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Authors: Gregg Hurwitz
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windowsill that housed no plants or family photos or anything aside from a film of dust. Chewing her cheek, she stared through the bleary glass.
O’Malley swung back through the door, interrupting the heavy silence. He said, “The reason we’ve got no confirmation from Lyle Kane of 316 Bay Street is there is no 316 Bay Street. And? There’s no Lyle Kane either. Not in San Francisco.”
Dooley gave no indication she’d heard him. Silence pervaded the room. Down the hall someone shouted about replacing the fucking paper in the fax machine.
Dooley put her feet down again. Rotated back to her desk. Rubbed her face with both palms.
O’Malley said, “Sorry. The guy doesn’t exist. We got a letter from a ghost to a ghost.”
Visible over his shoulder at the end of the hall, there was a stir of movement. Cris appeared through the windowed security door, her hands gesticulating as she spoke to the PSA behind the Plexiglas. She was still wearing the ridiculously oversize Giants shirt.
Daniel found his feet. O’Malley stepped aside, clearing the view, and Cris stopped midsentence and looked up. Her shoulders shuddered in relief at the sight of him. Instinct made him start for her, but then he remembered where he was and shot an inquisitive look across at the desk.
“Go back to your life.” Dooley waved a hand at him. “Alarm on, eyes open, we’ll send a patrol car by every few hours.”
“And you?”
“Me?” She mustered a laugh. “Me and O’Malley, we’ll be here chasing ghosts.”
Chapter 11
“Wonderful views of the Transamerica Pyramid.” The Realtor’s pencil skirt constrained her steps into short, deliberate thrusts. She eased up beside Daniel, and they stood side by side, admiring the city panorama like two villainous politicians in an action movie. A sweep of her manicured hand. “As you can see.”
He could see. In fact, the Transamerica building was hard to miss.
It was a gloomy morning, the sun no more than a yellow smudge through churning clouds. Here on the twenty-third floor, they were eye level with Muriel Castanis’s “corporate goddesses” who crowned Philip Johnson’s postmodern high-rise across the street like ancient Greek gargoyles, three to a side. Ruffled white gowns shrouded the twelve-foot statues, pronounced against obsidian black windows. City residents had long debated the eerie caryatids with their hood-covered heads. Were they angels of capitalism? Prophets warning against greed and privilege?
“You’re a therapist, right?”
“Counselor.” He didn’t realize that he was more comfortable with his current job title until the response was out of his mouth. Another adjustment he’d have to make.
The fawn walls smelled of fresh paint, the clouded glass wall sconces looked brand-new, and the bathroom door had been left strategically ajar to show off the curved slate counter and recessed double sinks. A world away from the rust-stained urinals and powder soap of Metro South.
“How long have you been in private practice?”
“Oh, I’d be starting. Here.” He shifted, the carpet sinking pleasingly beneath his loafers. “Transitioning from another job.”
“Why the change?”
“My current job’s pretty exhausting. I was hoping for something a little…”
“Easier?”
The answer, he realized, unsettled him.
“Well,” she continued, “I certainly have some friends I could refer to you.” A behind-the-hand stage whisper. “Not to mention my mother.” Up close, her perfume was overpowering. “This is the first time in seven years that this space has been available. So what a great opportunity to enter a two-year lease…”
He tuned her out. He’d made it home from the police station last night—no, early this morning—and managed a few fitful hours of sleep with Cris cuddled into him. After she’d rolled out of bed groggily and headed for work, he’d sat leadenly at the kitchen counter in his boxers, drinking cup after cup of coffee,
O’Malley swung back through the door, interrupting the heavy silence. He said, “The reason we’ve got no confirmation from Lyle Kane of 316 Bay Street is there is no 316 Bay Street. And? There’s no Lyle Kane either. Not in San Francisco.”
Dooley gave no indication she’d heard him. Silence pervaded the room. Down the hall someone shouted about replacing the fucking paper in the fax machine.
Dooley put her feet down again. Rotated back to her desk. Rubbed her face with both palms.
O’Malley said, “Sorry. The guy doesn’t exist. We got a letter from a ghost to a ghost.”
Visible over his shoulder at the end of the hall, there was a stir of movement. Cris appeared through the windowed security door, her hands gesticulating as she spoke to the PSA behind the Plexiglas. She was still wearing the ridiculously oversize Giants shirt.
Daniel found his feet. O’Malley stepped aside, clearing the view, and Cris stopped midsentence and looked up. Her shoulders shuddered in relief at the sight of him. Instinct made him start for her, but then he remembered where he was and shot an inquisitive look across at the desk.
“Go back to your life.” Dooley waved a hand at him. “Alarm on, eyes open, we’ll send a patrol car by every few hours.”
“And you?”
“Me?” She mustered a laugh. “Me and O’Malley, we’ll be here chasing ghosts.”
Chapter 11
“Wonderful views of the Transamerica Pyramid.” The Realtor’s pencil skirt constrained her steps into short, deliberate thrusts. She eased up beside Daniel, and they stood side by side, admiring the city panorama like two villainous politicians in an action movie. A sweep of her manicured hand. “As you can see.”
He could see. In fact, the Transamerica building was hard to miss.
It was a gloomy morning, the sun no more than a yellow smudge through churning clouds. Here on the twenty-third floor, they were eye level with Muriel Castanis’s “corporate goddesses” who crowned Philip Johnson’s postmodern high-rise across the street like ancient Greek gargoyles, three to a side. Ruffled white gowns shrouded the twelve-foot statues, pronounced against obsidian black windows. City residents had long debated the eerie caryatids with their hood-covered heads. Were they angels of capitalism? Prophets warning against greed and privilege?
“You’re a therapist, right?”
“Counselor.” He didn’t realize that he was more comfortable with his current job title until the response was out of his mouth. Another adjustment he’d have to make.
The fawn walls smelled of fresh paint, the clouded glass wall sconces looked brand-new, and the bathroom door had been left strategically ajar to show off the curved slate counter and recessed double sinks. A world away from the rust-stained urinals and powder soap of Metro South.
“How long have you been in private practice?”
“Oh, I’d be starting. Here.” He shifted, the carpet sinking pleasingly beneath his loafers. “Transitioning from another job.”
“Why the change?”
“My current job’s pretty exhausting. I was hoping for something a little…”
“Easier?”
The answer, he realized, unsettled him.
“Well,” she continued, “I certainly have some friends I could refer to you.” A behind-the-hand stage whisper. “Not to mention my mother.” Up close, her perfume was overpowering. “This is the first time in seven years that this space has been available. So what a great opportunity to enter a two-year lease…”
He tuned her out. He’d made it home from the police station last night—no, early this morning—and managed a few fitful hours of sleep with Cris cuddled into him. After she’d rolled out of bed groggily and headed for work, he’d sat leadenly at the kitchen counter in his boxers, drinking cup after cup of coffee,
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