Looking for Yesterday (16 page)

“I caught a film clip of him on the early news: he was trying to get onto a plane in Dubai, and apparently the press had heard about the fire, because they were bombarding him with questions—in Arabic, no less.”

“Did he answer them?”

“Sort of.”

So now my linguistically talented husband was mastering Arabic.

Rae said, “Shar, we’ve got to figure out how to handle this.”

“‘We?’”

“I want you to appoint me as public relations director for the McCone Agency.”

“Public relations—why on earth…?”

“The fire’s all over the news; you’re going to be hounded by the media—and not just those from the Bay Area. You don’t need that, and I can run interference for you. I’m a good speaker, expert at evading a direct question, and a talented liar.”

“You’re a novelist.”

“My latest book has been delivered. The next isn’t due for a year and a half. And look at it this way—what are novelists but people who lie for a living?”

She had a point.

“So exactly what do I need you to do?” I asked.

“As I said, I’ll run interference. While reports on ordinary house fires don’t focus much on the residents’ professional or personal lives, the stories on yours already have.”

“Stories?”

“Various media outlets have been bombarded with messages accusing you of being allied with radical Muslims, terrorists, drug cartels…well, you know the lineup. They’ve described Hy as an ecoterrorist and insurgent.”

I sat up, shaking free of my blanket.

“
Hy? Me?
They can’t print crap like that, can they? It’s libelous!”

“So far they’ve held off. But it’s not exactly libelous because they’d be reporting on what information they’ve received, rather than what their opinion is. If the messages continue, they’re bound to use them.”

“And destroy our lives and careers. How do I stop this?”

“That’s why you need me.” She pulled a notebook from her purse. “First of all, I want to set up a press conference. Not with you or Hy there, but with me as your representative. Before they’re even publicized, I’ll brand those messages as a smear campaign. And I’ll divulge as many of the details of the case you’re currently working as you’ll allow. Then I’ll depict you as a martyr to somebody’s guilt and fear. I’ll ask for tips on whoever might’ve done this. And say that we aren’t allowing them to intimidate us. It might flush whoever’s behind this out of whatever cave they’re hiding in.”

“Jesus, overnight you’ve turned into a pit bull.”

“It’s been coming on for a long time, ever since the media did that number on Ricky and me when we hooked up. And I’m tougher than a pit bull; they can be great dogs if you train ’em right, but nobody’s
ever
been able to train me.”

No, no one ever had.

4:45 p.m.

The session with Rae had been intense. After she left I napped. She’d said she’d pick me up and take me to her house at five, but I was ready fifteen minutes early. The Curleys’ house was silent, all of them going about their daily business, so I waited in the living room, which overlooked the street, but from which I couldn’t see the ruins of my house. When Rae’s car—a sleek red Jaguar—pulled up to the curb, I grabbed both cat cages that the Curleys had loaned me and hurried out.

Alex was shrieking. Jessie didn’t make a sound. As Alex yowled all the way across town, I wondered what kind of cat was worse—a loudmouth or one you constantly had to check on to see if she was dead from shock.

Rae and Ricky’s house was in Sea Cliff, an exclusive community above the Pacific south of the Golden Gate Bridge. Many of the homes were Spanish-style, stucco with red-tiled roofs; others were understated modern, with multiple stories scaling down the cliffs to the sea. Rae and Ricky’s was one of the latter; I loved its spaciousness and its views. But today I couldn’t have cared less where I was.

A security guard motioned us through the tall iron gates across the driveway. Over his years as a country music star, my former brother-in-law had been the victim of numerous celebrity stalkings, and he’d learned to take precautions.

We went in through the kitchen door, Alex’s howls escalating. We set the cages down and looked at each other, shaking our heads. Mrs. Wellcome emerged from her quarters in a red sweat suit, her gray hair braided and hanging down her back.

“What on earth have you brought home?” she asked. “A creature from hell?”

“Actually he’s a lovely cat,” I told her. “But he hates being cooped up.”

“I certainly can understand that.” She went to the cage and opened the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Alex crept out and into her arms. “That’s all right, kitten,” Mrs. Wellcome said, stroking him, “nobody likes to be put in jail.” Alex quieted immediately.

