Held the cigarette out to Q. “Want one?”

  “Not now, girl. Tell me.”

  “Damn. I miss you. I miss goin’ out to the clubs with you. You knew everybody back then. And the way you taught me about music. God, I loved that. Way you treated me.”

  Q closed his eyes, sighed, rubbed the days-old growth of beard on his cheek.

  “Yeah, Felicia. I miss those times, too.”

  He fixed her with a steady gaze, and she held it for a few seconds, then her mouth drooped and she looked away. “You know how it is. I just do a little here and there…keep the blues away.”

  “I know, girl. The cops been talkin’ to you any more about Speed?”

  She took a long drag of the cigarette, then put it out on a blackened tray on the little bedside table. “Damn things,” she said.

  She came back to the bed, sat down, and said, “No I just had to go down to the police station the night he…passed. I told you all this. On the phone.”

  “Right, you did. But they ain’t bothered you no more since?”

  Her feet started up again, the floor catching fire.

  “Felicia?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “And you just told ‘em that you found him like that. Dead. You were just going to breakfast with him. You called 911 right away. You didn’t know anything about the drugs he used or who gave them to him. That right?”

  Felicia hunched over the bed, her fingers fiddling with the sheets, watching her dancing feet for a few beats before she mumbled, “Guess that’s about it.”

  “And they didn’t give you a hard time? Accuse you of anything?”

  “One of them did. A little. Doing his job. But they was satisfied. They saw I was innocent.”

  “And were you?”

  She looked up, the wrinkle lines around her eyes lengthening, her cheekbones sharp against the brittle bones beneath them. “What you sayin’ to me right now, Q?”

  “Nuthin’. Just askin’.”

  “Did you ever help Speed get drugs, Felicia?” I asked.

  She frowned at me.

  “He’s okay. Don’t worry. No matter what you tell him, just like me, we ain’t gonna repeat it. He’s the one helping find out who tried to kill Sarah Swan.”

  The expression on her face changed, softened, her lips curled into a half-smile. “Jesus, that girl can sing. I ain’t seen her in ‘most a year. When I heard what happened to her, I was so sorry feeling. Who could try to silence one of God’s own angels?”

  “That’s right. That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to find out who tried to kill Sarah. And maybe Speed too. We need to know everything you do. The truth. I know you didn’t harm Speed. Whatever you can tell us stays here. No one else will ever know nuthin’ unless you tell ‘im.”

  She jumped to her feet, went over to a plastic coffee maker next to a little smoke-colored stand holding Folger’s packets, creamer and sugar, and red swizzle sticks. She flipped the switch on the back of the machine, tore the brown crinkly Folger’s paper open, flipped the lid and carefully lodged the packet of grounds inside, tapping it closed. She stood examining her work for a moment, before returning to the bed.

  The machine buzzed, then commenced to snap, crackle, and pop.

  Felicia’s wrapped her arms around her shoulders, leaned way over her lap, as if she were trying to ward off blows.

  “You saw him earlier, didn’t you? Either the night before or early that morning. You brought him some stuff. You were just doing his bidding, right? He had a hold on you. I know that.” Q spoke to her in a soft, empathic tone of voice.

  She stayed rolled up tight, rocking back and forth on the bed, her voice strangled in her throat. “I didn’t do what he said. Yeah, I took the money, but I didn’t do it…”

  “Who?” I said.

  “I don’t know his name…” she stopped, kept rocking silently.

  With a final crack, the coffee machine wheezed and settled. I rose and poured the brew, half-filling two Styrofoam cups. “Cream, sugar?” I said.

  Nobody answered, so I left one black for Q and put a little cream and sugar in the other. I went to the bed and tapped Felicia’s shoulder. She lifted her head; there were tears in her eyes. She took the coffee, stayed hunched, but cradled the cup between her hands, steam rising up toward her nose. I offered the other cup to Q, who shook his head.

  I took a sip, winced, sat down on the floor next to Q.

  Felicia sipped on the coffee silently.

  “What did he look like?” I asked.

