Marcia Muller: Locked In

“So what’s your point?”

“You don’t seem to be hurting-at least not as badly as you’ve made it out to be.”

“I’ve tapped into my savings-”

“Your column’s been canceled, nobody wants you on TV, clients are running like hell from your consulting firm. And you told me a book contract’s on hold. You’re spending a lot for someone who’s living on her savings and has no prospects for future income.”

She stubbed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. “I have an image to keep up.”

“According to you, that image is ruined.”

“All right, so I’m a compulsive shopper.”

“I doubt that. You’re too savvy a businesswoman to yield to impulse.”

“We all have our faults.”

“And one of yours is lying.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Never lie to an investigator when you’re trying to pull off a scam, Ms. Gates. It’s too easy for us to check into your background, credit rating, and finances. I did, when I started feeling uncomfortable about you. Everything’s golden, except for a scam you pulled off before you left your hometown in Texas. And that’s been pretty well covered up; I had to dig hard for the information. It was a similar scam to the one you’re trying to pull off now, but on a more minor scale.”

“What the hell-?”

“Failure and triumphant recoveries generate publicity and profits. Your career has been slacking off for at least two years since other, more reliable consultants have come on the scene. My guess is that you hired our agency so you could outshine us by solving your own manufactured identity theft and putting yourself back on top.”

She was silent now, glowering. Caught out.

“Who was going to be the lucky individual to take the blame for the theft?”

More silence.

“Well?”

“You’re so smart. Who do you think?”

It came to him in a flash. Himself! Why hadn’t he realized that before? Dumb, just plain dumb. He was the perfect scapegoat: he had all her significant information, and she’d probably set up a way to prove he’d had it before she ever went to McCone Investigations. Set up a way to prove the nonexistent identity theft, too.

He didn’t have to ask her why she’d picked him. Publicity value. After all, he was Ricky Savage’s son.

Nearly choking on his anger, he stood and loomed over her. She squirmed a little but maintained eye contact.

He said, “On the night of July seventh, did you or someone you hired go to Pier 24½ looking for information I’d gathered?”

“Me? Why-Oh, God, that was the night your boss was shot!”

“Right.”

“I didn’t go there. I never hired anyone. You can’t involve me in that-oh, no.”

Her defensive reaction seemed genuine, made him think she was telling the truth. “I’ll accept that for now. But if I find out otherwise, I’ll go to the police and the press and expose you for what you are.”

“Does this mean you’re dumping me as a client?”

“What do you think, Ms. Gates?”

In the elevator on the way down, he thought, I really should’ve dangled the bitch off her balcony.

He waited in the booth of the dimly lighted bar on Peach Alley, not far from the Civic Center.

He felt as if he were meeting Deep Throat, but at least this wasn’t a parking garage, so he could get a drink.

The Deep Throat analogy was valid, though: in 1973 and -74 Mark Felt, then assistant director of the FBI, had leaked details of the Watergate break-in to a Washington Post reporter and brought down the Nixon presidency. Although San Francisco wasn’t Washington, DC, if what Craig’s informant had been telling him was true, it could very well blow the lid off city government.

The bar was quiet, even now at the tail end of happy hour; politicos didn’t hang out there because there was nobody important to see them and no deals to be made. During Craig’s tenure with the Bureau in DC he’d spent a lot of time in lively look-atme establishments-sometimes on duty, sometimes to impress a date-and he hadn’t realized how much he hated them till he’d thrown it all away and moved to San Francisco to be with Adah.

Adah: poster woman for the SFPD, assigned as liaison to the same special FBI task force as he was. Goal: to apprehend a man who’d been bombing foreign consulates. Unused to playing hard-ball like the Bureau’s men, Adah had gone into an emotional meltdown, and Craig had helped her through it. Later, after she’d fully healed, he himself became broken and disillusioned by the work that had steadily eroded all his idealistic dreams, and during coast-to-coast phone conversations whose cost had rivaled the national debt, she’d supported him in his decision to leave the Bureau. Now Adah had given up her similarly disillusioning career with the SFPD, and only Shar’s need for an executive assistant had saved them from a move to Denver, where she’d been offered an administrative position at the DPD. Good thing, too: he hated snow.

Thoughts of Adah and the agency immediately turned into thoughts of McCone. It was fucking unbelievable that she was in a coma. That a random-or maybe not-so-random-encounter after hours at the pier could have reduced such a vital woman to a vegetative state… Neither he nor Adah had been sleeping much since it happened, and some nights she’d slipped out of bed and he’d heard sounds of crying coming from the bathroom. He didn’t cry, but a couple of nights he’d taken out his anger on the refrigerator, pounding its door till his fist was bruised-which, for him, amounted to the same as tears.

Craig looked up as his informant came through the door, swept the room with wary eyes. Spotted Craig and moved toward him, looking stupid in a hat and trench coat. Did he really think no one would notice him?

Harvey Davis was the former campaign manager for Amanda Teller, president of the city’s board of supervisors, and one of her most trusted aides. Independently wealthy, handsome, sophisticated-in spite of tonight’s silly disguise-he had recently been voted one of the city’s most eligible bachelors by a national magazine. He’d contacted Craig three weeks ago, claiming something was very wrong at city hall.

“What’ll you have?” Craig asked as the man sat down.

“Scotch, neat. Single malt.”

“Done.” He went to the bar and ordered. When he returned to the booth and set the drink down, he asked, “What’ve you got for me? You haven’t given me much so far.”

“She’s meeting with Janssen on Saturday.”

She: Amanda Teller. He: Paul Janssen, a state representative for this district.

“Where?”

“Down the coast. A rundown lodge near Big Sur.”

“Why Big Sur?”

“Good halfway point: Amanda’s giving a talk at UC-Santa Barbara Friday evening. Besides, the lodge is isolated and no one’s likely to recognize them there.”

“So what’s this-about sex, power, money?”

“Not sex, I don’t think; they reserved separate rooms-under false names, of course. Power and money? For sure. What else? Who knows?”

“You’re not giving me a lot to go on.”

“It’s all I have. How’s your boss doing?”

“Still in a coma.”

“Too bad. McCone’s a good woman.”

“Yeah, she is.”

Craig’s informant tossed back what was left of his drink, stood up, and slid a piece of paper across the table. “Here’s the information on Teller and Janssen’s meeting.”

“Thanks.”

“I also want to give you a key and the security code to my condo.”

“Why?”

“Evidence there. Videos. If something happens to me…”

“What, you mean-?”

“Just take the key.” He placed it on the table. “The security code’s 1773. I’ll be in touch.”