The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) (9 page)

I had a friend who had once worked at the museum, so I knew about the steep driveway that would take me to the pier more quickly than the established route. As I walked, the ground was slick beneath my feet, my supposedly water-repellent parka soaked clear through. Once I was on the pier, it was hard to keep my footing. Clutching the side rail, I went as fast as I could to the first pole where the light was burned out, squatted, and studied the curb. It was in poor repair, with wide cracks in several places; one stone block was out of kilter.

I pushed the block aside and found a manila envelope. Looked around to make sure I wasn’t being observed, then took the envelope to one of the functional light poles, shielding it from the rain before reading. It contained a small note card of heavy stock; I wasn’t sure how much time I had, so I didn’t bother to read the message, just photographed it with my cell phone. Then I replaced the card in the envelope and the envelope under the stone and went farther down the pier to where another one of the lights had burned out. Watched and waited.

As I did, I checked out the photo on my cell: “North, south, east, west: you know where the hiding’s best,” the bold lettering said. It was signed “The Night Searchers.”

The message meant absolutely nothing to me. A Night Searcher insider’s clue, it seemed.

After about five minutes a figure in a dark-colored parka—male, from his size and gait—came skidding down the slope tourists use and made for the pier. No one I knew, fortunately. He reached the first nonfunctional light pole, hunkered down, and began moving the stones. No—hurling them this way and that, the destructive bastard.

He apparently found the envelope, because he hurried off the pier and climbed back up the slope to the parking area at the end of Van Ness.

The rain was letting up again as I ran for where Grizeldy had parked the ancient car half a block away on Polk Street. As I started it up, I reflected that I was, in effect, stealing it. No, I corrected myself, moving it to a safer location at the owner’s request—or the request she’d have made if she’d been conscious.

God, my powers of rationalization are strong!

Just as I drove to the main parking lot for the Municipal Pier, a dark-colored sedan—Audi? Volvo?—gunned past me. Its driver was male, possibly the Night Searcher in the dark-colored parka. I pulled a U-turn and went after him.

The other car skidded around the corner of Polk, made an erratic left turn on Bay Street, and began weaving in and out of traffic, heading, I thought, for the Embarcadero. But just before we came to the intersection with Columbus, the car shot around a stopped Muni bus, and as I tried to follow, the bus laboriously pulled away from the curb. By the time I cleared the intersection, stopping twice for pedestrians walking against the light, I’d lost the sedan.

Even in this inclement weather, the sidewalks were crowded and the gaudy lights from the North Beach clubs flashed through an incoming fog. Music thrummed loudly from various sources. A bicyclist—dark clothing, no helmet, no reflectors—nearly clipped me. Finally I pulled the Honda into an illegal space at the curb so I could think without also having to concentrate on driving. The sedan could have gone right, into the financial district, or straight toward the piers. Caught the freeway and headed east over the Bay Bridge or south toward the Peninsula. Or doubled back toward Marin and points north. Or…

The hell with it.

Grizeldy’s heap made a horrible grinding sound as I eased it away from the curb. Then it shook violently, belched a hideous, oily cloud of smoke, and gave what sounded like a death rattle.

People ran—both away from and toward me. Horns began honking as traffic backed up behind me. Their drivers pulled by me when they could, a number of them shouting curses out their windows.

“Are you all right, miss?” An elderly pedestrian in formal clothing rapped on my window.

“Yes.” I took his arm as he helped me from the car and sheltered me with his umbrella. “But this…this…
thing
…!” I kicked viciously at its tire.

A woman with the same type of umbrella, who might have been his wife, patted my arm and said, “There, there, dear.”

A techie type—one of the three-piece-suiters whom I dislike on sight—remarked, “Serves you right for driving a piece of shit like that.”

The older couple looked shocked. “Young man, mind your language,” the woman said.

More horns were honking as the stopped traffic built up. “Move that damn car!” a man shouted.

“Me and my boyfriend’ll help you push it to the curb,” a younger woman in a parka and jeans said.

“Okay. Thanks a lot.”

Along with two other volunteers we got the Honda out of harm’s way. In the morning I’d arrange to have it towed to the garage I patronized and have it fixed at my own expense; I felt guilty that I’d probably done something to make it break down and, besides, I sensed it was one of the few things Grizeldy owned. Both the older couple and the young woman and her boyfriend offered me a ride home, but I declined, saying I could manage on my own.

My phone trilled and I moved into an unoccupied doorway to answer it. Adah.

“We’re at the hospital. Had some trouble getting Jill admitted, since we had no insurance info.”

“Naturally. Assurance of payment above all else. What’s her condition?”