I let Jessie out of her cage. She looked around expectantly:
Where’s my food bowl?

Mrs. Wellcome said, “I closed the door against Frisk. We’ll need to introduce them gradually.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “I’ll have to go out and get them litter boxes and food—”

“I took care of that after Ms. Kelleher called to say they were coming. They have everything they need, even toys.” Her pale eyes brightened; she was going to enjoy playing with them.

“That’s so good of you.” I suddenly felt drained.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and rest for a while?” Rae said. “I’ve got some calls to make.”

“On the case, are you?”

She winked and said, “You bet.”

I slipped between the sheets in the guest room suite, breathing in their sweet, clean scent. A long, hot shower and a toddy Rae had delivered to my door set me up for sleep.

As I drifted I thought not of the fire but of the many blessings in my life. Wonderful neighbors who had seen the flames and alerted the fire department, then cared for me. Wonderful friends like Rae and Ricky who had insisted on taking me and my cats in. Mrs. Wellcome providing for us. Family, for me, was not only blood relatives, but all the people with whom I’d bonded and grown throughout the years.

And Hy, who was at this moment rushing to be with me.…

9:32 p.m.

“Hey, McCone.”

Hy’s breath and voice tickling my ear. I opened my eyes, rolled over, and looked up at him. His chin was stubbled, his eyes reddened, his hair tangled. Even in such a state, he was the most handsome man I’d seen in my life.

He gathered me into his arms, my head pressed to his shoulder. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “Not the same, but all right.”

I held him and my tears started to flow again. Jesus God, I thought, I was turning into the Vaillancourt Fountain. One of the ugliest pieces of spouting public art in the city, if not the whole country.

“I don’t know what we’ll do,” I sobbed.

“We’ll go on. You have any idea what caused the fire?”

“Arson.”

“That an official finding?”

“No, but it’s pretty damn clear to me.”

“What makes it so clear?”

“First off, the elevator crash. Then two nights ago I was attacked by a thug hired by a disgruntled former client. The thug’s now in custody, but who was there to stop the ex-client from hiring another to torch our house? And then there’s the Warrick case: there must be any number of people who don’t want that dug up. Plus a number of other cases over the years, where my work has aided the law in putting people away.”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let the arson inspectors do their work first.”

“I should hear from the fire department today or tomorrow at the latest.”

“If it was arson, we’ll get the son of a bitch responsible and make him pay—big-time. Take it into our own hands if we have to.”

The determination in his voice stopped my tears. Hy and I could take on and had taken on a number of tough characters. We were a potentially lethal team, because we connected on so many levels.

“I’m with you,” I said, “but in the meantime where will we live?”

“Well, we’re in a pretty posh place right now.”

“We can’t stay with Rae and Ricky forever.”

“There’s the hospitality suite in the RI building, or our other safe houses around town.”

RI maintained a number of innocuous locations—apartment buildings in the Sunset and Richmond districts, single-family homes on Bernal Heights and Potrero Hill—that were manned by their top-flight security people. High-risk clients were frequently housed in them until they could permanently be placed in safe locations.

“Since my agency’s operating out of there, I’d prefer the RI building.”

“Good.” He reached for his phone and spoke to someone at his company. “They’ll be getting it in shape right away.”

“I’m glad you’re close to public transit. My car burned up too.”

“We’ll get you another. A rental, in the interim.”

“I loved that car. I loved our house.” I started to cry again.

Hy pulled me closer. “We’ll find another house. Or rebuild, only better.”

“No. We can’t replace…”

“McCone, cars and houses are just
things
. What’s irreplaceable is life.”

Yes, our lives, his and mine together. And those of our families and friends—

“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “Ma! If it’s been all over the news—”

“Rae called everybody to reassure them that we’re okay. I’m going to follow up with calls of my own. And now what I want you to do is take this pill and sleep some more.”

“I’ve had enough pills in my life to stuff a camel.”

“Bactrian or dromedary? One hump or two?”

I snorted. Then I laughed. Laughter—the source of healing.

As Hy handed me the pill I said, “I hope to hell I don’t dream about camels.”

