Rogue Wave (20 page)

Tomorrow I’ll be in the city. Should I bring it?
He smiled, remembering Jessica Leporek’s face, those slate-gray eyes of hers opening wide, her pale—salmon mixed with ocher?—lips stretched sensuously in that big smile, her burning-ember red hair. Her hand ice cold on his arm. “It’s vital,” that’s what she’d said. He could see those tentative lines that were just starting to take hold between her brows—they’d be deep grooves someday. Intriguing. He could paint her. She’d like that. But she’d be more interesting in ten years when those lines …

He turned and caught sight of his painting.

Maureen Brant hunched forward, clutching the wheel as the old Dodge Colt bounced from rut to ridge on the dirt road. She pictured Garrett in his studio, staring at his easel. Trying the doorknob. Frustrated, slamming his shoulder into the door.
Just as long as he doesn’t think to get his pistol and shoot out the lock, and wander off.
She shivered as she fought the fear that rode with her every time she got in the car. He’ll be alone for over an hour.
I hope he’ll be alone! But it’s too soon for danger. And it’s not even dark.

The small tan car hit a rock. She grabbed the wheel tighter and stepped on the gas, as if speeding over the problem would smooth it out. A wave of fear filled her.
Why didn’t I get a better car when I had the chance? What’ll happen when they can’t patch this together anymore?
She could picture Garrett’s surprise at discovering a new car, his delight, his questions. But how many times could she play out that scene without shouting, “We’ve had it for a month, a year, a decade! Goddamn it!” She could see his eyes narrowing in disbelief, then his whole body sucked into that fear he could neither understand nor rid himself of. That deep gnawing fear, always ready to ambush him.

How long could she protect him from the world? From herself?

K
IERNAN WAS IN THE
driver’s seat before she noticed the envelope on the windshield. Another parking ticket. “Damn Olsen and his rotten relations with the cops!” she muttered.

Before she could reach for it, the phone rang.

“Kiernan? It’s Maureen. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get you before I had to leave. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here at ten like I said, but—”

“Okay. That’s not the issue we need to talk about. This is: Did Skip Olsen hire Carlos Delaney to investig—”

Maureen gasped.

“Olsen hired him for you, right? You knew about Delaney.”

Maureen didn’t answer.

“And you lied to me.”

“I couldn’t—”

“I can’t trust you. I—”

“No!” she shouted. “No, please listen, Kiernan. I felt real bad about that. It was just that I was so afraid you wouldn’t take the case. Don’t be mad at Skip, I made him promise not to let you know. I was just so afraid. You know how much this means to me.”

“Maureen, you let me stumble around blind. Delaney knew the truth, and he’s dead.”

“But Robin killed him. She’s not going to get to you.”

“Why not? Are you saying now that she’s dead?”

“No. But, look, she could be in Oregon, or in Alaska, or even Europe, or … anywhere.”

“Or in San Francisco, right? Right, Maureen?”

“Kiernan, please,” Maureen sobbed. “It was a rotten thing to do. If it’d been anyone but you, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. That’s not a great excuse, is it? But, look, I’m really sorry. You saw how nervous I was. You probably figured it was from the life I lead. Well, that’s pretty much true. But it was also because I felt so awful not telling you about Delaney. And Delaney, oh God, how do you think I feel about him? I never met him, but still. …”

“The crabs ate away the skin on his head,” Kiernan said, unable to control herself. “They ate down to the bone, Maureen. They ate his ears and his nose and his fingertips.”

“Oh my God!” She sounded as if she was choking.

Kiernan flushed, disgusted with herself. Her bedside manner had dropped to a new low. “Maureen, what did Garrett tell you about Dwyer Cummings?”

“You mean you’re going to stay on the case?” Her voice broke. “Thanks.”

“Okay. About Cummings?”

“I asked Garrett five or six times, but Garrett didn’t remember him. Is there anything else you want me to ask him? Kiernan, who have you talked to? What did you find out?”

Quick recovery, Kiernan thought, but maybe all those years of social work had taught Maureen to read the person she was talking to. If so, she’d know getting right to the point was her best move here. “I just saw Jessica Leporek. She said that Garrett was going to bring her something useful to the campaign.”

“Campaign?”

