Joe’s wardrobe was not as organized as the contents of Ali Muller’s closet. And it was smaller, too, your standard six-by-six closet, with upper and lower rods: jackets on the top rod, pants on the lower.
I gathered armloads of clothing, making several trips from the closet to the bed, and when the racks were empty, I cleaned off the top shelves. I opened shoe boxes and Joe’s gun safe. His gun was gone.
I looked in his hamper to see what clothes he’d shucked when he’d come home for clean ones a few days ago. I found only regular laundry: underwear, shirt, jeans, socks. No trace of paint, gunpowder, or lipstick was visible to my naked and angry eye. I smelled the dirty clothes. They smelled like Joe.
I ran my hands over every inch of the closet walls. I was feeling for anomalies, for secret doors or traps. I tapped on the walls with the butt of my flashlight. The walls were solid. I lifted the carpet for good measure and found only a mess of dog hair in the corners.
Next I went through all of Joe’s pockets and checked the linings. I shook out his boots and put my fingers deep into his shoes. Nada.
I tossed Joe’s clothes onto the closet floor and shut the door. Then I went to his dresser, where I did a similarly thorough frisking of his shirts and underwear. I not only emptied the drawers but also checked for false bottoms and examined the undersides.
After I’d looked between the mattress and box spring and under the nightstands, I remembered that I was dealing with a man who’d been trained by the FBI. If Joe didn’t want something found, it wouldn’t be found.
But still, I couldn’t stop.
I picked up Julie and her sock monkey, whistled to Martha, and went into the back bedroom, which Joe used as an office. It was small, about nine by twelve. He had a desk under the one window facing Twelfth Avenue, a swivel chair, and a stand-alone bookshelf.
The desk was locked, so I got the key from where it was taped under the bathroom sink. Not that I’m so smart. He’d showed me where he kept it.
I returned to the back bedroom, opened the desk, and looked immediately for his laptop—and of course, it was gone. So were his iPad and his computer bag, and since the days of datebooks are long gone, I found nothing telling.
There were no cryptic notes on the pad next to the phone and no numbers in or on his desk.
But I remembered a couple of names from Joe’s recent past.
I called Brooks Findlay, Joe’s former employer. Findlay is a real shit who had hired Joe to draft security procedures for the Port of LA. Then, without cause or reason, he fired him. We figured Findlay had canned Joe because by doing a great job, Joe was making Findlay look bad.
Joe had given Findlay an elegant FU the last time he spoke with him, and Findlay had no reason to help me—but it was a place to start.
Findlay didn’t answer his own phone, but the woman who took a message said he’d be back in the office after lunch. I used the time to empty the bookshelves, flap open every book, and run my hand over the shelves.
And I made other calls. I spoke with three federal agents I’d worked with on cases where the SFPD and federal law enforcement crossed paths. I didn’t expect much, and that’s what I got. No one had heard from Joe or knew what he was working on or where he was.
Then Findlay’s name lit up the caller ID.
I told Findlay I hadn’t heard from Joe in a few days. That the last I’d heard, he was doing a freelance job for San Francisco International Airport having to do with the crash. Did Findlay have any information on that?
“I haven’t heard from Joe and I haven’t heard about him, either. I don’t think you know who you’re married to, Lindsay.”
I suddenly understood the expression
“My blood ran cold.”
I told Findlay thanks and good-bye—I think. I became aware of the beeping busy signal as I held the phone next to my side.
I disconnected the line, used the bathroom, washed my face, gulped some Advil, and tried to think. There was one name and phone number I hated to call, but it was time.
Her number was stored on my phone from nine months ago when she’d come to SF to drop off a gift for our new baby. Her name was June Freundorfer and she was Joe’s old girlfriend, still with the FBI, DC Office.
I called June.
She answered on the first ring.
CHAPTER 51
I WAS DRESSED and caffeinated when my sister, Catherine, arrived from Half Moon Bay with her two little girls and an air mattress. I was glad to see them, very darned happy to turn my household over to Julie’s aunt and cousins.
I had cleared two days off with Brady, and my cab was waiting. I kissed everyone hello and good-bye at my door, grabbed my bag, and ran down the stairs.