Locked In (16 page)

I didn’t care what happened to the shooter; if I weren’t bound to this bed and could nail him myself, I wouldn’t treat him
gently. But I didn’t want Hy involved in a murder-for-hire case.

Murder for hire.

No, that wasn’t Hy’s style. He’d told Weathers he needed him if there was a problem. Backup, that was all. Hy would do the
job himself. And that would add to the burden of guilt he carried from his time in Southeast Asia—a burden that only in recent
years had begun to ease.

Can’t let that happen.

I began focusing in a way I never had before: split my energy between trying to will my fingers and toes to move and examining
the facts of the case. One finger, one fact. One toe, another fact. Over and over. And the energy, instead of weakening from
the split, grew stronger. My mind seemed to expand, to grow—

Although I only imagined the twinge of feeling in my right hand, it gave me hope.

A woman came into my room: short, blonde, with an upturned nose—what in my cheerleading days we used to call perky. She sat
in the armchair and introduced herself. Sarah Lawson, speech therapist.

“I understand you’re able to communicate yes and no with eyeblinks,” she said.

I blinked once.

“That’s wonderful, because this afternoon I’m going to start working with you, so you can spell out words with your eyes.
One blink, A; two blinks, B; and so on.”

And twenty-six blinks, Z. An exhausting process.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sarah said, “and I won’t deny it. The process is tough, and it’ll take a long time until you
can put a coherent sentence together. But you can do it; many patients have. A French editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, dictated
an entire book that way.”

I’d heard of Bauby. He died within two years of the stroke that disabled him.

I closed my eyes and let the tears flow.

B
y noon, when the SFPD still had no leads on the Haven Dietz murder, Julia decided to drive to the Brandt Institute and share
both the Dietz and the Peeples files with Shar.

Shar looked tired, and Julia understood why: on the way in she’d seen Hy escorting Kay Hunt, Shar’s adoptive mother, out to
his car. Julia had met Mrs. Hunt only once when she’d paid a visit to the pier on one of her trips to the city; she’d seemed
fine then, but Julia had heard about the scene here yesterday. Today must have brought more of the same.

Madres! Mierda!

She read each file through verbatim to Shar, held up the photographs appended to them for her to see: formal headshot of Dietz
before the attack; group shot with the staff at the financial management firm where she’d been employed; informal and badly
lighted snap of her in front of her apartment. Formal shot of Peeples; Larry with his parents at the vineyard; Larry and Ben
Gold with Seal Rock in the background. Shar’s eyes lingered on all of them.

Julia asked, “Is there something I should be looking into more deeply?”

Blink.

“Peeples?”

Blink.

“The money?”

Blink.

“It had to come from someplace, right? Maybe Thelia or Diane can help me there?”

Blink.

“What about Dietz?”

Blink.

“The police’re investigating her murder. You think I should conduct my own investigation?”

Blink, blink.

“What, then? Dig deeper into her background? Maybe go back a long time before she was attacked?”

Blink.

Julia paused, then realized what Shar was trying to tell her. “In her job Dietz had access to a lot of money.”

Blink.

“I hear you.”

Even if you can’t speak, I hear you loud and clear.

H
e and Mick sat across the round table in the conference room, going over the city hall investigation file with Diane D’Angelo.
D’Angelo, the latest addition to the agency staff, was tall, willowy, and blonde, with what Craig thought of as patrician
features—the kind of woman he’d dated in prep school and college and later in Washington, DC. The kind of woman his parents
had expected him to marry.

Sorry, folks. The instant I connected with Adah, I knew why I’d never been serious about any of those well-bred beauties.

He didn’t actively dislike D’Angelo, but he couldn’t understand why Shar had hired her. She was a poor fit for the agency.
Or maybe that
was
why Shar had brought her aboard; the other operatives were an odd mixture, and none of them totally mainstream. Even he,
once the standard-issue fed, had been transformed in subtle ways by his relationship with Adah and his move to San Francisco.
Maybe Shar’s motivation in hiring Diane had been as simple as wanting someone who would blend in at society parties.

