While Other People Sleep (7 page)

“You may be right.” He got off the stool and said to a young woman who was shelving books in one of the nearby stacks, “Steffi, will you mind the store for a while?”

“Sure.” She nodded and kept on shelving.

Neal led me to a nook under the stairs, where a cart with a coffeemaker and some cups stood. We helped ourselves and sank onto a worn red velvet settee.

“Okay,” Neal said, “the weekend was awful. To start, Ted claimed the beef heart was a prank on the part of an old friend, but he hesitated long enough before he came up with the explanation that I didn't believe him. Plus he went white around the lips when he read the card—more angry than frightened, I'd say.”

“Did he explain the meaning of the prank or name the friend?”

“No. Just said it was a private joke and rushed upstairs to get changed before Rick's limo arrived.”

“Any other private jokes that're off limits to you?”

“No subject used to be off limits. Now it seems most are. Anyway, you saw us during the evening. He was very edgy and withdrawn. Drank more than he usually does. After we got home, he sat up listening to jazz and drinking some more, while I went straight to bed.”

“And Saturday?”

“I suggested he go to the farmers’ market for fresh produce, but he pointed out that we'd overbought last week and had enough in the fridge to feed the entire building. So I suggested we invite some of the neighbors we're friendly with for dinner, but he nixed that. Didn't want to see people, he said. By then it was time for me to come in to work. He dropped by not long after I got here, but after he'd checked out the new arrivals section he took off and didn't turn up at home till well after I did. When I asked him how he'd spent his day, he was vague.”

“And that evening?”

“Old movies on TV.”

“Was he drinking?”

“No more than I. But I had a feeling his mind wasn't on what we were watching, even though both films were favorites of his. In fact, I could practically hear the wheels grinding inside his head.”

“You ask him what he was thinking about?”

“Yes. He said a problem at work. When I pressed him, he mumbled something about billing procedures.”

There was nothing wrong with either our billing procedures or Airman & Zahn's; Ted had refined them to near perfection. “All right—Sunday.”

“Sundays we usually go to brunch at Café Freddy's in North Beach. Pick up the paper, his mind was elsewhere. He kept staring at the other people, to the point where it made a couple of them uncomfortable. Afterward we picked up fresh pasta and sauce for dinner and went home. And then we got into a stupid argument about who was going to do the laundry.”

“D'you usually share laundry duties?”

“No, normally I do it. I've got more patience for that kind of thing. But on Sunday he insisted on doing it all himself, wouldn't even let me go downstairs to move it from the washer to the dryer. So I rattled around the library the rest of the day, feeling put out and useless.”

“And that night?”

“Dinner and a movie on TV, and all of a sudden he had to go out. Why? I asked. Favor to a friend. What friend? He named a name I'd never heard—John Evans—and took off. He didn't come home, and finally I went to sleep.”

“This John Evans—”

“Made up on the spur of the moment, I think. I checked Ted's address book—no one by that name. Then I did some detective work of my own, called every listing for a John or J. Evans in the directory, asking for Ted. None of them had heard of him.”

“Could be an unlisted number. Or outside the city.”

“I doubt that.”

“Frankly, so do I.” I thought for a moment. “Okay, I'll take your notes back to the office and go over them. What're your plans for tonight?”

“Ted claims he's working late, and I—” He paused, looking sheepish.

“Yes?”

“I'm taking my second karate lesson.”

“What!” Ted had studied karate for years, was well on his way to his black belt. I knew he'd pressured Neal to take up the discipline when they met, but Neal—a decidedly un athletic type—had declined.

“Yeah, I finally caved in.” He shook his head. “There's no way to refuse when you're given ten lessons as a birthday present.”

The things we do to each other under the guise of generosity! Once again I was grateful for Hy, who—among other things—has never once pressured me to climb upon the back of a horse while at his ranch, much as he enjoys riding. He knows I hate horses with a passion that is surpassed only by my passion for him.

“Well, that was a nice piece of manipulation,” I said to Neal. “How're you liking the lessons?”

