Locked In (3 page)
Hy, ever distrustful of dramatic turnarounds—in spite of having made one himself—had waited for Julia to screw up. And when
she was arrested for crimes that put Sharon’s license and the agency in serious jeopardy, he’d wanted to say “I told you so.”
But Julia, vindicated, had turned into a fine operative. He still wondered at McCone’s friendship with her: Julia was insecure
in the extreme and covered it with a haughty, sometimes hostile demeanor. But McCone was an excellent judge of character,
so she must have seen gold in Julia that was yet to be mined.
Now Julia said, “We started on these investigations the day after Shar was attacked, with the idea that the shooter had to
have some connection with one of the cases the agency was working. Otherwise why was he skulking around the pier at night?”
“He wasn’t looking for money or stuff to sell for drugs,” Adah added. “Nothing was taken.”
“Unless Shar interrupted him before he could take something,” Hy said.
“It’s possible, but this has more the feel of an instrusion by somebody who knew the pier, knew Lewis was a drunk and likely
to leave his station for long periods of time. Your average thief doesn’t just walk into someplace with a lighted guard’s
desk.”
“Or shoot his way out of the situation if he’s caught,” Julia said. “He’d hide—unless he was afraid Shar would recognize him.”
“Someone who had been here before, then,” Hy said. “Someone she’d seen. Not necessarily her client, but one of the agency’s,
or a witness or suspect in one of the cases.”
Adah nodded. “That’s our reasoning. Anyway, we did an in-depth analysis of all cases going back two months. There’re a number
that raised red flags. We’ve eliminated some, but there are several that still hold our attention. Why don’t you tell us about
yours, Julia?”
“Okay. There’re two of them, both cases where the SFPD dropped the ball. Haven Dietz was the victim of a violent knifing attack
a year ago that left her disfigured and with only partial use of her right arm. The other clients are the Peeples, Judy and
Thomas. Their son, Larry, was gay. He disappeared suddenly six months ago. No satisfaction from the cops in either matter.”
Hy asked, “What’re the red flags?”
“Dietz and Peeples were friends, lived in the same building. He cared for her while she was recuperating. She was the one
who recommended us to the parents. I sense there’s something she’s not telling me—about Peeples or her attacker.”
Adah said, “Let’s move on. Mick?”
“Have you heard of Celestina Gates?”
Hy shook his head.
“Identity-theft expert. Had a syndicated column and regularly appeared on national talk shows advising people how to safeguard
themselves. Trouble is, two months ago her own identity was stolen. When the media got hold of the situation, they ridiculed
her, questioned her credibility. The syndicate canceled her column, a book deal fell through, and the talk-show offers stopped
coming in. Red flag is that I sense something wrong with the whole situation.”
“That’s it?” Hy asked.
“That’s it. But Shar would feel the same. When something’s off, we have similar instincts.”
Hy couldn’t debate that. Sharon had a shit detector that seldom failed her.
“Rae?” Adah said.
Rae Kelleher, the then-assistant whom Sharon had brought with her from All Souls Legal Cooperative when she established her
own agency. Red-haired, freckled, blue-eyed, and petite. A part-time operative and author of three crime novels. Married to
Mick’s father, Ricky Savage. Ricky and Rae were Hy’s and Sharon’s closest friends. No way she wouldn’t wade into this mess,
ready to do anything she could to help.
“The Bay Area Victims’ Advocates is the client,” she said, looking directly into Hy’s eyes. “They’re concerned with getting
solutions to unsolved crimes against women. This one’s a homicide, back-burnered by the SFPD. I’ll give you a copy of the
file.”
“Thanks.”
Adah said, “Craig—your turn.”
Craig Morland was Adah’s significant other. A former special agent with the FBI, he’d become disillusioned with the federal
agency and was eventually lured away from DC to San Francisco by Adah. When they’d first met, Craig had been a buttoned-down,
shorn, and shaven man with—as Hy had characterized him—a stick up his ass. No one would confuse his former persona with that
of the easygoing, tousled-haired, mustached man of today.
“I’m looking into corruption at city hall. Big-time chicanery, but I can’t yet figure out on whose part. My informant is very
close with the information. Till I’ve gone into it further, I’d rather not reveal details.”
