Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(48)

I hadn’t protected her. I hadn’t saved her. I had shrugged off her fear as mere paranoia. Now she was dead and, worse, I hadn’t learned whatever it was she had intended to tell me.

People will die.

The whole company is focused on one thing right now.

Innocent people.

I had betrayed her trust. I had ignored the danger she was in. I hated myself for it. The worst mistake I could have made, with the worst consequences. I was worthless—every time in my life when it most mattered, worthless to the people who needed me.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I had to brake hard to avoid a silver Mercedes that passed as though the driver hadn’t even noticed me. I looked around in annoyance as the big sedan turned into a handicapped parking spot right in front of the Care4 entrance. One of those drivers who seemed to operate on the principle that the most expensive vehicle should be given unquestioned right-of-way. The driver was already getting out. He didn’t seem handicapped as he pulled a black briefcase from the trunk and headed toward the lobby. He wore a navy pinstriped suit and bold red tie that was out of place in the excessive casualness of the Valley. Something about the man’s self-satisfied stride was familiar. I’d seen it before. Photographed it, in fact. As he walked from an apartment building to that same car with a woman who was not his wife.

I took a last look and then pulled away, wondering what Brenda Johnson’s husband could possibly be doing at Care4.





26


I had been up for almost two days, running on not much more than adrenaline and caffeine. I still didn’t want to sleep, but I was becoming too tired to think, let alone do anything else. I reminded myself that in my current state I wasn’t much good to anyone, went home, and got into bed. Twelve hours later, I woke up feeling more or less normal. I went for a run, had breakfast, and got to the bookstore by mid-morning.

“What do you think of this poster?” Jess wanted to know. “It’s rough, I know.” In the last year she had been expanding the number of local author readings, and these had proved popular. Lately she’d been working overtime setting up for Thrillers in the Fog, a new event we were putting on featuring local mystery writers. I looked over the glossy twelve-by-fourteen paper she was holding up, gray and black tones, a rusty slice of Golden Gate Bridge daggering out from swirls of fog, the lettering done in that same brick-rust color as the bridge.

“I love it.” It felt good to think even for a moment about anything besides Care4. “Who do we have lined up so far?”

She smiled, proud. “It’s going to be awesome. Martin Cruz Smith and Laurie King for sure are confirmed, and I’m working on a few others. Possible shot at Joyce Carol Oates if she’s out here teaching at Cal again.”

“Does she count as thriller?”

Jess gave me a look. “Have you read DIS MEM BER? The Barrens?”

“Good point.”

“Excuse me?” I turned, seeing a red-haired girl in a flannel skirt and black stockings and boots. “I’m looking for a book for my boyfriend,” she said. “He’s really into jazz, plays trumpet, but doesn’t read that much. I’m trying to get him into more fiction.”

I thought again, relieved for the mental change of pace. “Hang on. I think I have something perfect, if it’s in stock.” I was back a minute later and handed her a book.

“1929? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Historical fiction, Bix Beiderbecke. If he likes jazz, I bet he’d like it.”

As the girl paid, Jess handed me an envelope. “Almost forgot. Either they hired a cute new postman or grad students are starting to deliver their own mail.”

“Thanks.” I tore the envelope open. A few lines of neatly slanting handwriting.

Dear Mysterious No-Cellphone-Girl,

Having been duly warned about your million and one shortcomings, I would like to proceed full steam ahead. I was thinking we could check out this Vietnamese place I like. This week, if you aren’t out cracking heads.

PS: the last part was a joke (I hope).



The note gave me a good feeling. I wanted to have dinner with Ethan. I wanted to forget about Gregg Gunn and Care4 for a few hours, forget about trying to understand what Karen Li had meant when she talked about hiding something, forget that there were people walking around in the world—in this very city—who would bash in a woman’s head for a couple of missing files.

Jess wasn’t done. “Someone else stopped by, a little guy, stank of cigars. He said you should get in touch as soon as you can.”

Charles Miller. I wondered what he wanted to tell me.

“And one more thing. That girl Zoe, from the book club. She was outside when I opened up this morning. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about, just asked when you’d be in.”

“She’s here? Now?”

Jess nodded. “She doesn’t look like she’s had the best day, either. Must be going around.”



* * *



We sat on a pair of red beanbags in a corner of the bookstore. The shabby, understuffed bags were more comfortable than most of the thousand-dollar leather armchairs I’d encountered. Above us the reassuring solidity of bookshelves rose up to the ceiling. Like the walls of a confessional: comfortable, secure. The air itself smelled good. Pressed paper and the leather of the spines. The outside world seemed distant in the best possible way. I remembered Gunn’s initial skepticism, whether people still needed bookstores. To me, sitting here, the answer was all around us. Like asking a fly fisherman, knee-deep in a clear stream, why he didn’t just go to the supermarket for farmed tilapia.