Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

about it.”
    “Talk to Chris about it.”
    But that would have to wait. As I hung up, it was not my partner who came barreling through the door, but Rob, closely followed by Kruzick, who was rubbing his hands and hunched over. “Oh, Missie Rebecca, I try to stop Impetuous One. I tell him like always the Queen is in meeting, and he chops off three of humble servant’s fingers.” I didn’t have the least idea who he was supposed to be.
    Rob said, “Adrienne’s missing,” and plopped into my client’s chair. Kruzick withdrew, cackling, as pleased with himself as if we’d given him five curtain calls.
    “What do you mean missing? I thought she was still in a coma.”
    “I guess she woke up yesterday afternoon— that’s what they’re saying at the hospital, but for all I know this is a story they made up on the spur of the moment. They moved her out of intensive care, her dad went to see her, and she was gone.”
    “Checked out?”
    “Uh-uh. Like I said— disappeared.”
    “Were her clothes missing?”
    “Oh, yes. It looked a lot like she got out under her own steam.”
    “I wouldn’t think she’d have a lot after a few days in a coma.”
    “You wouldn’t, would you? They did make the point that she ate heartily almost as soon as she woke up. I guess she was stoked, as the young people say.”
    “I think that means something else. She woke up yesterday afternoon?”
    He nodded again.
    “So when did she disappear?”
    “That’s the question, all right. Not at all long after. About three o’clock, they figure. She’d have had plenty of time to shoot us— and no way at all of knowing you and Chris were out of it. Of course, I still think the shooter was aiming at me. Most of the people we’ve seen never even asked who you are, and I’m the one writing the worrisome stories.”
    A thought occurred to me. “What about Chris? What if the person who framed her doesn’t want to let her off the hook?”
    His face sobered quickly. “Oh, shit.”
    I agreed with him.
    “Look,” he said, “I think I know who Adrienne’s ex-boyfriend is— Danno, I mean.”
    “And you didn’t tell me before?”
    He turned slightly red. “Well, it was kind of like Chris and the key— I just didn’t put it together. There was this copyboy named Daniel— you know how people like that can kind of be invisible? It shouldn’t be, but it is, especially if there’s an age gap. You kind of only see people your own age. I don’t know how long he was there, but he’s been gone awhile— at least three or four months. Today I heard a couple of copyboys talking while I was getting coffee, and they kept saying, ‘Danno.’ Danno goes to a lot of South of Market clubs and reports on them, apparently. So it was something on the order of, ‘Danno says the Skullcap is only good on Fridays, but Eraserhead’s rockin’ every night.’ Not exactly riveting for your over-thirty stay-at-home, and I hadn’t had my coffee yet. But even in my unswift state, after the third or fourth ‘Danno,’ a bell started ringing somewhere off in the distance. Anyhow, I made inquiries. His name is Daniel Piperis, and yes, he and Adrienne used to be an item. He now works as a bike messenger, and every day at lunchtime goes to hang out with the other messengers at the corner of Market and Sutter, by the Sharper Image.”
    I looked at my watch: eleven-forty. “Meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
    “If you get there first, he’ll be the one with the dreads.”
    “Piperis is black?”
    “Piperis is pretending.”
    The bike messengers in San Francisco are an institution we all hope the fax machine won’t destroy. They’re known for their daredevil ways, utter disregard for convention, and flair for fashion statements. When I got there, I saw Rob watching from across the street. There was only one guy with dreads, and he wore two pairs of shorts, one on top of the other, each in a different plaid, topped with a short-sleeved shirt in yet a third. I was willing to bet when he wasn’t on a bike, you could find him on a skateboard.
    “The chap in the McKendrick tartan?” I said. “Let’s go get him.”
    He hollered, “Yo, Danno,” something I’d never have done, considering the kid might have something big to hide. But he didn’t take off, instead waited politely.
    “The great Rob Burns,” he said. “Don’t tell me, it’s a nationwide talent hunt for the next Herb Caen.”
    “We’re looking for Adrienne Dunson.”
    He