“They won’t tell me. I’m not a relative.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Give me the charge nurse.”

When the man came on the line, I said, “This is Sharon Kennedy. The woman my friends brought in is my sister, Jill Kennedy. I’m staying with her at her home on Twenty-Third Avenue. Can you tell me her condition, please?”

“I’m sorry, but if you’ll come in and present your identification—”

Fuck that!
“Is Amanda Lui on duty tonight?” She was the nurse who had aided me through the early days of locked-in syndrome.

“Why, yes. She’s right here.”

“Let me talk to her.”

Lui came on the line, and I said, “It’s Sharon McCone.”

“Shar! How are you?”

“I’m fine, but a friend of mine isn’t. She was brought in there a little while ago by two of my employees.”

“Ah. The unidentified woman who had the severe asthma attack.”

“Yes. Her name’s Jill Kennedy. What’s her condition?”

“Critical. She’s in and out of consciousness.”

“Making any sense?”

“Some. You want your associates to keep notes on what she says?”

“If Nurse Ratched will permit it.”

Lui’s voice hardened. “She’ll permit it—or else.”

“Great. May I speak with Adah? That’s the female half of my team.”

Adah came on the line. “What’s happening with you?”

“Too much to go into; my cell’s losing power. Will you come pick me up?” I gave her my location. “And take me to the hospital so I can see the patient?”

“I’ll be there asap.”

1:25 a.m.

J
ill Kennedy was in an oxygen tent, with tubes snaking around her and IVs piercing her pale skin. I wouldn’t have recognized her as the vibrant woman lining up her Night Searchers only hours before.

Amanda Lui came up behind me. A petite woman with her black hair tucked into a net, she looked frail, but I knew from experience how much strength was stored in her small body. “Oxygen deprivation’s caused some brain damage—how much, it’s hard to tell. And her heart’s very weak.”

“You’re saying she’s not going to pull through.”

“Probably not. She’s still tossing around and mumbling from time to time. If you wait, maybe she’ll tell you what she wants to communicate.”

As if on cue, Kennedy moved her head. “Prize,” she whispered.

Lui gave me a little shove. “It’s okay to talk to her.”

“Jill…Grizeldy. What prize?” I asked.

“Got to…get to…it.”

“What prize?”

“Big one. Mine. Used to…be mine. Till I donated it.”

“When?”

“Got to get it…”

Lui said, “She’s losing consciousness again. I don’t think that she’s going to be able to talk any more.”

“I’d better get out of here. I’m making things worse.”

“I’ll call her doctor but, yes, you’d better go. If she says anything else, I’ll let you know.”

2:20 a.m.

Hy had arrived home while I was at the hospital, and we were having a nightcap—or maybe I should call it a morning-cap—in front of the fireplace in our bedroom when Mick finally called.

“Those Night Searchers,” he said, “they are one strange crew.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ve got their aliases—including Jay Givens’s and Van Hoffman’s—down and enough other information to run checks on their real identities. The one I was paired with is a guy calls himself Darezarro. He joined us later. Big, way overweight. From some of the tats and prison jargon he tossed around I think he might be an ex-con.”

“What did you and your ex-con do?”

“Followed clues all over the city. The Tenderloin, Richmond district, Duboce Triangle, Sunset Reservoir. But then Darezarro was drinking vodka and decided to call it quits.”

I explained to Mick what had happened with Jill Kennedy.

“Poor woman,” he said. “To tell the truth, she didn’t look so good.”

“Probably something that’s been coming on for a long time.” I didn’t want to talk about it any more tonight. “Okay, thanks for the report,” I said. “Sleep in today.”

“Till when—six o’clock?”

“Six thirty. You’re young—four hours should do it.”

“You’re a tyrant.”

“And you’re an esne.”

“A
what
?”

“Look it up in the dictionary.”

Esne
, of course, meant slave. That should broaden Mick’s vocabulary significantly.

7:06 a.m.

The alarm went off. Alex jumped off my feet and Jessie jumped onto my head. Another morning had begun, and I was due at the office at eight. Beside me, Hy moaned sleepily.

“Sorry,” I said, “have to get up now.”

He moaned again and looked at where his watch lay on the bedside table. “And I have to leave for Miami in three hours.”

“Miami? You didn’t tell me—”

“My mind wasn’t on Miami last night.” He reached for me, but I eluded him and went to turn on the shower. When I came back, he was propped on his pillows, arms crossed behind his head, frowning.

“What?” I asked.

“I suppose, as you often say, we’re leading the lives we’ve chosen. Being free, doing what we love to do.”

“I suppose.”