“I've only had one, so I'm keeping an open mind. I
am
discovering entire muscle groups I never suspected I possessed.”

At four-thirty that afternoon I stuck my head through the door of Ted's office and asked, “How're those letters coming?”

“Why? Are you in a hurry to get out of here?” He didn't take his eyes off the computer screen.

“No. Just asking.”

“You'll get them when they're done, all right?”

Taken aback by his harsh tone, I withdrew. No, this was not the Ted I'd known and loved for more than a decade.

I kept going along the catwalk to the office that Hank and Anne-Marie shared. It was similar to mine: spacious, with tan walls rising to high, narrow windows that by day admitted a stripe of soft northern light; Berber carpeting, exposed girders, and an arched window overlooking the Embarcadero, as mine did the bay. But there the resemblance stopped. While my furnishings were spare and contemporary, theirs were traditional: an old-fashioned partners desk, oak file cabinets, leather chairs and a sofa in a separate seating area; Hank's old cigar-store Indian stood by the door, coats and scarves draped over his head, and a World War II recruiting poster of Uncle Sam—“I want
you
for the U.S. Army”—hung opposite.

When I knocked on the door frame, Hank looked up from a brief he was studying and waved me inside.

“Where's your other half?” I asked.

“Conference with Habiba's teacher.”

“Problems?” Habiba Hamid was nine years old and had been through a lot of tragedy in her young life.

“Nope. They tell us the kid's a genius, or close to, and are recommending she skip a grade.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“We don't think so. She's had to grow up too fast. She needs a chance to be a kid and to be with other kids her own age.”

Habiba's mother had been an American poet, her father the son of a diplomat from an oil-rich emirate. Her entire family was now dead by violence, except for distant relatives in the homeland, and in spite of the love and support of all of us who knew her, Habiba often felt alone and insecure.

“So you're telling the school no?”

“We're telling them that Habiba'll decide if and when she needs more intellectual stimulation. If she wants private lessons, accelerated courses, fine. But it's got to be when she's ready.”

I studied my oldest male friend. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses his eyes brimmed with affection for his foster child. “You love her as you would your own daughter, don't you?”

“Yes, I do. And so does Anne-Marie—which is really something for a woman who used to refer to kids as ‘obnoxious, noisy little creatures.’ Of course, she doesn't have to live with Habiba…”

Soon after their marriage, he and Anne-Marie had found that they were totally unsuited to living together. His untidiness drove her wild; her meticulous housekeeping drove him wild. Their solution was to occupy separate flats in the two-unit Noe Valley building they owned—with liberal visitation rights, of course. Habiba lived at Hank's, the more child-friendly of the two residences.

I said, “No, she doesn't have to live with Habiba, but she's the one who's conferring with the teacher.”

“And the one who taught her to ride a bike, and who helps her pick out her clothes, and who comforts her when she's feeling low. And who will soon become her legal mother.”

“You're
adopting
her!”

He nodded, grinning broadly. “Yep. The family in Azad's decided to cut her loose. Tainted blood from the mother's side, you know.”

“Tainted by her
mother!
Her father was a sociopath, and that whole family is certifiable!”

“And I thank God they don't want to get their hands on Habiba. I've been meaning to ask you, would it be all right if I gave your name to the social worker handling the adoption, as a character reference?”

“Sure. It'll be a pleasure to help expedite the adoption. More than a pleasure. This is a wonderful turn of events!”

“Thanks.” Hank got up and motioned me toward the seating area. “So what's on your mind?”

“Does something have to be, for me to stop in to chat?”

“No, but you seem on edge.” He put his hands on my shoulders, massaged them with his thumbs. “Big knots there. What's wrong?”

I dropped into one of the leather armchairs, and he took the other, his eyes concerned. “Is it a legal problem?”

“Maybe. Let me lay it out for you.”

When I finished telling him about my impostor, he asked, “You have any idea who she is or why she's doing these things?”

“Not the foggiest, and I've given it a lot of thought. She could be anybody, from a disgruntled former client to someone with a personal motive. Or she could've picked me at random. That's the scariest possibility of all.”

