The Memory Collector (14 page)

Jared looked at him cockeyed. “And lock up the pool shed. The electricians didn’t finish with the pool lights. There’s live wiring going to the pool. We have to keep the power off. I don’t want anybody accidentally mistaking the garden lighting switches for the pool.”

“Sure.”

Jared continued looking at him strangely. “You all right, Ron?”

“Tired. The London trip kicked my butt.”

Jared nodded, let his gaze linger a bit longer, and headed back to his guests.

Gingrich wasn’t tired. He was bloody exhausted, as the Brits would say. His legs felt stiff, as if he’d been standing there by the side of the house for hours. For . . . crap, he was cold. When had the sun gone down?

He glanced at his watch. “Whoa.”

Eight P.M. How had an hour slipped away?

He ran a hand over his goatee and slapped his cheeks to wake himself up. The pool shed. Get the tools inside. Yes, boss. Then he could finally go home and hit the sack. He walked around the side of the garage.

The pool shed was toasty inside. Jared kept the pool heated like a hot spring, because he had grown up in some dusty house by the freeway in Daly City and hated dirt and loved the clean, chlorinated smell of pool water. Jared swam every day, wallowing in his wealth and just maybe, Gingrich thought, washing off the stench that stuck to him from his computer games. Stuff designed for people who were bored with Grand Theft Auto and needed something a bit more stimulating. Marketed to eighth grade kids, too.

Gingrich turned on the light. It was harsh, a single bulb overhead. Moths flew around his head. The heater and pumps and filter motors chugged away.

That flight from London—what had been wrong with the wack job? The shrink who came aboard didn’t think the guy was crazy. Gingrich had seen him on the floor after the cop Tasered him, in some sort of trance, turning like he was being spit-roasted. The memory made him shudder.

He could hear noise behind him at the party. Fifty party-hearty, greedy, talented, demanding guests, drinking beer and talking deals and celebrating the release of Jared’s new game. It was so hot in this shed. He stared at the circuit breakers on the wall.

The pumps hummed almost hypnotically. He blinked.

Man, his legs felt stiff. He felt like he’d been standing forever. He looked at his watch. It was nine thirty P.M. People would want to swim. He should go light the tiki torches. Get some beers from the garage and pack them in ice in that big aluminum pail.

Jared would want the pool perfect. He always swam, every day. Gingrich looked at the machinery in the shed. The door had swung shut behind him. It was damned hot and musty in here. He heard the humming of the pumps, and “Brokedown Palace” in his earphones.

Why was he standing in the pool shed? He didn’t remember coming in. Obviously he had a reason, but . . .

The circuit breaker box was open. That was weird.

He looked inside at the switches. Four of them, three for the circuits on the gaudy garden lights that illuminated the gardenias and rhododendrons, and one in the center for the underwater pool lights. That breaker was flipped to off.

Jared must have asked him to come in and flip it on. Jared must want to go swimming. What time was it?

He looked at his watch. “Shit.”

Ten o’clock? Man, he was so tired he was completely losing track of time. Jared must want to swim in his beautiful pool in the dark, pretending he was a dolphin swimming in the deep. Maybe Jared even had a date. And the guy couldn’t manage to come flip the switch himself.

He reached out for the breaker box. Stopped himself.

Something felt wrong.

Jared. Lazy genius. Grew up in a heated shack near 280 and was now too precious to turn the lights on in his own pool. Was that it?

His hand lingered in the air. Man, he needed a new job.

Then he shook himself. He was being ridiculous. This was work. He was just jet-lagged. He had a cushy job. He was in the cream.

Jared wasn’t a bad kid. Gingrich had, if anything, encouraged the guy to let him take care of everything. How else did you make yourself indispensable?

He turned on his iPod. The Who, that was the ticket. “Teenage Wasteland”—he hadn’t heard it in ages.

He flipped the big breaker. Wiped his forehead. It was hot in this shed, stuffier than hell. Moths were flying around. The pumps were so noisy, really annoying.

He shut the breaker box, turned off the light, stepped outside, and shut the door. It was fully dark outside. The night was loud. The music pounded in his ears, Daltrey wailing. The party was really hopping. Some of that new music the younger generation liked—what did they call it, emo? Screamo. That was it. Heart-rending teenage songs, overlaid with a pouty singer screaming into the mike. And around the corner by the pool, it seemed like Jared’s friends were singing along.

He didn’t get that music. It wasn’t like the Dead, not classic stuff. The night was cool, but he felt like he’d been standing next to a dusty furnace for hours. He wiped sweat from his brow.

The people at the party, the game designers and screamo fans, they weren’t his people. He needed to get home and crash. And tonight he needed it bad, with this unbelievable jet lag. By the pool the lights were off, but in the light of the tiki torches everybody was running around. Jared was having another crazy party. These kids. Playing tag around the pool even though they were adults. But he guessed that was what you did when you sold games for a living.

He walked around the side of the house. His flip-flops slapped on the sidewalk. He had a beer in his hand. He popped the top and drank. Ah, that was better.

He decided not to interrupt the party. He didn’t need to say good-bye. He just needed to get home. The boss would understand.

He unlatched the gate and walked out to the driveway and ambled on down to the street. In the night, the stars were pinpoint-clear. He stretched his hands over his head and glanced back at the house. The front door was open. He saw people inside, racing around. They were yelling, running in and out, some of them in swimsuits. One of them sprinted past him down the street, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Gamers. Playing capture the flag, maybe. He looked to see where the guy was going.

What do you know? A fire truck was screaming up the street.

