The Memory Collector (12 page)

“This the place?”

Ian Kanan looked up from his phone. The taxi was crawling west along Crissy Field Avenue. The field was empty. Nobody was out. The cabbie eyed him in the mirror.

“Hang on,” Kanan said.

He couldn’t go home. They’d be watching the house, twenty-four/ seven. And they’d be trying to trace his location via cell phone triangulation. He went into the phone’s menu, deep down, and set it to Nontransmit. Airplane mode—he could leave the phone powered up, take photos, retrieve all the information stored in it, but his handset would not transmit or receive. It didn’t check in with any cell towers. And nobody could find him.

In a submenu, he configured the phone to activate the transmit mode at ten P.M. Friday night.

He saw the writing on his right arm.
Severe memory loss. I cannot form new memories.
No kidding. He didn’t remember telling the cabbie to come to Crissy Field. He didn’t remember getting in the taxi.

He was in trouble. He didn’t have his backpack, his computer, anything besides his phone. His head was leaking memories like air from a punctured scuba tank. He was alone, by the bay in San Francisco, and he was aiming to lay low. The plan, obviously, was blown.

He had to go to his fallback.

“Let me out here,” he said.

“You sure, buddy?”

“Positive.” He buttoned his denim shirt over the Fade to Clear T-shirt. It was going to be cold out. “Do you have a pen and paper I could have? I’ll buy them from you.”

That got him another look in the mirror. The cabbie turned, heavy in the seat, and handed him a ballpoint pen and a chunk of Post-it notes.

“Thanks.” Kanan paid him, stuck the pen and paper in his shirt pocket, and got out.

The wind slapped him side-on. The cab drove away, heading for someplace that wasn’t deserted.

The plan was blown. He had to go to the fallback. That thought blew through him harder than the March wind. He turned up his shirt collar and snugged his arms to his sides. Seth’s Fade to Clear shirt could help keep the chill out. He told himself to hang on to that thought.

For a second, he saw Seth, all elbows and skinny legs, glasses sliding down his nose, face deadly serious as he played his guitar. The school talent show, an audience of loopy fourteen-year-olds cheering for his kid’s band. Misty standing by his side, face bright. She had leaned against him, almost laughing with pride. In the din, he leaned down, pulled her hair back, and murmured in her ear, “He’s all you, babe. Talent and passion.”

Now he hoped that Seth had inherited enough of Misty’s grit. His son would desperately need it.

Kanan had never felt so alone. He wanted to see his family more than anything, but he couldn’t, not until this thing was done. He fought to keep his focus. He couldn’t let his mind wander. He had to do the job.

I cannot form new memories.
And he realized that from now on, all he might have of his family were memories.

He needed a plan. It had to be simple.

Get a vehicle. Get weapons. Track Alec, then the others.

He scanned the road, the steel-gray bay, and the towering Golden Gate Bridge. The bridge approach loomed high overhead on the hillside, through eucalyptus trees and pines bent to the wind. He put his head down and walked into the wilderness of the Presidio.

Late that afternoon, Jo got through to Misty Kanan. Ian’s wife didn’t like the idea of being interviewed.

“Ian’s lost and sick. Why aren’t you out on the street looking for him instead of giving me the third degree?” she said.

“We’ll have a better chance of finding him if we talk to the people who know him best. And that’s you.”

Misty paused. “Fine. Five P.M.”

At four thirty, Lieutenant Tang pulled up in front of Jo’s house in an unmarked car. She honked like an impatient teenager. Jo hopped in and Tang peeled away from the curb.

“Got a plan to tackle this psychological non-autopsy?” Tang said.

“The groundwork’s the same for evaluating Kanan’s situation as for a case of equivocal death. Build a personality profile of the subject.”

Tang headed downhill. Jo braced herself against the incline. They passed a woman in her seventies out walking her beagle, chugging up the sidewalk like Tenzing ascending Everest.

“I’ll evaluate him using the NASH rubric,” Jo said. “Try to determine whether his brain injury is natural, accidental, or a case of attempted suicide or homicide.”

In conducting a psychological autopsy, Jo normally reviewed police and accident reports along with the victim’s medical, psychological, and educational history. She interviewed a victim’s family, friends, and colleagues. Reactions by friends and relatives to a person’s death were particularly pertinent. So were early warning signs of suicide and any indication that somebody had intended harm. She looked at things the victim had written, learned about his hobbies, reading habits, taste in music. About his fantasies, fears, and phobias. She tried to find out whether he had enemies.

She explained to Tang. “I’ll build a timeline of events leading up to Kanan’s injury. Maybe that’ll help us find out what happened to him.”

“Fine. You play the good shrink. I’ll strip the bark off of Misty Kanan.”

“You think she needs it?”

“If Kanan’s involved in a bungled heist, how likely is it that his wife’s oblivious?”

Jo considered that. She had her doubts. “Let’s get the lay of the land. Build up to that slowly.” She glanced at Tang. “This is still somewhat unofficial on your part, isn’t it? Let me take the lead.”

They beat Misty Kanan to her house, a flat-topped postwar stucco home in the Richmond District north of Golden Gate Park. The houses were packed together like shoeboxes, the street a vista of asphalt, concrete, and overhead electrical wires. But cherry trees were in bloom. Bright fistfuls of blossoms had turned the curbsides an aggressive pink, brightening the view. In many cities, the neighborhood would have been considered the tough end of middle-class. But in San Francisco, if you dropped a burger wrapper on the sidewalk and gave it a street number, it was worth $500,000. The Kanans were doing well.

They parked at the curb. The rain had stopped. The clouds were broken, and along the western horizon the sun was a screaming orange. Tang huddled into her coat, chewing gum and biting her thumbnail.

Jo said, “Are you fighting the urge for a nicotine fix? Because that would be good.”