Hy said, “Hey, man, we’re talking about my wife getting shot.”
“And if it’s connected to this case, we’re talking about maybe more people getting shot. People close to us.” Craig paused.
“I need a couple more days. Okay?”
Hy shrugged, suddenly feeling bone-tired.
The meeting broke up then, people standing and gathering their things as if on cue. Rae’s hand pressed his arm. “Come to our
house and spend the night,” she said. “I know it’s hard to go home—especially with John there. John is not soothing when he’s
angry.”
“That’s understating it.”
She urged him to his feet. “Lasagna and a feather bed—that’s what you need.”
“The hospital—”
“Will call you if there’s any change. Right now you come with me.”
He went. Lasagna and a feather bed sounded good. It would be better if he could share both with Shar, but that wasn’t going
to happen.
Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
T
hey had removed the tube from my mouth for good yesterday, and now were disconnecting the patches that connected me to the
monitors from my arms, legs, and chest.
God, those are my lifelines! They’re going to kill me!
The voiceless scream rose. Subsided when someone said, “Okay, let’s get her onto the gurney.”
Being lifted. Moved sideways. Down onto a harder surface. Tugging of blankets. Clicking of strap connectors.
Where are they taking me? More tests?
I struggled to make my vocal cords work. Couldn’t.
I tried to raise my arm. Couldn’t.
Clumsy maneuvering through a door. Then swift forward motion, wheels bumping over uneven spots on the floor. Acoustical ceiling
and fluorescents passing overhead. Automatic door noise, and then…
Fresh air. Cool and faintly salt-tinged.
I’m outside!
Another voice: “We’ll take her from here.” A face appeared above me—male, smooth, young. “Ms. McCone,” he said, “if you can
hear me, I’m Andy with the Sequoia Ambulance Service. We’re taking you to the Brandt Neurological Institute.”
Oh, right. Where Hy told the doctor he was having me transferred.
The terror subsided, and I blinked my eyelids, but Andy had looked away. “It’s only a twenty-minute trip,” he added, “and
we’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”
Why does he sound as if he doesn’t believe I can understand a word he says?
Will somebody please look at me and see I’m still here?
Weariness washed over me and I slept.
Cool light. Blue walls. Scent of fresh-cut flowers. A window. And beyond it a thick stand of eucalyptus.
I love eucalyptus. I wish the window were open so I could smell them. But this floral scent… what… ?
I tried to look around, but from the way the bed was positioned I couldn’t see much more of the room. Looked up. Suspended
from the overhead track was a stainless steel contraption that looked like an elaborate, multi-barbed fishhook. An IV bag
was suspended from it, as well as a container of a brownish liquid.
Alone? Yes, I can tell by the quality of the silence.
Tired. So tired. Was it yesterday that Hy said it had been ten days? Ten whole days since I’d been in a coma, then weak and
helpless?
No, admit it—paralyzed.
But not in a coma. I can think, see, hear, breathe, and feel. I just can’t move or speak.
Just? That’s everything!
Got to find some way to let them know.
Got to!
Someone coming into the room. Hand on my forehead. Hy.
“We’re at the Brandt Institute, McCone,” he said. “I just met your new neurosurgeon. They’re going to do everything they can
to help you.”
Don’t stand over to the side. Look at my face!
“It’s a nice place, out on Jackson Street, near the Presidio. Nice people, too.”
Look at me, dammit!
“First thing tomorrow they’re going to run some more brain scans and try to get an accurate diagnosis. Then…” He fell silent
for a few seconds.
“Hell, McCone, if you could hear me, you’d know I’m clutching at straws here. There’s so much they don’t know about the brain,
and I know even less. God, I can’t…”
He was crying. I’d seldom known him to cry.
He moved around, bent over, and buried his face on my shoulder. His body shook and his tears wet my hospital gown. I wanted
to hold him, and I couldn’t move. Comfort him, and I had no words.
After a moment, he raised his head and looked straight into my eyes.
I blinked at him, moved my eyes up and down.
He drew back, astonishment and hope brightening his drawn features. Gently he reached out to touch my face.
