The Dirty Secrets Club (18 page)

"It's obvious. Somebody talked." She pressed her hands to her face. "I feel so betrayed." She turned to Jo. "Did Callie tell?"

"I don't know."

Zapata was staring straight at her, but her eyes seemed far away. Her face was pale with pink patches on her neck.

"Xochi, what exactly is the Dirty Secrets Club?"

"It's ..." She shook her head, as if deciding to hold back, and then shrugged. "It's a playroom, a party, a confessional. . . . You a Catholic?" Zapata glanced at the cross around Jo's neck. "You understand the importance of confession?"

"Yes, I do."

"But it's supposed to be foolproof. It's impossible for information to leak."

"Why?"

"It just is. It's supposed to be fail-safe."

"But you think it's not."

"Either somebody's talking out of school, or—" She lowered her head. "Or one of the members is killing us. Jesus." She raked her nails into her hair.

"How'd you get in?" Jo said.

Zapata cut a glance at her. "You think I'm going to tell you my secret? Right. The day that happens is the day you tell me yours, sista."

Jo didn't respond. Zapata looked at her with disdain.

"Everybody has a dirty secret. Even you."

Jo sat quietly. She had an intuition: The Dirty Secrets Club was absolutely secret in the same way black holes suck in everything by the force of gravity. Nothing escapes a black hole, not even light.

Supposedly. But astronomers know that black holes eject X-rays in powerful bursts.

The Dirty Secrets Club had to be like that. It had to feed on negative energy. Like every clique in history, there would be a buzz around it. A sense of
I'm in.
It would reverberate at some subaudible harmonic frequency when members were near one another. Because there's one thing about cliques: Nobody can truly enjoy being
in
unless they can lord it over the people who are
out.

Zapata ran her red fingernails over her thighs. A pelican swooped low over the cove and speared into the water, going after a fish.

"Xochi, this is important. Who's the third person who's supposed to be here?"

Zapata looked at her like,
You have to be kidding.

Jo leaned forward. "I know David Yoshida and Maki were both members of the club. They're dead. And Callie didn't turn up here today, because she's dead, too. Where's the third person?" Jo said.

"Oh, shit."

Jo held her gaze. "Who is it, Xochi?"

Zapata's lips parted. She seemed frozen with indecision.

"S.S.," Jo said. "For the black diamond meeting. Please."

Zapata shook her head.

Jo felt anger flash behind her eyes. "People are dying every forty-eight hours. Who is it?"

Slowly, quietly, Zapata closed her eyes. "Scott Southern."

"The wide receiver?"

Zapata nodded. She put her hands over her mouth, as though she couldn't believe she'd said it.

"Thank you," Jo said.

Zapata pressed her hands to her lips. Her knuckles were white.

"Xochi, what was Callie's secret?" she said.

Zapata frowned at her. "You don't know? I thought. . ."

Jo's cell phone rang. She ignored it. And heard her name being called.

She looked across the park. Shit. Amy Tang was jogging toward them.

"Who's that?" Zapata said.

"She's a police lieutenant," Jo said.

"I thought—" Zapata got to her feet, pulling on the dog leash. "You set this up all along?"

"No. Please—don't go."

Jo reached for her. But Xochi Zapata was running away.

16

A
my Tang jogged up. "You shouldn't be here by yourself."

On the street, Zapata's Audi screeched away. Jo shook her head. "You blew it. She was a member of the Dirty Secrets Club."

"That could have been dangerous."

"Spare me. You gave me carte blanche to find out why Callie died. I don't have to clear my interviews with you."

Tang looked at the road. "We'll go after her."

"She'll clam up." Jo put her hands on her hips. "Why are you here?"

"Fonsecca said you sprinted out of the U.S. Attorney's Office like Lara Croft. He worried you were racing off to play cowboy, and he was right. And he wants Callie's iPod and calendar back." Tang kept scowling, but her annoyance abated. "Maybe he wants to download her
American Idol
playlist." She ran her hand through her hair. "The Dirty Secrets Club is real?"

"It's real." Jo pulled out her phone. "Scott Southern was supposed to be here. He's not. Can you get his number?"

"From the 49ers? Jesus." Tang frowned and began making calls. The sunlight gave a bright sting to the spray from the whitecaps on the bay.

"Thanks." Tang hung up. "Got it."

She recited Southern's number. Jo borrowed Tang's pen, scribbled it on her forearm, and dialed.

"The Dirty Secrets Club," Tang said.

"It's some kind of virtual confessional. They want powerful and snotty people to give it a cachet."

In Jo's ear, the number rang. A woman answered, sounding rushed. "Scott?"

"No." Jo identified herself and explained she was working with the police. "I'm trying to reach Mr. Southern. Is this . . . ?"

"Kelly. His wife."

She got a mental picture of Kelly Southern. She'd seen the wide receiver's young wife on television, handing their little boy to Scott over the railing at the stadium after a game. She'd looked cheerleader-pretty, and fond of her man.

"I'm at a meeting he was supposed to attend," Jo said.

Long, awkward pause. "Oh no. I'm sorry, I don't..."

"Mrs. Southern, is everything all right?"

"I've been trying to reach him all day. You said you're working with the police?"

"Yes."

"Is he in trouble?"

"Not with the police. Do you think he's in trouble?"

"I don't know where he is. Something's way wrong." Tears edged into the woman's voice. She sounded young and frightened. "He missed practice, the 'Niners don't know where he is. And I got a weird note."

"Weird how?"

"Anonymous. It said Scott has secrets he's keeping from me, and I should think twice about me and Tyler being around him."