Still, Craig didn’t completely trust Diane, and he and Mick had decided not to share with her the information about the videos
that Craig had found in Harvey Davis’s condo.

“… I didn’t think the mayor was all that concerned about the investigation,” Diane was saying. “He never spoke to me. Just
nodded cordially and went about his business.”

“Your only contact”—Mick consulted his notes—“was this aide, Jim Yatz.”

“Right. If you’re looking for answers—especially to the Teller and Janssen connection—he’s the one you should go to.”

Mick glanced at Craig and he nodded.

Craig said, “You’re hooked into the local scene. What do you know about Yatz?”

Jim Yatz, D’Angelo said, had grown up in the city’s Inner Richmond district. His father had been on the board of supervisors
for two terms in the early 1970s and held various administrative positions with the city until his death in 2005; he left
his son a legacy of public service.

“Jim’s father’s connections are what got him a scholarship to Georgetown University in DC. He studied public policy, did an
internship on Capitol Hill, and then came home.” D’Angelo smiled wryly. “This city has a way of luring back those of us who
were born here.”

Yatz had taken an entry-level job in the city planning commission—a move that surprised those who knew his credentials and
political connections. Soon he rose to assistant director, then was tapped by the port commission to look into the demolition
or renovation of aging piers. A year ago, the new mayor—a boyhood friend—had hired him as his chief administrative aide.

Jim Yatz was said to be brilliant, politically savvy, and fiercely loyal to the mayor and his administration.

“He’s also said to be devious and ruthless if the occasion warrants it,” D’Angelo finished.

Craig tapped his pencil on the table, glanced at Mick, who was making a note. “Any personal stuff on Yatz?” he asked.

“Unmarried, dates a lot of beautiful women. Owns a house in the Marina. Entertains lavishly. No,” Diane said to Craig’s inquiring
look, “he’s never entertained me. Jim and I… well, that goes back a long way.”

“To what?”

She shifted her position in her chair, curled a lock of her hair around her index finger—a nervous habit that Craig had previously
noted. “He and I… we dated when he was in DC and I was in New York. Long-distance relationship, and it didn’t work out.”

“But he didn’t react negatively when we brought you in on the case. In fact, he gave you a strong reference when you applied
to work here.”

“Jim and I have made our peace. I was the wrong woman for him, but he knew I was the right woman for the job.” She frowned.
“But it turns out I wasn’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if I’d done the job properly, Sharon wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

“Then let’s do the job properly now. You’re something of an SF insider. Tell Mick and me what you know about our complicated
city government.”

T
he Summerses’ house was up a long, badly paved driveway in the Lafayette hills. Rae maneuvered the low-slung Z4 around the
worst of the potholes, but still the undercarriage scraped a couple of times.

Shit! He’s a lawyer, they must have money. So why can’t they repave their own drive?

She parked her car next to a Subaru station wagon in front of the garage and looked up at the house: murky green clapboard
made murkier by the shade of the oaks that towered over it; two stories, probably with a third built down the hillside behind.
A pretty setting, but a trifle gloomy for her taste.

As she got out of the car a white minivan pulled up behind her, and a slender woman with wavy light brown hair got out and
approached her. “Ms. Kelleher? I’m Jane Koziol.” They shook hands, and Koziol motioned Rae toward the front door. “Senta’s
in a pretty bad way, which is why I suggested I meet you here. She wants to hear firsthand about how you found out Alicia
was a murder victim. But I’m going to ask you: please spare her the gorier details.”

“I didn’t bring my file or any crime scene pictures, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not into gore myself.”

“Good.” Koziol rang the doorbell. Its summons was answered immediately by a tall woman with unkempt dark hair that fell to
her shoulders; she was wearing a pair of rumpled blue sweats, and the skin around her eyes was red and puffy, her face drawn
with sorrow.

Senta Summers greeted them and took them into a living room overlooking an oak grove on the slope below. She asked them to
be seated, offered refreshments, which they both declined, then sat tentatively on the edge of the sofa, as if poised for
flight.

“You want to know how I found out what happened to your daughter,” Rae said.