“You’re here with me!” he said.
I blinked again.
“You can hear me. See me.”
Blink.
“Can you move?”
I decided two blinks would mean no.
“Can you talk to me?”
Blink, blink.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re on your way back. I’m getting your doctor.”
Thank God. I knew I could count on you, Ripinsky.
But what the hell took you so long?
S
he propped her right elbow on the desk and lowered her forehead to the palm of her hand. Her eyes ached and pain needled above
her brow. Through the open doorway of her study she could hear her stepdaughters, Molly and Lisa, squabbling downstairs over
which DVD to watch. She wouldn’t interfere. Let them duke it out—that was her parenting philosophy. Prepare them ahead of
time for the often rocky shoals of life.
She took several deep breaths. The throbbing stopped. She raised her head and fumbled in the desk drawer for eyedrops. They
soothed the ache.
She raised her head and stared out the window to the northeast at the fog-shrouded towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below
the house waves pounded the shoreline. Many millions’ worth of view. She remembered when she and Ricky and the real-estate
agent had first toured the multilevel mansion in the exclusive Sea Cliff area: it was so beautiful that she ached to live
there. She’d been poor and in debt most of her life, and she couldn’t believe anything remotely like that was possible. But
in the bedroom with the indoor hot tub overlooking the sea, Ricky had put his arms around her and said, “What do you think,
Red? Will you live here with me?” The answer was a given.
Back to the present, she told herself.
But the present was so depressing. Shar…
She thought back to her initial interview with the woman she’d hoped would be her boss, when Shar was staff investigator at
All Souls Legal Cooperative, a poverty law firm. Rae had been in her twenties, trapped in a bad marriage to a professional
student, and adrift as far as a career was concerned. Shar’s faith in her ability to make a good investigator had given her
the strength to break with her husband and move on. And as they worked together, a friendship strong enough to last a lifetime
had formed between them.
At least, she’d thought it would last a lifetime, till some scum-bag had pumped a bullet into Shar’s brain.
And now she was trying without much success to connect this old homicide to Shar’s shooting. Cold cases fascinated most people,
but as far as Rae was concerned they were a pain in the ass. For that matter, so was the director at the San Francisco Victims’
Advocates. Maggie Lambert, an old-school feminist and former rape victim with great empathy for her mostly deceased clients.
But Maggie wasn’t interested in providing accurate files or details. She wanted instant resolutions to cases that had been
gathering dust forever.
Plus it was hard for Rae to focus when she was so worried about Shar.
Shar—now almost but not quite a relative by marriage. Ricky was only Shar’s former brother-in-law, but his and her sister
Charlene’s six kids—four of whom Rae was participating in raising—had caused her enough trouble to qualify her for family
membership. They weren’t collectively called the Little Savages for nothing.
Back to the files.
Angie Atkins, in her late teens, a hooker who’d been found slashed to death three years ago in an alley off Sixth Street downtown—San
Francisco’s skid row. No family, no history. She’d never been fingerprinted—didn’t hold a driver’s license—but Rae had a lead
on another hooker who had been Angie’s best friend. So far her informant had only given her a first name—Callie—which she
could’ve made up in order to get the money for her next fix.
Victims’ Advocates was a nonprofit group funded by various foundations and state and federal grants. Their focus was on cold
cases involving violence to women. Although they employed two investigators, they were currently on overload, and McCone Investigations
had agreed to take the case pro bono.
Why, Rae thought now, had she been the one Adah Joslyn approached with the assignment? And why had she agreed? She didn’t
draw a salary from the agency, didn’t need to work if she didn’t want to. But although she and Ricky had so much money that
neither of them would have to lift a finger for the rest of their lives, idleness wasn’t a component of their natures. So
he managed his recording company, scouted for new talent, issued an occasional CD, and performed charity concerts. She wrote
and investigated, because both pursuits were in her blood.
Now Rae tried to think of scenarios that would link the cold case with the burglar who had rifled their offices and then shot
Shar. It was a stretch. She’d asked Patrick Neilan, the operative who coordinated their investigations, to look into those
that Shar had been working three years ago. He’d turned up nothing to link with this one.
