The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (8 page)

“Have you found out anything?” she asked eagerly.

“Quite a bit.”

“But why do you want to talk only with me?”

“Just as a time-saving measure. You and Jay have said he’s very busy; so am I.”

“I see.” She agreed to ten thirty, and I noted it on my iPhone.

Next I went upstairs and changed into black jeans, walking shoes, a sweat shirt, and a pulldown knit hat. The only things about me that could be seen in the dark were my nose and chin, and I added a black scarf that could be wrapped around them.

When I came back down, Mick said, “You look like a cat burglar.”

I surveyed his dark attire. The stocking cap he wore was ridiculous and sported a white ball at its tip. “Remove that white thing,” I told him.

“It’s Alison’s skating hat, she’ll kill me.”

“I’ll buy her a new one.”

“Okay.” He ripped it off and tossed it into the garbage can under the kitchen sink.

“Looking good now,” I said.

We set out—me in my Mercedes and Mick on his Harley—for the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park, where the hunt was due to begin.

7:26 p.m.

The Panhandle is a long, wide, grassy median strip between the main arteries from the bridge to Golden Gate Park. Cars sped by on the bordering Fell and Oak Streets. It had begun to sprinkle, and the pavement was wet; tires whooshed on it, and horns blared at the scenes of near collisions. It always amazes me how we San Franciscans can live with so much rain, yet drive in it so badly. Maybe it’s the result of our fixating on our expectations: we believe that we are entitled to sunny days and starlit nights, even if we don’t get a lot of either.

Mick had wedged the Harley into an illegal space and stuck a press pass he’d gotten from a friend at the
Chron
on its windshield. He swung off the bike and stood beside it, waiting for me. I ran down the sidewalk from a spot I’d located across the street. Together we sheltered under the trees. After a moment I whispered, “The Panhandle always seems small when you’re driving by, trying to beat the lights, but it looks huge tonight.”

“Darkness makes everything seem huge.” In Mick’s voice I caught the slight edginess that told me he was not quite afraid, but close to it.

We looked around and got our bearings. Wind rattled the branches of the cypress trees above us, and rainwater dripped onto our heads. I shivered as cold droplets dribbled between my scarf and my collar.

“Shit,” Mick said, “why would anybody want to play a game in this weather?”

“Maybe it’s been canceled.”

“No, I’ve got a feeling about the Searchers—the worse the scenario, the better.”

As if their bearers had been cued, three flashlight beams bobbed on the other side of the greenbelt. We watched as they shone on a big juniper bush and someone scrabbled around inside it.

Mick grunted. “Not the place they told me to look.”

“Where, then?”

“Over by that housing for the sprinkler controls.”

“You go there and see what you can find; I’ll keep an eye on these.”

“I don’t think we should split up.”

“Nonsense. Just go. If our paths don’t cross, I’ll meet up with you later at the office.”

The juniper branches were scratchy. I felt through them, found a plastic bag toward the bottom; within it, paper crackled.

I removed the paper, turned my flash on it, and read—in bold-faced font—
Follow the five flashlights
.

I looked around and saw the lights, bobbing a hundred yards or so away by Fell Street, the westbound artery that leads beside the Panhandle and through Golden Gate Park. I hurried toward them. The people—dressed in dark clothing—paused at the intersection with Masonic, then ran through the traffic like carefree children. In the light from streetlamps and cars, I could see well enough to tell that Givens wasn’t among them.

I followed and pulled back onto the sidewalk in time to avoid being squashed under a Safeway delivery truck. The driver viewed me with horrified eyes through his side window; I tried to smile and waved him on.

Two blocks ahead, the people with the flashlights were turning right on Grove Street, a block I knew because a friend had once lived there. The dwellings were mostly multiple-unit, none of them over two or three stories. In the glow from the streetlights they looked white, although I remembered them as being painted in various pastels. The olive trees in brick planters on the sidewalk, which had been saplings a few years ago, had grown tall.

Mick was already there, waiting under a tree; I moved through the shadows and joined him. We watched the group of five mount the steps of a house in the middle of the block. One of them, a woman, went up to the bank of three mailboxes, extracted a manila envelope, and read its contents with the aid of a pencil flash. I moved closer.

7:59 p.m.

