Tell No Lies Page 24

  “—valets don’t have the keys—”

  “—hit Shell and Exxon and Chevron where it hurts? In the pocketbook?”

  “—emergency, really need to get home and talk to Cris—”

  “If we can get enough people to—”

  “It won’t matter!” Daniel said.

  The others reeled back a little. Ted came at him, patting the air, all strong chin and hopeful diplomacy. “Let’s just calm down here.”

  “You’re already calm,” Daniel said. “I’m the one who’s worked up.”

  “What possible objection could you have to a Web site that—”

  “Because it’s naïve, Ted. It doesn’t matter if you boycott the Middle East for gasoline. Where are you gonna import from? Nigeria? With their great environmental and human-rights record? So you’ll boycott Chevron until they … what? Bring in crude from Russia that’s really Iraqi oil sold through Baltic middlemen? It’s a global commodity. Where you gas up your fucking flex-fuel Honda isn’t gonna change anything.”

  At some point the string quartet had silenced, ceding the stage of the backyard to Daniel’s rant. The people nearest wilted; those farther away stood on tiptoe.

  The lanky-haired man shook his head in disgust. “You object to social awareness?”

  “No. I object to social awareness as wardrobe.”

  “Then what?” Danika said. “We do nothing about anything? Is that your plan?”

  “We admit,” Daniel said wearily, “that we’re all full of shit.”

  “No,” some brave soul in the back called out. “Just you.”

  “Really?” Daniel spun, gesturing at the party. “You’re here to watch the air get sucked out of a metal cube. How many LED lightbulbs to offset that energy expenditure? That’s what we do, though. Buy conflict-free diamonds and eat net-free tuna and feed our guilt with righteousness. Who are we kidding anyway? Ourselves? Each other? Half our focus goes into consuming and the other half into making that consumption look principled.”

  It was true, sure, or at least a version of true, but the truth could be used like a baseball bat. There was a sweetness in yielding to his anger this way. A relief. He was swinging that bat, smashing up the scenery, and he didn’t want to stop.

  Color rouged Danika’s cheeks. “Not us,” she said. “We have been extremely—”

  “Danika. You recycle your tinfoil and fly to Europe three times a year. You and Ted and your three au courant children have a carbon footprint the size of Godzilla’s. It’s inherent. We want to be good people and do good things, but we also like our lives. And we want what’s best for ourselves and people we love, and no matter how hard we try, there’s no unhooking that from the rest of the planet.”

  His anger had deflated, and he detected a note of pleading in his own voice. A hush had fallen across the yard. He caught sight of the rise of his and Cristina’s house, the drawn blinds of the bedroom window, returning his mind to the task before him. The party had chilled into a spine-arching silence, every face directed at him.

  “Now,” he said, “will whoever parked in front of my driveway please move their fucking SUV?”

  Chapter 47

  Daniel keyed in the alarm code and trudged up the stairs, patting Leo the Sentinel on the shoulder as he passed. The lights were off on the second floor, the table elegantly set, candles flickering off the glass and marble. Cris sat at the end, seemingly unable to repress a smile. A margarita waited at his place, and at the center of the table were fresh-cut roses and a silver-plated dome cover resting atop a platter.

  “I figure,” she said, “with everything going on, we could use one night to catch our breath. And to remember what it’s like to be together alone. Or almost alone. Right, Leo?”

  Leo’s voice lofted up the stairwell: “Right.”

  “Cris…” Daniel said.

  “I want to just relax and talk about what our lives are gonna look like when all this is over. Sit and have a drink, mi vida.”

  “Cris. You have to put all this away.”

  She gestured at the silver dome. “I have something special for you.”

  “Not tonight.”

  He drew nearer, and she saw him, and her face changed.

  He started talking before he lost his nerve, the hard facts spilling out of him. He barely heard the words as he was saying them; they were lost beneath the white rush in his ears. But he registered a set of impressions. A glitter on his wife’s cheek. An abrupt, clogged inhalation. Her chair sliding out from the table at a sharp angle. And then she was standing, taking a half step away from him, bent at the waist, the vertebrae showing at the back of her neck. Her face, war-zone numb, the eyes gone.