4:44 a.m.

W
hen I woke, still in a half-drugged state, in Ricky and Rae’s guest suite, I was alone. I put on one of the robes that hung in the closet and went into the adjoining sitting room. Hy was there, before the glowing embers in the small fireplace, working on his laptop.

“You sleep okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Whatever you gave me, it sure kills dreams.”

“Yeah, I keep a supply on hand for the really bad times.”

I knew about his really bad times, and they were far worse than my own. He’d toss and turn, mumbling to himself, then thrash about and cry out unintelligibly. I’d try to wake him, but sometimes he was so firmly in the throes of his nightmares that it took force to bring him out of them. Once he’d actually hit me on the jaw hard enough to leave a bruise before I’d subdued him.

I sat down beside him, put my head on his shoulder. “What’re you working on?”

“Something you can’t see.” He shut the laptop.

“Need to know…”

“Need to know.” He cradled my head in his hand.

Thank God he wasn’t going to talk about linking our agencies again. My mind was not equipped to deal with complex issues at present.

“By the way,” he said, “parts of Rae’s press conference were on the eleven o’clock news last night. I DVRed it for you. She was pretty impressive.”

“Unlike most multitalented people, she’s impressive no matter what she does. When I think of the woman I originally hired.…”

Rae had been working as a security guard when the head of the company referred her to me as an assistant. Although she was usually disheveled, more often late than not, and cowed by her perpetual-student husband who made her type all his papers, her enthusiasm and willingness to do the most routine of tasks compelled me to hire her. Within a year she’d shed the husband, created her own room in the attic of All Souls, and moved on with her life. There’d been some setbacks: a couple of disastrous relationships, a demand from her ex-husband for alimony when she began making good money—which was speedily dispatched in court, with Hank representing her. Since then her personal and professional trajectory had been upward.

“You want to watch the DVR?” Hy asked.

“Not now. I don’t have an attention span.” I closed my eyes, snuggling in closer to him. “In addition, I don’t have any clothes. I don’t have anything. I may never leave this house again.”

“In your dreams. Rae’s going to arrange for a personal shopper from that store you and she like to come out this morning. You’re getting a whole new wardrobe.”

“At great expense.”

“The insurance will cover it.”

“But all the other stuff that’s gone—”

“A lot of it is, but not these.” He reached into his pocket. “One of the firemen spotted that ammo box riveted to the linen closet floor and thought it must have had something to do with the explosion. He removed it, found your old thirty-eight Special and your grandma’s garnet earrings.”

He held up the earrings. The red stones sparkled in the light from the embers.

“Oh, Hy, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the fireman—whose name is Freeman—and the US Navy for making indestructible ammo boxes.”

“I’ll call Freeman in the morning, but not the navy. I doubt they’d approve of the use I put that box to.”

9:10 a.m.

I’d slept another few hours. Now it was time to get moving—at least as much movement as a woman with only a bathrobe to wear can indulge in.

I phoned the office: Ted said that everybody was working on my house fire, trying to locate possible suspects in our case files. Next I called my insurance agent, who had heard about the fire and was full of sympathy—but, I sensed, already trying to wriggle out of paying off on the full amount of the policy. I then phoned Howard Freeman, the fireman who had saved my ammo box; he was pleased to hear from me but refused to take a reward. “All in a day’s work, Ms. McCone.” When I told him I wanted to contribute to one of their charities, he thanked me and recommended the Survivors’ Fund.

Then I decided I was a survivor too and ought to get out of bed.

Mrs. Wellcome brought up a tray of pancakes, bacon, and fried eggs. Fortunately she couldn’t know that shortly after I ate I threw it all up.

At ten thirty Rae’s personal shopper arrived with trunks of clothing.

By the time she left at eleven thirty, I was the possessor of a small but attractive new wardrobe: all-new underwear; a robe in a handsome black-and-orange California poppy pattern; three pairs of jeans and five sweaters; a stylish all-purpose black pantsuit; three silk blouses; shoes, boots, and slippers; a warm tan woolen jacket and a black raincoat; a Baggallini purse; and a stunning low-cut red cocktail dress that exactly matched Grandma’s garnet earrings. Other things—jewelry, scarves, miscellaneous accessories—could wait a while.