“Proposition Thirty-Seven, to block any onshore support for oil platforms. She’s in charge of the northern California operation. But she also runs an art gallery. Garrett was going to bring her something. What was it?”

“Was that the gallery opening Garrett went to before his accident?”

“Right. They met there and he promised to bring her something important.”

There was a pause before Maureen said, “This is the first I’ve heard about it. Are you sure?”

“Jessica sounded sure. Ask Garrett.”

“I will. But don’t expect much. If he remembered, and if he was willing to tell me, he’d have done it by now. We’ve lived in the day before his accident for three years.

“Ask anyway.”

“I’ll ask him all afternoon long. What else did you find out?”

“Wait. Let’s use a little scientific method here. In a pathology investigation you run various tests, check the results and on that basis decide whether your premise was correct, and what other tests are called for. In our investigation, these interviews are those tests. Let’s look at the results before we go on. Your premise was that Garrett went to San Francisco to arrange a showing with some woman, probably Jessica. The test result, the interview, indicates otherwise. According to Jessica, she never offered him a show. But Garrett was going to bring her his gift two days later. The next day he was hit.”

The phone crackled and it was a moment before Maureen said, “Maybe he did give her something. Maybe she’s lying about not getting it.”

“Whatever Garrett was going to bring her, she wanted it a lot. If she’d seen him, she’d either have it, or know she wasn’t going to get it. No, Maureen, she didn’t see him. She figures whatever he had is still around. Maybe Garrett mentioned it unintentionally. Think!”

“Kiernan, I’ve had three years to analyze every word he’s uttered.” She lowered her voice. “Garrett works on the same, never-changing input. If I didn’t vary the small things—make us a picnic lunch, bring in flowers from the market—he would follow the same routine, make the same observations every single day. If there’s any variation in activity, in comment, it sticks out like a flashing light. And he hasn’t said a word to suggest he was planning anything except seeing a woman about a gallery show.”

Kiernan swallowed and said, “Sometimes in an investigation you run the same tests, but because you have newfound knowledge, outside knowledge, you can judge the results differently. Think about it.”

“Of course,” Maureen said. “What are you going to do now?”

“Maureen!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to press you. I just wanted to know. I’m getting so nervous. I think about Delaney, and my skin turns to ice. I hear things … outside the house.”

“What kind of things?”

“Branches crackling. I must have called Garrett ten times on the intercom in his studio today.” She laughed nervously. “If he weren’t in the shape he is, he’d think I was crazy. Probably there’s no one in the bushes. Probably I’m just thinking of Delaney. But I’ll be okay. I’ve got a rifle. I know how to use it. And there’s probably nothing outside anyway. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Wait. Don’t dismiss your worries. Skip Olsen’s had his car window broken. Delaney’s dead.”

“Nobody knows where we are. Only you, and you’re not going to tell.”

“I could get someone to come down to protect you.”

“No! Look, it would make me even more nervous to think anyone else knew where we are. Besides, Garrett can handle a gun, too. If someone attacked us he’d shoot. We’ll be okay, really.”

“Okay,” Kiernan said slowly. “But let me know if something else happens. And if Garrett remembers anything about what he promised Jessica, call me at twenty after four this afternoon. If he doesn’t, I’ll call the store tomorrow morning. At ten.”

“Okay, and thanks. And, Kiernan—”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.” She hung up.

Kiernan put down the phone, reached through the vent window to grab the parking ticket. She flung the envelope in the back and started the engine. The first order of business was lunch. She could turn south into the Mission district for Mexican, Peruvian, or Guatemalan food. But unless the city had changed, she could end up devoting the rest of the afternoon to finding a parking space. Or risk another ticket.

Instead she headed back to the motel, walked down to a Vietnamese restaurant on Chestnut Street and picked up an order of chicken satay. All the way back, the spicy smell of the satay mocked her decision to wait and eat in the room. Wasting time in restaurants during a case drove her crazy. In the motel she could be talking to Tchernak. He’d have the background reports now. He’d …

She walked into the room, pulled the bedside table next to the middle of the bed, deposited the lamp on the floor and the paper bag on the table.

Leaving the bag unopened, she dialed Olsen. She wouldn’t unhook the lids until he answered.