  She brushed her nose with the back of her hand, spilling a little coffee. “Damn!” She rubbed the wet, hot spots with her fingers, muttering to me at the same time, “Big. Crew cut white boy. Tan. No. Red like a beet. Not from around here.”

  Waldo, I thought, without having to think.

  “What did he want?”

  She downed the rest of the coffee in a gulp, dropped the Styrofoam to the floor. “Said he was a friend of an old friend of Speed’s. Said he had something for him, something that Speed deserved. Said they thought I was the one who could benefit most from delivering it to him. Said they knew how bad Speed treated me. How he hit me. How he…oh, Q, how I’d ever end up in this place?”

  She rolled up in a ball again, her body shaking to silent tears. Q touched her knee. “You just done the best you knew how. Made mistakes like all of us. Now it’s time to make some changes. Make amends.”

  She eventually came out of it, wiped her eyes. Q went to the bureau and got her a box of Kleenex. She blew her nose, kept the tissue inside her clasped hand.

  “What did this man give you for Speed?” I asked.

  “A packet. He said it was cocaine like nuthin’ else. Specially meant for Speed. Then he gave me an envelope, said it was for my trouble. He told me what to tell the police, said that they wouldn’t bother me much. Speed was an addict. Nobody would care. But I’d be free. And I could get myself back on my feet with the five thousand dollars in that envelope.”

  “Lately, Speed been getting worse. He started loaning you out to his friends, Felicia, didn’t he? When he was strung out bad. Desperate,” Q asked. It was a question, but I thought he already knew the answer.

  She kept her head down, but after a few moments, nodded affirmatively.

  “He was a sick man. Nobody could blame you.” Q’s voice was grave, understanding, like a priest absolving a penitent of her sins.

  Suddenly, she raised her head, her eyes shining. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I took the money. After he left, I flushed the packet down the toilet. I’m ashamed of a lot of the things I’ve done. But my momma didn’t raise no murderer. Speed wasn’t a bad man. He was weak. But he done good things for me, too. Not just…those things he did when he was desperate…”

  Some people were always looking for a silver lining. For the best in a person, no matter how awful their actions. These were the folk who defended guilty death row inmates and child molesters. I admired them, thought they were Christians after Jesus’s own heart. But sometimes this open-hearted way of seeing and acting was self-defeating and ended in tragedy like what we had right here.

  “Did you tell Speed about this man?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the night before he died. He went wild. He was already high. I wanted to wait, but lately he was almost never sober. I was afraid. I’d kept the money. I didn’t even know how to find the man who gave it to me. Speed told me it belonged to him. He told me to bring it to him. That’s what I was doing the next morning when I found him. I didn’t know what to think. I know he was pacing around like crazy before I left. He was trying to calm himself. Shouting about how they were coming to kill him. He’d snorted some coke, but he got his needle out…I told him not to. But he said he just needed to get calm so he could think. I shouldna’ told him…”

  She paused, shook her head sadly, then started up, as if she was doing an impromptu eulogy, recounting Speed’s admirable qualities—his tenderness, how funny he could be, his love for music and women.

  We just sat there listening. I didn’t want to add to her grief and pain.

  So I didn’t tell her that tender, funny Speed had been the one who shot God’s own angel, Sarah Swan.

  Thirty-Six

  I was back where it all began.

  Outside the Black Canary, looking up at the sign advertising tonight’s performer, Levon Smart, the bass guitarist for a semi-famous rock and blues band.

  Levon was trying to strike out on his own. There’d been two cancelled tours by the semi-famous band in the past year and rumors of drug abuse, artistic differences, petty power squabbles.

  Same old same old.

  Levon’s first solo album had hit iTunes last week. Tonight’s show was the first in a long national tour of small clubs.

  “Good luck,” I said to the big black letters of his name. The sign was neon and would look a whole lot better tonight when it was dark.

  It was mid-afternoon, the morning fog had lifted, and it was a beautiful but cold fall day. Winter, such as it is in San Francisco, was in the air.

  I moved into the alleyway beside the Black Canary where I had chased Sarah’s shooter and made my way back to the Children’s Network.