Rae then appeared, bearing such necessities of life as my brands of toothpaste and shampoo, a blow-dryer, a new brush and comb, face wipes and cotton balls, and a pint of peach ice cream, which we devoured on the spot.
That
I kept down.

While we were making pigs of ourselves, she said, “This reminds me of the time you and Hy were staying at the old RI building and that bomber blew it up. Remember: Julia had to go out and buy you almost everything.”

“That wasn’t nearly as bad. We were staying there because our house was under renovation. I still had plenty of stuff stored there.”

“True.” She scraped the last of the ice cream from her bowl. “So what do you think you and Hy will do?”

“For now we’ll be staying at the RI hospitality suite—no way anybody’s going to get at us there.”

“Ricky and I had hoped you’d stay here.”

“And we’d like to, but until this is all wrapped up, we don’t want to put you two at risk. Or the kids, when they’re here.”

Her blue eyes darkened, and I knew she was thinking of various incidents of celebrity stalkings that had put both of them in danger. Such as the time she’d pulled Ricky off a stage in Albuquerque, New Mexico, when a man with a grudge was gunning for him.

I said, “By the way, I heard your press conference went well. Hy DVRed it, but I haven’t had time to watch it yet.”

“It wasn’t bad. I darted and weaved here and there, confused the hell out of them until most of them decided it wasn’t really much of a story. Now what can I do?”

“Well, I’ll have to deal with the annoying little things: I’ll need a new driver’s license, investigator’s credentials, credit cards, and cell phone. Fortunately I keep my important papers—passport, birth certificate, insurance policies, will, and property deeds—in the safe at the office. My three-fifty-seven, too. Hy’s notified the Mendocino and Mono County sheriffs’ departments that our places there might be at risk, but their departments cover a huge area and haven’t the manpower to watch them full-time.”

“You have caretakers, don’t you?”

“Well, sure, but in Mono County he’s the ranch manager and has lots of other things to tend to. In Mendocino the guy takes care of five other houses besides ours.”

“Alarms connected with the fire and police and sheriffs’ departments?”

“Now you’re sounding like my insurance agent. Yes, we do, but you and I both know how easily such devices can be tampered with.”

We sat in silence for a moment—both, I suppose, contemplating another pint of peach ice cream.

Rae said, “At least let me take care of the cell phone and credit cards; I might even be able to get you temporary driver’s and pilot’s and investigator’s licenses.”

“Don’t you have other things to do?”

“Hell no. Like I told you, I’m not starting my next book till April. Ricky and I have no major travel plans till July. What am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the fog drift by?”

“Then I accept your offer. But I’ll owe you.”

“Yeah, big-time.” She grinned, her lightly freckled nose crinkling. “You can work some of it off by letting me come car shopping with you. Ricky always buys mine, and I know I’m a better bargainer than him. I also wouldn’t mind helping you house-shop, if you do.”

“Agreed.”

Then the phone rang. Rae answered, whispered, “Your mother.”

“Which one?”

“Saskia.”

“Okay, I’ll take it.”

“Sharon, how are you?” her low voice asked.

“As well as possible under the circumstances. How did you know where to find me?”

“Hy gave me the number, and then I spoke with your other mother.”

“How is Ma?”

“Calm. Frankly, I’m surprised. Her responses to other difficult situations have struck me as slightly hysterical.”

“She wasn’t always like that.” I remembered Katie McCone, as she’d been called then, in her straw sun hat, digging with her bare hands in the dirt we’d filled the swimming pool with to grow vegetables after a sonic boom from a fighter plane out of NAS Miramar had irreparably cracked it.

“Well, maybe she’s reverted to her former self, then. I’m glad Kay and I have become good friends over the years. Is there anything either of us can do?”

“I think the situation’s under control—for now.”

No sooner had I hung up than the phone rang again. Rae said, “You pick up this time.”

“Daughter, is that you?” The familiar voice was harsh from a lifetime of smoking. Elwood Farmer, my birth father, who lived on the Flathead reservation in Montana. As with Saskia, I’d had no idea he existed until a few years ago.

