The Dirty Secrets Club (23 page)

"Is it true you were on the bridge when he jumped?" Czerny said.

"Not close enough," Jo said.

The cops and coast guardsmen were quiet. It was a down moment. When her cell phone rang, it sounded so loud as to be rude. Jo walked up the dock to answer it.

Amy Tang sounded whipped. "Am I going to have to go tell Kelly Southern she's a widow?"

"It's him."

"Shit. This is turning into something worse than before."

"I think we have to assume that all members of the Dirty Secrets Club are in danger. And your forty-eight-hour countdown has been jammed into fast-forward."

"Get me everything you can."

"On it."

She walked back down the dock. Get everything she could—what was there to get? More confusion. This was a dead, cold end. She had nothing to grab hold of—no crevice, no crack, not a single fingerhold. She stopped near Gabe. His hands were loose at his sides, his face unreadable. Silently he moved closer, like a lookout guarding her back. They watched the Marin County investigators systematically go through Southern's pockets.

Czerny pulled open the sodden letterman's jacket. A Ziploc bag protruded from the inside pocket. Jo stepped forward.

"Tell me that's what I think it is," she said.

Czerny took it out, opened it, and carefully removed three sheets of paper. They were covered with handwriting. Water had seeped in, blurring the ink in places, but it was legible enough.

Gabe leaned over Jo's shoulder. "It's a suicide note."

Perry ate dinner, but the meal slaked neither his hunger nor his thirst. He needed news. He needed results. He paced the cramped space in front of his desk, waiting for the call. Finally his phone vibrated.

He answered. "Update me."

"Southern's dead," Skunk said.

"How? Thirty seconds."

"Flying without wings, boss. Crash and burn. The Golden Gate Bridge."

Horror show. A warm thrill, like the red spill of blood, flowed over him. Southern had made himself an object lesson. And as public as it got.

"Perfect. Was he trying to put out flames?"

"Only in his tortured little mind."

"Did he give you the information?" Perry said.

"Not yet."

Perry turned and paced back toward the cluttered desk. The voice synthesizer was turned down low. "Stay with it. We're getting close. We press the advantage."

"My ass is falling asleep."

"I don't care if your arms fall off. Don't lose the trail." He checked his watch. "We're done. Call me back in an hour."

Skunk put away the phone and looked down the hillside. The grass on the slope below the vista point was brown and dry. His arms were tired from holding the binoculars. Down at Fort Baker, at the edge of Horseshoe Cove, the lights at the coast guard pier were as white as flares in the dusk.

Skunk knew the coast guard brought jumpers to Fort Baker. Back in the day, he'd worked for the Contra Costa County coroner's office, before he got popped for helping himself to personal effects from the stiffs. As if a corpse still needed his watch, shit. But before he got arrested, he learned where dead bodies got processed. Roadkill, drug overdoses—and jumpers. When the coasties dragged bodies out of the bay, they brought them here. So he waited and watched from the hillside until he saw the silver coast guard cutter go out.

It came back with the body strapped to a tray.

His arm prickled where Southern had grabbed him around the wrist. He felt a loathing like teeth, eating at the edges of his vision. The pussy had tried to kill him. If he hadn't twisted free when Southern dived over the rail, he would have gone with him on that long ride to the water. Jesus.

The boat bobbed next to the dock. People huddled around the plastic tray like grubs around a dead beetle. They pulled back the tarp, and nobody acted surprised.

His fingers itched. He wanted to get down there and strip the corpse naked, take its clothes and rifle them.

Hold on. He put the binoculars to his eyes. All the hairs on his arms stood up.

The woman with the dark hair was down there.

Who was she? First she was at Callie Harding's BMW crash. And this afternoon when he ran from the bridge, she'd chased him, like some sort of poisonous dart. She was fast and light, like a spider, and she had a real hard-on to get him. What was her problem?

He focused the binoculars. Spider, who are you? She was white but maybe not. Maybe part Jap or Mexican. Athletic-looking, like a gymnast. Wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans. He didn't think she was a cop, but she hung out with them. And tonight she had a guy with her. Military, no question.

They stood on the dock talking to the coroner's people and looking at the body. An investigator squatted down and opened Southern's jacket. He pulled out the Ziploc bag. Skunk smiled.

You lose, pussy.

The names were right down there. All he had to do was get them.

H
eadlights strobed over Gabe's face as they drove back across the bridge to the city. Jo sat quietly in the passenger seat of the 4Runner. Gabe drove with one hand on the wheel, his other drumming on the gearshift. His expression was sober. Los Lobos was on the radio, "The Wreck of the Carlos Rey."

"Adios, querida
, I'm gone away, down in the wreck of—"

Jo punched the radio to another station. "Anything but that. An air-raid siren. George Bush. Anything."

"Sorry."

"Not the way you deserved to spend your evening," she said.

"Better than being alone."

His hand was tight around the gearshift. He resolutely watched the road.

"You're copcerned about Sophie being with your ex-wife?" she said.

"We were never married. And yes. Things haven't been great. Dawn's . . . had problems."

She waited, but he didn't say anything else. "Sophie looks like she's thriving with you."

"Thanks." He glanced at her, and his eyes warmed. "She's the daystar in my life."

