Part 15 (1/2)
”You're a shrink?” she said. ”Please tell me what's wrong with him.”
Gingrich was sitting in a beanbag chair by the bay window in the living room, wearing gym shorts and a Metallica T-s.h.i.+rt. His ponytail was greasy. His eyes, watching pro wrestling on the television, were bright.
Clare and the dogs approached him. ”Ron, sweetie, the doctor's here to see you.”
Gingrich looked up pleasantly. ”Hey, it's the shrink from the plane.” He stood. ”Man, that was weird. Did you end up sectioning the guy?” He offered his hand to Tang. ”I'm Ron.”
Tang's mouth tightened. ”We met a few minutes ago.”
A dust bunny of confusion scooted across Gingrich's face. ”Sure. You guys here to interview me about the fight on the plane?”
”No,” Jo said. ”About Jared.”
”Just give him a call. He'll be happy to talk. He's rich and all, but you don't need to go through me. He's approachable.”
Tang s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably and cut her eyes at Jo.
”Want coffee? Clare, baby, we got some of that Colombian?” Gingrich smiled and headed into the kitchen. ”We haven't eaten-you gals want to stay for breakfast?”
Clare's face was frozen. ”He ate three eggs, toast, and bacon half an hour ago. He ate three more eggs fifteen minutes ago.”
Whistling, Gingrich pulled out a skillet and turned on the stove. ”How you like 'em, ladies?”
Jo avoided Tang's scowl and walked into the kitchen. ”Ron, hold on a second.”
”No eggs for you?”
”I need to ask you about Jared.”
”Sure, but why so serious?” His eyes were red but untroubled. ”What's going on?”
”It's about the party at his house last night.”
”Last night?” He smiled, but his expression was vague. ”I don't think so.”
”Did you flip the electrical switch in the pool shed?” Jo said.
”Doctor, I think you're confused. I just got back from London.”
”Ron, Jared's dead.”
He stopped cold, holding an egg in his hand. For a moment, it looked like he'd taken a two-by-four between the eyes. Then he sagged back against the stove. He groped for balance and crushed the egg against the counter.
”No. How did it... ? Oh, Christ.” He looked at his girlfriend. ”Clare-Jared's... oh, G.o.d.”
Gingrich slid down the counter into a wretched crouch and burst into tears.
Jo saw the red slice on his forearm. It looked like it had been gouged with a dull nail.
”Ron?” she said.
He thrust his head into his hands.
Jo turned to Clare. ”He needs to get to the hospital.”
She took out her phone and called neurologist Rick Simioni.
Kanan swung the maroon Navigator into the marina. The bay was stippled with whitecaps. Alcatraz s.h.i.+mmered in the morning haze. He cruised toward the forest of sailboat masts, scanning for threats.
He was operating on a simple principle: To stay alive, a.s.sume the worst. Expect an ambush. He'd once seen a sign tacked to the door at a U.S. Marine firebase: HAVE A PLAN TO KILL EVERYBODY YOU MEET TODAY. It was pertinent advice.
He cruised along, checking for vehicles or people who seemed out of place. Two Post-it notes were stuck to the dashboard. The first read: Vehicle, Weps, Alec, THEM. The word vehicle was crossed out. He was driving it. The second note said, Somebody's Baby.
The voice of the GPS system said, ”Make a U-turn.”
He looked up. He was at the San Francisco marina, staring out the winds.h.i.+eld at the Golden Gate Bridge.
He turned around, drove back to the boats, parked, and got out. The sky was a happy, mocking blue, but the pines shuddered in a melancholy wind. He pulled up the collar of his denim s.h.i.+rt and walked toward the mooring slip.
He felt the dagger jammed in his boot. Felt a rock where his heart should be, dense and so heated that for a moment he could barely inhale.
Suck it up, he told himself. Go past the betrayal, finish the job, and get them.
The marina looked full-only a few sails were visible on the bay. The people who moored their boats here were at work in the financial district or Silicon Valley, humping sixteen-hour days to pay for their hundred-thousand-dollar toys.
Ahead he saw Somebody's Baby. Her fibergla.s.s hull gleamed in the suns.h.i.+ne. He hopped aboard, descended the stairs, and jimmied the lock on the cabin door.
Ken Meiring sat in the black van and watched the Navigator cruise past him, twice, three times-Jesus, how many times was this guy going to circle the parking lot? Finally the Navigator U-turned and drove back. Ian Kanan got out and headed for the boats.
Meiring got out and followed.
Inside Somebody's Baby, the cabin was sleek and quiet. n.o.body was aboard. Kanan went to the galley, got a set of keys, and unlocked a cabinet built into the bench seat along the cabin wall.
”d.a.m.n it.”
No weapons. No handgun, no shotgun, not even the boat's flare gun. Someone had taken them. He stared in dismay.
The boat rocked and shoes squeaked on the deck above.
Quietly, Kanan retreated to the galley. He pulled its half door partway closed and crouched behind it. The squeaking shoes came down the stairs. They sounded heavy, like rubber-soled boots. They stopped.
Kanan peered around the half door. A man stood, his back turned, in the center of the cabin. He was in his late thirties, white, built like a freezer. Fat circled his waist like sculpted shortening. His neck was inflamed with the grotesque acne that resulted from steroid abuse. His right hand held an HK automatic pistol.
Kanan's skin p.r.i.c.kled with adrenaline. A stranger with a gun. One of them?
He estimated his chances. The man looked slow. He had turned his back without first searching the galley. If he was a pro, he was not at the top of his game.