The Devil's Interval (44 page)

CHAPTER 44

M
oon insisted that I shouldn't drive myself over to the hospital, and made me promise to wait for one of his detectives to give me a lift. I protested, and then abruptly shut up when Moon began threatening to send me directly home. “I've ordered an officer to guard Ivory's room,” he said, “and it's just as easy for me to take you off the cleared-visitor list.”

“She called
me
,” I protested. “Ivory wanted to talk to me.”

“Fine,” said Moon. “Then do what I tell you. My guy's waiting for you by the front desk, his name's Pollock.”

“How will I recognize him?”

Moon laughed. “Don't worry, you'll spot him. He'll be the only guy in the lobby of the St. Francis wearing a bolo tie. How many of those do you see in the City?”

“You'd be surprised,” I said, thinking of Doc, Mr. Delta Oscar Charlie with his bolo and lame come-on patter at the Crimson Club.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and walked over to the front desk. It seemed like hours since I had stood in exactly the same spot, trying to fast-talk my way into getting Gus and Ivory's room number, but the same clerk was behind the desk, showing some tourists how to find something on an open San Francisco map. He glanced at me, and pursed his lips with displeasure. I ignored him and scanned the people on either side of me, looking for a detective in a bolo tie. And then I spotted him, none other
than Delta Oscar Charlie himself, snakehead bolo tie and all. His eyes met mine, and then continued to glance around, scanning the room as I had been. I walked up to him, “Detective Pollock?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes at me, “Who's asking?”

I held out my hand. “Maggie Fiori,” I said. “We've danced, I believe, but we've never been properly introduced. John Moon told me you'd take me over to St. Francis Hospital.”

A series of expressions washed over his face—suspicion, annoyance, sideways glances that made me think he was looking for a quick escape, and then he shrugged. “Yeah, fine. Whatever. Let's go.” He took me by the arm and began walking me toward the parking garage entrance. I began to feel a little panic. I'd gotten in a car I shouldn't have a year ago and it had been nothing but trouble. I stopped cold in my tracks.

“Let's walk,” I said. “It's just a few blocks away, and I'd like to get some fresh air.”

“The lieutenant told me to drive you over to the hospital,” he said. “It's more than a few blocks and it's uphill.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, I'm walking, and you can walk with me or you can drive without me. But I'm not getting in a car with you.”

He tightened his grip on my arm. “You are not issuing the orders around here, little lady.”

I inched my heel over to his instep, while leaning in a little closer. “Let's remember that the ladies issue the invitations in the places we hang out together,” I whispered. “And that maybe your boss and my friend, John Moon, would be interested to know where you spend your free time.”

He let go of my arm. “I could have been undercover,” he said.

“Really? Wearing the exact same tie you have on today?” I asked. “Doesn't seem likely to me.”

We walked through the lobby and toward the revolving door. Despite the confusion and chaos of the events up on the ninth floor, despite the presence of more than a few police officers, and an
injured Ivory being whisked via gurney down the freight elevator and out to the waiting ambulance, life in the lobby continued as if nothing unusual had happened. Conventioneers wearing name badges greeted each other and networked madly; elegantly dressed couples lingered in the bar over Flirtinis and dark-amber Scotch in heavy, cut-crystal glasses. Just a few steps up from the lobby, the staff in the hot restaurant
du jour
, coffee, cream, and celery-toned Michael Mina, quietly rushed from table to table making preparations for hungry people with well-padded wallets who would be dining there when evening fell.

“
Life goes on
,” I muttered. “
I forget just why
.”

Pollack looked puzzled. “How's that?”

“Line from a very sad poem by Emily Dickinson,” I said. “Never mind.”

Pollack allowed me to go through the revolving door out to the street. As I waited for him, I glanced over at the glassed-in display cases at the entrance. One held the menu from Michael Mina, and next to it was a poster promoting the musical group performing in the rooftop bar. I took a step closer, “Klezmer Katz & Their Musical Kapers,” read the poster. I sighed. Suddenly, I realized Pollack was at my elbow.

“What are you staring at?” he asked.

I pointed to the poster. “Something Ivory said when she woke up for a moment,” I said. “She was trying to tell me something about hearing klezmer music.”

“I hate that stuff,” said Pollack. “Makes me feel like I'm trapped in a long, boring Jew wedding.”

I regarded him with new distaste. “Let's go,” I said.

We turned north up Powell, away from Union Square and up the hill toward the hospital.

“You weren't undercover, were you?” I asked Pollack. We were both breathing a little harder, as the hill grew steeper. A cable car clanged and passed us, going back down the hill, toward the cable car turnaround. It was crammed, as usual, with tourists leaning far out, their cell phones in one hand, shooting friends and family, as
they obediently waved from the steps.

Pollack shrugged, “Nope. I like that place,” he said. “Nothing illegal in that.”

“Guess not,” I said.

“Hey,” he shot back, “let's remember you were there, too, Missy.”

“I was investigating,” I said.

He snorted. “Yeah, I remember, that's what you said. Not too skillfully, if memory serves. I made you as a party crasher in about two minutes.”

We came to Sutter, and turned west. Rush hour was beginning, and the streets were filling up.

“So,” he continued, “is that what you're still doing? Nosing around in things that don't concern you?”

I bridled, then took comfort in the thought that this nasty little guy probably never got all that lucky at the Crimson Club.

I was panting too much to sound very dignified, but I tried. “First, we are doing a magazine piece on Grace, so this is my business. And second, Ivory Gifford has become a friend, so I was naturally concerned.”