  I’d confirmed that Scott Tripp was there but neglected to inform him that I was on my way.

  The front door wasn’t locked. I gathered that they only secured the offices at night.

  I stepped inside, and a young woman with a bright smile welcomed me. She told me her name was Tiffany, and I told her I was Max and here to see Scott, that he was expecting me, and that I would find my own way to his offices, affecting overfamiliarity to disarm her.

  As I stepped around her, her brow furled up into a look of puzzled consternation, but I guessed, young as she was, that she still trusted in the general beneficence of mankind.

  I reached the back of the offices, located Scott’s likely domain, glanced in the doorway, confirming he was hard at work hunched over this desk examining spreadsheets. I stepped in, reached back, and shut the door behind me, noticing Tiffany, who had followed me tentatively, and was examining me with a searching but hopeful look.

  I gave her a big smile and closed the door.

  By the time I turned, Scott had looked up from his desk. I didn’t take his unfriendly frown personally.

  I grabbed a teak chair with a plush white cushion and spun it so the back faced me. I sat down and placed my arms on top of the backrest.

  Scott dispensed with the polite formalities. “What do you want?”

  “Hello, Scott. I want to talk to you about your and the Children’s Network’s relationship with Mrs. Wambaugh and Wambaugh Enterprises.”

  “You’ll have to make an appointment. I’m busy right now. Although, I have no intention of talking to you about our relationship with any of our benefactors. Now,” he stretched, yawned, flexed his hands backward, then put them down firmly on the armrests of his wheelchair, “if you’ll please let yourself out the same way you came, I’ll—”

  “When you started this up, I bet you never imagined you’d be protecting child abusers.”

  He just looked at me.

  “You let yourself be used. For money. For attention from society’s upper crust.”

  His eyes narrowed, his face tightened, his fingers reddened from the intensity of his grip on the wheelchair.

  “That was the beginning of it. You couldn’t resist. Not when Mrs. Wambaugh came to you and pleaded to keep what you knew about Christopher private and away from the media. Not when she offered you all that money and all that access to her friends.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You didn’t know then that it would eventually lead to you being an accomplice in an attempted murder. But that’s how it works sometimes, one misstep, one betrayal of our principles, puts us on a—”

  “I had nothing to do with the shooting,” he sputtered. “I didn’t—”

  “You’re going to resign your position here today. And you’re going to get Liz to resign too, because, for whatever reason, she protected Speed Weed, and you.” I figured Liz and Scott were romantically entangled.

  “You’re out of your mind,” he growled, his face scrunched up, his eyes shooting daggers of contempt.

  “Sarah Swan is ready to go public with what she saw in Christopher’s file. And Rachel Wambaugh will back her up with information about the payoff from her family to you. I don’t know if you pocketed any of the money personally, but either way, it’s dirty money, earned by betraying your mission to protect abused children. The papers, and the local television reporters, will have a field day with you. Your funding and support in the community will vanish.”

  The contempt dropped from his face, replaced by a sudden startled look, like a streetwalker caught in a patrol car’s spotlight.

  “I don’t know how much you knew about the attempt on Sarah’s life. But I know that Speed Weed escaped through your offices. And that you covered for him. If I tell the police about that, and I should, you’ll be an accomplice to murder, a felony conviction just around the corner. I’m letting you off the hook easy. But my offer is only good for one day. Hand in your and Liz’s resignations to the board by the end of the day today, or it’ll be the ruin of the Network.”

  I knew that this was his life’s work. That he lived for the Network. That losing it would be like losing a child to him.

  And I didn’t really want Sarah and Rachel to have to go suffer going through the media hoopla surrounding any kind of scandal of this sort. As far as Scott’s involvement with Sarah’s shooting, I had no firm evidence. But I knew both he and Liz had been complicit.

  Without saying another word, I left him there, hanging his head, his hands limp on the armrests, his eyes downcast.

  He was a beaten man, but I didn’t feel even a tinge of sympathy for him. Not after all I’d heard and seen from Rachel and Sarah. Not after poor Christopher’s death.