“I’m on pins and needles, praying my dream date asks me to the prom.”

“Neato. I hear this year’s prom theme is
Carrie
.”

Tang hunched in her jacket. Jo backed off and shut up.

Down at the south end of the street, a midnight-blue Chevy Tahoe turned the corner from Fulton. It was tricked out with hunting lights and a bull bar. Misty Kanan was behind the wheel. She cruised up the street and turned into the driveway.

Jo and Tang got out and walked over. The Tahoe idled on the driveway as the garage door went up. Misty put down her window.

“Let me to go in and turn off the burglar alarm. I’ll come around and open the front door,” she said.

She drove into the garage. The brake lights glowed hot red, exhaust swirling around them. Jo and Tang went to the front door and waited in a blustering wind. After several cold minutes, Misty let them in.

“Sorry. I checked the bedrooms and the utility room. I was hoping Ian might . . .” She shrugged.

“Has he been here?” Jo said.

“No.” She spread her arms and let them drop to her sides. “I can’t believe he ran from the hospital.”

“You have any idea why he ran?” Tang said.

“Because he’s . . . off the wall, mentally.”

Shrugging again, Misty led them along the front hall and through the kitchen. The house was compact and modern, floored with blond wood. Dishes were stacked in the sink, a bottle of ketchup open on the counter. The fridge was covered with magnets and a high school schedule. A dog bowl sat in the corner, full of food.

Jo said, “Mrs. Kanan, the police have asked me to evaluate Ian’s mental state. I need to ask some direct questions if we’re going to find your husband and figure out what has caused this—”

“Disaster,” Misty said.

“Yes.”

“I’m a pretty tough cookie. You can be direct.”

Misty headed to the living room. It had been decorated via Target, with a cheap-and-cheerful chic. A stack of newspapers slumped across the coffee table. A hamper of laundry sat on the floor, and in the corner the ironing board was set up, iron propped up, ready to go. Misty, though, had seemingly been stopped in her tracks.

Maybe she was a tough cookie, but she looked exhausted and on edge. She sat in an easy chair, hands clenched on her knees.

Jo sat across from her on the sofa. “Has Ian phoned you since he left the hospital?”

“No.”

“Could I listen to the messages he left after his flight landed?”

“I erased them,” Misty said.

Damn it.
Jo kept her expression neutral. “Why?”

“Forty-nine messages? ‘Misty, I just landed.’ ‘Misty, I’m on my way.’ ‘Misty, please pick up.’ Same tone, same confusion. It was, like,
replay
.” She scraped her fingernails over her tartan skirt as if she had a dreadful itch. “I couldn’t take it.”

Tang pricked up her ears, like a Jack Russell terrier that had heard a squirrel in the bushes. “Mrs. Kanan, after you left the hospital your husband assaulted Dr. Beckett.”

“What are you talking about?” Misty said.

“He dragged her into an elevator, pulled a knife, and pinned her to the wall.”

Misty gaped at Jo. Her anger was immediate and hot. “He pinned you? That makes no sense. I don’t believe it.”

“And he made threats,” Tang said. “Against what I’m assuming is a list of people.”

“That’s not possible.” She glanced back and forth between Tang and Jo. “Where are you coming up with this? Threats? Ian is severely
ill.
”

Jo clasped her hands in her lap. “I know. Ian may have been contaminated with a substance that has caused his brain injury.”

“Contaminated? Where’d you get that?” Misty said.

“From your husband. Do you have any idea how he could have been poisoned?”

“No.”

Tang took out her notebook. “He was on a business trip to the Middle East and Africa. What was he doing?”

“What he always does. Corporate security.”

“Specifically?”

“Ian doesn’t discuss his work with me. It’s a matter of corporate confidentiality.”

“Is Ian’s job dangerous?” Jo said.

“No.”

“Overseas security for a high-tech firm? Never?”

“He makes sure that the people he escorts
don’t
get into trouble. He keeps them miles away from dangerous situations.”

“What does Chira-Sayf do?” Jo said.

“Materials research.” Misty tried leaving it there, but Jo and Tang both stared at her until she added, “Nanotechnology.”

Jo nodded blandly. But in the back of her mind, a red flag went up. “What’s his background and training?”

“Why?” Misty said.

“I need to gather as much information as I can.”

Misty crossed her knees. Her foot jittered in the chunky boot. “Ten years in the army. Came out and found a career where his skills were valued.”

“Which skills?”

Misty eyed her closely. “You been in the military?”

“No. Why?”

“Some civilians just think: army. Shoot ’em up. Camouflage and
yessir
,
nosir
. There are dozens of specialties within the armed forces. Ian was in reconnaissance.”

Tang wrote it down. In the quiet of the house, her pen strokes were audible.

Jo glanced at a framed photo on a bookshelf. “Is that your son?”

“Seth,” Misty said.

The boy in the photo had Kanan’s coppery hair and frosty blue eyes behind his glasses. His smile had a cocky edge chipped into it.
The joke’s on them
. The smile reeked of adolescence but seemed impish rather than sarcastic. Seth was sitting cross-legged on the lawn, playing a guitar. A big dog, with an Irish setter’s coloring and a Labrador’s goofy hopefulness, was poking his nose against his shoulder.

“Nice-looking boy. How old is he?”

“Fourteen.”

Jo waited for her to say more. In this situation some people would ask her questions or blurt emotional revelations. Others clenched everything in, defending their preconceptions, their hopes or myths about their loved ones. She waited to see whether Misty would say anything about her son. She didn’t.

“Have you told him?” Jo said.

“Not yet.” Misty’s foot continued jittering.

Jo wanted to ask,
Everything all right with the family?
But
tough cookie
was turning out to mean stubborn, defiant, defensive. So she played it in a lower key.