“Yes. And I want to thank you. The not knowing is what’s been so unbearable.”

Rae could understand that; the Little Savages weren’t even her own children, but if one of them disappeared, she’d’ve spent
many a sleepless night.

Rae provided her with a brief summary of her investigation. “The credit really should go to the Bay Area Victims’ Advocates,”
she added. “They never give up, even when the police do. If you don’t mind, would you tell me about Alicia, so I can close
out my file properly?”

“I don’t know where to begin.” Senta made a helpless gesture with both hands.

“What kind of child was she?”

After a long pause, Senta said, “She was a feisty baby who grew into a very willful young adult. At first that seemed a good
quality, since she put it to use achieving things: good grades, science fair prizes, an excellent summer job as a counselor
at a kayaking camp. She loved to take photographs. That’s one of hers over the mantel.”

Rae looked where she pointed. A wide-angle view of the sun glinting through the branches of an oak tree. Not professional-quality,
but it showed promise.

“She was beautiful and loving,” Senta added. “But then it all changed in her senior year.”

Alicia, her mother said, had become withdrawn and her grades fell off. She lost her interests, didn’t see her friends, and
finally began staying away from home for days. “I tried to control her, but she did whatever she wanted. Her father was no
help; he told me to back off and give her some space. Then, on July ninth of the year she graduated, she left home for good.”
Senta Summers paused, shook her head as if to clear it. “All this time I’ve been hoping she’d come back someday, and now I
know she never will.”

Jane Koziol took a packet of Kleenex from her purse and passed Senta a tissue.

Rae asked, “Did you file a missing person report?”

“After the requisite seventy-two hours.”

“Your husband is politically connected—couldn’t he have requested the police look into Alicia’s disappearance sooner?”

“My husband prides himself on operating strictly within the law and asks no favors.” The words were full of venom.

“What about a private investigator? Did you consider employing one?”

“I wanted to, but Lee said no.”

“Why?”

“He was working on an important political campaign, and he was afraid word would get out that we couldn’t control our own
daughter.” Senta’s voice was even more bitter.

Time to hit her with the big questions. “Is that why you filed for divorce?”

If she was surprised by Rae’s knowledge, she didn’t show it. “Among other things. But Lee persuaded me to withdraw the petition
in exchange for certain concessions.”

“Which were… ?”

“I don’t see as that’s relevant to my daughter’s murder, Ms. Kelleher.”

Rae glanced at Koziol, then said to Senta, “The things you mention about Alicia—drop in grades, loss of friends and interests—are
often signs of depression. And depression in teenagers can often be caused by sexual abuse. Did you ever suspect—?”

“No!” The answer was prompt and loud. “There was nothing like that between Lee and Alicia.”

Denial? Or… ?

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. Lee hasn’t been able to… perform for over ten years. Prostate problems.”

“Abuse isn’t necessarily defined by penetration.”

Senta shook her head emphatically. “There was nothing like that. The truth is, Lee was indifferent to our daughter. Oh, he
tolerated her, but only because she was pretty and smart and he could show her off to his political associates. He simply
didn’t acknowledge her, unless the occasion suited his needs.

“I ask you, do you see him here today? He wasn’t here yesterday when I got the news. I waited up till nearly one o’clock to
tell him. Then he pretended grief—he’s a very good pretender—and gave me a sedative and held me in bed. But at four-thirty
in the morning I heard him talking on the phone. And he left at seven, telling me I should arrange for her exhumation from
wherever the city buried her so she can be interred in the family plot. Oh, yes, and to call people and plan for a memorial
service. God knows what he wants me to tell them she died of.”

Rage glinted in Senta’s eyes. “I will do all of that, out of respect and love for my daughter. And then I will leave Lee—this
time for good.”

“His indifference to your daughter—do you have any idea what it stemmed from?”

Senta didn’t reply for a moment, looking down at her hands. “Oh, well, what does it matter now? Lee and I were separated at
the time Alicia was conceived. We were seeing others, but we also… got together a few times. All the same, he thought she
wasn’t his daughter.”