  “What did you do?” she broke in. “That girl is dead. Because of me.” She doubled over, clutching her stomach. “And I had no choice in it.”

  “I never knew that someone else would be kicked out of—”

  “That’s the worst part,” she said. “You didn’t even know what you did.”

  “When you were sick, you were terrified, too—or don’t you remember? You knew I was going to everyone I knew for help. What do you think that meant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s how the world works, Cristina. Whether you want to see it or not. We are privileged. Our luxuries—our lives—rest on the sacrifices of others. We get opportunities other people don’t. And no matter how much we try to dress that up or dress it down, it’s still true.” Each breath thundered through his rib cage. “What my mom did for me, I did for you.”

  “What if you couldn’t? That girl—her parents—they didn’t have that power.”

  “So what are we supposed to do? Pretend we don’t have it? Not take care of each other because other people can’t take care of their own? You can’t separate it. How many patients didn’t get into the closed trial at all because of education or geography or timing? What if I’d called two days earlier and we’d gotten your paperwork in before that girl? Is that different?”

  “It is,” she said fiercely. “It is different. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. It just is.” She lifted her glimmering eyes to him. “And you know it, too. That’s why you kept it from me.”

  “The only thing I didn’t tell you is I went to my mother. Who you uniquely hate.”

  “I don’t hate her. I pity her. She’s a privileged—”

  “You know what, Cristina? You’re privileged, too.”

  She was weeping now, openly, her words a blur. “You said you had a picture. I want to see her.”

  Reluctantly, he pulled the crumpled paper from his back pocket. He started to smooth it out, but she snatched it from him. She looked at the printed photo, and a noise escaped her. “What was her name?”

  The word came out dry and cracked: “Francisca.”

  Tears spilled down Cris’s cheek, one after another, silently. “That was my nana’s name.” A drop tapped the picture of the girl, that gap-toothed smile, the frizzy braid, those oversize brown eyes. “She could just as well have been my cousin, or my niece. If I didn’t marry you, I could be that mom filling out the—”

  “But you did marry me! You did. And I was born to Evelyn and Denis Brasher. We can’t rewind our circumstances.”

  “Look at her face.” Cristina held up the paper. “Even in the middle of what we were dealing with … How could you do it?”

  “She didn’t have a face then!”

  All life, all warmth, seemed to vanish from Cristina’s body. Her features a mask he didn’t recognize. She turned her stare from him and moved to the steps, minding each one as if walking through darkness.

  The bedroom door closed upstairs, and he stood for a time, staring at the floor, reminding himself to breathe. Some impulse seized him, and he went to the table, lifted the silver dome.

  Beneath, centered on the platter, the wand of a home pregnancy test.

  The sight vibrated him, everything humming with sudden resonance. The cravings. The nausea. The nervous exci
tement lighting her face as she’d waited at the head of the table.

  With a trembling hand, he lifted the wand. Even by candlelight, the plus symbol was clear.

  Chapter 48

  The buzz of the cell phone against Daniel’s thigh jarred him awake on the couch, and as he lurched up, digging at his pocket, the memory of his fight with Cris flooded in at him. And that pregnancy test, which on any other night would have been cause for celebration.

  “Counselor? Counselor? You there?”

  He moved the iPhone from his face, read the time on the glowing screen: 1:14 A.M.

  The voice came again. “It’s Fang, man. He’s in deep trouble.”

  “Martin?”

  “He called me. Guess he couldn’t reach his sponsor. He was on the edge. Heading to a club. I couldn’t talk him down. I’d go after him, but I got work early—”

  “Shit. Where’s he going?”

  As Martin gave the address, Daniel shoved his feet into his shoes. Pulling on a jacket, he dialed Dooley, who sounded wide awake.

  He asked, “Is someone on Fang?”

  “Not at this second. With no new deadline, we can’t go twenty-four/seven on six suspects. Why?”

  He told her.

