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  The three of them left together. Sharon asked Kerry, “You also lost sight of Ken-nett for several seconds, you said?”

  “Yes. About the same number, fifteen.”

  “Where was he when you spotted him again?”

  “By Santa’s Village, on his way toward the loving cup.”

  “The way the village is constructed, it’d be hard to hide anything in it quickly, even an object as small as a computer disk.”

  “What about the cup?” Kerry asked.“If it’s hollow, he could have dropped it inside.”

  “It’s hollow, but Kennett isn’t very tall and the way the cup sits on the pedestal, he’d’ve had to stretch up on his toes. Again, too conspicuous.”

  I said, “Then it has to be either the Model T or the fir trees.”

  Wrong. It was neither one. First Charlotte, then Ted and Neal returned empty-handed. Neal said, “I even got down on my hands and knees and checked the undercarriage. You should’ve seen the looks I got.”

  We all lapsed into a period of ruminative silence. Frustration had thickened the tension in the room, increased the sense of urgency. Sharon usually maintains a poker face in business situations, tense or otherwise, but the worry was beginning to show through. She had a lot riding on the recovery of that disk.

  I broke the silence finally by saying, “We’ve been assuming that if I hadn’t come in unexpectedly and caught Kennett in the act, he would’ve hung onto the disk until the party ended. But remember how he’s dressed. If he’d kept it in his pocket, as tight as those leather pants are, he’d have to keep his hand in there too so it wouldn’t show.”

  “You’re right,” McCone said. “That would really call attention to himself, the last thing he’d want. If he’d intended to hold onto the disk, he’d’ve worn looser clothing.”

  “So he must’ve planned to hide it all along. Someplace picked out in advance, one he’d be sure to have access to later. Easy access, when nobody was around.”

  “Yes, but what place? What’ve we overlooked?”

  “Kerry, when you saw him passing Santa’s Village, was he moving straight toward the trophy?”

  “... No, he wasn’t. At an angle, a sharp one.”

  “From which direction?”

  “The right.”

  “Then he had to have veered off from the Model T display, toward the center of the floor, then veered back again.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Aimless wandering, maybe. And maybe not. The bar and the buffet are in the center, but farther back. What’s closer to this end?”

  “Nothing, except — Oh! Of course.”

  The rest of us got it at the same time.

  Mick said, “Home for the Holidays.”

  I said, “And the sign says ‘Be generous.’ ”

  Ted said, “And this year it’s Chandler and Santos’s turn to disperse the donations.”

  McCone said, “That’s it, that’s got to be where he put the disk.”

  Paul Kennett’s unfunny private joke, his own personal donation to the homeless: he’d dropped it right through that little slot into the Season of Sharing Fund barrel as he passed by.

  We waited until the end of the party to check the barrel and confront Kennett. The Patterson case was sensitive, and more than one of the guests had political or media connections; and there was no point in spoiling the festivities for everyone else. McCone sent Ted and Neal downstairs to brief Craig, Mick, and Julia, and to stand guard over the cash barrel. The rest of us sat in her office, nibbled food that Ted had sent up, and talked about this and that. I’m not a patient man, normally, but tonight I had no trouble with fidgeting or clock-watching. Sharon’s quiet, comfortable office was a far better place for me than down among the noisy revelers on the pier floor.

  At a few minutes past eleven, Neal poked his head through the door. “The pier’s locked down and the clean-up crews are assembling.”

  We all trooped down into a wasteland of party wreckage. The decorations, fresh and colorful when Kerry and I arrived, now looked as tired as the people from the pier offices who had volunteered to remain and clean up the mess. McCone pointed out the two partners in the architectural firm, Nat Chandler and Harvey Santos, who were hauling one of the barrels of clothing up the stairs to their offices. Paul Kennett was nowhere to be seen.

  Mick was leaning casually on the cash barrel, talking to Ted. Sharon said to him, “You’re supposed to be watching the back entrance.”

  “No need. Kennett went upstairs about ten minutes ago. Probably waiting in his office for the money barrel to be brought up. What do you bet he volunteered to stay and count the cash after everybody else goes home?”

  Santos and Chandler were coming back down. McCone signaled to them, said when they came over that she wanted them to act as witnesses, and then nodded to Mick and me.

  We pried the lid off the barrel. It was three-quarters full of cash, coins, checks. We tilted it at a forty-five degree angle, and I held it like that so Mick could root around inside. It wasn’t much more than a minute before he came up with a flat, round object encased in a thin plastic sleeve.

  One of the architects asked Sharon, “A computer disk? What’s this about?” She didn’t answer; she was looking up at the catwalk in front of their offices.

  Paul Kennett stood at the railing, staring down at us. She took the disk from Mick’s hand, held it high over her head. Kennett had nowhere to go; he didn’t try. Not even when Mick said loud enough for him to hear, “Gotcha!”

