to have access to all sorts of interesting databases, either through illegal access or backdoor entries that can’t be traced. I don’t judge.
“The car is registered to a Vivienne Duchamp. She lives in Tiburon.” Felix raised an eyebrow. “That’s in Marin County, other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Rich people territory.”
Rich people? “Rich people commit crimes.”
“Yes. Or maybe her car was stolen. Or the car was registered in her name and she’s a victim of identity theft. Or she affords her super-expensive house by being a getaway driver for Russian thugs. I really like option three.”
I took another long swig of beer. “So now we clean up the bar. I don’t want to leave it a mess overnight.”
“We don’t go to the Duchamp place tonight?”
“I already got someone killed trespassing tonight,” I said.
“Not your fault. The man in black would have killed Rostov’s brother just for walking in.”
“Yet he didn’t kill me. Let’s clean the bar. Work will clear my mind.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Felix stood. “No sleep for the wicked.”
“Could you sleep anyway?” I’d forgotten, stupidly, that he was sick. “Wait. You need your rest.”
“I don’t do sick,” Felix said. “Are you afraid they’ll come back here?”
“Not right now. Maybe they’ll come back in a day or so. He might wait to see if I give him Diana, like he hopes.”
Felix looked unsettled. I didn’t blame him. “But I think they don’t want any more trouble. They want Diana, and they’ll only come here if they think she’s here or I know where she is.”
“You told them you’d protect her from now on.”
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“It’s me,” Mila said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I decided not to tell her about the encounter at Rostov’s. Not yet. “Are my son and Leonie safe?”
“Yes. They’re both asleep. I told Leonie to call you in the morning. We’ll keep them in Los Angeles until this is settled. I want to know all details.”
“I’m up against a very bad guy,” I said. “And let me handle it, and I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Sam…”
“Mila, this is my problem now. Just keep my family safe.” I hung up.
13
Friday, November 5, very early morning
F ELIX AND I SWEPT THE FLOOR , mopped up the spilled vodka and juice and pinot grigio and pale ale and gathered broken barware. With the dual shocks and horrors of the night, cleaning felt like therapy, a bit of calm that let my mind ponder my new set of problems. The work didn’t clear my mind, but it kept me from thinking constantly about two men looking into my eyes as they died tonight. Death is always a lot to process.
There were coats left behind, two purses, a BlackBerry phone, a well-thumbed guidebook to San Francisco. Welcome, tourist. Did you leave your heart here? Gunshots do add that special ambience. Most of the witnesses had gotten their stuff back after they’d given their statements, but these had decided not to come back or would come back tomorrow. Felix got a cardboard box that had once held bottles of Napa Valley pinot noir, and we put all the abandoned belongings into it.
I swept up the broken bottles and glasses by a spilled bin and table near the back hallway. I stepped on something as I swept up the glass. An ornate silver lipstick case, fancy enough I thought it might be valuable or antique. I tossed the lipstick into the box with the other stuff. I wrote SHOOTING LOST & FOUND on it with a Sharpie pen. Felix put the box under the bar while I finished sweeping up broken glass.
We got everything cleaned. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, crept up on us. I just wanted to collapse into bed.
“Go home, get some sleep,” I said.
“I’ll be back early,” Felix said. “Sleep seems like a waste of time when you’re sick.”
And I wondered how bad his cancer really was. If just a blot on his lung, couldn’t he just tell
“The car is registered to a Vivienne Duchamp. She lives in Tiburon.” Felix raised an eyebrow. “That’s in Marin County, other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Rich people territory.”
Rich people? “Rich people commit crimes.”
“Yes. Or maybe her car was stolen. Or the car was registered in her name and she’s a victim of identity theft. Or she affords her super-expensive house by being a getaway driver for Russian thugs. I really like option three.”
I took another long swig of beer. “So now we clean up the bar. I don’t want to leave it a mess overnight.”
“We don’t go to the Duchamp place tonight?”
“I already got someone killed trespassing tonight,” I said.
“Not your fault. The man in black would have killed Rostov’s brother just for walking in.”
“Yet he didn’t kill me. Let’s clean the bar. Work will clear my mind.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Felix stood. “No sleep for the wicked.”
“Could you sleep anyway?” I’d forgotten, stupidly, that he was sick. “Wait. You need your rest.”
“I don’t do sick,” Felix said. “Are you afraid they’ll come back here?”
“Not right now. Maybe they’ll come back in a day or so. He might wait to see if I give him Diana, like he hopes.”
Felix looked unsettled. I didn’t blame him. “But I think they don’t want any more trouble. They want Diana, and they’ll only come here if they think she’s here or I know where she is.”
“You told them you’d protect her from now on.”
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“It’s me,” Mila said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I decided not to tell her about the encounter at Rostov’s. Not yet. “Are my son and Leonie safe?”
“Yes. They’re both asleep. I told Leonie to call you in the morning. We’ll keep them in Los Angeles until this is settled. I want to know all details.”
“I’m up against a very bad guy,” I said. “And let me handle it, and I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Sam…”
“Mila, this is my problem now. Just keep my family safe.” I hung up.
13
Friday, November 5, very early morning
F ELIX AND I SWEPT THE FLOOR , mopped up the spilled vodka and juice and pinot grigio and pale ale and gathered broken barware. With the dual shocks and horrors of the night, cleaning felt like therapy, a bit of calm that let my mind ponder my new set of problems. The work didn’t clear my mind, but it kept me from thinking constantly about two men looking into my eyes as they died tonight. Death is always a lot to process.
There were coats left behind, two purses, a BlackBerry phone, a well-thumbed guidebook to San Francisco. Welcome, tourist. Did you leave your heart here? Gunshots do add that special ambience. Most of the witnesses had gotten their stuff back after they’d given their statements, but these had decided not to come back or would come back tomorrow. Felix got a cardboard box that had once held bottles of Napa Valley pinot noir, and we put all the abandoned belongings into it.
I swept up the broken bottles and glasses by a spilled bin and table near the back hallway. I stepped on something as I swept up the glass. An ornate silver lipstick case, fancy enough I thought it might be valuable or antique. I tossed the lipstick into the box with the other stuff. I wrote SHOOTING LOST & FOUND on it with a Sharpie pen. Felix put the box under the bar while I finished sweeping up broken glass.
We got everything cleaned. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, crept up on us. I just wanted to collapse into bed.
“Go home, get some sleep,” I said.
“I’ll be back early,” Felix said. “Sleep seems like a waste of time when you’re sick.”
And I wondered how bad his cancer really was. If just a blot on his lung, couldn’t he just tell
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