True-Life Adventure

tried to kill you.”
    “We’ve got to find Lindsay.”
    “She would seem to be the key.”
    “Brissette told Jack that Lindsay called him the Wednesday before she disappeared. On a legal matter. But he wouldn’t tell Jack what it was.”
    “You mean that’s what Jack said.”
    “Yes, and what I wrote in the report. So if he did know, he didn’t want the client to know. I don’t get it.”
    “Look, let’s forget it for a minute. The fact is, Lindsay called him on a legal matter. Unless I’m a little far behind in the Lindsay saga, they weren’t close anymore.”
    “Right. Brissette said he hadn’t heard from her in months.”
    “Okay, she calls him on Wednesday and disappears the following Saturday. Whatever they talked about is something Brissette doesn’t want to talk about to anyone else, even a guy who’s trying to find her. Maybe she disappeared because she was spooked about something.”
    “Sounds right.”
    “So if she was scared, that means she was in danger— or maybe still is.”
    “But why take Terry? It makes no sense if she’s somebody’s target.”
    “I don’t know. Could Terry be in danger, too?”
    “Possibly. If the threat came from Jacob, then she’d want to take Terry away. But then why would Jacob hire a detective who might find out what he was up to?”
    “I’ve got it! It had something to do with a story she was working on.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Susanna would have mentioned it.”
    “Oh.” She looked downcast, and then she brightened. “Not necessarily. She might have made up the whole story about Lindsay writing the letter and everything if Lindsay was really undercover or something. So of course she wouldn’t have told Birnbaum the truth. And she’d have no reason to know his death was connected with Lindsay, so she wouldn’t have told the cops.”
    I considered.
    “Let’s go talk to her, Paul. Maybe we can get her to help us.”
    I couldn’t see it, what with her being my professional rival and all, but I had to admit there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot else to do— I had to retrace Jack’s steps and that was all there was to it. If Sardis could get me an entrée with Susanna, was I going to turn her down?
    I wasn’t. When she said who we were, the station security guard phoned Susanna and sent us right up. Susanna had a wonderful view of the bay and the Bay Bridge, but that wasn’t the exciting part. The Embarcadero Freeway was right outside her window, maybe forty feet away and exactly at eye level.
    It’s a good thing it was there, too, because everything inside the building was unbelievably depressing. It was a converted warehouse, spiffed up with sweeping stairways, giant photos, and primary colors. It could have been nice. The problem was, the work spaces had no furniture in them— only plastic modular things that seemed to double as desks and partitions. Everyone had his own three-sided module exactly the right size for a moderately slender person, and there were about a million of these half-closets. The place was a high-tech anthill. But that freeway out there was something else again. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
    Eventually I had to, though, because staring is rude and ignoring your hostess ruder still. I turned the old baby blues on Susanna. She was fairly short and maybe twenty pounds overweight, but she carried the weight just right, like pregnant women sometimes do. Her complexion was quite fair and her lips were fullish. Her face was round and very soft. Her breasts were round and looked very soft. Her hair was dark, wavy, and very soft. She was wearing some sort of dress with a flouncy skirt, very soft.
    Media, my former field, is full of terrifically interesting people, but not people you’d especially call nice. Susanna Flores looked like she might be about the nicest person in northern California. She looked simple and straightforward— not full of kinks and contradictions like Sardis and me. But that’s just how she looked. No telling what she was actually like.
    She offered her hand. “Paul,” she said, “I’ve read you for years. You’re my favorite writer who ever worked for the Chronicle .”
    That settled it. The woman was an undiscovered saint.
    Quickly we brought her up to date, and before we were done, I could tell she was a dead end because she didn’t interrupt to tell us why she’d lied to Birnbaum. She hadn’t, of course. Lindsay wasn’t undercover after all.
    “As a matter