“Then tell me why I feel those lives have chosen us.”

“And you tell me why I feel those lives are
leading
us.”

11:19 a.m.

I looked at my watch and realized that I’d missed my ten thirty meeting with Camilla Givens. Damn. That wasn’t like me at all.

I called her number and, surprisingly, she was gracious. “Why don’t you come right away? I’ve got a luncheon appointment at one o’clock, but we’ll still have plenty of time to talk.”

I agreed and rushed out of the office, ignoring pleas from employees who wanted something from me.

The Givens condo looked better by day than by night, with the hideous Hawaiian-print curtains drawn open and daylight filtering in through the pale beige sheers. Even the cow chair, where Camilla insisted I sit, didn’t seem quite so ugly. Still prickly, of course.

Camilla served coffee, then sat on the sofa, lighting a cigarette. “I hope you have good news, Ms. McCone,” she said.

“Interesting questions, anyway. But before I start—how are you?”

“Doing well.”

“Have you had any more of those odd experiences?”

“Not a one. I’m hoping they’ve stopped for good.”

“I hope so too.” I took the evidence bags from my briefcase and placed them on the table between us. Opened one and held up the metal piece by the sections of cloth attached. “Have you ever seen this before?”

She shook her head. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“I wish I knew.”

“It’s been burned, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. Now this bag”—I held up the one containing the small links of silver chain—“are its contents familiar to you?”

A blink. She stared at it, running her tongue over her upper lip. “It looks like part of a bracelet, the kind you have in high school that you’re supposed to put charms on. I had one, but I don’t remember what happened to it.”

“What about this?” I showed her the gold lighter.

“…I used to have one like that, but its insides got fucked up and I lost it someplace.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. If I did, I would’ve gone back and found it, wouldn’t I?”

“Have you been out on any of your nighttime walks since I last saw you?”

“God, no. I was taking those walks because I was trying to give up smoking and couldn’t sleep, but I’ve gotten so I’m afraid to go out after dark without my husband along. Which means I don’t go out much, because he’s never around. And I’m smoking more than ever.” She crushed out her half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray already filled with butts.

“Do you ask him where he goes?”

“I’ve given up on that. All I get are vague answers: ‘Meeting that ran overtime,’ ‘Client dinner,’ ‘Business trip out of town.’”

“What about his involvement with the Night Searchers?”

“Who are they?”

“He’s never mentioned them?”

“No.”

I didn’t want to get into explanations, so I asked, “I know this is an invasive question, but how would you describe the state of your marriage?”

She considered, lighting another cigarette. “Well, it’s not awful. Jay doesn’t abuse me or anything like that. When we go out, he’s very attentive. We don’t have sex often, but I understand that’s the case with most overworked couples. Not that I’m overworked, but…I don’t know…I’m tired a lot of the time.”

“Any interests in common?”

“We watch a lot of movies.” She gestured at a wall of videotapes and DVDs. “I cook. I’ve taken classes at the Culinary Institute, and he appreciates my gourmet meals.”

“Sports?”

“No, neither of us is athletic. Jay doesn’t even play golf.”

“Mutual friends?”

“Couples—ones that he does business with the husband.”

“Opera? Ballet? Concerts? Museums and art galleries?”

A headshake to each question.

“You have many women friends?”

“Not really; all my old friends are scattered. I have one friend here in the city whom I’m close to. Anita Glynn.”

The name had appeared in Mick’s files.

Camilla added, “But she’s busy with her career—civil engineering—so we don’t get to spend as much time together as we’d like. I guess I’m pretty much alone. Jay tells me I should get out, volunteer, do something useful. But I feel pretty useless.”

“That’s probably temporary.”

“I hope so. It’s scary, feeling so separated from everyone and everything.”

“Well, if you ever want to talk again—privately, like this—you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Sharon. You don’t know how much it means to me.”

1:13 p.m.

Mick arrived at my office, clutching a stack of papers and a big tote bag that smelled of barbecue. Now that the city has outlawed plastic shopping bags and requires a ten-cent fee for paper ones, most people have started carrying whatever they happen to have around the house or can locate in the thrift shops. Of course, the issue of how sanitary frequently used totes are was immediately raised—but how can you regulate the frequency with which residents wash their bags?

Frankly, this city dwells on the small stuff entirely too much for my taste. When you’ve got people without food, shelter, or medical care, maybe they need those plastic and paper bags to carry their meager possessions. Why not focus instead on supplying them with the necessities? Recently I’d been reading about numerous costly studies the city was commissioning on the homeless problem. Researchers and statisticians receiving taxpayers’ dollars that could have been used to fund more soup kitchens, mental health programs, shelters, and—that all-important factor—educational opportunities.