  “And you’re gonna go meet him?” Dooley said in disbelief. “At night. Alone. On his home turf, blocks from where you were attacked, maybe by him?”

  “If Walter Fang goes into that club, his life falls apart. It’s that simple.”

  “This could be a ploy to draw you out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it worth the risk?”

  He pictured Fang on the chair, foot nervously tapping the tile: I do bad when I drink. Three months of hard-fought sobriety.

  “It’s the job. Stay by the phone in case I get stabbed.”

  Dooley’s sigh sounded like a growl. “I’ll send a car to meet you by the club.”

  “Ask them to park, wait, and watch. I need to talk to him in private.”

  He hung up and ran for the stairs. A dark form midway down made him jump back. With everything that had gone on tonight, he’d forgotten about Leo.

  All-knowing, all-hearing Leo. Where had he learned that skill—when to assert a comforting presence, when to give space? From navigating countless crises, no doubt. This life-shifting upheaval for Daniel was for him just another day of work.

  “Want backup?” the shadow asked.

  “No, thanks. Stay with Cris. Just … make sure she’s safe.”

  “You tell her you’re going?” Leo asked.

  “You’ve heard enough tonight to know the answer to that.”

  “Maybe she’d want to know before you wind up dead in some Chinatown alley.”

  Daniel tried to slide past, but Leo encircled his biceps with a giant hand. His grip was gentle, but the force behind it was evident. Their faces were close there in the narrow stairwell. It was dark, but Leo’s pate caught a streetlight glint through the window.

  “You’re gonna be a father,” Leo said.

  Daniel shook free and kept on down the stairs.

  * * *

  Daniel gunned it to Grant Avenue, pulling over on a seedy stretch several blocks from the touristy thoroughfare. It was the oldest street in the city, and tonight it looked it. He braved the club, which was more like a glorified bar, for a quick walk-through. Seeing no sign of Fang, he returned to his car and waited.

  He looked up and down the curb, pegging a sedan a half block away for an unmarked police car. Shadow in the front seat. Knowing that a cop was there was a comfort, though he felt a familiar pulse in his stomach as he waited. What if Dooley was right and this was a planned ambush?

  Before he could dwell on the point, he spotted Fang among a crew of young Chinese men who emerged from a side street and started for the club. Daniel got out, jogged after them. “Walter? Walter?”

  They turned. They were dressed similarly—athletic wear, vibrant sneakers, low-slung designer jeans. It occurred to Daniel just how outnumbered he was.

  A guy wearing rose-tinted sunglasses slapped Fang on the shoulder. “The fuck is this gweilo?”

  Fang froze, an elk in the crosshairs.

  Daniel licked his lips, which had gone dry. “I’m a friend of his father’s,” he said.

  Fang eased out an exhale.

  The guy tilted his head to Daniel respectfully. Then, to Fang, “Meet you inside.”

  The others kept on toward the club, leaving Daniel and Fang alone on the street. Fang’s head was lowered, and he was breathing hard—an almost-raging bull.

  “I’m mad at you,” he finally said.

  Daniel flashed on the masked face in the restaurant stairwell. Then on the picture of Francisca Olvera. That little-girl face, as ethnically blended as the city itself. Could Fang be her father?

  “For, ah, ah, ah … for abandoning us.”

  “So take it out on me,” Daniel said. “In group. Not on yourself.”

  Fang looked across at the neon sign above the awning. Then down at his banana-yellow sneakers. “You’re already gone. You … ah, you blew us off tonight.”

  The hurt in his eyes was undeniable.

  Daniel stepped closer, within stabbing range. Past Fang’s shoulder he could see the undercover cop, now out of the car, leaning against the door, having a smoke and pretending not to look over. A half block suddenly seemed like a long ways.

  “I’m sorry for that,” Daniel said. “I had a personal matter come up that I had to handle. But don’t use that as an excuse to fall off the wagon.”

  “You’re leaving anyway,” Fang said. “What do you care?”

  “If I don’t care about you, what the hell am I doing out here at one forty-five in the morning?”