  Later, most of us reassembled in McCone’s office for some Christmas cheer. The disk was safe for tonight; tomorrow she would have copies made and lock them in her safe deposit box, along with the hard-copy evidence files, until it was time for her Monday meeting with the D.A. As for Kennett, he’d avoided arrest and prosecution for theft because of the need to avoid publicity; but he’d been warned to keep his mouth shut if he didn’t want to be named in the forthcoming indictment against Patterson. What he hadn’t avoided was the loss of his job. Chandler and Santos had summarily fired him as soon as they were made aware of what he’d done.

  I’d forgotten all about my Christmas present, which Sharon had slipped into a desk drawer during our earlier session. But she hadn’t forgotten. As soon as we were settled with our drinks, she produced the package and handed it to me with a little flourish.

  “With thanks and love from all of us,” she said.

  Embarrassed, I said, “I haven’t gotten anything for any of you yet...”

  “Never mind that. Open your gift, Wolf.”

  I hefted it. Not very large, not very heavy. I stripped off the paper, removed the lid from an oblong box — and inside was another, smaller box sealed with a lot of Scotch tape. Ted’s doing; I could tell from his expression. So I used my pocket knife to slice through the tape, opened the second box, rifled through a wad of tissue paper, and found—

  Two plastic-bagged issues of Black Mask. And not just any two issues: rare, fine-condition copies of the September 1929 and February 1930 numbers, each containing an installment of the original six-part serial version of Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon.

  My mouth was hanging open; I snapped it shut. When I looked up they were all grinning at me. I said, “How’d you know these were the only two Falcon issues I didn’t have?” Funny, but my voice sounded a little choked.

  “I told them,” Kerry said. “I checked to make sure.”

  “And one of my book contacts back east found the issues,” Neal said.

  “They must’ve cost a small fortune. So scarce and expensive I didn’t even put them on the want list I gave you...”

  McCone waved that away. “What they cost doesn’t matter. You’ve been a friend for a long time. It’s the season of sharing with friends, too.”

  I just sat there.

  Kerry said, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  Sure, right. But what can you say to friends and loved ones who treat you better than you deserve, that
doesn’t sound woefully inadequate?

  18

  Jake Runyon

  Joshua was late. No surprise there. Wouldn’t be a surprise if he didn’t show at all.

  The restaurant was off 18th Street, on the fringe of the predominantly gay Castro district. Noisy, dark, crowded. Joshua’s choice; his brief message on the answering machine had given the name and address of the place and the time, Saturday noon. Nearly all of the customers were male and some had inventoried Runyon when he came in, cataloged and dismissed him. He looked like what he was — straight, and a member of the law enforcement establishment — and they didn’t want anything to do with him. He’d been ignored ever since, except by a waiter who looked elsewhere while he quickly unloaded a menu and a glass of water.

  Runyon sat waiting with his hands palms-up on the table. When he thought about anything, it was the Spook case. He hadn’t found Big Dog last night; and as of this morning, the authorities hadn’t picked him up yet either. Buried somewhere, but not deep enough. Wouldn’t matter to the agency’s investigation whether he got flushed out and chained or not, as long as the identity question could be answered in Mono County. He’d done his part, would keep on hunting if Big Dog was still at large when he got back, but the extra effort was for himself, not for the agency or the law or to see justice done. He’d quit believing in justice, man’s and God’s both, when he was told Colleen’s cancer was terminal.

  Mostly, sitting alone in the noisy restaurant, he kept his mind cranked down to basic awareness. There’d been a time when he was not good at waiting, but that was long ago and far away. He’d learned. His years as a cop and a private investigator, all the stakeouts and travel time and downtime reports, had been partly responsible. But it hadn’t been until the past few months that he’d really learned how to do it. In doctors’ offices and hospital lobbies, at home during all the sleepless nights with the phone close beside him. Nothing taught you patience, the art of shutting yourself down for extended periods of time, like waiting for someone you loved to leave you forever.

  He’d been there nearly half an hour when his son finally showed. He knew how long it had been because he was facing the entrance and when Joshua walked in, he glanced automatically at his watch. Joshua scanned the room; then his shoulders squared and he approached in measured steps. His whole demeanor said: Get it over with.

  His mouth said, “Are you Jake Runyon?” in the same cold, formal tone he’d used on the phone.

  “You know I am. Sit down, son.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

  “Why not? You’re not that late.”

  “I almost didn’t come at all.”

  “What you almost didn’t do isn’t important.”

  Joshua sat down. They studied each other, like stray dogs coming together for the first time — a kind of sniffing and keening. His mother’s eyes, all right. Bright, smoky blue, and raddled with emotion. Discomfort: he didn’t seem to know where to put his hands. Hostility, defiance: his unblinking stare was a challenge. Righteousness: he was dealing with somebody he’d been told all his life was evil.

  The waiter appeared. Joshua said without shifting his gaze, “I don’t want anything.”

  Runyon said, “Grilled cheese sandwich and tea, any kind.”

  “Tea? I thought people like you drank beer or whiskey for lunch.”

  “You sure you don’t want to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  The waiter went away. Joshua shifted position, hid his hands in his lap. He said, “I suppose you’ve been wondering why I picked this place.”

  “Not really. You don’t live far away.”

  “You know what this neighborhood is, don’t you?”

  “I’ve got eyes.”

