered hard through the churning mist.
Laughter, and the sound of running feet over at Hills Brothers Plaza. More laughter, fading into the distance along with the
footsteps. People clowning around after leaving one of the restaurants.
The security grille had been pulled down over the yawning, arched entrance to the pier. My opener was back in the MG. I grasped
the cold bars and called out to Lewis, the guard we tenants collectively employed.
No answer.
Well, sure. He was probably drinking in the far recesses of the cavernous structure. Or already passed out. A nice guy, Lewis,
but a serious alcoholic. At the last tenants’ meeting we’d talked about firing him, but none of us had taken the initiative
to find a replacement. I should have—
That’s not your bailiwick any more, McCone. You’ve got Adah to take care of things like that now.
Adah Joslyn, formerly of the SFPD’s homicide detail, now my executive administrator. Last winter I’d stepped back from the
day-to-day running of the agency so I could concentrate on cases that really interested me. There hadn’t been many, and in
the meantime I’d started giving self-defense classes at a women’s shelter in my neighborhood and working their emergency hotline
during the day when most of their volunteers were out earning a living. I’d been able to spend more time at Touchstone, Hy’s
and my seaside home in Mendocino County, and at our ranch in the high desert country with our horses, King Lear and Sidekick.
I shouted again for Lewis.
Still no answer.
Damn. I’d have to use my security code to open the door to the right of the pier’s entrance. But I’d just changed it, as we
did every month, and I wasn’t sure.…
Favorite canned chili. Right. I punched in 6255397—the numerical equivalent of NALLEYS on the keypad—and gained entry.
Usually there were cars belonging to tenants parked on the pier’s floor at any time of day or night: employees of my agency,
the architectural firm and desktop publisher on the opposite catwalk, and the various small businesses running along either
side of the downstairs worked long and irregular hours. Tonight I was surprised to find no vehicles and no light leaking around
doorways. The desk where Lewis was supposed to be stationed was deserted.
That does it. We’re firing your ass tomorrow.
I crossed the floor to the stairs to our catwalk, footsteps echoing off the walls and high corrugated iron roof, then clanging
on the metal as I climbed up and went toward my office at the bayside end. God, this place was spooky at night with nobody
around.
As I passed the space occupied by my office manager, Ted Smalley, and his assistant, Kendra Williams, I thought I saw a flicker
of light.
So somebody was there after all. Maybe Ted had left his car on the street; if so, he could give me a ride back to the MG.
Kendra took public transit; she could keep me company while I waited for Triple A, and then I’d drive her home. I went to
the door, calling out to them. No response. I rattled the knob. Locked.