Blue and red lights lit up the hillside, and the sirens blared. More people ran out of Jared’s house. It was a regular circus.

11

A
rattling wind woke Jo. She opened her eyes to see an acrylic blue sky flying high above the skylight. It was six A.M.

In her teens, Jo would have sold her baby sister to a traveling carnival for an extra hour of sleep in the morning. But medical school had reset her body clock. By her second year, she’d been able to ride across the Stanford campus in the dark, with her lab notes in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She’d done it once at five thirty A.M., in a white coat and pajamas. Now she rarely slept past seven.

For a minute she hunkered beneath the covers. Her bedroom was full of hot colors that fought against the city’s chilly weather. The bed had a lacquered black Japanese frame and a red comforter. Gold and orange pillows were heaped around her. Coral-colored orchids were blooming on the dresser.

She wondered where Ian Kanan was—in a hotel, or huddled in a downtown doorway, or wandering the streets. She wondered whether Misty Kanan had told their son that Ian was injured and missing. Misty struck her as defensive, quick to see her and Amy Tang as threats. Maybe Tang was right and Misty was covering up Ian’s part in a botched heist. Something about the mood in the Kanans’ home certainly seemed off balance. Or maybe, faced with catastrophe, Misty was simply trying to protect her own sanity.

Jo also wondered about Chira-Sayf’s nanotechnology work. For all its promise, nanotech had a spooky edge. If Kanan had been poisoned, nanoparticle contamination rated investigation.

It was too early to reach anybody at Chira-Sayf. She’d left multiple messages for Kanan’s boss, Riva Calder, and would try again at a civilized hour, but right then she was wide awake and buzzing. She threw back the covers, put on workout gear, and drove to the climbing gym.

Mission Cliffs filled a converted warehouse in the Mission District. The gym was a maze of artificial rock walls that soared to the ceiling, an indoor playground for grown-ups. Jo signed the lead climbers’ log, stretched, and put on her climbing shoes, harness, and chalk bag. Another early bird offered to be her belay partner. She took out her lead rope and approached the head wall. It was fifty feet high, the color of the rocks in Monument Valley, studded with artificial holds in Play-Doh colors. And, in the early morning sunshine coming through the skylights, it was all hers.

Nothing topped the purity and challenge of rock climbing to pump her up, clear her head, make her feel alive. Except for sex, on a good day. On a pitch, it was all physics and courage: thinking through the route to the top; judging force, leverage, angles, and her limits. It came down to guts and gravity.

Climbing the wall took about two minutes. She did laps up and down via different routes. She finished above it all, in the air. With nothing but a thin rope and her own strength holding her to the wall, surrounded by space and light, she felt exhilarated.

Why would anybody want to fly in an aircraft, strapped in an aluminum can, when they could climb?

When she left the gym, the city was gleaming. In San Francisco, daylight shines white. It reflects from the walls of Victorian houses that cover the hills like cards. It tingles from dissipating mist and leaps like fish off whitecaps on the bay. Jo put on her sunglasses and drove up the road to find coffee.

After a block she changed her mind and headed to Noe Valley.

Gabe’s 4Runner was parked outside a craftsman house overhung with live oaks. He answered the door barefoot in jeans and a USF T-shirt. His hair was confused. His bronze skin shone in the sun.

Who needed caffeine? “Morning, Sergeant.”

He paused a beat. Usually he’d reply with “Doctor Beckett” or “Ms. Deadshrinker,” but he just stepped aside and let her in. “You look revved up.”

“I wondered if you’ve gotten a line on Ian Kanan’s background.”

“That brought you here at seven thirty A.M.?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “No.”

She pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

His eyes widened. “You switch from orange juice to high-octane today?”

“Got a match?”

From the kitchen, a child called, “Dad, the eggs are burning.”

For a second Jo held him there. She heard a sizzle from a pan in the kitchen and the morning news on the television. Gabe’s face turned rueful.

“Take it off the burner, honey,” he called.

Jo exhaled and stepped back. Gabe’s nine-year-old daughter, Sophie, poked her head around the kitchen doorway.

“Hey, Jo.”

“Hey, kiddo.”

Sophie had a bashful smile and a long braid the color of Hershey’s Kisses. She was wearing a blue and gray parochial school uniform.

“We’re learning about ancient Egypt in history. Did you know King Tut was buried without his brain?” she said.

“That’s the way they did it back then.”

“Gross. But cool. I’m hungry.” She twirled like a ballerina and disappeared into the kitchen.

Gabe lowered his voice. “She catches the school bus at eight. I have to get rolling.”

Jo swiped her hair back from her face. “Never mind. It’ll take me longer than that to stop thinking about Catholic school uniforms.”

He raised his hands. “No. Don’t put that image in my head—I do not picture you in a parochial uniform.”

“But I remember wearing one, and now all I can hear is Sister Dominica leading the girls’ choir in ‘Holy Virgin, by God’s Decree.’” She brushed a fingertip across his lips. “I gotta go.”

“About Kanan—I have a call in to an air force buddy. He knows the people who should know.”

“Great. You know how to find me.”

“It’s my job, girl.”

Still smiling, she turned toward the door. In the kitchen, the local news came on.

“. . . have not released the names of the victims, but witnesses confirm that fire and rescue units were called to the home of Jared Ely, CEO of the computer gaming company Elyctrica, and that Ely may be one of the three people killed in this bizarre accident.”

Jo had her hand on the door. She stopped.

“Accident investigators declined to comment on how the swimming pool came to be electrified, but there is speculation that wiring from repair work may inadvertently have been live.”

Jo dug in her satchel for her phone. By the time she found it, it was ringing.