"Do you still have it?" Jo said.

"I gave it to Scott. It scared me. Something's awfully wrong."

"Does Scott have a cell phone?"

Kelly gave her the number. It went on her wrist. Tang was chewing her lip.

"Mrs. Southern, I'm going to try to get hold of him. And I'm going to have you speak to the police lieutenant who's here with me. She's going to call as soon as I hang up." Jo gestured for Tang to dial the number.

"Okay," Kelly said. "Please try. But he's not answering."

Jo hung up and dialed Southern's cell phone. As it rang, she heard Tang take over the conversation with his wife, drawing out more information about the letter she'd received.

Anonymous notes: the poison pill of any campaign to ruin people.
Dirty. Stop it.

Southern's cell number kept ringing.

Scott walked.

Skunk wanted to meet him at the vista point on the Marin side of the Golden Gate Bridge, but he was done playing by Skunk's rules. Done letting Skunk's shadowy boss manipulate him. He was ready to overturn the whole thing.

He bent forward against the wind, walking along the east sidewalk on the bridge, heading north toward the middle of the span. Far below on the water, a container ship steamed toward the Pacific. Ahead, the north tower dominated the view, massive and red, the color of iron and spirit. Scott felt as though it was judging him, that it could hammer down at any moment and crush him. On the roadway a river of traffic rushed past at sixty miles an hour. The sidewalk was bustling.

He was through with secrecy. This was as public as he could get. Up here on the bridge, Skunk couldn't do anything crazy without giving himself away. And Skunk couldn't run, either. Deadly traffic to one side. Nothing but wind and water on the other. Air below. Two hundred twenty feet of air, below the middle of the span. He'd looked it up.

At the center of the bridge he stopped and leaned against the guardrail. The view was spectacular. The bright red railing felt cold beneath his hands. The roadway vibrated with every heavy truck that passed.

Turning around, he planted his back against the rail and waited.

When his cell phone rang he let it go for a couple of seconds, the fight song marching into the third measure. Skunk would be pissed off, wondering why he wasn't at the rendezvous, wasn't on his knees begging for mercy. He made Skunk wait.

Two more bars of the fight song. He answered it.

Jo held tight to the phone. A man answered.

"I'm not at the vista point," he said.

The voice was Scott Southern's; she would have bet money on it—that laconic drawl with the winsome note at the edge. Her mouth was open to answer, but intuition told her to keep quiet.

"Walk south," Southern said. "I'm at the middle of the span, about three quarters of a mile from you."

On the line she heard the whine of heavy, fast-moving traffic, and the roar of the wind. The pause on Southern's end stretched too long.

"Skunk?" he said. "Who is this?"

She had to gamble. "Scott Southern? Dr. Jo Beckett, UCSF Medical Center. Your wife gave me your number."

No reply. She heard the traffic and the lowing of a foghorn.

His voice came in a rush. "Medical Center—is Tyler all right?"

"Your son?" Jo said.

"Jesus Christ, is he okay?"

"He's fine. Your wife is worried, and—"

"Kelly, God, did something happen to her? Did somebody—holy Christ, are they all right?"

"Yes, Mr. Southern. Your family is fine." With a fracturing sound, she grasped what he meant. "Your family is
safe."

"You're positive? What's going on?" Another pause. "Who is this?"

His voice was torn with anxiety. Jo smoothed her own voice and forced herself not to talk too fast. She sensed she could lose him at any second.

"I'm a forensic psychiatrist. I'm working with the police to investigate Callie Harding's death."

"What?" A beat, then confusion. "Why are you calling me?"

He didn't sound at all surprised to hear Callie was dead. "I know you were scheduled to meet with Callie this afternoon. And I know your wife received an anonymous letter today. Scott—it sounds like a threat."

"Jesus." He could barely be heard over the noise of rushing traffic on his end. "You're working with the police about Callie? Kelly talked to the police? Oh, Christ."

Jo looked at Tang, who was still on the phone with Kelly. Jo had to judge how much she should reveal to Southern. If she laid her cards on the table, he might cut her off. Unless she convinced him it was too late for him to run and try to hide.

She risked it. "I know you belong to the Dirty Secrets Club."

Silence.

"I know something has gone wrong with the club, and that you feel threatened. I think it's connected to Callie's death. I need to talk to you, Mr. Southern."

More silence. "Oh, Christ—are you saying this is all going to break, be news?"

"I'm saying that whatever threat came down on Callie, I'm hoping it's not coming down on you as well. Please talk to me."

"You're a shrink?" he said.

She explained it again. "I know about Callie, and about Dr. Yoshida and Maki Prichingo. That's too many people dead. Scott, please. Tell me what's going on. If you're in trouble, let me help you."

Again he was silent. Where was he? She looked around, as if she might actually see him.

"There's not enough time," he said.

"Whatever time you can give me. Even a minute. I'll listen."

"I don't know . . ."

"I do. There's no problem that's insoluble."

The silence stretched again. If not for the static on the line, she would have thought she'd lost him. Then he spoke. There was a note of despondency in his voice.

"I don't know how you'd protect me. The only person who could have done that was Callie. Put me in Witness Protection, make Scott Southern disappear forever."

"Ten minutes, Scott. Give me ten minutes to talk to you. Let me convince you that this will work. Please."

Long wait. "Just ten. You'd better be for real."

"Tell me where you are. I'll come there."

"When?"

"Now," she said.

The foghorn cried again in the background. She waited for him to answer.

Scott closed his eyes, shutting out the dazzle from the wave tops below. He could hear the woman as if she were breathing right next to him.