After a couple of minutes, the woman cleared her throat and said in a husky voice, “Kilkarzo, you’re paired with Malanzky. Here’s your first clue. Alinzsky, you go with Dizarsky. And hey, newbies, you been following us too long; come with me.”

It took me a moment to realize that she was speaking toward where Mick and I were sheltering a few yards away. We came out from the shadows and hurried down to where they were now grouped on the sidewalk.

The woman who seemed to be their leader looked us up and down. “I’m Grizeldy. We gotta give you your Night Searchers names.” Her brow knotted in thought. “Vaskazy? I’ve always been partial to the letter
V
.”

“The letter
Z
too, I suppose,” I said.

“You got it.” She was short, round-faced, with wisps of gray hair straying from under a knitted cap similar to mine. I couldn’t tell much about the others, as the streetlight over our heads was out. “What d’you think?” she asked the group.

“Vaskazy,” they answered in unison.

“And him.” She motioned at Mick. “I’ve got that one picked out: Loverzboy.”

“Why?” Mick asked.

“Because you’re hot.”

Even in the shadows, I could see him blush.

Grizeldy said, “What’re each of you gonna contribute to the prize pool? First game, players give up something.”

“The prize…oh, right,” Mick said. “How about my Saint Christopher’s medal?” He slipped it over his head, and I stared at it in amazement. Then I recognized it for what it was: an object from our property room.

“You?” Grizeldy said to me.

I’d forgotten the prize pool. I searched through the pocket of my jeans and came up with a coin from Finland that I kept there for good luck. “It’s rare,” I said as I handed it to Grizeldy.

She barely looked at it. “Okay, let’s get on with it. Loverzboy, you go with Kilkarzo and Malanzky.” She poked my arm and said, “This way.” I followed her toward a rusted old orange Honda that I hoped wouldn’t crap out on our journey to wherever. Before we got in, I got a good look at the license plate number and committed it to memory.

“First clue,” Grizeldy said, “Lafayette Park.”

Pacific Heights. Expensive neighborhood.

“And what do we do there?” I asked.

She gave a harsh laugh. “What d’you think? Scare small children? Kidnap rich people’s lap dogs? We pick up another clue, dummy. Hopefully before any of those other clowns do.”

Otherwise Grizeldy didn’t have much to say, even though I tried to engage her in conversation. Instead she chain-smoked Marlboros until I needed to put my window down.

“Health nut, eh?” she said.

“Not really. I’ve just never smoked.”

“
Never?
”

“Well, weed in college. But all it did was make me paranoid and stupid.”

“So what
do
you do for kicks?”

“Drink and screw, and now I play Night Search.”

That provoked a hearty laugh. “Hey, you’re okay.”

“You been doing this long?”

“Couple of years, more or less.”

“And how long’s the game been going on?”

“At least a decade. That’s how long our founder’s been in town.”

“Who’s that?”

“You don’t need to know.”

I decided it was time to back off on the questioning.

8:33 p.m.

Lafayette Park: a green and flowered respite with incredible views nestled in a neighborhood of elegant old apartment buildings and single-family homes. Tennis courts, picnic areas, acres of room for children and dogs to run. But eerie at night. I don’t know why that should be; so far as I know, nothing truly horrible has ever happened there.

To me, encounters with hostile homeless people or deranged individuals aren’t as intimidating as to the average citizen. But the park still felt dangerous to me at night.

Grizeldy double-parked the car on the Washington Street side of the park and ordered me to stay there. The last I saw of her bulky shape, she was climbing the grassy slope.

She returned some ten minutes later, breathing hard and coughing. “Why do they always hide the stuff in places that’re hard to get to?” she asked.

“Who are ‘they’?”

She shook her head, started the Honda—failing on the first try—and said, “Next stop, Alamo Square.”

9:25 p.m.

Alamo Square: a pleasant park northeast of the Panhandle in a quiet residential area known as the Western Addition. Its greatest claim to fame is its view of the city’s “painted ladies”—an impressive, beautifully maintained row of Victorian homes that are probably the most photographed of all the features of the city, except for the Golden Gate Bridge and Coit Tower. When we arrived there, Grizeldy again told me to wait. I took the time to go through her glove box.

Her name, or at least the name of the owner of the car, was Jill Kennedy. She lived on Twenty-Third Avenue in the Sunset district. I found no insurance cards, but what decent company would write a policy on a piece of junk like this?