He took off his glasses and polished their lenses, thinking. “Greg filed a report on the break-in?”

“He said he would. And I faxed him a log of the other incidents, so they'll be on record when I identify her.”

“When
you
identify her?”

“Who else is going to do it? The SFPD has more important things to deal with than some woman who's annoying me.”

Hank nodded, grimacing.

“What I want to ask you,” I went on, “is if I have any legal recourse against her once I identify her, even if I can't prove she's the person who broke into my house.” I didn't feel uncomfortable about asking Hank for advice; I paid Altman&Zahn a yearly retainer, just as they paid one to me—our way of keeping our personal and professional relationships hassle free.

He considered for a moment, slouched in his chair, his chin resting on steepled fingers. “Sorry, Shar, I don't see any recourse unless you can prove she did the break-in. Other than that, she's committed no crime.”

That was what I was afraid he'd say—and exactly what I didn't want to hear. “You mean somebody can go around pretending to be me at parties, sleeping with men under the guise she's me, snooping around the airport for Hy's plane—and there's no legal way to stop her?”

“Well, we could file a civil suit and attempt to show that she's damaged you professionally, caused you to lose clients, but we'd need a whole lot more documentation than the situation with the art dealer. Other than that, it's difficult to prove damage when you're a public figure.”

“A what?”

“Shar, your name and picture have been in the paper how many times? To say nothing of that
People
article. And then there were those TV and radio talk-show appearances—”

“I did those to build business!”

“Doesn't matter why. Those things have made you a public figure.”

“But—”

“Listen, I could—with the help of a plastic surgeon and a wardrobe adviser—stroll across the street to Palomino tonight and claim to be Harrison Ford. I could drink everybody under the table, puke on the floor, insult all the customers—and Harrison wouldn't be able to do a damned thing about it.”

“But he's a
movie star,
and I'm just—”

“The definition of public figure varies widely, depending on who's doing the defining.”

“Jesus!”

“Okay, calm down. That's the downside. On the upside: The woman's seriously angry about something. She's escalating her activity. She's bound to make a mistake soon. If she does any of the following to you, we'll go after her: if she uses your name in an attempt to defraud someone, if she undertakes an investigation while pretending to be you, if she commits credit-card fraud, if… well, you get my drift.”

I got his drift, all right. I raised my hands to my face, which was already burning with anger, and rubbed my eyes. “God, I hadn't even
thought
of those possibilities! Oh, Hank … !”

“I know, it's a hideous situation. People can harass you and stalk you and try to assume your identity, and you have no real recourse. If you know who they are, you may be able to get a judge to issue a restraining order, but what's a restraining order to a head case?”

Hank paused, his eyes going bleak and sad. “I don't know what to tell you, Shar, except that Anne-Marie and I will be behind you all the way when you need us. It's an ugly, scary world these days, and the good guys all too often don't have enough legal tools on their side to protect them.”

“So how do
you
deal with that situation?”

“Me, personally? I watch my back and the backs of the people I care about. I try to be the kind of attorney who protects those in the right, rather than one who turns the scumbags loose on the world. I'll tell you, there was a time when I was in danger of slipping over to the other side; the money was too good, the power too seductive. But Anne-Marie and Habiba have changed all that. My wife's an idealist who'd cut my nuts off if I sold out, and Habiba … Well, I want to do my bit to make this world a place where she can grow up unafraid.”

Monday night

T
ed had told Neal he planned to work late, but at five-thirty I found him putting his desktop in order. “Going home?” I asked.

“Yeah. I'm beat.”

He did look tired, his dark eyes shadowed and the lines around his mouth deeply pronounced. This was the Ted I'd caught glimpses of at the height of the AIDS epidemic when many of his friends were dying; but back then he'd taken pains to hide his distress, putting on a cheerful front while providing comfort for those in need of it. Now his trouble, whatever it was, showed plainly.

On the off chance he might confide in me, I said, “You haven't looked too well lately. Is something wrong?”

He hesitated, face conflicted, then shrugged. “Nothing I can't handle.”