neither of us can tell the other exactly what’s going on.”
That remark tipped the scales slightly in his favor.
“What would we call the company?” I asked.
“I haven’t gotten that far in my thinking.”
“Would we need to combine offices?”
“Well, McCone Investigations would become the primary US division, and RI would deal with international clients, so that probably wouldn’t matter. But close proximity would be advantageous.”
I thought of the little blue building on Sly Lane, where I’d only just gotten settled down. RI clients weren’t likely to appreciate such casual quarters; we’d have to move again.
Hy saw the doubt in my eyes and squeezed my hand. “We don’t have to decide anything right away. Just keep in mind that we’d get to spend more time together. Work together.”
“That I’d like.”
“Then give it some serious thought. No hurry, no pressure.”
My phone rang before I could reply: the floor nurse at SF General’s trauma unit. Caro Warrick had just died from a cerebral hemorrhage.
“Have you contacted her family?” I asked the nurse.
“Her brother and sister have been contacted. The parents aren’t available.”
I thanked her and broke the connection. Said to Hy, “It’s a case for Homicide now. And I’ve lost a client. She lied to me, she was a seriously disturbed individual, but in an odd way I liked her.”
“How so?”
“Well, she’d been through a lot, but until recently she’d stood up for her convictions on gun control. I sensed something had spooked her, made her back off. She seemed afraid of something or somebody. Damn! I should’ve questioned her more closely.”
“Case closed, McCone. Let’s talk about us now.”
“Let’s.”
Right—case closed. Or so I thought at the time.
9:16 a.m.
A pparently I was still employed, however. My cell vibrated as I was pulling into my assigned parking space in the underground garage at the blue building. A male voice asked that I hold for Greta Goldstein.
Who? Oh, yes, Caro’s coauthor on the true-crime book.
Goldstein came on the line, her voice thick with a native New Yorker’s accent. “Ms. McCone,” she said, “I spoke with the late Caro Warrick recently. She told me you’d agreed to conduct an investigation for her.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Have you had any success so far?”
“I’ve learned a few things that didn’t come up at Ms. Warrick’s trial, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss them. Even though my client is dead, I’m still bound by the rules of confidentiality.”
“Well, my publisher, Wyatt House, and I want you to go on with the investigation. This book is going to be written, especially now that someone seems to have gone to the ultimate to prevent it.”
“You think the book is the reason she was attacked?”
“I suspect so.”
“Do you have authorization to hire me?”
“Yes—a firm contract giving us the rights to reassign any investigative work in the event of her incapacity or death.”
So I was right: Caro had been afraid of something happening to her.
“What about her family or heirs?”
“I’ve already spoken with her brother and sister: they have no objections. I understand her parents may not like it, but they’re not party to the contract. As for her heirs, I doubt the gun control organizations she left the bulk of her money to will object to having the truth revealed.”
“Her death is now an official murder investigation. I’d have to clear my work with the SFPD.”
Goldstein laughed harshly. “If they’re anything like the NYPD, they’ll be delighted to share the case with you.”
“True enough.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll have to check with someone at the police department, but yes, I don’t see why not.”
“Same terms as your contract with Ms. Warrick?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Draw up a new one with Wyatt House as the client, and e-mail it to me.” She gave me her e-mail address and hung up. No
That remark tipped the scales slightly in his favor.
“What would we call the company?” I asked.
“I haven’t gotten that far in my thinking.”
“Would we need to combine offices?”
“Well, McCone Investigations would become the primary US division, and RI would deal with international clients, so that probably wouldn’t matter. But close proximity would be advantageous.”
I thought of the little blue building on Sly Lane, where I’d only just gotten settled down. RI clients weren’t likely to appreciate such casual quarters; we’d have to move again.
Hy saw the doubt in my eyes and squeezed my hand. “We don’t have to decide anything right away. Just keep in mind that we’d get to spend more time together. Work together.”
“That I’d like.”
“Then give it some serious thought. No hurry, no pressure.”
My phone rang before I could reply: the floor nurse at SF General’s trauma unit. Caro Warrick had just died from a cerebral hemorrhage.
“Have you contacted her family?” I asked the nurse.
“Her brother and sister have been contacted. The parents aren’t available.”
I thanked her and broke the connection. Said to Hy, “It’s a case for Homicide now. And I’ve lost a client. She lied to me, she was a seriously disturbed individual, but in an odd way I liked her.”
“How so?”
“Well, she’d been through a lot, but until recently she’d stood up for her convictions on gun control. I sensed something had spooked her, made her back off. She seemed afraid of something or somebody. Damn! I should’ve questioned her more closely.”
“Case closed, McCone. Let’s talk about us now.”
“Let’s.”
Right—case closed. Or so I thought at the time.
9:16 a.m.
A pparently I was still employed, however. My cell vibrated as I was pulling into my assigned parking space in the underground garage at the blue building. A male voice asked that I hold for Greta Goldstein.
Who? Oh, yes, Caro’s coauthor on the true-crime book.
Goldstein came on the line, her voice thick with a native New Yorker’s accent. “Ms. McCone,” she said, “I spoke with the late Caro Warrick recently. She told me you’d agreed to conduct an investigation for her.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Have you had any success so far?”
“I’ve learned a few things that didn’t come up at Ms. Warrick’s trial, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss them. Even though my client is dead, I’m still bound by the rules of confidentiality.”
“Well, my publisher, Wyatt House, and I want you to go on with the investigation. This book is going to be written, especially now that someone seems to have gone to the ultimate to prevent it.”
“You think the book is the reason she was attacked?”
“I suspect so.”
“Do you have authorization to hire me?”
“Yes—a firm contract giving us the rights to reassign any investigative work in the event of her incapacity or death.”
So I was right: Caro had been afraid of something happening to her.
“What about her family or heirs?”
“I’ve already spoken with her brother and sister: they have no objections. I understand her parents may not like it, but they’re not party to the contract. As for her heirs, I doubt the gun control organizations she left the bulk of her money to will object to having the truth revealed.”
“Her death is now an official murder investigation. I’d have to clear my work with the SFPD.”
Goldstein laughed harshly. “If they’re anything like the NYPD, they’ll be delighted to share the case with you.”
“True enough.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll have to check with someone at the police department, but yes, I don’t see why not.”
“Same terms as your contract with Ms. Warrick?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Draw up a new one with Wyatt House as the client, and e-mail it to me.” She gave me her e-mail address and hung up. No
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