“Olsen Investigations—” She hung up on the recording. Dammit, where was the man? He had plenty of faults, but she sure hadn’t expected a disappearing act. She leaned back against the headboard and glanced down at the faded leaf motif of the bedspread. He’d threatened to go to the Wharf. Had he ignored her and machoed on down there? Fool! He’d not only get himself conked on his most expendable part, but he could screw up the whole case. Damn him to hell! She didn’t have time to run this investigation and track him down too.

She unpacked the bag, and opened the containers of satay and rice. Both were full. No room to mix. And this was not the type of motel room that included extras, like dishes. She dialed her own office. Delayed Gratification, round two.

Her message came on. Tchernak did not interrupt it. It was lunch hour, Kiernan reminded herself. Tchernak and Ezra were probably lunching on the beach. If she was ever going to eat, she’d have to change the rules of the game. The tape buzzed. “Tchernak, it’s me. Call me as soon as you get in.”

I
T HAD STILL BEEN
sunny when she left the motel, but a few miles away the dunes along the Great Highway, San Francisco’s westernmost road, were cold and soggy. Kiernan looked at the ocean. She could see the breakers spitting foam, but the fog had turned the water pale gray, the sand a dirty gray-brown, and curtained off the horizon. It seemed as if the world out here was all made of one drab, dank fabric.

She drove slowly along the highway, passing through the metal gate that would be closed if sand covered all four lanes. Garrett Brant had come to the city on the day of his accident for a reason still unknown. Not to arrange a gallery show, as he’d told Maureen. Why had he lied? What had he come for? What he
had
done was get himself hit as he walked along this road.

Raised ten feet above the city streets behind it like a miniature version of China’s Great Wall, the Great Highway protects the low-lying streets of the Sunset District from the blowing sand dunes to the west. It parallels the beach for two miles, a no-access, no-parking stretch. The alphabetical streets of the Sunset District—Judah, Kirkham … Ulloa, Vincente, Wawona—dead-end at the embankment leading to the raised highway. Garrett Brant had been hit on the wind-streaked dunes across from Noriega Street on a chillingly gray day just like this.

The highway department had put in pampas grass and ice plant in this year’s hopeful attempt to hold back the encroaching sand. Had these shivering little bushes been here three years ago, when Garrett Brant lay abandoned? As Kiernan neared Noriega, the grasses gave way to sand and the hard-packed path angled close to the road. It was an easy place from which a car could veer off, strike a pedestrian, and race away.

She stopped and gazed along the dirt-and-sand pathway through the dunes down to the ocean. Four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon; the beach was empty. It was a Tuesday when Garrett was hit. He was lucky a jogger had run up the path from the beach, scared off his assailant, noticed the red convertible. But which was better? To be dead or to be stuck forever in one uneasy moment?

Kiernan shook her head. Had he elected to live in his moment, Garrett Brant might have been willing to forego the truth of normal life. He might, like one of the sadhus Kiernan had seen in Nepal, have found bliss in his awareness of the trees, of the sharpness of the rocky path under his callused feet, of the still air grazing his naked shoulders. He might have taken pleasure in experiencing his moments of life as no westerner seems able to do. But that had been a choice Garrett had not made. His moments were no different from those of Maureen or Kiernan or Robin Matucci, moments given meaning only as preludes to significant ones to come. Except that Garrett’s were preludes to nothing.

Kiernan shifted into first and stepped on the gas. The convertible the jogger had spotted that day … Odd, a car with its top down on the Great Highway. But not so odd if Robin had come from another part of the city. If she had left Fisherman’s Wharf—according to Olsen, it had been sunny there—in a hurry and hadn’t wanted to waste time dealing with the top.

The dunes on the ocean side of the highway disappeared, leaving a cement walkway and flat beach. Then a new rise of sharp dunes, twenty feet above the road, spotted with cypress and bright orange ice plant, blocked the view of the sea. Kiernan felt a shiver deep in her chest. It was secluded in those dunes that she and Rosten had lain, huddled in his sleeping bag, making love as long as they could stay awake. Passion and exhaustion, sleep and lust had woven together seamlessly. More than once she had woken up with him inside her, pressed her naked body harder against his as if to remove the space of thought, and drifted back to sleep.