  “It’s your job.”

  “Yeah, I’m killing it with overtime right now.”

  Fang gave the slightest smirk.

  “Five more days sober,” Daniel said, “and you can buy yourself a new pair of Jordans.”

  Fang’s mouth twisted. “Jordans? Man, you are the most unhip person I ever met.” He turned for the club.

  “Where’s your chip?” Daniel asked. “Your sober medallion?”

  Fang glowered at him, then dug the coin from his pocket. An imprinted circle inside a triangle read 3 MONTHS.

  “A lotta work to get that coin,” Daniel said. “Night after night.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “No,” Daniel said. “This is it. A dividing line. Think about where you’ll be tomorrow. Think about what it’s gonna feel like when you wake up.”

  Fang rubbed his thumb over the coin. Then he turned and hurled it. It pinged off something in the darkness. “I want to … ah, ah. I want to go in. I’m going in.” He rolled his muscular shoulders, let his hands slap to his sides.

  “What do you expect me to do right now?” Daniel said.

  “Try ’n’ argue me into not going in.”

  “What if you don’t need me to?” Daniel asked. “What if you can make this choice on your own?”

  Fuming, Fang pouched his lips, looked away. Maybe his anger over Daniel’s departure had been what had made him act so bizarrely shut down in Sue Posada’s office; after all, it had been the day after the receptionist had accidentally spilled the news to the group. And now that anger was driving him back to the bottle.

  “Whatever choice you make, you’d better be ready to live with it,” Daniel said. “Because right now. This moment. Your whole life can change.”

  Up the street the club door opened and the guy with tinted sunglasses leaned out. “What the hell, Walter?” he shouted.

  Fang gave Daniel a final glare and stepped at him, bumping his shoulder as he brushed past and kept on, walking away from the club. Daniel closed his eyes and let out a pent-up breath. He heard the friend swear in Cantonese and the club door bang closed. Then he turned and watched Fang storming away, head ducked, hands shoved in his pockets.

  The sight, he realized, warmed what was left of his heart.

&n
bsp; Chapter 49

  “Cris, look. Open the door. Come on.”

  “It’s a new day. Let’s talk about this. Or fight about it. Or whatever you need to do.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know. How the hell was I supposed to know what exactly my mom was gonna do? How am I responsible for that?”

  “Don’t you think this is getting a little stupid?”

  “Are you there? Are you okay in there? You’re pregnant. Shouldn’t you eat something? I just want to make sure you’re all right before I leave. I have to meet Dooley soon.”

  “Look, I know I fucked up, and I’m really sorry. I should’ve at least told you I was going to my mom to ask her for help.”

  “Okay. I gotta go in ten. I don’t want to, but … Leo’s here if you need anything. I guess I’ll see you—or I guess I’ll talk to you later. Through the door again. ’Cuz this is really fucking productive. Sorry. I … Sorry.”

  “I’m not leaving unless I hear you’re okay. So you’re gonna need to say something now. Or I’m coming in there.”

  At last a faint voice floated through the door. “Go away,” it said.

  Chapter 50

  Designated “The Original Cold Day Restaurant” on its plates and mugs, Tadich Grill is the oldest eating establishment in the state. It predates Coit Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge and does its best to conjure the past, from the dangling Art Deco light fixtures and brass accents to the brash, white-jacketed staff. Daniel found Dooley toward the end of a sailboat-length handmade mahogany bar that had survived the move from Clay Street a half century ago. She stuck out among the lawyers and financial consultants sitting shoulder to shoulder. Even more professionals lined the walls, flicking lint off their dark pinstripes as they waited for stools to free up.

  She’d held a chair for him, a midday miracle effected no doubt by her flinty cop demeanor. On the starched napery before her sat the trademark bowl of lemon wedges and half loaf of sourdough, as well as sand dabs, oysters, and bowls of clam chowder and cioppino. She slurped at a half shell and said, “Couldn’t make up my mind. Plus, I eat when I’m stressed.” She made a have-at-it gesture toward the array of plates.