They rode along in silence for a minute. The suspension cables of the bridge picket-fenced on her right. Beyond them was the dark expanse of the ocean. It was a sweet and bracing presence. She put down her window and let the wind rush over her face.

"Got enough air?" Gabe said.

"Never enough."

They passed beneath the south tower. Seven hundred feet of beautiful iron. "That's why I love climbing. Get above everybody else, and it's all air. I'd climb to the top of this bridge in a heartbeat."

"Better to drop in by parachute."

"Says the man who HALO jumps out the back of a Here. No way. Ropes, belt, carabiners. Chalk bag and a good pair of climbing shoes. It would be awesome."

"You always put the window down on a cold October night?"

"Sorry." She put the window back up. "I hate enclosed spaces."

"So I gather."

She cut a glance at him. "It's not what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking anything."

"No, Gabe. The claustrophobia goes way back, to the Loma Prieta quake. I was with my dad and little brother and sister, driving to Oakland. We were on the Cypress Viaduct."

He looked at her. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"What happened?"

"Boom, crack, the support columns splintered and the top level of the freeway came down like a pancake. Trapped us."

"Damn. Everybody made it out?"

"My dad had a heart attack that night from the stress."

"Sorry."

"He survived, but it was scary." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "We were unbelievably lucky. People in the cars ahead and behind us were crushed to death."

Gabe drove for a few seconds. "How long?"

"Were we trapped?"

A century.

Don't go back, she told herself. Remember, but don't relive. "Four hours."

The smell of cement dust came to her again, and gasoline, and the stench of burning tires. The roof of the car was pressing on her chest. She had been desperate to breathe and couldn't expand her lungs. She'd kicked the car door open and tried to wriggle out, crying hysterically, before her dad bellowed,
"Stay put, Jo."
Even then, her impulse had been to run. But her dad was right. Being trapped inside the car was dangerous. But getting out could have been fatal. If she had run, she would have been crushed by collapsing concrete.

Choking black smoke roiled through the windows. She couldn't even turn her head. Rafe was so close that Jo could feel his breath on her neck. Tina was crying, then coughing. Things got dark.

"My dad sang to us," she said. "TV theme tunes. He kept us from losing it."

"Sounds like a good guy."

"A great guy." She gazed at the night, at the vast starlit sky spilling eternity onto the horizon. "The 129th pulled us out."

"I wondered. Those guys gave 'em hell that night."

Dozens of people had died under the crushed section of the Cypress Viaduct. Cars burned, and trapped people screamed for help for hours. The elevated roadway was unstable, and only a few rescuers had been willing to crawl into the collapsed section and pull survivors out. The 129th Rescue Wing hadn't hesitated, not even to blink or make the sign of the cross.

She turned to Gabe. "The guys in your unit, and the docs, the firefighters, the folks from the neighborhood—everybody who risked it and came in for us—they're a big reason I became a doctor."

"It's a good one."

He didn't ask her why she'd decided to go into forensic psychiatry. To deal with those who couldn't be pulled out of the wreckage. But she thought he knew.

They reached the end of the bridge and curved through the Presidio toward the city. Through the forest of Monterey pines, she saw the army cemetery. White stones, row upon row, mute and eloquent.

The tires droned on the road. Gabe said, "You think in some twisted way Southern thought he was helping his family?"

"Yes. He saw destruction as the only way stop Skunk."

Jo turned on the dome light and took out the copy of the suicide note Czerny had made for her. The portions not washed away by seawater were disjointed and despondent.

Kelly, Coach, everybo

'm sorry. It's all gone wro

eing blackmailed, and I'm going to put an end t

The next paragraphs were only a blue stain. Then,

thought the club would be a place where I could unload, and people wou nderstand, because they've all done bad things.

Iped keep me sane, but it didn't absolve me. It ruined me.

I've been blackmailed here. Pay up, and get us some more people— that's way it works. In the end it's all pay, no play.

Now people are threatening me. They say I have to help them, or they'll hu Tyler.

not going to happen. Cadillac M

bad. Everythi

Gabe turned the music up. They passed the Palace of Fine Arts. Illuminated by spotlights, the faux-Roman rotunda had a tawny glow. To their left, the bay was black satin.

my fault Melody Cartwright drowned hersel

Southern's note was desperately sad and, unusually, it was sane. It exhibited none of the symptoms of chronic mental illness shown by most suicides. Scott Southern had seemingly been depressed for years. But he wasn't delusional or paranoid. His mind was sound. Eviscerating guilt was the source of his pain.

She summarized the next few paragraphs for Gabe. "He and his fraternity brothers treated a young woman like a sexual party favor. She developed psychiatric problems. Eventually, she swam into the ocean off Malibu and drowned herself. She was a friend of his family, and each time he saw her parents, he felt more and more that he'd killed her."

She turned the page. The end of the letter was readable.

club plays games, way out on the edge. These people have tons of dough, so prize money isn't the point. It's all about the kick. And some of them take things too far.

I think the club crossed the wrong guy.

Somebody's tracking people down. I don't know who he is, or who he's after. He wants names. I can't find out, and if I could, I'd be signing somebody's death warrant.