He shot me a skeptical look. “Is that so? That's why you conned your way into her hotel room?” I looked surprised. “You think we don't talk to the front-desk staff? How dumb do you think cops really are?”

“I don't think
all
cops are dumb,” I said pointedly. “I think Lt. Moon is very, very smart.”

“Yeah, well, he's just like the rest of us. Once there's a conviction in a capital case, it's a trophy on our wall, too. Nobody wants to be responsible for taking that trophy down—least of all the cops.”

We glared at each other, companionable in our mutual dislike. We pushed open the doors to the St. Francis Hospital lobby in silence.

I
t was dark outside by the time they brought Ivory up to her hospital room. The young doctor who came to talk to us said that they'd pumped her stomach and were hydrating her. The cut on her head was minor and had been stitched up. She was conscious, and we could go see her in an hour or so. She had been asking for me and for Isabella. I left voice mails for Isabella at home, work, and on her cell. Moon and I continued to sit in the waiting room near the nurses' station, checking our watches every few minutes or so to see if we couldn't make that hour go a little more quickly. It didn't work. Pollack had gone to stand watch at Ivory's room with the young, uniformed officer.

My phone was turned off, so I didn't disturb people in the waiting room, but I'd turn it on periodically and check messages. Michael. Anya. And a message from Lulu: “Maggie, call me. I've been thinking about our conversation at the soccer game. What did you mean when you said Gus and a friend had ‘restrained' that young woman in Vietnam? How did they restrain her?”

Moon and I sipped more disgustingly sweet tea together. The taste was not growing on me. He reached into his side pocket and pulled out a flat plastic bag and passed it over. “Don't open it,” he said. “I've got a copy of what's inside for you to read. But just look at the envelope through the plastic.” I held the bag gingerly in one hand. Through the plastic I could see the envelope was addressed
to Isabella and me.

“Where'd you find this?”

“On the floor, by the bed. Pollack found it. Is it her handwriting?”

I frowned. “I have no idea. I don't think I've ever seen anything she's written.”

“Doesn't matter,” said Moon. “We can get samples.”

“Can you?” I said. “Everything burned up at Ivory's place.”

“Room service check,” he said.

“You're killing me,” I said. “Did you open it? What did it say? And by the way, it wasn't addressed to you.”

“Potential crime scene,” he said. “Gives us certain privileges.”

He slipped the bag back into his pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here you go.”

It was a photocopy, written on hotel letterhead, with the distinctive, cursive Westin St. Francis mark at the top.

Dear Isabella and Maggie
,

Thank you for everything. I've remembered some things that make me very, very sorry. Tell Travis I will see him soon
.

I turned the piece of paper over. “That's it?”

Moon nodded. “Doesn't that seem odd? No signature?”

“A little,” he said.

“So is it a suicide note or not? Did she mean she'd see him when…” I shuddered. “They're both dead? That seems horrifying. And as if she's giving up on Travis.”

“Or—” Moon started, then stopped.

“Or,” I said grimly, “it means that Ivory remembers killing Grace, and that's why she's sorry. And what, then? How would she see him? If she confessed…” I broke off. “But this isn't a confession. Why would she leave things hanging like this?”

Moon shrugged. “Maybe whatever she put in that glass worked faster than she thought, and she couldn't finish.”

“Something for sure in the glass?”

“We'll know tomorrow,” he said. “There's a rush on at the lab, and the hospital can analyze what they pumped out of her. But I'd
be willing to put money on it. There was something that looked undissolved at the bottom of the glass.”

“Envelope sealed?”

“Nope. But the note was tucked inside.”

“So, she didn't have time to finish the note? But she did have time to fold it and slip it in the envelope. That makes no sense. And the gun?”

“Not hers. She did have one at the bar, and it was in a fireproof safe, so it's probably still there.”

I looked at Moon. “Numbers gone on this one?”

“Precisely. Just like the weapon that killed Grace.”

“Who has access to guns without numbers?”

“Any bad guy—or gal—who wants to file them off.”

“Who else?”

Moon looked puzzled. “I don't know what you mean.”

“The cops,” I said. “I bet your evidence rooms are filled with weapons that don't have numbers.”

“They are, but so what? Every weapon is logged in, tagged, and tied to an investigation. And how would Ivory get a gun from a cop anyway?”

“I don't think she did,” I said. “I think Gus got one from a cop.”

“A specific cop—or are you just speculating?”

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. I muttered, “
Quis custodiet ipsos custodies
?”

Moon glanced at his watch again, and stood. “Restroom break. Want anything while I'm up? More tea?”

I made a face, and watched him walk down the hall toward the cafeteria and the restrooms. As soon as he was out of sight, I stood and raced down the hall.

T
he door to Ivory's room was closed. No sign of the young uniformed officer or of Pollack. I hesitated a moment, then tapped and pushed the door open. The lights were out, and the room was dim. But the shades were up, and some light came from the street outside. The closet door was wide open, and the yellowish fluorescent light inside fell directly on the bed, where I could make out Ivory, lying very, very still. I took a step closer, nervously looking over my shoulder at the closed door to the bathroom. Now I could see Ivory more clearly, her eyes fluttering, as if she were torn between waking to rejoin the world or staying tucked in the merciful oblivion of sleep.

I crept over to the side of her bed. The call-button cord was looped around the metal rail at the side, with the button itself right next to her left hand. I sat down next to the bed, and tentatively put my hand on hers. Suddenly, the room got darker, as the closet door squeaked closed and Pollack stepped out from behind the door. He had a pillow tucked under his arm. We regarded each other, the glittery little eyes in the snakehead catching the light from the open closet door.