  Thirty-Seven

  Mrs. Wambaugh stepped onto my boat for the second, and last, time in the waning dusk of a biting cold September day.

  There was no driver this time; she’d piloted the Cadillac limousine parked out on the dock herself.

  She wasn’t happy to be here on my boat, my floating home.

  I’d insisted though. Told her that I had important news. Told her that I had news about Rachel and that if she didn’t want a big surprise on the evening news, she’d best get on over to my humble floating home ASAP.

  A long silence followed my urging and then she said simply, “Six p.m.,” and hung up.

  I had the side door to the cabin open, and she ducked and entered, her eyes quickly taking in the surroundings, confirming things hadn’t changed for the better.

  I sat at a hardwood swiveling captain’s chair. She glanced at me, frowned, looked around. I pointed to the small fraying leather couch opposite me, on the starboard side of the boat.

  I neglected to offer her a greeting or any refreshments.

  I didn’t want to waste her time or mine. I already knew the answers to most of the questions I was going to ask her and figured she wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway. I was just hoping she might clear up a couple of the less consequential, but still important, details that were driving me crazy.

  “All right. You have me here. Tell me what was so important. I hope you’re not just wasting my time again.”

  She wore an ankle-length snow-leopard-colored fur coat, opened at the neck with tight, tailored black pants and classic high-heeled shoes. A small leather handbag was looped around her left wrist. Her hair was pulled back and away from her forehead, secured with a golden metal clasp. Her makeup was thick, as usual, applied painstakingly. Her facial features were compressed, shrunken, her lips pulled back and drawn as was her pallor.

  I picked up a manila folder on my lap, opened it, glanced through my notes.

  “I despise you. You are responsible for my son’s death. I’m still talking to my lawyers and, despite their misgivings, I intend to press charges for breaking and entering and whatever else is remotely possible.”

  I raised my eyes from the folder and looked directly into hers. “I just don’t get the roses, Mrs. W. That, to me, is almost worse than hiring somebody to kill Sarah.”

  Her eyes continued to hold mine, but her cheeks flinched. Her hands began to tremble. Her fingers clutched at the purse. She stood up.

  “Sit down,” I barked.

  She obeyed.

  “I’m not expecting any response from you. But you’re going to listen to me. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes flared, her face reddened, and she snarled, “I don’t have to listen to a God damn—”

  “I know everything. Everything. Rachel told me. I believe you’ll want to hear me out and find out what’s going to happen next.”

  She exhaled loudly, but the fight went out of her a little. She rubbed her hands together, seeking warmth, solace. She wasn’t going to get it from me.

  “So just listen. That’s all you have to do.”

  She glanced back at me, then away again. A proud woman bending, reluctantly, but still bridling at the humiliation of having to sit and listen to a man of my class and bearing.

  “You hired Speed Weed to kill Sarah Swan.” I lifted a small torn piece of note paper that I’d taken from Speed’s house. “He mentions you here: Mrs. W. He also notes several dates. One the Thursday before Sarah was shot. It says G. Pick Up. Another two days after when he met you at the bridge at Lake Merced in Daly City. It says G. Drop off. I assume that means gun. Then a dollar sign. I assume these were written before the meetings, not after. A couple of other dates are mentioned, weeks before the shooting. Meetings scheduled with Mrs. W. To work out the plan, the details. What he’d get paid. I imagine you got off cheap, considering his anger, his pent-up hated toward Sarah.”

  “You’re despicable.”

  “We’ve already established that. Believe me, I’ve come to my peace about it. I’m sure you took Christopher’s gun because Speed didn’t want to buy one. I’m sure you weren’t trying to implicate him in the crime. You wanted to get rid of the gun after he gave it back to you, but you didn’t. You meant to. I don’t know where you hid it, but Christopher found it. That was more than thoughtless, Mrs. Wambaugh. Perhaps you didn’t think there was a chance he’d try to commit suicide again. But I’d say you were criminally negligent. ‘Course that wasn’t exactly the first time you were that toward both of your children.”

 

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