“It’s me,” I said.

“This house fire—it was bad?”

“We lost everything.”

“Saskia telephoned me, but she didn’t know how bad at the time. She gave me this number. You weren’t injured?”

“No. Even the cats got out okay.”

“Then I will pray for you.”

“Elwood—”

“As I have told you, you may call me Father.”

“Okay,
Father
, but you know I’m not religious.”

“Prayers are not hurtful things for those of us who believe to send out to those who don’t.”

The comment stung—which Elwood had intended it to do. “I’m sorry, Elwood…Father.”

He said something in his native tongue and broke the connection. But the caring and comfort in those incomprehensible words from this relative stranger who had sired me filled me with strength.

The next call was from Hy: The RI hospitality suite was set up for us to move in. He’d sent one of the guards out for groceries. Rae volunteered to take my new things and the cats over there. I agreed, hoping to hear from Mick or one of my other operatives.

No calls. Mainly I sat in a chair overlooking the ocean and brooded.

Hy had said we could rebuild. But did I want to on the same lot, providing the insurance company forked over? I wasn’t sure. I loved the neighborhood and the neighbors. I’d loved the house, but it would be impossible to replicate, and I couldn’t imagine another structure standing in its place. The alternative was to sell the lot and, land values being what they were in the city, even in the current recession, I’d probably get a decent price. But then what?

A condo in one of those high-rises that were springing up like mushrooms in the rainy season? God, no. It was bad enough I’d be working out of the RI building. A house in Sea Cliff near Rae and Ricky? Hy and I could afford one, but the incessant fog would drive both of us crazy. Pacific Heights? Maybe: the weather was usually good there. Nob Hill? Tel Hill? North Beach? Too congested. Potrero Hill? Bernal Heights? Maybe: they were also good-weather areas.

Trouble was, I couldn’t get enthusiastic over any place.

Give it time, McCone. You’re still grieving over the loss of your home.

If I hadn’t been in the middle of this case, I’d’ve left and flown up to Touchstone or to the ranch in the high desert. Or driven either scenic route—

But I didn’t have a car. Rae was taking care of a rental, as well as replacements for my driver’s and investigator’s and pilot’s licenses, but I had no idea how long it would take. In the meantime, I didn’t have anything—

Stop this pity party, McCone! You have photocopies of everything important in the office safe. Get off your ass and do something.

I got off my ass—and the phone rang again.

It was Rob Warrick; his voice sounded strange. Early this morning I’d asked Ted to call every current client, and all other persons connected with my cases, and give them this number.

He said he was so sorry to hear about the fire, then came to the point of his call.

“I just finished clearing everything out of Caro’s storage unit, and I came across some papers and letters to her that might interest you. They were in an envelope taped to the back of that cabinet. Some of them look to be originals of the Xeroxes she tried to bring you the night she was attacked.”

“And the letters?”

“Also originals, from an old friend of hers from high school named Valerie. They’re all dated in August, but the year isn’t specified, and there’re no envelopes with a postmark or a return address.”

“Do you know this Valerie?”

“I never met her, but Caro talked about her a lot. I was under the impression that they’d fallen out of touch, though.”

“What’s Valerie’s last name?”

“Benton? No—Benbow. That’s it.”

“And these letters say…?”

“They’re kind of puzzling. I’d like to show them to you in person.”

“Okay,” I said, and gave him the address. “Have your ID ready for the security guard.”

2:23 p.m.

When I opened the door to Rob Warrick, he seemed intimidated by the premises. “Who lives here?” he asked.

“Relatives.”

“Nice place, although that can’t possibly make up for losing your home. What caused the fire?”

“The fire department called a few minutes ago. They’re pretty sure it was arson. There was a charred gasoline can under the deck.”

For a moment he didn’t speak. Then he asked, “Because of Caro’s case?”

“You have any reason to believe that?”

“No, although it
is
a coincidence.”

“And you distrust coincidences.”

“Yeah.”

“So do I. By the way, how’s Patty doing?”

“Mulching and composting with a vengeance—even in the rain.”