Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(36)

“We’re out of time. I’ll see you next week, okay?”

“Like I have a choice.”





20


I met Charles Miller on the fishing pier in the Berkeley Marina. It was windy and the water of the Bay was choppy. The long pier extended toward San Francisco like an outstretched arm. He was sitting on a bench watching a woman tossing handfuls of corn kernels to a group of pigeons and gulls. Smaller brown sparrows hopped efficiently between the larger birds. Charles was an unusually short man, maybe five foot two or three, in his late fifties. Clean-shaven, with sparse hair and wire glasses. He wore blue jeans and a plain white athletic sweatshirt.

“Morning, Charles.”

“Morning, Nikki.”

We walked out onto the pier. Men fished. Some alone, some in clusters of twos and threes, coolers on the ground to hold the catch. I wondered what they caught. What was out there in the cold water. Across the Bay I could see the San Francisco skyline. A vast bank of fog loomed over pale buildings. I could barely make out the Golden Gate Bridge, shrouded by mist. A sailboat cut through the water, leaning steeply to one side as it tacked. I nodded at it. “What happens if they tip?”

He followed my gaze. “Then they’re in the water.”

He lit a brown, foul-smelling cigarillo. Charles loved the things. He puffed and the end glowed to life. Gray smoke trickled away. “Everything he told you checks out. Gunn is classic Valley. Dropped out of Stanford—technically got kicked out for bad grades, but who’s counting—did a hitch in finance in New York, came back to California, founded three start-ups that all went bust. Still managed to raise enough to start Care4. Just one funny thing. They’re not waiting on any investments. All of that went through years ago.”

“Maybe I misunderstood.”

“Guess so. Here, I even got this.” With evident pride, he handed me two photocopied sheets of paper bearing the distinctive tree seal of Stanford. In the upper corner of the top page was a blurry black-and-white photo of a much younger Gunn, a confident grin spread across his face. Next to the photograph was housing information: a dorm (Wilbur Hall), a room number, and two other names who must have been roommates, Martin Gilman and George Levinson. The second paper was a transcript. Bs and Cs first semester became Cs and two Fs second semester. Gunn had evidently not been the studious type by the time he reached college. Seeing the unimpressive transcript, I wondered how he had even gotten in.

My face must have showed my thoughts. “A tennis recruit,” Charles added pointedly.

I folded the paper into a pocket as we walked on. “How about Karen Li?”

“I couldn’t find much beyond the basics. Born in Beijing but came over to the States in 1990, when she was ten, to live with relatives. Standard B.S. in computer science, standard LinkedIn profile, nothing unusual. I got in touch with a former boss who said she was a great employee, easy to work with, friendly, and a brilliant programmer. Certainly doesn’t seem the type to make waves. She’s been at Care4 for about five years. That’s about it.”

We’d reached the end of the pier. There was a gap of water, and then maybe twenty yards out was a chunk of a different pier that I’d never figured out. An island. No one would ever walk on it. It led nowhere and nothing led to it. It was just there. San Francisco didn’t seem any closer, but looking back I could see how far we were from shore. The sailboat was gone. Nearby, a man reeled in something small and wriggling.

“Thanks, Charles,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

He gave me a look. “I can’t help wondering what they need you for.”



* * *



After leaving the Berkeley Marina I headed straight to the bookstore. The first thing I did was to call Ethan. Not knowing if the urge was right or completely wrong. He didn’t pick up. Half-relieved, I left a message. “Hey, it’s Nikki. I just wanted to say—” I stopped, phone pressed against my cheek. There was a lot I wanted to say. “I hope you’re having a good day.” I hung up. Feeling the familiar empty feeling curling around me, a voice assuring a lifetime of solitude. A feeling that whispered to me I had ruined whatever good thing I’d had. Just like I always had, and always would.

A woman in her mid-forties was browsing the Staff Picks table that we had set up at the front. She had a solitary air that connected to my own mood. She didn’t seem to be looking for assistance but I went over anyway. “Can I help you find something?”

She looked up, surprised. “I’m not sure.” She was dressed formally for Berkeley, a slate-colored dress with a high neckline, face carefully made-up. Her hair had been done recently and pearl earrings were fastened in her ears.

“What kind of books do you like?”

“I haven’t read much lately,” she admitted. “Blink and a decade or two goes by, and all I have to show for it are a handful of summer beach reads.” She didn’t smile when she talked but her manner was not unfriendly.

“I’m sure you have a lot more to show than that.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked abruptly. “I have some with me.”

“It’s eleven A.M.,” I pointed out. I regretted the words as soon as I spoke them. I lived a life of odder hours and fewer rules than most. It wasn’t my place to question when this woman wanted a drink.