I motioned to the papers Mick was dumping onto my desk. “What’re those?” I asked.

“My research.” He divided them into two piles, and pushed one my way.

“And you did this research when?”

“From when I talked with you on the phone until half an hour ago. That’s why I don’t look so spiffy.”

He didn’t look even close to spiffy: unshaven, eye bags from lack of sleep, wrinkled clothing, and a bad case of rumpled hair. But, bless him, he’d stayed up working all night…

“You’re terrific, you know?” I said.

“Don’t get sentimental. Just read this stuff, and then we’ll talk.”

For an hour I read, making notes on a legal pad that was smeared with sauce from the baby back ribs I was eating. At some point during this period of deep concentration, Mick went out and returned with another round of Cokes. I swilled and gobbled and read on.

“So,” I finally said, squaring the pages in front of me, “these Night Searchers really don’t know each other. Still, I keep thinking there might be some sort of link between Van Hoffman and Jay Givens.”

“Me too. Is there any further word on Hoffman?”

“As of the time I left the house this morning, no.”

“Check with Hy, would you?”

“He’s on his flight to Miami by now. I’ll call my local contact, Gregor Deeds.” Deeds, Hy had told me, was a former CIA operative who had gotten tired of working in a political climate and turned to the private sector. Last year he’d accepted a job with RI, bought a house in the East Bay community of Albany, and moved his wife and two young children west.

Deeds was in his office and fully informed on the Hoffman case. “No, nothing new on Hoffman,” he said.

“This situation Hy’s involved in—is it heating up?”

“Think so. It’s been exacerbated by events in Central America. But don’t worry, Ms. McCone. He filled me in on all the details of what you’re handling, and we’re holding up our end of the case too. Anything you need, just call.”

“Thanks. By the way, I’m Sharon to you.”

“Gregor to you.”

After I clicked off the phone, I turned to Mick, who was staring at Mr. T. as if the plant contained some profound secret of the universe.

“You still with me?” I asked.

“Uh, sure.”

“There’s nothing further on Hoffman.”

“Damn! So all we have is this tenuous connection among him, the Night Searchers, and the Givens couple.”

“You know,” I said, “I’m beginning to think that these Night Searchers aren’t at all the benign game-players they claim to be. Let’s talk them over, starting with the aliases Givens and Hoffman use.”

“Givens’s is Zoneout. Hoffman’s is—was—Yazoosky.”

“Silly names. Why can’t they use normal ones?”

“Well, it’s a silly game, if you think about it.”

“What about Zero, the woman they claim is their founder? Your report said she was the most difficult to identify and track down.”

He nodded. “Marlene Daniels. Spotty history, even in childhood. Born in a Fort Wayne, Indiana, home for unwed mothers. Given up for adoption, but no takers.”

“Is she Caucasian?”

“Yes.”

“Odd, there’s always been a big demand for Caucasian infants. Something wrong with her?”

He made a note. “I’ll find out. Anyway, she kicked around from foster home to foster home, ran away from the last when she was sixteen. Next trace that I could find of her was in Berkeley, eight years later.”

“A student?”

“Nope. Street person. Hooked up with one Al Zeronsky. A college dropout. Zeronsky’s kind of interesting: was right on track in the PhD program in philosophy, left without any explanation. An all-A student in high school in San Bernardino, expected to go far. Now he works for a carpet installer and his old lady’s a clerk at Kinko’s. No criminal record on either. They’re married, have no kids.”

“And both have boring jobs. Good candidates for the Night Searchers.”

“Next, Grizeldy. Any word on her condition?”

I looked at my watch. “Amanda Lui, the nurse I know there, said she’d call if anything changed. Tell me about Grizeldy—I mean Jill.”

“Uneventful life. Has lived in the city since her birth. Her mother left her a little row house on Twenty-Third Avenue. Attended public schools, went to Heald College for secretarial training, has worked for the same insurance company where they placed her twenty-some years ago. Unmarried, no children.”

“Anything about her, besides having held the same job forever, that uniquely qualifies her for the group?”

Mick smiled the way he always does when he has an interesting tidbit to report. “Well, there
was
the alien abduction.”

“What?”

“Uh-huh. Welcome to
The X-Files
. Her father disappeared when she was eleven, and she claimed she’d seen him abducted by extraterrestrials. Was a big story in the media for a while. What
wasn’t
a big story is that he was found ten years later, living with his fourth wife in Oregon. Since he hadn’t bothered to divorce the other three, he went to prison for serial bigamy and died there. But Grizeldy—Jill—sticks by the abduction story.”