I reached around behind the driver’s side seat, found an assortment of crumpled papers. Parking tickets. I slipped a couple of them into the deep pocket of my jacket.

Just in time: Grizeldy returned, her breath rasping now. It took her a moment to get it under control. “Fuck!” she exclaimed. “Now we’re supposed to go all the way to Aquatic Park.”

Not far from my house in the Marina.

“Do you want me to drive?” I asked.

“Why should you?”

“You sound…like you need to relax.”

She took an inhaler from her pocket, breathed deeply. “It’s just these goddamn allergies.”

To me, her distress seemed more serious than mere allergies.

“Well, I don’t mind driving.”

“Maybe later.” She took another hit off the inhaler. “You know, could be I’m just getting too damn old for this stuff.”

“Then why do it?”

“Why do
you
want to do it?”

“The highs, I guess.” I thought back to what Alison’s psychologist friend had told me. “I’ve got a pretty shitty job—file this, call so-and-so—you know what I mean. But when I can go out like this, in the dark, where I know that fat, middle-aged boss of mine wouldn’t dare venture…well, I guess it makes me feel powerful. So I can get through another nothing day.”

“My reasons exactly. Here I am, a plain, little, ordinary woman. Living a plain, little, ordinary life. No family still living. No friends, except for the Night Searchers, and I don’t even know their real names. So I go out and I take risks and win a few prizes. But one of these nights, I may win the prize I really want.”

“And that is?”

“You’ll find out—when I win it. Okay, now I’m all right for driving to Aquatic Park.”

10:21 p.m.

All the way across town I kept my eyes on her and her driving. She frequently shook her head as if to clear it and she switched lanes erratically and missed turns no matter how many times I reminded her. On Polk Street near North Point she smashed into the curb while trying to park in a large space. I grabbed the wheel, let the car slide into a more or less legal position, and removed and pocketed the keys.

Grizeldy—who I assumed was Jill Kennedy, the car’s owner—was hugging the steering wheel and crying. “I can’t do this any more tonight. You follow the clues, please. You win me my prize. I’ll pay you, I promise.” She thrust the envelope she’d retrieved into my hand.

“You need medical attention—”

“No, just need a little rest. Go down there, get the next clue. I think we’re still ahead of them. Please! That prize is important to me.”

I didn’t want to leave her. She didn’t look well, seemed to be having trouble breathing. Bad allergy attack, or something more serious?

Should I call 911? I knew Grizeldy wouldn’t like that, but sometimes you have to act for another person’s well-being in spite of their preferences. But San Francisco’s medical emergency response time is horrendously long—as the budget for it is horrendously low.

And then I thought of Adah and Craig, who lived only a few blocks away. Both knew CPR better than I. Either could be there in minutes, if they were home. I called and luckily, they were. And willing to come immediately when I explained the situation.

While I waited, I kept a consoling hand on Grizeldy’s shoulder; she was only semiconscious now. After a moment I turned on my flashlight and opened the envelope she had thrust at me; inside was a computer-generated note:
The clue is under a loose curbstone near the first burned-out light on the Municipal Pier. Proceed!

Adah and Craig arrived quickly, he with a little bag he kept in his car for emergencies like this. Craig checked Grizeldy’s vital signs, shook his head. “Doesn’t look good. She needs oxygen, a defibrillator, God knows what else. And by the time emergency services get here, she’ll probably be gone.”

“We’ll take her ourselves,” Adah said. “And you”—she pointed at me—“go do what you have to.”

10:47 p.m.

Terrific. The rain was lashing down again, the few lights on the pier were dimmed to faint oval globes, and I was supposed to go out there and root around before any of those other maniacs arrived.

The Maritime Museum building sits at the foot of Polk Street, facing a man-made lagoon that used to be called Black Point Cove. Originally a
bathhouse
built in 1936 by the
WPA
, the Moderne-style structure is now dedicated to the city’s seafaring past. To the west the long, horseshoe-shaped Municipal Pier extends into the Bay’s chill waters. Tonight, with the rain sprinkling and the wind gusting, the only people in the area were a few hardy souls who had braved the storm to visit the shops and restaurants of Ghirardelli Square, but even they were leaving now. The business lights of the former chocolate factory, which sits catercorner to the museum, were winking out, and the remainder were dimmed by the rain.