  “That’s why I live here.” Harsh, confrontational: “I’m gay.”

  Runyon was silent.

  “You understand? Gay, homosexual. Your only child is a fag.”

  Silent.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re not shocked.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You already knew, is that it?”

  “I didn’t know. Until you just told me.”

  “Suspected it, then.”

  “I never gave it any thought.”

  “For God’s sake, you don’t even act surprised.”

  “I suppose I am, a little.”

  “Disappointed? Angry? Disgusted?”

  “None of the above,” Runyon said. “Your sexual orientation isn’t important to me. None of my business.”

  Joshua seemed nonplussed; it wasn’t the reaction he’d anticipated, prepared for, and it seemed to have pitched him partway off his high horse. In less harsh tones he said, “Just what is important to you?”

  “Where you’re concerned? That you’re happy, healthy, secure.”

  “Oh, come off it.”

  “You asked, I told you.”

  “Well, I don’t have AIDS yet. Does that make you feel better?”

  “What would make me feel better is less hostility and more civility.”

  “Civility, no less. Such a big word.”

  “There’s not enough in the world. Not enough of a lot of things — honesty, integrity, compassion, understanding.”

  “Christ. Liberal sentiments from a cop.”

  “Not all law officers are fascist homophobes, you know. Besides, I’m not a cop any longer.”

  “Private eye. Same damn thing.”

  “No it isn’t. You don’t know my profession.”

  “I don’t care about your profession.”

  “You don’t know me, I don’t know you. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Establish a father-son bond?” Joshua said bitterly. “It’s about twenty years too late for that.”

  “Not too late for you to hear my side of the story.”

  “I don’t want to hear any of your lies.”

  “I told you on the phone, I don’t lie.”

  “I’ve known liars who said the same thing. Dammit, why couldn’t you have stayed in Seattle? Why did you have to move down here?”

  “You know the answer to that,” Runyon said. “You’re all I have left now.”

  “And I told you, you don’t have me, any part of me. You may be my biological father, but that’s all you are or ever will be. Why can’t you get it through your head that I don’t want anything to do with you?”

  “I understand it, all right. I understand the reasons too.”

  “After what you did to my mother—”

  “It’s what she did to herself and to you that you don’t understand yet.”

  “She didn’t do anything to me except love me and raise me! Alone! After you abandoned us for that bitch—”

  Runyon caught Joshua’s wrist and pinned it hard against the table, fingers digging like metal into the flesh, bringing a grimace and a low cry of pain. He leaned forward. “Let’s get one thing straight right now. Say or think anything you want about me, but if I hear you call Colleen any more names or slander her memory in any way, I’ll knock you down and step on your face. Understood?”

  “For God’s sake—”

  “I’m not kidding. Understood?”

  “Yes. All right, yes.” Runyon let go of him. There were angry red marks on the wrist; Joshua massaged them gingerly, avoiding eye contact. “I... I’m sorry.”

  Runyon gestured that away. “Don’t say what you don’t mean.”

  “I won’t mention her again. But I won’t listen to anything ugly from you about my mother, either.”

  “No name-calling or mudslinging, that was never my intention. But sometimes the truth is ugly.”

  “Here we go again. The last honest man.”

  “I meant what I said. I won’t lie to you.

  “You’re not going to change my mind about anything. I know what happened between you and my mother.”


  “You know what she told you. Her version. I’m a monster, she was a helpless victim.”

  “Well?”

  “There’re some things I’ll bet she left out.”

  “Such as?”

  “That I was in touch with a lawyer before I met Colleen, to start divorce proceedings and to try to get custody of you. Didn’t know that, did you?”

  “... That’s crap.”

  “I’ll give you the lawyer’s name. He’s still practicing in Seattle.”

  “Some friend of yours who’d say anything...”

  “Her post-partum depression, the episode in the bathtub — she ever talk about that?”

  Uncertainty seeped in to mix with Joshua’s disbelief. “What’re you talking about? What episode?”

  “Severe post-partum depression that led to heavy drinking and neglect of your care. I came home early one afternoon and found her in the tub, passed out drunk, holding you in her arms. You were asleep but your head was barely above water. If she’d slipped down any farther, you’d’ve drowned.”

  “Liar! That’s a fucking lie!”

  “I’ll say it again — I don’t lie.”

  “She wasn’t like that, she—”

  “I’ll give you the name of the doctor who treated her. Or maybe you think a doctor would falsify his records as a favor to somebody he hasn’t seen in twenty years?”

  “I don’t... it wasn’t until she found about you and... she didn’t start drinking until after you abandoned us...”

  “She started drinking at sixteen,” Runyon said, “and she never stopped. She drank before we were married, before and after you were born. Her father and mother were both alcoholics — her father died of it, same as she did. I can document that, too, if you want me to. She needed booze to unwind, to be happy, to make love, to get through the day. You lived with her nearly two decades, you’re not blind or stupid. You know I’m telling the truth.”

  The cords in Joshua’s neck showed as sharply as ax blades. “I don’t know it. You’re trying to trash her memory the way you trashed her life!”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. I loved your mother in the beginning—”

  “Bullshit!”